As Silver Is to the Moon
The room felt crisp and refreshing as I crawled back into the cozy warmth of my covers. The comforting presence of my dog Honey’s stretched curled form was gone. “Honey”?
Only the sounds of occasional thunder and rain could be heard, along with the violent, howling winds. The big oak tree in the yard was flailing back and forth, looking like it could lose a limb.
Listening for the familiar sounds of her padded footsteps, I was alarmed when I heard banging on what sounded like the front door. I almost jumped out of bed.
Who could be here, in the middle of a storm, in the middle of the night?
An uneasy feeling slid over me as I made my way to the hall, electing to keep the lights off so I could see out the windows.
Answering the door to our apartment back home at two in the morning usually meant some drunken idiot was at the wrong door and couldn’t get their key to work. But out here, there could be no mistake.
Maybe it was the outer screen door banging in the storm. The gusting winds would most likely rip it off its hinges if it weren’t pulled tightly closed. As I reached out to unlock the bolt, an unmistakable knock came from the other side, sending my heart racing.
Someone was there.
I’m not proud to admit it, but I panicked a little. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek. Lightning occasionally illuminated the room from the front windows.
Maybe someone needed help. Maybe someone was being chased by a wolf. Maybe it was the wolf. Except a wolf couldn’t knock on a door.
But a werewolf could.
I tried to laugh at myself to ease my own tension.
On either side of the big wooden door was a floor-to-ceiling privacy window, with white curtains covering each one. I tried to look through the somewhat transparent lace, but I couldn’t see anything, just blackness outside.
If whoever was there saw my movement, I would have no choice but to open the door.
Chancing it, I ever-so-slightly moved the curtain aside to look out on the porch. I could see nothing until the next flash of lightning lit up the sky.
A wrinkled, elderly woman sat in an antique wooden wheelchair outside our front door. The winds blew her long, white hair in all directions, but she was looking down.
My head snapped back with my heart in my throat. Surely she needed help, but she almost looked scarier than some guy dressed in black. The image of her wheelchair and wild hair flying all about terrified me.
How did she get up the steps, alone, in a wheelchair?