This is a story I’ve never told anyone. I’d honestly forgotten about it, but bits and pieces have been coming back to me recently, and I think it’s time for me to share it. Apologies if this is too long or rambly.
When I was around ten years old, I spent a lot of time in the forest near my neighborhood. There was this trail that led down through a wooded ravine, with a mossy creek at the bottom. Someone had tied up a couple rope swings down there. They were pretty old—the ropes were frayed, and the wooden seats were all splintered and weather-beaten—but if you backed up enough, you could swing all the way across the creek to the other hillside. Past that, the trees seemed to go on forever. I’d explore them every chance I got, and I had a habit of stepping off the beaten path to clear my own little trails through the underbrush.
One day, I was walking through the part of the woods that my friend Jackson and I liked to call “the Swamp.” The deeper you went into the forest, the more mucky it got. If you wanted to go down to the Swamp, you had to make sure you weren’t wearing your school shoes (which is a lesson I learned the hard way), because you’d definitely get stuck in the mud at least once. There were these big puddles that were so large, they felt more like ponds. Lots of tangly weeds and thorns stuck out all over the place. The bugs were huge down there, and we’d catch all sorts of toads and turtles—even a snake once in a while.
But the thing is, we’d never gotten all the way through the Swamp. We didn’t even know if it ended at all. That was partly because our parents lectured us every time we came home covered in mud, and partly because the thorn bushes were so thick that we’d end up completely covered in scrapes and have to turn around. So we never made it very far.
But that day, I’d decided to go further into the Swamp than we’d ever gone before. I wore my rainboots, plus pants and a jacket to protect me from the thorns, and set out into that vast and uncharted wilderness feeling more than a little proud of myself. I felt like a seasoned adventurer, and as I wound through the trees and prickler bushes, hopping on rocks and logs when the puddles were too deep to slosh through, I kept imagining how Jackson would react when I told him about my adventure.
I was probably hiking for about thirty minutes before I found the clearing. A small space of marshland, pretty much indistinguishable from the rest of the Swamp; muckwater, reeds, and a slimy layer of algae coating everything. Nothing unusual or special about it.
Except for the oven.
A stovetop oven, just sitting there in the center of the clearing. It was partially submerged, all rusted and overgrown with weeds. Patches of clover sprouted between the cracks and crevices, and ragweed twisted up from the bottom and out through the top.
Honestly, it was so out-of-place and unexpected, I couldn’t help but feel a little spooked. People would occasionally use the forest as a dumping ground for unwanted garbage—old tires, broken sinks, that sort of thing. It always pissed me off whenever we found litter.
But down there, in the Swamp…there was just nothing else around. No footpaths, no other debris or litter, literally nothing that could possibly point to human activity.
Nothing except for that oven.
It didn’t make any sense.
So of course, I had to take a closer look.
I sloshed over, the water reaching halfway up my shins. I went to grab the oven’s handle, but jerked back just in time to avoid a handful of spiderwebs. Shuddering, I pulled a nearby twig out of the muck and poked at the webs until they were mostly gone. Then I tossed the stick aside and tried again. Second time seemed to be the charm; after some tugging, the oven door fell open with a grinding creak.
Now, I’m fully aware that I could be misremembering some things. As I said, I’d completely forgotten about this entire event until recently, and I’m still recalling things sporadically. So I’m trying to only include details that I’m certain of.
But I swear, as soon as I opened that oven, the forest went completely still.
If you’ve ever been in the woods—even the most isolated, untouched, middle-of-nowhere woods you can find—you’ll know that it’s never truly still. There’s wind, there’s birds, there’s bugs and branches and leaves, all of it rustling and growing and alive.
And in that instant, all of it froze with a deafening silence.
The hair on my arms stood on end. I glanced around, squinting into the foliage. At the time, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why I was so unsettled; I remember wondering if something was watching me.
After a moment, the feeling hadn’t quite passed, but it was a little easier to ignore in favor of my childlike curiosity. So I shrugged and bent to peer into the oven.
The inside was pretty much exactly the same as the outside—rusted, overgrown, and wet. I examined it for a bit, decided there was nothing more to see, and shut the oven with a clang.
All at once, the forest came alive again.
The sudden return of all that ambient noise almost made me jump, and I found myself scurrying out of the clearing as quickly as I could. I immediately felt silly for startling so easily; nothing was wrong, after all. Still, the whole incident unnerved me for reasons I couldn’t articulate. I’d initially been excited to share my discovery with Jackson, but I decided then and there that maybe, I should just forget about it entirely.
So, I did. I began the long trek back home—which was uneventful, as far as I can recall—and in the end, I didn’t think too much of it. The oven may as well have never existed in the first place.
It probably would’ve stayed that way, if Jackson hadn’t gone and killed that bird.
Here’s how it happened: Jackson and I were messing around in the woods, as usual. We were pretty far past the creek and the rope swings, but not quite into the Swamp. It was an area we played in often. There was this enormous mossy log—we called it Home Base—and even though it wasn’t much of a fort, it was ours, and we loved it. We decorated its nooks and crannies with all sorts of “treasures” like pinecones, rocks, and flowers; we even smuggled some of our toys down there. Jackson brought some of his mini G.I. Joe figures, setting them up to keep lookout, and I brought a few of my tiny plastic dinosaurs for them to fight. I brought one of my Polly Pockets, too, which Jackson said was too “girly,” but even he had to admit that having a damsel in distress made our games of make-believe much more fun.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. It’s just been a long time since I’ve thought about any of this.
Anyway, we were playing at Home Base, and Jackson had filled his pockets with a bunch of pebbles along the way. We started playing this game where we’d say, “Bet you can’t hit that,” and point to some tree or rock or whatever. Then we’d throw a pebble. If you hit your target, you got a point. Not the most original game in the world, but it kept us occupied for a while.
Then a bird landed on a low branch nearby. I can’t remember what kind of bird it was, but it was small—probably a robin or a sparrow.
Jackson pointed to it. “Bet you can’t hit that,” he said.
“I’m not gonna throw a rock at a bird!” I said. “That’s just mean.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause you know you won’t hit it.”
I shouldn’t have let it bother me. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.
Instead, I said, “Yeah? Well, I bet you couldn’t hit it, either.”
I didn’t mean for him to throw the rock. I wasn’t expecting him to. But apparently, my (admittedly weak) comeback was all the challenge Jackson needed. Because before I knew what was happening, he turned, took aim, and fired.
The stone hit the bird dead-on.
As it fell off the branch and onto the ground, flopping and twitching, we turned to each other with wide eyes. I don’t know who was more surprised: Jackson, or me.
Then, all hell broke loose.
“Jackson!” I shrieked, shoving him and rushing over to the bird. “What did you do?!”
“I—I didn’t mean to!” he protested, trailing after me. The poor bird was still spasming, small specks of blood dotting the forest floor like paint. “I didn’t think I’d actually hit it!”
“Well, you did!” I snapped.
Before I could say anything else, the bird finally stopped twitching. It fell utterly still. Something about it—that frozen, silent stillness—filled me with a sense of dread. Like deja vu, but…worse, somehow. Wrong.
All Jackson and I could do was stare down at the dead bird in shocked horror.
Eventually, Jackson gingerly knelt down and poked it. I started to tell him to stop, but cut myself off when he looked up at me. His face was pale. He looked sick to his stomach. And his eyes were watery. I remember that clearly; I’d never seen him cry before.
“I think it’s dead,” he whispered.
I didn’t say anything. Jackson carefully picked up the small bird, cradling it in his hands, and stood. He glanced around, looking lost.
“Should…should we bury it?” he asked, a bit meekly.
I was still upset with him, and my own stomach was still roiling with guilt. But I nodded.
“I have an idea,” I said.
After ten minutes of trying to dig a hole using small sticks as makeshift spades, we had nothing to show for it but a shallow divot and dirty hands.
Jackson rocked back on his heels. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a dark streak in its place. “Now what?”
I tossed my stick aside and brushed the dirt off my hands. I looked over at the bird, and suddenly, I was reminded of something else—or rather, someplace else—that was too silent and too still. A place where it wouldn’t be bothered; a place where we wouldn’t have to see its grave and be reminded of our crime; a place that was special.
“I have another idea,” I said.
It took us a while to get down to the Swamp. We stumbled and tumbled through the bushes, occasionally stepping in sinkholes and getting stuck. Before long, I had scratches all over my arms and legs, and Jackson had burrs in his hair. But he kept the bird cupped carefully in his hands the entire time.
Finally, we reached the clearing. Cicadas buzzed, grasshoppers hummed, and a nearby toad leapt from its log with a disgruntled belch. As we sploshed into the mucky water, Jackson’s eyes widened.
“Whoah,” he breathed.
There, standing silently in the center of the clearing, was the oven.
It had been a few weeks since my lone trek into the Swamp, and the unease, while still there, was a distant memory. The priority right then was finding a suitable resting place for the bird; this seemed to be the best option. So I shoved down the discomfort and approached the oven. I checked to make sure there weren’t spiderwebs on the handle, and I pulled it open.
Just like before, everything went still.
Jackson stiffened, clearly realizing that something was off. But I pretended not to notice. I just waved him over and, after a moment’s hesitation, he waded through the mud and weeds to join me.
Very gently, he placed the bird inside on the oven’s rusted rack. Then he stepped back. His fingers were twitching, like they didn’t know what to do now that their precious cargo was gone. I nudged him and asked, “Do you wanna say anything?”
Jackson swallowed and cleared his throat before nodding and addressing the oven.
“Um, I…I’m really sorry I killed you, bird. I didn’t mean to.” He looked down. “I hope…it didn’t hurt. And that you’re in Bird Heaven now, eating lots of worms. Uh…yeah. That’s all.”
We stood in silence for a few moments. Then, as solemnly and ceremoniously as I could, I closed the oven door.
The clank echoed through the clearing. The sounds of the forest returned.
I breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to leave. “Careful,” I said, pointing out a puddle that was especially deep. Jackson cautiously circumvented it, only to end up traipsing through some poison ivy instead. Above us, hints of pink and purple were starting to bleed into the sky.
“We gotta hurry,” Jackson said. “My dad said he’d ground me if I got back after dark again—”
He was suddenly interrupted by a thud.
We both froze, locking eyes. My heartbeat stuttered.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered.
Thud.
Slowly, we turned around. All of the hair on my arms and neck stood on end; it was an uncomfortably familiar sensation.
Thud.
Jackson sucked in a sharp breath. “Is that…?”
THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
We both jumped a foot in the air.
It was coming from the oven.
I honestly don’t remember exactly what happened next. I don’t remember whether Jackson said anything, or whether he stayed quiet. I don’t remember what I was thinking, if I was even thinking at all. I certainly don’t remember crossing the clearing.
All I remember is that one moment, I was frozen in fear, those strange thuds pounding through my bones.
The next, I was flinging the oven door open.
Something shot out, and we screamed.
The thing flapped and fluttered wildly, taking to the sky with choppy, stilted wingbeats. It wavered about awkwardly, almost like it was drunk. It swooped and twitched, higher and higher and higher, until finally, it disappeared over the treeline.
And then it was gone.
Jackson and I turned to each other with matching slack-jawed expressions. Then we looked back at the oven.
A strange chill shuddered down my spine, and I slammed the oven door shut.
We ran home as fast as we could.
There’s a lot I still don’t remember about my childhood. I can vaguely recall Jackson’s family moving away. And…I’m not sure. I feel like there’s something else, too. But my head hurts, and everything is starting to get all fuzzy again. It’s been almost twenty years—it’ll probably take some time for the rest to come back to me.
But I am absolutely certain that the bird was dead when we put it in the oven.
And the thing that flew out…I think it was dead, too.