She was not a superstitious woman. At least she'd never thought herself to be, until one morning in late April when she'd first awoke to hear the owl.
There was something in it's calling that struck a chord deep in her soul. Something in it's calling that evoked an unreasonable fear of the mystical and magical, with all the emotional intensity of childhood, a time when it was easy to believe in things that went bump in the night.
As she lay in her large comfortable bed, in her room of pink and violet hues, staring into the darkness listening, she had sudden recall of bits and pieces of a story from her girlhood. A story she had heard her elders discussing in hushed tones around the table after the evenings meal and over morning coffees, during her sixth summer.
The entire town had been abuzz with the latest gossip of the time. Gossip that, to her six-year-old brain, registered little, but to her senses, that was another thing. She remembered that summer as being the first time she had ever known fear. For she had been afraid, but even now seventy years later, she could not say why.
She recalled the look of horror on her mothers face, as she recounted to her Aunt Delia all the gruesome details of the widow Grey's death. She could almost hear the far distant echoes of her mothers' voice:
"It's like I told ya Delia", her mother had said, "The owl is the first of the three birds of death There's the Raven, it's the second one. It accepts some of the souls that the Ferryman refuses on account they don't have no coins on their eyes to pay his fare!"
"Oh, my!" Her Aunts' voice drifted back now as well. "Oh my!" is all Aunt Delia had said through the whole conversation, if it could be called that.
"Third, is the Crow," her mother had gone on to explain, "which everybody knows carries them souls the raven took, on across the river to the Summer Land. But, the first Delia, the first is the Owl! Why it's the very harbinger of death itself!"
"Oh, my!"
"That's right little sister! The owl is the one of the three that scares folks the worst cause most folks knows that owls only come a hootin' and callin' around people if there's dyin' that's ta be done. Ifin there is ta be a death, ya knows it, cause damb if that bird don't hang around for three days hootin' and callin' just ta make its point. Other wise, that ol owl's got's enough smarts to stay clear of us human kind!"
"Oh, my!"
"Goodness sakes alive, is that all you got's ta say Delia! Sister everyone in this town knows that a big ol owl was a sittin' in the willow tree just outside of that ol wider woman's bedroom! Hell half the town is sayin' they could hear it hootin' and callin' for three straight days afore that ol lady dropped dead! Most everyone believes that owl was announcin' wider Grey's time had come and that he was there ta collect her!"
"Oh my!"
"And the look on the widers' face! Well, Mr. Fergus, you know him Delia, the undertaker, well he said the look on her face was one of shear panic, ghastly was the word he used, just ghastly!"
"Oh, my my!"
"Well I guess that's an improvement. Ssh Delia! Sarah's comin' in from the next room and you don't want her to hear ya talkin' bout such things. You'll be givin' my poor little darlin' night terrors!"
"Oh my!"
The voices drifted away, the memory of them leaving Sarah with a smile.
Sarah never could understand how seemingly intelligent adults could truly believe that a bird, one of God's creations, was capable of, let alone responsible for, the bringing of such horrors as were described by her mother to Aunt Delia that day, all those years ago.
She fine-tuned her hearing to take in nothing but the owl. Sarah couldn't help but notice how lonely a sound it made. "Perhaps it's calling for its mate!" she said aloud into the darkness of her room. After all, had she herself not done the same through her tears in the wee hours of the morning after her husbands' death? In some strange way, she could relate to the mournful hooting in the near distance, and yet at the same time the sound caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. Sarah decided to dismiss it and, when she did get up, to go about her day as usual.
On the second morning, Sarah was roused from a deep slumber by the owls call. Clutching her covers around herself in the darkness, Sarah felt six-years-old again, and she was afraid.
She did not understand the familiar fear that now settled in like the thick, down comforter over her. Sarah tried to reason it out in her mind. This is ridiculous; after all, it's just a bird! It probably decided it liked the neighborhood as much as I do. It can't help it if it's cry is so disturbing, it didn't choose it's voice so it shouldn't be blamed for the affect the voice has! Quite deliberately, Sarah rolled over and, covering her head with a pillow, she drifted back into a restless sleep.
On the third morning, Sarah woke very early, but try as she might, she couldn't fall back into sleep. Sarah sat up in bed and listened. Silence. She was surprised at how relieved she felt. She relaxed, sunk back down into her warm sheets and lay for hours in the dark, welcoming the quiet stillness.
Just before dawn, it came again.
It started slowly and so low in volume, Sarah almost believed she'd been mistaken. When the calls grew louder and came nearer, Sarah was gripped with a panic she'd never known. Why is this happening! What is happening! Her thoughts ran wild with terrifying possibilities. Sarah's instinct was to run, to hide, but paralyzed with fear, she couldn't move. All she wanted was to make it stop somehow. Sarah tried desperately to control her thoughts, her emotions, her breathing. She failed.
The hooting stopped so suddenly that Sarah inhaled sharply. Moments passed in silence, then the calling was replaced by a sound more horrifying. Sarah could hear the beating of its wings as it came closer to her open window.
Just as the first rays of the morning sun invaded her room the flapping stopped. The sound had not faded away as though the bird had veered off in a new direction, it just stopped abruptly. Could it have landed on the roof or in the willow tree outside her bedroom window? Could it be waiting for her?
The owls hooting started again but now it was louder, a lot louder and accompanied by a scratching and clawing. Then that other sound came as well. By the whooshing of its wings, Sarah imagined the bird to be huge in size; no small creature could produce such an ominous noise.
Suddenly, as if zapped with electricity, and despite her seventy-six years, Sarah bolted from the bed and ran to the window. She leaned as much of her thin frame as she dared; out as far as she was able, craning her neck to look upward but to no avail, the roof overhang obstructed her view.
Frantically Sarah's old gray eyes searched the branches of the willow tree and the yard below, nothing but the usual squirrels scampering about in search of breakfast. Directly overhead, the hideous sounds the owl was making grew steadily in volume until it peaked in a thunderous screeching.
Sarah pushed herself back into the room and stared at the ceiling, her eyes huge and bulging, and her heart pounding painfully hard against her chest. The scratching and clawing sounds brought to her mind a monstrous thought; My God, it's trying to come through the ceiling, it's going to come through the ceiling! Her small, bony hands flew to her ears in an attempt to drown out the sounds that assaulted them, she was already sobbing when her mouth opened wide in preparation for a scream that never sounded. Sarah crumpled in a heap to the floor.
Mrs. Sarah's Sedgwick's body was discovered an hour later by a young police constable, when, after commandeering a neighbors latter, She climbed it to rescue the baby owl that had gotten trapped in the eaves of Sarah's roof. By the looks of the bird, it had put up quite a struggle in its attempts to free itself, a little battered, scared and thirsty but otherwise fine.
The same could not be said for the old widow Sedgwick however; the constable surmised that Mrs. Sarah Sedgwick, in a valiant attempt to save the animal, was overcome and died of a heart attack as a result. Later on the town coroner and undertaker, old Mr. Fergus Jr. confirmed death by massive coronary in his findings.
Mr. Fergus Jr. did not include in his official report the look that even now was on the old widow woman's face. That look of shear panic had haunted him in a way, ghastly it was, just ghastly. It touched a chord deep in his soul and he was suddenly filled with a palpable sense of foreboding.
"Ach stop it ya ditherin' old fart, yer given yerself the willies", old Fergus Jr. said, breaking the silence of his autopsy room, chuckling and smiling, he picked up his threaded needle, and went on with his work.
