Creepypasta: Nightmare Fuel

16: The Pigeons Around Here Aren't Real

The Pigeons Around Here Aren't Real by manen_lyset

It's no secret that big cities have pigeon problems. Toronto was no exception. Like rats in the middle ages, the disease-carrying vermin spent the past decade running amok and increasing their numbers. It was my job to try and keep Toronto's ever-growing pigeon population in check. Thankfully, I came across an article about a pilot project where researchers replaced pigeon eggs with wooden substitutes. The birds, too stupid to know the difference, spent months caring for the fake eggs instead of producing more. The project was a huge success, and the pigeon population decreased significantly in a short amount of time. It sounded like the perfect plan, so I implemented the solution in my city. What I didn't count on was for those fake eggs to hatch, and for the abominations inside to be released into the world.

Clint, my partner, came in one morning carrying a large wooden crate with straw poking out of every crevice.

"Looks like Christmas came early this year," he said, "What is this stuff?"

I walked over excitedly, helping him set the box down on a workbench, "This," I said, prying it open to reveal its contents, "is the solution to our pigeon problem."

Reaching inside, I took one of the eggs. I was a little disappointed to see that they weren't wooden, as promised. Instead, they were thin, light, and hollow like those cheap plastic Easter eggs. It wasn't close to what I was expecting. Oh well, that's what you get for ordering off of Ebay, I thought.

Clint took a handful, "These are the replicas you ordered? They don't feel remotely the same as the real deal."

We were well aware of what the eggs felt like. Up until then, the only way to decrease the pigeon population was to sneak into their nests and steal the eggs. It was a futile, temporary solution, because the birds would just lay new eggs once they realized theirs were gone. That's what made the idea of using substitutes so damn good.

"It's fine, Clint. They don't have to fool us, they just have to fool the pigeons. This'll work, trust me," I answered.

I was right: the pigeons fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

A few months passed, and we started seeing a decline in the amount of younger birds in the area. I can't tell you how proud I was of what I'd done. I'd found a safe, environmentally friendly way of dealing with the flying rats, at the cheap cost of a few hundred dollars and an elevator trip to pigeon nesting grounds atop high-rise rooftops around the city.

The problems started about three months in. Clint and I were inspecting nests on opposite sides of the city. I was halfway up the building when Clint called me.

"Yo," I said as I brought the phone to my ear.

The sound of wind could be heard in the background. Evidently, Clint had reached his destination, "Hey. Some of our eggs broke," he announced.

The elevator came to a stop, doors swinging open to let me off. I stepped out and made my way to a small staircase leading to the rooftop.

"We'll just have to replace them. No big deal," I answered nonchalantly.

There had been a few violent storms since our last inspection, and I figured the eggs must have fallen from the nests and shattered on impact. See, this is why wood would have been better, I grumbled to myself, as I exited onto the rooftop for my inspection.

"Well, fuck," I said.

"What?" answered Clint.

Most of my eggs were broken, too. The strange thing was that they were still tucked in the nests, right were we'd left them. Had the pigeons figured out our ploy and attacked the replicas? Were the fake eggs too frail to survive our harsh Canadian weather?