"Hey, how's that book coming along," Lena said as she walked up to the counter at Lena's.
Emma wondered how forthright to be "You know how it is with writers. Sometimes the words just flow and other times..." Her words tapered off. Hank Bigelow, seated at the far table, was looking at her in a way that made her uncomfortable.
Lena glanced over at Hank, then spoke to Emma in a low voice. "Never mind him. He's just an old lumberjack who's lived too long up in the woods here."
"Tuesday someone told me he killed a man once. Any truth in that?"
"Oh I don't know," Lena said, scrunching her nose. "You know what they say. Don't believe everything you hear."
"Is he still staring at me?"
Hank muttered something incoherent, placed a ten dollar bill on the table, shoved his chair back and stood. "Lena, that was pretty good. I don't know how ya do it," he said.
"That's my secret. You know how to keep secrets? I do, too."
Hank turned, headed for the door without looking back.
"How many years have you been coming up here, Emma?"
"Must've been about seven or eight. I wrote my first novel here."
"Was that Destiny?"
"No, Destiny was my second. Drowning. That was my first. All my novels start with the letter D. My English teacher gave me a D on my senior project and said I'd never amount to anything. My poetry sucked, and my stories were silly sentimental nothings," she said.
"What's the title of this one going to be?"
"The working title is Daggers."
"So you're doing another murder mystery?"
"It's about a relationship gone bad. The title comes from the way she looked at him in the end."
"Does she get away with it?" Lena's smile was infectious and the cloud over Emma's day began to lift.
"I can't tell you that. The characters will decide how this plays out."
* * * *
That evening the promised shift in the weather rolled in. As the wind began picking up, the trees around the lake began to sway. Emma went to the front door and watched as the sky turned a deep shade of grey and a sense of unease began to permeate the air. A rumble of distant thunder could be heard and the sky itself seemed to growl as it roiled, the clouds swirling, their edges tinged with an ominous shade of green.
As the storm drew near, with its flashes of lightning, the air became charged with static electricity.
While growing up Emma actually enjoyed storms like this, impressed with their power. Tonight that sense of foreboding that chilled her that morning had returned.
The rain, initially pelting sporadically on the roof and windows, was soon pouring down in sheets. The thunder grew louder and more frequent till it was a deafening roar shaking the entire cabin.
Each bolt of lightning illuminated the sky in a blinding flash, casting a stark and eerie light upon the landscape. The wind whipped the trees as if trying to tear them from the earth.
The outside air was filled with the acrid smell of ozone which seeped into the cabin. The sharp tang stung Emma's nostrils and made her feel as if the very fabric of reality was being ripped apart. The rain yielded to hail, pelting the roof, siding and windows with icy bullets.
In the midst of all this cacophony, Emma felt small and powerless, like a mortal caught in the wrath of the gods themselves. Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm began to recede, the thunder and lightning retreating into the distance as the rain faded to a gentle patter.
Emma poured herself a second glass of wine, grabbed her laptop off the counter and nestled into a recliner. She wanted to capture in words what she had just experienced and felt. After no more than a minute or two she heard a knock at the door. She looked at the clock – it was very late. Who could be knocking at her door at this hour?
As she stood to go look through the peephole, she knocked the wineglass off the
end table, shattering on the hardwood floor, the wine spreading like a blood stain.
When the knocking started up again, it made her jump. Emma's heart raced as she considered whether to open the door.
But then she remembered the warnings she had heard from neighbors – strange things had been happening in the out here. People were disappearing. Some were found dead, with no explanation as to how they died.
"Don't open the door for anyone," they had said. "No matter how much they plead or beg. Don't let them in."
Emma's fear grew as the knocking grew more insistent. She bent over a picked up a shard of glass, her heart racing.
Then, suddenly, the knocking stopped. There was silence. Emma held her breath, waiting to see if it was really over.
But then she heard a voice, a chilling whisper from just outside the door.
"Please, let me in," it said. "I need your help. Don't be afraid."
Emma knew she shouldn't, but her curiosity got the better of her. She slowly approached the door, her hand shaking as she reached for the doorknob. Then she heard it – a low growl, followed by a scratching sound. Something was clawing at the door, trying to get in.
* * *
Disclaimer: The idea for this story occurred while I was at Walgreens. While looking at the book rack I saw that one of the books had the title Do Not Open the Door. I wrote the title down, wondering what I'd write. I asked ChatGPT for a story outline which I fleshed out and ended up with this. The illustrations were created by using an AI app to modify a couple of my original paintings.
Related Link
The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston.
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