An Untitled Story

The Silent Storm

The thunder grumbles outside my window as I stare at my blank 1950s style popcorn ceiling. Its white bumps and patterns tell a story that I try to interpret. Each one forms into a new shape, and creates what I want it to. Likewise to clouds, I find this activity very calming and I prefer to do it when I can't be outside.

The next clap shakes both stories of our tall house, and I can hear the wind howl louder below me. I'm guessing the window got pushed open, so I debate whether I should go down to close it or stay here under the warmth of my blankets. The delay of thunder sends me down in a hurry as I remember how my mother's prized possession, a vase bought in Africa, sits on a table close to one of the windows.

I look down at the rough wood planked staircase and matching colored handrail with nostalgia, and for the first time I can really see what 16 years living in one place can do. This is the house I was brought home to, and have spent my childhood in. Every crick and corner brings a different memory back, but there is no time to think of stuff like that at a moment like this. The step forth to the bottom creaks as always, and when I reach ground level I find that the storm has disappeared. There is no way for a huge one like that to clear up quickly; even in my small town of Sandersville, Georgia where change between rain and shine is quite frequent. Strange weather is only the first sign that today is going to be rough.

My barefoot path changes from hardwood to the speckled crème carpet as I enter the living room. To my dismay, the window is open ajar and my mother's $2,000 authentic vase lay shattered on the floor. I hear a loud gasp escape from my mouth as I look upon the ghastly mess. Clumsily deciding to go shut the window before anything else can happen, I find my foot so close to one of the glass shards it is almost impaled. I lock the window tightly shut and tiptoe my way to the old brown leather chair. Having shoes nearby is added to my mental checklist.

Once more I gaze at the debris of varied colors and patterns which are now all a connected mass of abstract beauty. I decide that calling my mother would be the best option. The dance I perform on my way to the kitchen is not one of grace, but staggered steps with no rhythm. I walk past the staircase and grandfather clock then through to the dining room and partnered kitchen where the family line is connected to the wall. A long cord stretches out as I dial the number of my mother's cell. My back faces our round wooden table which looks upon a glass door to the backyard. She picks up almost instantly and I wonder how I'm going to break the news.

"Hello? Emm is that you?" my mother speaks from the other line.

"Yes it's me, Mom. I have some rather interesting news so prepare yourself..." I answer back.

"What? Are you hurt? Is everything okay, Sweetie?" distressed sounding as I would expect.

"Well umm... It's about the storm that has been going on-"

"What storm? It's been sunny all day! Are you feeling sick?" she says.

"No mom... What are you talking about? How far away did you go with dad? When-"

My voice gets interrupted by a loud crackling sound and a voice that's sounds much like one from a radio or news reporter "Mrs. Michaels please report to the main room. Your assistance is needed."

"That was for me Emmie, I have to go now, and I'm sure your news can wait until I get home. Bye now." Her was tone completely changed.

"But Mom-"

Beep

Of course she would hang up, but why so abruptly? I've never heard anything like the place in one of her phone calls, and now I'm slightly worried. Why did she say there was no storm? I clearly heard the rain and thunder! My thoughts bug me as I stand by the granite counter, and I realize I still have the phone in my hand. Right as I hang up a loud crash comes from right behind me. This crash seemingly loud enough to imitate thunder! I turn my back quickly, and nothing is wrong except that our entire bag of flour had been poured onto the floor. What could have happened? Did the neighbor's cat somehow get inside the house again? I open the cabinet behind me and reach for the dust pan, but my eyes never leave the cloud of powder that covers the floor. Dust pan in hand, I almost fully bend down, but the sight in front of me makes my whole body shiver. Just like in sand or snow, the footprints of a full grown man creep towards me, though there is no human to be seen.