Grandma was dead three days before they found her.

It wasn’t the stench of the corpse that tipped anyone off. Her house doesn’t sit too close to the others in the neighborhood.

It was Mister Charlie, her pet parakeet that sounded the alarm.

A jogger was taking a shortcut through an alleyway to reach the park just beyond her fence line when she paused to tie her shoe and heard a faint cry for help.

To think something so insignificant could cause ripples for weeks to come.

I wasn’t there when the EMT took her out, but from what I heard most of the body had succumbed to decay. The skin had started to melt away from the bone due to lack of embalming. The family chose to do a closed casket ceremony. And I was designated as babysitter for the bird.

Mister Charlie looked like he hadn’t eaten in days when I retrieved him. His feathers were ruffled and dirty, his talons encased with poop and food. He was likely stressed over the loss of his owner, I thought.

My mom told me that Mister Charlie was my grandmother’s favorite pet in all the years she’d been here. Supposedly he could say over 300 words and phrases.

“How long do I have to keep him? I don’t mind but my landlord might,” I told mom.

“At least until Sunday please, I have to make arrangements with the funeral home and the lawyer regarding her will.”

Sunday was only four days away so I figured a squawk-box wouldn’t be that big a deal for such a short period of time.

And since the poor little guy had been responsible for trying to get grandma some help I figured I should clean him up as a token of thanks.

“Step up,” I urged the tiny bird as I poked my finger into his cage. His pupils were dilated. He didn’t look eager to comply.

“Step up,” I said again getting a little closer. I worried maybe he might bite me. But finally Mister Charlie obliged and hopped onto my index finger. “Good bird,” I cooed. He made no reply. Was he scared? Shy?

As I cleaned him I whistled and hummed, trying to calm him to his new surroundings. I had my phone out as well and looked up what exactly his species was known for.

It took a minute or two for me to narrow down that and guessed by his green pigment and size new as a species commonly called lineolated or Catherine.

According to the article I found they were often quiet and good for apartments. Said to only live 10 to 15 years they are easily trainable.

“I wonder how long grandma had you?” I muttered as I took him back to his cage. Charlie didn’t wager a guess. But he did seem happy to be clean.

In fact for the next two days of his stay the bird said nothing. It was almost as though he were stoic or grieving over the loss of his owner. I wondered if such a pattern would get worse if he moved again and to be honest I had grown attached to that little fella, especially when my girlfriend stopped by to chat with him and he finally became animated.

“He’s so cute!” Darcy said excitedly as she offered him pellets. He even made a few chirps, and that perked her right up.

So that Sunday I told mom he could stay. My landlord didn’t seem to mind since he was quiet and not a messy pet. And it also gave me an excuse to have Darcy over more often. She was apparently head over heels into learning how to care for him and wanted to do everything herself.

Charlie didn’t seem to mind… at least not at first. Then one breezy afternoon, when Darcy came in the door and dropped her keys on my kitchen counter out of nowhere he squawked. “Turn around! Turn around! Leave!”

“Hey! Are you not happy to see me?” Darcy muttered.

“You’re just a slut,” Mister Charlie answered. My girlfriend had a face of pure disbelief and spun around to accuse me.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she asked.

“I… I don’t know. He’s never even talked before!” I admitted.

“Liars go to hell,” the parakeet said. It sounded like a woman’s voice now. It was old and ancient and gave me a bit of a chill.

“Yeah right. So is this some sort of prank?” Darcy asked.

“You’re gonna be sorry,” the creepy voice said again and Mister Charlie hopped closer.

“I hate you.” That sounded exactly like me.

And that was the straw that broke Darcy. “You know what? You and your pet and fuck yourself. I’m going to go party with friends,” she exclaimed.

I tried to talk her out of it. But I had no idea why the bird had even changed its behavior that day.

For the next six hours I tried to text and apologize to Darcy. Make things right. It went either straight to her inbox or she ignored it completely. It made me frustrated and I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. I just wanted to talk to her.

When I had given up all hope, a call came in.

“Darcy look I just want to say…”

“Is this Andrew Mitchell?” it sounded like a man.

“Yes… who is this?”

“Officer Retland. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this…”

What he said after that was meaningless. I knew what had happened. I grabbed my keys and drove to the scene of the accident. They wanted me to identify the body.

Something had come between Darcy’s car and her next turn and she had swerved to avoid it.

Ultimately landing in a ditch with her skull smashed into the windshield.

“That’s her…” I muttered as I realized her friends hadn’t survived the crash either. The police let me gather her things including her cell.

Listening to the messages was chilling. It was deja vu. A play by play of what Mister Charlie had recited only hours earlier. Her girlfriends had been doing a FaceTime and distracting her right before the crash. They were teasing her, calling her a slut as my calls kept coming in.

“You should turn around and leave! Go back to him!” one girl urged. Then Darcy listened to the last message I sent. The one where I said I was done and I hated her.

It was the last thing she heard before her life ended.

My throat felt dry. My body numb. Somehow, the parakeet had known.

I stepped back into my apartment I looked toward the birdcage. He was just sitting there quietly observing me.

I pulled up a chair and rested my hands on my chin as I stared back.

“How is this possible?” I muttered. He said nothing in response.

My mind filled with possibilities. Had the bird predicted that Darcy would die? If so, how? Had it been the same with my grandma?

I sighed after waiting for far too long for something to happen.

“This is crazy. I must be crazy. ”

Grabbing my coat I went toward the back room to watch the game.

“The best people often are,” a voice said as I got half way down the hall.

I turned and looked at the bird.

“Don’t be frightened,” it said as I crept closer.

“What is this? Some sort of trick?”

It cocked its head at me and hopped closer.

“Trick or treat?”

I sighed again. This had to be some response my grandma had taught it say.

“Fine. Don’t tell me your secrets.”

“Would you like to know a secret Andrew?” it squawked back.

My jaw must have dropped.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“I see the dead,” it whispered in a sing-song voice.

“Want to hear another secret?”

I leaned closer. It was barely talking.

Pressing his beak right against my ear, the parakeet proclaimed, “You’re next.”

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