"The Storm" Ongoing Novella CHAPTER TWO

Chapter Two

Michael Bresmond had just finished reinforcing the winch for the Bedaius's main sail when he first saw the figure approaching from the dock. He'd been working most of the morning, enjoying the rising warmth of the spring day as he set about his task. At first it had been overcast, but as the sun rose higher it eventually broke through the clouds, and now the sky was a clear blue with only a few white patches dispersed throughout, and the coastline was emerging towards the full green of the season. There was such a sublime beauty to this place, and it was certainly going to be difficult in the leaving. But of course it had to be done.

Wiping grease from his hands with an old rag, Michael walked over to the railing at the edge of the boat and regarded the stranger with increasing concern. The guy looked pretty sketchy, walking in this hunched over posture, casting furtive glances around him as he came closer to the vessel. He wore a hood over his head, but seemed familiar, somehow. In fact it was his clothes that were the most familiar, Michael realized. His clothes-

The man stopped at the base of the gangway and gazed up at Michael. A quick jolt of recognition flashed through Michael's brain, but then quickly faded. This guy was old - middle aged at least, from the appearance of him. But still, that look had thrown him for a second.

Before Michael could address him, the stranger spoke up in a raspy, desiccated voice..

"Dad. I need your help."

And now Michael's head snapped back from a second, more powerful jolt. Dad? He could feel his mind reeling from the way his perception had been jerked back and forth just now. With a sharp intake of breath he leaned forward and peered at the man standing on the dock beside his boat.

"Who are you?" Michael growled, hands gripping the railway so tight his knuckles turned white.

The man blinked his eyes wide, stepping back in apparent shock. Then he quickly reached up and flipped back the hood of his parka.

"Dad! It's me!"

Michael stared at the figure. It looked like his son Colin. But his face was covered in wrinkles, and his hair was white. It was like a future version of his own son, standing before him in present time…That was when he remembered what Pastor Ellis had told him - that there would be precedents in the days leading up to the storm. Precedents, in multiple forms of deception...

Slowly, Michael began to stalk down the gangway, gripping the ropes on both sides while never taking his eyes off of the being that stood before him. He could see that one of the man's hands appeared injured, the dull red stain of blood splashed over deep wrinkles in white flesh. A look of relief seemed to pass across the man's face as he approached.

"I was at Mr Russo's place. When I went inside - "

With the speed of anger and fear Michael darted forward and grabbed the man's arm, careful to grip above the sleeve of the parka, so as not to touch the skin. Instantly the man fell to one knee, wincing in pain.

"WHO ARE YOU?!!!" Michael roared, squeezing down on the man's arm, causing him to scream out in pain. And the scream sounded just like Colin, even though he'd never heard his son make a sound like that before. From within his mind emerged a deeper recognition than experience that told him: This is really him. This is my son. But still he resisted, holding on while struggling to deny the facts.

"DAD! It's me! I'm Colin! Why are you doing this?" But Michael just squeezed again, producing another shriek that descended into an anguished wail. With his other hand Michael took hold of the collar of the man's parka, hauling his face up into full view again.

At that moment the pair locked eyes, and that finally broke the illusion. Instantly Michael released his grip, crouching down to embrace his son as the boy collapsed into his arms. Hearing the sound of footsteps, he looked up to see two men on the dock running towards them - the Cavanaugh brothers, brought out from their own boat by the sound of Colin's screams.

Jerry the older brother called out to him. "Mike! What the hell's going on here?" He was already out of breath from the run - both of the men being somewhat on the heavy side. His younger sibling Lenny tromped up beside him in a sputtering mess, staring down at Colin with wide eyes. "Who's that?" he gasped, pointing at Colin.

Michael looked pleadingly at the two brothers as they heaved and sweated above him. "Please. Help me get him up into the cabin."

---

Michael soaked the sponge in water and applied it to his son's forehead. They'd managed to carry him up to the cabin and lay him out on a cot, and when they removed the boy's parka revealing the bright red mark on his arm, a hot spike of shame ran straight through Michael's chest. I did that to him.

"Hell of a thing," Jerry mused, leaning against a windowsill as he watched Michael tend to his son. At first they'd tried to get Colin to drink some water, but the barely conscious boy could only take a few sips before choking, and so they'd switched to a sponge treatment, soaking his clothes so as to retain the water against the skin. Jerry had sent his younger brother Len away to fetch Doctor Murray. And for now all they could do was what they were doing.

"Jerry," Michael said, "When Doctor Murray gets here I'm going to have to leave. Before - before he passed out Colin tried to tell me that something happened at Hank Russo's place, and I've got to look into it."

Jerry lifted his eyebrows. "Do you think - "

"I don't know what to think," Michael cut in, "But it'll help if there are as many people here as possible if I'm not here when my son wakes up - " He winced at the thought: So that he feels like he belongs. "And if you can stay with him I'd certainly appreciate it."

Jerry nodded his head slowly. "Of course Mike. Whatever you need."

Michael turned his attention back to Colin. The boy was breathing steadily now, and the low rasp in his lungs seemed to have subsided. And the wrinkles… had the wrinkles started to go away? It was difficult to tell, with all of the water on his skin. He looked at the logo on the t-shirt his son wore, plastered against his rising and falling chest. Wrigley's Gardens Amusement Park. Bought two sizes bigger at the time, though now it barely fit. He remembered taking him there with Samantha, before Jessie was born. Colin had insisted on riding the big roller coaster, standing on his tiptoes to reach the minimum height. And even though it was technically against the rules, he'd been proud of Colin for that. The boy had shown bravery, even back then…

The sound of footsteps on the gangplank brought Michael out of his reverie. Reluctantly, he stood up. It was time to go.

---

By the time he got home, Michael was ready to explode. The way Doctor Murray had looked at him, when he explained how he had hurt Colin's arm… And when he also tried to explain why, the doctor had simply turned away, taking his satchel over to the cot and crouching down to examine his patient. Michael had to remind himself that the doctor was a purely rational man with little to no patience for what he considered to be superstitions. In fact, it seemed that his loyalty to the community was his primary reason for agreeing to accompany all of them, when they set out together on this impending exodus.

Michael controlled his frustration with a deep breath. Loyalty was more than a good enough reason. And right now he needed to check on the rest of his family, as well as make a phone call.

As he let himself in to the front hallway he could hear quiet voices through the door to the living room. Rather than announcing his presence, something made him decide to softly open the living room door and step quietly inside. Samantha looked up at him from the couch, where she was sitting with her arm around Jessie. The little girl was curled up on the cushions, pressed up against her mother's side.

As he approached, Samantha mouthed the words to him: We had a talk. He nodded at this, knowing that it had needed to be done, for the primary reason that once they got under way, Jessie at all costs had to stay inside of the boat. He knelt down before his daughter and lightly pressed a palm to her cheek, feeling the tracks of dried tears beneath his touch.

"How you doing, kiddo?"

She smiled wearily. "I'm okay…"

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, then brushed her dark bangs out of her eyes with his fingers. "Good. Because we're all in this together, you know. And we're all going to be fine."

"I know," she said, relaxing a bit more against her mother's side. Her eyes widened ever so slightly for a second. "Where's Colin?"

He was ready for this. "He's down at the boat, Sweety." He didn't think he'd given anything away, there, but he also could see that Samantha was looking at him much more intently now.

"Okay…" Jessie smiled with relief. "Can I go see him in a little while?"

His heart stung when he heard this. "We'll see… Maybe later."

"Okay…" Jessie murmured, settling in against Samantha and closing her eyes. With a prayer of gratitude Michael shifted over to Samantha. For not the first time he wondered at the beauty of his wife's features - the flowing blond curls, her blue eyes surrounding a wide bridged nose that was perfectly straight. And right now she was looking at him with an expression that said: I know there's much more going on than you're telling.

He leaned forward, embracing her shoulders gently, and whispered in her ear. "Stay in the house. I'll be back soon." With a squeeze of her hand he rose to his feet, and made his way back to the front entrance.

Using the phone in the front hall, he dialled the Pastor's number. After several rings the answering machine clicked on. Damn. He'd really wanted to go in with the Pastor at his side. "Ellis," he said into the machine, "It's Michael. There's been one of those.. precedents you told me about. At Hank Russo's place. I'll meet you there."

He hung up the phone just as Samantha slipped through the living room door. After she carefully closed the door she turned to face him.

"Where is Colin?"

"Just where I said. He's at the boat."

"Is he hurt?"

Michael hesitated. "He's had a shock. But he's going to be okay."

Samantha's lip tightened and her gaze intensified as she turned her head slightly to the side. "A shock?" She whispered, and he could hear the anger in her voice, and knew that she'd picked up on the guilt he'd been feeling.

He had to tell her something. "It's the Storm. There was an… early flare up. At the Russo house."

She inhaled a quick gasp of alarm, and immediately he stepped forward and took hold of her, pulling her close. "But don't worry, he got away and he's going to be all right. I promise." He pressed closer, wrapping his arms around her. "I promise…"

He could feel her shaking lightly against him as they embraced in the hallway. When she spoke her voice was a trembling measure barely above tears. "Just how much danger are we in here, Michael?"

He released her slowly, caressing her arms before taking hold of both of her hands. "I don't know. But that's what I'm going to find out."

Before he turned to leave, Michael kissed Samantha softly on the lips. It was a fairly quick kiss, however. Not a goodbye kiss.

---

And now he was standing at Hank Russo's front gate, staring at the house, trying to get the measure of the surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place. The lane way was quiet and deserted at this time of day, the only apparent sound some wind chimes off in the distance. Russo would be plenty annoyed at that, he smiled to himself, before checking the thought: if there was still a Russo to get annoyed.

Michael opened the front gate and let himself onto the property, making his way up the walk. Here the grass was freshly trimmed, and there was a well kept garden of marigolds and roses against the front porch, on both sides of the walk. Bees flitted to and fro amongst the flowers that glowed with the freshness of spring. He noticed that the chimes had faded away, and now he could hear the bees buzzing, along with the whirring of crickets. The sun shone brightly down on the front yard, warming the back of his neck as he started to climb the porch steps.

On the porch it was considerably cooler, and that felt all right to him after all. It had actually started to get hot out there on that front walk. It was nicer here.

Which was exactly what was wrong with this entire scene. Everything was just too pleasant by half. He turned at the sound of a chirping bird. A bluebird had lighted onto the rail of the porch, not three feet away from him.

"Well zip di dee doo da," he muttered to himself. After a few more chirps the bird flew off into the bright blue sky above. Michael turned away from the bird and focused his attention on the front window next to the door. There were lace curtains drawn together across the window, and try as he might he couldn't make out much more than the dim shape of light coming from the back hallway. Russo had always kept the front room darker than the rest of the house, for some reason.

He moved across from the window to the front door. Everything looked closed up tight, but was the door locked? He seemed to recall there was a spring lock that engaged when the door was shut. But maybe he should check.

As he reached for the brass door handle, Michael noticed that the sound of wind chimes had returned. It felt odd that the chimes would start up again at that moment. Such a strange sound…

"Don't open that door."

Michael turned to see Pastor Ellis making his way up the walk towards the house. He was wearing a fisherman's hat and a hawaiian shirt with cargo shorts. Sharp eyes gazed out from green tinted glasses beneath one of the shaggiest monobrows that Michael had ever seen, a sight that always took him aback even years after having met the man. Under one arm the Pastor carried a tattered old Bible, and draped over the opposite shoulder a loose canvas bag.

"Gone fishing when I called?" Michael asked, meeting the Pastor at the top of the stairs.

"Gardening out back," replied Ellis, scanning the porch with the intent of an eagle. "Katy's coming along shortly; she needed to collect some vital herbs for this."

Michael stepped aside to let the pastor onto the porch. "I guess I wanted to make sure the door was locked before we look any further."

"There's no need to look any further." The Pastor lowered to one knee, setting the Bible on the floor boards before undraping the bag from his shoulder. He was busying himself with the contents of the bag when Michael spoke up again.

"Well, shouldn't we check to see what happened here? I mean is Hank… well, is he - "

Ellis stood up, holding a bottle of water in one hand and an orchid in the other. He looked Michael straight in the eye. "Hank's a goner, Mike."

This was delivered with such certain finality that Michael was rendered speechless. Ellis reached out and placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "There will be time to mourn for him later. But right now I need to get this place sealed."

And with that Pastor Ellis turned back to the door and got to work, crouching down and setting the orchid face up on the welcome mat. He then uncorked the bottle and carefully poured water into the folds of the orchid.

Michael watched on in a daze. He knew that this was holy water the Pastor was using, but when the man picked up his Bible and began to recite verses in Latin, Michael figured he was out of his depth at this point. And so he just wandered down to the edge of the porch, leaning forward with his hands on the railing.

He thought about what Hank Russo meant to this community. The entire village had literally built itself around the man's house, along with the beliefs that had led them to where they were now. The old man was an indispensable part of this next stage, perhaps even to their very survival. How would everyone react to the news of his death?

Michael had been one of the earliest settlers here, bringing Samantha with him, before they were even married, much less a proper family. And while he was aware that she'd never much cared for Russo, having blamed him for the circumstances of their need to relocate here so many years ago (not to mention their imminent second relocation), he also knew that she understood the significance of the old man's presence in their lives. And now it was going to be so much harder, maybe even impossible to proceed forward as planned.

A slight movement out of the corner of Michael's eye caught his attention. He turned slowly with the dawning realization that he'd just seen something in the window. And as he looked directly at the window he could see that the lace curtains had been drawn back. Someone had drawn back the curtains.

"Ellis," he whispered, but the pastor didn't seem to hear him, wrapped up in his own ministrations. "He's in here. Hank is in here."

He stepped closer to the window, trying to peer into the house. If Hank was alive then everything would be okay. They could move forward without fear, together. Michael cupped his hands to the side of his face and pressed his nose to the glass. And now he could see. He could see inside.

There was no floor at all left in the front room. From the floor level down, all four walls abruptly changed to the sheer rock sides of a square circle that descended into darkness.

And just like that, Michael found himself inside of Hank Russo's front living room. He was standing on the western wall that sided with the kitchen, facing straight down into the pit. He found that he was also now barefoot, and could feel the texture of the wood panelling beneath his feet, panelling that he had helped Russo install some five years back, to replace an ill considered plaster stucco job the old man had done previously, the type of stucco that made you bleed if you leaned against the wall. And next to his feet was a framed print of a sad clown bought at some forgotten garage sale years ago by the old man, who, let's face it, was something of a sad clown himself, wasn't he. A sad clown that had brought them all here.

"Where are you?" Michael yelled down into the pit, but found that his voice echoed into a soundless vacuum that lowered itself to a bottomless depth. But then from within the dark and silent fathoms of the pit he could see something emerging. It was a figure, walking up the same wall upon which he was standing, heading straight towards him. Once it got closer he could see that it was human in shape, except that it had no head.

As the headless figure approached he felt an agonizing constriction rise up through his chest and into the tendons of his neck, as though he was trying to rip completely out of himself. The thing pointed a thin long finger at him, and he could sense from it a deep and relentless thirst that would brook no denial. But how would it drink him without a mouth? Through it's finger? A violent spasm wracked through him, followed by a pounding in his head that seemed to answer his own question: No. It would drink him through it's skin. More to the point, it would drink his skin, through it's own.

The figure continued it's approach, walking faster, still pointing with a finger grown increasingly sharp. And now Michael tried to scream as he saw a single eyeball burst open in the centre of the creature's torso, but of course his scream was dragged out of him and down into the pit. The eyeball blinked bloodshot red with a bright yellow pupil flaring at him, and somehow the eye spoke inside of his mind with a voice like a thousand hissing rattlesnakes, cracking like a bloody egg that ruptured between his ears:

You're all wet…

---

When he came to, Michael found himself lying on the front lawn, with Ellis at his side, cradling Michaels head in the crook of his arm.

"That's it, champ. I've got ya…"

With the Pastor's help, Michael slowly managed to rise up to a sitting position. "What happened?"

Ellis made a clicking sound and lightly shook his head. "You got too close to that window, buddy. I should have gotten you off the porch in the first place."

He offered Michael a drink of water from a bottle. "Is that..?" Michael asked.

Ellis laughed. "No, this is a different bottle. Just my daily rig." He watched carefully as Michael drank deep from the bottle.

"Listen Mike." Ellis said. "I am sorry that I didn't watch out for you as much as I should have… But I really do need to finish this work." He lowered his voice carefully. "This is even more serious than I'd first thought."

Michael finished his drink and handed back the bottle. "Of course Ellis. But just one thing." He paused, feeling the tension at asking. "Do I.. do I have any more wrinkles?"

Ellis laughed out loud at this and slapped him on the back. "Never took you for the vain type, Mike." But as Ellis stood up and looked at the house Michael could see the gravity in his bearing, and knew that a great deal of the Pastor's good cheer was his own armour against whatever they were facing here.

And what were they facing here? He thought of the apparition he'd seen, as he'd... imagined? himself inside of Hank Russo's living room. The sense of the thing was something deeper than menace, more personal than mere predation. A shudder ran up Michael's spine and he had to fight to keep a whimper from rising up from his chest. Even though Ellis was busy studying the house, Michael could tell that the Pastor was still maintaining a subtle watch on him, and this did help him get himself under control.

The front gate opened with a light squeak, and both men turned to see Pastor Ellis's wife Katy as she stepped through the gate, carrying with her a basket of herbs and a five gallon jug of water.

"There we go!" Ellis exclaimed, taking the jug from Katy. "Thank you, dear." With that, he set off with the jug back to the house. Katy crouched down before Michael and put a hand on his knee.

"How you making out there, Michael?" She was a stout woman with a round face and kind eyes, made all the more pronounced by the straw hat she was wearing.

"I'm starting to pull myself together, I think." Michael looked up at the porch where Ellis was setting down the five gallon jug. "That's a lot of holy water."

Katy smiled. "Took quite a while to bless." She rummaged through her basket for a few seconds, before holding up a small green sprig of something that looked like moss. "Here." She offered the sprig to Michael.

He took the herb from Katy and turned it over in his fingers. Actually it looked more like a dried flower, with shrunken leaves that wrapped around themselves into a tight ball. Except that this wasn't dry at all, but rather moist and springy to the touch. "What is it?"

Katy gave his knee a gentle squeeze. "Why don't we wait for me tell you that later? I want to see if it works for you first." He looked back at the ball in his hand. "Just put in any of your pockets. As long as you keep it on you." With that she rose to her feet.

"So, I'm going to help out Ellis for a few minutes, but I'll be back to check on you shortly. Okay?"

"Thanks very much, Katy." He put the sprig in his shirt pocket. Just as Katy turned to leave, the sudden memory flooded his mind.

"Katy, wait!" he called out. She stopped and looked back at him with concern. "I completely forgot. My son, Colin, he was here before. He went inside of the house." And added to himself: How could I forget that? What's wrong with me?

Katy's look went from concern to shock. "Oh my. That's not good at all. Is he all right?"

Michael stumbled to his feet. "Not really. But I hope he'll get better. We've got him on the boat right now and I need to get back to him." He felt a little woozy, but when he thought about the sprig in his pocket, his strength seemed to return to him, somewhat.

"Of course," Katy said, "But are you sure you're good to leave just yet?"

"I'll be fine." He smiled, patting his shirt pocket. Katy smiled back at him.

"Okay. I'll let Ellis know and we'll be down there as soon as we can."

A voice rose up from the other side of the fence. "Oh no…"

It was Mrs Bonafeld, from across the lane. She stood there in her housecoat, hair in rollers, gripping the fence with a crestfallen expression. From behind her Mr Bonafeld crossed the lane to join her.

"Oh no," Mrs Bonafeld repeated, just as her husband caught up to her and placed a gentle arm around her shoulders. They were both devout enough to understand the implications of what they were witnessing. "What are we going to do?" she choked out.

Michael reached the fence and stepped through the gate. "We'll continue on the same as before, Mrs Bonafeld. We'll keep going." Mister Bonafeld nodded his head in response to this.

"But we haven't even started yet…" she replied, glancing absently at Michael before returning her gaze back to Russo's house.

Katy approached the fence, reaching over and taking hold of Mrs Bonafeld's hand. She turned to look at Michael. "It's okay, Michael. I'll take care of this. Go see your son."

With a grateful wave Michael turned and began down the lane, feeling the strength return to him with every step he took. He'd meant what he said. They'd go on together, no matter what happened. But right now he needed to see his son.

When he got to the boat, both Jerry and Lenny were in the cabin, watching over Colin as he slept, fresh blankets over his chest but leaving his arms uncovered . The boy's face was peaceful in slumber, and definitely seemed less lined than before, but his hair was still the same shade of white.

"The doc didn't have much to say about it," Jerry explained. "Gave him a sedative and patched him up." He pointed to the bandages on Colin's arm and hand. "Shock and dehydration, he said. Said he was stable, for now. Said plenty of rest and liquids, and he'd be back in the morning."

He nodded his head and walked over to the side of the cot, looking down at his son. "Thanks for your help, boys." Jerry nodded his head in reply, then nudged his brother with his elbow and motioned to the door. The two men let themselves out as Michael pulled up a chair and sat down next to the cot.

He reached down and brushed away some hair from Colin's forehead, just as he'd done for the boy's sister earlier. They both had Michael's dark brown hair, but Colin had inherited his Mother's straight nose. And her bravery, as well…

Michael tried not to think about what he'd experienced up at the house such a short while ago. As it turned out he'd only had some sort of hallucination, caused by a transference through the window. But Colin had gone inside, and clearly suffered much worse effects (made none the better by his father's reaction, Michael's nagging conscience reminded him).

What had the boy seen in there? What had he gone through? Without thinking, Michael clutched at the lump in his shirt pocket and squeezed his eyes shut.

Whatever it takes to protect him. Whatever it takes to protect them all. Anything you want, just ask and I'll do it.

A rustling from the cot took hold of Michael's attention. He saw Colin's eyes flutter open weakly. "…Dad?"

"Yeah son," Michael said, carefully placing his hand on Colin's wrist. "I'm here."

Colin blinked a few times before settling his gaze on Michael. "Dad…" he whispered. "It's me. It's Colin."

"I know, son," Michael answered, "I know it's you."

---

CONTINUE TO CHAPTER THREE HERE

This has been the second Chapter of "The Storm", an ongoing serialized novella written by Greg McCann exclusively for Steemit.

Here is Chapter One.

This story is based on my original instrumental composition of the same name.

Writing and images by Greg McCann, the author of this post and owner of this Steemit Channel. To view more of my work, please visit www.fireawaymarmot.com.