Don't Follow

The air is cool and arid, dry leaves crunch beneath your feet. Moonlight blankets the tall pine trees and the old, worn dirt path that lays before you. The fine needles of the trees look rather softer on this night, almost as if you would feel the soft fur of a feline brushing against you, if you were to brush by them.

Something is holding you back however, as you gaze down the path. A sense of unease sweeps over you, and you find yourself frozen in place. What is it? What makes you halt so suddenly before the soft pines?

Everything is still. Your breath seems louder than normal as you strain to hear anything else. You are met with an eerie silence, not even a breeze swept through the trees. But wait. There is one sound. A soft, distant sound. A familiar sound.

Your eyes flicker around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Ah! There it is! A white face with black pits for eyes meets your gaze. Its golden, silver spotted feathers stood out among the dark greens of the trees. So elegant, the way it carries itself and peers down at your distant form. It softly coos, as if it is calling you down the path.

Your feet seem to move of their own accord, taking you farther down the dirt path. It spreads its massive wings and glides ahead of you, calling you to follow. Trees are flying by you, and the dirt is kicked up behind your heels. The moon seems to weave between the trees as you dash behind it.

Suddenly, it freezes in the air, as if someone paused the tv. You approach it, slowing your pace as you near it. Your fingers graze its smooth feathers as you walk around to stare it in the eyes. How was it frozen in the air like this?

The owl drops to the ground with a soft thump, stiff and unmoving. You frantically look around, noticing your environment has changed. There are no longer soft pines, the old dirt path, or the bright moon. There is nothing, but you and the owl.

Strangely, you are able to see the owl as if you were in a bright room, yet when you hold your hand up in front of your face, you can’t see it. You look down. You can’t see yourself at all and you find yourself patting down your clothes, making sure your body is still there, which thankfully, it was.

“What are you doing standing there fumbling with your clothes, hm?”

You whip around, trying to find the source of the voice. There is nothing but the inky darkness that enveloped you.

“Down here you fool, hm?”

Your gaze flicks down to the owl who now stood, looking up at you. It tilted its head curiously, and almost judgmentally. You’re at a loss for words, staring at this bird, who uttered words.

“What are you gawking at, hm? Cat got your tongue, hm? Do you even know where you are, hm?”

Why does it say ‘hm’ after every sentence? You shake your head. There are better questions to be asking. How is the owl talking? What is happening?

“Shall I tell you, hm? Silly mortal, hm? You should not follow the owl into the woods, hm?”

There is an audible clicking and cracking coming from the owl. Its neck jolts to the side, its eyes burn a fiery red and its wings grow, twisting, jerking and snapping. Its beak cracks and jagged teeth jut out from its shattered beak.

The wretched form that was once an owl, looms over you with a toothy grin. “Now you’re mine.”