Stella

I could feel him waiting in the shadows. The evening light was almost gone but I could still see my breathe as I crossed the threshold of the barn. I paused, peering into the dark and dusty stall to my right. Nothing. I looked to the left. Equally empty but possibly dustier. I started walking slowly and the old floor timbers creaked, and I could hear the gentle cooing of the doves.

He was behind me now – I never heard him move but I could feel the malevolence, his stare burning into my back. I turned around but everything looked the same, the well-used horse blankets draped over the stall doors, the shovels and the brooms casually leaned against the wall, just waiting to be used.

I realized my heart was racing and I was holding my breathe.

“I know you are there, “I said, pretending to be brave. Silence. “Show yourself – just get it over with.”

He burst out of the stall to my right, floating down from the hay bale like the descendant of evil he was, flapping his black wings for extra effect. Landing in the pool of light from the barn’s only overhead light, he was no stranger to drama. His beak gleamed and he drew himself up to his full height, adjusting the red crest on his head like he was the leader of a motorcycle gang. He was a leader alright, just no motorcycle. The glare got more intense like he was giving me a warning. One final flap of his feathers – I started to run. I swear I could hear cackling as he ran behind me. Closer, closer – I could almost feel the nip of his beak on my heels. I started screaming and ran faster. I could see the outdoor arena, the while plastic bright in the dying light. I could hear laughter, but I couldn’t focus because if I slowed down, the spiteful bird would get me.

“Door!” I yelled. I flung the door open and slammed it shut just before he got me.

“Mom’s here.” Taya said, giggling. “We could hear you screaming.

“Did Stella get you?” Lia asked. “He bit me earlier but then let me cuddle him.”

“You know he’s just a rooster, right? Vicky said. She was trying not to laugh as she picked up the saddle my daughters had just taken off their horses. She ran the horseback riding lessons for extra income and kept chickens for the same reason.

“He’s a six-toed, malevolent, anthromorphic messenger of death,” I replied, no stranger to drama myself. “Who named him Stella anyway?”

“I like the beer.”

We had some variation of this conversation every time I picked the girls up from lessons. Stella was my nemesis at the barn, but my daughters loved him. He would chase them too, but they loved it and eventually they would scoop him up and cuddle him. I remember looking at him nestled in my daughter’s arms, completely at home except for the nefarious glint in his eye and the self-satisfied smirk on his beak. I swear he purred. Not like a pussy cat but more like a predator waiting for his prey to become completely disarmed.

One spring evening, Vicky pulled me aside. “I don’t want to tell the girls,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stella got eaten by a fox.”

I smiled inappropriately.