The Cardinals

Journal,

I’ve been advised by my therapist to start keeping a journal. I have an anxiety disorder, it says so in that ginormous tan folder labeled “Jocelyn.” Female, age thirty, lived with mother. Then it says in big old parentheses, “Parents Divorced.” Parenthesis are never good, they’re therapist red flags. Parentheses say, “Hey therapist! This is the problem! Right here!” I’m single, but my little house, overgrown by ivy and weeds by now, got too expensive to keep, so I’m moving. My therapist, Mrs. Jane, who should be a lawyer she’s so good at getting the truth out of you, found me a smaller home in a new neighborhood. I’ve looked at the neighborhood website online. It seems strangely controlled. You can only paint the houses white or grey, the grass cannot be more than an inch tall, the bulbs in the streetlights cannot be on after five a.m. Sounds like a real stick in the mud neighborhood, but I’ve learned not to say no to Mrs. Jane. My therapist is the sort of woman who had a perfect life but is still impossibly bitter. She comes in each day with a mug of black coffee and her pointy glasses nudged up her nose. Acts like she has a bone to pick with every single person in her office, and she’s a “no lady.” Never says anything but “no.” Not yes, no. But the woman hates it when someone says no to her, the assistants learned that the heard way. So yeah, I’m moving tomorrow. It’s only a short drive, but I’m still going to wake up early to do it. I have hope, dumb, stupid, hope, that this will all turn out to be the best move ever! Not. Maybe I’m a little pessimistic but I prefer to say I’m just realistic. There’s a big difference, you know. This move will probably suck but I’m okay with that. Better to live in a stick in the mud neighborhood than to be bugged by my therapist about why I refused to move. I dunno how to end a journal entry? Bye, Journal? Dear Diary, Goodnight, Diary? This is the first time I’ve kept a journal. Eh, whatever. Goodbye!

Journal, 

This is indeed a very strange neighborhood. There’s a dress code! All the men and woman look the same, regulated hair cuts, shirts, shoes...it’s crazy. I don’t think I’ll talk to my new neighbors very much. One of them dropped by quickly, but only to tell me about something that sits near the windows at night. “Cardinals,” he called them. When you see them, you have to be quiet. Be still. Act dead. And if they come for you, never, ever scream. It’s ridiculous! These people are not sane, far from it, and the cardinal thing is proof. I’ve never heard of a “cardinal” before, anyway. I wonder if, by joining this neighborhood, I secretly joined a cult? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made the mistake. I’ve settled in, learned all the places where the stairs creak, which, by the way, is the most important thing to know when buying a house. It’s spacious enough, a pretty house, but I don’t get why there’s so many strict rules. Do this, do that, don’t cut your hair during October but shave it clean off Mondays. Well, not really, maybe I’m exaggerating, but it’s how I feel. I’m trying to keep calm, like Mrs. Jane makes me do. Writing in a journal, which I’m doing now, I’ve already watered my fern, and I’ll go do my housecleaning routine after. Routine helps soothe me, and I feel like this big move will make me more prone to an attack. But I’d prefer not to talk about that. Let me describe my neighbors. The first ones, to my left, I call the Oranges. The Oranges have a very plain house, but today I saw them throw out a vibrantly orange couch. I don’t mean normal orange either, the sort of ow-that-hurts-my-eyes orange. I heard the lady call her husband Orion, too. “Orion,” she said. “Help me with this couch!” And Orion Orange did. To my right are the Wackier couple. I nicknamed that because the husband was the one who told me about “cardinals,” and based off of that evidence, I’d say that couple are wackier than everyone else here, which is saying something. I haven’t seen any kids yet, which makes me sad. My old house was surrounded my little kids, and I became a grandma to them. With my anxiety I didn’t leave the house much before, but when I did, I’d come out and give the kiddos some candy. The young grandma. Fitting nickname. Mrs. Jane says to say what you feel as often as you can, so I suppose I’m doing that. More later.

Journal,

It’s very early, but I couldn’t sleep well. Something kept pecking at my window, but I didn’t want to get up and look. At one point, something fell into my window so hard it cracked the pane! Then I had to get up and check. Down below, I saw something, was sure I saw something, that scared the living crap out of me. I wasn’t sure what it was. It was large, with squinty red eyes that glowed in the night. It had a beak and a plumage of feathers, so many feathers fell of that it made a sort of halo around the creature. Part of me wanted to check, the creature was making a strange clicking sound on the floor, but I instead went to bed. Now, I’m not sure if I imagined it or if it was real? Could it have been those “Cardinals” Mr. Wackier mentioned? No. I’ve just been thinking of his blabbering and it snuck into my dreams. One thing for sure, something cracked the glass of my window. I feel jumpy now, and every little noise in this house frightens me. Even the familiar click of the coffee maker being done reminds me of the creature shrouded in black clicking. I almost dialed Mrs. Jane! That’s how scared I was! The trepidation isn’t an unknown feeling, but this time, it feels worse. I’ve swallowed my pills with coffee and I hope it’s enough. If it isn’t—I don’t know what I’ll do. To try and calm down, I went to my window, where I saw Mr. and Mrs. Orange. This time, someone in a blue uniform was helping them take out a heavy armchair. Were they moving? It didn’t seem so. I opened the window just in time to hear the last snippets of a lengthy sounding conversation. “But Charles!” Mrs. Orange shouted. “But what? It’s out of code! Do you want to get eaten bu the Cardinals?” Charles, guy in uniform, shouted. Mrs. Orange fell silent and hung her head. Charles sighed. “It’s for the best, miss.” He dragged the chair to a pickup truck waiting on the streets and loaded it in with the help of a trolley. Closing the trunk, he climbed inside the car. “Goodbye Mrs. Ling!” Mrs. Ling seemed to watch the man leave, and then she went inside. Great, so I probably did join a cult. But what if the Cardinals were real? No, that’s not true. Hold on, journal, I need more coffee. Maybe that’ll help.

Journal, 

It’s evening now, but I felt I need my thoughts to be recorded again. They’re not pretty ones, let me tell you. Mrs. Wackier came to my abode today, knocked with her manicured fingers on my door and came in without me letting her. She was a stout woman, thin, ugly, and with bundles of blonde hair in those pink curlers. Her hot pink lipsticked lips puckered when she saw me, as if I was intruding her house, and not she mine. “You saw a Cardinal today,” she said. Not a question, more like a statement. I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t say anything. After a pause, Mrs. Wackier continued. “Them Cardinals went right into your window, and then the one fell back. Weird red eyes, tons of feathers, and a beak, yes?” I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded. “Ah, maybe you’ll pay attention to me and Howard, then. Whole neighborhood does, since we were the first.” “First what?” I finally said. “The first family who was taken. Now listen up, buttercup,” Mrs. Wackier didn’t even let me take the knowledge in. “Cardinals seek fresh meat, so I’d recommend you shut up and sit tight. When they come, look away. You don’t see them in your window. Don’t move, sit still, and whatever you do, do not scream.” I gave a wobbly nod. Mrs. Wackier looked me over and shook her head. “A shame,” she said. “A shame what?” “A shame you won’t make it out of here alive.” And Mrs. Wackier let herself out of my house. I can’t say I’m not frightened. In fact, trepidation claws at my throat, and I could have a panic attack any moment now. But I can’t move away, I just got here. The mortgage is paid. That woman is just crazy, that’s why I nicknamed her Mrs. Wackier, isn’t it. It’s evening now, so I should get to bed.

Journal,

“Tick, tock,” my clock goes. The shadows are long, and I can’t see more than five minutes in front of my face. They’re here again. I can hear them, chattering in their native tongue, their forms obstructing my window. Their beady red eyes stare into mine. “Yes I’m on your window,” they say. “What are you going to do about it?” Nothing. The whole neighborhood knows that whatever messes with Them doesn’t make it back to bed. You just turn your head and pretend not to notice as Them goes along their business. I’m not usually an insomniac, but this move, Them, it’s too much. I can’t fall asleep, I can’t look away. Something falls on my roof, making a loud thud. Against my own will, I jump into the air. My breathing is regard, like the rough edges that surface when someone rips paper. I’m shivering, journal, trembling hard! I feel hot and feverish, warm to the touch, and my free, feverish hand grip the bed clothes. Them sees me, awake, unable to move. I see it in their eyes, how they sharpen, narrowing in. Them see a meal. Another one rounds the corner and hits the glass with a loud, “Smack!” Oh journal, what can I do? I’m supposed to keep silent! I was! I did all that! The wretched Cardinal hit the glass again, and this time, the window came free. The glass came loose, falling inside the room and shattering. Noise! Journal, one flew in! It’s in the room! It’s looking at me...I can’t stay silent! I have to

Mrs. Orange, whose name was actually Mrs. Ling, woke up the next morning. She did her hair, an updo, and pecked her husband on his cheek. “No birds at my window tonight,” he observed. Mrs. Ling frowned. “I wonder who it is now. Not Harvey, the poor dear never hurt a soul!” Mr. Ling shook his head. “I heard it’s the girl next door, a Jocelyn something. They found her diary, too, cut off in the middle of a shaky sentence.” Mrs. Ling smiled again and sighed. “The young never make it, do they?” “They can’t handle the Cardinals. And we’ll have so much red gunk to clean up now,” Mr. Ling agreed. “I’ll go fetch some orange juice? Want anything?” Mrs. Ling stepped to the door. Mr. Ling shook his head and blew his wife a kiss. And that was the end of Jocelyn McClair.