Owl In The Rafters

When a mysterious stranger shows up on your doorstep at 11:30pm on a Tuesday night, usually you’d turn them away.

Or perhaps call the police.

Not I, no no.

I, like the intelligent human I am, invited them in for a cup of tea and a cookie.

Luckily Mr. 11:30pm sunglasses man (who wears sunglasses at 11:30?) declined. Good thing or I probably wouldn’t be telling your this story.

You never can tell when someone’s past time is serial killing.

Anyways, he left an envelope addressed to me, Maggie Hatterton, to be delivered at precisely this time on this date. Weird.

So naturally, I open the shady letter.

Then I need to sit down.

Because at the bottom it read,

“With love,

Berry Hatterton”

My father.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “so what?”

The what, you’re referring to, is the fact that my father died. Not like recently died, like he’s been dead for approximately 23 years and the last time I spoke to him was on my 6th birthday when he was leaving for work.

Dead as in I should not be hearing from him today at 11:30pm on a Tuesday.

Or so I thought he’s been gone for that long.

According to this paper Berry Hatterton died last year, and left me everything.

Everything?

Last year?

Where has he been this whole time?

Did my mother know?

She must have.

Why did I open the door?

Stress. Stress. Stress.

Well, everything includes a house.

A nice house, a mansion of sorts really.

We used to spend every summer there, until he supposedly died.

Guess it’s time I take a trip.

•••

I love dust.

Dust tells stories.

Dust is also a mix of sloughed-off skin cells, hair, clothing fibers, bacteria, dust mites, bits of dead bugs, soil particles, pollen, and microscopic specks of plastic… but if you look past the fact that you’re casually breathing all that in and try really hard not to think about it clinging to the inside walls of your lungs, dust is magic.

It tells you how long something’s been there, sitting, collecting.

Dust has a hobby, and I admire that.

This house is chocked full of dust.

Hello asthma, missed you buddy.

I’ve also always loved giant book shelves, adventures bound in leather sitting on shelves waiting for you to discover them.

That’s where I found it.

I reached up, and pulled out a particularly dusty specimen, with the intent to read its title. When something fell off the top of the book, knocking me right in the head.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in my temple, I picked it up off the ground to examine it.

I blew it off, sending dust particles everywhere.

Achoo!

Should have brought a respirator.

That’s odd.

There’s a carving of what looks to be a hawk… no… an owl, on a wooden crest.

Written across the top is “Hatterton” and a memory flashes back to me.

“Mags, this is our families. It’s been passed down from generation to generation. When you’re old enough, It’ll be yours. Then your children's, and your children's children's. The tradition must not die.”

Snapping back to reality, I feel a tear rolling down my face.

It makes it’s way south across my pale cheek and down my chin, I let it fall. Not having the strength to wipe it away.

How could he leave us, no explanation.

The tear hits the crest, right inside the owls eye.

At that exact moment a huge gust of wind rushes through the house.

Must be a draft, this house hasn’t been used in years.

Putting the crest back on the bookshelf, I go to bed. (Yes, I brought clean sheets)

•••

I started bright and early in the kitchen.

This really is a lovely house, I missed coming here.

With its vaulted ceilings and exposed beams, it’s quite peaceful being here alone.

Just as I finally dare to open and clean out the fridge, I hear an odd flapping sound.

“Hello?”

I ask down the hall, hoping to all that is mighty no one responds back.

When I hear nothing, I sigh in relief and continue with my gag filled fridge cleaning.

About 5 minutes and 20 dry heaves later (some of this stuff is breathing I swear) I hear that same flapping again, and then something falls to the ground, shattering.

Heart pounding I grab the broom that's sitting next to me, trying not to think about how my gravestone will say “she fought valiantly with a wooden broom sword and a freezer burnt… loaf of bread?” Who freezes an entire load of bread?

Then I hear a “hooo” coming from over head, and look up.

I throw the broom and bread.

It’s a whole barn owl, just sitting in the rafters.

How I missed that after the first flap I have no idea.

My bread throwing is seen as an attack on him, and he takes off. Flying around the kitchen wildly, I duck and cover, because what else can I do?

Then he’s gone, out the open window.

Wow that was insane, how did he even get in here? I opened that window 20 minutes ago.

I don’t think much of it, we’re In the middle of the woods. Maybe an owl can be sneaky, what do I know about the species.

I clean up the glass, and continue with my toxic fridge cleanse.

•••

I sit by the fire that night reading a book my dad used to read to me every night we were here.

It brings tears to my eyes, nostalgic and painful all at once.

Just as I’m getting to the good part, I hear a tapping on the window.

Looking up, I see that same owl.

Does he want to come in?

Should I let him in?

Are owls dangerous?

I let him in.

It’s cold out, I’m not about to be responsible for the death of this majestic beast.

Not only that, he seems to be carrying something in his beak.

He hands (beaks?) it to me, and I accept it cautiously.

It’s a key, with a note attached reading “Swiss cheese”

Swiss cheese?

Is this a joke? Where are the cameras.

I look at him, confused.

Not only about the Swiss cheese, but where did this owl come from? How did he get this key? Why is he pointing behind me?

Wait, he’s pointing. What kind of owl is this?

I look behind me and see a painting and am thrown into another flashback.

This one is of me and my father sitting at his desk, him telling me the moon is made of cheese.

Stinky Swiss to be exact, and that the cheese we buy at the supermarket is moon cheese brought back by the astronauts.

This is weird, is this not weird?

Owl, key, Swiss cheese. I guess I’ll go look at the painting. If I’ve learned anything from any mystery movie, it’s that you look at the painting referenced by your dead then not dead but now dead again father and this weird owl that appeared.

I walk over to the painting, tailed by the owl.

“Open sesame”

Nothing.

Well it was worth a shot.

I look to the owl, hoping for some hint.

Maybe mr. 11:30pm poisoned me and this is all just a fever dream. It’s an owl, it’s not going to tell you what to do Mags.

Then it does.

Well… it points again. At the painting, so I lift it.

Behind the painting is a square hole in the wall, with a small locked box resting inside.

Of course the key fits, why wouldn’t the key that a random owl brought me fit this hidden box.

I open the box slowly, half expecting to find my retirement plan, half expecting (almost hoping) there’s nothing in it.

It’s a necklace, with a decent sized chunk of rose quartz hung on a leather chord. I hold it up to examine it, then it gone. Snatched by the owl.

“Hey!”

But he’s faster than me, I reach for him and he’s already back up in the rafters.

After calling him a few undesirable names, I give up and just hope he doesn’t swallow it. It looks like he’s trying to wear it?

Great, he’s going to hang himself by accident and I can’t stop him.

All I can think about is how rough it is to be a thumbless animal in a time like that.

Well, excitement over for now, hopefully he drops the necklace sometime soon.

I flip him the bird (ha) and turn to head back to my book.

On my way back to my cozy fireside seat, I hear someone speak and freeze.

“You we’re always hot headed”

I turn, looking at the owl then around the room.

Doors are double locked, windows shut now. Am I hearing things? I must not be getting enough sleep.

Then I hear the lullaby my dad used to sing to me,

“I wrote you a lullaby, gonna try to sing it right…”

I look up to the owl again and he’s swaying, mouth moving.

No way.

There must be a gas leak in here, no way is that owl singing right now.

“It’s me, mags”

My jaw drops because that time I saw it, his mouth moved and the words definitely came from him

“Are you… talking?” I ask.

“Yes” he responds in his deep familiar voice.

I’m going to pass out.

He swoops down and lands on a chair in front of me.

“I know this is weird, but it’s me, your dad.”

My DAD?

So now we’re saying my dad was dead then not dead then dead again and now he’s an OWL? Definitely a gas leak somewhere.

“No, you’re not dreaming. Yes this is real, let me explain.”

“Gas leak?”

“No gas leak, I’m your father. I’m an owl now, and you’re going to sit down because you look on the verge of either passing out or throwing up”

I feel it.

I sit, trying to take deep breathes.

I just wanted to read my book by the fire and now I’m talking to my dad owl.

“The last time I saw you, you were 6. It was your birthday and I had left for work.”

He flies over to the desk and opens a drawer with his beak. Holding a present box by its ribbon.

Flying back over to me, he places it in my lap. Then retakes his spot on the chair.

“On my way home, I stopped and got you that”

I open the box and inside is a necklace, a silver moon hanging from it.

“I had planned to take you to the roof that night, and unveil the telescope I got you”

I remember the telescope, mom gave me it a month later after he went missing. I never used it.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I ask “what happened? Why didn’t you come home”

He looks down, sad? Do owls have expressions? This one does.

“On my way home I saw a hurt dog, he was limping and it was raining. So I pulled over, scooped him up and read his tags.

The address wasn’t too far so I got back in my car and decided I’d drop him off. Someone was missing him and I had the ability to fix that”

Always helping people out, that's the dad I remembered.

“When I got there, it was a dilapidated looking house. No way did this dog live here. But it was the address on his tag. So I got out and went to the front door, and knocked.”

He paused for a moment, remembering.

“Then what happened” I asked, it’s been 23 years and while little 6 year old me sat waiting for my dad, then waited for answers, there’s no time for pauses I’ve waited too long to know.

“A little old lady came to the door, dressed in bright colors and hunched. I asked if this puppy belonged to her, and she grinned taking him and thanking me. She invited me in, I almost said no. I should have said no, it’s my girls birthday I have to get home. But she was living in such a rundown house I had to see if I could help her.

The second I walked in, the door slammed behind me and the sweet old lady turned into a hag. I had heard stories, from my father, about our family attracting witches. But I never believed him, crazy old man I always thought.”

Crazy old owl, is what I was thinking as he told me this story.

A witch? Really?

Then I remembered that I’m quite literally talking to an owl and perhaps I am in-fact the crazy one.

I let him continue.

“She told me this tale about kind hearted people, and the puppy was part of a spell. All she needed was an innocent soul to bring back the black rat. Then the puppy she was holding turned into a giant rat and I freaked out and tried to escape, but the door was stuck shut. Before I knew it was coughing up feathers and the room was getting bigger, But really I was getting smaller. She was gone in a flash, and I saw myself in a mirror. I was a barn owl all of a sudden.

The witch left a note in the middle of the room, it read,

Find me before the clock strikes three, only then will you be free

Water, earth, fire, air, I’ll give you this to make it fair

Next to the note was bottle on a string.

But I didn’t know who she was or where to find her. I was just bringing an old lady her puppy back.

I took the bottle and your gift.

I tried to come home, but mom just thought a rabid owl was trying to come into the house and shooed me away.

I tried a couple times to communicate that it was me, but how could I. And your mother is afraid of birds.

I wish I had listened to my father, he told me a similar tale about his great great grandfather being turned into a wolf. The only part of the story I remembered was this necklace, being his only way to communicate afterwards. Because he, too, was stuck in animal form. Left with a bottle and a note. But no one ever figured out how to turn him back. So here I am, an owl forever.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, ne soaking in everything he said. Him just watching me, patiently waiting for me to say something.

The first thing that came to mind was, “what’s flying like”

He laughed, a familiar sound. “The only good part of all of this is being able to experience the world in a way I never thought possible. But boy do I miss thumbs”

That made me think of the necklace.

“Why not get the necklace sooner, why wait all these years.”

“I tried, but I could never get the painting down. And then I wasn’t sure if I could turn the key. The key I found recently, buried outside. A fox dug it up one day and I’ve been hiding it ever since.”

“Stinky cheese? How did you write that”

He flew over to the desk, grabbed a pen in his beak and wrote “slowly” in the same hand writing (beak writing?) as the paper attached to the key

“It took forever to figure out how to do it, but I knew you’d come here one day”

We sat in silence for a while again, this was all so strange. A talking owl claiming to be my father. Do I play along or do I leave this House and never come back?

Then I thought back to the witches rhyme “water, earth, fire, air. Is that a hint for turning you back?”

He nods, “I’ve never been able to figure it out. I’ve put the bottle into all elements separately.

Nothing.

I have no idea how to combine them, because fire and water are not fans of one another. I darn near burnt this house down trying to figure out what she meant.”

More silence.

A deafening amount.

I want to be happy, If this is my father then I should be happy he’s not dead.

But I’m still not convinced I’m dreaming or in a psych ward somewhere on really strong meds.

Just as I’m about to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming, a book catches my eye.

It says “so, your dads an owl now.”

I point it out, jokingly asking if he’s read that for answers.

He looks confused, not seeing the book.

I get up and pull it off the shelf, pointing it out to him.

He says “that says, ‘101 Recipes to Try in Your Lifetime’”

I look down at the title and say, “No, it says ‘So, Your Dads an Owl Now.’”

Pointing to each word as I read them out loud.

Then open the book, the first line reads, “only you can see this, Maggie Hatterton.”

I throw the book, sure I’m in a dream now.

My dad looks stunned, “why did you do that?” He asks panicked.

I start pacing, what is happening. Maybe I should just leave, I should probably leave.

Meanwhile my dad is dragging the book back, trying to see what I saw

I explain to him, and he looks confused. But asks me to keep reading.

I’d rather gouge my eyes out at this point.

“It takes love to solve a problem. After all these years, you trusted a call related to your father and followed it on a whim. Which lead you here, with him.

He’s been a feathered beast long enough, it’s time he returns to you.”

We both look at each other, clear excitement.

Does this mean what we think it means?

I turn the page, and there it is.

Water- the tear of your most beloved

Earth- a shaving of a precious stone

Fire- ash from the same beloveds hair

Air- take in flight, hold on tight

“Where is that bottle” it turn to ask him, but he’s gone.

I hear clanging int he other room and he returns, vial in hand and out of breath.

We start to assemble the ingredients.

Tears, easy. This has been the most stressful day of my life, I am a tear factory.

My hair is singed and in the bottle.

Stone, the stone! I chip a piece of the rose quartz and pound it into dust, In the bottle it goes.

Then he takes it in his beak, looks at me, and I swear he smiles.

Off he goes, I hope this works.

Then it occurs to me that humans cannot fly, and he’s about to become one again.

Panic sets in, and I try to call after him but he’s already gone, racing through the sky at an incredibly unsafe speed.

Great, I just helped him to his death.

He swings around, heading back towards the house when he takes it.

The reaction is immediate, first his leg, it elongates and is Instantly human.

Slow down, I’m thinking, and shouting.

But he can’t hear me, he’s still too far away.

Then his other leg, he drops a bit. His legs are too heavy for his wings. I can tell he’s realized what I have, he’s going to crash.

As soon as he starts to slow down, his whole body changes and he’s a human cannonball.

CRASH!

He skids through the garden, landing in the bushes on the opposite side of the yard.

I rush over to him, blanket in hand because I do NOT need to see my naked father.

I hear him groaning, good he’s alive at least, and throw the blanket at him with my eyes closed.

He tells me he’s decent, and I look at him. Tears instantly welling in my eyes.

I throw myself at him, he grunts, clearly in pain and I back away quickly apologizing.

“It’s okay, every bone in my body could be broken but I wouldn’t say no to a hug. Especially right now in this moment”

I hug him again. And we cry together.

He’s back, my dad. I’m still not sure if I’m dreaming, but I don’t even care anymore. He’s here, Infront of me, I can touch him, smell him. Ew, I can smell him.

I back up, and he asks what’s wrong.

“You need a shower” I say, laughing.

He smiles, standing.

“Let’s go home.”

And like that, I have my dad back.

We keep the necklace as a memory, to know that it did happen.

The next month we adopted a puppy and named her rose. She’s a rambunctious menace, but we love her.

Every now and again, we hear an owl in the back yard. I always wonder what would happen if I slipped that rose quartz necklace. Would they tell me their story?

Maybe their hooo means much more than a call, maybe it’s a question.

Whooo are they, whooo is missing them.