The Hen House

It was a day much like any other when we discovered that a psychotic murderer was targeting our chickens.

“I found her in the west field,” Minho said, his eyes shining with rage. He loomed over the three of us—our mother, Eunkyung, and me—and dropped a mauled chicken in the middle of the breakfast table. This was unfortunate for many reasons, but mostly because I wasn’t done eating. 

Eunkyung pulled her plate away and shot Minho a withering look. She hadn’t escaped the blast radius—a few bloody feathers dusted her shoulders. “What is wrong with you?”

“Be polite to your brother.” Mother pulled herself up, one hand on the knotted oak table, and placed a calming hand on Minho’s shoulder. “Is the blood fresh?”

“Yes,” Minho said, with a quick, sharp nod. “And the wound is clean. Mother, it looks like a person did it.”

“A person?” I blurted.

“Take a look for yourself.”

Eunkyung shied away as Mother and I crowded over the bird. Minho was right—there was something odd about the chicken’s corpse. The neck was broken cleanly, and chunks of flesh had been peeled away with enough precision to rule out an animal attack.

Mother’s brows twisted. “Where is your father?”

“I don’t know. He was supposed to be in the orchard, but I couldn’t find him.” Minho ran a hand through his hair, shoulders tense. I patted his arm. It was no wonder he was so alarmed—he’d raised this season’s chickens all on his own. If there were any issues, Father might use it as an excuse to send him to the city. He’d been calling Minho useless for ages; we all knew it was only a matter of time.

Minho jolted at my touch. His eyes flickered from me, to Eunkyung, and finally to the chicken. I could tell he was about to do something stupid. 

“Why don’t you and I go find Father?” I said, at the exact same moment he said, “Jihye should stay inside.”

“What?” I snatched my hand back from him and crossed my arms. “It’s just a dead chicken, Minho. It’s not like there’s a crazed serial killer on the loose.”

He shook his head, turning to our mother. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to worry. Remember what happened on Eunkyung’s birthday?”

“That was years ago,” I cried, indignant and somewhat humiliated. “And it wasn’t my fault she left me wandering around!”

“Your brother is right,” Mother said. “Jihye, it’s better to be safe than sorry. You can stay inside and clean for today.”

“Why isn’t Eunkyung getting locked up?” 

“Eukyung is older than you, dear.”

“And ten times more beautiful,” I pointed out, though it stung. “If there’s a murderer, I don’t think I’ll be his target.”

Eunkyung’s burning gaze settled on me. She pulled herself up from where she’d been huddled against the wall, her expression vague and insincere. “Just stay inside,” she said disdainfully. “They only want to keep you safe.”

“I know.” Something coiled in my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. “There’s just nothing they need to protect me from.”

“No more of this, Jihye. It’s been decided.” Mother stroked my cheek. Her hand was coarse, but the motion was gentle. I leaned into the touch; felt her warmth bleed into my skin.

 In an instant, Mother pulled her hand back, seized the dead chicken, and ushered Minho out the door. 

“Don’t look so sad,” Eunkyung said, her voice uncharacteristically mild. “You’re only stuck inside for a day.”

Then she slipped after them, plucking feathers from her hair.

In actuality, my prison sentence lasted a week. That morning, three more chickens were found dead, each closer to the house than the last. When Father heard the news, he didn’t say anything—just took a long, hard swig of his drink and spat it on Minho’s shoes. 

But he didn’t send him away. Not yet.

In the days that followed, Minho took to keeping a nightly vigil over the henhouse. It was pointless, and I told him so. Minho had never been resilient. Every night, without fail, he succumbed to exhaustion, and woke up the next morning with his cheek pressed to straw and chicken shit. At first, it was almost funny, but as the weeks dragged on, it became depressing.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I said one morning. I was balancing gingerly on one of the few clean spots on the henhouse floor. Minho sat in front of me, propped between a rotting wooden wall and a pile of straw.

“I have to,” he said, the words slurred with sleep. “Someone’s gonna eat my chickens.”

“Nobody’s going to eat them. It’s been three weeks without any deaths.” I sank to a crouch and prodded his face. “You need to wake up, take a bath, and sleep on a real mattress.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Minho sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t know if my back can take another night on the floor. And I would like a bath.”

“That’s the spirit.” I patted his shoulder, then winced and pulled my hand away. “You might want to wash your clothes.”

We left the shack and ambled toward our house. It was a small, cramped little thing, crooked and brown from years of sun and dirt and ceaseless wind. But it was green, too: creeping vines swallowed the south wall, thick with a kaleidoscope of flowers that sweetened in the sun.

Eunkyung was inside, draped listlessly over our only good chair. Her arm was thrown over her face, blocking her eyes from view. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the orchard?” I asked. She wasn’t, but I knew if she didn’t go and help Mother, Mother would come and get me.

Eunkyung was silent. Soft, shallow breathing drifted from under her arm. Her body tensed, as though she had heard me, but she didn't move.

“Eunkyung? Are you asleep?” I leaned down, touching her arm. 

“Don’t.” 

It was only one word, but Eunkyung said it with such immense gravity that I froze.

Minho pulled my arm away. “She seems ill.”

“No, I’m not ill.” Eunkyung sat up with a sharp, rigid motion. I startled, backing into Minho’s side.

Minho frowned. "Then what are you?"

“I’m just starving,” Eunkyung explained, rising from the chair. Sweat dripped from her hairline to her twisted brow. “Were you at the orchard, Jihye? Did you bring any fruit?”

“I—no.” I glanced at Minho, who looked impassively back at me. “I was at the henhouse, with Minho. He’s finally agreed to stop sleeping with the chickens.”

Eunkyung glanced doubtfully at him. “Has he really?”

“Not exactly,” Minho started, but I quickly interrupted him.

“Yes. He’s also agreed to bathe.”

“I don’t know how you lasted this long, Minho,” Eunkyung said, wrinkling her nose. “If it was me, I would’ve let the chickens die.”

“That’s why you’re not in charge of them,” Minho said, looking slightly horrified at the thought of any more dead chickens.

“Maybe it’s because I practice personal hygiene. It’s easy to leave the dirty work to someone who’s never clean.”

“Or it’s because you’re—“

I quickly excused myself, fleeing back out the open door. When Minho and Eunkyung fought, it became very brutal very quickly. I was not interested in getting caught in the middle and having my self confidence destroyed.

That night, I woke to the sound of muffled yelling.

 The air was thick with heat and buzzing flies. I sat up in bed, pushing a sweat-soaked blanket from my skin, and peered into the darkened room Eunkyung and I shared. It was too hard to find a proper path across the room, but I managed to stumble to the door and crack it open.

Lamplight flared from a window high in the wall, briefly illuminating the kitchen. Father, Mother, and Minho were huddled there. Low, harsh voices echoed from where they stood, but I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I yelped, and the hand moved to cover my mouth. It belonged to Eunkyung. She hovered over me, peering anxiously through the crack in the doorway.

“You scared me!” I accused.

Eunkyung only shushed me. “Be quiet. This is important.”

I crouched down to make room for her. We pressed ourselves against the door, listening as best we could.

Suddenly, Mother turned and started toward our room. 

Eunkyung hauled me to my feet and shoved me in the direction of her bed. I threw myself under the covers, and she piled on top, nearly crushing me. I held my breath, trying desperately to calm my racing heart.

“See?” Mother said, once she reached our door. “She’s right there, asleep.”

I froze. Eunkyung’s hands tightened around my arm. Were they talking about her, or me?

“I’m telling you,” Minho began, but Mother shushed him, and the door to our room quickly closed.

The next morning, Minho was gone. Father had finally sent him to the city.

We had chicken for breakfast.

That night, I went to sleep in the henhouse. I knew it was pointless, but Minho loved those chickens, and now that he was gone, I felt a strange sense of duty toward them.

I entered the henhouse at dusk. There was still a spot of clear floor where Minho had slept a few nights ago. I went over and sat in it, suddenly fighting tears. When a chicken wandered over to me, I stroked her feathers, but quickly stopped. There was something wet on her side.

I pulled my hand away. It was covered in blood.

An odd, scraping sound echoed through the room.

For once, the chickens quieted. In the stuffiness of the henhouse, the silence grew heavy, despite the creaking wood and groaning wind. I froze, heart hammering in my throat, and said, “Hello?”

Eunkyung stepped out from behind a support beam. Her face was blotchy and twisted and smeared with tears. When she tried to smile at me, I saw the blood coating her teeth. I jolted, terror ripping the air from my lungs.

“You're not supposed to be here,” Eunkyung said. Her voice was raw; otherworldly. “Jihye, I’m so hungry.”