The Painted Glass Parakeet

My cousin Theo and I were twelve that summer, the summer of 2011, when our families drove out to the old Wentworth place near the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. It wasn’t a house we knew, not really. My great-aunt had inherited it from a friend who’d died, and no one had lived in it for almost twenty years. The plan was just to check on the property, get a feel for what needed fixing before the estate sale. I remember the heat, the way the air shimmered over the blacktop as we turned off the county road onto a gravel drive almost swallowed by weeds.

The drive wound through a thicket of loblolly pines and oak, their branches tangled overhead like clasped hands. At the end, the house rose up: a two-story Victorian with a wraparound porch, its clapboards grey and peeling, its windows dark as the swamp water that leaked into the yard. A big live oak stood to the left, its limbs brushing the roof, and beneath it, a rusted iron pump. I felt a strange chill despite the heat, a knot in my stomach that I blamed on the heat and the long drive. Theo was already out of the car, running toward the porch, yelling about exploring.

Our parents followed, meandering through the high grass, commenting on the gingerbread trim and the slate roof. No one seemed eager to go inside. ‘Probably locked, anyway,’ my uncle said, rattling the front door knob. But it turned, and the door swung inward with a groan, releasing a breath of cool, musty air. It wasn’t locked. We stepped into a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase, light filtering through dusty transoms. The house was full of furniture draped in white sheets, like frozen ghosts. But on a small table near the stairs, uncovered, sat a glass parakeet, painted in vibrant blues and greens. It was the only thing not covered, and it seemed to catch the light, almost glowing.

The parents drifted into the parlor, talking about restoration costs. Theo and I went upstairs. The rooms were just as eerily furnished, the white sheets giving everything a soft, rounded shape. We found a nursery with a crib and a rocking horse, also covered. In a bedroom at the end of the hall, I saw a closet door ajar. Inside, on the top shelf, was a shoebox. I pulled it down. It was full of old photographs—not in frames, just loose. They were pictures of a family, all with the same hollow, dark eyes. In every picture, there was a blurred shape in the background, like a smudge on the lens. I showed Theo, and he shrugged. ‘Weird.’ We heard our parents calling from downstairs. I shoved the box back, and we went down.

That night, back at my aunt’s house, I couldn’t shake the feeling of that parakeet. Its painted eyes seemed to follow me. I dreamed of the swamp, of dark water closing over my head, and of a woman’s voice humming a lullaby. I woke up, my heart pounding, and saw a shadow in the corner of my room—a long shape, like a person standing, but not moving. I blinked, and it was gone.

The next day, my uncle decided we needed to go back to the Wentworth place to get more measurements. He asked if Theo and I wanted to come. We said yes. When we pulled up, the house looked different somehow—the windows seemed to be watching us. The porch creaked as we walked across it. My uncle went inside, and we followed. The parakeet was still there, but now it was in the hallway, sitting on a windowsill, as if someone had moved it. I looked at Theo, and he shook his head. ‘Maybe someone’s been here,’ he whispered.

We split up to explore. I wandered into the dining room, where a long table was set for dinner under a sheet—plates and glasses, cups and silverware, all covered. On the sideboard, I saw a cabinet with a glass front. Inside, more knick-knacks, but also a small journal. I opened the cabinet and pulled out the journal. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting spidery. It was a diary, dated 1902. The entries talked about a woman named Eleanor, who had lost her husband to the swamp, and who later had a son who died of fever. The entries grew more frantic, talking about a ‘presence’ in the house, a shadow that she saw in every room. The last entry read: ‘It has taken the parakeet. It wants me next.’

I heard Theo call my name from upstairs. I shoved the journal into my pocket and went up. I found him in the nursery, staring at the rocking horse. It was rocking, slowly, back and forth, though no one was there. ‘It started moving when I walked in,’ he said, his voice shaking. I grabbed his arm, and we ran downstairs. We found my uncle in the study, looking at old blueprints. ‘We should go,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel good.’ My uncle frowned, but he nodded. As we walked out, I glanced back at the parakeet. It was now sitting on the banister of the staircase, as if it had been placed there. My stomach lurched.

We left, and I told my parents about the journal. They dismissed it as an old ghost story. But the next week, my aunt received a letter from the estate lawyer. The Wentworth place had been broken into—someone had stolen some items, including a painted glass parakeet. The sheriff found the parakeet later, though, down by the swamp edge, covered in mud. It was returned to the house. I never went back, but sometimes I dream of that house, of that parakeet, and in my dream, its painted eyes blink. And I hear a humming, a lullaby, from somewhere deep inside me.