The heavy oak door to our main barn was standing ajar, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. My heart hammered against my ribs because I knew for a fact I had bolted it shut the night before.
I took a step inside, and that’s when I heard it—a heavy, stumbling thud from the darkness of the loft. Whatever was up there wasn’t small, and it certainly wasn’t invited.
The air in the barn felt thick with the smell of old hay and something muskier, something wild. I froze as the shuffling sound moved quickly away from the edge, vanishing into the shadows of the upper floor.
I climbed the rusted ladder, my hands shaking so hard I nearly lost my grip on the rungs. When my eyes cleared the floor of the loft, I gasped at the sight in the corner.
There, nestled against a stack of hay, was an enormous structure made of thick, tightly woven twigs and branches. It looked like a bird’s nest, but it was nearly four feet wide.
“What the hell is this?” I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking in the silence. No crow or hawk in Illinois could have hauled these heavy branches up a ladder.
I reached out to touch the edge, finding the wood surprisingly sturdy and purposefully interlocked. I didn’t find eggs or hatchlings, just a hollow, empty center that felt strangely warm.
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