"Bird Box" by Josh Malerman

The wind moved gently through the trees, rustling the dry leaves like whispers of ghosts. Mallory knelt by the edge of the river, her ears tuned to every crack of a twig, every flutter of a bird’s wing. The blindfold over her eyes was tied tight—so tight her temples throbbed—but she didn’t dare loosen it. Not here. Not now.

Two small hands gripped her coat from behind. The Boy and the Girl—her children, not by blood, but by choice—were silent, trained well in the art of fear. They had never seen the sky, the sun, or even her face. All they knew was the blackness of cloth and the quiet, endless danger that lived beyond it.

Mallory whispered, “We row today.”

The children didn’t respond. That was good. Silence was survival.

She placed the birds in the small metal cage hanging from her belt. They chirped anxiously, a trembling alert system against the unseen. In this world, the birds sensed what humans could not. When the creatures were near, they screamed. When the air turned wrong, they panicked. It was the only warning anyone got.

With practiced fingers, Mallory untied the boat from the tree’s roots and guided the children inside. The old wooden rowboat creaked under their weight, but held steady. Her hands found the oars. She began to row.

Each stroke echoed through the river’s stillness, and the boat drifted forward into fog.

Four years ago, the world ended.

It began with a strange news report out of Russia—mass suicides, bizarre behavior, people clawing at their own eyes. It spread like a virus, across borders and languages, until it reached America. No one knew what the creatures looked like. Those who saw them never lived to describe it.

The rule became simple: Don’t look.

Stay inside. Board up the windows. Blindfold yourself outdoors. Trust only sound. And hope.

Mallory had once lived in a house filled with voices, with her sister Shannon laughing in the kitchen, music playing from speakers. That was before the day Shannon opened the curtain, muttered something beautiful, and smiled just before crashing her skull into the bathroom sink.

Since then, Mallory had seen nothing—but heard everything.

The boat bumped softly against a submerged branch, jarring her from memory. She froze, listening.

The birds.

They were quiet.

That was good. Or maybe... too good?

A ripple disturbed the water beside them. A thump against the boat’s side.

Then a voice.

“Mallory.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The voice was soft, familiar. It sounded like her sister. But it couldn’t be. Shannon was dead.

“Mallory,” it said again. “Take off the blindfold. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The Girl whimpered. The Boy clutched Mallory’s arm.

“It’s okay,” the voice cooed. “I’m here. It’s over now.”

Mallory shut her eyes tighter, as if it mattered. She’d heard of this—creatures mimicking voices, luring people to look. To see.

She gritted her teeth and whispered to the children, “Cover your ears. Do not listen.”

The Girl obeyed. The Boy hesitated.

“I want to see her,” he whispered. “She sounds kind.”

“No.” Mallory reached out and held his face in her palms. “It’s a trick. You look, you die.”

The birds exploded into frantic shrieks.

It was close.

So close.

She dropped to her knees in the boat and curled over the children. The voice turned into laughter—sweet and melodic, like wind chimes in a storm.

Then silence.

The birds quieted.

Mallory didn’t move. Not for minutes. Not until her heartbeat calmed and the only sound was the river lapping against wood.

Hours passed. They drifted. The fog began to lift.

“We’re almost there,” she whispered.

She remembered Tom—brave, kind Tom—who died protecting her and the kids. He had told her of a place far downriver, a sanctuary where people lived safely, even sighted. A school for the blind that had become a refuge. No windows. No need to see.

When the boat finally bumped against shore, Mallory reached for the ground with cautious hands. She helped the children out, their small shoes crunching gravel.

Then came voices—not illusions, but real ones. Human ones.

“Who’s there?” a man called.

Mallory didn’t remove her blindfold. “Three of us,” she said. “Two children. We’ve come from upriver.”

Steps approached. A woman’s hand touched hers. “You’re safe now,” she said gently. “You can take it off. You’re among the blind.”

Mallory hesitated. She’d worn the blindfold so long it felt like skin.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Hands helped her inside a gate. Doors closed. Safe.

With trembling fingers, Mallory lifted the blindfold.

Light poured in. Colors she hadn’t seen in years. Shapes. Faces.

She blinked, crying without sound.

The children stared too, wide-eyed, unblinking, seeing for the first time.

And for the first time in a long time—Mallory believed in tomorrow.