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
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.