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And then she froze, her bare feet adhering to the floor. There it was again.

It was not her imagination.

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There, between the death moans of the tree and the galloping thunder--there was the same mournful sound that she’d heard before, drifting up from the bowels of the house.

And it was not the wind. She was sure of that—and of what to do now.

*

*

*

“Easy, baby. Steady as she goes. There’s a good girl.”

Russell cooed softly and patted the dashboard of the car as if he were comforting a skittish pet.

He had stopped in the middle of the road, allowing himself a moment to breathe and to still his hyperactive heartbeat. It was a relief to be able to stop; he’d only managed a few hundred yards, and even that had felt like sailing a glider on glass.

The hill from his house seemed longer than it ever had this day.

Perhaps it was because he was preoccupied with other things.

Generally, he wasn’t one to worry. It was pointless. Life took care of itself. And even today, with his world turned upside-down, he wasn't really worried.

He was afraid.

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He’d never been so macho that he couldn’t be honest with himself. The slow drive down the hill was scaring the shit out of him.

There seemed to be no road, nothing for the tires to cling to.

And the storm seemed to have worsened. He was surprised to see the small aluminum storage shed that housed his riding mower and gardening equipment still stood intact on the opposite edge of his hill; but the small amount of road he’d managed so far had been littered with broken branches, and icicles grew between earth and trees, like the path through a gigantic, frigid cave. Other than his sighting of a small red car, eerily driverless and abandoned on the side of the road, there was no sign of animal life, no trace of the rabbits or deer who frequented his property. Even the birds had deserted the skies.

They’d taken shelter, of course, as anything in its right mind would do. He was the only lunatic on the loose, trying to verify the continued existence of the human race—if it still deserved to exist.

But this was not what frightened him. It was the gangly little girl who’d grown into a woman and secretly stolen his heart that scared him.

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She had confessed to having a childhood crush on him. Was it possible that those feelings were still there, that they ran deeper than the friendship he’d thought?

“She was just frightened. This shit is suicide. And I’m an idiot.

Let’s go, sweetheart.” With the Jeep in low, and his boot barely an inch off the brake pedal, he continued his creeping pace down the decline.

Unfortunately, that truncated bit of conversation changed his life nearly as much as the snippet of news from the television. He knew he loved her. The idea of marriage had occurred to him more than once. But as long as she just thought of him as a ‘friend’, it was hopeless. What was he going to do--casually bring up a conversation and propose out of the blue?

She’d never take him seriously.

And there was always the chance that he might convince her with time—but he couldn’t wait. He needed to touch her, to feel her respond, to lose himself inside of her, and he needed it now. The desire he felt for her far outweighed any sense of practicality.

And once he’d gotten her into his bed, he could gradually establish a more serious relationship.

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However…

If it was possible that she already loved him…

Like a cat who’d suddenly decided to chase it’s tail, the car made a sharp turn, did a three-sixty on the ice, and settled back on course, it’s nose straight, the tires mere feet away from where they began.

Russell opened his mouth to curse, realized it was too late, that the vehicle had already righted itself, and clung to the steering wheel with a cramped grip, turning the radio on and allowing the static to keep him company.

But if she loved him…

*

*

*

She rapidly retrieved it from the old seafaring trunk that served as his coffee table. She’d spotted it there before, when he’d been searching for customer contracts he’d recently misplaced. The snub-nosed .38 looked clean and ready to use, and, pointing it carefully away from herself, she checked it for ammunition.

Empty. Great. Mr. Safety-First.

She emptied the trunk.

Nothing.

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And she had neither the patience nor the nerve to search every corner of the damned house for bullets. It was bad enough not knowing what she’d find in one room.

The basement.

The woeful wailing increased in volume, and she steeled herself for combat. So she’d have to gut it out. She could do it. She was an empowered woman. She had the pistol and a steady hand. And whoever was in the basement didn’t know she didn’t have bullets.

Unless, of course, that who was a what. And then the ammunition might not matter anyway…

Somewhat surprised by her own gumption, Iris made her way to the basement door and tentatively turned the knob.

The low, mourning cry immediately ceased.

Her throat was dry and tight, but she managed to shout in a raspy, trembling voice.

“Whoever you are, I’ve got a gun!!”

Glad beyond belief that no one responded to her war cry, she took a deep, bracing breath, emphatically straightened her back, and pulled the door open.

*

*

*

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But if she loved him, it made all the difference in the world.

He’d wanted—needed –to get her into his bed. As soon as possible. It would not only solve the problem of his miserably sleepless nights, but set the stage for what could become a real future together.

He had to get back to her. He had to find out whether he was still a ‘big-brother-idol’ sort of figure to her--or whether he had noticed a glimmer of something else in her speech, her eyes.

Something he was dying to see.

And wasn’t he being silly, after all. He should be as honest as he wanted her to be. Truth was always the best path to take.

Russ unconsciously drew in a hopeful breath as he reached the bottom of the long hill, and, with infinite patience and caution, inched the wheel to the right, around the broad curve that would lead to his neighbor’s house.

For a moment, a fleeting moment of light-headed giddiness, he allowed himself to smile at the senseless chatter of the static, at the Iris-filled images that crowded his mind.

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And before that moment had ripened and passed, the old Jeep sailed weightlessly sideways, carrying him swiftly, silently away from the surety of his road and down the deadly embankment below.

*

*

*

Of course.

Hadn’t everything else gone wrong?

With the flashlight and gun in hand, she propped the baseball bat she’d also brought with her against the doorjamb. If whoever was haunting the house should challenge the empty gun, she had a backup. And she’d been known to swing a mean stick.

The basement was nearly pitch black, illuminated by only four small windows, widely spaced and dulled with ice. The fury of the storm was muffled down here, making the daytime darkness seem even more eerie.

She carefully made her way down the thirteen stairs, lighting one at a time, until she reached the cold concrete of bottom. Flashing
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the hazy beam on her immediate surroundings, she breathed for the first time since she’d opened the door.

The basement was large but fairly empty, and there seemed to be nothing unusual in sight.

She examined the room from the foot of the stairs. There were cleaning utensils, a few closed crates and boxes, a spare toilet and a washer and dryer in a small laundry nook in the back, and Russ’

woodworking bench and tools in the middle of the floor. Everything in its place.

Clearing her throat of fear, she yelled across the room, rather than risk the crossing.

“Hello?”

A slight, hollow echo mimicked her in response.

“Hello, is anybody down here?” Iris shifted from freezing bare foot to foot, ready to take off at the slightest sound. “You might as well know up front that I’m not alone in the house. And I do know how to use this.”

Iris started, for only an instant, at the vague sound of something like paper shuffling, and immediately retreated, taking back two of
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the steps, legs poised like springs beneath her. “Whoever you are, I’m not kidding. I know you’re down here. Show yourself!”

She immediately regretted her bravado speech.

Whatever it was had finally decided to respond.

Her heart swelled into her throat, nearly suffocating her, as she detected the sound of rapid, heavy breathing. Frantically trying to follow the noise with the weak light, she backed up another step, and then another as it seemed to move toward her, louder now, keeping to the shadows, a dark, formless thing darting between objects.

“Stop!”

It was too fast, too clever.

Her voice became high with hysterics. “Stop, or I swear I’ll shoot!”

Whatever it was didn’t seem to be buying the lie. She watched the mop in the nearby corner teeter then fall, the handle hitting the hard floor with a sharp crack.

Swinging the flashlight in a dizzying arc around the room, she still saw nothing. But she could hear it breathing, raspy and dangerous, and the sound of something scraping against the floor as it moved…

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Claws. Whatever the thing was, it had claws.

And when a small cardboard box a few yards away skidded toward her, pushed away from the wall, she decided it was time.

It was time to give up the bravado and go for survival.

And the bat.

She turned, tripped, and immediately scrambled back to her feet, remembering every fool woman in every scary movie she’d ever seen who had fallen down and been destroyed. Even with limbs leadened by fright, visions of being dragged back down the steps by some sharp, cloying hand spurred her on.

Hastily dropping the useless gun, she locked her hands about the flashlight as she focused it directly on each step before her—one, then another, then another, and another…

She could feel the warm air of the living room drifting through the open door ahead, and, at last, caught sight of the bat, leaning, waiting against the frame.

She didn’t have a gun. But she did have a weapon.

Abruptly, before she could reach it, before she could even think of being afraid, a scream trilled from her throat, and she nearly fell backward, away from the horrible sight.

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Away from the bloodied creature who reared up before her, barring the doorway which led out of the basement—and to freedom.

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There was blood everywhere.

And to her mind, still charged with adrenalin, it seemed the only bright color she’d seen since the blackout.

Only now, now that she could feel her heart settled in her chest again and warmth returning to her limbs—only now did she become aware that she had blood on her pants, her shirt, even on her bare feet.

And she couldn’t have cared less, as she busied herself effectively cutting off the breath of the man who had nearly frightened her to death.

Gingerly pinching his nostrils shut, she urged him into a forward sitting position, pressing his head down. “Hold your nose.”

Russell complied, sighing through chattering teeth. “It isn’t as bad as it looks.”

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“It couldn’t be.” She blinked away her tears. Whether they were the result of sorrow or relief she could not tell. “Let’s get you out of that coat.”

Iris struggled with the frozen zipper, then slipped the ice-encased jacket from his shoulders, shaking her head in dismay as it crackled like a shattering outer shell.

He was still shivering, and small rivulets of water ran down his face from his thawing hair and eyebrows. And he looked absolutely miserable.

“Sit right here,” she chided. “Don’t you move.”

He nodded, his voice nasal. “Always obey a woman with a bat, an empty gun, and a scream that could shatter your eardrums.”

Hurrying into the kitchen, she dampened a dishtowel with a trace of cold water from the faucet. Sadly removing the bottle of champagne from the freezer, she deftly loaded a plastic baggie with icy slush and returned to his side.

He sucked in a shuddering breath when she placed the ice on his nose and gently draped the towel over the back of his neck. “Iris, I need to tell you—”

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“It’s not important, really.” She carefully dabbed at the dried blood on his face with a diluted mixture of alcohol and water. “It’s only important that you came back to me.”

“I hear that broken noses give a man character.”

She pulled the bloodstained sweater over his head and removed his boots as he tried to breathe normally. “I hear that, if they’re bad enough, they require medical attention. Something we’re sorely lacking at the moment.”

“I screwed up, Iris. I tried, I really tried to get there. I didn’t want to let you down.” He seemed to be searching her face for some sign of disappointment in him. “Just couldn’t make it. Sorry.”