The Bird

“Here’s the deal about inside and outsider evil (...) I think it’s a bird. A big bird, all frowsy and frosty gray. It flies here, there, and everywhere. (...) It flies into their heads, and when the wetwork’s done, it flies away again.”

- Stephen King, If It Bleeds

They called him Dr. Death. His name was Harold Shipman, but his name has faded from history. His title, his catchphrase, his M.O., is all that remains.

Dr. Death.

It was part of the Psycho Project. After the government discovered the ticket to time travel, they sent agents back in time to kill serial killers, psychos that were famous for their brutality. Their cruelty. And, maybe most importantly, their body count. Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dahmer. All those big names. They wanted to stop hundreds of victims from meeting their end. A noble cause, but only the best got to participate.

And me, I was assigned Dr. Death.

At 25, I was the youngest man assigned to the Psycho Project. But I had earned that honor by serving with the government ever since I was fresh out of high school.

The hardest part were the outfits. Costumes designed to fit with the time period. Luckily for me, Dr. Death was a more recent phenomena.

And that's how I ended up in the hospital, being treated by Dr. Death himself.

It was all a part of the plan. Dr. Shipman was supposed to treat me, and while he was attempting to administer morphine to me, I'd strike. Along with time travel, we invented a drug that could be applied with no trace left behind. As far as the 1980s are concerned, Dr. Death would instead be Dr. Dead.

Of course, life doesn't always work as planned.

The first part went perfectly.

Dr. Death treated me. He prepared to administer morphine, but instead got a shot of his own.

That's where the plan went wrong.

Because of the bird.

As Dr. Death was breathing his last breaths, I watched as a bird flew in, seemingly out of nowhere, to perch on his heaving chest.

A big grey bird, with wings like shredded bedsheets. The bird had eyes as black and deep as the pits of hell, and its impossibly intelligent eyes drank up Dr. Death's suffering like it was a movie.

And then it turned those deep black eyes and frosty grey wings towards me.

And I felt its scaly claws in my head. Ripping into my skull. Weaving its darkness into the wrinkles of my brain. Feathers falling into my skull, tickling the inside of my skin.

My skin tickled, and the next thing I knew, I no longer looked like myself.

I looked like Dr. Death.

And I heard that bird, that infernal bird, screeching in my head, telling me to kill, kill, kill them all!

So I did.

Until of course, I had to get greedy. I was full of Dr. Shipman's hubris, his pride and arrogance. In his body, I had his flaws.

And I got greedy. Forged that cursed will. And that stupid bitch of a daughter had to get nosy.

So here I am. In a cell. The bird has left me. I heard it screech with laughter as it went, leaving behind a broken sinner.

I am no longer Harry Scaphield, from the Psycho Project. I have devolved into the very monster I was sent to kill.

I am Dr. Death.

And I have one last death to orchestrate— my own.

I will not die a government hero. I will die a serial killer.

I issue one last warning to the future government: one last warning to the future society I left behind.

Don't follow through with the Project. You can't save their lives.

Fate is a bird. An evil pidgeon. And the bird likes everything to be exactly the way it wants.

There's no way to change the past. You only doom our future.

I am sure no one will find this last note. The bird will probably chew and swallow it. Consuming the evidence of its existence. I wish I could let my story be told. But history cannot be altered.

The bird likes everything to go according to plan.