By Milo McPherson

When I was very young, I skinned a fallen angel. It had fallen on a moonless night. A cold night. I was sleeping restlessly in my parents’ winter cabin when I heard the crash. For a moment, I laid motionless under my quilt, worried the noise was all in my head. To my relief, the house erupted into a stir not long after. My father marched out the front door, carrying the prized family shotgun from off the mantel.

I remember holding onto my mothers’s nightgown for comfort, begging her not to follow Dad off into the snow. “You may come with,” she told me, “But only if you hold the lantern steady.”

The angel had landed in a barren field not but a stone’s throw from my bedroom window. Smoke billowed from the earth where she laid. We found Dad standing on the edge of the crater with the gun dangling by his hip. He didn’t need it. Her body sat in a bloodied, crumpled heap, like a tangle of furious briars. Her bones had snapped and shattered in so many variations that it was nearly impossible to tell what sort of beast she used to be.

Dad dragged her back to the cabin’s cellar. He told me to stay with him. I had never been allowed to watch him work before. He was an artist. Famous in his field. He always told me that someday his creative empire would be mine to uphold. So it was high time I learned the tricks of the trade.

When I told people my dad was a sculptor, assumptions were made quickly. Clay, paper, wire, stone. Was he a carver like the old greats? Was he a new mind, working with materials man never once considered? No. He wasn’t breaking any barriers. Nothing about his materials were unusual or difficult to come by. Flesh, bone, wood, and glass. The cabin was full of his work. Severed heads that once belonged to deer, wildcats, or cows. Terrariums depicting wild scenes of mother nature. Those he sold easily.

As an artist, he was still fairly unknown. As a taxidermist, my dad was a god. Still, it was never enough for him. It’s the sickness of a creator. To always be growing. To always be bigger. Better.

“I prayed for something like this,” he told me that night. The sun was coming up over the trees by then. I was half awake, curled up into a ball by his feet against the cold concrete floor. “Something that would change everything.”

Dad didn’t believe in God and he certainly didn’t believe in angels. I don’t know what he thought that creature actually was. She had the body of a woman and the wings of an ancient beast. Dad worked on reconstructing her for days. We overextended our vacation for him. Everything had to be perfect. He carved her silhouette from a limp pile. Gave her color in her skin as if her heart still beat. He gave her new life. And she was beautiful. The most wondrous creation I had ever before witnessed. Or would ever witness again.

Dad was so proud of himself. He didn’t stop smiling the entire day. No doubt his cheeks grew sore from the foreign posture. He and Mom couldn’t stop talking about her. I couldn’t stop looking. Her skin was delicate and paper-thin, like the pale wings of a silk moth. Her hair spilled out into honey-golden curls down, down, down her back and coiling up against her thighs. The sheer magnitude of her wingspan struck a great deal of fear into me. My heart would thud against my chest when I compared their mass to my small size. Her face was ruined in the fall, so Dad covered it with her arms, as if she were shielding her eyes from the sunlight. As if it was too much for her to bear.

“We ought to sell it,” Mom said promptly after breakfast. She didn’t care for the angel’s barren presentation. She looked at the figure as if it was shameful. Shameful to be nude in death.

Dad didn’t care. Nakedness was a part of being alive. Of being an animal. But he didn’t seem blatantly opposed to Mom’s idea. Something like this wouldn’t go unnoticed. He’d be a hero to science and a god to art.

He sipped his coffee and shrugged. An empty shrug. One that demands you find an answer yourself.

“How much do you suppose we could get off of a piece like this?” Mom raced over to inspect the angel closely. She wasn’t allowed to touch her, but she got damned near close. “There’s not a visible seam or stitch on this thing, dear. We could sell it for millions!”

Dad shook his head with a grunt. “Too high,” he said. “Don’t even know if I want to sell her.”

Mom scoffed. “Of course you do. This is clearly a sign from the universe. We’re meant for a better life than this.”

“What’s wrong with the life we have?”
“You can’t just let this thing live in the cabin, dear.”
“I won’t. She’s coming home with us.”
“Over my dead body it is. Put it back in the cellar for the time being. Until you come to your senses.”

She mumbled that last bit. Dad didn’t hear because she had turned her back to him. But I heard. I looked her dead in the eyes when she spoke. She looked back. I didn’t like how she called the angel an “it.” Anyone with two eyes could see the creature was more than just a thing. An “it.”. More than a mounted fish on a cedar plaque. More than life and more than death.

Mom was right about one thing, though. The angel was a sign from the universe. Change was coming. It started with the angel, but it escalated when Mom took that tumble down the cellar steps.

We were packing to leave shortly after. Dad hadn’t talked much. He and Mom were avoiding each other, packing bags on opposite sides of the cabin. I stayed down in the cellar with Dad, watching him clean his instruments. This will all be mine someday, I thought. I wondered if I’d have my own angel, too. A creature as lovely and holy as the one Dad stitched back to life.

Mom came down in a fit. Something about a missing blanket. At the top of the stairs, she shouted down at us. Dad hardly paid her any mind. Until she shrieked.

It was the kind of scream I had only ever heard from fiction. The kind that reaches into the depth of your lungs and scoops out your soul into one, agonizing breath. I was closest to the stairs but not close enough. A thud followed the scream. Then another thud. Then a crack, then a snap, then the world fell silent. When I dared open my eyes, Mom had taken the shape of the angel on the night we found her. Crumpled and mangled. Bloodied and gone.

I looked her dead in the eyes. She didn’t look back.

Dad made a gasping sound like his air had been knocked clean from his chest. I followed his gaze up the stairs. The angel stood in the doorway, casting a shadow over us. Her face was covered. Somehow I knew, if only she would drop her arms, I would have seen a smile. Pride. Ecstasy.

I never went back to that cabin again. Dad promised he wouldn’t sell the angel. He promised he would destroy her right away and throw her ashes into the crater from whence she came.

So tell me why I’m seeing her again. Standing unapologetically barren for all to see on a golden pedestal. Lights surrounded her, covering her every surface. She shields her eyes from their blinding beams.

Dad is posed in front of her. He’s cut his beard. His hair is grey. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in some time. Perhaps that’s just the years weighing down on him.

We haven’t spoken in a while. His career as an artist really took off. I realized I didn’t like taxidermy. I told him that. He said that I should never speak to him again. So I never have.

I tried not to look him up online. I tried to block out any information regarding him or his work. This, however, is an unexpected intrusion. I’ve still kept an interest in the art world, despite my father’s radical lifestyle. I guess he endowed that in me. One of the few things of his I kept.

XXXXXXXX XXXXX Taxidermy Artist Debuting New, Priceless Recreation Critics Are Left Baffled

Curious, I check the comments, ignoring the article itself. I’d rather know what the masses think.

-Is that real human skin?
-I heard he found the body in his backyard.

-In that condition? No way. He must have killed some girl and stuffed her

-That’s some Criminal Minds b*******

-Aw, how sweet. He named it after his late wife ❤

Wait, what?

I rapidly scrolled back up. Hands shaking. Palms sweating. It takes a while to find the piece’s official title. I shuffle through most of the article without reading anything. I refuse to give that man my attention. I find it. Finally.

The Angel of Maria.

Maria…

That filthy pig.

Furious, I chuck my phone across the room and storm out to cry in the bathtub. I’m still haunted by her. I see her in the corners of my eyes. I see her in the gaps of light in my bedroom at night. Twisted up like a tangle of cords. I’ve seen her so many times I could likely sculpt her silhouette myself.

He promised. He told me he had destroyed her. The angel. Returned to the heavens.

Dad is halfway across the globe. France, I think. The morning is just starting. The auction will begin soon. I almost wish France wasn’t so far. I wish that plane tickets didn’t cost an arm and a leg just to get there. I wish I could just show up at that auction right as it begins. I could steal the seat of some fancy fat pocket and raise their stupid paddle every time the price hiked up. No, I don’t have the kind of cash a piece like that angel would cost. That’s the point. When the gavel is stuck and the smoke clears, I’d stand to face Dad. I’d walk right up to him. I’d reach out my hand to shake. Then I’d beat the living hell out of him. They’d have to tear off my limbs to keep me from putting his head through the floor.

He promised.

I have my cry and end up forgetting about the whole ordeal. It’s a purposeful ignorance. It takes a lot of focus. My phone stays on the ground where I threw it. Probably cracked. Probably mangled. I return to it a few hours later out of habit. It’s hard to stay off of your phone. The addiction is probably cause for concern.

The webpage is still up when I turn the screen on. I unfocus my eyes to keep from reading any more of it but the page refreshes by itself. My gaze settles on a new article. I hardly realize it’s another piece about Dad. I miss his name in the headline. I don’t see his picture in the corner. I’m entranced by the rest of the big, bold, black words.

Famous Taxidermy Artist, XXXXXXXX XXXXX, Dies During Art Auction. Police Suspect Foul Play

I double over and vomit. Orphaned as an adult.

They use the same picture from before in the article. I can’t stop staring at the angel. She’s as still in the photo as she was when we found her. Yet I can’t help but feel as though something has changed. It’s just as it was when Mom took that fall. The same weight in my chest. Behind those blemishless, cold arms lies a wicked grin. There’s malice in her eyes and blood on her hands once more.

Dad died the same way Mom did. Broken neck. He tripped on a cord and pulled a light fixture off of the ceiling. His spinal cord had shattered, yet his skin stayed mostly intact. I imagine him sort of like a newborn baby. His neck is no longer strong enough to keep his head up, so it flops around all limp and lifeless. I wondered if someone could slide their arm up his throat and move him around like a puppet.

-What’s going to happen to Maria? -Did the auction actually start?

-No, the light came down before he had a chance to introduce any pieces.

-So what about Maria? Where is she going to go?
-It’s not fair having such a beautiful work shoved into a storage unit. It needs to be preserved.

-You buy it, then.

I scroll for what feels like days through the comments. I scour message boards and fan pages. I feel like I’ve relapsed. Dad made a series about me. He used doves to do it. Slowly positioning them to appear as though they’re flying away. Flying to freedom. I wonder if he included me in his will. I wonder if he even has a will.

The general consensus is that the angel is going to be kept in storage until further notice. They say the direct family gets to decide what to do with it. But I’ve yet to receive any calls or emails. No worried agents or potential buyers have been breaking down my door to try and get in contact with me. I doubt Dad ever told anyone my real name.

That angel is as smart as she is strong. She won’t allow herself to be put into storage. Nor will she allow herself to be taken captive by some pretentious buyer. She’s going back home. Back to where it all began.

I can hear her voice, like an echoing army of choirs in my head. It rattles my bones and clatters my teeth. She wants me. She craves me. I’m the final sinner.

Dad never should have given her life. I never should have helped him. There was a reason this beast fell from heaven. I see that now.

I’m on a plane headed north the very next morning. I couldn’t afford the ticket. I barely have anything left to live on.

My phone has stayed silent. No one has called to relay their condolences. No one has tried to reach out for funeral preparations. The world has forgotten me. Overlooked. Overshadowed. When you don’t care about death, death doesn’t care about you. It’s the secret to living forever.

I spend more money buying a rental car and a gas canister. It’s a long drive up the mountains. I don’t have anything left in my account. I’ll surely starve. Or freeze.

It’s colder up here than I remembered. I’ve been living down south since I graduated. Snow is almost foreign to me. I’m definitely not wrapped up enough to keep warm. My only hope is that Dad didn’t sell the cabin. That it didn’t get demolished and replaced with a strip mall or that the cruelty of the weather has somehow shown it mercy.

It’s a long drive. My mind has plenty of room to roam and spin. I’m sweating feverishly. To my surprise, the cabin stands. It’s old. Decrepit. Its roof has rusted. Its wood has rotted. The shrubbery is overgrown and its foundation sits crooked.

The lights are on. I can see its glow through the moth holes in the curtains. There aren’t any other cars around. No one should be inside. No one human. No one alive.

From the moment I push my boot into the snow, I can feel her. She’s in the cellar. The ground feels warm beneath my feet. Her song is louder in my head. The echo is tight. I’ve reached its source. Closer and closer I draw to the door, the noise melds into one, singular harmony. And my breath disappears.

The cabin is no longer the vacation home it used to be. Gone is the hand-crafted furniture passed down by my grandparents. The family portraits are missing. The blank spaces of dust left in the walls have been overrun with animals. Their mounted heads surround me, suffocating me. They spill out across the floor. There’s a narrow path for me to take. Take down to the cellar.

Cautiously, I step inside. The house breathes. To my left, I make eye contact with a stuffed dove. It blinks back at me. It opens its beak to speak but can’t make a sound. It tries to flap its wings but its feet are nailed down to a plank of wood. It’s trapped. Beside me, a deer nuzzles my neck. His head hangs just beside the door. I have to duck below his antler to get inside. His breath tickles. His eyes plead.

All of them, from the most vicious of carnivores to the most delicate of rodents, watch me. They breathe in unison. Blinking. Silent. If I stare at one for too long it begins to beg for its freedom, writhing against its staple shackles.

I can’t do anything for them. I tiptoe down the pathway, head held low. Ashamed. The creatures cry out to me in whispering pleads. Tears singe the corners of my eyes. All I can do is move forward.

Even in the kitchen, the animals flood the space. There are two of each kind flooding the room and the cabin is drowning. If I go into the earth any further, I’ll surely sink with the ship. Only the cellar stairs are free of wildlife. A single light hangs above me. I cast a shadow down the steps, into the darkness.

The angel’s song goes quiet. I descend the stairs slowly.

I find the workroom has been almost completely gutted – an empty concrete box hidden below the ground. There’s a single table in the middle of the space, illuminated by a lantern. It looks so oddly familiar. And although the animals wait with bated breath upstairs, I’m not alone in my tomb.

A familiar shadow sits, hunching over the table, as he so often used to sit. I could recognize him by his posture alone. He had gotten skinnier. He seemed to be taking care of himself less and less in his old age. I didn’t notice any of that in his portrait. He looks cold. I inch closer.

By the time he’s within arm’s reach, I’ve realized he’s sitting perfectly upright. His shoulders rest horizontally, uninterrupted from the left to the right. Even closer, I can see where the sleeve of his neck has been carelessly strewn over his chest. It’s nothing more than a pale flap of skin. A bib, thoughtlessly stitched without a clean hem.

I feel like vomiting. His clothes are bloodied and black. I’m a child again. Young and full of life. I stand by my dad’s side, watching his every movement as he finishes his final piece. This will all be mine someday, I think. Dad smiles down at me, as if he can hear my thoughts.

Daddy…

Years of apologies build up in my chest. I melt before him, falling into a mess of sobs and wails. I’d bury him when this was all done. I’d put him next to Mom. She’d like that.

Dad has been positioned as though he’s working on something. Another art piece. He’s so attentive with his craft, even in death. I have to move the lantern closer for a better look.

Too many screams rise up from my belly and become knotted in my throat. Dad has been staring back at me through the darkness all this time. His eyes are wide with terror as he witnesses his own demise. With one hand, he holds his scalp steady, fingers intertwined around his silver curls. With the other, he pulls a threaded needle through the corner of his mouth, closing it up. The stitching is sloppy and his lips are crooked. The gauntness of his cheeks make it look as though he’s been screaming. The blood drains from my face. I can’t leave him like this. It’s not right.

I know he keeps a pocket-sized sewing kit in his jacket at all times. I pull it out and feverishly unsheath the seam ripper. A box of matches slips into my hand. I hold onto them.

In his prime, Dad would have shouted at me for how badly my hands tremble. He’d say shaking hands leads to unstable work. He’d say all sorts of things like that, even when I was succeeding. He couldn’t never just let me make mistakes on my own. Maybe I’d learn from them. Maybe I wouldn’t be jabbing holes into the icy leather of his cheeks.

The final thread snaps and Dad’s jaw flies open, completely unhinged. I yelp and knock the lantern off the table with my elbow. Even in the dimmed air, I can see the clear shape of white plumes spilling out from his throat. Dove feathers. He’s been stuffed full of them. I should have left the threads alone. I should sew it back up. Nicer. Neater than before.

I bend to fetch the lantern, and another beast catches my eye. She sits under the table, twisted and hunched, wearing the same nightgown she died in. Mom. A silent tear rolls off of my cheek. I hadn’t seen her since I was young. Since the last time I had been to the cabin. She’s been perfectly preserved in the exact position she died in. Her blood has been cleaned but the bruising is still there. She’s covered like an infection in sickening black splotches. She should be halfway decayed by now. But here she is. As beautiful as she once was.

A single breath echoes off the walls. It isn’t mine. I yank the lantern off of the ground and spin back towards the stairs. The light shakes in my grip.

A trail of heavy white feathers sits on every step. They’ve been placed delicately, one at a time. A shadow looms from the doorway. It’s the gas canister from my car. It’s practically wrapped up in a bow. She’s taunting me. I take it anyway, the weight of it sags in my hands.

The creatures wail as I douse them. Some are thankful. Others thrash at me. I dodge claws and hooves, fangs and antlers, trying to capture everything I can reach in the miserable stench of the gasoline. Their howls are no longer voiceless. The noise fills my head and my head alone. It’s a trick, nothing more. I do my best to put it out of focus. I blur the sound until it becomes white noise. I focus on my breathing.

The canister empties on the porch’s front steps. There was just enough. I throw snow on my clothes to wash away any residue left behind. The cold overtakes me and I lash out in a scream. I scream until I fall to my knees. I scream until my tears chill my face. I scream until there is no breath in my lungs and no strength in my throat.

Silently, I look up. The front door is open. A silhouette casts a shadow over me.

Maria. The angel.

She’s more beautiful than I remembered. She’s hardly been touched after all these years. She’s been preserved more perfectly than the moon and the tide. Her beauty pulls me in. Washes over me. My face is limp but I am sobbing.

“I don’t understand.”

I wish she would speak. I wish she would move her arms. I want to see her. I want to behold her. I can’t sense what she’s feeling. I don’t know if she’s smiling or frowning. I don’t even know if she has lips at all. I’d like to know. I’d like to pry her arms apart and reveal her for the hideous beast she is. But I won’t.

I strike Dad’s match instead. It crackles and bends in the wind. It takes all of my strength to inflate my lungs. I don’t stop staring at her. I won’t take my eyes off of her. She’s watching me too, I think. Watching me step closer, holding the flame up to the sky for the cabin’s menagerie to see.

Together, we watch the match fall. We watch the fire spread, devouring the old, soggy cabin cobbled together from a forest lifetimes ago. The animals screech and bellow but she and I are silent. We watch each other. The fire melts the snow around us. It carves patterns in the ground.

The fire eats her last. It’s hungry. Ravenous. It needs to feed yet her beauty spared her for as long as it could. Her wings catch flames first. Like a phoenix, she reduces to ash almost instantly. A shriek echoes in my head yet the wind sings her gratefulness.

I hold the lantern steady. And I watch the cabin scorch the earth.