The Crimson Hummingbird

The wind, a raw, insistent thing, whipped at Leo’s jacket, forcing his chin deeper into the collar. Beside him, Miri bounced, impervious to the cold, a small, bright smudge against the grey-brown backdrop of dying foliage. Each gust carried the scent of wet earth and exhaust fumes, a particular Winnipeg autumn perfume that hinted at both the coming snow and the city’s damp, concrete heart. The sky, a bruised purple, bled into the last stubborn streaks of sunset, making the convenience store’s neon sign, ‘OPEN 24 HOU RS’, look less like a welcome and more like a fevered pulse.

Leo hated the convenience store. Not the concept, but *this* one. It was Mr. Chen’s place, and it always felt… wrong. Like stepping into a pocket of time where dust settled differently, and the air itself held its breath. But Miri, bless her eight-year-old heart, saw only the lurid colours of candy wrappers through the grimy window, a beacon in the encroaching dark. "Just a quick look?" she’d pleaded, her eyes wide, and Leo, ten and already weary of arguing, had grunted an assent.

The bell above the door, a tinny, worn thing, jingled a weak protest as they pushed inside. The sound was swallowed immediately by the thick, sweet air. It smelt of stale coffee, cheap perfume from the scratch cards, and a deep, underlying mustiness that reminded Leo of old blankets left in a damp basement. Fluorescent lights, buzzing faintly, cast a sallow, sickly glow over shelves crammed with faded packets of chips, tinned goods, and plastic toys in vacuum-sealed bubbles. Dust motes, thick as tiny planets, danced in the air, caught in the yellowed light.

Miri, as always, made a beeline for the candy aisle, her small frame disappearing between towers of fizzy drinks. Leo lingered by the entrance, rubbing his hands together, though the warmth inside wasn't enough to chase away the chill that had settled in his bones. He noticed a crack in the linoleum, a jagged, dark line that snaked from the counter towards the magazine rack, like an old scar. A display of outdated magazines, glossy covers still promising celebrity gossip from last year, sagged sadly under their own weight. He heard the low hum of the refrigerated drinks cooler, a sound almost drowned out by the thrumming in his own ears. It felt as if the entire shop vibrated with a barely contained energy.

From behind the counter, a shuffling sound. Leo hadn’t even noticed the man was there. Mr. Chen emerged, a figure of bone and shadow, his white shirt collar a stark contrast against his paper-thin skin. His eyes, small and dark, seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He wore a quiet expression, one that said he’d seen everything, twice over. He just stood there, hands clasped, watching Miri’s bright red hoodie bobbing in the distance. Not a word. Not a smile. Just that unsettling stillness.

"Just… looking," Leo mumbled, though Mr. Chen hadn’t asked anything. The man’s gaze, unblinking, simply held his own. It wasn’t mean, not exactly, but it was deep, as if searching for something Leo didn't know he possessed. Miri reappeared, clutching a packet of gummy worms in one hand and a faded comic book – an ancient superhero no one read anymore – in the other. Her usual effervescence seemed muted by the store’s quiet, and she glanced at Mr. Chen, then back at Leo, a question forming in her wide eyes.

Leo nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. It was their code: *Yes, it’s creepy. Yes, we’re still going to buy something.* Miri moved towards the counter, placing her treasures down, her small fingers momentarily brushing against the worn Formica. Mr. Chen watched her every move, his head tilted just so, like a bird listening for a worm beneath the earth. He picked up the comic, his thumb stroking the cover, before ringing it through. The ancient cash register clattered, a metallic sigh.

"That’ll be… three dollars, eighty-seven cents," he rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. His eyes, however, stayed on Miri, not the money. Miri fumbled in her pocket for the crinkled five-dollar bill her mother had given her, her movements suddenly clumsy under the intense scrutiny. Leo stepped closer, a silent shield.

Miri, with her change clutched tight, insisted they needed to look at the 'treasure aisle' – her name for the dusty shelves near the back, where forgotten curios and oddities gathered like lost memories. Leo, despite the prickle of unease at the back of his neck, followed. He always did. The back of the store was even dimmer, the fluorescent buzz barely reaching this far. Shadows pooled in the corners, making familiar shapes seem distorted, alien. Here, the smell of dust and something metallic – like old pennies or forgotten machinery – was stronger.

They passed shelves laden with cheap plastic trinkets: sticky hands, plastic spiders, tiny bouncy balls. But then, on a shelf tucked away behind a leaning tower of biscuit boxes, something caught Miri's eye. It was small, no bigger than her palm, and nestled amongst a collection of chipped ceramic gnomes and tarnished keychains. A hummingbird. But not just any hummingbird. This one was crimson, almost glowing, its wings poised as if mid-flight. Its body, carved from what looked like a dark, polished stone, gleamed faintly under the sparse light.

"Leo, look!" Miri whispered, her voice tight with a strange excitement. She reached for it, her fingers hovering, hesitant. Leo peered over her shoulder. The hummingbird was intricately carved, its tiny beak needle-sharp, its eyes two pinpricks of what looked like actual ruby, though he knew it must be glass. As Miri’s fingers drew closer, Leo thought he felt something. A faint tremor in the air, a low, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant tuning fork. Or maybe it was just the fridge unit from the other side of the store, he tried to convince himself.

"Don’t… just touch it," Leo cautioned, his voice low, a command woven with his own apprehension. He tried to rationalise the hum. Old wiring. The fridge. The wind outside, vibrating the thin walls. Anything but the bird. Yet, the crimson of its stone body seemed to pulse, a subtle, inner light. Miri’s hand trembled slightly as she finally closed her fingers around it, lifting it from its dusty resting place. It felt cool, smooth, surprisingly light.

The moment her fingers fully encompassed the bird, the faint hum grew, not louder in volume, but deeper in resonance, a vibration that seemed to settle in Leo’s own chest. It was like feeling the low throb of a massive engine, distant but powerful. Miri’s eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the hummingbird. Her mouth was slightly agape, a silent 'oh'. The colour of the bird, he swore, deepened, becoming more intensely crimson, as if it had just drawn a breath.

Behind them, Mr. Chen cleared his throat. A dry, rasping sound that cut through the strange, vibrating air. They both whipped around, Miri nearly dropping the bird. Mr. Chen stood at the end of the aisle, not at the counter anymore. He had moved without a sound. His dark eyes were fixed not on them, but on the crimson hummingbird in Miri’s hand. A faint, almost imperceptible smile, devoid of warmth, touched the corners of his lips. His head tilted again, a familiar, bird-like gesture. But this time, it felt less like listening and more like a predatory assessment. A low, soft *thrum* emanated from the hummingbird, a beat that seemed to match the rapid pulse in Leo’s own throat, and as he looked into Mr. Chen's eyes, he saw not boredom, but a chilling, ancient hunger. The light in the store seemed to dim, pulling the shadows closer, and Leo knew, with a certainty that iced his blood, that they had just woken something.

He opened his mouth to tell Miri to put it back, but no sound came out. The air pressed in, thick and sweet with the smell of old dust and something else, something metallic and sharp. Mr. Chen took a single, deliberate step forward, his smile widening into a thin, terrible line, and the crimson hummingbird in Miri’s grasp gave a sudden, sharp chirp, a sound like tiny, brittle glass.