The Storm - a short story by Bella Dean Joyner
Weste loosened his blue plaid tie as he raced down the tree-lined country road, trying to outrun the storm clouds billowing in his rear-view. He ran a hand over the day’s auburn stubble on his chin and fiddled with the radio knobs. Nothing but static came through. He gave up and switched it off. “Man, this storm looks nasty.” He glanced back at the silver lines extending from the angry sky like heavy metal sheets as a large plop sounded on his windshield.
Then another.
The trees gave way to golden fields of long grass that bowed sharply in the driving wind that jerked his Silverado from side to side like a toy ball. By the time he eased off the asphalt and onto a gravel drive about a mile up the road, the cascading rain obscured his vision, rendering the windshield wipers useless. The thundering droplets barraged the truck like mortars, deafening his thoughts.
The farmhouse loomed before him and he coasted to a stop just short of the front porch steps. Casting a quick glance around the truck to make sure he had everything, he steeled himself for a moment, his hand on the truck’s door. He rushed out into the rain, holding his briefcase over his head to block the torrents but was still soaked by the time he pushed the key into the lock.
Only silence greeted him inside.
“Samantha?”
Weste set his worn leather briefcase on the floor beside the entryway table and dropped his keys into the delicate turquoise bowl his wife had handmade for their eighth wedding anniversary. Eight years and still no children. Just him and Samantha and the dog.
Where is the dog?
Forget the dog, where is Samantha?
The foyer was dark with a mounting pressure in the air like the rooms beyond the shadows were holding their collective breath. Weste noticed that the grandfather clock in the hallway heading back to the kitchen was stalled at 5:25pm. Fifteen minutes ago. He walked over and tapped on the glass of the clock face. Nothing.
“Samantha?”
A subtle movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention to the living room. The sheer white curtains that shielded the floor to ceiling windows raged gracefully in the gusts from the open windows, too light to be weighed down by the rain that collected in puddles on the hardwood floors. He reached out and flicked the light switch on and off.
Nothing.
“Samantha? Why are all of these windows open? It’s pouring outside.”
A soft shuffling echoed from the hallway.
“Samantha?”
Weste glanced at the foyer behind him, his thoughts resting on the little flashlight key fob his wife had insisted he carry. She had been adamant that it would come in handy if the truck ever broke down on the long drive home on the roads that had no streetlights. Now, with the weakened beam barely cutting through the unnatural darkness of the hallway, it served only minimal comfort.
“Samantha, you home?”
Weste stopped, ears straining to hear the sound again. He slowly moved the beam from side to side in the hallway.
Nothing.
He cast one more look down the hallway before he sighed and turned to shut the windows behind him. Fear was mounting like bile in his throat. Just as he was about to take a step forward, a bloodied hand darted out from the shadows of the hallway and gripped his arm. Weste shrieked and jerked both himself and the figure back into the dim light of the living room.
“Samantha! What happened?”
“You can’t let them in, Weste. You can’t let them in!”
“Baby, what are you talking about?” Weste took in her disheveled blonde hair, the feverish wildness of her eyes, and the handful of nails she gripped so tightly that blood oozed from between her fingers and fell down the front of her pale-yellow sundress. “Oh my God, Samantha, what are you doing?”
“I have to stop them from getting in.” She hurried to the sofa and picked up a hammer Weste had not noticed before and then went to the nearest open window. She began hammering nails randomly into the bottom ledge as the rain pelted her face.
“Samantha, I don’t understand.”
“The iron in the nails keeps them out, Weste.”
“Keeps who out?”
“Didn’t you see them outside?” Samantha rushed to the next open window.
“I didn’t see anything outside except the rain.” He looked at the other windows in the room. Nails stuck out of the windowpanes like pin cushions. “Samantha, please stop and talk to me. Did something happen today?”
“Weste, get another hammer and help me.”
“There’s nothing out there, Samantha. I promise.” Weste struggled with the closest billowing curtain and pulled it aside. “See? There’s nothing out there.”
Samantha stopped and looked at him thoughtfully.
Thump.
“What was that?” Weste looked to the ceiling.
“It’s too late. They’re in the attic now.” Suddenly shivering, Samantha dropped the hammer and nails to the floor. She backed up slowly until the whitewashed shiplap caressed her back and slumped in the corner. “You can’t help me now.”
“What’s in the attic, Samantha? Tell me!” Weste knelt before her and gripped her arms until she yelped in pain.
Hurried footfalls.
“Samantha, what the fuck is in the attic?”
Tears mixed with the rain drops on her face and mucus choked the words in her throat as she heaved. Weste watched the last threads of her sanity break away like delicate spider web strings.
Heavy dragging on the hardwood floor.
Weste stood up, grabbing the closest thing to him for protection. He climbed the steps to the second story with the fireplace poker extended in front of him. It was probably just a loose shutter, but his heart quickened with each ascending step he took. The windows on the second floor all seemed to be closed. He paused to look outside at the slanted rain. Nothing lurked in the grass below.
Thump.
Behind him, across the landing, the attic door stood slightly ajar. Weste cautiously tip-toed towards it, cringing when the old floorboards creaked in protest. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the steps from the attic. Breathless, he pushed the door shut just as he felt movement from the doorknob in his hand like something had grabbed it from the other side.
“Oh God,” he whimpered to himself.
“God doesn’t live here,” came a whisper as something large threw its weight against the heavy oak.
Weste propped himself against the attic door, tears stinging his eyes. He dropped the fire poker to the floor so he could use both hands to brace himself against the stairway railing. Whatever was on the other side of the door jerked hard on the doorknob, the rattling echoing in the otherwise silent house, and he felt the thick boards bowing underneath the thing’s weight from the other side. Frantic, Weste looked around for something to stack against the door, but the landing was empty of furniture.
A soft ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, spreading warmth on his face from the westward window, as a scream sounded from below. Weste startled at the sound and took a tentative step toward the stairs.
“Samantha?”
The creak of the attic door slowly opening behind him caused his back to stiffen. He held his breath, expecting to feel claws on his throat, but nothing happened. He slowly opened the door wider but found nothing on the other side.
Footsteps ascended from the first floor.
He tensed and turned toward the sound, finding his wife paused on the top stair, her hair in a neat little bun and the gingham of her dress clinched at the waist under the weight of the full laundry basket.
She inhaled sharply in surprise. “When did you get home?”
Weste stared at her in disbelief. The rain stopped as the chime from the grandfather clock resonated downstairs. From somewhere outside, a dog began to bark.
