The Glass Rooster

Marta often worked late at the county records office, and by the time she clocked out, the town of Willow Creek had already settled into its quiet, dusty routine. Willow Creek was a speck on the map, a place where the old oaks whispered secrets of the past and the occasional coyote yip punctuated the silence. Tonight, after a long shift, she’d stopped by the antique shop on Main Street, drawn by a glint in the window. It was a glass cutting board, its surface painted with a proud, fiery rooster. Her neighbor, old Mrs. Gable, collected such things. Marta imagined the joy on her weathered face come morning, and she decided to leave it on her porch as a surprise.

Her own porch light was a dim, yellow bulb that barely reached the sidewalk, and between her house and Mrs. Gable’s stretched a dark, unpaved lane lined with towering oaks. There were no streetlights, only the cold, indifferent moon. Marta wasn’t afraid of the dark; she’d grown up here, and the country was safer than the city. But there was something about the deep shadows under those oaks that always made her heartbeat quicken. She grabbed her keys, and with a soft whistle, her faithful German Shepherd, Biscuit, trotted to her side. Biscuit was a sturdy, protective companion, his ears pricked alert, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. Together, they stepped off the porch into the night.

The air was cool, carrying the scent of dry grass and the faint, sickly sweetness of blooming night jasmine. Marta clutched the glass board, wrapped in brown paper, against her chest. She picked her way carefully, avoiding the potholes that dotted the lane like small craters. Biscuit walked close, his nails clicking on the hard earth. About halfway to Mrs. Gable’s, a sound froze them both—a low, guttural growl that wasn’t from Biscuit. It came from the bushes to their left, a thicket of wild blackberries. Biscuit stiffened, a low rumbling in his chest, his hackles raised. Marta whispered, ‘Easy, boy,’ and squinted into the darkness.

She saw two glowing eyes. Not the yellow of a coyote, but a sickly, pale green, floating at about knee height. The growl deepened, and a shape emerged—a mangy, wiry dog, its fur matted with dirt and something dark that might have been blood. Its lips were pulled back in a snarl, revealing yellowed teeth. It wasn’t a coyote, nor a neighbor’s dog. It stood there, locked in a silent standoff with Biscuit, who was straining at Marta’s side, ready to lunge. Marta’s heart hammered. She took a slow step back, pulling Biscuit with her. The creature didn’t follow, just watched, its eyes tracking their retreat. When they were a safe distance away, it turned and melted back into the shadows.

Marta exhaled, her hands trembling. She quickened her pace, Biscuit staying protectively close. They reached Mrs. Gable’s porch, a modest structure with peeling paint and a creaky swing. Marta carefully set the package by the door, pausing to admire the rooster’s painted feathers under the faint porch light. She turned to leave, and that’s when she noticed something odd—a second set of footprints in the dust near the side of the house, leading to a window that was slightly ajar. Mrs. Gable was a light sleeper, always complaining about drafts. Marta knew she would never leave a window open. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach.

She should go back, call the police, but her phone was dead and her house was close. She decided to check on Mrs. Gable quickly, just to be sure. She stepped off the porch and crept along the side of the house, Biscuit at her heels. The window was dark, but she could hear a faint, rhythmic sound coming from inside—a wet, slapping noise, like something being pounded against a wall. Marta’s blood ran cold. She peered through the gap in the curtains and saw a shape hunched over the kitchen table, its back to her. It was not Mrs. Gable. It was too large, too angular. The shape was doing something with its hands, and the slapping sound continued.

Then the shape paused, and slowly, very slowly, it turned its head. Marta saw a face that was not a human face—it was a rooster’s, but monstrously enlarged, with a razor-sharp beak and eyes that glowed the same sickly green as the dog’s. The rooster head tilted, letting out a low, guttural cackle that was not a rooster’s sound at all. Marta stumbled back, a scream caught in her throat. Biscuit barked furiously, but the creature in the window threw its head back and let out a deafening, inhuman shriek. Marta turned and ran, dragging Biscuit, her legs pumping as fast as they could. She didn’t stop until she burst through her own front door, slamming and locking it behind her.

She stood there, panting, Biscuit whining and pacing. Through the window, she saw a shape standing at the edge of her yard, its silhouette unmistakable—a tall, humanoid figure with a rooster’s head. It raised a hand, as if in a mock salute, then turned and disappeared into the night. Marta didn’t sleep that night. She kept the lights on, her hand on the phone. But by dawn, the police found no trace of a break-in, and Mrs. Gable was found safe in her bed, confused as to why she’d been disturbed. Marta, however, saw the package she’d left on the porch—the paper torn, the glass board shattered, and a single, long, black feather resting among the shards. She never spoke of that night to anyone, but she also never again walked the lane after dark, and she always made sure her windows were sealed tight, for she knew that the old oaks held secrets, and some of them were hungry.