Caged

...and The Insecure Writers' Support Group First Wednesday

Aug 06, 2025

Dear Reader,

There never seems to be a wrong time to write dark stories, and

has incentivized some of us to create more of these, getting a jump on the spooky Halloween season. With Caged, the story was inspired by an antique birdcage I have hanging in my patio. Where the rest came from…? I’m still trying to figure that out. Read more spine-tingling tales on Summer Scare 7

Pixabay

Beatrice came to an abrupt halt, suddenly lost. Ridiculous. She knew this town quite well, had walked it countless times. But when she glanced around, nothing looked familiar. She must have taken a wrong turn while talking to Marnie on her cell. But how strange that she’d never seen this street before.

She tapped on her phone. It would be easy to reorient herself, and then she wouldn’t be late meeting Marnie for dinner. Her screen remained dark. Damn. How had this phone died? It had been fully charged a few minutes ago.

As she stood there deciding what she should do, she became aware of the silence. There were no cars. No people. This wasn’t a bustling city, but it had a sizable population, and at this time of day, she’d been tied up in traffic jams several times. That’s one reason she liked to walk from her house to her favorite midtown restaurant. That, and the fact that she’d been putting on a few pounds. Eating helped ease some of the angst of Anthony’s untimely death.

When she faced the storefront, she was looking into a grimy display window where a disturbing still life of old toys, stuffed animals, and out-of-fashion chairs had been arranged. The name over the shop door read, Never Too Late.

Beatrice considered the sign, thinking it might be an excellent mantra even if it wasn’t true. It was too late for many things—her marriage, her impulsive purchase of the poison, and, most assuredly, for Anthony. She pressed her hand against her chest to quiet that familiar sharp jab of guilt. She recovered in a moment and was about to retrace her steps back to where she’d made the wrong turn when the door swung open.

Odd. No one had opened it and the air was quite still.

She stood, weighing whether to enter and ask for directions or try to figure it out on her own. She came down on the side of asking for directions. Anthony, the man with the ego of a prime minister, never asked for those—just one of his endearing qualities. She ground her teeth, the way she used to when he was alive and irritating. Before she changed her mind, she pushed her way inside, immediately regretting that decision.

What unsettled her most about the shop was the smell—a stale mix of the discarded and forgotten. And then there were the ghosts, not seen but unmistakably there, stirring unease just beneath her skin. She imagined the people who had once touched these things that were now left to linger in this last-chance shop.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim interior light, and that’s when she spotted the birdcage. Not the ordinary kind with brass bars or peeling paint. This one was intricate, ornate scrollwork curling into rosebuds and vines, a tiny perch carved like a tree limb, a minuscule swing suspended in the middle. And on that swing was a very still bird. She stepped closer, peered inside, and with a nervous scream, quickly retreated. Despite the beaded eyes and curved beak, the bird had a human face. She must be imagining things.

“You’ve found it,” a voice said behind her.

Startled, Beatrice did an about-face. A woman, pale and oddly ageless, stood behind the counter. Her clothes, somewhere between Victorian and thrift shop.

“I beg your pardon?” Beatrice said.

“The cage,” the woman said. “It’s been waiting.”

Beatrice smiled politely and turned back toward the object. “It’s very…charming.”

“More than charming,” the woman said softly. “It’s a keeper of...between.

Beatrice blinked. “Excuse me?”

“My shop is filled with treasures imbued with surprising qualities.” With soundless footsteps, she walked around the counter. “This one’s meant for you.”

Beatrice let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, I’m not buying anything today. I just came in to ask for directions. My phone died and I—”

“But your guilt didn’t die,” the woman said, her voice a little firmer. “Anthony, yes? Your husband. The poison?”

Beatrice froze. “How...how do you know that?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped beside Beatrice and reached into the cage. Her fingers touched the bird that Beatrice now thought stared expectantly at her with tiny dark beaded eyes.

The swing moved slightly, though the woman had never touched it, and the stuffed bird had somehow come to be in her hand.

Beatrice stared. The silence outside. The unfamiliar streets. The phone, inexplicably lifeless. She was not someone prone to melodrama or superstition—but something was wrong, and part of her already understood it.

“Am I dead?” she whispered.

The woman smiled, her small, sharp teeth more disturbing than any scowl. No, dear. But you’re stuck.”

Beatrice felt dizzy. “Stuck?”

“Yes, in that guilt I detected when you stopped inside my door.” The woman turned to her. “That’s why you don’t recognize your own town. That’s why your phone failed. Fortunately, this beautiful birdcage exists between guilt and innocence. It’s a safe place you may find atonement.”

Beatrice wanted to escape, but she couldn’t summon the energy. Her shoulders slumped. “I just wanted to have dinner with a friend,” she said softly. “To meet Marnie. To feel normal again.”

The woman tilted her head. “Normal. Well, I’m not sure I understand that, but I do understand that Anthony was a cad—a womanizer, an abuser. He deserved to die. You helped him along.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, the world demands justice. And you must submit to that demand or be forever—”

“Stuck.”

“Yes.”

Beatrice looked at the cage. Her hands trembled. The woman didn’t have to explain what she meant. Beatrice knew.

“Let me help you inside,” the woman said. “Some prisons are better than others. You will be here until the next person in need of its services happens by and steps into my shop for life directions.”

And with a tap on her shoulder, Beatrice experienced a sensation of being wadded into a small bundle. Her skin retracted, wings replaced her arms, and sleek feathers sprouted from her body. With spindly claws, she clutched the tiny tree branch swing and stared through delicate white bars.

Two women gazed back at her—the shopkeeper and another one who waved and mimed, thank you before hurrying out the door.

On the street, cars were passing. Someone honked a horn. A woman stopped to peer inside.

Marnie? Wait. Please. Come in. Save me.

And now for the monthly IWSG Question!

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The awesome co-hosts for the August 6 posting of the IWSG are Ronel Janse van Vuuren, Natalie Aguirre, Sarah - The Faux Fountain Pen, and Olga Godim!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

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What is the most unethical practice in the publishing industry?

There are numerous unethical practices in the publishing industry, but as someone with an academic background, I find Data Manipulation to be the most offensive.

What that means is that when someone wants something to be proven correct, they manipulate the research data to support their premise or hypothesis. They create fake results or alter them so that they align with what they’ve set out to prove. Omission of data that is counter to their premise or hypothesis is just as bad,

If other researchers fail to conduct due diligence and proceed to base their work on false data, the damage is not only compounded but could also have serious, negative consequences.

I respect research, and I rely on it to point me in the right direction. I hate the thought of data manipulation because it undermines the honesty and dependability of research.