First, there came a tapping.
The hooting followed, as it did, as I had grown accustomed to. The owl. I pictured him, ruffled and puffed and wise, round eyes reflecting a yellow moon as he sat perched outside the window, looking in.
Was he watching over my daughter or simply just watching her? The distinction was vague — meaningless, really, given the sheet of glass that separated them — and yet the question plagued me. For if the former were the case, this nightly visitor was to be seen in a light of benevolence, a midnight protector, a vigilant nightwatchman who kept eyes upon my sleeping daughter in the hours I personally could not. But, if the latter were true, this owl was, at best, a curious animal taking pleasure in some abstract spray of shapes upon the glass that I could never understand.
At worst, this was a hungry bird, a predator, truly, which peered through my daughter’s window and saw a snack it wished to wrap its hidden talons around.
In any case, his presence had become a nightly occurrence.
I rolled beneath my sheets, outstretched a hand through formless shadows and groped for my phone upon the nightstand. Fingers crawled dumbly against the smooth wood surface, searching. They stumbled upon a glassy face. Instantly, I was bathed in a superficial glow, a small dome of technoluminence pushing upon the darkness, abating it. My eyes blinked, adjusted and then found the screen.
2:37.
He was early tonight.
The tapping came again, followed by a low, rumbling hoot. I turned back upon my pillow. Above, the light of my phone stitched itself into the darkened ceiling. Wrinkles danced across my vision. Odd, stringy shapes. The owl hooted again.
My daughter never woke. It seemed nothing could disturb her.
Tap. Tap.
I sat up. I could still be stirred, awoken, disturbed as now, indeed, I was. The owl hooted, as if calling to me, knowing I was now awake. That, of course, was not possible. My room sat across the hallway, its lone window showing nothing but a bare patch of night sky. There was no tree for him to light upon there.
When he had first arrived, the owl, whenever that might have been, he startled me so that I ran into my daughter’s room. I had grown up surrounded by concrete and brick, preferable perches for pigeons perhaps, but not a place one encountered owls. As such, I was not accustomed to their sounds, their penchant for tapping. In fact, I had never known an owl to tap upon surfaces, a practice I had always credited to crows and woodpeckers and whatever other such birds there were that seemed nosier than others. Never owls, at any rate.
My daughter had, on that first night, been stirred from her sleep by the owl. Stumbling and not fully awake, I burst into her room, not knowing what I’d find, not even thinking, only compelled by animal impulse, and found her there, standing in her crib, smiling. Awash in that dim moonlight, she was angelic, her face smooth and faultless. I loved her more than I ever had in that moment, more than any ever could, so much that my heart felt swollen and bloated between my ribs. She would always look that way to me, whenever I thought of her, the image branded upon my mind.
She raised one of those little arms of hers and pointed out the window. There, I saw for the first time, the owl. He cocked his round head, eyes like mirrored balls staring back at us without blinking, and hooted.
My breath crashed down upon me. I went to my daughter, stroked what few hairs she had beneath my still shaking fingers. It was only then, as she smiled up at me and pointed excitedly once more out the window, that I noticed the pain in my shoulder. I looked back to the door and realized now what I had done. In my mindless, panicked haste I had barrelled into it and cracked the wooden frame. I would laugh about this later, I was sure, make a joke of it and chalk it up to an overactive mind or nighttime paranoias, but in the moment, my heart still pounded.
All those with a child have seen the outer limits of love, its intensity, its base essence and unyielding power. How it burns. How it overrides the rational, compels and controls, pulls us closer to our natural state of being. Those with a sick child have been pulled beyond even that. I would shatter a thousand doors at only the thought of my daughter’s peril and I would do it without thought.
I wrapped my daughter in my arms, hiding my relieved sobs from her. Through teary eyes I smiled at her little face, so beautiful. No worry could touch that face. I would swallow it all, take it for her.
After some time, I laid her back down to bed. I slept upon the carpet beside her crib, sparing glances up through the window at times. The owl never left.
In her picture book the next morning, my daughter found a new favorite page. Excitedly, she pointed and laughed at the image there. I knew without looking what it must be. An owl. Of course. We looked at the image together, crudely drawn but still clear enough an owl, as she sat in my lap and looked up at me with those gorgeous eyes of hers. I rounded my lips into an O and hooted. She laughed, the most beautiful of sounds, and clapped.
As I dropped her off with the daycare, careful to note the instructions of her medicine with the new teacher, I devised a plan to kick off from the office early and surprise her. With some difficulty, I managed to escape my desk and work my way across town to a toyshop. Aisle after aisle of animal, stuffed and plastic and rubber and wool, awaited me, a synthetic menagerie. At long last, I found what I had come in search of: a small, stuffed owl, plaid on its tummy and brown wool upon its back. Glass beads stared back at me as I wrapped my fingers around it. Surprised by its heft, I formed a new plan as I made a path to the register. The door to my daughter’s room still lay broken at home, but the stuffed companion now in my arms would make not only a wonderful new friend but also a fine doorstop.
I told myself — reassured, truly — that this was for the benefit of my daughter. That it had the added benefit of not keeping her shut off from me after the prior night’s unpleasantry was simply a byproduct. I had never liked closing that door, her asleep within, away from my loving touch. Why I had begun, I could not remember. Most likely, I had read it in a book, but what did some stranger know of my daughter?
No, the owl would be my aide, keeping her in clearer sight. I would not have a repeat of last night’s panic.
The light in my daughter’s eye as I presented her with the door owl was from heaven itself. She clutched it to her chest, swaying and smiling. Throughout the evening, it never left her grasp. When night came, cool and quiet, I had her place her new friend upon the floor, propping open the door which I had broken. With great reluctance, she did. I kissed my daughter goodnight and left her in her crib, under the watchful eye of the door owl.
Hours later, the tapping came again. I stirred. Pulling myself to the foot of my bed, I peered across the hall. The door was open, a box of soft light at the end of the hallway. The door owl sat where we had left it, one eye on my room, the other upon my daughter’s crib.
A hoot came so suddenly that I nearly choked on my own breath.
I could only make out a sliver of the window in my daughter’s room, but I saw the branch there clear enough, a thin black shape, darker than even the night behind it. Rising, I went to the room. The owl hooted again.
I meant to shoo the creature away, knowing it must be keeping my daughter awake, but when I rounded the doorframe into her room, I found her fast asleep. Through the glass, I could make out the owl, a darker, living reproduction of the toy which sat at my feet. He looked at me with those bobble eyes of his, then down at the door owl by my side.
He tapped his beak upon the glass.
I jumped, startled. “Psst,” I hissed at him, careful not to raise my voice too loud but still hoping it would be enough to send him flying off.
He remained. Staring in. At me, then the door owl and then my daughter. I jostled the glass, but still he remained. Hooting and tapping. I waved my arms in a shooing motion, flailing like a grand fool in the night. But, still, he remained.
Eventually, I gave in and slipped to the carpet. Another night passed with me upon the floor.
Morning stirred us both. The owl was gone, now, I saw with some relief. Its stuffed counterpart, however, remained and was immediately the object of my daughter’s attention. She sat with it perched upon her lap through breakfast, in her carseat as I drove her to the daycare and upon her hip as she walked through those doors.
The new teacher stopped me before I could leave. She said something, rough noise that I don’t care to remember, something strained with worry. I left.
When night fell again, we placed the door owl in his spot. Time passed and I fell into sleep myself.
Tap. Tap.
I had been expecting it, hadn’t I? His return? I turned to my phone, lit it up.
2:58.
The hooting came next. I buried my head beneath a pillow, hiding from it. He took up the tapping again, as if he could see me and was irritated that I would ignore his presence.
I would not waste another night on this owl. Determined, I marched across the hall. My daughter was sleeping, breathing lightly, undisturbed by the owl. I walked past the door owl and pulled the curtains on the real one perched outside.
His tapping resumed immediately, much more urgent, almost angry. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Steady as a metronome. Stifling a vexed scream, I yanked the curtains back. The tapping stopped immediately. The owl stared in at me, tilting its head one way and then another.
Hoot.
I sighed. Seemingly, the commotion did not wake my daughter, so what harm was there in letting the owl remain. I turned and stalked back to my room, but as I did the tapping resumed, even more urgent than before.
“Alright!” I hollered, catching myself only after the word had escaped my lips. Luckily, blessedly, my daughter did not stir.
I slunk, once more, to the carpet. The owl watched me through the window, as did the one beside the door. I slept.
I awoke with renewed purpose. As my daughter ate her breakfast, stuffed owl sat firmly on her lap, I dialed a local yard care service. If the owl would not leave, I would simply take away its perch. They told me, after I begged and urged the issue, that they would send a man in two days. I had already spent two nights upon the floor, what was another two? Besides, perhaps the owl would have moved on by then.
He did not.
Each night, he returned, always at the same time. Tapping and hooting.
I brought a blanket, a pillow and whatever comforts I could to make the night pass more pleasantly under the watchful, glowing eyes of my two owls. My daughter slept through it all.
There was an appointment on the day the man was scheduled to come. I took my daughter, who, in turn, took her door owl, through the glass doors of the lobby. Upstairs, familiar faces that I wish were not familiar greeted us. More terrible words. I deafened my ears to them. They allowed us to go home. I wished to never return there.
When I pulled into my drive, there was a van waiting. The man for the branch. I greeted him. He made a strange face when he saw my daughter, holding her owl tight to her chest. I led him upstairs to her room. Again, he twisted his face in that strange way. I pushed aside a few of the machines and led him to the window, pointing to the branch without. I explained the owl’s nightly visits and what must be done. He nodded and went back down the stairs to his van.
An hour or so later his work was done.
Night came again. My daughter placed her door owl, struggling this time to get him to the floor. I picked her up. She shook as I placed her in her crib. The phone had been ringing for some time, so I unplugged it. She needed to rest.
I, too, fell into sleep not long after.
The night slipped away as I dreamt, of what I can’t recall.
Then a tapping.
I shot upright. I checked my phone, out of instinct. To reassure myself, perhaps.
2:56.
No, I thought, no. The hooting began. My skin crawled. How? Where could he be perched? The sill was too narrow and there were no branches left upon the tree at this level.
Upon unsteady legs, I inched across the hall. The door owl sat there ahead of me, watching placidly as I creeped closer and closer.
Tap, tap, tap, came the owl’s beak upon the window
I came into the room. My daughter was not awake. The machines beeped. Light pooled through the window from a full moon. I peered through and saw nothing.
No owl. No branch. Nothing.
I shook my head, clutching at my temples. I had heard him. I looked to the door owl, as if for confirmation. It only sat there, staring.
Perhaps it was the lack of proper sleep, I told myself. Yes, that certainly made sense. I checked in on my daughter, who slept quietly, breath coming in slow drags, then made my way back to my room, heading swimming with odd thoughts.
As I lay my head back down, the tapping began again. Then the hooting.
I am imagining things, I told myself. But it persisted. Stealing up my pillow and blanket, I made my way back into my daughter’s room.
Still no owl. Still no branch.
But the tapping had stopped. I slept again on the floor.
I awoke to knocking upon my door. I did not want to answer it. I did not want to get up. I was tired and still shaken from the night before.
A sound worse than the knocking roused me. I flew to her, my feet barely touching the floor. The sound was of a nightmare. I wrapped her in my arms. The knocking was louder. I ran down the stairs, my daughter in my arms, so sweet, so beautiful.
The familiar faces were at the door, waiting for us.
The day passed in a gray fog. I must have went back up for the door owl, because she held it so close. The image is there. Alone. Nothing else from that day or perhaps even the next.
Eventually, we went home. I flung the window of her room open. I would not have that tapping again and the owl was gone, surely.
Time glided by. I was asleep. How? When?
Tap.
I woke.
2:37. Early.
The tapping came again. His tapping. That could not be.
I found my feet. Made my way to the hall. It was black, too dark.
The door across the way was shut tight. How? Had she pulled herself from her crib and picked up her door owl?
I sprinted, pounding toward the door so hard that I was sure my feet would show bruises in the morning. Lowering a shoulder, I slammed into it. Wood splintered, but I paid it no mind.
I froze.
The crib sat empty.
Curtains billowed in the cool night air. I spun, panic clutching my chest and squeezing.
The room sat empty.
No, that couldn’t be. Where was she?
I searched, flipping over her bureau, tearing at the curtains, pulling at drawers and boxes in the closet. Staggering, I backed into the center of the room. The light of the moon painted the wall in a ghastly pale hue.
Where is she?
But, of course, I already knew. I had known for too long. I could not escape the knowing.
That’s why I turned to the window, looking for the owl. But he, too, had left me. Left me the same night she had.
I stepped across scattered toys and clothes that were once her’s. Among them was the door owl. Her protector. It stared up at me with those glass eyes, the same way it had on the night she left, clutched within her frail arms. A tether that could no longer hold her.
I couldn’t stand to look at it. The air from the window was chill. I felt it lick my arms and wished for more of it. I ran to it.
I wished to see the owl there waiting for me.
I wished to see my daughter, awash in moonlight, a smile upon her faultless, angelic face.
I saw only the night, cold and empty, as I stepped out into it.