Creepy - I Adopted a Parrot That Screams in the Voices of Strangers

Episode Date: August 14, 2020

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This is the Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain. graphic decisions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. I adopted a parrot that screams in the voices of strangers by Meg Pye Quill and Sam. Martini was a 10-year-old African gray with two odd crimson feathers on her chest. I'm glad you like her. Arrow, the shelter owner's son said. I love cats and dogs, but honestly, birds freak me out a bit. Why is this asking me if I drink? I asked sitting at the scratched-up desk with the adoption paperwork.

We got to make sure the animals are going to good home environments. Dad's words, not mine. I took my ballpoint pen and checked the box next to no. Do you smoke at least one cigarette per day? I checked yes. Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a felony? I got caught streaking in college once, I said. Does that count?

Huh? The question about the felony? Oh, Arrow said, creeping toward martini's cage while clutching a plastic puppy carrier like a weapon. Damn, mister, were you a frat boy back in the day or something? It's a long story. Indecent exposure is usually a misdemeanor. We're asking for murder, vehicular homicide, larceny, things like that. I wrinkled my nose.

Of course. Oh, an animal cruelty. That's a felony, too. I checked no. The final line of the five. page form requested my signature and the date. I obliged. There, I said. It's done. Great. Uh, give me a sec, mister. Let me just, um... I watched as Arrow pinched the door of the bird cage with his thumb and forefinger,

and gingerly pulled it open. Then he shoved the open mouth of the puppy carrier against it, making the entire cage rattle. Martini jumped and, fluttered madly behind her wire bars. Arrow scrambled back, dropping his carrier to the newspaper-line floor with a loud clatter. Where's your father? And why did he leave you in charge? Mr. Holman, a new voice said. Using her claws and beak, Martini climbed up to the open door of her cage and peered at the red-headed boy cowering behind me,

and then at the man who'd entered through the back door. Apologies for my absence, Philip, the shelter manager, said. I hope Arrow hasn't been causing you too much trouble. He's prone to making a mess of things. Arrow poked his head out from behind me and looked at the bird cage, where Martini had slowly pulled herself out of captivity. She turned her attention to me as I scooted back in my chair and got up, I walked up to her slowly, trying not to alarm her.

Her eyes shone in the afternoon's sunlight, filtering through the skylight. Is she clipped? I asked. No, Philip said. She can fly, but only just. She's been kept indoors her entire life. I knew that, erogast. Put her in the carrier, just in case. You know? I picked up the carrier, he dropped.

Martini craned her neck this way and that, showing the rows of unopened pin feathers running down her back. I held out my hand. Martini flinched. Good bird, I said gently. Hi, Martini, I'm here to take you home. Martini stared at my hand. I curled my finger slightly.

Step up. Martini turned her head side to side, and then hesitantly climbed onto my hand. She's trained, I said. Her old master had her for a while, Philip said. The sweet old lady passed away too early. That's why shelters like ours had to exist. Martini let out a low chirp and ruffled her feathers. Arrow scrambled into the corner, shielding his face.

You're making her nervous, I said, coaxing Martini into the carrier. Philip picked up my paperwork and looked it over. I don't really like birds, Arrow whimpered. I thought a parrot might be cool because they talk and stuff. Martini doesn't talk. She just flaps. I closed the plastic door of the carrier and smiled. That's because she's nervous around you, I said. African grays are some of the best talking parrots in the world.

I'm sure Martini will get around to it under the care of someone more experienced. Arrow grumbled and rolled his eyes. Martini was shy and easily spooked, as many shelter birds tended to be. She was trained to step up to human hands and responded to her name. but like Ero said, she didn't seem keen to talk or mimic any sounds. In fact, she was exceptionally quiet, only making the occasional nervous chitter. Every morning, I opened up her cage and offered her a greeting, in the hopes of getting her to grow used to my voice.

Good morning, Martini. She shied away from me and flapped her wings. The first couple of days, the closest thing, she did to flying was hopping from perch to perch when I wasn't watching and making her nervous. Good morning, Martini. Want to get out? Good morning, Martini. I said again. Want to get out? Martini chittered quietly. Want to get out? She reluctantly climbed up to her door. I held out my hand. Step up. She carefully wrapped her claws around my finger, one foot at a time.

Good bird, I said. Good bird, Martini. I kept her perched on my shoulder for most of the mornings while I cooked breakfast and made coffee. Every time, I fed her a piece of my toast, which she chewed slowly before swallowing. Then I put her back in her cage before going to work. Martini was a smart bird. bird, and soon enough, she figured out how to open the latch of her cage door from the inside while I was gone for work. I worried that she might hurt herself exploring the house while I

wasn't around, but she only climbed around the outside of her cage until I came home. Otherwise, she was well-behaved, if a little cautious, and even her weariness began to fade as we spent more and more time together. Our greatest achievement was when she finally succeeded in recall training, where I called out, Martini, come find me, and she flew across the room to my hand. Three weeks into her new life with me, Martini finally relaxed enough to make sounds other than her nervous chitters. What came out first was a low murmur, an incomprehensible string of words that vaguely

sounded like human speech. It was another week or so until she began saying things I could understand. And it wasn't so much the thing she said, but the way she said them that began to bother me. Most of this pair of speech consisted of things she'd heard before,

down to the voice and inflection. When Martini spoke, though, the voice she mimicked belonged to neither me nor a sweet old lady I've been told with her former owner. It was the steady, low murmur of a man, tinged with an unfamiliar accent. Martini, she said. Good girl, Martini.

Martini want a peanut? Throughout the evening, Martini grew talkative at an alarming rate. She talked more and more. and everything she said was in this stranger's voice. Pretty bird. Good evening. Wanna read the news together? Say you're sorry.

I'm sorry. Sorry. By the time I had put her in her cage for the night, she had started laughing. Then, as I climbed into bed, she began to scream. I can't transcribe the thing she was screaming, because the words were once again garbled.

Perhaps Martini's slender tongue had trouble reproducing the guttural sounds, but it sounded more like the voice was muffled, fighting through layers of cloth. I slowly pulled away my sheets and climbed out of bed. As I made my way to Martini's room, she began to make choking sounds. I ran and stumbled into her room. Martini fell silent.

She peered at me from inside her cage, her eyes glistening in the orange light of the hallway. Martini, are you okay? She cocked her head and turned around on her perch. Then she opened her beak and started screaming again. They were human sounds. There was no doubt about it. Martini screamed like a man slowly,

getting strangled. Then, in an instant, her voice changed. She was now a young woman, letting out a piercing cry as if she was being stabbed. The woman screamed out words until her voice, too, was quickly muffled.

What is this? Martini screamed. Who are you? I'm going to call the police. Martini bobbed her head and mimicked the sound of heavy footsteps, steps over a hardwood floor. The thump of bodies. Please, she murmured.

This time another man, a different one. Please don't do this. She smacked her beak a couple of times, then fell silent. I stared at her. My body felt stiff. Martini. Good bird, Martini. Want the peanut?

Martini, I whispered absently. What happened? She cocked her head, then hopped to the bottom of her cage and began picking at her toys. Good bird, she murmured in the accented man's voice. Good birth, step up. She's been screaming? Yes, I breathed. In so many.

different voices. Where's your dad? He's on a business trip, Ero said. Not the shelter, his other business. When does he come back? I don't know. On Saturday, I think. I let out an exasperated sigh. I was pacing up and down the newspaper-covered aisles of the shelter. A tiny dog began to bark as I walked past its enclosure. What'd she scream? I don't know, I said, some weird things. Arrow's eyes widened. So she really talks.

That's not the problem here, I snapped. That's awesome. You're a miracle worker, mister. I rubbed my fingers on my temple. Who was Martini's last owner? I asked, Was it actually an old lady? That's what my dad told me.

Then why does she talk in a man's voice? And all those other voices? Arrow crossed his arms. Maybe the lady had a lot of visitors? Then what about the screaming? Arrow shrugged. Did Martini have any owners before this old lady? I don't know.

This is serious, I muttered. I'm going to call the police. What are you going to tell them that your bird was screaming at you? This could be anything. Those voices, they've got to be real people. Maybe... Maybe what? I shook my head.

Never mind. You're too young for this. You think Martini had a serial killer for an owner or something? What kind of movies have you been watching? I grumbled, although he'd taken the words out of my mouth. Then what? What was the name of Martini's last owner? Sheesh, mister.

All that information's classified, privacy concerns and stuff. Maybe it's written in Martini's papers, but my dad has the key to that filing cabinet. Fine, I said. Let me know when your dad's back. Okay. When I came home, Martini was climbing around the outside of her cage, muttering to herself in the accented man's voice.

Say you're sorry. Good girl, Martini. Wanna be not? Good evening. She let out a soft chuckling noise. I'm sorry. I kept her on my shoulder for most of the evening, hoping she would say some things that could serve as clues. After dinner, Martini began to sob in a little boy's voice.

I dug my old audio recorder out of the drawer and recorded her. The recorder could hold three hours' worth of audio. When I put Martini back in her cage for the night, I pressed the record button and laid the device next to it. It wouldn't capture the whole night, but it would surely record until Martini fell asleep. Martini muttered from her room as I climbed into bed, shut off the lights, and drifted off to sleep. I awoke to cold metal prodding at my forehead. Hey, mister, a voice said. Get up.

I opened my eyes and slits. Something was hovering. out of focus in front of my face, and beyond it, the face of a red-headed boy stared down at me in the dim streetlights coming through my window. My eyes grew wide. Arrow? Shee, you're loud, he muttered. It's nothing personal, okay, mister?

What, what are you doing? I called Dad, he said. He told me. me to go and silence you. What? Arrow shoved the muzzle of his double-barreled shotgun into my cheek. I told you, it's nothing personal. You're actually a miracle worker, you know that.

Martini's never been a snitch like that before. She was quiet. That's why Dad kept giving her out. Giving her out? You're a mouthful. a little questions, aren't you? Arrow said. He waved the barrel of his shotgun over my eyes, and I yelped.

It's a family business, he said, matter-of-factly. The one that actually makes money. It's a shame Dad took the doctors with him, else we could have used you, too. Hold on. Arrow hoisted his leg up onto my bed and propped his shotgun on his knee. Then he rummaged in his pocket with one hand, pulled out a folded-up bundle of paper,

and shook it until it unfurled. In the dim light of the room, I could see the word shelter and adoption flashed by, along with bits of my handwriting, my signature here and there. So you're a smoker, huh? Arrow said, glancing over my adoption paperwork for Martini. At least we know we're not waiting.

in a good pair of lungs. Liver would have been nice, though, because they usually bring in a pretty penny if the doctors manage to take it out alive. And the kidneys, of course. At that moment, the gravity of the situation hit me full force. You're going to kill me?

Trust me, mister, I'd love not to. But geez, your house is pretty hard to get into, and I'd hate for that work to go to waste. And we've got to get rid of you pretty quick, so. Why? I told you. You worked some magic and Martini snitched on us. You were going to call the police. I'm here to shut you up. The lady, I gasped. Ritini was never owned by an old lady, was she? Nah, Arrow said. That's all made up. We give out pets so we can get loaners addresses in the paperwork. And you... You...

Aw, we don't do much. It's the doctors who take people away. Open them up while they're still fresh. You know, the waiting list for organ transplants is years long. No one's got years to live when their body's failing. Arrow let out an indignant huff. Pity we won't get some social service out of you, huh? What a waste.

But Dad says you've got a good. go now. They're going to find out. You know that right? They won't. Arrow laughed. In your case, the cover might be a little bit messy. Like I said, we usually go after loners, people without a whole lot of social connections. Small scrabbling noises came from Martini's room. She had woken up to the sound of voices. There's this niche, Arrow muttered, grinning. After you're dead, I'm going to shoot her too. Just to make sure another parrot wizard doesn't pick her up and get her talking again.

Arrow shoved my paperwork back into his pocket and raised the barrel of his shotgun up to my forehead. Bye-bye, mister. I'd say it was nice doing business with you, but you're a victim of your own curiosity. Not me. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and in a last-ditch effort screamed the only thing I could think of. Martini, come find me! From the other room came the scratching of claws on the sides of the cage, and then the flutter of wings. A split second later, Martini flew into the room, her wing bees blowing tiny down feathers onto my bed.

Arrow led out an alarmed yelp, ducking for cover as he swung the twin barrels of his gun. gun up to the ceiling. Two deafening shots went off. Their flashes were blinding. Chalky debris rained down from the popcorn ceiling. Martini squawked. Arrow dove to the corner of my bedroom, sending his gun clattering onto the floor. I scrambled out of my bed, scooped it up, and pointed at him.

I glanced back at my bed where Martini had landed. A portion of the fell. others at the tip of her left wing were missing. But the massive bulk of the shots had missed her. I turned back to Arrow. That thing's empty, he stammered. You've got nothing to own me. You don't even know how to hold a gun.

You think I'm scared? I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heartbeats. Your father was right about one thing. I said. You have a way of making a mess of things. I spun the shotgun one eighty and held the barrel in my hands. I think you're scared of a big man with a bat. And even more than that, I think you're scared of Martini.

So just try to run, kid. Arrow whimpered. Good. Good bird. Martini chirped in a young woman's voice. Good bird. Arrow was jailed. If the shotgun and the holes in my ceiling weren't enough evidence,

the last ten minutes of the audio recording from Martini's room certainly were. Philip and his crew of doctors were arrested in their business hotel and flown home immediately for detainment with Arrow. Police found evidence of 15 victims of organ theft, and they're looking for more. Martini has begun molting. I'm hoping she can fly again when her flight feathers back in. She still sends chills down my back with the odd giggle or scream, and I try not to think about

how the originators of the voices are all dead now. On a brighter note, recently she started mimicking my voice. Brave Bird, she says, whenever I give her a bite of toast. Martini, you're my savior. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, or email us at Creepypod at gmail.com. All stories told on this podcast can be found at Creepad. Creepypasta Wikia.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.

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