Brandon Kang was so intent on his research paper that he'd forgotten entirely about the eclipse. He was editing some copy in pencil and making mistakes correcting his mistakes. He stabbed the paper with his eraser, scratching away his work. He swept the rubbings from his desk, so intent on his malcontent he did not notice the feathers he'd brushed to the ground.
There came a scratching from somewhere close. He almost missed it, but just as he was about to dismiss it, it came again. He unconsciously clenched his hand around the piece of paper he was holding, crumpling it. The scratching sounded like it was coming from inside the desk. No—somehow, he knew it was coming from inside the desk, among his books and papers and erasers and paperclips, where it should not be, and the thought terrified him. "Hello, Brandon," a voice said.
Brandon, who had a congenital heart defect, had a violent attack and died.
Brandon had Metallica's Master of Puppets on his CD player. At the time of his death, "The Thing That Should Not Be" was playing. The CD, on continuous repeat, had come back to that song for the second time when his roommate Joseph discovered him. Inspired by the synchronicity, something malevolent decided it would be fun if that very song was playing again minutes later, when either body would be discovered. The buttons seemed to press themselves, just as the blood appeared to have written itself, and the song was queued up while the volume was raised. With one body exposed on the sidewalk outside, and the other laying in a room with a now open door and loud music, it would not be long. Not far away, the World Turkey waited, unaware of the humor in this music selection.
Minutes later, when someone did walk by, it was the in-house faculty member, the resident advisor, and a gaggle of students; all returning from a rooftop eclipse-viewing. They stopped before the open door and were about to knock on the jamb when they saw the blood and broken glass. The faculty member, a professor of anthropology, bade the students to wait while he and the RA went in to investigate. One of them went for help. The RA turned the music down, and that's when they heard the scratching. It was coming from inside the desk. The professor crunched across broken glass towards the desk. He pulled the drawer open. Where he should have found pens and pencils, or computer discs, or even, heavens, pornography, he found only the weathered bones of a largish bird, buried in the wood of the desk as if it were desert sand. "Hello," said the World Turkey, in a voice that threatened to crack and break forever, taking time itself with it. The professor could not fathom it—nor did he care to—as he ran headlong screaming from the room, missed, and cracked his skull on the doorframe. Something Else moved, and wrote in his blood: "THE WORLD TURKEY DID IT."
"Do not fear me," spoke the World Turkey. Its words held them frozen, so consumed were they that they did not—could not—think to flee. The professor continued to bleed, untended; unnoticed. It spoke with a voice beyond time, this voice that came from bones. Bones could not talk, not the bones of a bird. Birds couldn't even talk when they were alive. And yet, it continued: "Fear it." And with that, the malevolent spirit stopped its blood writing and laughed.
Laughter filled the room a thousand fold, layered and reverberating with itself. Blood seemed to spatter everywhere, but written clearly on the ceiling dripped the words: "HE'S RIGHT!"