Black Barn Owl

We say in Ridgewater that when you hear the black barn owl's call, someone nearby has died. Even worse, if you see it, you will surely be next. Every year, in the first week of November, our usually bright Ridgewater grows dark and quiet. The entirety of the small town is pregnant with superstition, and for good reason. At the start of November, going back as far as the town’s founding, a chilling wind blows through the streets, signaling the start of the cursed week. It used to be just one—the number of people who die during the seven days. Now, we townspeople consider ourselves lucky to make it through with less than a dozen.

I know what you are thinking. How does something like that happen? Just as anyone else in this place will tell you: I wish I had the answer. The only thing we people of Ridgewater know is that, during that week, under no circumstances can you look at the sky. What may sound like mere folklore to you, we view as the most real truth there is. It has happened ever since the first death; with the discovery of each victim also comes the finding of black barn owl feathers scattered throughout the scene. In our small town, the black barn owl has become an omen of death. Should you hear the creature, or heaven forbid—see it—only grim things may follow.

——— ——— ———

“Thomas,” I hear someone call my name, and I quickly look to see the teacher and the rest of the class staring at me. “Care to tell me what’s so important on your phone that you can’t pay attention in class?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brigstein,” I say as I go to put the device away.

“No, no,” Brigstein says as she approaches me with an extended hand. “Hand it over.”

I roll my eyes and hand her my cell phone.

“Couldn’t have waited five more minutes until class was over?” she lectures as she returns to her desk and puts the device in a drawer. “You know the drill. You can have it back at the end of the day.”

The class laughs quietly.

“Now,” she says with a look of dread as she addresses the class, “it’s the first day of November… As some of you may already know, the wind has blown through the streets. Remember when you leave today: it’ll be far more dangerous to look at the sky this week than it is the ground. Keep your eyes down, and let’s all pray we make it through this.”

Just like that, the bell rings, and I let out a disbelieving groan at how close I was to avoiding confiscation. With me being a teenager without a phone, time seems to slow to half its usual speed, the hours dragging by as I watch the clock through every remaining class of the day. At last, the final bell rings, and I make my way to Brigstein’s classroom. I walk through the doorway, catching the teacher’s attention.

“Oh, Thomas,” she says with disappointment as she opens the draw and extends the phone for me to take. “If you’d only apply yourself, you’d be such a great student.”

I let out a single chuckle through my nose. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically, and I leave to exit the room.

“Remember what I said this morning,” Brigstein says, and I stop in my tracks. “You have a longer walk home than any other student here. Please, be careful.”

Not sure what to say, I do not so much as turn around. Instead, I make my way into the halls and out of the building as I begin my way to my house. The sun begins to set, and the sky grows darker by the minute. I'm scrolling through Instagram as I walk, and I pause, the captionless picture before me sending me into a shiver: the image of a black barn owl.

With a gasp, I drop my phone.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," I think in frustration at myself as I bend to pick it up, taking a breath of relief to see my screen still in one piece. I open to the image again, and I search to see who posted it. The account had no profile picture, and their username was one word.

"Yes".

To make the matter more bizarre, the account only had one post: the picture of the black barn owl. I wonder why or how this post ended up on my feed, and I think back to what our teacher said earlier that day. "Keep your eyes down this week; it'll be far more dangerous to look at the sky than it is the ground."

Disturbed, I go to send the picture to my friend, but I stop.

"If you see it, you're surely next" the thought whispers in my mind, and reality sets in: I've seen it.

Thankfully, I've made it home, and wishing to get my mind off of the image, I waste no time in preparing for bed. My parents are out of town, so I quickly shower, change clothes, and eat my dinner, and I take a sigh of relief as it is time for me to sleep. I lay in bed, eyes open. Where I had hoped my thoughts would silence for slumber, instead, I was fast awake, my anxiety creeping from its dark corners and trespassing in the confines of my sanity.

"Did it count?" I wonder for the hundredth time. "There's no way. It was just a picture. It couldn't have counted... could it...?"

The realization strikes me. My lip quivers, and a single tear drips from my eye. I think back to the Instagram post, and remember the name of the profile that posted the picture. The single word runs through my head.

"Yes."

I try to calm down, but I choke. Three quick, small knocks come from my door.

“That’s impossible,” I think to myself. “I’m home alone…”

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than three pounding, thunderous beats slam against the door as if someone were banging on the wood with all their strength. I gasp and quickly sit up in bed, my chest heaving and forehead sweating as I rake my thoughts for what to do. Instantly, I snatch my phone from my nightstand and call the police, explaining the situation through panicked whispers. They tell me to stay put and stay quiet.

I open my window to have an escape, but I am on the second floor; it would be quite the fall if I miss the bushes. Suddenly, I remember a crucial detail.

My bedroom door is unlocked.

Whoever was out there could have come in had they wanted to, but they did not. Such a thought strangely soothes my nerves, and I walk to do the one thing that every person yells to the main characters in horror movies not to do.

I open the door.

There is no one. I hesitantly poke my head out of the door way and look left and right to see the hallway is empty. My breaths are still a little shaky, and I did what I could to calm myself. However, my attempt at serenity is cut short when something catches my attention: a single black feather on the floor outside my door. I shout and slam the door, quickly locking it. The second the lock clicks, the intense pounding roars forth from beyond once again, and the handle begins to shake violently as something attempts to open it from the other side. I scream and fall backward, scooting across the floor until my back is pressed against the wall beneath the window as the door handle continues to rattle intensely. Filling me with a dread I have never felt before, I watch as the lock on my door handle twists with a click into the unlocked position. The doorknob turns, and the door slowly creaks open. Tears stream down my face as I ready myself for what lay beyond the door, but I am shocked at what I see.

Nothing.

In an instant, the door slams with such ferocity that it breaks from one of its hinges. I cry out as I turn and barrel out the window, jumping down without hesitation and feeling unmatched relief as I land in the greenery. The limbs scratch and cut my skin, but I count myself lucky to have made it with no broken bones. The wind picks up, frigid and violent as the gusts blast my hair into a whipping dance. Forests line the highway on both sides as I run toward the police station, hoping to catch the officers on their way to my house. I am in a full on sprint for at least two miles, gasping for air as my adrenaline powers me to press on. Finally, I see them: blue lights.

I nearly cry as they get closer, but all hope leaves me as they drive by without so much as turning their heads. Something catches my ear—tree limbs cracking and rustling from the woods on the other side of the road as something of who knows what size rushes toward me from the treeline. I am cornered, and the only place for me to run is into the trees behind me. I waste no time in dashing with bounding steps into the woods as I dodge trees and shrubs alike. With every step deeper I make through the forest, so does it sound as though the chasing creature draws nearer. I come into a clearing and see something that gives me both relief and dread. Before me was an old, run-down, wooden barn. I make for the building, running as fast as I can as I barrel through the doors, grabbing a chain that lay on the ground to my left before intertwining it around the handles until I feel the doors are sealed as best as I could do.

I scan around for where to hide, and I see a ladder climbing up to what was once used as a hay loft. I climb up, taking a deep breath as I stare at the doors from above. Just as in my home, something begins to pound on the entrance to the barn, the chain rattling with each bang. I take a moment to look around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon, but then I turn to look behind me. My heart stops. The moonlight shines through the barn’s square cupola before me, and sitting on the ledge is the angel of death—the black barn owl—staring out at the night. Slowly, the creature turns its head, and my eyes meet its soulless gaze.

And back in Ridgewater, as if all at once, the people heard the black barn owl’s call.