Nocturnal Witness

This night was no different than a handful of nights before. Many moons in between, yes, but the feathered one had already been a witness. Nearly ten feet below, a struggle ensued, one-sided as it was. Outside, the wind alternately roared and whispered through the trees, sounds from the most visceral nightmares. As the temperatures dropped, the diffident fowl sought warmth in the tightest rafters of the barn. The familiar face below belonged to a man in his forties, with a slight build, hunched over, and fighting to drag a cumbersome object inside the barn. Under the night raptor's watchful green eyes, the recognizable man revealed a body beneath him.

She had a name, she had a face, and she had a family; but all of those things were now meaningless, just as her final breath was to him. A steady trail of crimson blood marked the path from his back door - the kill zone - to the barn doors.

Grunts and moans echoed off of the surrounding wood and tin parameters, part pleasure and part pain, all emanating from the man down below. His tools were cold, sterile and powerful, just the same as his callous nature. No one who knew him would ever have expected this. Or, at least those who thought they knew him. It could be said that the owl knew him best. The poor unfortunate soul whose life he had taken was a court transcriber, though our aviator private eye had no way of knowing that. She was also newly divorced, kindhearted and quite fragile. And her bones sounded like gravel underfoot when he cracked them.

The first kill our barn owl witnessed was roughly thirty moons ago, give or take. The owl was startled away from his own evening meal by the sounds of shrieks that could rattle the barn doors. The evening air was largely similar, cool and crisp. From inside the house, terrified screams were silenced by three sequential wallops. A few years younger, the struggle to bring the body to the barn was not so severe, but still just as bloody. In the middle of the barn floor resided a tarp, a hefty basin, and a myriad of chemical bottles. Piece by piece, the feminine corpse was deposited into the metal vessel. In went two mutilated arms, a pair of mangled legs, a maimed midsection, but that was all. The head remained amputated on a shelf, a trophy of sorts. Discolored at the time, swallowed already, it shared a supposed resemblance to the woman that it very recently represented. Placed beside it were three bare skulls of varying sizes. After enough time had passed, the man drained the sludge that was left behind and rescued the remaining bones from the basin. Meticulously, the predator scraped the bones clean until they were pristine.

He creaked around the barn like a man twice his age, seeming to savor the experience. After what seemed like hours, he was startled back to consciousness by a meager voice from outside the barn.

“Uncle Ben!”

“Fuck!” he yelped.

“.....Uncle Ben?” the voice replied, weaker still.

“Matty…. I’ll be right there, you stay put!”

The criminal leapt to his feet, and charged out of the barn door.

“Trick-or-treat!”

“Well look at you! Scared me to high heaven! I forgot about you guys coming by. That’s a nice costume you’ve got. What are you, a police officer?”

“I’m a forest ranger, Uncle Ben. Where are those baby owls you told me about? Are they in there?” the slight voice inquired.

“No, no, no….shit, they flew away, I think. Hey, where’s your mom, anyway?”

Terrified, he shepherded his nephew inside the house in search of the boy’s mother.

Fortunately for the scoundrel, his nephew was now past the age of Hallow’s Eve tomfoolery. Tonight’s victim belonged to him and his focus was more resolved than that cursed encounter years ago. Bit by bit, he decimated her remains, chopping excitedly at the delicate muscle, tendons and skeleton holding her together. He deposited them with vigor into the basin where they would decay to his liking. As night faded to morning, the feathered creature above was carried off to sleep by the hum of a chainsaw and debaucherous laughter. With dawn nearly broken, the man named Ben was again startled out of his villainous trance.

“Mr. Neighbors, this is officer Shubert. I’d like to have a few words with you if I could,” a loud voice boomed out, steadily growing nearer and nearer.

The blood spattered on the back lawn had grown cold, but it would surely grow red hot when an outsider approached. Ben saw no other option but to collect another trophy.

“No problem,” he seethed. “I’ll be right there.”

He gently placed the chainsaw down and gingerly grabbed a hatchet. The damp grass was squashed beneath his feet and the door creaked close behind him. A keen ear could detect the swing of his weapon upon the back of the officer’s skull. A few more whacks, and he was gone.

The sun peeked through the clouds on a day that was only slightly different from many before it. One nocturnal witness with emerald eyes noticed every detail and waited for the bloodbath to ensue.