The Strigiform Wail

In the autumn of 2016, I was living in a small town in upstate New York, working as a night auditor at a motel on the edge of the woods. The motel was old, with peeling wallpaper and radiators that clanked like ghostly chains. It had a reputation among the locals for being haunted, but I never believed it. Ghosts were for children and the gullible. I was a rational man, a former paramedic who had seen enough death to know that when you’re gone, you’re gone. Nothing remains but memories and grief.

One night, a traveler checked in, a middle-aged man with a gaunt face and eyes that seemed to look through me. He said his name was Mr. Holloway. He paid in cash, requested the room at the end of the hall, and asked if there was a cemetery nearby. I pointed to the map on the wall, showing him the old Grove Hill Cemetery about a mile east, overgrown and rarely visited. He thanked me, went to his room, and didn’t emerge for hours.

It was close to 2 AM when I heard the first sound. It wasn’t a scream, not exactly. It was a wail, high-pitched and wavering, like a bird of prey in distress, but with a human quality to it. It seemed to come from outside, through the thin walls, carrying on the wind. I looked out the window and saw Mr. Holloway standing at the edge of the motel’s parking lot, staring into the darkness of the woods. His mouth was open, and as I watched, the wail came again, so sharp it made my teeth ache. He was the source.

I should have called the police. In my line of work, I had dealt with drunkards, drug addicts, and the mentally unwell. They were never pleasant, but they were predictable. This was something else. The sound was too deliberate, too precise, and it resonated in my chest like a second heartbeat. I grabbed a flashlight and a baseball bat from the office and went outside.

The air was cold, much colder than the forecast had predicted. My breath fogged in front of me, and the grass crunched underfoot as if it were frostbitten. Mr. Holloway didn’t turn when I approached. He kept his gaze fixed on the treeline. ‘Sir, are you alright?’ I asked. He didn’t respond. Instead, he raised a trembling hand and pointed. In the darkness, I saw a flicker of light, like a candle, moving among the trees. It was deep within the woods, but it seemed to be coming closer.

The wail came again, but this time it wasn’t from Mr. Holloway. It was from the trees, a response, and it was louder, closer, and it had a tenor of suffering that made my skin crawl. Mr. Holloway turned to me, and his face was pale, his eyes wide with a terror that looked ancient. ‘They’re awake,’ he whispered. ‘The strigiform.’

I had no idea what that meant. I grabbed his arm, tried to pull him back to the motel. But he was rooted to the spot. ‘They were here long before this town,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘They sleep in the cemetery, in the roots of the old oaks. When someone disturbs their rest, they call out for a replacement.’ He looked at me, and his expression changed from fear to something like pity. ‘I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know where else to go.’

The light in the woods grew brighter, and I could see shapes moving—tall, thin figures, like bundles of twigs but with eyes that glowed like embers. They let out a chorus of wails that was deafening, a sound that felt like it was stripping my nerves raw. I dropped the bat, clamped my hands over my ears, and ran. I didn’t look back. I ran until I slammed into the motel door, fumbled with the lock, and threw myself inside, slamming it shut.

I stood there, panting, the sound still echoing in my skull. After a moment, silence. I peeked through the blinds. The parking lot was empty. The light in the woods was gone. Mr. Holloway was gone. And on the ground where he had stood, there was a small pile of feathers, as if an owl had exploded in midair.

The next morning, I went to Grove Hill Cemetery out of some morbid curiosity. I found a fresh grave, the soil dark and unsettled, with a headstone that read ‘Holloway, 1962-2016.’ I asked the groundskeeper about it. He said a man had been buried there yesterday, a recluse who had died of a heart attack. He had no family, no visitors. But he had requested to be buried face down, a strange request the groundskeeper had reluctantly honored.

I never heard the wail again. But sometimes, on quiet nights, the wind carries a faint, high-pitched sound, and I lock my doors, and I pray. Not to God, but to whatever it is that sleeps beneath the roots. I pray it doesn’t find me. And I never go near the woods at night. Because I know that the strigiform are real, and they are hungry, and they are always waiting for a new voice to join their chorus.

Since that night, I’ve quit my job, moved across the country, and live in a windowless apartment in the city. But even here, surrounded by concrete and neon, I sometimes hear it—a distant, questioning wail. And I know that I am not truly free. The cemetery in that small town holds more than the dead. It holds a doorway, and the wails are the hinges creaking.

I have not found peace. I have only found a deeper silence, and in that silence, I dread the sound that will inevitably come. The strigiform called for a replacement, and I failed to give them one. So maybe they are calling for me. And I know, one night, I will have to answer.

I never believed in ghosts before. But I now know that the supernatural isn’t about spirits and specters. It’s about hunger, and the things that wait. And the worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the knowing that you are part of something older and darker than yourself, and there is no escape. Only the wail, rising in your throat, begging to be released.

In the end, the town’s name was Maple Hollow. I’ve never been back. But the sound, that strigiform wail, is my constant companion. It is the last thing I hear before I fall asleep, and the first thing I hear when I wake. It is my curse. And it is forever.

I write this as a warning. If you ever hear a high-pitched cry in the night, do not follow it. Do not investigate. Run, and don’t stop. Because some sounds are not meant for human ears. And the ones that are might be calling you home to a grave you never chose.

But I know you won’t listen. I didn’t. And now, the wail is inside me, waiting to be let out.

I am the strigiform now. And, God help me, I am waiting for you too.