Something Woke her

Something Woke Her

By 

Joseph Morris

Something woke her. Her eyes opened to a shaft of alabaster cloud-broken moonlight peeking through a slightly parted blackout curtain and the almost melodic-sound of waves breaking against the shore in the cove. The storm? But there’s moonlight and an almost peaceful surf. The storm must have ended. And Rex wasn’t prowling around. If something sinister had wakened her, he’d up and patrolling. Wait, Rex was spending the night at the vet. She didn’t have the benefit of his extended senses to protect her. And John and the twins were on that blasted trawler scouting for Nazi submarines. She was alone. Ok, then what woke her? Without Rex she couldn’t be sure what it was. What if it were one of those Nazi spies? Visions of men in belted trench coats and wide-brimmed hats sneaking up from the cove, lugers in their hands. Her heart pounded. She took a deep calming breath, as John taught her. Another breath and she listened. Nothing. Not a sound from inside the house. 

She lay there, attentive, struggling to calm her breathing, before stifling a giggle. A Nazi spy? Really? Too many damn spy novels. Yes, the US had just entered the war and the warning had gone out about Nazi infiltrators. And there was that incident three days ago with the tanker offshore. Her eyes blurred, fighting back tears, anger at the cowardly Nazis and sadness for the sailors. That shadowy profile of a tanker seen through her binoculars while sitting on her back porch. The tanker steaming confidently, bright pearls of effervescence streaming off her bows. Then that sudden pillar of fire, followed by the blazing fierceness of burning oil. Not more than a few miles from her house! That could only have been caused by a submarine. What would John have said? “Oh, yes, they have balls.” With the naval base only twelve miles away. And only three days ago. So, there was a Nazi submarine out there. They were known to drop spies off in rubber boats.

But the storm. A late autumn tropical storm. Fifty mile per hour winds with six-foot waves. Landing a rubber boat in the cove in all of that? Not likely. She sighed. She was awake now. Maybe some tea would help her get back to sleep. She swung her legs over the bed and grabbed her spectacles, followed by the robe hanging from the bedpost. Damn curtains, letting that moonlight in. She hadn’t drawn them properly. One of the clips must have come loose. Well, at least no lights were on in her room to betray the house’s location. She grabbed the lantern from her nightstand but didn’t turn it on. She fixed the curtains, fumbling in the dim gossamer moonlight with the two clothing pins used to prevent a separation between the curtains. Another pause to listen. Still nothing. Now assured of a proper blackout, she turned on the lantern. The patter of rain against the house and the muted howl of the wind returned. Damn. She must’ve awakened during the eye. Well, that certainly lowered the chances of a Nazi coming ashore in a rubber boat. Unless, of course, he was already ashore before the storm and was seeking shelter! She quietly opened the second drawer. Her hand closed around the comforting stock of John’s spare .38 special. He had left it with her for just in case, but not until many hours of shooting out back to make her comfortable with it. Well, that was being married to a sheriff. She slipped it into her robe pocket, grabbed the lantern, and exited the bedroom.

She slowly crept down the stairs, one hand in her pocket on the reassuring pistol grip and the other holding the lantern, while trying to avoid those creaks that were inherent in any stairway. The lantern was not all that bright, leaving most of the living room below in a shadowy gloom. She paused halfway down and listened. Was that something brushing outside? It couldn’t be that damn tree branch. John had cut it down before he left. The noise stopped. She hurried down the stairs, not quite running, and reached around to flip on the kitchen light. No one there. Just her brand spanking new Frigidaire and the gleaming new faucet that John had installed in the porcelain sink, along with the modern four-burner gas stove and plain wooden table with four chairs. But no Nazi spy. The kitchen light spilled into living room. No spy there either. She sighed and filled the old kettle with water.

She had to stop with this Nazi spy crap. Despite the warnings, none had been reported in this area. John had signed up volunteer deputies with dogs to patrol the beaches. However, her little cove was not patrolled, but Rex seemed capable of monitoring it from the house. Only he wasn’t here tonight. So, it was up to her. Well, she certainly wasn’t going out in the storm to check. She stuck the pistol in her pocket and strode across the living room to the Winchester 70 in its place over the hearth. She had to get on her tiptoes to lug it down. She pulled back the bolt. It was empty. She reached into the box of cartridges kept on the hearth and began loading the magazine, something she must have done more than a hundred times.  Why were the cartridges so slippery and her fingers so clumsy? Finally, it was loaded. She checked the safety. John had made her practice with this, too. She considered herself an above average shot. She shook her head. This was crazy. A Nazi spy? But the rifle felt so comfortable in her hands. Damn, with all of the windows blackened she couldn’t see out. But what could she see in the dark outside anyway, unless they were stupid enough to show a light?

The whistling of the tea kettle drew her back into the kitchen, laying the rifle across the table. She spooned some tea into their Sadler teapot and sighed. It had been her mother’s. A smile. Mother would have been in a screaming panic by now. She never approved of her marriage to a country deputy sheriff and their move to this deserted house on the cove. Mom had been a city girl. She never lived to see John become sheriff and the twins grow up. The first sip of tea was like drinking one of those magic calming potions those peddlers still tried to sell to unsuspecting fools. Nazi spies? And she was talking about fools?

She sank back against her chair at the plain table and just listened to the wind and rain. Not quite as loud as she expected. Maybe the storm wasn’t as fierce as advertised. Well, those damn weathermen never got it right anyway. A weaker storm meant less cleanup outside. Such was the bright side of things. On the other hand, did a weaker storm mean that a spy could come ashore? No, even in three-or-four-foot waves it would still be treacherous getting into the cove. You had to know the way, or you’d end up on the rocks. And trying to do that with a rubber boat?  Anyway, why would they try to enter the cove, anyway? Much safer down the beaches, even with the patrols. 

A bite into one of the butter cookies she kept on a pie plate with a glass cover on the table. John made them before he left. What a funny guy. A tough, hardened country sheriff who loved to bake cookies. It had started with a challenge between them years ago. One of those silly things that young couples sometimes do. She had bet him she could learn to shoot better than he could learn to bake cookies. Yeah, well, he won. Those cookies were good. She sighed as she pictured that square jaw and those dark eyes. He’d probably be laughing like hell right now at her. “A Nazi spy?” He’d laugh and say, “More likely one of them Martians.” Another bite letting the sweetness filter down and soften all those fears that just wouldn’t go away. None of this would have happened if she had waited until after the storm to take Rex to the vet. Unfortunately, he needed minor surgery on his throat to remove a small cyst that really couldn’t wait. He was still in recovery when she had to leave to avoid driving home in the storm. She stared at the rifle. It’s the middle of the night. Cookies and tea at three in the morning. A loaded rifle on the table and a pistol in her robe pocket. And those damn images of the tanker exploding. And no clue what woke her up. 

A scratching sound again. The doorknob seemed to rattle as the door shook. Was someone trying to get in? Certainly a Nazi spy would be more discrete. And a Martian would… what? She picked up the rifle and released the safety. Her heart felt like it was going to leap out of her chest. Maybe it was just the wind, though the door was protected somewhat by the front porch. She reached up to turn out the light but hesitated. No moonlight now. She’d be just as blind as anyone outside. But with the light on they’d know where she was. The wind grew into a howl and the door shook more.

“Who are you?” she yelled. “I’m armed and waiting for you. Identify yourself!”

The door shook even more violently. She raised the rifle to her shoulder and aimed at the door, aware that there was a backdoor behind her. Were there two Nazi spies? The front door shook again. And another sound. A whimper? Someone seeking shelter? Someone hurt? Or a ruse? 

“Dear Lord, what do I do?” she whispered. 

The door shook again and more whimpering.

No, it can’t be. Must be a ruse. But the whimper sounded familiar. She steeled herself. Only one way to find out. She crept to the door, released the lock and pulled it open, stepping back as fast as she could, trying to keep her rifle up.

“Who are…” Her question ended with her being bowled over by a muddy, stinking mass of hair and dripping rain, and a large tongue. 

“Rex?” she managed to get out as the tongue gave her face a good washing. “Rex, how did you get here? Get off me, you oaf!” 

She pushed him away and struggled to her feet while trying to shut the door against the wind, just as a truck swung up her driveway. She turned on the external lights. That was Doc Smithers’ truck! He emerged part way. “I see he made it home safely! He got out somehow.”

“And you drove here in this storm?”

“I suspected it’s where he’d go.”

“Do you want some tea to warm up?”

The vet shook his head. “Nah, but thanks. I want to get home. We can talk tomorrow, but I think he’ll be just fine.” He popped back into the car and immediately began to back down the driveway.

As she turned to walk back in, she noticed one of the chairs on the porch was moved. She looked down at the dog. “How long were you out here? Did you hunker down behind the chair until you heard me come down?”

All she got back in reply was a rapidly wagging tail. That was enough.