The chill from outside has infiltrated your bedroom by the time you sit up in bed. The first thing you do is climb out from beneath the covers, leaving them in a disheveled heap, and shuffle to the kitchen. You start brewing a single-serving pumpkin-spiced cappuccino pod in your coffee maker before heading back to the bedroom to pull on your favorite sweater. It’s old, oversized, and its frayed cuffs brush softly against your wrists.
Cradling your steaming cappuccino, you step outside. Your boots crunch softly against the lightly ice-kissed porch. The first frost of the season glimmers faintly on the grass like the shattered glass of broken tears—silvering the edges of scattered leaves and lending the yard an almost magical stillness.
You take a sip, savoring the warmth, and lean against the porch railing. It’s quiet, the kind of morning that feels untouched by time—until you spot it.
The turkey stands at the far edge of the yard, its dark, hulking form is outlined by the weak morning sun. It stares back at you. It doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, only stares. For a moment, your eyes are locked with its tiny black ones, and then, on a whim, you call out:
“Hey!”
The turkey’s head jerks up, but it isn’t startled. Oddly, it seems to crane its neck toward you, as if it’s listening. Without missing a beat, you pitch your voice into a high, cracking falsetto, the way some people give voices to their dogs:
“Hello?” you reply for it.
You grin, rolling with the lines: “Guess what?!”
In that same, exaggerated voice, you answer for it: “What?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Yesss!”
“Fuck you!” You tell the bird.
“Fuck you!” It replies.
“No, fuck you!”
“What’s your name?!” you imagine the turkey asking.
“Tony!” you call back.
“Fuck you, Tony!”
“Fuck you!” You respond, “What’s your name?
“What?”
“What’s your name?!”
“Ezekiel!”
You squint at the bird, your grin widening as you hold back a laugh at how stupid you’re being, doing this on a Tuesday morning in your yard at the edge of the forest. “Ezekiel?! That name fuckin’ sucks!”
The turkey doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t react at all, and somehow that makes the whole thing funnier. You’re still laughing when a second turkey ambles out from behind the oak tree—this one smaller and scruffier. It immediately starts pecking at the frosted grass like it’s on a mission.
“Oh great,” you say, gesturing with your coffee mug. “Ezekiel brought backup.”
The smaller turkey ignores you entirely, too busy tearing into the ground, but Ezekiel stays still. His head is still tilted toward you, ever so slightly, his black eyes locked on yours from a hundred yards away.
You take another sip of your cappuccino, still grinning. “Alright, Ezekiel. Let’s see what you and your sidekick think of birdseed.”
You head to the steel feed barrel where you keep seed for the bird feeders. There’s been little point in refilling them these past two weeks, as the cold has driven most of the birds south. Scooping out a heaping helping of seed, you set your coffee on the porch handrail and step cautiously into the yard.
As you approach, the birds begin to retreat. The smaller one turns its back completely, sprinting into the dense underbrush, but Ezekiel backs away slowly, his beady eyes never leaving you. When you reach the spot where he first stood, you spread the seed on the ground for him and his scruffy friend.
Walking back toward the house, you hear your phone ringing from the counter in the kitchen. Scratching at the stubble on your chin, you grab your coffee from the railing and slide the kitchen door open, stepping inside.
The warmth of the house greets you as you cross the linoleum, careful not to spill your cappuccino as you move quickly to the counter. Your phone sits where you left it, ringing insistently, the screen lighting up with a name you haven’t seen in quite some time: Mom.
You sigh, swiping the screen to deny the call. The ringtone cuts off, but before you can set the phone down, the voicemail notification pings. You hesitate, staring at it for a moment before pressing play.
Her voice is the same as always—calm, clipped, careful. “Hi,” she begins, but then pauses. The silence stretches long enough for you to pull the phone from your ear and glance at the screen to check if the call has ended. It hasn’t.
“Listen. It’s been years since you’ve come home for Thanksgiving, Tonya, and—”
Your jaw tightens, and you don’t let her finish. With irritation curling hot in your chest, you press 7, deleting the message mid-sentence. Setting the phone back on the counter, you shake your head and mutter, “Even Ezekiel wouldn’t have started the message like that, Mom, and he’s a fucking turkey that doesn’t know any better.”
The thought almost makes you laugh, but the edge lingers. You take another sip of coffee, exhaling sharply through your nose as you look out the kitchen window.
Neither turkey has returned to the yard, but you see Ezekiel standing at the edge of the forest, still watching.
“Strange fuckin’ bird,” you mutter.
By lunchtime, the sun has risen higher, melting just enough of the morning’s jagged, icy sheen to blunt the sharp, shattered edges of the yard’s glass-like surface. The thaw hasn’t softened it entirely; the grass still glints with reflective fractures, catching the light like fresh cracks spreading through a brittle mirror.
You toss together a quick sandwich—peanut butter and banana on slightly stale bread, because the thought of braving Rife’s Market in the center of Bradenville today feels like a battle not worth fighting—and step outside with it in hand.
Ezekiel is still there.
He stands near the edge of the yard. Before you came outside, he was strutting and pecking at the ground, but now that you’ve settled into your chair, balancing the plate on your knee, he’s gone completely still. His head tilts ever so slightly, as though he’s listening to something only he can hear.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” you say, taking a bite of your sandwich. “Maybe that’s what I like about you. You stick around. Don’t care what anyone thinks.”
You laugh softly to yourself, brushing crumbs off your lap, “Not like Patty Filmore at the grocery store the week before last. She was going on about how Deke Coffee up the road has some kind of glowing-blue-eyed kid with a squid in its mouth locked in his basement. Can you believe that? A watery-blue-eyed child. With a squid. In its mouth.”
You pause, staring out at Ezekiel as if he might offer some kind of insight, but he just stands there, still as ever, with his beady black eyes locked onto yours.
“I mean, she said it had a beak inside its throat and everything,” you continue, grinning. “Claimed it clicked when the kid talked. Imagine that, Ezekiel. Little squid beak clicks every time it says something. ‘Hi! My name’s Squid Kid, nice to meet you,’ click-click-click. What the hell’s wrong with this town?”
You pitch your voice higher, giving Ezekiel his personality again: “I don’t know, Tony. I think Patty’s onto something. Maybe you should check it out.”
“Oh, sure,” you reply, rolling your eyes as if the conversation were real. “‘Scuse me, Mr. Deke. Hi, sorry… just wondering if you’ve got some kind of cephalopod child down there in your basement? Heard you did.’ That won’t get me banned from another town meeting or anything. Bad enough Pastor Thomas’s wife runs all of them.”
Ezekiel doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“Besides,” you add, finishing your sandwich, “even if there was some creepy squid kid in Deke Coffee’s basement, he’d be more apt to shoot me with his shotgun than invite me inside to see it. I’m kind of the pariah around here currently. Not exactly neighbor of the year.”
You glance at Ezekiel, narrowing your eyes thoughtfully. “But you?! You’ve got that whole enigmatic, loner vibe going. Maybe he’d let you inside. Give you the VIP tour.”
In your imagined falsetto, Ezekiel replies: “Tony, I’m just a turkey. We’re not really into squid kids.”
That makes you laugh. “Alright, fine. Fair point.”
Satisfied with the conversation, you stand and stretch, brushing crumbs off your jeans. Ezekiel doesn’t move as you go back inside, closing the kitchen door firmly behind you.
Your office is just down the hall, the glow of the computer monitor greeting you as you settle into your desk chair. Logging in, you glance at the list of emails waiting in your inbox. The day’s tasks loom large, but it’s your last workday before the long weekend, and you’re determined to finish everything.
The first email is straightforward, the kind of quick reply that makes you feel productive. The second is a little more complicated, and you lose yourself in the rhythm of typing, tweaking, and sending.
But every so often, your eyes drift to the office window.
Ezekiel is still there.
He doesn’t pace or wander like other birds. He doesn’t peck at the ground or strut about. Not anymore. He just…stands. Watching.
At first, you shrug it off, muttering, “Weirdo.” But by the fifth glance, it’s harder to ignore the tension curling in your stomach. He hasn’t moved. Not an inch.
The minutes drag on, and the weight of his stare presses on you like an invisible hand, heavy and persistent. By late afternoon, the sight of him has gone from amusing to unsettling.
When the sun begins its slow descent and shadows stretch long across the yard, you decide to logout for the day. Everything else can wait until next Monday. You head outside to bring in the empty trash can from the curb, glancing nervously toward the woods. The yard is quiet, almost too quiet. You half-expect to see him there, standing in the same spot, but it’s empty now—the edge of the forest cloaked in shadows.
You exhale slowly, trying to shake off the unease. It’s just a turkey, you remind yourself. A weird turkey, sure, but a turkey nonetheless.
Still, when you step back inside, you make a point of locking the kitchen door behind you. The sound of the bolt sliding into place feels louder than it should, echoing in the stillness of the house.
You glance out the window one last time, but the yard is empty.
Or at least, it looks empty.
Wednesday morning greets you with the kind of chill that sneaks into your bones before you’ve even had your first cup of coffee. Pulling your sweater over your head, you step onto the porch, warm drink in hand, and pause mid-sip.
Ezekiel is there.
He stands in nearly the same spot as yesterday, closer to the house this time, his dark shape distinct against the muted backdrop of the waking woods. His outline looks sharper in the morning light, every ridge of his feathers catching faint shadows, giving his form an almost jagged appearance. His head tilts slightly, a deliberate, inquisitive motion, as though he’s greeting you—or sizing you up. You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Morning, Ezekiel.”
The turkey doesn’t respond, of course, but you don’t need him to. You take another sip and lean against the railing, letting the steam from your mug rise to warm your face.
“You know, I was thinking about Peony last night,” you say, your voice soft and distant, like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “Peony McIntyre. We went to school together. She always had these little yellow ribbons tied into her hair. They were bright, like sunlight.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “I had the biggest crush on her. Never said a word about it, of course. Why would I? Just got to watch her from a distance, all perfect and glowing like she belonged in some storybook.”
You glance at Ezekiel, his beady black eyes still locked on yours. “Guess that makes me the fool, huh? Standing around pining after someone who never even looked my way. Ah well, doesn’t matter now.”
Ezekiel doesn’t respond.
“You got a girl from a storybook, dumb bird?”
In the bird’s voice, you respond: “Storybook? Yellow ribbons I understand, but storybooks? What’s that?”
“Nevermind,” you tell him, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of what you’re doing. Straightening up, you shout: “Alright, wish me luck, Ezekiel. Gotta go into town, pick up some supplies, and avoid anyone who’s gonna make a scene. You know how it is—always someone with something to say.”
The drive into Bradenville is uneventful, save for the rumble of your old Chevy truck on the road. The heater wheezes faintly as it fights to warm the cabin, and the radio crackles with static. You’re grateful for the quiet, though. It gives you a moment to steel yourself for any potential encounters.
At Tractor Supply, the air smells of feed and motor oil, the faint twang of something sang by Lee Ann Womack is playing over the speakers. You head straight for the feed aisle, scanning the neatly stacked bags until you find the one you’re looking for: a 25-pound bag of turkey meal, forest green with cheerful photos of turkeys printed across the front. Hefting it onto your shoulder, you carry it to the register.
As you punch your PIN into the keypad, you hear her voice.
“Ton—I mean, Tony. Tony! Oh my sweet goodness, I thought that was you. My, do you look different.”
You glance up to see Mrs. Thomas, the pastor’s wife, standing behind you, her hands clasped tightly over her purse, her smile just a little too forced.
“Hello, Mrs. Thomas,” you say evenly, focusing on the screen.
“Your momma told me she’s been trying to reach you, and—”
“My ‘momma,’” you interrupt, keeping your tone calm but firm, “knows what needs to be done if she wants to mend things. That’s between her and me. And frankly, Mrs. Thomas, I think you know as well as I do that pretending to respect me isn’t the same as actually doing it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to get done today.”
Mrs. Thomas blinks, her smile faltering for just a moment before it snaps back into place. “Well,” she says, her voice tight, “you have a Happy Thanksgiving, Tony.”
“You too,” you reply curtly, taking your receipt and bag.
Outside, the cold air bites at your face as you toss the bag into the bed of your truck. Climbing into the driver’s seat, you mutter, “I’m doing this for you, Ezekiel. Hope you appreciate the gesture.”
By the time you get home, the sun is already dipping low, its light golden and soft against the trees. Ezekiel is still in the yard, standing exactly where you left him that morning.
“So fuckin’ odd, this bird.” You mutter to yourself, slamming the truck’s stubborn rusty-hinged door.
You haul the heavy bag inside, setting it on the kitchen island before stepping out and grabbing the scoop of birdseed you keep in the bin for the feeders. Stepping cautiously out into the yard, you approach him.
This time, Ezekiel doesn’t back away. He watches you intently, his head cocked, his stillness unnerving. You stop a few feet away, bending down to spread the seed across the ground in front of him.
“There you go,” you say softly. “Umm—something to tide you over until tomorrow, I guess…”
His eyes never leave yours, their black, glossy surface unreadable.
You straighten, the hair on the back of your neck prickling as you take a step back. Then another. Ezekiel doesn’t move. He doesn’t eat.
“Goodnight, then, you freaky fucker.”
Back inside, you lock the kitchen door, twisting the deadbolt with more force than necessary. Leaning against the counter, you rub at your arms, trying to shake the lingering unease.
“He’s not friendly,” you murmur to yourself. “He’s not menacing, either. Just…it’s just a weird turkey. That’s all.”
It’s sometime after three in the morning when you find yourself curiously staring out from your bedroom window. The yard is bathed in pale moonlight, the frost glittering like shards of glass on the grass below. At first, the scene feels serene, even beautiful. But then you see him.
Ezekiel stands alone, in his usual spot.
He is a lone shadow perched unnaturally still in the center of the backyard, his silhouette sharp yet distorted in the faint silver glow. His body seems too large for a turkey, the curve of his back arched high, his head angled unnervingly low, like a predator lying in wait. The feathers along his wings and back gleam faintly, catching the moonlight in thin, metallic slivers, as though the bird were made of something far denser than flesh and bone.
Something feels… off. What is that strange shimmer around his edges, as though he isn’t entirely solid? You rub your eyes, but the shimmer doesn’t go away.
Then he moves.
No—not moves. He ripples.
And it begins.
At first, it’s just a faint quiver in his chest, like a bird shaking off water. But the trembling grows more violent, the body contorting unnaturally. And then, without a sound, he tears in two.
A second turkey emerges, identical to the first. The process is smooth, disturbingly clean, like the turkey is replicating itself cell by cell. A shudder runs down your spine as you remember those old high-school biology videos of mitosis, where a single cell splits in two. Only this time, the single cell is a fully-formed turkey, and it isn’t stopping.
The two turkeys ripple and divide into four. The four become eight. The eight become sixteen. The multiplication accelerates until the yard is overrun, a heaving, pulsating mass of identical birds. They’re all smaller than he is at first, their forms shimmering and flickering, as if they aren’t entirely solid—then they grow slowly larger to match his size and become opaque, and then they split. They split. And they split.
And split again.
Each one stares directly at your window. Their eyes glow like gas stove flames, blue and quavering, flickering faintly in the darkness.
You try to back away, but your legs refuse to move. The turkeys continue to split, each one an exact replica, their beaks sharp and glinting in the moonlight. The yard is no longer visible—just an endless sea of multiplying bodies, their rippling forms shimmering grotesquely as they grow in number.
Then Ezekiel, the original Ezekiel, looks at you.
But they’re all the same bird—copies. They’re all Ezekiel, you realize.
And Ezekiel steps forward.
He moves unnaturally smoothly, as though gliding rather than walking, and the others follow in perfect synchronization. They reach the base of the house and begin to climb, their claws scraping against the siding. You can hear them now, a relentless scratching that grows louder and louder, drowning out your breathless gasps.
One of them reaches the window. Is it the original Ezekiel or a copy? You can’t be sure. Does it matter? Its glowing blue, burning eyes are inches from yours, staring into you. Its beak taps the glass once. Twice as if trying to break through. The glass seems to flex with each peck…
And then it lunges—
You gasp and sit bolt upright, your chest heaving. But you’re not in bed—you’re on the floor next to the window. Your right hand is gripping the sill so tightly your knuckles ache. The morning sun streams through the glass, warm and golden, erasing the nightmare’s suffocating shadows. The yard is empty, blanketed in frost and light.
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension in your chest unraveling all at once. “What the hell,” you mutter, rubbing your temples with trembling fingers. “Pull yourself together.”
Then a shadow moves across the window, just below the frame.
You freeze. Slowly, you lean closer, and a head rises into view.
Ezekiel.
Its black eyes lock onto yours, its head tilting the way it always does. You yelp, a sharp bark of fear that quickly melts into nervous laughter. “Damn it, dude, you scared me!” you say, pressing a hand to your chest. “You’re early. Couldn’t wait for your seed, huh? I uh—I got something else for you today—something, uh—something better? I think.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just stares, and for a fleeting moment, you could swear he’s smiling.
You step outside, the cool air brushing against your face, and heft the bag of feed from the kitchen island onto your shoulder. The weight settles awkwardly, but manageable, as you move toward the porch. Ezekiel’s dark form is already waiting in the yard, his stillness more expectant than before.
“You’re one demanding bird, you know that?” you say, your voice light with a chuckle as you descend the porch steps. “I’ve got your Thanksgiving dinner right here, buddy.”
As you make your way toward him, Ezekiel moves—something he hasn’t done in days. He steps back, just one step at first, his head tilting sharply toward the woods. You pause mid-step, frowning. “What’s this, huh? You’re not getting cold feet now, are you?”
Ezekiel doesn’t respond, of course. Instead, he backs away further, the motion deliberate, his eyes locked on you as if beckoning. Then, with startling speed, he turns and rushes toward the tree line. He doesn’t disappear completely—just enough to be swallowed by the dense undergrowth, where he pauses, his head snapping back to look at you.
You hesitate, shifting the weight of the bag on your shoulder. “You want me to follow you?” you mutter, half to yourself.
Ezekiel jerks his head forward, urging you on.
Something tugs at you—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper and more instinctual. You step cautiously toward the woods. The branches sway slightly in the faint breeze, and they brush against your sweater as you push through them, grabbing at you like dozens of skeletal hands. The forest smells damp, earthy, and faintly of petrichor—the morning’s frosty dew soaked into the soil. Patches of light filter through the tangled canopy, casting patterns on the ground that shift like the reflections from a broken mirror, high in the sky.
“Alright, Ezekiel,” you call, your voice muffled by the trees. “If you’re leading me to your weird turkey cult or something, I’m gonna be real upset—probably.”
The turkey doesn’t stop, darting between the trees with an unnerving ease. You try to keep up, your boots crunching over brittle twigs and dead leaves, the occasional vine tugging at your ankle. The air feels heavier the further you go, like the weight of the forest itself is pressing down on you. Sunlight grows scarce, swallowed by the towering pines and gnarled oaks. Their branches are interlocking like the ribs of a great beast, still sleeping this early in the morning.
Then you see it.
A clearing opens before you, bathed in pale, golden light. The trees around it stand unnaturally still, their rough trunks covered in patches of something dark and oily, gleaming faintly in the sun. The ground here is strangely bare—no leaves, no grass—just smooth, dark soil that looks as though it’s been tilled by unseen hands. Ezekiel stands at the center with his friend from the other morning pecking the ground behind him. Ezekiel himself is motionless…his form sharp and imposing against the eerie stillness.
You step forward, the bag of feed shifting awkwardly as you cross the threshold into the clearing. Something about the air here feels alive, charged with a quiet energy that makes your skin prickle. You set the bag down and kneel, fumbling with the corner to tear it open. Ezekiel doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
“Ah. I see. Brought me to your friend,” you say, forcing a laugh to steady your nerves. “Hope you’re both hungry. Got enough here for plenty—more than just the two of you, but it’s all yours, I guess.”
As you pour the feed onto the ground, the sound seems unnaturally loud in the silence. You glance up at Ezekiel, expecting him to move, to peck at the dried, ground cornmeal, but he remains perfectly still. His head tilts ever so slightly, his black eyes boring into yours.
You step back, brushing your hands off on your jeans. “I hope you guys like it,” you say, smiling. “It’s good to give back sometimes, you know?”
The turkey tilts its head. It seems to rise up onto its talons, growing taller—bigger—until its beady black eyes are level with yours.
For the first time, it speaks—not the friendly, imagined voice you’ve been projecting onto it for days, but something low, guttural, and undeniably real.
“Hush,” it says.
“What?!” you exclaim in terror. “You—you don’t talk! You say ‘gobble gobble!’”
“Gobble gobble?” Ezekiel scoffs. “What kind of stereotypical?—forget it. You know what? Shut the fuck up. Do that. My family and I prefer our meals quiet. Can you manage that? Can you shut the fuck up? You talk so fuckin’ much.”
A rustling rises from the woods. You turn, just in time to see them—the turkeys, dozens of them, their shadows swarming closer. They emerge from the trees with synchronized precision, their bodies glinting faintly in the shifting light.
You don’t even have time to scream before the first beak strikes, sharp and relentless, puncturing your eye with a wet crunch. Pain blinds you as another tears into your cheek, then your throat, the frenzy consuming you piece by piece and the sounds of the world fade to silence as your vision goes dark.