Linda Fairstein - The Kills

Fierce weather spooked the animals. I was used to seeing that here in the country. Cottontail rabbits that usually didn't appear until dusk were skittering across the lawn. A family of skunks huddled against each other under the leeward side of a beach plum tree. Flocks of birds were fighting the wind in an effort to steer themselves south.

I was just as unsettled as the wild creatures. Somehow this old farmhouse had weathered scores and scores of storms, but now a cedar shingle ripped loose from the barn roof and flung itself against the window, reminding me that the glass was all that stood between me and the approaching squall.

Again, I paced around the house, checking windowsills for places that had leaked before, and laying old beach towels beneath them. When I returned to the living room, I fixed myself a spicy Bloody Mary, switched on the radio to track the storm, reached for an old copy of Sterne's Tristram Shandy in the bookshelf behind the fireplace, and settled onto the sofa to relax, read, and wait for Gretchen.

I must have fallen asleep, aided by the warm combination of the alcohol and fire. A loud thud right behind my head startled me awake. A large bird, some sort of grackle, had become disoriented and crashed against the pane. Dazed for a few seconds, it picked itself up and flew off with a few taunting squawks.

The day had changed. It was after three o'clock, and the sky had turned from a pastel gray to a deep black. Everything in the landscape was atilt, yielding to the power of the wind that was gusting at almost seventy miles an hour, according to the local newscaster.

For the next half hour, I felt as though I were on an amusement park ride that wouldn't stop to let me off. Objects swirled around outside and thumped against the roof and sides of the house. Tree branches snapped in half with a terrible cracking sound and slapped at my taped windows. I moved to sit on the floor in the middle of the room, fully expecting a limb or bough to hurtle itself through the glass and impale me against the sofa's cushion.

It was exactly 4:05 in the afternoon when the flickering lights went out and the electricity went dead. No radio, no music, no quiet hum of kitchen appliances. The interior darkness mirrored the weather, and I inched closer to the fireplace to add more logs to my only source of warmth and light.

I had flashlights at the ready in every room. I turned one on and tried to continue to read, but the drama outside the window made reading impossible.

The storm raged for more than an hour. The strange noises of nature's destructive forces had unnerved me. Old wooden floor-boards creaked and groaned, damp drizzle seeped in through cracks in doors and window sashes, squalls pounded against every surface of the house.

And something moved up above me. Footsteps in the empty second-floor bedrooms? I took the flashlight and followed the beam up the staircase. Squirrels, probably, or field mice. Had to be some frisky critter that had found its way inside or burrowed under the attic eaves.

I checked from room to room, but all seemed fine. I shined the ray into the bathroom, and highlighted a spider on the outer window screen, clinging to an iridescent web as the wind tried to tear it from its hold. Standing at the top of the stairs, I could hear the pitter-patter of small-clawed feet echoing over my head. Whatever was in the attic could spend the night. I wasn't going up to investigate.

Now there seemed to be a distinct tapping coming from below me. I took three steps down and listened again. It was pitch-black, save for the narrow path of light leading from my hand. Lilac bushes stood outside the door. Their bare, hearty branches must have been scraping against the old six-over-six windows on the house's facade.

I returned to the living room and tried to settle down again.

Still there was something besides noise that was disturbing me. There were shadows, too. I hadn't put enough vodka in my drink three hours earlier to distort my vision, but ghostly shapes seemed to move back and forth along the length of the rear deck. I would have offered shelter to almost any form of animal life, but not to these weird, unwelcome dancing phantoms.

Maybe the bedroom was a better place to be. Careful not to trip over chair legs or stools, I made my way through the house. Too much glass, I told myself. I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone was looking in at me. Was I foolish to want to climb back upstairs to one of the guest rooms and snuggle under a quilt, out of range if someone wandered onto the property? How stupid to be afraid in my own home.

I pulled the chaise longue away from the foot of my bed into a corner of the room, flipped open my cell phone, and punched in Jake's number. A mechanical operator told me the call I wanted to place could not be completed as dialed. I tried Jake again before dialing Mike. The problem was clearly on my end, so I gave up.

I rested my head against a small pillow my mother had needle-pointed for me, just as a violent spasm brought something crashing through what I thought must be one of the kitchen windows. I jumped to my feet and ran through my office to get to the large, open room, trying not to let my agitation overcome my wits. Why hadn't I gotten extra small batteries for the radio when I was at the store? Why had I wanted to ride out a hurricane in the first place?

One of the window boxes that hung outside beneath the sill had been thrown up through the glass and onto the floor with enormous force. Wet topsoil was everywhere, and blustery air charged into the room behind the wooden missile, which had overturned and landed beneath the dining table.

I looked up and thought I saw someone running on the slick lawn at the bottom of the steps that led down from the deck. Maybe it hadn't been the wind that had torn the flower box from its mooring and sailed it inside. Maybe I wasn't imagining the shapes and shadows around me after all.

Why wouldn't someone have knocked on the door if he or she wanted to get inside? I picked up the landline telephone to see whether it was working, but since the portable models were now run on electricity, too, the phone was dead. Back to the front door. I was nervous and edgy, checking to see whether someone had driven in from the road, looking for help. With the house looking so dark and quiet, it was possible that a person approaching it would think no one was at home.

A terrible rattling started again, now from the French doors in my bedroom. I slinked through the narrow hallway, clutching the banister to steady myself. There was a distinct outline of a body against the tall glass pane. Someone was trying desperately to get inside the house.

Should I call out to my unexpected visitor and let him know that I was indeed in residence? No. Not a good idea. I remembered the plume of smoke that must have been pouring out of the chimney. Forget the house's quiet and the darkness, of course an interloper would know I was in here. This was not someone looking for my help. Whoever it was wanted to scare me to death before he showed himself.

The noise stopped. I turned off the flashlight and crouched in the area behind the staircase, not visible from any of the windows. All I could hear was the crackling of the logs shifting in the fireplace as they charred and burned.

Then another blast of broken glass. This time it sounded like it was coming from the living room. I had taped the giant picture window, but not the small panes in the door that opened onto the deck. Had the wind propelled something through the narrow space or was there really someone intent on breaking in? My gut told me it was the latter.

I crawled twelve feet to the front entrance, lifting my arm over my head to feel for the small brass lock and twisting it gently 180 degrees. I paused, and heard what I thought was a jiggling noise that might have been the door handle back in the bedroom. I wanted out.