The Bird Feeder by Natasha LeFevre
The Bird Feeder
by Natasha LeFevre eerie stories

natashalefevre Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a month ago
What if guilt and regret were more that emotions, and what if one day they came for you?

The Bird Feeder by Natasha LeFevre

Some say that guilt and regret can haunt you, but what if instead of them being feelings,

Guilt and Regret were faceless creatures you see for only a split second when you look in

the mirror before you relive you darkest deed?

Lewis Webster was an ordinary man of about fifty-five. Each day, he would go to the park

and sit on his favourite bench to feed the birds near the winding path that joggers

frequented. He would nod politely at those who spared him a glance, and wave to the

regulars. Nobody ever thought that his behaviour was strange, or in any way alarming.

What they of course didn't know was that Lewis Webster hid a deep, dark secret behind

the sunglasses he always wore. The polite old man who frequented the park was none

other than a serial killer who was thought to have been arrested nearly ten years before.

The Bird-Feeder; the only killer known to have killed his victims by starving birds of

prey and allowing them to attack a victim who was cut to make him or her bleed. The

victims all had one thing in common. They were rare-bird owners.

One day, when Lewis got home from his trip to the park, list of rare bird owners in hand,

he had the most peculiar feeling in the very pit of his stomach. It felt very much as if his

beloved birds were calling to him.

Poor dears, he though, you're probably hungry. Don't worry my sweets, daddy will bring

someone to the nest soon.

He chuckled to himself as he held up the picture of two young women who he had

photographed with their two American Crows. A lovely addition they would make to his

little family. How lucky that the women had agreed to come and visit him with their

birds. It wasn't even that difficult to convince them that he was the author of an article in

an overseas bird magazine who would love to write an article about them and their lovely


Presently, a knock came at his door, and he welcomed the two into his living room,

offering them tea which they gladly accepted, seeing as it was a rather brisk winter


As he stood in his kitchen, calmly adding a sedative to the tea, he hummed 'Wind

Beneath My Wings" as he stirred the drinks.

When he returned to the living room, tea on a tray, he invited the women to follow him to

his basement, where he already set up his photography equipment. After all, one simply

couldn't miss a chance to photograph such a lovely pair of birds and their owners. Not

surprisingly, they readily followed him, women were after all, as vain as peacocks.

Lewis always disguised the bird's feeding cage as the area where the victim would be

seated while he was taking the photographs. There were even mirrors around the

basement that was to enhance and create an almost natural lighting. Then, as he pressed

the button on the camera, the props would all be swept away from their spots by the

mechanisms they were attached to; and most importantly, the cage door would slam shut

and the birds would be released.

This time however, between the split-second it took for the door to shut after he pressed

the button, the women disappeared, leaving what appeared to be black smoke on the

chairs they had been sitting on.

Alarmed, he looked around the room. Movement caught his eye. Although the room was

brightly lit, he couldn't see the source of the movement. He grabbed the ling hunting

knife he kept under his photographer's chair and began prowling the room.

Come out, come out wherever you are... He thought as he slowly inspected every inch of

the room. My daughters are hungry...

Movement flashed in one of the mirrors and he turned towards it slowly, taking silent

steps towards it. All at once, all the lights except for the ones across from the mirrors

went out. What he saw in the mirror, was the most horrible thing he had ever seen.

Two things, wearing cloaks that covered up everything but their faces stared back at him.

They had no eyes and no mouths, only two pin-prick holes in the centre of there faces, the

skin was paper-white, and flaked off as it moved. They were there one moment and gone

the next.

It was the first time Lewis Webster had screamed and fainted with fear. When he

awakened, he was in the cage, the mirrors all around, the torture of his victims coming to

life in the reflective material their screams of fear and agony echoing through his head.

The only difference was, the victims' faces had been replaced with his own.

Each time the birds attached, he would feel the pain of their beaks cutting and ripping at

his flesh; disembodied voices chanting the names of his victims until he couldn't hear his

own breaths any more.

When the police found his body a week later, only shreds of his clothes identified the

rotting pile of bones in the corner of the cage.

The birds whose feathers where found covering the bottom of the cage was never found.

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