Ginger Nuts of Horror
Christmas is coming, the decorations are up, Christmas tunes are playing on repeat, and the eggnog is chilling in the fridge. Ginger Nuts of Horror welcomes the festive season. And as a thank, you for all of your support for what has been a fantastically successful year, Ginger Nuts of Horror in association with Charlotte Bond, brings you 13 For Christmas. For thirteen days in the lead up to Christmas, we bring you a special festive themed piece flash fiction from Charlotte. Grab a hot drink and find a nice warm place and please enjoys these festively creepy tales.
Today's story is titled Robin Redbreast
Mark knelt down on the frozen ground. He pulled on his gardening gloves and delicately lifted up the limp corpse of the pigeon that lay in the centre of his lawn. It was drenched in blood; he could feel the warmth of it through his gloves. One leg had been torn off. As he stood up, a broken wing fell limply over Mark's wrist. With a grimace, Mark looked away. The way one eye was hanging out of its socket was particularly nauseating.
He walked to the end of the garden where he kept his bins. He took hold of the dustbin lid and readied himself. With a deep breath, he lifted the lid and exposed the miniature avian graveyard that rested atop his bin bags.
'Bloody cats,' Mark muttered as he cast in the latest offering. He found at least two a day, if not three, all torn apart.
He pulled his gloves off, examining the blood stains on them and wondering if you could wash leather garden gloves in a washing machine. An unpleasant tingling at the back of his neck made him turn round. The garden was empty. The feeling persisted. He looked up and saw two dozen black eyes staring at him from the apple tree. Sitting on the skeletal branches were a host of robins. They sat motionless, the distinctive red feathers on their breasts gleaming in the morning sunlight, looking strangely wet.
Mark watched, filled with horror, as a drop of dark red blood trickled off one robin's bright red breast and dropped to the ground. He stared at the gathering of birds, taking in their blood stained beaks, the bits of flesh and feathers stuck to their claws.
Mark turned and ran up the path to his house. Behind him, he heard the sound of a dozen wings beating the air, bearing down on him.