Choosing your words carefully were a major part of explaining where you lived. If you said that you lived in a cottage in the forest, it gave a cosy and warm impression, whereas if you said that you lived in a cabin the woods, someone was going to die.

At least the birds didn't judge you, and neither did the foxes. They just listened—at least, you hoped they did.

The place you lived in was old. The estate agent had said it could have been over a hundred years old, despite the modern features that had been added. You had laughed and reassured her that you didn't mind and it was completely suitable for you.

It was a bungalow, with a living room that was combined with the kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms and an office. The furniture inside was chosen by you (with some help from your mother) at various sales because you were fresh out of university, which meant you were practically broke. All your savings had gone on the house, leaving little for high quality furniture. The only furniture you had was your bed, wardrobe, drawer unit and bookshelves. And everything in them.

The circumstances behind moving was...erratic. You had suddenly decided after graduating university with a history degree that you would move away to a completely new area. So that's what you did.

In your opinion, you thought you'd done rather well, considering the budget limit. (It did help the bungalow was a lot cheaper then you thought. That did a raise an eyebrow, but you decided not to question it too much.)

Your closest friend, a whacky person who went by the name Socks, was the first one to point out the problem with the house.

'My nan bought a bungalow a few years ago and it was like, quarter of a million I think,' they said when you called them to tell them you'd settled in. 'Not a few grand.'

'I'm honestly not gonna complain,' you said with a shrug, 'gotta take what you can get.'

'I mean, not wrong, but there's something dodgy about the house.'

'True. It does have a bit of a, uh, weird vibe.'

'Weird? The vibes are off the chart. I dunno what it is, but something about that place makes me nervous for you.'

You silently agreed. As lovely as it was, certain rooms made you feel ever so slightly uncomfortable—mainly the spare bedroom. You couldn't place your finger on what it was. Was it because you were so far from home? Or was the house's age subconsciously making you imagine things that weren't there?

Either way, you were stuck there. If you wanted to move out, you'd need cash, something you didn't have a lot of.

As though sensing your thoughts of money, Socks said, 'When does work start? Is it next week?'

'Uh, I think so, yeah.'

'Oof, good luck with that.'

'Thanks.'

'Kinda jealous of you, though. You get to work at home! I would kill for the opportunity to work at home, but I guess I can't really make coffee at home and send it to the shop...'

As Socks rambled on, your mind drifted towards your job. Ah, your job. The one thing that kept you going throughout your school life. You were a digital historical researcher, which meant your job was to research specified events throughout history at the request of your employer, the curator of the local museum.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by a static filled shriek and the sound of something smashing from the other end of the phone. Your heartbeat quickened.

'Socks? Socks? Is everything okay?'

The time it took them to reply felt agonising as your brain imagined every possible scenario that could've lead to the scream.

'Y-Yeah. I'm fine.' Socks sounded shaken. 'Sorry, there was a HUGE spider and it crawled across my foot.'

You winced. 'Shit. What broke?'

'My glass.'

'You didn't hurt yourself, did you?'

'Uh, I don't think so. I'm gonna go and clean this up before it stains.'

'Alright. See you later.'

'Yup! Bye!'

Silence. You let out a small sigh of relief, your hand falling to your side. You loved Socks immensely, but their energy was sometimes a bit too draining.

The cool breeze made your journey outside more bearable. The sun was high in the sky, joined by large clouds that morphed into shapes the longer you looked at them.

Of course, you couldn't really see the sky. The trees around you reached up and up, creating a roof of leaves and branches.

The forest around you was alive with colour. Bluebells, daffodils and lily of the valley gathered in clumps, dotted around like splashes of paint on a canvas. A lone cherry blossom stood tall amongst the green-leaved trees and bushes. It was nice, so you snapped a picture of it with your phone.

However, as lovely as the scenery was, admiring it wasn't your mission. You were looking for something.

You had to search under bushes and under leaves but, eventually, you found something. A dead buzzard. After closely inspecting it, you estimated that it had died not too long ago. The feathers were a bit matted, but it was otherwise perfect.

You nodded to yourself, pulling on a pair of gloves. You gently picked the bird up and placed it down inside a basket you'd brought with you, covering it up with a cloth. Then, once the bird was secure, you made your way back home, hurrying along.

Once you were home, you made a beeline for the office, where you'd set up a space to dissect animals (and, if you were asked, people).

Dissection was a hobby of yours. You never told anyone about it, fearing the comments and looks you would get. It wasn't as though you went and killed animals to dissect; that wasn't what you did. You searched for animals that died naturally, examined their insides, determined a cause of death if you could, sewed them back up and buried them.

You also made a profit out of it. Your cousin, a scientist, bought you the tools you needed to carry out your hobby, in exchange, you sent him the notes you made after every dissection for him to use in his work.

He was the only one who knew about it, and you planned for it to stay that way.

You laid the bird out on the table after cleaning it. You took a deep breath, picked up a pair of scissors and made a long slit in the bird's skin, starting from the sternum. You parted the skin and superficial muscles of the abdomen before containing through the ribs of the buzzard's left side, all the way to the base of the wing.

You peered at the organs inside the abdominal cavity. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary there. You looked inside the bird's stomach and inside the intestines, furrowing your brow slightly, before carefully moved aside some tissue to get a better view of the oesophagus. There was a large bulge at the top of the trachea. You snipped it open to see a plastic bag scrunched up into a tight ball.

You sighed. Of course.

You removed the plastic bag, dropping it on a dish, before sewing the bird back up. You took off your gloves, cleaned your equipment and went over to a notebook.

Species: Buzzard

Gender: Male

Age: Unknown, most possibly adult

Cause of death: Asphyxiation due to object located at the top of trachea. Object was a compressed plastic bag

Noticeable mentions: Specimen's stomach contents contained mainly decayed animals. Possible lack of fresh carcasses, or some form of binge eater is encouraging buzzards to feed off of decaying animals.

ツ

(march 2022 update: yeah that didnt happen. well, it did. there were both uwu moments and 'whoops murder' moments. i tried, but i dont listen to my own promises lmao)