The Storm

"Oh the weather outside is sucky, and lightening is unlucky. I really wish this storm would go; I hate snow, I hate snow, I hate snow," She sang, kneading at some dough on the counter like a suckling kitten.

Growing up, her family would bake during bad weather. The oven kept the house toasty, and the anticipation of chocolate cake or fresh bread with soup was enough to fight off the chill.

A chuckle erupted from the living room, and the deep voice of her love, Rodney, called, "That was beautiful, hon. But it's hailing, not snowing."

She snorted, balling up the dough and placing it in a glass bowl with a thin towel over top, just the way Mama used to do.

"Hail is just aggressive snow."

A flash of lightening ripped across the sky, leaving a jagged shadow behind her eyes each time she blinked. The thunder that followed rumbled so deeply, the Earth may as well have been growling.

A small buildup of hail sat in the flowerbed hanging off the window. They were only as big as fishbowl gravel but poured down in a thick blanket. She pitied any poor souls that were stuck out in such hateful weather.

A set of arms snaked around her middle from behind and she squeaked. The banded tight muscles beneath her hands were shocking at first, but she melted into them. These arms had kept her safe through the hard times and held her so lovingly during the peaceful ones.

"Sorry," He said, his breath gliding across her neck. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "Just...you know. A little-"

"Paranoid?" He hadn't exactly asked, he had declared this answer.

She twisted in his arms, blue eyes narrowed in accusation. His smile was gentle but there was a hint of judgement tugging at the corners of his lips and shining in his eyes; she hated this look.

"Well. I might be. I mean, things have been weird here lately, right?"

The sharp, judging edge of the smile only grew, but his dark eyes softened.

"I think you been reading too many scary stories."

So what if she was? It might not be the best idea when they live in a rural area, but they're not exactly isolated. The closest neighbor was five minutes down the way, and their neighbor was five minutes from them, et cetra.

But it wasn't her reading that made her feel so suspicious. There was something off lately, or more pronounced, she should say. Something had been going on for a while, nothing she could really pinpoint, but deep in her gut, she knew it.

The weather had been stormy, gloomy. She loved it but it was grating after a few days, having to be stuck inside. Couldn't stay outside too long, didn't want to fall ill when any fever could lead to death.

But she wouldn't deny herself an evening on the porch, with the fresh smell of rain making the air feel clean in ways it hadn't for months, since the last bout of storms. And maybe she noticed some extra footprints, the outline of sneakers that didn't match her own heading up or down the steps. She'd begrudgingly chalked that one up to the neighbor visiting.

Then she was missing a drinking glass for a week; it was one of her favorites for it's odd shape, and there were only two in the set. She found it in the shed a week later, and Rodney swore he didn't take it there. But he could have done so and just forgot to bring it in, then didn't admit it out of embarrassment.

But then one morning she woke up to her good blanket folded neatly over the recliner instead of the couch like she was positive she'd left it.

See where this is going?

She's pretty sure someone's living in her house.

Once that theory weaseled into her head, it stuck; all week, it had been her main thought, and in that time, she'd checked everywhere, twice, (with a shotgun, just in case) but had found nothing.

Nothing.

When she told Rodney the theory, she was met with that look. He was so sure that it was just her mind playing tricks on her. Being a horror movie buff and living out in the countryside were as good a mix as hot oil and water.

She hadn't mentioned it again.

And it may sound weird, but she was...disappointed isn't the right word, but something like that. Because there had to be some reason for these things that didn't match up. It was easier to think that some rando was living in her home than to think that she's just...forgetting.

Forgetfulness is one of the first signs. Then the fever. Then-

A flash of lightening lit up the porch through the window over his shoulder, and she jumped, the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. Whether it was all in her mind or not, she saw someone.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

She untangled herself from his arms, backing towards the doorway.

"A-A there- person! I saw a person!"

"Hon-"

"No!" She shouted. She wasn't about to be dismissed again. "There was a person."

She was standing halfway in the kitchen and living room, head swiveling between the window and the front door. "Look, I didn't ask you to search the house when I thought someone was squatting, but I know what I saw. What if someone's Lost?"

Rodney is a good man. Once he realizes she's sunk her teeth into something, it's easier to just go along with it. His chest puffed up with a deep sigh as he trudged across the room.

The screen door, creaky on a good day, screamed open. The pair paused, eyes wide, hers terrified. A hard, quick thud against the door.

She yelped, ducking back into the kitchen.

"They're not Lost!"

That prospect was even more terrifying.

He didn't hesitate now. "Stay right there!"

The shotgun was in his hand before she could finish hiding under the table; the only spot in the room where the windows couldn't see her.

The screen door got caught by the harsh wind and slammed shut with the force of a hurricane. Rodney barreled through it recklessly.

She stayed put where she was, knowing that she was pretty well useless when she was this frazzled. The screen door sang it's song again, and he rushed back in...with a wriggling, squealing bundle in his arms.

At first she thought it was a cat, mewling and angry at being caught. It didn't take but a moment more to realize that he was holding a baby.

"What the Hell?"

"Quick, hon, grab a towel. We gotta get her warm," He ordered.

It was pure luck that her body worked on auto-pilot while her brain raced so fast, she wasn't sure she could form a coherent sentence, let alone a question.

She grabbed a fresh towel from the hall cabinet and gingerly took the bundle into her arms; so cold. She laid the bundle in front of the blazing fireplace, close enough to warm without burning, and untucked the baby from her original wrappings. There were streaks of blood and a film of white-ish gunk on what bits of pink, swollen skin she could see, and something slimy and grey was poking out of the belly button.

Her heart dropped to her shoes.

This baby was brand new. So where the Hell was the mom?

She shook her head, a single curly strand falling into her face, and wrapped the newborn up tight in the fresh towel, cradling her close and swaying until the banshee shrieks faded away. Those little eyes fluttered shut as she went to sit on the couch. Her knees were shaking too hard to trust standing much longer.

Rodney came back in some ten minutes later, soaked to the bone, and carrying a box. It was a plain box, large enough, and poorly wrapped in brown paper, but she recognized it; they'd used it as extra storage for some canned goods in the shed.

She stood up to meet him, leaving the baby asleep on the couch. Still too trembly to hold something so delicate.

"What the Hell, babe?" She asked.

His eyes, so dark despite the fires light, pierced into her. He whispered, "You were right."

"What?"

"You were right. Someone else has been living here. Look."

He set the box down.

Right there on top, she saw one of her blue flannel blouses that had been missing. She'd assumed the wind had carried it off the clothes line. And a pair of long, cozy socks beside it. Another flannel, bigger, Rodney's. They'd all been arranged with apparent care to form a shallow dip in the middle.

She turned the box to get a better look when some scrawling across the top flap caught her eye.

I'm sorry.

A gasp flew from between her teeth.

My name is Claire. I've been on my own for...I don't even know how long now. No one was living here when I found it and, being pregnant, I was afraid to leave or approach you when you showed up. Too risky in these times. And I know it's cryptic, but I'm a nurse, I can recognize the signs, and I think I'm getting sick. It could be something pregnancy related or it could be this illness. Either way, we never found out for sure if this gets passed onto babies from mom, or if they just get antibodies, but I hope to God that my little one is okay. I don't think I will be.

The letter continued on across a second flap, more sloppy here. The cardboard had warped a bit around a few small water stains.

Please, if anything happens to me, please help her. And if you don't take her, please find someone who will. I know it's a lot to ask of strangers, but you guys seem kind. Gentle. She's just a baby, and if I can, I'll keep her but...I'm sorry. I don't know. Thank you, for everything. - Claire

Her eyesight went blurry as tears filled them. "Oh my God."

"There’s another package on the porch with some baby things in it; food, clothes. And I found a stash of things in the shed. I think that's where she'd been staying," Rodney said softly.

"Jesus, she really expected to die,” she said. Her heart thumped in realization and she asked, “Is she okay?"

Rodney couldn’t meet her eyes. "We'll have to bury her tomorrow."

"Okay...What are we going to do about the baby?"

He glanced over, eyes half-lidded and exhausted beyond what she'd seen in months.

"I guess that depends on if she's sick or not. We'll drop by Dr. Hardin's tomorrow, have her take a look. Until then, let's just...I don't know, do our best."

That really was all they could do.