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The dog lingered in the doorway and sniffed. Ozone hung heavy in the air. The wind whipped up low-lying dust devils. She snuck a look toward the SUV. Jake sat up straighter in his seat and watched her, intensely enough to spark goose bumps. She tore her gaze away, turned her face upward.
“Not looking good, Onion. You’d better pee now before Beth gets here.”
The dog looked up with despondent eyes. Great. Her worry had spread to Onion.
“You moody dog. Get moving.”
Despite her growing unease, Claire stepped out onto the porch. She figured Onion would come along too. Instead, his sorrowful eyes remained locked on the distance. He bayed an eerie howl.
“Okay, now you’ve freaked me out, Onion.” She searched the fields for a sign of life, any hint that something or someone who didn’t belong hid among the corn. She wished she had the shotgun in her hands instead of it being on the fireplace mantle.
The first fat drops of rain plopped against the ground. Claire didn’t worry about the storm. The only good part of these fast-moving summer squalls was they tended to leave as quickly as they approached.
“Come on, let’s go in until this blows over. Beth will be here soon. Don’t worry.”
She glanced toward the SUV. Jake gave her a quick salute. Pretending not to notice, she headed inside. If he’d fess up, she’d be more than happy to let him inside. But as things stood, he could enjoy the storm from his car.
Desperate to ignore the niggling apprehension, she focused on keeping her hands busy. The living room still needed work. She grabbed a well-worn copy of Gone with the Wind, and a hardcover copy of a Nina Simone biography to put back in the bookcase.
A crack of thunder broadcasted the storm’s arrival. Nerves already frayed, Claire jumped. The books dropped from her grip. She looked over at Onion, who cowered under the coffee table.
Another crack of thunder. The house lights brightened, then flickered out. Onion, never one for storms, crawled out from his hiding spot to stand by Claire’s side.
“It’s okay, boy. Let’s go flip the fuse.” She fought to keep her voice calm. The sudden gloom strummed her already tightly strung nerves.
Claire felt her way along the walls to the fuse box in the back bedroom. She flipped the switches back and forth. No luck. Onion shivered at her feet.
“Flashlight and candles in the kitchen, come on.” She scratched behind his ears, tried to impart a reassurance she didn’t feel herself.
The storm turned the dusk sky to night. Claire tripped over the books piled on the floor on her way to the kitchen, but caught her balance before she landed face first. As soon as her foot crossed the kitchen threshold, another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Claire caught a flash of something in the window over the kitchen sink.
She stifled a scream and instinctively stepped away from the window. Darkness blocked her vision of whatever, or whoever, had been there.
“Jake? Is that you?” Her shaky voice barely lifted over the sound of hail pinging against the roof.
Claire froze. No one answered. Dread filled her veins, chilled her skin.
The shotgun was in the living room. Should she go for it? A bang of thunder shook the windowpanes. She used her left hand to pull open the junk drawer and fumbled around for the flashlight.
Onion’s throat vibrated as he let out a low growl. He stood, tense, by her side. At last, she felt the plastic tube. Her pulse ratcheted down a tad when she clutched the flashlight. With the push of a button, light poured forth toward the window.
Claire screamed at the face that glared at her. Only it wasn’t the killer who stared back. The light showed her petrified reflection. She couldn’t see who or what, if anything, was outside.
Never looking away from the window, she shuffled backward into the living room and grabbed the shotgun down from the mantle. She snatched up a box of shells and shoved them into a pocket. A few strays slipped out and plinked against the brick hearth. She loaded the gun by muscle memory, grateful for the times her dad had taken her hunting.
The flashlight didn’t help make her feel safe. The gun helped, but.…
She hunched low and scurried to the bay window. Lightning flashed. For a moment she saw Jake’s SUV, too brief to confirm if he was in there. She scooted toward the door, the living room wall firm against her back—her goal, the front door and Jake beyond it.
Another burst of light. Onion stood growling at the kitchen door. The hair on his haunches stood straight up. The dog burst into wild, ferocious barking.
Claire swung the shotgun over. Pointed it at the kitchen door. “Who’s there?” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt. No one responded.
Jake would have called out.
Her finger caressed the trigger.
If the Voice of Doom lurked outside, she couldn’t afford to be a damsel in distress. She took in a steadying breath. Gritted her teeth. A calmness descended. No more fear. She knew what she had to do. She took in a deep breath and let it out. She was ready to fire at whoever came through the door.
