Short Story From Photoset 4

To an outsider, the home of Philip Flanders looked just like any other ordinary apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He lived in the cheapest part of an expensive district. This meant that there was a chain link fence outside his building and the rest of the house remained firmly in the 17^th century, with peeling paint and rotting wood supports. What this shoddy exterior hid so well from the rest of the world was a shape shifter named Molly who lived in Phillip’s living room.

            Even on the inside, it would be hard to come to this conclusion, but the signs were all there—fur covering the couch, dark feathers littering the floor, several different claw marks on wooden armrests, bags of dog food and cat food in the kitchen. It seemed that Philip owned just about every animal possible, but there were no animals to be found. There was only Molly, lounging in the living room. The thing about shape shifters is that they can change into anything, not just animals—trees, rocks, whatever comes to mind. Animals are the most interesting things to be, so that is what they often are. But it takes them a very long time to complete the transformation. Molly was once stuck with a long furry tail for two days after being a house cat while Philip’s family was in town. She had to prepare days in advance, often locking herself in the cupboard for a few nights while her smooth skin grew hairy and her teeth sharpened into fangs.  She did not want to be seen looking like that; not after what happened when she first met Philip. Needless to say, the transition period was not a pretty sight. This moment, when the face still resembles a human’s and the bones are twisting into unnatural shapes, is when the shape shifter is at her weakest. This is the danger all shape shifters faced.

           

            On the day she arrived, Philip was celebrating unpacking the last box from his move out of Kansas. He was celebrating by himself because no one knew him, and he knew no one; except for his landlord, who only gave him the apartment because he had two months rent worth of cash in his hand. It was a stormy day outside and he was lucky to have shelter. Just as Philip looked out the window to admire how safe he was, a big black bird slammed head first into the glass, making a small crack in his window.

            “What the…” said Philip as he rushed outside into the rain. He saw a raven on its back, a tiny trickle of blood from its beak. Phil liked to think of himself as a tough guy, you had to in the Boston area, but deep down, he always had a soft spot for animals—and it had been a lonely couple of months. He decided then that the best thing he could do for this bird was to nurse it back to health. When he picked it up, he noticed a paper wrapped around its leg. Phil took it off and unfolded it. The paper turned out to be a series of photos, all of them dating at least sixty years back. They were in black and white and several of them were of the same girl with long frizzy black hair, smiling. On the back corner it said in neat cursive, “For Molly”. Phil laughed and put the roll in his pocket. “I didn’t think people still used birds to send messages.”

Philip would never forget the next few days. The bird quickly outgrew and broke the shoebox he had placed it in and all of the food he gave it was gone—including some food that he did not give it. Phil was surprised and more than a little concerned about this unexpected development. He thought briefly about killing this horrifying creature with a kitchen knife, but out of sheer terror (or maybe compassion) could not bring himself to do it. Meanwhile, it continued to grow and grow until it covered the entire table. Phil did not dare move it. What if it was contagious, he thought. Flustered, he studied the photos some more as the bird creature lay curled up on the table behind him. Perhaps they held a clue to this puzzle. He saw a girl on a bed with a dog whose hair that looked very similar to another girl’s long hair from a different photo. There was also a picture of a soldier who wore a beak-shaped facemask like there was something under it he did not want others to see. Perhaps the strangest photo of all was a picture of three people dressed as chickens in front of a painted background. For what reason, he could not guess.

On the third day, it began to resemble a monkey with feathers. He thought for sure, he should call some sort of pest control and get them to remove this thing from his home. “What have I done,” he would say as he walked around the mass of black feathers lying around the table. The creature would only look at him and sigh, like it was trying to say something but could not. That night, he picked up the phone and looked up the local pest control companies. Eyes closed, he pointed to a name on the page.

            “ASAP Pest Elimination, this is Fred, what can I do for you?” said a deep voice.

            “Hi Fred. I, uh… can… -can you please tell me what size pests you’re able to… eliminate?”

            “For the most part, any,” he replied, “It don’t matter as long as they’re smaller than a cat. Any bigger might cost you a little more. Whaddya got, raccoons, snakes?”

            “Well, here’s the thing—and I’m going to sound a little crazy, but I don’t actually know what it is.”

            “Well gimme something here, son. Can you describe it? Did you get a good look?”

            “It’s right here is front of me, actually,” said Phil as he glanced at the mass of feathers. Just then, it twisted and opened its eyes, meeting his gaze. Phil continued, “this is the part where I’m going to sound crazy.”

            Fred laughed, “Try me,” he said, “in my line of work, you see things.” Philip sighed and looked back at the beast. Its eyes were still on him. Its mouth moved.

            “Wait,” said the creature, “Please wait,” it pleaded.

Phil jumped and dropped the phone on the linoleum floor. It broke into three pieces: two halves and a battery. There was not even a dial tone from the speaker. He backed into a corner, paralyzed. Its eyes were locked on his.

“Please,” she repeated.

“What are you?” said Phil. She narrowed her blue eyes as if she was remembering something and looked away. Then its gaze fell back to Phil and the creature took a deep breath.

“They call me Molly.”

Philip paused and retrieved the strip of photos from his pocket. He found the one of the smiling girl with long curly black hair. Their eyes were the same. Turning the paper around, he read again the words, "For Molly".

To an outsider, the home of Philip Flanders looked just like any other ordinary apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts. But when your roommate is a shape shifter you nursed back to health in a shoebox—life is anything but ordinary.