MY CAT BROUGHT IN A BIRD WITH A TINY, SHINY METAL BAND ON ITS LEG
I was about to pick up the injured robin when I saw the glint of metal on its leg. I dropped the phone and instinctively recoiled from the tiny creature on the floor, its feathers ruffled and one wing bent at an unnatural angle. It wasn’t just a bird; it was a robin, vivid red breast, eyes like polished obsidian, but something about it felt wrong, profoundly wrong.
My hands were shaking as I leaned closer, a faint, metallic scent clinging to the air around it – like old pennies and something burnt. That’s when I saw it: a thin, dull silver band etched with what looked like a series of microscopic numbers, barely visible unless the light hit it just right. “This isn’t a normal bird band,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
The wildlife rescue operator’s tone was terrifyingly calm when I called her, almost too calm. “Madam, are you absolutely certain of what you’re describing?” she asked, and a cold dread settled in my gut, heavier than lead. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum.
Just as I was about to answer, the robin twitched violently, not like a struggling animal, but something precise, almost mechanical. It chirped, a high-pitched, metallic sound that sent shivers down my spine, unlike any bird I’d ever heard.
As I stared back, the numbers on the band seemed to glow, almost imperceptibly, in the dim light.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…My voice caught in my throat, a strangled sound. “Yes,” I managed, the word barely a breath. “There’s…something wrong with it.”
The operator sighed, a weary sound that amplified my fear. “Stay away from it, madam. Do not touch it. We are dispatching a team immediately. Under no circumstances are you to allow it to leave your sight.” The line went dead, leaving me alone in the unsettling silence, broken only by the robin’s ragged breaths.
I backed away, my gaze glued to the creature. The metallic scent intensified, and a low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The robin, seemingly sensing my retreat, tilted its head, the obsidian eyes fixed on me. It chirped again, the metallic sound echoing in the confined space. Then, with a movement that defied its apparent injuries, it hopped forward, a tiny metallic foot scrabbling against the wooden floor.
Suddenly, the air crackled with energy. The feathers on the robin’s chest began to shimmer, then seemed to dissolve, replaced by a smooth, metallic plating that reflected the weak sunlight filtering through the window. The leg with the band – the band now glowing with a vibrant, pulsing blue – straightened, and the broken wing, with a series of sharp clicks, reconfigured itself into a sleek, aerodynamic shape.
Panic seized me, cold and absolute. This wasn’t a bird. It was… something else.
The robin, or whatever it had become, chirped once more, the sound amplified, resonating within my skull. It rose, effortlessly, from the floor, its transformation complete. It hovered for a moment, a miniature, metallic drone with the form of a robin, then turned its gaze to the closed window.
The glass shattered.
I ducked behind the sofa, covering my head as the metallic robin, now a blur of silver and blue, zipped out into the open air. Silence descended once more, broken only by the ragged beat of my heart. After a moment, I cautiously peeked over the sofa. The window was gone, replaced by a gaping hole, and the wind whistled through the space.
I stumbled to the window, peering out. There, in the distance, a faint, shimmering trail of blue energy led into the sky. The bird was gone.
Later, the wildlife rescue team arrived, clad in hazmat suits. They examined the area, took samples, and questioned me relentlessly. They wouldn’t tell me anything, their faces grim and guarded. They left with a truck full of equipment and a warning to stay inside until further notice.
Weeks turned into months. The window was replaced, the area around my house was meticulously cleaned, and the memory of the metallic robin began to fade, a distant, unsettling dream. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the glint of metal in the sunlight – they all felt like reminders, silent warnings of something unseen, something waiting.
One crisp autumn morning, I was sitting in my kitchen, sipping my coffee, when I heard a faint chirping sound. It was the same metallic, high-pitched sound. I froze, my blood turning to ice.
I slowly turned towards the window. There, perched on the windowsill, was a robin. A real robin, its breast a vibrant red, its eyes like polished obsidian. But something about it felt wrong, profoundly wrong. Its gaze was unwavering, its chirps a clear signal, and around its leg, in the faint morning light, I saw it. A tiny, silver band. Glowing faintly. The numbers were almost visible now. The time was coming.