Story 42
Pigeon
This is a story about the apartment next to my house.
That apartment is two stories tall, old, and covered in ivy.
The building itself is falling apart. The metal staircase, which must have been painted white long ago, is now so rusted and overgrown with weeds that you can hardly tell what itās supposed to be.
The balconyāif you can still call it thatāhas sagged downward in the middle, bowed the wrong way. If someone were to step onto it, the floor would probably give way under their weight.
The window glass is still intact for the most part, but each pane has strips of tape across it in the shape of an āX.ā Inside, itās too dim to see anything at all.
In several places on the building, there are signs that read, āPrivate property ā No trespassingā in red letters on a white background.
I donāt think anyone lives there. Thereās no sign of life at all.
But sometimes, pigeons are hung from the balcony.
The kind you see in parks.
Hung by the neck.
Under the corrugated tin roof of the balcony, pigeons are strung up by the neckālike people hanging themselves.
You know how, in the countryside, people hang daikon radishes or onions to dry?
It looks just like thatālike someoneās sun-drying pigeons.
And there are about twenty of them.
Itās so disgusting I canāt even look properly.
Thereās no smell, though. So it seems like the pigeons are freshly dead when theyāre hung up.
Theyāre not there all the time. About once every three months, during the daytime only, the pigeons appear hanging there.
The building looks impossible for anyone to go inside, so I canāt imagine how or when someone does thisāor why.
Thereās no sensible reason for it.
Some kind of ritual, maybe?
Or for food?
Itās just so creepy.
But since it doesnāt actually cause any harm, I havenāt reported it.
Itās really disturbing. And I still have no idea what it means.
