Owl Eyes

We each had our reason for returning. He, for revenge, she for love and I, for truth. I cannot speak for the memories of my siblings, but I can still hear the fire engine blaring, winding up the curvy road so fast I thought it would veer off and add to the destruction of that night. The air was so dense with smoke, I was unable to see that my parents were not close behind me as I ran through the front door, clumsy with lack of sight and air…

We lived on the outskirts of a college town in the Hudson Valley. Like any other college town in New York, one block was lined with trailers while the next block was home to the elite, seeking refuge from city life. When our parents settled in a house somewhere in-between, my father had assumed the accompanying barn useless, while my mother fantasized of renovating it to become a charming studio and reviving her youthful dreams of creating art. After having three children the idea was just that: a dream.

My brother came first, born silent and brooding. Next, arrived my sister, a visionary. Unwaveringly optimistic, she seemed the most untouched by the events of our late adolescence. I entered our little world last, an equal mix of my mother and father both in looks and in spirit. Dark hair, piercing eyes, and wildly unhappy, but obedient.

If you were to ask us about our childhood, we’d tell you of trips to the farm where we picked the freshest apples in the fall, cups of hot tea and snow angels in the front yard in the winter, and kayaking in the Hudson over the summer. Our everyday life consisted of taking the bus to and from school, taking walks around the neighborhood and studying the life of others closely. Our family was a small and private entity, something we were not opposed to as long as we had the freedom to peek into the lives of those around us.

There was the man with the salt and pepper beard, walking alongside the dog he was always seen whispering to. There was our neighbor, the young girl riding her bike around the barn, wearing weather-inappropriate clothing on any given day of the year. There were the train tracks without warning lights that caused me to lift my feet and close my eyes whenever our family car drove over them. There were the creatures that lived among us; the deer, permanently mesmerized by the world around them, the raccoons, masked and mischievous, and the owl that began to appear on the roof of the barn, nocturnal and omniscient.

It was the spring of my seventeenth birthday, just before the fire, that the erratic behavior of my parents began. Once wholesome and even-tempered, they became bitter and unpredictable; leaving the front door ajar overnight, lighting candles and leaving them to line the steps when the they forgot to pay the electric bill, stocking the fridge with pounds of raw meat, and locking themselves in the long forgotten barn for hours at a time. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find mice bones on the floor and illegible writing on the walls.

Their behavior sparked a change in our family unit. My brother, no longer feeling the need to feign cheer, began leaving the house for hours to spend time in the parking lot of the abandoned electric supply factory. I imagined him in the company of the college-aged kids our parents would tell us not to make eye contact with. My sister, eager and obsessed with finding love, would sneak out at night to roll around in the woods with the son of the local bar owner.

For me, reality began to blur. I began to think of myself not as a person, but as a compilation of those around me. I was my mother, filled with regret of never pursuing art and my father, wishing he never left the city. I was my brother, experimenting with poison to feel alive and my sister, looking for validation in a physical form. I was my neighbor, riding her bike to escape the abuse she was facing at home, and the dog-owner sick with grief over the death of his late wife. I would dream of unblinking eyes, yellow and white and piercing like mine.

I once confided in my sister this recurring dream while we were blowing out the candles along the stairway. She listened without speaking for a while before dreamily looking up at me, the flames of a candle echoing in her pupils, “you are the owl eyes.”

Now, years after the fire, I don’t quite know what tempted my siblings to return to this place we hadn’t seen in a decade. I often had the feeling my brother and sister had done a better job of keeping in touch with one another than I did. It was obvious that they discussed the return when I opened the door of my small basement apartment on Long Island to their pale faces.

“We’re going home.”

My brother, drunk on either alcohol or nerves drove too fast for comfort along the treacherous winds of the Taconic. It was a foggy night and I imagined the car slamming into the rock wall that lined the road. My sister had a glassy look in her eyes and I immediately regretted my decision to endure this journey with them. They were not here to grieve or to heal.

Just when the fog began to clear and the moon shone above us, I noticed her grab his arm with desperation. He took his eyes off the road for much longer than he should have and looked back at her. The car spun and I shut my eyes tightly for what seemed like the first time in an hour. Realizing the sharp turn was intentional, I finally opened my eyes and saw the familiar run-down bar. My sister smiled slowly and sadly.

When she returned to the car, she was not alone. The bar owner’s son floated behind her. He was not only emaciated but had accumulated multiple tattoos since the last time I saw him. My attention was drawn at once to the image of round yellow eyes on his neck and I felt sick. They kissed sloppily and he staggered back to the bar. My brother seemed preoccupied with something in his jacket pocket as my sister opened the door and slid back into the front seat.

I couldn’t help but shiver as we drove around the bend, the trees concealing what was once our home and the barn that now held what remained of our belongings. I imagined it was filled with smoke-covered coats, a rocking horse from our childhood, and the books that were kept in the attic.

We pulled up to the barn and the empty plot we once called home. No one spoke. We stared out at the remnants in the dark for what seemed like an eternity.

“They did this,” he said emotionlessly.

He reached for his jacket pocket once again.

“All the candles,” she whispered and placed her hand on top of his, concealing the object.

I said nothing. I heard a hoot in the distance.

I awoke in the backseat, and was alone in the car. The keys were splayed out on the front seat. It was cold and I felt dizzy from fear and lack of hydration. Pale light was peeking out from the horizon as the sun was about to rise. My body felt sore and I opened the door to stretch my legs. I knew the barn was the only shelter I had but I was hesitant to go inside alone.

My legs and mind felt numb.

I couldn’t remember taking the steps to the barn door but there I was, clutching the handle. I counted to three, and then to ten, and then to three again before I finally took a breath and pulled.

The wooden door was heavy and only a small triangle of soft light illuminated the floor of the barn. I expected the panels to be crowded and cluttered, but from what I could see, the floor was empty with the exception of dust. I felt beads of sweat on my neck, despite the cold. I had a vile feeling but resisted the urge to forget my siblings, take the car, and never return. The silence was deafening.

I pushed the door open wide enough to take a step inside and tripped over something of an odd shape. I put my hands out to break my fall and felt what I immediately knew to be the now cool and sticky consistency of blood. I picked myself up off the floor, needing to find them. I took another step in the dark and stumbled once again, this time landing next to what I suspected was concealed in my brother’s pocket all along. A gun. I groped around in the dark, overwhelmed with fear- but not shock- that I was once again alone in this world. There, my brother and sister lay dead and cold.

I could not scream. I rose to my feet with effort, feeling hypnotized the same way my parents once must have been. My eyes felt heavy and warm. I struggled to look up and saw what I knew would be there. The penetrating yellow eyes stared back at me before I fell for the last time.