A feather! Brown, spotted, smooth, roughly the length of her forearm. It was plastered to the underside of the rusted iron. She pinched it off and held it up to the sunlight. It felt slightly damp and terribly real. Iris recalled last night’s drizzle, and her fingers felt across the inside of the bell. She slid her index finger downwards. A clump of wet soil piled at the tip. Curious. The bell’s circumference spread outward at the base like an awning curved to the sky, so it would have been impossible for rain or debris to reach deep inside through any natural fashion.
Someone, perhaps something, had sat beneath the bell last night.
A primordial shiver slid down her spine. Images flamed through her mind. A hunched figure, cast in pitch darkness, perhaps panting. Lurking beneath the same bell she had gazed upon hours earlier.
Writing month, day five, word count: 5351