The Storm

Winter was here. The first snow of the season was accompanied by a horrible storm. It had been a miserable day, with fierce winds slamming against the shutters like the beating rhythm of an out of synch drum. The thin window panes whistled in the small gaps around every opening in the old house with an irritating sound. A fire was burning in the hearth, but blowing strongly as the air came rolling down the chimney. Heavy snow fell from the sky, already covering the ground in a thick white blanket, several feet deep. Although it was only five o'clock in the afternoon, the darkness was complete. The heavy storm clouds blocked out any blue sky, and diminished all visibility, so that you could barely see a few feet ahead.

           The house itself was an old barn, rebuilt into a nice dwelling a hundred years previously. It stood in the middle of the fields, alone, miles from any other civilization. It was two stories high and made of grey stone that grew dirtier and darker with every passing day. The many windows were all single panes, and the shutters were old and worn, in dire need of a paint job. The front porch had old wooden beams, splintered in many places, and likely to fall and crumble at any moment. An ancient rocking chair sat near the door, swaying in the gale, with an odd, rusty creak with every movement, gradually being buried by the snow.

           The place was inhabited by an old man called Horace Franes. He was in his nineties, and had lived in the old house his whole life. His family had owned the land around for generations and had farmed it, with animals and crops, making steady business from their products. Horace, as the last living family member, had inherited the house thirty years earlier and had kept up the family tradition, until he had been diagnosed with severe arthritis. He ploughed on though, ignoring the aches in his limbs as much as he could. He had hired people to work for him, and they helped him run the farm and things went well for a while. But Horace had no heir: he had never married and never fathered any children. Soon, he could no longer work, as his movements became more and more limited, and he only saw his workers when they came to give him reports on how things were going.

           Horace had put Tom Grayson in charge. The man was in his fifties and had worked with Horace's father. But soon Tom started bringing bad news. The farm was not doing well and he thought Horace should sell and move out of the old house. Because of his arthritis, Horace hadn't been able to keep up with all the work the house needed, and it was slowly decaying. He was too proud to ask Tom or anybody else for help. Tom thought it was best to sell, and move to somewhere newer, with less work to be done. But Horace stubbornly refused to leave his home, and eventually, even Tom had had enough and left the old man alone. Horace didn't blame him, he knew he could be a miserable old goat most of the time. Of course, eventually, he could do no more than totter around the house, so all his land and animals were useless. He sold the animals, but refused to sell the land or his house, and preferred to let it rot slowly, like him. 

           Horace was sitting in a chair in the living room, looking at the dark snow fall outside the window. The walls were bare, and the grey stone was almost black with dust. Aside from the small armchair in which the old man sat, there was a little sofa, and a spindly-legged coffee table, which sat between an old television set, and a creaky elderly cabinet on the other side of the room. The floor was hard wood, and because it had been a while since anybody had swept it, it too, was full of dust. Horace held a cup of lukewarm coffee in his bony hands, cuddling it for warmth. The fire in the grate was the only heat source, and the wind was preventing it from warming the room. He had been sitting in his chair for the last half an hour, hoping the storm would die down. He was afraid it would cut the power, and he didn't want to find himself sitting in the dark. He had tried turning on the television, but the wind seemed to have moved the aerial and he couldn't get any reception, so he sat there, cold and alone.

           Horace was old, and his body was next to useless these days, but his mind was sharp. He enjoyed reading and doing crosswords. He didn't mind being alone either, he found it soothing. But just this one time, he wished he had someone here with him. As much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the storm frightened him. He knew the house was falling apart, and he was afraid a strong gust might knock it down altogether, and him with it. 

           He decided to read. He reached forwards with a groan to pick up his book lying open, face down, on the coffee table. He enjoyed reading anything and didn't have a particular genre. He was in the middle of a book about a retired baseball player. He turned the book over and began to read, but he only got through two sentences when the lights went out.

           “Damn,” he muttered. The fire wasn't enough for him to see by. He suspected he had cataracts on top of everything else. Things seemed blurrier than usual lately. He let the book drop from his lap as he hauled his aching limbs out of the chair to look for some candles. He had barely gone two feet however, when he heard a loud bang coming from the back of the house. His heart skipped a beat as he started. Then, less than ten seconds later, he heard another loud bang followed by deafening crash. Before he could comprehend what had just happened, the wind got stronger as it blew around his frail body. He struggled to understand what was happening. He forced his body forwards towards the noise and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, at the back of the house. The kitchen was old, like everything else, and was crumbling at the seams. Horace only ever entered the room to microwave a meal or make coffee anyway. He had given up on cooking years ago.

           He pushed the door between the two rooms open and gasped in shock. The kitchen had a back door which led into a courtyard behind the house. But the door had been hacked to pieces and now had a gaping hole in the middle. The cold air bustled through it, making him shiver. The floor was already covered in snow. He approached it gingerly, wondering what had happened, and trying to slip. The door appeared to have been torn, but surely the wind couldn't have done that? He pulled it open and peered into the darkness, his thin white hair standing up with the force of the gale, but saw nothing of interest. He examined the door in the dim light. The only thing that could tear a hole like that was an axe, he thought. He immediately worried someone might be trying to burgle the place. But why? Everybody knew it was just the old man and a ruined house. That was common knowledge around these parts. There was nothing to steal, no money or jewellery, no expensive television or computer. Nothing. Also, why would they hack the door away then leave? It didn't make any sense. Unless they wanted to draw his attention away from the front of the house? Horace made a decision. He forced his body back into the living room and reached up above the fire, where he had an old hunting rifle. He pulled it off its hook and opened it. The chamber was empty but he knew he had some bullets somewhere. He retreated to the other side of the room and opened a drawer on the old cabinet. He ruffled inside the darkness and found nothing. He was about to look in the second drawer when another crashing sound split the air, coming from the front of the house this time. He paused for a second and listened. Over the wind, he thought he could hear an odd groaning noise. He pulled open the second drawer and found what he was looking for. A box of twenty cartridges. He loaded two into the gun and slammed it shut with a satisfying crack, then walked towards the front hall, holding the gun aloft, his heart beating hammering in his chest.

           He entered the hall and immediately felt the harsh wind again, whipping snow across his face. It was coming in from the open front door. He noticed it hadn't been axed in like the back door, but rather, torn off its hinges. The wind could have done that, he thought. Still, he crept closer and once again peered into the vast darkness outside. He thought he could hear a faint whimpering. A dog, he thought with some relief. Probably afraid of the storm and looking for shelter. He set the rifle down against the wall and went outside. He was almost blown over by the storm but he gripped the railing on the front porch with as much force as his arthritis would allow.

           “Here boy,” he called out towards the whimpering. “Come here.” He took another step forwards. His foot was resting on the top step now. The dog, or whatever it was, didn't move, but kept whining, in a pained way, as though it was hurt. Horace squinted through the darkness, trying to get a look at the mutt, but couldn't see a thing.

           Remembering that he had put a torch in the hall cabinet, he went inside to get it, then went back outside. He flicked it on and shone the dim yellow beam out into the darkness. The creature was only a few feet from the porch, curled into a ball in the snow. Horace couldn't see it clearly but thought it was a weird looking dog. It seemed to be hairless, tailless, and its legs were long and thick. It's skin was an odd grey colour. He couldn't see its face, but the more he looked at it, the less he thought it was a dog. It was too big, and looked oddly like a person.

           “Hey,” he shouted loudly. The creature didn't stir, but kept whimpering. Horace went down the few steps of the porch and into the snow. He was only a step away from the thing now. It definitely wasn't a dog. He could see the bones from its spine, and the curled figure of a human. “Mister?” Horace said, although quietly this time. He reached out a hand and, hesitating slightly, rested it on the person's back.

           Immediately the creature turned around and Horace gasped and stumbled backwards, falling and hitting his elbow on the first step of the porch. Pain shot through his body, but the old man couldn't move, he was staring without blinking at the creature in front of him. Its face was like nothing he'd ever seen before. It was deformed, with large white eyes, a small nose with slits for nostrils, and a wide mouth that was dripping with blood. The grey skin was tight around the bones of its skull and yet, it seemed to be lacking in some places, and Horace thought he could see parts of the skull protruding out of its head.

           Then suddenly, it let out a roar so loud it silenced the wind. It rattled Horace's bones, and even increased the pain in his elbow. The sound was unnatural, like something out of this world and it scared Horace so badly he almost fainted. The creature was staring at him, maybe even sniffing him. Horace could see its thin nostrils opening and closing. And he could smell it. A foul odour, as if rotten eggs and decaying flesh had mixed and invented a whole new flavour. Horace swallowed the bile that had just risen in his throat, and somehow managed to lift himself off the ground. The creature was now rising slowly from its curled position, and Horace didn't want it coming anywhere near him. He clambered up the steps backwards, as fast as his body would allow, never taking his eyes of the beast. He made it to the porch and groped for the doorway. So far, the thing hadn't moved, but just stood there, staring at Horace, the blood seeping from the corner of its mouth.

           The old man put a foot inside the doorway, and put a hand on the nuzzle of his rifle, gripping tightly and taking comfort in its presence. His elbow was still stinging, and the joints in his knees were complaining, but having the gun with him boosted his confidence. He dropped the torch and pulled the gun up, pointing out into the darkness towards the creature he could no longer see. He knew it was still there though, as he could still here the whimpering. He stepped back out onto the porch, keeping his rifle aimed at the place he thought the beast was.

           “What do you want?” he yelled through the wind in a shaky voice. There was no reply, and suddenly Horace regretted having let go of the torch, but he couldn't hold the rifle as well as the light.

           As he peered into the black, he realized the whimpering had stopped. For some reason, this scared him immensely. He tottered down the steps, expecting to see the creature loom out of the darkness before him, but it appeared to have gone. He looked around, swinging the gun wildly but saw nothing through the thick darkness. He could barely make out the porch. He shivered heavily and felt the goose flesh prickle his skin. What was that thing? It couldn't be a person. He started back towards the house.

           However, before he could even take the first step, he heard the roar again, and something shot out from his right hand side and collided hard with him, knocking him down into the snow. Horace didn't have time to raise the rifle and it fell from his arms as he tumbled. The creature's smell was in his face as it saddled him, and forced him onto his back. Horace couldn't help it, he vomited, and the bile choked him. Horace tried spitting it out, but the creature was pressing down on him, preventing him from moving. It looked at him for a second and then to Horace's amazement and despair, it bit down hard and ripped the bit of muscle between his neck and shoulder clean from his body. Horace yelled in agony. He had to close his eyes from the pain. A second later, a fresh wave of pain shot through him as the creature bit him again, this time it took the flesh from his cheek.

           The creature kept it up, long after Horace had lapsed into blissful unconsciousness. It tore at his flesh like a starving man, and didn't stop until all that was left was small pile of bones, some teeth, and odd bits of skin, lying in a puddle of red snow.