The March-April Editor's Pick Story is by Jorge B. Valdes
Please feel free to email Jorge at: yu.knee.verse@gmail.com
THE STORM
by Jorge B. Valdes
Cheryl’s phone begins to buzz on top of the dresser, making her rings clink together. The rings seem to be complaining about such an early disturbance. I nudge Cheryl on her side, “Hey baby; wake up. Your phone’s going off.”
“Huh…oh shit, I forgot I was supposed to go with mom to Tyler.” She reaches in the dark toward her phone. Sitting at the edge of the bed, she responds to her mother quietly as if trying not to wake anything else. Her rings are silent.
“Sure mom, I’ll be ready to go in the next twenty minutes.” She nods her head in compliance as though her mother could see her. “No, I think Greg is gonna stay home with the dogs. Plus he had a hard week so I think he wants to just sleep in.”
I am thinking, So much for sleeping in. I’m already fully awake. I walk over to the back bathroom of the house since Cheryl’s probably about to bombard it with her rush to get ready. I learned long ago that it is best to beat her to it.
“God dammit, can’t a man get some rest around here?” I say to the dogs…their heads are cocked to the side as I walk past them. When I come back, they are sniffing something in the corner by the couch.
“Hey, whaddya guys got going on over there, somebody puke?”
As I get closer to investigate, they run past me, a putrid smell lingers and is gone.
I call out looking at both dogs hiding inside their kennel. “Damn, which one of you did it? Which one of you puked?”
I walk over to the kitchen to pick up a bottle of cleaner and some paper towels. As I get closer to the couch, the mess disappears. Examining the couch closer, I hear a voice passing behind me, saying “stay.”
“Honey, did you say something?” I ask.
“No,” she replies back loudly. Cheryl is in the bathroom. “Greg, my mother’s on her way here, I don’t know if she’s coming inside for a minute, but can you get me some coffee ready just in case?”
“Sure, I’m already up.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sure it’ll be a fine day, all by yourself.”
I scoop some coffee beans into the grinder and press down. As the machine grinds the beans, I hear a deep and hollow growl. I turn the machine off and look toward the living room. The dogs are jumping up on Cheryl in the bathroom. I think that is unusual behavior; the dogs are mellow for the most part and don’t normally jump on us.
The rough braking against gravel provokes the dogs to run to the front of the house, barking toward the yard. I peer out the window to see Cheryl’s mother swings the car door open and runs around it, carrying shopping bags from the back seat and shoves them into the trunk to make room for Cheryl to sit in her car.
“Shop-a-holic,” I whisper, sipping my fresh cup of coffee. I study the sky; the clouds are coming in and they look dark and ominous.
“Honey, your mom’s calling you,” I say, wondering why Marge feels a need to use her cell phone when she is right outside our door.
“Pick it up and tell her I’m almost ready.”
“Marge, it’s Greg, Cheryl’s about to step outside. She’s wrapping herself up.”
I hang up the phone and take it over to Cheryl, “Don’t forget this. You might need it.”
She thanks me and steps out the front door, slamming it.
Quiet returns to the house. The coffee pot’s hot plate clicks off and I sink myself into my big chair to take a breather. The dogs are back at the end of the couch, sniffing incessantly.
I get up and peer out the window again, curious to see the progress of an incoming storm. I look up at the sky to see that the clouds rolling in are welled with water. The birds had quit chirping.
My phone buzzes with a text message. Clicking the screen on, I see it’s a weather advisory for “Severe thunderstorms with a possibility of flash floods.”
I feel worried about Cheryl. Maybe I should call her to express my concerns about the weather. Then I realize that she is an adult and besides, any time I try to offer advice, she resents it. I don’t phone her.
As the afternoon hums by, I notice that the sky continues to darken. A distant thunder rumbles, sounding like the cracking of whips. Low howls permeate the walls and I know it is the neighbors’ dogs. They sound afraid.
I grab a beer out of the fridge and go over to the window, the cold bottle feeling steadfast in my hand. The microwave is popping my rainstorm snack. Suddenly the microwave stops, and silence blankets my house. I look outside and the trees are swaying harmoniously back and forth in the strong wind. None of my neighbors seem to be home.
“Strange,” I say to the cold brew, “I can’t tell if they’re lights are out too, or if it’s their backup system or what.”
Thump! Something heavy lands on the house.
“God dammit,” I said, “That better not be a tree. I don’t need another bill.”
The rain isn’t falling yet, but I know it will very soon. Stepping outside, I look from around the porch to see what had fallen. I don’t have a single tree close enough to drop a limb. What could that noise have been?
I set the brew down on the porch rail, and walk to my shed in a determined pace. The ladder is jammed between some bins. I have to stretch my arms just to reach the ledge of it and pull it out. The bins move around awkwardly, like building blocks for adults that suck.
I secure the ladder to the edge of the house. I start climbing, and I pause.
What the hell am I doing? I’m probably increasing the chances to get hit by lightning! I quickly jump off, not realizing I’m more than a step or two up. I land horribly, twisting both my already frail ankles.
“Shit!” I scream. Instinctively, I crawl back the same path I came from. “Oh my God it hurts! Forget all that is good,” I say. All that I see is red, and as I attempt to crawl, my body shakes because it is packed with both pain and adrenaline. I begin to feel lightheaded, as though I am floating.
I manage to stand up, and step forward with my pulsating ankles and their overstretched ligaments. I take each step as if I’m learning how to walk for the first time. I pick up my bottle of beer that has been sweating without me.
Stepping into my home, I realize that there’s a man in my living room, sitting in the darkest corner of my couch where the dogs had sniffed. I had left the door wide open when I went to investigate the roof. That must be how this man got in.
“Hey man, what the hell are you doing in my house?” I ask through my adrenaline-infused pain.
The man stands up, his eyes angry. He is about six feet tall. He moves towards me, and I’m frozen. The bottle of beer slips out of my hand but I don’t notice it hitting the floor.
*****
Cheryl gets dropped off by her mother, who drives away. She is carrying her heavy shopping bags up through the yard as the rain is slapping her face. She’d been having to pee for the last hour but she didn’t want her mother to stop anywhere else. Her keys are lost in the jungle of her purse.
The weather is windy. Greg hadn’t answered any of his calls or text. His car is in the garage, but the house was eerily quiet. Flipping through each of the keys, she finds the right one. Sliding it in, she realizes the key isn’t even necessary. The door isn’t locked…how strange. Flipping the light switch produces nothing. The house is dark.
“Must be the breaker,” she whispers to the dark. The neighborhood had light; at least she thinks they do.
“Greg!” Cheryl calls, squirming her packages through the front door. She hands her heavy bags over to the sofa. Huddled in the corner are their two dogs.
“Come here babies; what’s wrong?” she says to the dogs, waving her fingers at them. One of them gets up and crawls to her, slinking on the floor. She feels alarmed at the dog’s behavior.
“What’s wrong baby?” she says to him, picking him up. The dog was sticky, and smelled like spoiled meat.
“Oh my God; you stink,” she says as she puts him back down. The dim light coming through the windows allows her to see a crimson stain across her dog’s legs and feet.
Cheryl experiences alarm. She calls for Greg and feels angry that he doesn’t respond. She walks across the living room and kicks something made of glass. She stops to peer at it and realizes it is a beer bottle. Now she is doubly angry at Greg.
“Greg!” she calls, swinging by the bedroom. She sees he is not there. Greg’s cell phone is still by the night stand. The notice light at the edge of his phone is blinking.
“Probably from me,” whispers Cheryl. She goes back to the dog to examine him. He’s laying down in the middle of the floor, shaking.
Suddenly from the side of the couch comes a howl. Her other dog appears from behind the couch and steps over to her. Behind him is Greg, crawling on the floor and reaching around, trying to feel his way.
“I can’t see!” he shouts.
Cheryl lets out a blood curling scream. Greg’s face and his eyes are missing. His blood had already dried against his lips, he falls to the floor and doesn’t move.
His hands are covered in blood. He is holding a piece of paper. She pulls the paper through his sticky red hands. The paper smells like rust. Unfolding it she reads the sentence written in blood: I’m here to stay.
The growling continues in the living room. Cheryl stands up and grabs her cell phone out of her purse. She wants to dial 911, but her battery is dead. She rushes to the bedroom to grab Greg’s phone.
Frantically she dials 911 on Greg’s phone.
She wonders what is taking so long to connect to Emergency Services. Suddenly a raspy voice comes on the line and tells her, “I’m here to stay.”
She screams and drops the phone on the bedroom carpet.
She runs back into the living room but stops short when she sees the strange man.
He marches towards her, his hands stretched out. From the corner of her eye she sees her dogs running at her, and she falls to the ground as both dogs leap at the man. Oh my God, she thinks, I never knew my babies were so brave. She reaches around from behind Greg’s bookcase and pulls out his shotgun.
Her dogs are fighting feverishly and that makes it hard for Cheryl to get a clear aim of the man. The man throws one of the dogs across the living room. Cheryl squeezes the trigger with all her might.
She feels the hammer hit the shell. Her eyes are blinded by the fire exiting the barrel. Her ears are deafened by the shot. The man flies through her window, his scream, a demonic howl, fades into the windy storm. Falling to her knees, Cheryl is comforted by her excited dogs.
She opens her eyes, and with the light from the moon she sees that thing is gone. From the floor of the bathroom, Greg whimpers quietly.
She walks to the bathroom, flicking the light switch, and is relieved to see the lights come on. Greg’s face is turned away.
“I fell from the ladder and sprained both my ankles,” he says, pulling himself up like a toddler after a bad spill.
“Greg, look at me. Let me see your face.”
He turns towards her, and blood is squeezing out from his mutilated eyes. “I can’t see,” he says.
“I know, Honey. Here, let me help you to the living room. Once I sit you on the couch, I’ll get help.”
He holds his hand up, and she helps him to his feet. “That man…” he says.
“Don’t worry Baby; he’s gone now. You’re safe.”
She helps Greg into the living room, but he slips from her grip and falls, slamming his head into the floor.
“Oh my God!” cries Cheryl. She reaches down to him and a gush of hot blood is flowing from his head. She tries to stop the bleeding with her fingers, but as she feels her way through his hair, she finds the bottle stuck inside his head.
She desperately hopes an ambulance can make its way through the storm. She jerks to her feet and sees the writing on the wall next to the fireplace: I am still here.
Jorge Baldomero Valdes Jr. was born in East Texas. His interests have always resided in the arts.
He decided to write in 2007, while attending Stephen F. Austin State University, where he graduated in 2009 with a major in Spanish and double-minoring in Ceramic Arts and of course, Creative Writing!
He is also happily married to Angela and on their down time they spend lots of time reading to each other and playing with their three dogs, Rex, Corben and Shadow.
Today he’s a graduate student at SFA majoring in English. He plans to graduate in the spring of 2014. If he ever has the need to paint, draw, or write, he makes sure to have lots of coffee around in order to keep up with his creativity.