The Whisperer

By “The Keeper”

“There is nothing so grotesque as a voice without a soul, and nothing so delightful as a soul that forgets itself entirely in the mirror.”

— From the unspoken memoirs of Otis

Foreword

In presenting this slender tale of parrots, mirrors, and whispered mimicry, I must caution the reader against the vulgar inclination toward morality. The author is, I assure you, quite innocent of it. To seek a lesson in these pages would be as facile as to seek sincerity at the opera or virtue at a masquerade ball.

This is not a fable of birds, though birds populate its pages; nor is it a study of fear, though the characters indulge in it lavishly, as all civilized creatures must. It is, rather, a little study in reflections—those dangerous inventions of humankind that dare to present us as we appear, rather than as we wish to be.

Mirrors, I have always believed, are the most honest liars. They reveal the face but hide the soul. And as for parrots — creatures of mimicry and affectation — they are, perhaps, the most delightful of all philosophers, for they repeat the words of men without ever troubling themselves to believe in them.

The tale you hold is, at its finest, a frivolous masquerade of voices and reflections. At its worst, it is a mirror itself.

You may look into it.

But do not be surprised if it looks back.

I. The House, the Mirrors, and the Birds

The house stood on the fringe of the forest like a grand old dowager clinging to faded glamour, her bones crooked and cracked, her lace curtains yellowed by the breath of many forgotten summers. Within her ribs, a peculiar room– a parlor — was repurposed both as an aviary and an antique storage room. It housed parrots of dubious temperament and questionable civility, and various pieces of old furniture for which the owner, a peculiar man, could find no reason to keep but could not bear to let go.

The Keeper, as the birds had dubbed him in their private conversations, was a quirky man of middle years and middling height who possessed the gentle melancholy that comes to those who collect beautiful things they cannot quite understand. He had inherited the house from a great-aunt with a theatrical disposition, along with her mirrors, her furniture, and her inexplicable fondness for exotic birds. The parrots had come with the estate, like fixtures one dare not remove lest the entire enterprise collapse.

“Good morning, my eloquent philosophers,” The Keeper would say each dawn, entering with dishes of fruits and pellets, his voice carrying the practiced cheer of a man who had learned to find company in creatures that mocked his every utterance. The house, he had come to accept, possessed a certain atmospheric weight—a tendency toward creaking at inappropriate hours and casting shadows that seemed a touch too eager to linger. But what old house did not? And what man, living alone with parrots and mirrors, would not occasionally feel watched?

It was a room heavy with the scent of aged mahogany and the glint of many old mirrors, where time itself seemed to pause, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of dread. The parrots, resigned to their stainless-steel cages and indolent days inside of this otherwise ancient space, filled the 5000K artificial sunlight with fractured echoes of human speech — words borrowed, like ill-fitting hats, from their long-suffering owner.

Of these birds, Otis, a senior red-bellied parrot of certain years and uncertain cynicism, was the undisputed laureate of sarcasm.

“Life,” he often declared to his reluctant audience, “is a cage within a cage, my dear Sweeney. And the only thing worse than being trapped is being aware of the trap.”

Sweeney, a sullen young Senegal parrot with a nervous disposition and a perpetual frown, usually responded with a disdainful flutter of his wings. But beneath his gruffness, a kernel of curiosity flickered like a candle in a draft.

The Keeper would pause in his daily ministrations, occasionally catching fragments of their discourse. “Quite the conversationalists, aren’t you?” he would murmur, refilling their water dishes. “Though I suspect you discuss me with far less charity when I’m absent.” Otis would fix him with one bright eye and offer a theatrical sigh, while Sweeney would mutter something that sounded suspiciously like commentary on The Keeper’s choice of morning attire.

One morning, as The Keeper arranged fresh branches in their cages, he caught sight of himself in the ornate mirror in the corner of that room. “Fascinating things, reflections,” he said, more to himself than to the birds. “They show us exactly what we are, yet somehow never quite who we are. Don’t you think, gentlemen?” He studied his face in the silvered glass—the slight lines around his eyes, the way the morning light caught the gray threading through his hair. “I wonder sometimes if we’re the only creatures who find ourselves so endlessly interesting to observe.”

Otis tilted his head. “Vanity, thy name is Keeper,” he squawked, though not unkindly.

II. Nightly Whispers

As nights grew long and the aviary swelled with the sounds of wind whispering through the eaves, Otis took to telling ghost stories with the relish of a morbid poet.

“Have I ever told you of the Whisperer, Sweeney?” he would begin, his tone honeyed, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Frequently, and with unnecessary drama,” Sweeney would mutter, though he never left his perch.

“The Whisperer,” Otis continued, unfazed, “is a spirit most fond of birds. It haunts the shadows of mirrors, mimicking our voices, our mannerisms—until we forget which side of the glass we belong to.”

“Superstitious claptrap,” Sweeney sniffed, though the way he eyed the antique mirrors betrayed the cracks in his skepticism.

But then, things began to… happen.

Sweeney would hear his own voice — soft, muttering complaints — echoing from behind him. Otis would laugh, lazily blaming the peculiarities of the old house.

The Keeper, making his evening rounds with a small lamp, would sometimes pause at the threshold of the aviary. “Chattering late again, are we?” he would call softly. “Sweet dreams, my feathered philosophers.” He never stayed long after sunset—the house seemed to grow heavier in the darkness, and he preferred the comfort of his study and a glass of rye-and-soda to the strange acoustics of the mirror-lined room.

One night, by the brittle silver of the moon, Sweeney saw something- a shape in the mirror- a parrot, but not quite. It copied his movements, but always a heartbeat too late. Otis, when told, only chuckled.

“Perhaps you’ve found your better self, darling. Though I suspect even your reflection finds you insufferable.”

III. The Storm and the Mirror

It was during a violent storm, when the world outside seemed to tear itself apart with operatic fervor, that the truth, or something resembling it, emerged.

The Keeper had retired early that night, the house groaning around him like a ship in heavy seas. He lay in his bed listening to the wind assault the windows, occasionally hearing what he assumed were the birds stirring restlessly in their cages below. “Probably discussing the weather,” he murmured to himself, pulling his covers higher. “Or composing critiques of my housekeeping.”

The aviary lay in darkness, save for the occasional electric lash of lightning illuminating the mirrors like fractured windows into a theatre of shadows.

Sweeney sat rigid, feathers bristling.

Then he heard it—Otis’s voice.

“Sweee-neey… Come to the mirror, my friend. They’ve been waiting for you.”

But Otis, Sweeney saw, stood asleep in his cage.

Or did he?

Sweeney’s breath caught as the voice came again — this time from the mirror itself.

“Come closer…”

Panic drove him to Otis’s cage, only to find it now empty, the latch unfastened. The Otis that appeared behind him moments later was smiling. But there was something brittle, something lacquered and hollow in his demeanor.

“Escaped,” Otis purred, smoothing his darkened feathers. “It’s all a matter of knowing when to trade places, Sweeney.”

“What have you done?” Sweeney rasped, his voice shaking.

“Nothing you wouldn’t have done yourself, given the opportunity,” Otis replied with the careless cruelty of a wit who has grown tired of his own performance.

Behind them, the mirror rippled gently. And in its depths, Sweeney saw himself- or a version of himself- pressed against the glass, beak open in eternal, silent protest.

IV. The Hollow Morning

Dawn slithered into the house, draping the aviary in a wan light that seemed embarrassed by the night’s melodrama.

The Keeper descended the stairs with his usual morning tray, humming a half-remembered tune. “Quite a storm last night, wasn’t it, gentlemen?” he called as he entered the room. “I trust you weathered it better than I did. Hardly slept a wink.”

Sweeney tried to speak, to mimic the owner’s saccharine morning greeting. His beak opened—but only emptiness came forth.

Otis, on the other wing, laughed.

“Oh, darling boy,” Otis said sweetly, with Sweeney’s voice dripping from his beak like syrup. “Did the cat — or perhaps the mirror — steal your tongue?”

The Keeper giggled at the clever impersonation. “My word, Otis! That was remarkable—you sounded exactly like Sweeney. Though speaking of our sullen friend,” he glanced toward Sweeney’s cage with mild concern, “you’ve been rather quiet lately, haven’t you, old boy? Perhaps the storm has left you feeling philosophical. Or maybe you’re simply tired of competing with Otis’s theatrical performances.” He refilled the water dishes with practiced efficiency. “Well, we all have our moods, don’t we?”

Sweeney stared at the mirror, horror swelling in his chest like a trapped breath. His reflection no longer mirrored him. It stood still, feathers fluffed, eyes wide with a frozen scream. And behind him, multitudes of parrots hovered, pale shadows pressed against the glass, mouths moving in soundless mimicry.

Sweeney turned away.

But his reflection did not.

It only pounded its wings softly against the inside of the glass, smearing phantom marks no living eye would ever see.

V. Epilogue

Time, as it does in places where nothing truly changes, slithered on.

The Keeper continued his daily rituals, noting with bemused acceptance that Sweeney had seemingly taken a vow of silence. “Perhaps you’re becoming a contemplative,” he would say, arranging fresh fruit in the cage. “Though I do miss your commentary on my morning appearance.”

Otis became a darling of visitors, performing impressions with ruthless precision. His favorite, they all agreed, was the sullen voice of Sweeney. Why, it was uncanny, the way the old parrot captured the grumpy tones of his silent companion!

“Quite the mimic, isn’t he?” The Keeper would tell his occasional guests, beaming with pride. “Sometimes I think he knows what he’s saying better than we do.”

One morning, some weeks after the storm, the Keeper found himself again caught by his reflection in the ornate mirror. The light seemed different somehow—cooler, more penetrating. He leaned closer, studying the silvered surface.

“Tell me, my philosophical friends,” he said, turning to address both cages, “do you enjoy looking at yourselves? I’ve noticed you both spend quite a bit of time near the mirrors.” He gestured toward the ornate glass. “I wonder what you see that I cannot. Perhaps birds understand reflections better than we do—after all, you repeat our words so perfectly. Maybe you understand the nature of copying better than the rest of us.”

Otis preened a wing with elaborate indifference. “We see exactly what we need to see,” he said in Sweeney’s borrowed voice.

Sweeney remained strangely mute, watching the mirrors as if waiting for a verdict that would never come.

At night, the house echoed with laughter, chatter, and the hollow pleasures of borrowed voices.

But if one listened carefully—if one dared to lean close to the glass—the faintest sounds might be heard beneath the merriment.

Scratching.

Whispers.

Wings brushing against the cold, other side.

And in the mirrors, shadows gathered patiently.

After all, the Whisperer adored company.

And old mirrors, like old parrots, are always hungrier than they appear.