The Breeze That Spoke His Name

I feel the breeze brush against my skin, soft and cold, and for the briefest second, I swear I can feel him beside me again.

It slips through the torn screen, smelling faintly of river mud and cut grass. The curtains lift and fall. The porch glider creaks. Out in the yard, the maple leaves flip their pale bellies to the sky as if they’re ready to tell a secret. I stand there, hand on the doorframe, and let the wind climb the inside of my wrist like it used to when I was small—when I had a hand to hold that made everything ordinary and safe.

Grandpap always smelled like diesel and Old Spice. He kept his beard clipped close, his head shaved smooth as a bowling ball, his shoulders wide enough to be a wall. He had a laugh that could drown out thunder and a look that made you feel found. He’d lift me onto his knee and say, “Sweetheart, don’t you worry. If anything ever comes for you, it’s gotta go through me.”

And I believed him, because back then he was the kind of person you could believe in.

That summer, the wind warned us before the monster came.

I was seven, supposed to be asleep. My mother was on second shift; my father had gone wherever men go when they get tight in the jaw. Grandpap slept on the couch. He’d fallen asleep reading to me.

The wind turned wrong—too cold for July, tasting like pennies—and I woke with my heart jumping. The fan rattled. From outside came claws on the back steps, careful and slow.

“Grandpap?” I whispered.

The creak of the couch springs and the thud of his boots were the kindest sounds I’ve ever heard. He didn’t ask why I was awake. He went to the window, big and silent, the moon painting his scalp white. “Go on down, if you’re coming,” he said to the dark.

It wasn’t a dog. Too tall, jointed wrong, its shadow hooked and stretched by the yard light.

Grandpap bent, slid the window up, and the wrong-cold wind poured in. He reached to the bookshelf, lifted the iron poker, and pointed it at the window.

“Close your window and stay by the couch,” he said. “You holler if I holler.”

“Is it a—?” I didn’t have a word.

“It’s just a problem,” he said with that slow smile. “You know how I am with problems.”

He walked out. The breeze followed him, tugging the curtains as if it wanted to go, too. From the kitchen came the click of the back door opening.

Then: his voice, kind and dangerous. “You don’t get to knock where kids are sleeping.”

Something answered—a voice like wind in a mine shaft. The air moaned through the ductwork; the house shivered. Then the crash, the hiss, and silence.

He came back breathing hard, the poker blackened at the tip. He leaned against the wall. “You’re all right,” he said, not looking at me, and I was, because he’d said it.

He didn’t die right there. He sat on the couch, hand on his chest. When I ran to him, my cheek pressed where his shirt was wet and hot. He smiled like he’d remembered a better story. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

Later, the porch boards showed deep crescents torn into them. On the sink lay a pile of damp ash that smelled like coins and rain.

The wind went back to normal the next day. I did not.

---

Years passed. I left, married, divorced, had a son. I work at the community college now, herding freshmen into the right rooms. I visit my mother on Sundays and mow the grass at the old house because no one else will.

I keep Grandpap’s Zippo in my purse—the brushed steel one with the scratched wolf. I flick it sometimes to hear the click and see the brief spirit of flame. It sounds like safety.

Most days, I can think of him without the ache turning sharp. But last week, the wind turned wrong again.

It started with the screens. The air grew too cold for spring, tasting like pennies. The maple leaves flipped and froze that way. At night came the old sound: claws on the back steps.

I told myself it was raccoons. I told myself I wasn’t seven.

By Friday, I’d stopped sleeping. I dropped my son off at Mom’s “so she could soak up time,” though that wasn’t why. I came home to face whatever waited.

The porch light burned steady until it didn’t. The house sighed. I heard the claws.

Then a voice, soft as breath through the keyhole:

“Mae.”

Hearing your name from the wrong mouth does something to your bones.

I unlocked the door without meaning to. The thing stood on the porch. It was a dozen bad guesses stitched together—antlers bent the wrong way, limbs folding where they shouldn’t, the smell of wet leaves and iron.

“Go away,” I said. “There are easier doors to knock at.”

The wind pushed past me, freezing. I didn’t think. I shouted:

“Grandpap, save me!”

The porch shook. Every nail in the house cried out. A crack split the ground and ran—through the yard, past the fence, through the fields and roads—until, miles away, it reached Cranberry Ridge Cemetery and stopped.

The creature froze. The wind howled. The boards groaned under a new weight.

A hand gripped the doorway—big, scarred, the old split knuckle. His hand.

The Zippo in my palm grew hot and hummed. I dropped it; the lid sprang open. The flame rose with a smell like diesel and apples.

He stepped in.

The years fell off him with the dirt. He looked like himself, only marked by the grave—eyes glowing faintly, jaw set. He didn’t look at me first. He looked at the thing crouched on the porch. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “I got this.”

The thing ran.

The fight was sound and motion—the crack of wood, the roar of wind, the hum of power. He moved like he always did: no show, no waste. The creature’s antlers splintered and re-formed, then splintered again. Its scream came out shaped like my name, then broke apart.

When it was over, the night returned piece by piece. The porch light flickered, the stars blinked back on. He stood outside the threshold, breathing hard, still and solid as I remembered.

I was crying. He lifted his hand, palm out—the same way he used to when his fingers were greasy and I wore white.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I am now.”

He smiled—tired, proud. “I’m what I am,” he said. “That’s enough for tonight.”

I wanted to tell him everything—about my son, my life, all of it—but he just bent, picked up the Zippo, flicked it once, and handed it to me. The little wolf looked polished again.

“You keep listening to the wind,” he said. “It’ll tell you when it’s weather and when it’s a voice.”

I stepped forward. My hand passed through his arm like smoke warmed by sun. For a heartbeat there was pressure—and then nothing. His outline thinned. The porch behind him showed through. The air smelled like oil and winter apples.

“Grandpap,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer, not with words. The breeze moved over me—cheek, jaw, throat—gentle as a blessing. The house gave a small, happy sigh, settling into itself again.

On the threshold, a coin-shaped burn glowed faintly. The yard held footprints that didn’t match anything living. Down the hill, the asphalt cracked in a thin line pointing straight toward Cranberry Ridge.

---

In the morning, everything looked ordinary. The power worked. The maple threw its shade. My mother called. My son asked to stay another night.

At the cemetery, Grandpap’s stone had a hairline crack down the center, the grass over it untouched. On top was a thumb-sized mark of soot.

I pressed my thumb to it. The stone was cool. For a second, I smelled Old Spice and oil and apples. Then it was only stone.

A blackbird landed in the hackberry tree. The wind changed direction twice, deciding. I said thank you, because it felt right.

On the drive home, I rolled the windows down. The air braided through my hair, lifted the sweat from my neck. Every now and then it slipped under my sleeve, warm and kind. The world smelled like hay and river water and bacon on the air.

At the house, I fixed the porch light and left the torn screen because not everything needs mending to be good. I set the Zippo on the counter.

When the curtains breathe tonight, I’ll listen. Sometimes the wind is weather. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s a promise.

And when the breeze brushes my skin, soft and cold, I know I’m not alone.

Because when the house sighs, I swear I can hear him:

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I got this.”