The Taxidermist us Hatching By Michael Mulvihill

This is a short work of literary horror.

It’s about neighbours, official permission, and the slow realisation that some things cannot be undone once they’ve been approved.

The Taxidermist Is Hatching

By Michael Patrick Mulvihill

In the second year that Logos lived next door to me, weeds took over his garden and lawn. He threw the remains of his meals into the middle of the grass, which grew hip-high and sour-smelling.

He owned a pit bull—Charlie, I called him—that was never walked. The dog’s excrement lay where it fell in the back garden. On warm days, the stench rose and drifted well beyond the borders of neighbouring gardens, including mine.

Whenever I stepped outside my back door, the long-suffering dog barked viciously. I became convinced that one day it would leap the wall, slam its front legs into my belly, knock me to the ground, and devour me from the face down. I only went outside to hang laundry. Over time, the walls separating us seemed to shrink.

One afternoon I admitted this fear to my neighbour Francie.

“I’ve already had words with him,” she said. “Angry words.”

“What did you say?”

“I called him a sloth, a hoarder, and a disgrace.”

“I imagine that went down well.”

“He just stood there. Like a big dumb rock.”

“And you did nothing?”

“I asked him if he was human.”

“And?”

“He didn’t answer.”

“There’s your answer.”

“I told him I expected the garden trimmed, the filth removed, the weeds cut back. I warned him I had a list of other expectations too.”

“Francie,” I said, “you really enjoy talking to walls.”

I went away for a month to the seaside and forgot about all of it. I read philosophy, slept deeply, embraced respite. It wasn’t until I boarded the return bus that the unease crept back. I noticed an unopened message on my phone. When the bus stopped a block from my house, the phone rang.

It was Linda. She said she would be waiting at my front door.

She was there when I arrived—short, blonde, usually composed, now visibly agitated.

“Wait till you see what he’s done,” she said.

I let her inside. She ignored my offer of tea.

“Where’s the best view of his garden?” she asked.

That was easy. My bedroom window overlooked it perfectly. In suburban Dublin, gardens competed for beauty. Logos’ garden competed in something else entirely.

I opened the window.

Artificial turf had replaced the weeds. It promised fewer rodents, cleaner air, and a reduced chance of being mauled by Charlie. Relief stirred—briefly.

Then I saw the structure.

Where the shed once stood was a concrete building of astonishing ugliness. A bunker. A mausoleum. Inside it, clearly visible through wide panels, were stuffed birds.

“This is his revenge,” Linda said.

“For what?”

“He knows I reported him to the department of the environment.”

“And?”

“They warned him. Why do you think the lawn is plastic?”

“That thing has to be illegal.”

“It isn’t.”

“No planning permission?”

“It was granted.”

“When?”

“Before he bought the house.”

I stared.

“So we live with this forever?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll destroy property values.”

“Mine too,” she said. “But what can we do?”

“What birds are they?”

She pointed. “Moa. A Haast eagle attacking it. The great auk. The elephant bird. Emu. Cassowary.”

“He’s a bird man.”

“A bit?” she said, laughing thinly.

“He didn’t build this alone.”

“No. But he designed it. Every detail.”

“And the mounts?”

“He made them himself.”

I imagined the years of preparation. The patience. The obsession.

“These aren’t trophies,” I said. “They’re extinct.”

“He’s building a museum,” she said. “Or something worse.”

Then she added quietly, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“He’s installed lights.”

“So?”

“They come on after dark.”

I was about to suggest curtains when she said, “Things happen out there.”

“You’ve seen the dog?”

“No.”

“Maybe the eagle got it,” I said.

She didn’t smile.

“Francie saw him digging,” she said. “A hole.”

“For what?”

“She recognised the shape. A dog. Cut into pieces. In a black bag.”

“Animal welfare?”

“She didn’t ring. She talks big.”

“So the dog’s buried out there.”

“Yes.”

And the lights were already warming up.


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