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“NORTH BY NORTHWEST,” the old man said. He pointed.
“That’s south,” I said. “North’s that way.” I thrust a thumb over my shoulder.
“North by northwest.” Again, he pointed to the south. “You wanna take that road.
Don’t stop there, you’ll be sorry you ever did.”
I climbed into the taxi.
“North by northwest?” He nodded in the rearview mirror. “Don’t go there much no more,” he said. “Hafta charge you extra for that one.”
I didn’t answer. From the rear window I watched the old man and the small town disappear on the horizon.
I fell asleep on the way. When the taxi jolted from the smooth highway onto a bumpy road I woke up and rubbed my eyes.
“Where are we?” I asked, groggy.
“North by northwest,” the taxi driver answered. The taxi stopped.
“Is there a hotel?” I rubbed jagged sleep from my eyes.
The driver pointed to a building just outside the window.
“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed my bag, paid him, and stepped out into a cool and starless night. He drove off no sooner had I shut the door, leaving me in a cloud of dust.
The building before me listed to one side as if something large and invisible were lounging against it. The wood siding was missing in some places, shutters hung at precarious angles. The windows were all dark. A breeze sent tumbleweed rolling in front of me and a swirl of dust blew by.
I knocked on the door. It opened a crack and an eye on a wrinkled face peered out.
“Can I help you?” A grainy voice asked.
“I need a room please,” I said.
The eye seemed to peer around outside. The voice whispered, “Where are the birds?”
I looked over my shoulder. I looked up at the sky. I took a step back and looked at the roof.
“I don’t see any birds,” I said.
The door jerked open. The eye belonged to an elderly woman in a pink bathrobe and curlers.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said.
“Quite alright,” she answered. She looked out the door one more time before closing it and latching several locks. “Not many visitors come through these parts anymore,” she said, eyeing me oddly. “I have one room left,” she said.
“Are there other visitors?” I asked.
“No, I’ve just got the one room.” She handed me a key. “Upstairs, second door on the left. Don’t go snooping around late at night. You’ll disturb them.”
She shuffled off through a doorway before I could ask any questions.
I climbed the creaking stairs. When I reached the second door on the left I shuddered. It was room thirteen.
“I thought there was only one room,” I muttered to myself. It was apparent that there were at least thirteen rooms on this floor. I shrugged and let myself in.
The room was sparse and unfeeling, furnished with a single bed and a dresser. The bathroom light cast a cold beam down on the sink, leaving the shower and toilet in shadow. I chanced a glance in the mirror. The light made my face look gaunt and pale. I washed up and got into bed. The springs in the worn mattress jabbed my back and the frame groaned with every movement. I finally fell asleep.
A bang against the wall and muffled yelling brought me from slumber. Two voices. A couple fighting? Did they just arrive? I heard sobbing, and I went into the hallway. I tentatively knocked on the door.
The voices inside stopped. I heard footsteps and the door opened. A man with a mustache peered out.
“Isn’t it late to be knocking on doors?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I could hear you yelling through the wall, I woke up. Is everything alright?”
His expression changed from annoyance to worry. “Did you hear the birds?” He asked.
“Birds?” I said. “No, I didn’t hear birds, I heard yelling.”
“Quick, come inside,” he grabbed my arm with an icy grip.
A woman wept on the bed. She wore a Victorian dress complete with bustle, and a velvet hat with a feather sticking out of it. The man, I noticed, wore a three-piece, brown, pinstriped suit, also characteristic from the Victorian era.
“Did they wake you?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I heard yelling,”
“What kind of yelling?” the man asked, his face intent on mine.
“Yelling, like arguing,” I said. “It wasn’t you?”
“We don’t argue anymore,” the woman said. “Not since the birds.”
“It wasn’t since the birds, it was after the man who knew too much came,” the man said.
The woman gasped and covered her face.
“Who is the man who knew too much?”
They both looked at me. I could hear the faint call of crows.
The woman began to cry.
“North by Northwest was once a bustling town,” he said. “A trade town. One day, a furious and violent windstorm swept through. The only thing that could be heard over the wind was the call of crows. When the storm was over, people were surprised to see a man all in black standing out in the street. He grinned at them and left as another storm smote the town.”
“The birds are constantly calling, warning,” the woman sobbed. “The man, he takes it all away.”
“What does he take?” I asked.
They looked at each other, then slowly back at me.
“He takes the souls.”
I woke up the next morning and went to check out, but no one was around. I decided to leave $100 on the counter and stepped outside. When my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I took a step back. All around, covering the ground, on rooftops, stationed on fence posts were crows. They were silent, staring at me. The only sound was the crunch of gravel as a man all in black stepped from the shadow of a building and grinned at me.
