As a child, I had been terrified of the mascot of my local arcade. Following in the great tradition of such children's institutions as Chuck-E-Cheese, they contrived an anthropomorphic owl as their corporate symbol. He was intended, I think, to be a comforting, or, at least, inviting, presence, but I found his yellow eyes profoundly disturbing. Years later, I would read The Great Gatsby for the first time and identify them with the infamous Eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleberg. They had a similar stature in my young mind and whenever my parents would take me to the arcade, intending, no doubt, to do me a kindness, I would recoil from the man in the owl costume, and even once punched him in the stomach, such was my distress. I found my parents' insistence that I apologize to the demonic apparition supremely unjust but assented under intense pressure.

For some reason, it never occured to me to inform my parents of the source of my hatred for it, and so they continued to bring me to the arcade, even, once, planning a birthday party there. Therefore, they were truly confused when I broke down in hysterics at the event when the costumed figure materialized to sing me Happy Birthday. Then, I explained my terror and my parents, while not completely sympathetic, at least understood my strange behavior. My father insisted, for a time, that we return there regularly so that I might overcome my phobia through desensitization. He had learned these terms from a dry psychology textbook masquerading as a parenting guide and sincerely thought it good advice. However, even he relented when it became clear that my desensitization to the dark charms of the man in the owl costume was not forthcoming.

Still, for years afterwards, I would wake in cold sweats from dreams of the Owl Man, as I had grown to call him. These were strange, inexplicable visions which consumed me in their grim whirlwind, more feverish than manifestly threatening. I saw the Owl Man standing in places no person should be able to survive: atop an active volcano, at the bottom of the ocean, in the midst of hellish warfare, and so on. He spoke to me in these visions, always in words that made no sense.

"Children cry, but men suffer," he informed me gravely one night while enduring vivisection without outward signs of pain.

"Fear is just but terror sinful," he intoned while falling from an aircraft, thousands of feet in the air and nothing to slow his descent but the unforgiving ground.

I told my parents of these nightmares and they reassured me that they meant nothing, though perhaps that was what troubled me so. These phrases would not have been quite so frightening if I could make sense of them, but they resisted any effort at translation. When it became available, I searched the internet for them and found nothing of any real value.

But, I found much on the Owl Man. I was not the only child to consider him unpleasant. Though not a popular place, this arcade had been visited by many children in my hometown, and a substantial amount of them stopped going due to the mascot. Adjectives like "creepy," "uncanny" and "nightmarish" were not uncommon descriptors. Yet, he was retained as the symbol of the business so this community of frightened children could not have been a majority.

After some time, I stopped thinking of the Owl Man. My nightmares grew less frequent and he faded into the haze of childhood fears. Once, I had been afraid of the dark. Once, I had been afraid of my gym teacher's bushy moustache. And, once, I had been terrorized by fears of the Owl Man.

***

Years later, I came to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. It had been an interesting few months since I had gone off to college. They left me more than a little shaken. I was failing several classes despite receiving nothing but A's until that point in my academic career. My small group of friends had broken apart due to the snowball effect which accompanied a petty argument none of us could even remember anymore. So, as much as most people seem to hate returning home for the holidays, I was looking forward to the opportunity.

After braving the icy New York roads, and after more than one close call precipitated by my road rage, or that of another driver, I arrived at my parents' house, tired and hungry. They ushered me inside, eager to save me from the brutal frost and begin my reintroduction to long forgotten figures from my youth.

"This is your great aunt Carol," my mother told me, smiling as she indicated the woman standing next to her in the hallway.

This house had never been particularly large, and hosting a party there seemed to me to be a grave act of architectural naivete. Just off the thin hallway leading from the front door was the dining room, in which most of the guests were already seated and chatting. A few had wandered off to the adjoining kitchen to pour themselves drinks, or, perhaps, for sheer want of novelty.

I mouthed polite greetings to Great Aunt Carol and all of the other men and women whom I only vaguely remembered. After this formality was at last completed, I sat at the table and began the process of intoxicating myself. Since I was going to spend the night, I needn't worry about driving anywhere.

The dining room in my childhood home had several paintings on the wall. One was of a man sitting by a pond underneath a tree. As it had been sometimes when I was a child, my eye was drawn to the owl which was sitting in the tree. A vague chill passed through me.

"Excuse me," an elderly man said, tapping my shoulder. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, indicating the one to my left.

"No," I replied, briefly thrown into a state of surprise. "Go ahead, sit."

He nodded politely and did so. As it turned out, this was an old friend of my father's. We had met many years ago, at one of my birthday parties. I confessed to not remembering and he appeared saddened by this knowledge. I couldn't have said why. It had been so long ago that to have remembered it would have required superhuman intellectual prowess. I had never had that.

After imbibing what I considered a sufficient quantity of my parents' alcohol, I began to fill my plate. As I did this, I passed by the door to my parents' bedroom which had been left ajar and heard the muffled sounds of argument. Curious, I stopped for a moment to try and discern what was being said, but, finding myself unable, continued to the kitchen.

They rarely fought, and when they did it was hardly ever over something trivial. Whatever had aroused this particular altercation must have been serious. I hoped dearly that it would not make my stay awkward, but knew, in my bones, that it would.

***

People left the house around 10 and I was glad of the quiet which resulted. Parties, even ones populated by people my own age, had never really appealed to me. I sat on the porch and watched them go as I slowly drained a beer. Some waved to me and I waved back, pretending to be just as forlorn that the gathering was over. After the last guest was gone, I stayed on the porch, held there by an instinct I did not recognize.

I was surprised to see my father open the door not long afterwards and sit down next to me.

"You look like you could use this more than me," I said, handing him my bottle and what remained of its contents.

"Maybe so," he agreed, taking the bottle and quickly finishing it off.

"What's wrong?"

He sighed and tapped the now empty bottle against his leg.

"Your mom and I had a fight," he said, haltingly.

"About what?" I asked.

"It's a long, sad, boring story."

"Well, shit, that could be the title of my autobiography."

He laughed at that. "Yeah, I guess so." Then, he was quiet for a minute. "A long time ago, your mother slept with Jimmy. You know, Nora's husband? This was before we even knew each other. But, he was dating Nora at the time. Nora never knew. Tonight, Nora confronted her about it. Your mother thinks I told her. But, it wasn't me. It was Pat."

Pat was my mother's brother. The two had a falling out years ago over an argument that I have since forgotten. Whatever it was, both seemed to agree that it was my mother's fault, and she had been devastated. They had been close as children, very close. The kids of abusive parents often are in ways that other siblings are not. He had been her rock for years, and then, one day, he stopped returning her calls. He didn't even want to talk to her. Finally, just recently, the two had reconciled, or so I had thought.

"Apparently, your mother told him about this whole situation. He and I were the only two people she ever told. Then, late at night, a couple of days ago, he got drunk and sent her an anonymous email about it. For the most part, your mother and Pat seemed to have gotten past their disagreements, but some petty thing got under his skin and, well, you know what kinds of decisions men make late at night when they're drunk. Anyway, that could have been the end of it right there, I mean, it was an anonymous email and it wasn't like he had any proof, but Jimmy owned up to everything.

"Pat told her that I had told Nora about it. He called me yesterday and begged me not to tell your mother. And, so, I didn't. Now, she thinks it was me. After all, I was the only other person that she told."

I broke in. "You can't just let her think that! You didn't do anything wrong."

He looked at me sadly. "I watched her go through all of this with Pat before. I know what it would do to her to do it again. I think it would be easier for her to handle thinking that I did it."

I nodded. There was a certain logic in this, but I was still disturbed by my father's strange altruism.

We sat in silence thereafter, watching the cars come and go through the frigid New York air, their headlights cutting dull slices of visibility through the night. Wordlessly, we decided, after some time, to return to the house and whatever grim future it might hold.

***

I spent most of the night awake, disturbed by what my father had told me. My mind instinctually looked for a better solution than the one he had proposed but could find none. Every scenario I considered left everyone miserable, resentful and hurt. And if that isn't a perfect summary of the human condition then one does not exist.

Finally, sleep did come and for the first time in years I dreamt of the Owl Man. His yellow eyes followed me in the dark and his low, rasping voice filled the void with strange incantations. He spoke in tongues long since dead, or, perhaps, he merely uttered nonsense.

I woke from these visions restlessly, and felt as if I had not slept at all. It didn't help that I had woken to the sounds of argument. After summoning the last of my strength, I pried myself out of bed and followed the voices to their source. My parents were sitting across from each other at the dining room table; both turned to face me when I came in.

"Tell your son what you did! Tell him!" my mother yelled.

"He knows," my father replied, quietly.

"Why would you dredge this up now?"

"Mom," I broke in, but stopped when I saw my father's pleading expression. Don't say anything, it begged. I stopped, sighed and said: "You're right."

Then I left the room and tried to drown out the terrible sounds which emanated from it with a pair of headphones. It only helped a little.

***

The rest of the day was fairly tense, but at one point my mother left and my father and I sat down to enjoy the temporary peace and play a game of chess. We had played often when I was a boy, but it had been a long time and I was out of practice. Still, though, I remembered some of what he had taught me and the game was fairly even. Not much was said as we both stared at the board, contemplating our next moves and the quagmire within which we now found ourselves.

This respite did not last long however. My mother returned a half hour later and walked into the room with purpose. She continued her earlier tirade, now more desperate than angry. She continually asked why my father had done what she thought he had done. Why?

He had no answer to this and would only offer an apology.

And when he said "I'm sorry" I knew that he meant it, though not in the way that she thought he did. He really was sorry that this had all come to pass. Her anger grew to a fever pitch and finally, she said,

"I think you should leave tonight. I don't want you here."

I saw the pain in my father's eyes at that demand. I saw his desire to make this all go away, to explain that this was a terrible misunderstanding. I saw all of the things he wished to say take shape behind his eyes and melt there, dissolving into a hopeless mass. But all that passed his lips was a resigned, "Okay."

She left, slamming the door in her wake.

***

We continued the game in silence for a while before I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Why don't you just tell her the truth? Would it really be so bad?"

He shook his head sadly. "I can't."

"Why?"

He sighed. "It would hurt her too much."

We played a few more moves.

"There's a term in chess for a situation where any move will weaken your position," my father explained. "It's called zugzwang. It would be nice when you're in zugzwang to pass and not play anything, but that's not an option in chess. Sometimes, all you can do is pick the least bad move."

Yes, I understood this well. Often, I had been forced to make such a choice.

"Do you remember that arcade you used to take me to as a kid? The one with the Owl Man?" I asked.

He looked confused. "What arcade?"

"The one downtown. You know, the one with the owl mascot."

He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I pulled out my phone to google it and show him. Nothing. No results. Puzzled, I went into my search history to find my searches for it. I regularly kept up with how the arcade was doing, out of habit. But, that yielded no results either. I stood and excused myself, walking out to my car. This couldn't wait. Then, I drove down to where I thought the arcade had stood. I passed the familiar patch of greenery in the middle of the street, the Dunkin Donuts and the McDonald's. When I arrived there, however, there was nothing but a vacant lot. No arcade, no Owl Man.

That wasn't possible. I remembered the Owl Man. There were visceral, intense memories of him seared into my mind. He was as real to me to as my own skin, yet here I was, with the evidence of my senses refuting his existence.

***

By the time I returned to the house, my father had gathered his things and was in his car, ready to drive off to a motel somewhere to spend the night.

As the glare from his headlights retreated into the distance, an image of the Owl Man formed itself, as clearly as the nighttime vistas I currently saw, in my mind. Had there ever been any such person? His history collapsed into a swirling, impenetrable mist, shifting and oscillating with the vacillations of my recollection. All at once, my entire past was seized up in this frightful whirlwind and poisoned with doubt.

I thought of my father and his decision to incur the anger of the woman he loved most in order to protect her. Was that an act of love? Was willingly accepting her hatred an expression of his love? Sometimes, perhaps, love entails its own dissolution.

But, I was not so sure of this. Frankly, I was not sure of anything. Good and evil, truth and falsehood, fact and fiction all coalesced in a disturbing unity. They formed themselves into the gelatinous, yellow eyes of the Owl Man, looking down from above, and up from below, until direction itself lost all meaning. Perhaps they had been following me always, from childhood, and — an equally frightening possibility — perhaps they had never existed at all.