The Possessed Beach Owl
by W.J. Whürl
The first time Max saw the owl, it was perched on the splintered hull of the Maribelle, a wreck half-buried in the dunes like the skeleton of some long-dead sea monster.
Mist rolled in off the ocean, thick and slow, muffling the world in gray. The owl stared through it, its head cocked, eyes unblinking — one clouded white like sea-glass, the other green and sharp. A tangle of salt-crusted feathers fluttered in the wind.
“Looks possessed,” Max whispered.
Ellie, crouched beside him with her camera, shivered. “Don’t say that. The locals really believe it is.”
Max snorted, but not loudly. They’d heard the stories. The owl that watched from the wrecks. That showed up before boats went missing. That left symbols in the sand.
They weren’t supposed to be here. Their Aunt Clara had warned them off Wrecker’s Cove. “Fog’s too thick. Currents are tricky. And some things,” she added in a tone too flat to be casual, “are best left alone.”
But Max had never been good at leaving things alone.
They watched the owl for another moment. Then it gave a single broken hoot — the sound thin and cracked, like wind through a bottle — and launched into the air. Its wings barely moved. It seemed to glide through the mist like it belonged to it.
“Follow it,” Max said.
Ellie hesitated. “Why?”
“Because it knows something.”
She rolled her eyes, but fell in step.
The owl led them along the curve of the beach, past ridges of tide-pushed seaweed and twisted driftwood. The mist thickened. The sea was a ghost behind it — invisible, but present.
Then they saw it: a dark opening between dunes, low and uneven, framed by stones and a slanted plank of rotted wood. A cave.
The owl perched just outside, as if waiting.
Inside, Max flicked on his flashlight. The beam cut a narrow path through the dark — revealing a tunnel of rock, damp and narrow, with faint marks in the sand. Footprints. Crate edges.
“Someone’s been here,” Ellie said.
They moved slowly. The walls dripped. The air tasted like rust and brine. Further in, the tunnel widened into a chamber — and that’s where they saw it: four wooden crates stacked near the wall, all marked with the same curling spiral that had appeared on the beach near the missing boat last week.
“Smugglers,” Max breathed. “They’re using the old legends. The owl, the wrecks — it’s camouflage.”
Ellie’s voice was tight. “We should go. Now.”
But then, footsteps.
Rough ones. Fast.
A man’s shadow filled the tunnel entrance. “Hey!” he barked.
Max grabbed Ellie’s hand and ran the other way — deeper into the cave. They weaved through narrow paths, twisting into the dark. Another tunnel split left — they took it without thinking. Behind them, the man cursed and slipped on wet stone.
The cave opened again. This one had no crates — just a small opening where light filtered through a crack overhead.
Ellie pointed. “Up!”
They climbed — rocks slick with algae, fingers raw against stone. The opening was just wide enough for Max to wriggle through. He pushed himself up and out into the light, dragging Ellie after him.
They stumbled onto the cliffside — wind howling now, mist swirling fast. The drop below was dizzying. The man had vanished — either still lost in the tunnels or waiting.
Then they heard it.
The owl.
Maeris — that was what the old man at the dock had called her — was circling above them now, wings wide and slow. Her cry came again, and it sounded almost like a warning.
Ellie looked down the cliffside. “Look!”
A narrow goat path — half-covered by dune grass — snaked down the side.
They ran.
When they reached the base, hearts pounding, they turned to see Maeris still above the cave’s mouth. She landed again on the wreck of the Maribelle, exactly where she’d been earlier, calm as ever.
By sunset, they were back in Aunt Clara’s kitchen, breathless and shaking.
“You went to the cove,” she said, not a question.
Max nodded. “We found crates. In the caves. Someone’s using the legend to hide something.”
Clara set down her teacup. “Did you see her?”
“The owl?” Ellie asked. “Yes.”
Clara smiled faintly. “She’s always been there. Long before the stories. People see what they want in her. But Maeris has never hurt a soul. She just watches.”
Max frowned. “Why does she stay?”
“Maybe because she remembers what this place was, before the lies.”
They sat in silence for a while. The wind outside had stilled.
Later that night, Max walked down to the beach alone. The mist had lifted, and the moon shone on the sand in silver ribbons.
He saw her again — Maeris — perched on a weathered fencepost near the dunes.
This time, he didn’t speak. Just stood.
She turned her head, slow and silent, and looked at him. Not like a monster. Not like a ghost. Just a creature of wind and feather and sea.
Then she opened her wings and disappeared into the night.
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