I stepped across the hall and into the kitchen.  Instead of heading to the refrigerator or cabinets, I turned left and walked to the window instead.  It was a large view of the entire northern end of the screened-in porch.

I reached the window and looked out, standing quietly.  There was nothing to see as I’d expected.  It was complete darkness.

But as I looked closer, I began to realize there was something different about this view than that afforded by the glass walls of the sunroom.  I could see the furniture on the porch outside.  I could see the screen walls enclosing the entire west side of the house.  I had to strain to see these things, but I could see them nevertheless.  I found that in stark contrast with the sunroom where I was unable to see even the nearest tree that stood only a few feet away from the windows.

How can I see what’s on the porch?  I couldn’t answer my own thought.  All I could tell was that the porch was barely visible in the darkness.

I leaned close to the window as I reached out and turned on the outside lights.  The porch lit up just as I’d expect it to do on a dark night.  The only major difference was that I could see nothing beyond the screen walls.  I would normally be able to see out into the trees and toward the lake, but none of that was visible.  Instead, there was only impenetrable darkness hovering right outside the screen barriers.

Looking to my left and to my right offered no difficulty seeing the porch itself.  Everything appeared normal.  I’d stepped to the window first because my curiosity threatened to drive me insane.  I needed to see the darkness again, to see if it had changed in the short time since I stood so close to the windows in the sunroom.

I hadn’t expected the porch to be visible, yet it was.  I hadn’t expected to be able to see everything on the porch with no difficulty, yet I could.  I knew when I walked into the kitchen that I intended to test the porch lights, but that was based on assuming the porch would be filled with whatever was out there, which it wasn’t.

I stared out the window as my confusion grew by leaps and bounds.  If the darkness is a cloud of some kind, it has to have passed through the screens and be on the porch… but it’s not.  My own thoughts bothered me because they revealed a greater mystery and proved this was no ordinary storm, which I knew but sought to deny.

“Vey?”  Mom’s voice frightened me so completely that I jumped away from the window while letting a small scream escape my lips.

I spun around to face her.  “Mom!  I mean, Mom, you scared me.”

“I noticed.  I’m sorry.  I thought you heard me walk in.”

“I guess I was so wrapped up in what I was looking at that King Kong could have entered the room without me knowing.”  We both laughed uneasily at that.  I felt a bit better knowing my sense of humor hadn’t disappeared, and I felt even better hearing my mother giggle a bit, even if it was tainted with fear and concern.  “What’s up?”

She looked at me closely before her eyes shifted over my shoulder to the window.  “That’s curious.”  She walked across the kitchen to join me.  Her eyes never left the window.  As she stopped next to me, she added, “Now why do you suppose we can see the porch?”

“I wish I knew.  That’s why I came in here.  I wanted to turn the lights on and see if that made a difference in the darkness.  I didn’t have to turn them on to see that it wasn’t inside the screens.  It’s very odd, I know.  If you look closely, you can see it’s just on the other side of the screen walls, but it’s not inside.  I don’t get it.  The porch is clear…”

We stood in silence for a minute looking out into the darkness.  I was certain neither of us could explain what we were seeing.  A cloud should pass right through the screens and fill the porch, yet this hadn’t.  Although I couldn’t see clearly, it was obvious the darkness was pressed against the screens on the outside but was not passing through the porous barrier.

“That’s unnatural,” she finally said.  I remained silent but knew she had only stated what both of us could see.  After another minute she continued speaking.  “Vey, listen.  It’s about Brogan.”

“What’s up, Mom?”

“It’s his eyes.  When I said they weren’t dark, I wasn’t lying, but I wasn’t telling the whole story.”

“I was afraid of that.”  I faced her as she continued staring out the window.  I’d seen the smallest glint of concern when she’d looked into his eye while we watched.  I’d disregarded my impression as nothing more than noticing her increasing concern for her beloved pet.  I was quickly finding out it was more than that.

“Like most animals, dogs generally lose voluntary control of their eye mechanisms when they’re asleep, unconscious, comatose, or disabled in any other way.”  Her voice seemed small.

I continued staring at her although she’d stopped talking.  I didn’t think I liked where she was going, but I needed to know.  I also had a morbid sense of curiosity at that time that made me feel like I was watching a train wreck in slow motion.  Because, like all humans, I couldn’t look away from that metaphorical wreck, I prodded, “And?”

“And, when I looked at Brogan’s eye, it appeared completely normal.  But it was normal only for a dog that’s awake.  He’s not.  Dog’s have a third eyelid under the outside two.  If a dog’s voluntary control is turned off, that eyelid should close.  Both of his are open.  They’re wide open, in fact.”

“I don’t get it, Mom.  What does that mean?  Is he awake?”

“No, he’s not awake.  His eyes don’t respond to light, and I even tried touching them to see if he’d flinch.  He didn’t.  Your father pinched the pads of his feet to see if he’d respond to pain.  Again, he didn’t.”

I could hear my own voice growing more desperate as I said, “Helene mentioned he was twitching like he was dreaming, like he was chasing something in his sleep.  Could those have been seizures instead?”

“It’s possible.  I’m not a vet, you know, and I don’t know everything there is to know about animals.  What I do know is that Brogan’s condition is odd.”

“Could he have had a stroke or aneurysm or something like that?”  I was grasping at straws and I suspected she knew it as well as I did.

“Maybe.  As far as I know though, none of those would explain his condition.  I’m telling you, Vey, something’s wrong with Brogan that goes well beyond any health problem I know about.”

Her words cut me deeply.  Mom was anything but ignorant when it came to animals.  She’d grown up on a farm.  She’d lived on farms almost her whole life.  She knew animals.  She knew animals.

And that meant she knew a lot about their various medical conditions and how to interpret the signs.  If she couldn’t explain Brogan’s state, it was either something so obscure that it was practically unheard of, or it was…  Well, it would have to be something else entirely.

I stared at her for a moment more before turning back to the window and the bizarre situation on the screened-in porch.

[Introduction | Part 8 | Part 10]

“Monica!  Richard!  Mr. Lloyd!”  The shout was bloodcurdling.  It was Margaret yelling—no, it was Margaret screaming from the living room.

Too entranced as I stood with my face near the windows, I hadn’t realized I’d ignored Helene’s call.  When first heard, I’d assumed it was meant for Old George and his wife because their daughter was frightened—and rightfully so—by the sudden approach of the darkness.  It had come upon us so suddenly, so menacingly, that anyone as young as their daughter would be frightened by it.  It scared me and I am almost three times her age.

I hadn’t considered the possibility that another reason existed.  Helene was young and inexperienced (although I realized even then, there was no experience capable of explaining what was happening).  A teenager living through such an event would undoubtedly panic, and that assumption fueled my disregard for her cry.

Margaret’s voice screeching for all of us, on the other hand, shattered that assumption and embarrassed me for thinking I knew what was happening.

I nearly shoved Mom and Dad to the ground when I turned from the window and dashed full speed down the hall.  Whatever was happening outside and whatever I thought I might be able to see out there could wait.  Her voice from the other end of the house hit like a sledgehammer to the heart and meant something more than just “Hey, come take a look-see.”

As I ran to the living room, I could hear my parents following me with near abandon.  Had I stopped they probably would have run right into me—or right over me.  We knew Margaret was not given to uncontrolled outbursts.  On the contrary, she was prim and proper and would have to be pushed to great lengths to abandon that nature.

I grabbed the doorjamb around the living room entrance in order to steady myself as I attempted an uncontrolled stop-and-turn lest I run headlong into the door to the screened-in porch.  As my feet slid along the hardwood floor, the rest of me made the turn into the living room with abruptness similar to a car accident.

I once again found myself wanting to laugh, but this time hysterically as though I were insane, and all because I probably looked like a buffoon skidding through the living room doorway hanging on to the wall for dear life.  Thankfully my grip was strong enough to keep me on my feet, although they were wont to abandon me as they slid around the corner and nearly flew out from underneath me.

George, Margaret and Helene huddled together in the corner near the love seat where the dogs had been sleeping earlier.  I could see Mosko cowering under the piece of furniture.

He was a big dog, a large brown German shepherd who was not known, as far as I knew, for bouts of fear and anxiety.  In fact, of the two dogs, Mosko had always been the one that frightened me a bit with his fierceness.  I always knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but there were times when I doubted my own conviction on that point.

I found this sudden view of him curled in a tiny ball underneath the furniture and shaking uncontrollably to be so contrary to his nature that I at first thought he had been hurt somehow.

Brogan was stretched out on the floor between the McCreary clan and Mosko’s position under the love seat.  They stood over him with their arms around each other staring down at the animal.

Unlike Mosko, Brogan was a timid animal more interested in fun, games and affection than in being a guard dog.  He was a harlequin Great Dane, a massive animal who dwarfed his housemate and stood at least as tall as my waist.  He could be extremely intimidating when provoked though, and the sights of him always proved sufficient to deter anyone from thinking nefarious thoughts.

Seeing him stretched out at their feet was an all too familiar sight.  That dog would soak up attention from anything that breathed.

My parents scurried into the room as Margaret turned around in response to my uncontrolled entry and near collision with anything that might have been in my way.

“Something’s wrong with Brogan,” she said, and I could see the horrified concern in her eyes.  They had pets.  In fact, they had dogs, and all of them would surely feel the pain of one of these animals as if it was one of their own.

Mom and Dad rushed across the room and I followed.  They knelt at Brogan’s side and began speaking to him in hushed tones.  They also reached out and touched him and petted him in hopes of comforting the canine while they determined what was wrong.

I stopped next to Margaret and looked on.  Brogan’s breathing was shallow and labored, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth and rested on the hardwood floor.

Both pets were elderly, Brogan more so than Mosko.  I often joked with my parents that the whole house was fool of geriatric animals.  It occurred to me that perhaps the dog was succumbing to age or a related ailment.  I was no veterinarian by any stretch of the imagination, and I really knew very little about animals (I’d had pets for much of my life, but they weren’t really my specialty and I could take them or leave them).

My parents, on the other hand, were farmers who had always lived with animals.  I couldn’t think of two better people to tend to the dog.  I also couldn’t think of two better people to figure out what was wrong.

“What happened?”  Dad didn’t look away from Brogan when he spoke.  He seemed to direct the question to Helene despite offering it up in general.

I looked at the girl standing between her parents and realized she was locked in a struggle between two opposing horrors.  Her eyes darted uneasily between the dog lying at her feet and the darkness pressed against the window to her right.  She’s going to crack, I thought.

As I watched, Old George gave her a gentle squeeze with the arm he had draped over her shoulders.  “Honey, can you tell Richard what happened?”

She shuttered briefly before speaking.  “I don’t know exactly what happened.  I was dryin’ the dogs off like Mr. Lloyd asked.  We was sittin’ on the floor right here.  They was actin’ funny, scared like, but I thought they was enjoyin’ the attention…”  Her voice trailed off for a moment.

I looked back at my parents and the dog who seemed to be struggling for life on my living room floor.  They were still stroking him and whispering soothing words to him.

“Go ahead, honey.  What else?” Margaret gently prodded her daughter.

“Well, I was dryin’ them off like I said.  Brogan was layin’ on one of the towels waitin’ his turn and I was workin’ on Mosko.  I thought Brogan was goin’ to sleep.  He stretched out on the floor here next to us—”  She gestured to the area where she was standing.  “—and I scratched him a few times before goin’ to work on Mosko.  It was a minute or two, I guess, and I had Mosko rollin’ over so I could dry his tummy.  I figured Brogan was asleep because he was dreamin’.  You know, because he was chasin’ a rabbit.  His legs were goin’ and he was kinda talkin’ a bit like they do when they’re dreamin’.  Then all’a sudden, Mosko squirmed away from me and went right under the couch.  He curled up and started shakin’ and whinin’ and stuff.  He looked awful scared.  He kept turnin’ his head up like he was lookin’ out the window.  That’s when I looked up…”  Again her voice trailed off.  Her gaze had returned to the window on our right.  “That’s… um… that’s when I saw outside.  That’s when I called to Mom and Dad.”

She started to cry.  Looking at her closely made me realize she was either crying again or still, that she’d probably been crying when her parents came into the room.  I wondered if it was because of Brogan or the darkness or both.  The situation was enough to make anyone her age break into tears.  Hell, I felt like joining her.  George again hugged her close as she sniffled.

“We came into the room and Brogan was there on the floor while Mosko was under the love seat,” Margaret added.  “We checked on Helene first.  She explained she was frightened by what she saw outside.”

George chimed in.  “That’s when we looked closer at the dogs.  Mosko was under the couch shakin’ like a possum ’bout to pass out.  Looked downright scared to death, that dog did, and still does.  But Brogan never moved except to twitch here’n’there.  He stayed right there on the floor where’n he’s at now.  I kneeled down to check ‘im cause’n he wasn’t movin’ much.  That’s when I noticed he wasn’t breathin’ right.  Margaret crouched down with me to take a gander ’cause’n I give her a strange look and all tellin’ her I was worried ’bout the dog.”

“I knelt next to his head while George petted him.  I stroked his head a few times and talked to him to see if he’d respond.  That’s when his mouth fell open and his tongue fell out like he was unconscious or something.  I know dogs well enough to recognize when something’s not right.  Brogan didn’t seem well.  And that’s when his eyes kinda flickered open a few times before shuttin’ again.  It was the eyes that made me scream for you.  I could tell he was awful sick, but those eyes…”

I had been staring intently at the dog and my parents during the conversation.  I worried for both.  My parents had lost plenty of animals throughout their many years together, but it was never an easy thing.  I had already thought it would be even more difficult under the circumstances.  But Margaret’s last sentence caught my attention and I turned to look at her.

We stood close together and I could see her face clearly in the artificial light that filled the living room.  Something in her expression said a lot more than what she spoke in words.  She saw something, or at least thought she saw something, and it had scared her.  She was not green when it came to animals or even sick animals, but she’d seen something when Brogan opened his eyes and it steamed right into her and dropped a boatload of scare in the middle of her soul.

“What about his eyes, Margaret?”  Mom was already stroking Brogan’s head and was now rubbing gently over his eyes.  She was entertaining the question of whether or not she should pry one open.  She wants to hear what scared Margaret so much before she takes a look, I thought to myself, and I can’t blame her for the curiosity or the unease.

If I had been standing closer to Margaret at the time, she would have pushed me aside with her sudden chills.

Did she see something so frightening she can’t even talk about it?  Or is it as simple as seeing some unexpected medical condition taking shape that added unnecessary insult to an already injured day?  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know if it was the former.  Nevertheless, I looked at her closely as I waited for her answer to my mother’s question.

She shook her head for a moment as if to say she had no intention of remembering or answering.  But it passed and she replied, “It was dark.  His eyes were dark.  They seemed empty.  They were as black as what’s outside.  You think maybe a blood vessel burst in his head or something and he’s bleeding into his eyes?  I bet that’s what it is.”

I recognized her shift from reciting facts to reciting hopes.  Maybe she did see darkness when she looked in his eyes.  Maybe she didn’t.  In her mind, the answer was obviously the affirmative.  It was only when asked that she began trying to explain it away with some medical reason.  She was being hopeful both for herself and for her daughter.  Perhaps she was being hopeful for all of us.

My father had leaned his head down and rested it on Brogan’s ribs.  I wasn’t sure if he was listening to his breathing, heartbeat, or both, but I knew the basics of what he was doing.

Mom continued stroking the dog’s head.  Trembling hands meant she struggled internally with the idea of Brogan’s eyes.  She probably wanted to look as much as she didn’t want to look.

The former eventually won the debate.  She shifted Brogan’s head a bit before clasping it securely with one hand.  She then used the other to pry open his right eye.

I had feared some wretched horror would be staring back at us, some empty darkness that had somehow invaded the dog, some unseen appendage from the storm that somehow had made it inside and filled the dog’s head.  But there was no such thing.  Beneath the pried-apart lids rested a completely normal eye for a dog, at least as far as I knew: a blue iris with a bit of white showing around the edges.

Mom leaned back and forth to look closely, pulled the eye open as far as she could, and eventually let it close again.  “It’s not dark now,” she said to no one in particular.

Dad raised his head and added, “His breathing is slow but seems regular.  His heartbeat sounds very weak.”  He then turned his attention to the McCreary family and added, “Helene, sweetie, I think it’s just age.  He’s very old for a dog this big.  He went swimmin’ earlier and romped around a lot.  He’s old and tired.  Maybe that was too much activity.  Maybe it pushed him over the edge, put too much strain on his weak heart or old muscles.”  He reached up and took Helene’s hand before continuing, “Honey, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about other than Brogan being old.  He’s probably reaching the end of his journey, that’s all.”  He gave her hand a slight squeeze as he finished talking.

A quick glance at the teenaged girl revealed a fleeting smile that stood in contrast to her tears.  I suspected she felt a little better knowing—again, was it hoping?—that the dog was just suffering from old age.  It needn’t be something extraordinary despite our circumstances.

Old dogs die.  Sometimes they die unexpectedly.  While Brogan wasn’t dead, he was obviously not well.  We knew it happened all the time.  Why should this experience change the basics of getting older?

That was the first time I was glad I hadn’t been able to swap positions with one of the dogs earlier in the day when the thought had first crossed my mind.  The second confirmation would come later, and it would be far more evident.

In the meantime, I turned my attention to Mosko who was still cowering under the love seat.  He was years younger than Brogan.  I made a mental note to keep that in mind on the outside chance that what we were watching was not as simple as an old dog finally winding down.  I felt certain knowing that that would be important, but I also felt certain we might never have the chance to know the truth.

“What about Mosko?”

My dad glanced at me before turning to look at the other dog.  Mom likewise turned her attention to the German shepherd trying his hardest to be as small and out of the way as possible.  She continued stroking Brogan’s head.

As I too studied Mosko, I thought of his fear at the storm outside before we came back in, and I thought of his fear now.  It was evident.  It was so powerful it was like a pungent odor in the room.

Like all animals, dogs have two kinds of fear.  Both are polar opposites of each other and form the foundation of the fight-or-flight response.  One kind of fear can be called the friend of rage and anger.  It’s a useful fear that gives us strength to face odds we might otherwise not engage.  That fear is the basis of our fight response and, for dogs, is the reason they should never be cornered.  While humans could scare a dog, canines generally had no overriding fear of people and would come out attacking if they had to.  The other kind of fear is nothing more than terror.  Unlike raging fear, terror is so overwhelming it drives us to run away, to focus more on escape and fleeing than on self-defense.  The terror fear, much like the angry fear, can blind us under the right circumstances.

Looking at Mosko, I realized he was dealing with that second kind of fear, the terror that made him want to escape by any means possible.  It was the same fear I saw in both of them when they stood on the shore watching the storm approach, and the same fear I saw in them when they stood at the door whining and whimpering begging to be let inside.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how disconcerting it was to see that kind of fear in a dog, especially a large dog.  A wolf thousands of years removed from its origins backed into a corner and fearful of something it knew it could not fight.  The sight of it disturbed me.  It terrorized me, in fact, and I was quite certain it did the same to everyone in the room.

Dad shifted his position so that he was straddling Brogan.  That placed him against the love seat and much closer to Mosko.  He began talking in soothing tones as he very slowly reached out toward the dog.

“Be careful,” I said before I could stop myself.

He would know better than I both how to deal with animals and how to deal specifically with his dogs.  Who was I to offer guidance?  Nevertheless, I knew even if overwhelmed by terror, unable or unwilling to defend itself, a dog could still lash out in a final attempt to protect its physical body from anything that approached.  My father paused long enough to throw me a disapproving look, one I felt I deserved, and then he turned his attention back to the dog.

Mosko shook uncontrollably in shivers and chills.  His whimpering and whining continued unabated.  I hated seeing him that way.

Dad’s hand slowly moved toward him as he spoke soothingly to the animal.  We all could see Mosko’s eyes watching the hand slowly approaching him.  After what seemed like hours, my father reached the dog and carefully stroked his head.  Mosko whimpered a bit more loudly when first touched, but then the whining returned to its previous state as my father continued to pet him and speak to him.

I was relieved to see him lean into my father’s strokes.  It was a sign he still felt safe with us; it was a sign he found some level of comfort in a soothing caress from the alpha male of his pack.

While I couldn’t claim the level of knowledge about animals that my parents could, something about the dog’s reaction to my father’s hand bothered me.  I had expected him to lash out from fear even at the person who loved him and cared for him.  I had no explanation for why that seemed odd.  It just did.

As my mother continued petting Brogan and my father comforted Mosko, I turned to the McCreary family.  “Why don’t we let them deal with the dogs?  I think Helene could use a break.  Why don’t you take her over to the couch?  I’ll go to the kitchen and get us some drinks.  Of course, the bar is right over there,” I said gesturing to the combination dining room-bar adjoining the kitchen, “if you need something stronger.  I’m afraid it’s not fully stocked, but I’m sure you could find something to drink if you want.  In the meantime, I’ll grab some tea and water from the kitchen.”

I didn’t wait for a response.  Instead, I turned and headed immediately to the kitchen.  I wasn’t going just to get drinks.

[Introduction | Part 7 | Part 9]

Following the others inside, I dropped the towels on the bench.  At the same time I pulled the door shut behind me and leaned back on it.  For the briefest of moments, my position “holding up the door” reminded me of a very different yet similar experience more than three years earlier.

Beth and I were attending one of those hoity-toity book-signing parties for my novel Evolution’s My Gig.  It had won the Hugo Award for Best Novel only a month earlier and the Nebula Award for Best Novel two months before that, so Brody and Penguin organized an over-the-top shindig in celebration.  Both my agent and publisher’s representative flew in from New York to attend.

It was a perfectly dreadful event full of Dallas’ elite—or wannabe elite.  We spent several hours listening to boring tales from rich schleps that probably had no intention of reading my book but wanted desperately to be associated with a local author who’d had more than a single novel show up on store shelves.

It was only my fourth published work and the fifth was already taking shape, but anyone who receives both the Hugo and Nebula Awards for Best Novel, especially for the same book, is a big deal in writing circles.  That meant a celebration was a must.  I only agreed after convincing Penguin to make it a charity event instead of a hobnobbing thrash.

Beth spent much of the evening playing second fiddle as I signed copies of my novel and spoke ad nauseam about my writing with people who didn’t care but asked because it was the polite thing to do.  We both wanted nothing more than to leave.  We even tried sneaking out on two occasions.  Brody had other ideas however, and he was notoriously good at locating me no matter where in the room I’d slinked.

I stood listening to some tedious older gentleman as he told me I’d inspired him to try his hand at writing.  He was explaining the story idea he had; it was coming out as a tiring mess.  Beth clung to my arm and gave her best affectation of interest.

Just as the man started to delve into some unremarkable detail of his life that he felt proved he had a story worth telling, my beautiful wife, always the thinker, began our third attempt to escape by feigning slight illness—”Probably from the heat and excitement, if not a touch of the drink,” she offered with an apologetic smile and a light touch to her forehead—and politely asking if I would be so kind as to escort her to the balcony for some fresh air.  I was only too happy to oblige.

We slipped through the crowd with Beth doing her best to look faint and me trying not to laugh as I helped her.  After stepping through the French doors out to the balcony, we worked our way around to another set of doors nearer the exit and slipped quietly back into the party only long enough to wend our way to the main doors.

As we neared escape, Brody suspiciously appeared out of nowhere, a ghostly apparition materializing just in time—suspiciously just in time.  So we turned sharply and headed into the restroom and coatroom area.

With barely a glance over our shoulders, both of us giggling like schoolchildren, we found what we thought was the coatroom and slipped inside.  We pushed the door shut behind us and leaned back against it as though trying to stop a marauding army.  Our laughing came uncontrollable and uproarious.

An unexpected noise in front of us caught our attention.  We focused in the dim light and saw Dick Weston, Penguin’s representative, standing in the dark.  One of the party’s waiters knelt in front of him looking over his shoulder at us.  Suffice it to say we could never mention Dick’s name after that without immediately seeing that picture: dearest Mr. Weston frantically trying to tuck his genitals back into his tuxedo trousers while the waiter stood up smiling like the Cheshire cat.

I leaned against the door of Carr Beholden in much the same manner Beth and I had leaned against that closet door.  A small grin passed quickly over my face in response to the memory.  I would have traded anything to be back in that stuffy party with the rich and disliked.  I would have traded anything to be back in that broom closet with Beth discovering something about Dick Weston that I never needed to know.  I would have traded anything to be in any other time and place.

The thought faded as quickly as it appeared and with it went whatever good humor I felt.  I locked the door behind me.  I couldn’t exactly justify to myself what made me do it.  The storm isn’t going to come knocking, I thought, but I’m not taking any chances.  Perhaps it was nothing more than fear of the unknown or the gut wrenching feeling I had that there was more to what was happening outside than an unusual atmospheric phenomenon.

No matter the reason or reasons, I locked the deadbolt, the keyless security lock, and even the handle lock.  Had there been a heavy piece of furniture nearby, I would have moved it in front of the door.  Something out there frightened me.  More accurately, something coming with the darkness scared the hell out of me.  I couldn’t define what it was; all I knew was that the feeling was real and I had to respond to it.

Everyone had stopped in the main entryway.  When I turned around after addressing my sudden need for security, they were looking at me as though I was insane.  Was it the grin?  Was it the locks?  Was it both?  It didn’t matter.

“I’m just playing it safe.”  I lied.  I was frightened.  Something was coming and I knew it even if they were in denial.  The dream had shown the darkness full of eyes.  Beth’s voice had told me to run.  Nightmares are scary things, I agree, but that one had left me with an overwhelming feeling of dread.  I considered those adequate reasons for wanting the door locked.  It was my house, after all, and I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone.

I didn’t say anything more but strongly suspected that all but Helene understood what I was doing: trying to keep whatever was outside from getting inside.  In retrospect, Helene probably understood as well.

I looked at her in response to my thoughts and immediately got the impression she was on the verge of a mental collapse.  I couldn’t have blamed her if that suspicion was proved sooner rather than later.  I was having a difficult time wrapping my mind around what was happening and knew she was more fragile.  She needed a diversion.

I reached down and grabbed the towels before stepping over to her.  “Helene, do you think you could dry off the dogs for me?”

She shuttered at the mention of her name.  It drew her back from a dark place.  Her brief recoil made me feel as though I’d struck her.  Still, she needed it.

“Uh…  Well…  Um, yes, Mr. Lloyd, I can do that.”  Her voice came hesitant and quivering.

I handed her the towels and she followed the trail of water into the living room.  As I watched her go, I silently chuckled thinking those damn dogs were all wet and were probably right back up on the love seat.  I can always buy a new one, I hoped.

Carr Beholden’s interior grew darker similar to what happened when a thunderstorm moved into the area.  The sun was chased away and heavy shadows fell over everything.  Yet this time was different.  It was darker and growing darker still.

The leading edge of the storm must already have passed well north and west of us.  It moved fast and stretched past the house by the time we got in the door.  The early afternoon sun was still high yet completely blocked when I last looked.  I suspected what little light we received was being reflected under the top of the darkness as it expanded.

Then the electricity went out.  There was no pop or explosion or other sign; everything just flickered several times, went off for a few seconds, and then came back on.  Carr Beholden had its own battery system that recharged by a diesel generator in the basement.  The monstrous contraption vented outside through the foundation and turned on on automatically as needed.  It could also manually be set to run all the time.

Even with a full tank of gas, I didn’t know how long the generator would last.  I’d never asked about it during the installation; I desperately wished I had.

The fact that the batteries powered the lights and ceiling fans and other electrical equipment gave me pause.  The news reports had said the storms were generating an electromagnetic discharge.  I’d intentionally disregarded that tidbit when I told the McCreary family that we’d have electricity if we lost power service.  Truth told, I didn’t want to admit then that an EM pulse capable of disabling the power grid could also disable most of Carr Beholden’s emergency services.

Standing in the entryway, I looked at the alarm panel next to the door and saw it showed we were indeed on battery power and that the generator remained in standby.  That negated the EM pulse theory.  Losing power from the main grid was caused by something other than electromagnetic interference, or so I thought.  Much later, I would again ponder that and supplement it with a wish that I had paid closer attention in high school physics.

I pushed myself away from the door and headed down the hall toward the east end of the house, toward the sunroom.  As I stepped around the small crowd, I said, “I have to see what’s happening.”

“Me too,” my father said as he followed me.  Mom turned and walked with him.

George echoed the sentiment.  “Might as well take a gander.”  I could hear his heavy footfalls coming down the hall after us.  I suspected Margaret would follow him to the sunroom although I didn’t hear her say as much.

The glass-enclosed room covered the entire first-floor east wall of the house.  A third of the wraparound porch had been glassed in with floor-to-ceiling windows facing east and half-wall windows facing north and south.  Although thick trees and brush shrouded the southern half of the room, the northern half was free of cover.  That end was also nearest the lake.  It would afford the best view toward the east.

When I stepped into that corner of the sunroom, I realized I could no longer see any clear sky to the north or in the sliver of sky I could see to the northwest.  The storm had consumed all of it.  Rather, it had consumed all of it that was visible from my position.  The clouds—or whatever they were—moved quickly enough that I doubted there was much sky left to the west that it hadn’t already hidden from sight.  To the east, on the other hand…  To the east was an image that would be seared into my mind forever.

Dad stopped up beside me and followed my gaze toward that end of the lake.  “Wow…”  His voice lost strength with that one word.  Mom stood silently beside him staring out the windows.

At least a third of the eastern end of the lake had vanished, disappeared into the blackness that hung down from the sky.  Again I thought of a veil dragged behind the leading edge of the storm, except unlike a wedding veil this one was black and ate everything in its path.  More like black heavy-velvet curtains.  I thought it might look like a rain shield from a thunderstorm for anyone observing from the west end of the lake.

In addition to the eastern third of the lake, an even greater expanse of the southern shore was cloaked by the approaching wall cloud.  It struck me yet again how the darkness advancing toward us seemed so utterly without detail, and that made it terribly difficult to judge its distance from us.

How quickly is the cloud deck lowering as the system advances?  Is it already nearing the top of Carr Beholden?  Even as those thoughts ran through my head, I realized I could see more of the lake and shore disappearing, consumed all too quickly by the approaching tempest.  Trees along its edge vanished without a trace, the lake’s blue surface falling into the abyssal depth of this dark and concealing beast.

George and Margaret had reached the sunroom.  No one said anything as we stared in disbelief.  I was reminded momentarily of a black hole gobbling up everything near it, except this one wasn’t waiting for prey to venture too close.  No, this one was actively hunting.  I shivered at that thought and wished my writer’s brain would stop offering metaphors and allusions to describe events.  Reality was proving to be terrifying enough.

We watched the darkness as it rushed toward us.  I became aware of a brief bit of reference when I noticed the tops of the trees were disappearing a split-second before the bottoms.  The obsidian wall tilted.  It dragged behind the high leading edge of the storm just like a veil of ink.  Watching the angle of its advance made me turn southward.  That edge was much closer to us than what we could see over the eastern end of the lake.

At the same time I realized why that was true, Helene’s panicked shout from the living room caught all of us off guard.  “Mom!  Dad!”  Before any of us could turn and head back to that end of the house, the reason for her sudden alarm became apparent.  Carr Beholden was being swallowed.

My prior realization was that, if what we were watching was the same storm that developed over Shreveport—and I never believed there was any reason to doubt that assumption—it expanded in all directions and came at us from the southeast.  That meant the living room would have provided a good view of it as it slithered up the private drive and leaped out of the forest that surrounded us.

From where we stood in the northeast corner of the sunroom, turning toward the southeast provided only a second’s consideration of what we saw before the black wall rushed through the trees and hit the building.  We jumped back as it slammed into the glass.  I had expected it to shatter the windows and pour into the room with us, but instead it struck in silence.  We were mesmerized as a vertical wall of nothingness engulfed that corner of the building before sliding around it and wiping away the last remaining view of reality.

The darkness so deep that it was impossible to focus on it.  The sheer face of the storm slid silently along the windows as we watched it go by.  It moved too quickly to keep in perspective.  Despite that, I was at least momentarily aware of the unnaturally flat surface of the cloud as it slipped by me.  It seemed to paint the world in black with a perfect brush stroke that was as straight as a ruler’s edge.  It wrapped around the northeast corner of the room as quickly as it had hit the southeast corner.

And then the world was gone.  We were inside it, whatever it was.  Carr Beholden had been swallowed in seconds and us with it.

The view out the windows offered a disturbing vista of black, our once shining jewel of green and blue turned raven in a single day.  I couldn’t even describe it to myself.  There was simply no frame of reference for such a thing.  Everything out there was swept away completely and the absence of anything was left in its place.  As I stared through the glass at the darkness that now rested right outside, I understood what it must be like to look into the face of oblivion.

“Come on,” Margaret said to George.  “I don’t need to stand here looking at nothing.  Let’s go check on Helene.”

“Yup,” he replied.  They turned and walked down the hall to the living room.  They called out on their way, “What is it, Helene?”

No more than two seconds had passed since she called out as the last vestiges of light disappeared, but in that time I think we all had seen everything there would be to see.  I wasn’t sure it would always be so yet I suspected as much.  With that assumption tucked away in my head, I still couldn’t pull myself away from the abyss surrounding us.

Is this what infinity looks like, I wondered.  I hoped not.  Featureless and dark and pressed against the windows was perhaps the best example of nothing any human had ever seen.  Even space had stars to look at.  I reached out to touch the glass.  My curiosity was heightened despite my fear.

“No!” Mom shouted, then in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, Vey.  I didn’t mean to yell.”

With my hand halfway to the window, I froze as I contemplated whether she was right and touching it would be a bad thing.  The idea of touching the inside of a tent during a rainstorm suddenly occurred to me.  Would this work the same way?  Would touching the glass make it permeable to the darkness in some way I can’t imagine?  Would it begin seeping through the moment I made contact?

I thought better of it and dropped my hand back to my side.  I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to take the chance.  “That’s okay, Mom.  I understand.  And you’re right, I think.  Why chance it?”

Instead, I stepped closer to the glass and stood with my face just a few inches from it.  I tried to focus on whatever was out there.  It was such complete blackness that my own reflection kept distracting me.  Despite that, I thought I could see something moving.

It was the darkness itself.  It is like a cloud, I thought, and you can see it right up next to the glass.  It’s moving like fog or mist.  Maybe this isn’t so dangerous after all.

The harder I looked, the less certain I felt about what I saw—or thought I saw.  It did appear that there was movement in the darkness, endless black on black mixing in the same way cold milk does when poured into a cup of hot coffee.  It swirled and billowed in and around itself, seethed with unnatural currents roiling and boiling, sinuous and ominous, whorls and spirals and curls looping, arching, coiling.

Was I hallucinating?  I would still not be certain about it later in the day, but a time would come after that when I would have my answer.

[Introduction | Part 6 | Part 8]

As I again looked at the faces around me and saw the blatant fear that defined each of them, I wondered to myself if this was all that was necessary to break our society.  If our gadgets didn’t work, if our technology was rendered useless, were we once again the very savages from which we’d tried so hard to distance ourselves?  Was it all to be superstition controlled by terror of the unknown?

I clicked the remote and turned the television and satellite receiver off before reaching down and turning the weather radio off.

I stared into my mother’s face and realized I’d never seen it distorted in such a way.  It had changed so much in so short a time.  It was only fifteen or twenty minutes ago when Old George began whistling that tune.

Could the world really change in twenty minutes?  For all of us except Helene, that idea had been very real during the Cold War.  We knew it would take the push of a single button to end civilization.  But this was different.  There had been no nuclear exchange.  There had been no explosions at all that I knew of.  There was only an unusual dream shared with the rest of humanity, and that followed by an unusual weather event that seemed to defy what we understood about the atmosphere.  Would these two seemingly unrelated events, neither of them normal in any way, redefine life as we knew it?  Looking at Mom’s face and seeing how it had already changed her, I had my answer.

In my heart I was terrified.  For me at least, the horror was as much not having information as it was the dream—at least the implications of the dream.  It had driven a blade of fear deep within me without ever threatening me directly.  Is that all it would take?  All you needed to do was break our technology, throw a bit of mysticism at us, and tinker with the weather and—voilà!—you’d have the perfect recipe for the end of the world.

I glanced at Dad as he held my mother closely and tried to comfort her with reassurances he himself didn’t believe, and then I looked at Old George, Helene and Margaret still huddled together in the doorway.  They forced me to concede the point: We were nothing more than scared savages hiding behind our scientific wizardry and electronic devices.

We were barely out of caves and animal hides and already thought of ourselves as masters of the universe.  We could be thrown back to our primitive roots simply by taking away the things we used to separate us from the big bad world: information and technology.  If we can’t explain it, it must be metaphysical or worse.  If we can’t scan it, report on it, catalog it, categorize it, dissect it, and otherwise study it, we won’t face it.  My fear leaped into my throat at the realization of our predicament.

“Okay, listen.  They said the storm is moving around 20 miles an hour.  If that’s true, and if one is forming over Shreveport, it’ll be here soon.  Why don’t we just ride it out here and let it blow over?”  My voice seemed alien to me somehow.  I heard the words and felt my mouth spewing them, but they wouldn’t have convinced me of anything if they’d tried.  It was nothing more than filler to break the silence and I knew it.  I hoped they didn’t know it as well.

“Daddy, we should go home,” Helene suggested as she looked up at George.  “Please, Daddy, let’s go home.”

He looked down at her, and then he looked at his wife.  Margaret was barely moving but was obviously shaking her head ‘no’ in response to both her daughter and her husband.  She didn’t want to leave.  Strength in numbers, eh Margaret?

George lowered his head to face Helene directly.  “Honey, you heard them reporters, and Davey’s right about the storm gettin’ here soon if’n it’s movin’ as fast as they done said.  Maybe we oughtta stay here for now, dontcha think?”

I could see fresh tears on Helene’s face and the growing spot on her father’s shirt that had been absorbing them while he held her.  The fear in the room was palpable.  I thought she might be drowning in it but knew her parents were the best comfort she could find.

I quietly whispered to my mother and father that I was taking the dogs out prior to the storm’s arrival.  Both canines still nestled quietly on the love seat in the corner of the room.  Ah, to be a dog at times like this, I thought.  Look at them.  They aren’t concerned with all the hoopla.  They aren’t worked up about unusual news stories and weird dreams and extraordinary weather patterns.  They’re snoozing away the afternoon without a single care.

I’d have traded places with them in an instant.  I didn’t realize then that that sentiment would change soon enough and make me glad I had not been able to make real my wish to be one of them for the afternoon.

Both Dad and Mom quietly agreed and said they’d join me.  They stood as I called to the dogs.  “Mosko, Brogan, come on!  Let’s go outside!”

I feigned excitement when I spoke to them; I felt no such thing.  Nevertheless they responded and leaped to life, scrambled down from the cushioned comfort they enjoyed, and practically fell over each other racing to the door.  Their feet scratched and slid on the hardwood floor as they focused all their energy on what to a dog must be the crux of existence: going outside.  Well, I assumed it was the pinnacle of canine life so long as food wasn’t being offered as an alternative.

Margaret and George were continued to comfort Helene trying to convince her they should stay until the storm passed.  Mom, Dad and I respectfully stayed out of the discussion as we made our way by them and to the door that led to the screened-in porch.  The dogs were already waiting to escape with tails wagging uncontrollably and tongues lolling out of their mouths in anticipation.

Before opening the door, I grabbed two large towels from the bench beside the entrance.  I kept a handful of large beach towels there just in case the dogs visited.  They loved to swim in the lake, but they also were quite adept at finding all sorts of messes to get into.  Having something available to clean them up or dry them off was a necessity.  I stashed the towels under my arm, reached out and opened the door, then followed the dogs and my parents out to the porch.

The sun shone brightly in the early afternoon sky.  It was just beginning to peek into the porch itself, but the heat and humidity were already present.  I couldn’t help but think it might be a good idea for the storms to come this way.  At least it might cool it off a bit.  It was so oppressive that perhaps the end of the world was a good idea right about then.

I promptly killed that thought.  I didn’t need my dark sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude causing any more upset for the others.  I had a feeling there was plenty of that on its way and it wouldn’t need any help from me.

The dogs stood at the screen door waiting for their chance to leap from the porch and dash out into the world.  Dad reached them first and pushed the door open.  Both dogs bolted out, made the sharp turn northward toward the lake, and ran excitedly to the pier.  The three of us had barely reached the corner of the house nearest the lake when the first splash caught our attention.  Mosko was first but Brogan was right on his heels and dived into the water with complete abandon.

It again occurred to me how they hadn’t a care in the world under the circumstances.  Whatever was happening out there beyond Kingswell wasn’t bothering them.  That thought, in turn, made me realize how being disconnected from civilization for only a few minutes had already made me feel utterly cutoff.  I couldn’t understand how anyone could survive without constant news and communication.  It would drive me crazy—or crazier.

My parents and I walked slowly to the pier and followed its sturdy support out onto the lake.  Jutting into the water for nearly 20 yards before expanding into a large open deck, we made our way to the end of it without a single word.  It was as if the three of us could not form a coherent thing to say that wouldn’t bring us back to the same subjects we were trying to avoid.  It was an unspoken agreement, I eventually realized, that we shouldn’t talk about it since we had nothing but conjecture and guesses, and none of that would explain it or help the situation with emotions running so high.

We stopped at the end of the pier.  The dogs swam around perhaps ten feet away from us, first this way then that way, toward us then away from us, and always in such a carefree way that it suddenly fell out of my mouth: “Why aren’t they reacting?”

My voice slapped my parents.  The silence between us shattered unexpectedly from their point of view, and it was somehow a violation.  I regretted not starting with something unrelated.  Perhaps I should have said that the dogs seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.  Perhaps I should have said these kinds of canine antics are thoroughly entertaining.  Perhaps I should have said anything other than what I said, but the damage was done and it was out there.  And I still wanted to discuss it.

“What do you mean?” my mother asked.  She looked at me and then at the dogs.  It was then she answered her own question.  “You’re right, Vey.  They always react when a storm is coming.”

Dad glanced at both of us before saying, “I see what you mean.  Just before Hurricane Rita came through, they were in a big hurry to get outside and tend to business.  It was out, finish the job, and back in before we knew it.”

We turned to the east.  The horizon remained clear and normal, the edge of the sky’s cyan bowl cutting the world in two.  If the storm was coming this way from Shreveport—there was no reason to believe that wouldn’t be the first one to reach us if they were expanding the way the reports said they were—it must have been getting close already.

Thick woodlands around Carr Beholden made it impossible to see very far except in the open space of the lake.  It was possible the storm hid right behind the tree line and would soon leap over the foliage and be on top of us without warning, though at twenty miles per hour we should have an hour or more before it arrived.

We continued staring toward Shreveport, which was to the southeast from our location, and we waited and watched.  Nothing happened.  We stared a bit longer.  Still nothing happened.

Turning back to the dogs who continued to frolic and splash and swim sans any major cares, I asked “But what about them?”

“I don’t know, son,” my father said.  “It’s right odd, I’ll say that.”

“Maybe the storm’s not coming this way.”

I looked at Mom and knew immediately her words came from denial, a natural self-defense mechanism of the human mind, a way to spit in the face of unwanted certainty.  I appreciated the sentiment and shared it.  I also knew it was an empty hope.  If the reports were at all accurate, the storms were everywhere and spreading in every direction.  They would arrive soon enough.  The darkness would come to Kingswell.  I knew it and so did my parents.  The dogs were the only ones who didn’t know it or didn’t care about it.

While I dropped the subject verbally, it continued bouncing around inside my head.  Why aren’t the dogs reacting?  Why aren’t they concerned if a massive weather system was heading this way?

Animals know about these things even when humans don’t.  Again, if we didn’t have our technology, we’d never know for certain, but animals have a sensitivity to things in ways our own species lacked.  We lost the ability to sense at that level as not-always-fair trades for our intelligence.  We then lost more of those primitive senses in response to the application of our technology.

And yet the dogs were blissfully unaware—or was it unconcerned?—about the approaching storm.  It struck me as so highly unusual that I filed it away for contemplation later and would keep an eye on them to see if their responses changed.

I already had my answer though.  I knew it and kept it to myself.  They weren’t reacting because this was no ordinary storm.  This was not the kind of weather event they could sense, at least not in the way they could sense a hurricane approaching or the formation of a nearby tornado.  They weren’t reacting because this was unnatural.  Acknowledging that in my head sent a shiver down my spine and I shifted my weight on my feet to hide it.

The sound of the screen door shutting in the distance behind us caused each of us to jump slightly before turning around.  It was Old George, Margaret and Helene.

We left the dogs to swim and walked back the length of the pier to meet the family.  I suspected they’d decided to go home.  I hoped I was wrong.  I felt that that was a really bad idea but couldn’t explain why.  The whole situation was getting to me.  I was becoming paranoid without any definitive reasons for it.  Thus far, all we had were some reports about weird weather, a shared dream that seemed to be global, and some problems with television and radio reception.  Was that enough to warrant my apprehension?  I thought it was.

As I reached the McCreary family standing next to the screened porch, my parents only a short distance behind me, a doe and fawn trotted out of the undergrowth lining the private drive that connected Carr Beholden to State Highway 49.  The two animals paused briefly in the middle of the small road and looked at us.  We, in turn, looked at them.

With nothing but silence and about 25 yards between us, our group stood motionless looking at the pair as they watched us carefully.  Perhaps ten seconds passed with no one moving or speaking, and then the mother deer casually walked into the thicket on the other side of the road.  Her baby stood motionless for another few seconds before dashing into the woods after her.

I felt better seeing that.  They weren’t scared except of us.  They weren’t fleeing some unseen force rapidly approaching from the east.  They weren’t in a hurry at all.  They were casually strolling through the forest in the early afternoon, perhaps on the move to get away from a bobcat or some coyotes, perhaps searching for a meal, perhaps looking for a cool spot for their afternoon nap.

Regardless of the reason, they weren’t running from some unseen force.  They weren’t running because, like the dogs, they didn’t know or didn’t care about what was coming.  I tried to shake that thought from my head but couldn’t.  So I was grateful for the diversion when George spoke.

“We’re gonna get on home, Davey.  Helene’s worried ’bout the dogs, and Margaret and me are thinkin’ it’d be better for us to sit this’n out at home.”  The look on his face told a different story, as did that on Margaret’s face.  They were frightened.  They didn’t know what to do but thought it might be better to get Helene home because she thought that was the best place to be.

“I understand,” I replied, “but think about it George.  If that storm’s close, you could get caught on the road.  It might be best to wait it out here.  I’m sure it’ll pass quickly and you’ll be on your way before nightfall.  Besides, if the power goes out, at least you’d be safer here.  After Hurricane Rita, I did some major upgrades to the power and water facilities, so we’ll still have electricity, fresh water, plenty of food, and lots of space.  And there’s quite a bit to keep you occupied while you wait: there’s a whole library of books, a pretty big movie collection, games, and who knows what other trouble we can find.  It’s just a suggestion, but you might want to consider it.”

“I ‘preciate it, Davey, but I think we oughtta be gettin’—”

“Oh my God . . .”  It was Mom’s voice, only altered into a tone like fingernails on a chalkboard.  My head snapped around to look at her.  She stared up and out over the lake from the corner of the house near where we stood.

“What is it, honey?” Dad asked.

I walked over to join her.  The look on her face—the wide eyes and white complexion—told me George might already be out of time.

“Look at it.  Just look at it,” Mom said.

Everyone began moving to join her.  While we couldn’t see much from the side of the house because of the structure and the trees, her position at the northwest corner gave her a clear view across the lake.  She looked toward the east in the general direction of Shreveport.

I gasped when I stepped around the corner of the house and followed her eyes skyward.  It had arrived.  It was a storm the likes of which this planet had never before seen.  I completed that thought by adding to myself that it was a storm the likes of which this planet would never see again, at least probably since I wasn’t sure there would be anyone left to see it even if it did happen.

Painting the eastern horizon and reaching high into the sky was a billowing mass of blackness.  I wasn’t even sure it was made of clouds.  It was so dark that no details were visible.  It looked like a tear in the sky itself, a painting with the canvas pulled away to reveal the nothingness beneath it.

Watching it spread high above us mesmerized.  The silence of it deafened.  There was no wind and no lightning; there was nothing except expanding darkness.  It was a hole in the universe.  And it was growing in our direction.

The dark mass was as black as ink and equally featureless.  In fact, the darkness of it was so complete that it made it almost impossible to determine precisely how close it was or if it had any shape other than that of a smooth arc spreading over our heads.  I could tell it moved quickly but couldn’t judge more than that generalization because it washed away all frames of reference and was utterly without form.

What I could tell was that the top of the storm preceded the bottom.  The first comparison that came to mind was that of a wedding veil trailing behind the bride.  The top resting on her head arrived long before the bottom that dragged behind her.  I’d never seen anything like it.  That thought repeated over and over again in my mind.

Its darkness was complete.  The mass of clouds—or not-clouds—was as deep a black as midnight on a moonless night without a single star in the sky and no artificial light by which to see.  No, it was darker even than that.  Where the sun struck its leading edge, I could see no details.  A featureless void was eating the world, that’s what it looked like, spreading across the landscape and wiping away every detail in its path.  Even that visual didn’t do it justice.  Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal, it wasn’t natural, and it’s wasn’t friendly.

“Jesus Christ!”  George had reached our position.

“George McCreary!” Margaret scolded him.  “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain!”  She caught up to him and gave him a loving yet firm whack on the arm, then she looked up.  “Oh my sweet heavens!”

“There’s nothing sweet about the heavens today, Margaret.  Nothing sweet at all.”  I immediately wished I hadn’t said that.

Helene, like the rest of us, stood completely mesmerized by the approaching storm.  I likened it to watching a tornado form above your house.  There’s nothing you can do about it.  There’s nothing you can do to save your home or your life.  There is, however, the morbid fascination with watching pure destruction take shape and come at you from a close distance.  The view afforded us over the lake felt much like that.

It kept coming and seemed to grow darker and darker as it approached, more menacing, more desolate.  I knew that was impossible, yet it was so large and ominous and threatening that its presence overwhelmed the senses.

“Mosko!  Brogan!  Come on!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, and then to Margaret and George in a softer tone, “I really think you should stay.  Let’s see how this takes shape, huh?” 

I turned toward the lake to get an idea of the dogs’ whereabouts.  They stood on the shore.  They stood watching the storm.  They stood with tails tucked and ears back.  They stood trembling.

My head leaned to one side just as theirs were doing.  They’d noticed it finally.  Their reaction made it all the more bizarre and all the more terrible.

“Mosko!  Brogan!  Let’s go, damn it!”  Both canines turned and ran toward us, passed us at full gallop, and stopped at the screen door.  Their tails didn’t wag.  They looked at us then at the door before repeating the process.  Then I heard it: they were whining, whimpering really, a disconcerting demonstration of fear.

We headed inside with the dogs.  I didn’t even consider drying them off before letting them in the door.

“We’re gonna stay for now,” George said as he ushered Margaret and Helene into Carr Beholden.

[Introduction | Part 5 | Part 7]

“Holy shit!”  The sentiment screamed out of my mouth and I immediately regretted its abruptness.  And yet I continued, “What the hell is that about?  When did you hear that tune, George?”

The tremble in his face provided the response I most feared.  He was terrified by the unnatural truth that had been revealed.  He’d absently whistled a children’s tune that he’d dreamed the night before, yet he’d done so because he thought only he had dreamed it and that it was nothing more than a weird nightmare.  Why would he possibly think otherwise?

But then I added the words no one should hear, the words most threatening, the words chanted by children whose voices stab at the very heart of humanity.  How I wished I could take them back, deny this thing that was happening, un-ask the questions I’d asked.

“I done dreamed it, Davey.”  His voice betrayed his horror as though he’d done something so wrong as to be unforgivable.  I was certain it was fear of the unknown, fear of the unexplainable, fear of what simply should not be true.  But it was real fear, and it swept around the room in waves that none of us could have denied.

I stepped to where Mom stood in disbelief, and I grabbed a few napkins from the tray.  She was barely aware she’d dropped her glass and was standing over shards of it that listed in a pool of tea.  She looked down as I knelt in front of her to clean up the mess.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.  Really.  Why don’t you sit down.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie…” she barely whispered through her blank stare.

“Seriously, Mom, please sit down.  Don’t worry about this.”

At the same time, Margaret dashed to the kitchen and returned with a towel to help soak up the remaining beverage as I picked up the broken glass and placed it in a napkin.

“Thanks, Margaret.”

She nodded but did not speak.  When I looked at her face and studied it for a moment, the same terror I saw in George became evident there as well.  She was overwhelmed with fear that stemmed from the impossible.  She knew the pat-a-cake song too; she knew it because she dreamed it like the rest of us.

How far has this gone? I wondered.  How far…

While my mother stepped over the mess and took a seat next to my father who’d already taken a spot on the couch, Helene remained standing in the doorway to the hall with a blank stare on her face.  I glanced toward Dad who was comforting Mom as she stared into space in bewilderment.  He was whispering to her what I assumed to be reassurances, words of safety and security he undoubtedly knew he could no longer guarantee.  We already knew our world had indeed changed.

“Did all of you dream it last night?” I asked.

George shook his head as though to wake himself from his own nightmare.  “Yep,” he said.  “Mayhap last night or this mornin’.  I ain’t rememberin’ right.”

“It’s okay, George.”  I turned my attention to Margaret who still knelt beside me sopping up tea with the towel.  “And you?” I asked softly.

She returned an empty gaze that quickly filled anew with disbelieving shock.  “Yes, Mr. Lloyd, it was last night.  The dream scared the devil right outta me.”

I reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder.  “Thanks.  And thanks for your help with this.”  I nodded toward the mess that was almost gone.  All of the glass was in my hands and the towel would make short work of the small amount of tea that remained pooled on the hardwood floor.

I turned my attention to Dad and Mom who both stared back.  He had his arms around her and hugged her closely.  Her arms were crossed in front of her as she leaned against him, eyes wide and frightened.

He nodded and said, “Last night.”

Mom silently agreed with a nod while she closed her eyes.  I suspected she was attempting to understand what was happening and was regrettably coming up short on explanations.  If the dream for each of them contained the same inherent terror it had for me, remembering it was reason enough to cower in a corner.

I looked at Helene who had not moved from her position in the doorway with shock painting her features.  A young mind has less experience from which to draw when it comes to events that stand outside normalcy.  This one definitely fit that explanation.  Poor Helene was ill equipped to apply any of her life to these events.

We’re in the same boat here, Helene, I thought of saying, and you’re not alone in being confused.  Rather than draw on the negative emotions I knew she felt by pointing out her inability to categorize the situation into the neat little mental folders we humans use to define existence, I chose what I thought would be the less confrontational yet necessary path.

“Helene, honey, did you dream it last night?”  I was gentle in my question to her.  I feared she was on the verge of cracking under the pressure.  While the event itself was certainly incomprehensible in any human terms, and I had those same feelings just this morning before I brushed them off as post-sleep confusion from a nightmare, I couldn’t fault her for not knowing how to deal with this.  I also suspected that, like everyone else, the sudden rush of memories caused by the music and words had brought back the overwhelming terror that defined the dream.

She looked at me and nodded, then said, “Yes, Mr. Lloyd, dreamed it last night.  I’m scared…”  She began crying.

Old George immediately went and embraced her and let her weep against him.  Her body shook with it.  She rested her head against his massive frame.  I thought she took some level of comfort from his body wrapped around her.

Margaret finished wiping up the tea, placed the wet towel on the drink tray, and joined her husband and daughter.  I looked at them holding each other and wondered how frightening all of this must be to them.  I looked back at my own parents and wondered the same thing.  I already knew it was confusing to me, and to say I was scared was to understate the matter.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”  I shook my head in disbelief.  “People don’t have the same dream.  They certainly don’t have the same dream at the same time.”  I pondered the reality of it all and secretly pinched myself on the arm as I knelt next to the cocktail table.  I had to be certain I wasn’t still dreaming.  The pain I felt was no guarantee but it was certainly convincing.

I stood up, placed the broken glass on the tray next to the soiled towel, and said, “Okay, let’s think about this because I dreamed it and thought it was just a nightmare.  In my dream, Beth talked to me.  She told me to run.  She told me I was in danger and needed to get away even though there was no safe place to go.  Did Beth talk to each of you?”

“No,” my father replied without hesitation.  I looked at him as he cleared his throat in that way that meant he was trying to discuss something that bothered him.  We waited as he sat in momentary silence.  I knew he was collecting his thoughts.  And then he added, “It was my brother Gary.”

“He died last year, didn’t he?”  I already knew the answer but asked the question anyway.

“Yes.  He told me I had to go, but he also said there was no safe place to go.  He said I had to leave.  I should get out of here now…”  His voice trailed off again.  His eyes twitched.  I knew he was trying to organize his thoughts.  He was trying to wrap his mind around what was happening in the hope of making sense of it.  He was trying to find the pieces of the dream that could mean something without having to face the heartrending fear it caused.

“And there were the eyes,” Mom added.  Her voice startled me for I was so transfixed on watching my dad that I’d almost forgotten others were in the room.  My gaze snapped to her as she spoke.  “For me, it was my father who died twelve years ago, and he said the same thing.  But it was the eyes that really frightened me.  They were everywhere.  They surrounded me and floated like they weren’t attached to anything.  They stared right through me.  I felt like they were hungry for me.”  She shivered and my dad held her tighter.  She found her composure in the strength of their bond.  “I somehow knew they wanted to get to me like I was the answer to their hunger,” she finished.

Helene burst into uncontrolled tears at the sound of my parents’ descriptions of the dream.  I looked at her and George and Margaret, but I didn’t need to ask them for the details of their experiences.  I already knew.  Someone dead from their past told them they were in danger.  That voice told them to run even though there was nowhere to run.  They were surrounded by eyes in the darkness.  Those eyes seemed to peer right into their very souls and communicate to them that they were now prey being watched by a new chief predator.

Yes, I suspected I knew the details of their dreams just as if they’d already told me.  I didn’t have to ask, and I didn’t need Helene to suffer through more explanations of what undoubtedly assaulted her sense of reality.  It assaults ours too, I thought of saying to her before thinking better of it.

George and Margaret looked at me for a moment.  “The same?” I asked.  They nodded.

I had no explanations for what this meant.  It couldn’t be good, that much I knew, but I didn’t know anything else.  It scared the hell out of me, this fundamental and sudden change in the world.

These things don’t happen.  Reality doesn’t work that way.  The fabric of the universe doesn’t get bent out of shape in such a manner.  It just doesn’t happen.

And yet there we stood in the middle of a new reality.  The dead coming to us in dreams to warn of hopelessness and the need to escape something that was inescapable.  The presence of something in the darkness that made us feel like food.  The knowledge somehow inserted into our beings that we were no longer top predators on our own planet.  These things had happened, sure, but these things were well outside the realm of human experience.

Only then did my mental gibbering bring to mind a previous thought: How big might this thing actually be?  “The news…”  I mumbled it as an afterthought as I stood and grabbed the remote from the fireplace hearth.  I switched on the television in the corner of the room and turned on the satellite receiver.  It was still on CNN from a few nights previous.

I turned the volume up as the picture formed on the flat-panel display.  There was a female news anchor who I’d never seen before (mainly because I don’t watch much television).  She shuffled some papers on the desk in front of her—I always thought that was a cheap maneuver to make the audience believe they were not actually reading from a teleprompter when in fact that’s precisely what they were doing—and she looked directly into the camera as she spoke.

“The Iranian state news agency reports it as an American psychological warfare attack and warns of impending reprisals against the U.S.  North Korea reports its military is on top alert and warns it too plans to retaliate against the West for what it calls an “unprovoked attack utilizing a new kind of weapon intended to demoralize and confuse the people of North Korea in preparation for an American invasion.”  International tensions are rapidly escalating in response to this event.

“Again, to repeat our top story: For approximately the last 18 hours, an event has been occurring that psychologists call a ‘highly unusual manifestation of mass-delusional hysteria and collective hallucinations.’  Reports indicate people around the globe are experiencing a similar dream during sleep.  This event remains ongoing.  While we can’t positively identify the source of the phenomenon, we can briefly explain what we know to be occurring.

“All reports indicate the event has been uncannily similar around the globe with minor individual qualifiers that are personal in nature.”

She seemed nervous.  I focused on her face as she talked, but even that could not hide her trembling hands.  She tried to conceal it and control it as best as possible.  She was failing miserably.

“It seems each individual sees the same thing in their dream: all-encompassing darkness filled with eyes that move around yet never look away.  The feeling that accompanies the visual is one of hopelessness and utter terror.  The eyes form a shifting and moving mass surrounding us—rather, surrounding each individual, and these eyes watch from the darkness.  This ‘hallucination’ is further supplemented by a voice warning of impending danger and the need to run.  Most have associated the voice with a deceased loved one from each individual’s past.  These voices warn of the need to escape while also saying that there is no escape.  At the end of the experience, reports indicate the same children’s rhyme repeats—sung, actually, like a pat-a-cake song.  The rhyme is about a menacing darkness.  You can find the text of that song on our web site.

“The event has spawned global riots as panic and fear grip the population.  While many U.S. cities are experiencing mass demonstrations in response, government officials are asking—Wait a minute.”

She halted her report and placed her hand next to her head.  We watched as she pushed her earpiece tighter into her ear so she might better hear the information coming to her from various sources.

I looked around my living room and noticed everyone was entranced by these unfolding events.  It was surreal.  It was like we’d climbed out of bed this morning only to find ourselves on a different planet or, worse yet, in a different universe.

I looked back at the pretty young woman on the television as she tried to remain calm while communicating the impossible to people overwhelmed with fear.  I didn’t envy her that job.  She shuffled the papers yet again while still holding her hand to her ear.  Finally, she continued.

“I apologize, ladies and gentlemen.  We have new information pouring in and it’s sometimes difficult to sort it all out.  Right now, we want to turn to our chief meteorologist, Craig Woods, who needs to share some critical information coming from the Weather Service.”

That’s odd, I thought.  Unless a massive series of tornadoes or a giant hurricane snuck up on us, why would they interrupt the bizarre with the mundane?  Little did I realize as those thoughts ran through my head that the bizarre was rapidly spiraling into something unimaginable.

Some suit-clad stiff appeared in front of a map of the United States completely shaded in red.  Red?  I didn’t think the entire country could be under some kind of weather-associated warning.  Perhaps the other event kept them from providing the normal appropriately colored map.

“I beg your pardon for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen, but the National Weather Service has just issued a… Well, it’s a significant warning.”

He held some papers in his hand that he shuffled back and forth while trying to consume the information handed to him without delaying long enough to cause people to change the channel.

“Since I’m not sure how to put this in normal weather terms, let me just read the notice we received.”

That got my attention.  I couldn’t imagine any meteorologist worth his title who would be unable to communicate with clarity information sent from the feds.  It was unheard of.  What kind of idiot does CNN have working for them? I wondered.  He should be fired.

He turned to someone off-camera and shook his head as though uncertain about this new reality.  Only much later did I realize he probably thought someone was playing a joke on him by feeding him bogus releases from NOAA that would make him look ignorant on the air.

Back to the camera he continued, “Alright.  Let me read it to you.  ‘The National Weather Service has issued a Hazardous Weather Warning for the entire United States and its outlying areas.  This notice includes updated spotter activation info.  National Weather Service satellite imaging has detected a complex of storm systems developing across the United States with focal points over all…’”

He trailed off in apparent disbelief.  Although his head was down while he read the papers in his hands, I saw a moment of shock as his mind raced ahead of his voice and realized what he was about to read.

“Uh, I apologize, folks.  Uh…  Let me continue: ‘National Weather Service satellite imaging has detected a complex of storm systems developing across the United States with focal points over all major cities.’

“That’s just unbelievable.  Um, I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, but this is unheard of.  Let me see…  ‘The storms are expanding in all directions from their central locations and appear capable of moving against existing weather patterns.’

“Uh, okay…  Wow…  I guess I won’t list the cities they show here.  I suggest you go to our web site to get that information.  Um, basically all major cities are impacted by this.  But let me read this for you.  Um…  ‘Storm spotters report these weather events are forming in the high atmosphere and rapidly expanding to ground level.  No lightning or precipitation has been reported.  Despite this, electromagnetic discharges from the stor—”

His recital was interrupted when the television went to static.  I stared at it as though it was another rung in an impossible ladder of insanity.  A simple piece of electronic gadgetry had suddenly offended me.  I wanted to pick it up and throw it out the window.  As we watched, the static was replaced by the typical colored bars and tone, but even that lasted only a few seconds before going back to static.

“Vey, the remote,” my mother whispered.  It rested forgotten in my hand.

But before I could change the channel thinking CNN suffered from technical difficulties, a blue screen appeared with a red line through it about a third of the way down from the top.  Through that line ran white text that said “EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM” that scrolled repeatedly across the screen.  Below it, again in white text, a message stated, “Authorities have activated the EBS.  Please stand by for further information.”

And so we stood, all of us staring blankly at the screen.  It was as though we were witnessing some horrible event as told through the feeble mouth of crippled technology.  I began to think I still needed to change the channel.  As I raised the remote in my hand and aimed it at the satellite receiver, I was halted by the static-wrapped male voice that suddenly augmented the primitive message shown on the screen.

“This is an activation of the Emergency Broadcast System.  Authorities in your area have activated this system to bring you important news.  The National Weather Service has identified a massive storm complex forming around the globe.  This system is expanding rapidly.  Reports from those cities already impacted indicate the storms produce electromagnetic discharges that can disable power supplies and broadcast and communication facilities.  When entering your area, the storms will cause a significant blockage of sunlight.  These storms are not harmful but are disruptive.  Residents are urged to stay indoors as this weather system develops.  Please stay tu—”

A pop in the audio marked the screen returning to static and the voice and tone disappearing.  We stood in utter disbelief.  I was waiting for some other interrupting signal to bring the television to life.  As I thought about it, I realized satellite was terribly unreliable during storms.

“The weather radio!” I shouted.

I ran from the living room down the hall and retrieved the little device from my office.  I understood satellite television going out during a storm, but the weather radio most certainly would be our lifeline to the outside world.  It had never failed me before.

I retrieved the small square box and carried it back to the living room.  Before turning it on, I glanced around at their faces and realized each of us felt terrorized by these events.  It may have started with the dreams but it had grown into much more than that.

In my case at least, it was as much the threat of what might be happening as it was the absence of information to keep me abreast of developments.  There was no way to make the most informed decision about how to proceed if I had no information with which to work.

After taking special note that the sun still shined outside, I turned the radio on and set it on the cocktail table.  We listened intently to the tinny voice that echoed throughout the lower floor of Carr Beholden.

“—of storm systems impacting all major metropolitan areas throughout the United States.  These storm complexes are rapidly expanding from their focal points above major cities and are not subject to existing weather patterns.  They are expanding outward at 20 miles per hour.  National Weather Service satellite imaging indicates one such storm forming over the city of Shreveport.  Spotter reports indicate these storms form in the upper atmosphere and expand quickly to the ground.  Satellite images show the storm complex is global in nature.  Those areas impacted by the storms will suffer electrical, communication, and broadcast outages.  They will be subjected to a complete lack of sunlight.  Residents are urged to stay inside as this system develops and passes.

“Again, the National Weather Service has issued a Hazardous Weather Warning for the United States and all outlying areas.  National Weather Service satellite imaging shows a massive storm complex forming around the globe, including over the entire United States.  These storms are taking shape above all metropolitan areas an—”

There was a crackle of static before the radio fell silent.  I looked at it to ensure the power light remained lit.  It was.  The radio simply received no signal.  It was then I realized it would probably be silent for some time to come.

[Introduction | Part 4 | Part 6]