The Storm Within

Cindy jolted awake, her chest tightening as an otherworldly green glow illuminated the foot of her bed. Her breath hitched. A figure—still, silent, and unnervingly familiar—hovered in the darkness, its hollow eyes fixed on her. Fear clawed at her throat, but she forced herself to blink, to reason. It’s just a dream, she told herself. Yet the icy sting of her arm pinched by unseen hands, the mournful wail of the wind battering the windows, and the suffocating weight in her gut screamed otherwise. This wasn’t a dream. It was something far worse.

Exactly one year had passed since the day Howard died. The date lingered in the air like a shadow, heavy and unshakable, refusing to let her forget.

The hot meals from friends and family had dried up months ago, their absence leaving the house colder than ever. Occasionally, a forgotten face from high school would send a card—brief, impersonal, the kind you send out of obligation. But for the most part, everyone had written her off, assuming she’d moved on. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Her dreams were a haunting reel of her life with Howard. The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital clung to her even as she slept, vivid and inescapable. She could still feel the weight of the trash can in her hands, holding it steady for him when he was too weak to move, sparing herself yet another night of mopping the floor. It wasn’t just a memory—it was too real, too visceral, like she was still trapped there, reliving every moment.

From the acrid stench of vomit to the sickening odor of diarrhea, the smells haunted Cindy, a constant reminder of her breaking point. She had tried—God, how she had tried—to care for him at home, but the day came when she couldn’t do it anymore. The decision to place him in a facility gnawed at her even now, a betrayal she couldn’t forgive herself for. Howard had begged to die at home, but Cindy was exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

They had been childhood sweethearts once, their love pure and full of promise. But in the end, she had prayed for God to take him, telling herself it was for his sake, to end his pain. Deep down, though, she knew the truth. It was her pain—the unbearable weight of caring for someone so sick—that had broken her resolve.

The guilt was unrelenting, a shadow that followed her everywhere. She couldn’t forget the fleeting, shameful thought that had crossed her mind one sleepless night: leaving a gun within his reach.

It wasn’t just the thought itself that tortured her—it was the dark part of her soul that admitted it might have been easier.

The specter at the foot of her bed neither frowned nor smiled. It simply stood—or perhaps floated—bathed in an eerie green glow, its hollow gaze fixed on her. Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

“What?” Cindy cried, her voice cracking under the weight of the moment. “I did all I could!”

Her words hung in the air, trembling, but the figure didn’t respond. It didn’t need to. The suffocating judgment in its presence said everything she didn’t want to hear.

“For God’s sake, if you love me, leave me alone!” she pleaded, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. But the ghost didn’t leave. It didn’t flinch, move, or even shift its expression. It remained perfectly still, glowing in that unsettling green light, its gaze locked on her like a weight she couldn’t shake.

For a brief, terrifying moment, she thought she saw its mouth move—just a flicker, a twitch—but no words came. Only silence. The kind that clawed at her sanity. The only sound in the room was the mournful howl of the wind, rattling the windows as the storm from the north gathered strength, creeping closer.

Her trembling hand fumbled for the switch, and with a soft click, the bedside lamp flooded the room with light. She blinked, her eyes darting to the foot of the bed. The specter was gone. Vanished. Chased away by the light—or perhaps by the unsettling realization that she was now fully awake.

But the air still felt heavy, as though the ghost had left something behind. A chill crept over her skin, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t truly gone. Not yet.

Determined not to revisit that nightmare—if that’s even what it was—she threw back the covers and headed to the kitchen. The floor was cold beneath her feet, grounding her in the moment, but her thoughts still swirled like leaves caught in a storm. Coffee. Strong coffee. That was the medicine she needed, the only thing to steady her nerves and keep the shadows at bay.

The gas stove roared to life with the familiar rhythm of clicks followed by the soft whoosh of blue flames. She set the old coffee pot on the burner, the one they had used for years. As she stared at it, a chill crept over her skin. Howard had bought it. She hadn’t thought about that in ages, but now the memory surfaced with startling clarity.

It was just a thing, she told herself. An object. Why would he mind her using it? And yet, the feeling wouldn’t leave her—a strange, unsettling thought that somehow, even in death, Howard might be watching.

The rhythmic percolation of the coffee pot became steady, a soothing sound that filled the quiet kitchen. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee curled through the air, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. For a brief moment, other than the low rumble of distant thunder rolling in with the storm, her life seemed almost normal again. Almost.

Did I really see that ghost? she wondered, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the counter.

The thought lingered, heavy and relentless. How long do people grieve after losing someone they love? The question felt hollow, as though the answer wouldn’t make a difference.

The books she’d read—the endless self-help guides and grief manuals—had all told her the same thing:

 Move on. Find someone else. Start fresh. Have kids. Build a new life. But the words had no weight, no meaning, not for her.

Why can’t I do this? she thought bitterly, the frustration bubbling beneath her chest. It wasn’t just the memories that held her back—it was the guilt, the anger, and the pieces of herself she had buried with him.

The rumbling thunder grew louder, its deep vibrations rattling the windows and reverberating through the house. The occasional flash of lightning illuminated the kitchen in stark, fleeting bursts, casting strange, distorted shadows on the walls. Shapes danced and shifted in the corners of her vision, and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.

She told herself it was just the storm—just the tricks of light and shadow. But as the thunder rolled on, a disquieting feeling settled in her chest. Even with the coffee brewing, even with the warm light of the kitchen around her, she couldn’t shake the sensation that something—or someone—was still watching.

The next thunderclap exploded through the house, much louder than before, as if the storm had centered itself directly above her. The accompanying flash of lightning flooded the kitchen in a blinding white light, erasing every shadow for a split second. The deafening boom shook her to her core, rattling the cabinets and causing her hand to jerk. The steaming coffee spilled across the counter and onto the floor, the hot splash stinging her skin.

She screamed—sharp and unintentional—a sound that startled even herself. The house seemed to exhale with her, and then everything went dark. The kitchen light flickered once before plunging her into blackness. Only the distant roar of thunder and the patter of rain against the windows filled the oppressive silence. Her breath came fast and uneven, and she clutched the counter for balance, trying to convince herself it was just the storm. Only the storm.

The hot coffee seeped between her toes, snapping her out of her frozen panic. Gritting her teeth, she shuffled carefully through the dark kitchen, one hand outstretched, feeling along the counter. Somewhere in one of the drawers were the candles. Or maybe the emergency flashlight.

Her fingers finally closed around the familiar shape of the flashlight, and with a flick of the switch, a weak, dim beam cut through the darkness. Relief was short-lived, though, as the light barely had time to cast a faint shadow before it sputtered and died, the batteries surrendering completely.

“Damnit,” she muttered, her frustration rising. “Howard was the one who always took care of things like this.” She slammed the useless flashlight onto the counter and pressed her palms to her face, trying to steady her breathing. He had always been the one to keep everything in order—fixing things, replacing batteries, keeping track of the little details she never thought to worry about. Now, the weight of every tiny oversight felt suffocating. The darkness around her seemed to close in tighter.

Opening the drawers one by one, her fingers brushed against utensils, matches, and other odds and ends. But when her hand rested on something cold and metallic, she froze. Her fingers traced the unmistakable contours of the object, and her stomach dropped. It was the .357 Magnum.

Her hand jerked back as if the gun had shocked her. She stared at the drawer, her breath catching in her throat. The Magnum wasn’t supposed to be here. It lived in the gun safe—always had. Howard had been meticulous about that. He never left it lying around, let alone in the kitchen.

Her mind raced. How did it get here? She hadn’t touched it since… since the day she locked it away after Howard’s funeral. Her pulse quickened as she stared at the gleaming steel, the faint light from the storm outside catching on its surface. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just misplaced—it was placed.

Her heart pounded as she backed away from the drawer, the metallic shine of the gun still etched in her vision. She bumped into the counter behind her, the sharp edge biting into her back, but she hardly noticed. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts, and her eyes darted around the dark kitchen.

Then she saw it.

The green glow was back, faint at first but, growing stronger. It pulsed in the shadows just beyond the kitchen table, illuminating the edges of the room in an eerie, otherworldly light. Her hands gripped the counter behind her as the figure began to take shape again—the specter. The same one she had seen before.

Its face was still, its eyes hollow and piercing as they bore into hers. But this time, its mouth was moving. Slowly, deliberately. Words, or the imitation of them, were forming on its lips, but no sound came. The silence pressed against her ears, deafening and maddening, as the storm raged on outside.

She wanted to scream, to run, but her legs felt like lead. The glowing figure didn’t advance, didn’t retreat. It simply stood there, its silent message a riddle she couldn’t solve.

Turning to flee from the ghostly figure, she bolted blindly into the darkness, her only thought to escape. But her flight was cut short as she collided with something solid, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. It wasn’t a wall—no, it gave slightly under her weight, but it was firm enough to stop her in her tracks. The sensation was strange, almost surreal, as if the weight of the world itself had slammed into her.

Her breathing turned erratic, shallow gasps as she reached out instinctively, her hands trembling. Her fingers brushed against something soft—something that sent a shiver down her spine. It felt like hair. Thick, coarse, and disturbingly familiar. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. No, it can’t be…

Her hands recoiled as if burned, but the sensation lingered on her fingertips. The storm outside raged on, the flashes of lightning casting fleeting, jagged shadows across the room. She didn’t dare look up, afraid of what she might see. But deep down, she already knew. The familiarity of the touch, the weight, the presence—it all pointed to one impossible, horrifying conclusion.

Gathering every ounce of courage she could muster, she clenched her fists and forced herself to turn, to face whatever unspeakable thing loomed before her. If it was a demon, a ghost, or even death itself, she would fight. She would fight with every fiber of her being. She wouldn’t run anymore.

But as her eyes opened, she blinked in confusion. The room was bright. Too bright. The oppressive darkness was gone, replaced by the soft glow of daylight streaming through the windows. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze, their motion calm and unthreatening, as if mocking the storm that had terrified her moments before.

She was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. She reasoned she had fallen out of bed. Her body felt heavy, her limbs weak. The cold coffee still clung to her skin. Was it coffee or something else? The fear she had been gripped by now felt distant and unreal, like a fading nightmare. She pushed herself up slowly, her head spinning, trying to make sense of it all.

Had it all been a dream? A hallucination? The green glow, the ghostly figure, the gun in the drawer—it had all felt so real. Her breathing steadied as she scanned the room.

Moving to the kitchen, she noted everything was in its place.

The sunlight poured through the windows, golden and warm, banishing the storm’s howling chaos to a distant memory. Cindy sat on the cold floor, her breath coming in slow, shaky gasps. The oppressive darkness was gone, replaced by a calm so profound it felt almost unnatural. Her fingers trembled as she traced the edge of the counter, grounding herself in the ordinary, in the now.

The coffee pot sat quietly on the stove. The storm had passed, and the house was still. Too still. But the tension that had gripped her chest for so long—longer than just the night—now felt… lighter. Not gone, but lighter, as though the weight of an unseen hand had finally lifted.

Her gaze drifted to the counter, where the spilled coffee grounds lay in scattered, uneven patterns. At first, it seemed like a mess—just another thing to clean up. But as she blinked, her breath caught, and her chest tightened. The grounds weren’t random.

Two words stood out, carved starkly from the chaos: MOVE ON.

Cindy’s knees buckled, and she clutched the counter for support. The words weren’t just visible; they radiated meaning, cutting through the fog of her grief. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came, only the quiet rise and fall of her breath as the realization dawned. This wasn’t her imagination. She wasn’t dreaming. The message was real.

Beneath the words, etched with meticulous care, were two faint initials: H.G.

Her heart clenched. Howard Greyson. Her Howard.

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now, hot and unstoppable, as her knees hit the floor. She wiped at her face with trembling hands, her body shaking with the release of emotions she hadn’t let herself feel in far too long. Guilt. Pain. Love. Maybe even relief. It all poured out, raw and unfiltered, as she stared at the message he had left for her from beyond the veil of death.

The storm hadn’t come to punish her or to haunt her. It had come to free her.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the coffee grounds, careful not to disturb the writing. She wanted to preserve it, to hold onto this moment forever. But deep down, she knew she didn’t need to. The words weren’t on the counter anymore—they were inside her, carved into her heart as deeply as the love she had shared with him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of her emotions. “I’m sorry… I—” Her words faltered, caught in her throat. But she wasn’t sure she needed to say more. The message was clear. Howard didn’t want her to carry this guilt anymore. He wanted her to live.

The sunlight grew warmer, brighter as if the house itself had exhaled after holding its breath for far too long. Cindy pushed herself to her feet, unsteady but resolute, and moved to the sink. She grabbed a damp cloth and wiped the counter clean with a bittersweet smile. The grounds swirled away, leaving only a faint scent of coffee and the promise of a new beginning.

As she rinsed the cloth, she glanced out the window. The storm clouds had completely vanished, leaving a clear, endless blue sky.

A bird landed on the windowsill, tilting its head as if studying her before letting out a sharp, melodic chirp and flying off again. For the first time in what felt like forever, Cindy felt the corners of her mouth turn upward into a smile—small, tentative, but real.

Howard was gone, but not lost. He had found her, spoken to her, and given her the gift she needed most: permission to let go.

She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the air once more. This time, it didn’t feel like just a routine. It felt like a ritual, a small act of remembering, of moving forward.

With the mug cradled in her hands, she walked to the living room and opened the curtains wide, letting the light flood in.

The storm had passed. The ghosts had gone quiet. And for the first time, Cindy felt ready to face the world again.