Vultures and Crows Want to Eat Our Dead Bodies

Commuter Sees Man-Sized Bird… Creature… Something…

Matty S.
16 min readAug 4, 2023

The Back-Alley Bird Butcher

I saw another dead bird this morning.

I found this one in the alley that I use as a shortcut on my commute to work. This alley is always littered with mangled, feathery husks. They’re strewn about as carelessly as cigarette butts.

And it’s not just this alley. I’ve been seeing dead birds all over the downtown area. I work long hours in an office building downtown, so I see them every day now.

There’s no such thing as coincidences.

Something is killing all the birds. But what?

At first, I blamed a stray cat. It was an obvious culprit. But when dozens of dead birds started showing up all over downtown, I knew it couldn’t be a cat. Whatever it was, it must enjoy leaving the carcasses on the sidewalk for me like a friendly cat.

What if it’s not a predator at all? What if some sort of natural phenomena caused the mass bird deaths? What if the cause was viral infection? Or 5g cellular towers? Or airborne radiation poisoning? (The usual suspects).

But that didn’t make any sense either, considering the mutilation.

The birds are always mutilated. Today’s bird looked like its insides were sucked out with a vacuum. Sometimes the birds are beheaded. Other times, all the feathers are plucked from the body. The blood is always drained from the body. It’s never a pretty sight.

So, perhaps the culprit is a predator. But this is the downtown of a big city — if it’s not a cat, then I don’t know what the hell it is. I imagined it must be something with gnarly claws, based on the condition of the birds.

I nicknamed it “The Back-Alley Bird Butcher” — sort of like the way newspapers give nicknames to infamous serial killers.

Part of me wonders if the homeless people are eating them.

I don’t know why my mind jumped to that conclusion. Maybe it’s because these days the homeless are becoming as common as bird corpses. But the idea burrowed its way deep within my subconscious and would not come out…

I stood there examining the dead bird. This specimen is a robin. But I’ve seen all native varieties of birds eviscerated and discarded along this lonely backstreet. Crows, cardinals, chickadees — you name it. The Back-Alley Bird-Butcher does not discriminate.

The Tower

Although it’s a shortcut on my commute, I don’t enjoy taking this route. The alleyway is creepy enough as is, and now all the dead birds make it feel like a graveyard. Moreover, the alley produces a hellish wind tunnel effect. The result is a harsh dead-zone. The only sounds are the rushing of traffic, the electro-drone of power stations, and the whistling wind.

And then there’s the Tower.

The alley cuts behind a dilapidated brutalist skyscraper. Locals refer to this building as the “Tower.” Besides being a major eyesore on the city’s skyline, it’s also an abandoned shithole.

Most of the commercial tenants here evacuated back during the race riots in the summer of 2020. After the exodus, the city condemned the Tower but never made any plans for what to do with it. Now it stands vacant, casting its shadow over the city like an urban Ozymandias.

Since the exodus of tenants, the summit of this lonesome pillar attracts mobs of crows and vultures. It’s quite a popular roosting spot for them. There’s so many of them that the black bastards blot out the sun. Each morning, they amass atop its peak like a foreboding omen of death. Perched above the city like gargoyles, they look down on us humans with nothing but contempt. Their mad squawking sounds like screaming.

I walked past a panhandler with gooey, crusted scabs all over his face. He asked me for three dollars, but I gave him my half-finished coffee instead. This seemed to satiate him. He picked one of the scabs off his face and ate it. Then he scurried back to the dumpster where he came from.

Due to its current state of disrepair, the Tower doesn’t see much foot traffic despite being downtown. Most commuters avoid it like the plague.

But lots of vagrants hang out around the Tower. Some of them are likely squatters. Others are just passing through. The Tower is notorious for these loiterers. Vagabonds haunt the streets like ghosts of the city, striking cold terror into even the bravest of yuppie commuters!

All jokes aside, it’s quite tragic how many unfortunate people call this place home.

I’ve heard plenty of rumors that the local mafia operates a covert “hotel-for-the-homeless” inside of the Tower. I’m not sure if that’s true. One time I saw a man smoking a cigarette out of a fifth story window, so I know there’s people squatting inside — but to what extent, I don’t know.

I’ve also heard that there’s a leper colony residing inside the penthouse level of the Tower. I’m not sure if that one’s true either, but probably not.

Probably.

Nearby I can hear a mad beggar chanting, “Crows and vultures want to eat our dead bodies!”

I wondered why the city hasn’t yet demolished the Tower. Like I said, it’s a total eyesore. The Tower’s exterior resembled tall slabs of concrete honeycomb. Years of acid rain had corroded its outer walls. The ground-level windows were broken and boarded-up. It stands out in stark contrast against the adjacent buildings.

Today the Tower adorned a wide canvas banner proclaiming: “Downtown [city name omitted] is Back & Open for Business!”

Oh, we’re back all right. We are so back, baby.

The Beastie

The next day, there was a pigeon flattened into a frisbee. This was not the work of a predator — this was something else.

Something is out there.

I knew it wasn’t a predator because I saw it that same day.

While I was studying the flattened carcass, I detected motion out of my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw a tall humanoid figure in a dull, green coat. It darted around the corner and disappeared into the vast concrete jungle. In its wake it left behind a trail of loose feathers floating in the air.

Sure enough, there was a beastie loose in the city.

I resort to calling it a “beastie” because I don’t know what else to call it. I saw it for only a second, so I didn’t get the best look at it. All I can say for certain is that it was not human. It looked like the shape of a man, but it was too tall and too agile. It didn’t move like a person, but rather a wild animal.

Now I’ve seen it, so now I know it’s real. But what was it?

Enough with the mystery already! I must get to the bottom of these bizarre happenings once and for all. I swore to confront this cryptic Bird-Butcher the next time we crossed paths.

That time was on a crisp October morning. Pale fog blanketed the city (or maybe it was smog). Headlights from the sporadic traffic pierced through the smoky haze.

It must have seen me before I saw it.

As I was passing the Tower, the beastie pounced in front of me and bolted off down the alley. I followed in close pursuit, chasing it down the block and around the corner.

It kept to the back alleys to avoid drawing attention to itself.

I followed it around a corner, and then another corner. I realized then that we were going in a circle. At last, it backtracked to our starting point at the Tower.

I’ve cornered it!

Then the beastie turned around and faced me for the first time. Its only discernible features were its foaming beak and an enormous pair of glowing, orange eyes. The sight of it stunned me.

In an abrupt display of explosiveness, the beastie sprang up over me. It grabbed onto the wall with its claws and scaled the exterior wall of the Tower, climbing like a spider. Helplessly, I watched it ascend several stories with ease. When it reached the thirteenth floor, it ducked into an open window and slithered away.

Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t afraid of me. It was playing a game of tag with me. It wanted me to be aware of its presence. But why? What did the beastie want to do with me?

I stood there dumbfounded. The only sound was the harsh squawking of crows and vultures perched overhead.

After a deep breath, I continued my walk to work, like any other weekday. What else was I supposed to do? What else could I do?

I didn’t tell anybody about what I saw. There’s nothing to tell.

What would I even say? Hmm, how does this sound: “There’s something killing all the birds downtown — every last one of them! There’s a beastie running amok in the city. A beastie I tell you! It hides among the feral street people! They live inside the Tower on 4th Street, roosting during the day like a nest of bats! And they only emerge in the twilight hours! And they feast on birds’ blood!”

Come on, get real.

But I know what I saw.

For some reason, I recalled the mad beggar from the other day. “Vultures and crows want to eat our dead bodies!”

What does that even mean? It gave me the creeps.

There was something strange going on in this city, and I planned to get to the bottom of it.

The Conspiracy

The next day, there was a sign that read: “CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION!”

The alley was inaccessible. It was blocked off with roadblock signs and orange cones. Tall, white security vans obscured the pathway from view. Temporary chain link fencing surrounded the perimeter. Indefinite closure, according to the signage.

Beyond the blockade, I could see a crew of utility workers. At least they looked like utility workers. They were all wearing hardhats and orange reflective vests. But I noticed some of them had guns holstered at their hips. They weren’t like any utility workers I’ve ever seen before.

They were coming in and out of the Tower through an inconspicuous backdoor. A group of workers exited the Tower, then another group went right in after them.

I tried to get a closer look at what was going on in the alley. I walked up to the barrier and pressed my face up to the chain link fence. From this vantage point, I could see that one of the workers carried a Geiger meter.

“Hey!”

I spun around and saw a worker sitting in one of the white vans.

“Get away from there! That’s private property!”

I backed off from the fence.

The worker got out of the van and approached me. “Move along, pal! Nothing to see here!” He chased me away.

I looked back and gazed up at the Tower. What are they hiding in there?

Somewhere off in the distance I could hear the mad beggar chanting, “Vultures and crows want to eat our dead bodies!”

I thought about the conspiracy all day at work. Who were those people? What were they doing in the Tower? And what does it have to do with the beastie?

That evening, I drove home in serene darkness. The moon shone bright, but even so, things were darker than usual.

I parked outside my house and stepped out of the car.

Overhead, I spied a low-flying aircraft (possibly military?) with sets of propellers on the wings. Bright, blinking lights lined the underside of its massive wingspan. I couldn’t tell if it was a plane or some kind of drone. The unidentified aircraft emitted white noise that made my ears ring. It coasted overhead, appearing to scan the ground in search of something.

I wondered if it was the same people who blocked off the Tower. Were they looking for the beastie too? And why?

I became obsessed with solving the mystery of the Back-Alley Bird Butcher. I also became overwhelmed with an intolerable sense of ambient dread, which still follows me anywhere I go.

I admit the beastie frightened me. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The mere knowledge of its existence warped my entire sense of reality. I felt uneasy knowing that it could appear around a corner at any moment.

What if the beastie decides to come after me next? I’ve seen what it does to birds — who knows what it would do to me. My guess is that it would suck my organs out through my anus.

The Second Encounter

I couldn’t sleep the following night. Feeling restless, I went for a walk to clear my head. Although the beastie had me on edge, I felt safe enough to go for a late-night walk since I was back home in the suburbs. The beastie’s habitat is the city after all.

Wrong.

Outside my house, I noticed a dead woodpecker lying on the grass. But this one was not like the other bird carcasses. Its body was turned inside out like a dirty sock.

I heard a loud rustling coming from the trees. I looked up, expecting to see the strange drone from last night. But it wasn’t.

It was the beastie!

It perched on a branch high up in the trees alongside a flock of screech owls. It stared at me with its bright, glowing orange eyes.

To my surprise, the beastie outstretched a pair of wings and took flight. It hovered above me for a moment, looking down at me as if it were sizing me up. Then it flapped its leathery wings and flew away into the darkness.

The beastie was toying with me. It wanted me to know it was following me.

I hurried inside and locked the door.

What is to be done about this beastie? Is it following me? What if there’s more of them?

I realized that tonight was my first time finding a dead bird outside of the city limits. The beastie must be expanding its territory. Afterward, I started seeing dead birds anywhere and everywhere. I couldn’t escape the carnage.

I recalled the story of “Mothman” — a cryptid that appeared in Point Pleasant, West Virginia in the 1960s. Several witnesses reported seeing a winged monster with glowing red eyes. The newspaper headline read: “Couples See Man-Sized Bird… Creature… Something.”

Yep, that sounds about right to me.

Mothman or not, this thing must be of supernatural origin. There’s no other explanation.

I resolved to catch the beastie once and for all. But I had no idea how I was going to confront the beastie. It seemed to defy all logic. I needed to figure out a plan of action. All I knew was that something was happening. Something beyond my understanding, beyond normal human comprehension.

The Mad Beggar

Things have escalated. First it was dead birds. Now the beastie has moved on to larger prey.

Last week I saw a morbid scene. Outside my apartment was an injured squirrel. It was missing an eye and wobbling around in circles like it couldn’t see straight. Then it crawled into the storm drain to presumably die.

The image of the poor, tortured squirrel stuck with me for days to come. That night I dreamt about the disturbing animal deaths. The dream consisted of the one-eyed squirrel shambling around, saying, “Help me… Help me…”

Regular, vivid nightmares plagued my sleep thereafter. In one of these nightmares, I have this vision of myself as sand in an hourglass. In another, I’m walking down the alley when I see the mad beggar chanting, “Vultures and crows want to eat our dead bodies!”

What if it doesn’t stop with squirrels? Will the beastie continue progressing to bigger and bigger victims?

After the squirrel incident, I began seeing dead rats. And then dead bats. But the worst of it occurred yesterday.

I was walking to the office (taking the long way there now that the alley was closed) when I found a makeshift shrine. I was passing a vacant construction zone when I noticed it.

I could smell it before I could see it.

It was a grisly scene. The shrine contained several dead bats, rats, and alley-cats. Candles and bones were arranged in a circle around a milk crate. On top of the milk crate lay a decapitated stray cat. A murder of crows pecked at the remains. Vultures circled overhead.

What the hell?

I didn’t know what to make of it.

“He’s coming.”

Behind me stood the mad beggar. He was wrapped in raggedy blankets and wore a traffic cone on his head like a wizard’s hat. Crumpled newspapers lined the inside of his clothing and stuck out from underneath his dingy coat.

“What? Who?” I asked.

“The Birdman.”

“You’ve seen it too?”

“Aye! He’s coming, and He’s growing stronger. He dwells among us street folk.”

“What is it?”

“Lord of the birds and bats! He who commands the streets! He who feasts on the vagabonds! Behold the great Birdman! The Beastie! The Back-Alley Bird Butcher! A creature not of this realm! Bow down and tremble at His might! Beware, fools! Soon ye shall know His true power!”

I backed away from the mad beggar, but he shambled toward me. He limped after me, but I was much faster. He shook his fists in the air, chanting, “Vultures and crows want to eat our dead bodies!”

The Midnight Flight of the Birdman

I’ve decided to break into the Tower. Whatever answers I’m looking for, I know I’ll find them inside.

Late one Saturday night, I drove downtown. I parked on the street and approached the alley behind the Tower.

I came to the sign that read “CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION!” Then I crossed the barrier and walked down the alley.

The streets were empty that night, but the alley was alive with activity.

I saw a homeless man eating a bird sandwich — clumps of feathers sticking out from between two slices of white bread. Blood dripped from his mouth. He stood by a dumpster fire — there was a pigeon spit roasting over the fire.

There was a naked man masturbating into a dirty gym sock — he didn’t seem to notice me as I walked by.

Farther down the alley, another homeless man was walking his pet raccoon on a leash.

Somewhere in the vicinity the mad beggar was chanting, “Vultures and crows want to eat our dead bodies!

I went to the backdoor of the Tower. Spray painted on the door in bold block lettering was the cryptic phrase: “FETUS GANG!!!

Although the supposed utility workers were using this same door the other day, the door had been boarded up since then. But I was expecting that. I removed a crowbar from my backpack and pried open the door. I pulled up my facemask, turned on my headlamp, and entered the Tower.

Inside, graffiti and cobwebs covered the walls. My bright headlamp disturbed the bats, and they flew around me in frantic circles. The bats were the size of rats; the rats were the size of cats.

I located a stairwell and started climbing to the thirteenth floor. That’s where the beastie escaped to the first time I encountered it, so I figured that’s where I would find it. I struggled to make it up the stairs. Several times I had to pause to catch my breath. It was no easy task. At one point I heard a loud crunch under my boot — it was the sound of me stepping on a fat, hairy tarantula.

At last, I arrived at the thirteenth floor and exited the dank stairwell. A wave of bats bombarded me when I opened the door. I swatted them away and continued through the door.

On the thirteenth floor was a rundown office space. The whole place was filthy. Dirty needles, crushed beer cans, and bones were stacked all the way up to the ceiling.

At the center of the open floorplan was a crude nest. It was composed of shredded newspapers, cigarette butts, and lots of downy feathers. A sticky, glue-like substance held the nest together.

I approached the nest with caution. Three large eggs rested inside. The eggs were the size of bowling balls and speckled with light brown spots.

Then I heard a shriek.

The beastie hung upside from the ceiling like a bat. Blood dripped from its glistening fangs. It dropped to the floor and scuttled toward me.

I ran like hell for the stairwell.

The beastie dummy-charged me, then veered off in the opposite direction. Instead of pursuing me, the beastie crawled to its nest. It took on a defensive stance, splaying its wings and hissing like an irate goose.

I slammed the stairwell door shut and held it closed. I looked through a window in the door at the beastie.

The beastie shrieked again and stomped its feet. Then it unfurled its wings and took flight. It swooped across the room and out an open window.

I exited the stairwell once more and ran to the window. I looked out at the night sky and saw the beastie one last time. Its silhouette gracefully soared past the full moon and disappeared into the darkness.

Then I returned to the nest for a closer examination of the eggs. I took several photos of the eggs. I’m not sure what the photos will prove, but at least it’s something, isn’t it? I didn’t dare destroy or steal the eggs for fear of retaliation from the beastie. Who knows what it’s capable of. I don’t want to get on its bad side.

With the beastie gone now, I was free to explore the rest of the thirteenth floor. Dead animals littered the floors. A mangy opossum scurried past me. In one corner of the room was a stack of human bodies. The victims all appeared to be homeless judging by their shabby clothing. All of their guts and blood were sucked out through the anus, and their skins looked like deflated balloons.

In the distance I heard the beastie shrieking. It sounded like it was getting closer. I need to get out of here right now.

The Migration

The city has finally decided to demolish the Tower. That’s what I heard on the local news this morning. They condemned the Tower, and it’s slated for demolition sometime next week.

The news also reported on a string of slayings targeting the homeless community. The police suspected a deranged serial killer, but only I knew the truth.

After that night in the Tower, it was like everything reset back to normal. The roadblock is gone now. No trace remains of whatever was going on inside the Tower. I’ve stopped seeing dead birds everywhere. It’s like the circus packed up and left town overnight.

And I never saw the beastie again.

I speculated that the eggs had hatched. It’s quite common for some birds to migrate to specific breeding or nesting locations. Maybe the beastie behaves the same way. Maybe it migrated back home now that the eggs have hatched. Maybe it’s off to greener pastures. Or maybe it just got bored and left. Who the hell knows.

Or maybe it was the people who blocked off the alley. Whoever they were, I’m certain they were looking for the beastie too. Maybe they found the beastie. Maybe they captured and contained it. Or killed it. Maybe they collected the eggs to study in a secret underground laboratory somewhere. But for what purpose? Whatever business they had inside the Tower, it appears to be over with now.

I wish I had more closure to offer, but I don’t. Alas, there is no resolution to this story. There is no simple narrative I can tell myself to explain away everything I’ve witnessed. My experience transcends my understanding of reality.

But I know what I saw. What I saw was real, and that’s all that matters.

Each question only leads to more questions. All that’s certain is the beastie is gone forever now.

My questions go unanswered. There is no grand moment of final truth. There is no catharsis from this madness.

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