Every morning and evening, I trace the same path clockwise starting from the dogwood tree and ending at the chain link fence in the neighboring apartment’s shadow. The walk takes roughly ten minutes depending on the vagaries of Olivia’s bowels, which I confess to knowing better than the amount of my dwindling savings or the time since I last saw a friend or went out on a date.

I should mention Olivia is a brown and silver-haired pointer named after her striking olive-green eyes. Those are the first things that anyone notices about her, or me for that matter. We answered the ad for a quiet and respectful tenant, qualities I prized most in myself, and moved into the small one-bedroom the following week. Once the hour became late, I took a break from unpacking and grabbed Olivia’s leash.

What prompted me to follow this particular path, I no longer recall. Did the dogwood’s scent lead me on? Was the wind chimes’ faint twinkling what stirred me? Perhaps something more unsettling. I couldn’t have realized I would soon follow this path with the regularity of a clock’s hands, tracing the same circular movement twice daily. The walk became a sort of ritual, I suppose. Something I needed to switch off my brain and put my feet to the pavement of the concrete reality which masked the vast nothingness of my casual existence and swallowed me like a lukewarm bath. I came to know every crack along its broken sidewalk better than I knew my fellow neighbors or even myself. I was too frightened to wade out past my immediate surroundings. This one-block radius was just fine.

The sun set quickly. Olivia tugged at her leash, dragging her long snout along the sidewalk. She paused at a scraggly rose bush popular amongst the neighborhood canines. I looked away before she began to squat, for to see this elegant creature relieve herself in such a foolish manner filled me with mild embarrassment.

Regrettably, I must mention the bread. Bite-sized chunks appeared one morning in the grass strip outside the next-door apartment. The bread wasn’t scattered but arranged in a neat pile. Olivia gave it a suspicious tail wag and lifted her right front paw. I couldn’t explain what so upset me. The bread spoke to incivilities too foul to name. I yanked her leash and forced us to continue, doing my best to push away all thoughts of the dreadful pile. In the absence of better judgment, the bread ruined my day.

Agitation returned in the evening when Olivia and I came across the same pile. Blackbirds gathered on nearby branches and power lines. Their droppings on the sidewalk accumulated like splotches of an abstract painting. I loathed any art that refused to state itself plainly. This pile was the ultimate insult. It remained untouched since the morning. Even the foul birds had enough sense of decency to keep away. The bread represented more than an eyesore or magnet for vermin. The cubes intruded upon the neighborhood’s delicate balance and, especially, my own.

The pile persisted into the following week. I suspected someone came to replenish it. After a second pile appeared, I understood I was now dealing with a disease for which I would find no cure without addressing the root cause. The bread clustered outside a second-story apartment with a shaded balcony facing the street. Black, beady eyes watched us from nearby trees and telephone poles. Their cawing made us feel unwelcome on our block. The once idyllic solitude of our daily walks became filled — if dread is too strong a word — with the discomfort that lingered long after our walks ended.

Choosing another route was beside the point. Simply knowing of the piles drove me into a nervous frenzy. I was unwilling to admit defeat to this woman: for I had fixed upon a notion of who was responsible for wreaking such havoc with her crumbs. There was no other explanation. A trip to the supermarket revealed no ongoing promotions. I supposed she worked at a bakery because a close inspection assured me the bread wasn’t stale. I had to know why someone organized her life around such a meaningless habit. Not knowing was unraveling me.

We learned to ignore the piles and roaming birds. However, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. After hanging up Olivia’s leash, I felt something untoward followed us home. Since the piles’ first appearance, I couldn’t help but sense something in my life shift invariably for the worse, a change which, like all others, I resisted. I found myself preoccupied with the time I last experienced intercourse, an introspection most unlike me. My life felt as if the glue that once held together the fabric of my “quiet and respectful” existence dissolved, forcing me to confront for the first time the consequences of my indecisions and inaction. The bread was the only culprit.

***

I awoke to a creaking on the mattress. Olivia crouched over me in darkness. Her wet tongue and stinking breath warmed my face. No one else was inside the room, yet I got the impression someone was or had just been. My dream was still fresh, concerning someone I once resided with — and did my best not to think about — before my rigid habits and cemented inhibitions drove her out. She yelled for the last time and reached for the door. Then I was suddenly in the arms of another woman, kissing her, the one who left out all the crumbs.

Anyone who ever shared close confines with another can report similar experiences when out of nowhere, one confronts how little is known about the other creature living alongside them. Such doubts filled me as Olivia stalked away and curled against my arm. Was she troubled by the same dreams, or by something else entirely?

Rose and I were once engaged. She was strong-willed and extremely passionate about everything. My timid excuses not to venture outside the small enclosure I constructed out of my routines, TV dinners, and unassuming wardrobe I darned until the holes in my cap, black jacket, and yellow pants became too obvious. I was afraid of what might happen if I waded out too far, what might catch me by surprise, or possibly lurk within those unknown depths. She once compared me to a toddler splashing in floaties, afraid of getting his hair wet in the pool. In hindsight, her leaving after declaring me an incurable bore came as no surprise. She knew me completely, but after she was gone, I discovered I knew next to nothing about her: not her favorite toothpaste, or whether she tied her shoes with a bow or double knot. Life is funny like that. The joke, however, was on her. She could never have imagined I would get caught up in a mystery as compelling as these piles. Now that I think of it, I must have gotten Olivia around the same time she walked out. I suppose I traded one codependency for another.

In the predawn light, blood rushed to my skull, joining the impulse roosting there since I awoke. Before driving the decision from my mind, I grabbed Olivia’s leash. She padded behind me, uncertain what we were doing outside so early, but I insisted, nearly dragging her. The neighborhood was fast asleep. A fine mist hovered over the glowing streetlights. Olivia lifted her nose to the cold air. Could she smell the promise of our bold adventure?

The humming of a finely-tuned motor and her nails scratching along the sidewalk accompanied the quiet stillness. I shoved my hands inside my pockets, wishing I brought along a thicker jacket. The nights were colder and longer. Spring and summer already shriveled into autumn’s dried husk, leaving the dogwood’s crisped leaves on the ground. The bare branches looked naked and exposed in the dim, early light. I feared, so did I. What would any passersby think if they saw me lurking in these shadows? I often suspected a dog walker could get away with murder. What about an animal so easily disarmed most people?

I waited across the street from the dark apartment. Olivia circled at my feet and lay down in the grass. I could barely conceal my excitement, ducking behind an overgrown bush once a passing car’s headlights swept up the deserted street. I tensed in anticipation, wondering what I would do after I caught her, whether I should expect any violence. I couldn’t fathom why. I wanted only to confront her. To explain why she and her breadcrumbs disturbed my sleep. I needed to hear the answer from her lips. To make her know what madness those piles provoked in me.

Olivia yawned. I’d read once that this was a sign of anxiety in dogs. “Patience,” I told her, “you’ll get your reward soon.”

As the piles caught the early sunrise, I realized I would have to give up my vigil before the sprinklers or some other dog out on a morning stroll drove us from the bushes. However, I was certain I was close and must not give in to doubt. This woman was only testing our resolve. When no one appeared to replenish the piles, it dawned I hadn’t seen or heard a single bird in weeks. Perhaps they all migrated? Maybe I was still partially asleep, for I imagined the woman as a giant bird feasting on breadcrumbs.

Something shifted in an upstairs window. The curtain fluttered as if stirred by a light breeze or movement from within. I tightened my grip on the leash, incensed at being found out yet also satisfied she saw us. I fixed my eyes on the window, committing its location to memory. We abandoned our hiding place to stand underneath the dark pane. I stared up at the still-wavering curtain when a foreign thought invaded me. I picked up a cube of bread, cold from a night on the tall grass. I was certain she still watched. My pulse raced while I cradled the piece home.

Over a fresh pot of coffee, I studied and squeezed the delicate cube. The bread, however, refused to divulge its secrets. If I followed these breadcrumbs, where would they lead? I lifted the morsel to my lips. The scent brought back a childhood memory of bread my mother used to bring home. Why did yeast smell so oddly like feet?

Without thinking, I popped the cube into my mouth, turning it to glue with my spit. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I detected a faint aftertaste of grass and predawn light, as well. Olivia watched me chew and swallow. I washed down the bread with black coffee and, for the second time that morning, couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

I passed the day in unusual malaise. Before darkness came, I locked Olivia inside her crate and took out the car, driving as far as the next corner where I parked across the adjacent street, close enough to observe the piles glowing otherworldly in the moonlight, yet out of view of the window where I saw the curtain flutter earlier. I could tell just by looking that no one except for me had touched the piles in the last two days.

I killed the engine and waited. The woman and I shared patience in common. I had to catch her by surprise. This was the only way to make her yield to me. I didn’t know how exactly I knew this. It was only a premonition like this morning’s strange dream. A rectangle of light spilled across the tall grass. I shuddered at the thought of spying on her, sneaking through the window to sniff her bare feet. I couldn’t remember the last time I left the house without Olivia in tow. Perhaps I needed to get outside more often.

Three hours passed. I succumbed to boredom, watching for a shadow falling across the grass or any sign of her standing at the window. She must’ve sensed me. How she chose not to reward me, I hadn’t the faintest clue. I wasn’t sure what I was doing until my feet touched the pavement. I crept onto the terrace, not like a mouse but some great, hideous creature reared on its hind legs. The tinkling wind chimes disguised my footsteps, and the darkness hid my trespass. I was certain no one inside detected me.

I stopped outside her door. The politest thing was to knock, but we were past such formalities. The unlocked door relented at the slightest push. I stood outside, but the lure of the unknown became too difficult even for me to resist. The door closed behind me.

At first glance, the apartment appeared empty. A serrated knife and cutting board lay abandoned on the kitchen counter. A faint light glowed from behind the door at the end of a long hallway. I proceeded past two other closed doors before hesitation caught in my throat. Surely, no one was home, I thought. But trespassing here was a mistake. Unfortunately, this realization came too late. After living for so long on autopilot, I didn’t recognize the trap that sprang up around me. I was now wide awake.

The last door creaked open. I approached the small bedside table where a lamp glowed and knelt to look closer. A candle burned next to a photograph I recognized from an old album, ripped in half to cut out the woman missing from the picture. The face of my younger self smiled back at me, the last time I was ever happy. On a dish nearby sat a small, bleeding organ, which looked disturbingly like a bird’s heart. Not that I was all that familiar with one. I unfurled the crumbled note soaked in blood beside it. The familiar handwriting reached down and grabbed my heart.

I arrived home to find Olivia panting and waiting for me anxiously. I freed her from her metal cage and wrapped my arms around her thick, furry throat, a gesture she seemed merely to tolerate. I moved out of the building the next week and never ventured near that haunted block again. Every time I encounter another pile of bread waiting for me, I pop a morsel into my mouth and continue along my way undisturbed.

– Aaron Vano

Author’s Note: I recently discovered (a bit late in life) that I’m autistic, and I wanted to write a story about an undiagnosed autistic character whose routines—and understanding of himself—are shattered by an obsession with a mystery that takes a surprising and supernatural turn. I’m interested in speculative fiction, gothic horror, and magic. I also really love animals and promise that no birds were harmed in the making of this story.