The Nocturnal Witness

The night was eerily cold. It always was on the farm. Heavy fog from the rain earlier hovers over the ground, cloaking crickets working to fill the silence. A distant hoot from an owl, resonated periodically. This night was particularly windy. A loose barn door drums open and close, startling Margret awake. A troubled sleeper, she groans agitatedly to her husband.

“Frank?”, she mumbled out into the dark bedroom. “Did you forget to chain the barn door again?”. He knows I won’t be able to sleep with that barn door swinging about. I can barely sleep as it is! She blindly reaches behind her on the bed for Frank only to find his side empty, and the sheets cool. “Frank? Frank” Margret calls out. Aged creaks of the house, nudged by the wind is her only response. The percussion by the barn door seems louder now more awake. With a sigh, Margret tiredly climbs out of bed, and into her slippers. Intuitively, she maneuvers in the dark toward the master bathroom first. A light, and quick peek shows no Frank in sight.

Unperturbed, she makes her way to the bedroom door. Her steps cushioned by carpet. Crossing the threshold, she slips, but catches herself in the door frame. A wet patch leading into the hallway rattles her fully awake “Damn it Frank! How many times, have I asked you to leave your boots by the door; trekking mud though the house…”, she mumbles off. Righting her footing as she catches her breath. He knows it could ruin the hardwood floors, and the clean up! Mindful of possible wet spaces along the hallway, she makes her way to the stairs and flips on the hall light. From there, she can hear the slow, melodic run of water from the kitchen faucet.

“Frank…FRANK!” Curious concern slowly settles onto her face with his lack of response thus far. Resolved, Margret makes her way down the stairs to make her way to the kitchen. The old wood weeps from her weight, adding to the ambiance of the night. “The water… You’ve left the water running again, Frank!” It’s not cold enough yet to keep them running! She ambles toward the sink; her walk aided by the dim light above stove. The water flows onto a lone pan, seemingly forgotten in the sink. A favorite iron skillet; used just that morning to make breakfast. Rinsing the pan (she would have sworn she had done this earlier), and placing it in the drying rack, Margret notices the backdoor to the mud room slightly ajar. Turning off the faucet, she moves towards the backdoor.

She finds the mud room empty, but takes notice of light coming from the barn outside. It flickers rhythmically with the door as it swings in the wind. Exchanging slippers for boots, and grabbing her jacket, Margret makes her way out towards the barn undeterred. She folds her arms into her body to keep warm as the wind picks up. Closer now, the crickets seem to quiet; the barn door aggressively louder.

“Frank?”, Margret calls out. She catches the door before it swings shut and peeks into the barn. “Frank?”, she calls again. Her voice causes a ruffle of feathers from the chickens, and a barn owl that’s settled in the rafters. “Frank are you…”, her voice trails off as she walks further into the barn. A ghastly, crimson foot path guides her in. She spots his legs first. Rounding the coup, there lies Frank, face down, and deathly still. An audible gasp leaves Margret’s lips. A wound that has long stopped seeping, halos from his head.

“Whoo! Whoo!”, shrieks the owl from above.

Who? Who, indeed.

FIN