November 17, 2025 – 10:00 PM CST

It started with the hooting.
Not the kind you expect from the woods, but rhythmic—three long, one short—like a knock that never reached the door.

When raccoons were found picked clean, their fur scattered like feathers, the adults whispered about disease or coyotes. But the kids at Wilkin Hollow School knew better. They’d seen him. Or pieces of him. Always at the edge of the tree line. Eyes too big. Head cocked. Silent as frost.

They called him the Owl-Faced Boy.

Billy Sutter swore he saw it blink sideways. Miranda Jacks said he mimicked their voices back to them from the trees. The bravest among them left offerings—feathers, buttons, shiny coins—by the fence posts. No one told them to. It just felt right.

Until Toby. Ten years old. Proud of not believing. He stomped the coins into the mud and laughed.

That night, the hooting came closer. Windows rattled. Feathers spiraled down the chimney like snow. Toby’s bed was empty in the morning, but the pillow was full of down.

The Sutter twins swear they saw footprints on the roof. Three toes. Talon marks. Backward.

Eventually, the school was shuttered. No one wanted to teach in a town that whispered in rhyme. A town where you don’t look out your window after dark. A town where the wind says your name, but not in your voice.

They say he still visits, waiting for the next laugh, the next challenge.
The Owl-Faced Boy doesn’t like to be mocked.