The Girl in the Dark Corner

           The storm came quicker than expected. I picked up my electric guitar, a yellow Ibanez Gem. This was my time to practice. Thank God, I was getting more practice before bed. I sat on my bed, plugged my cord into the amp, and kicked on a few foot pedals. One strum, and there was the distortion sound.

            I wondered what song would be cool to play during a storm.

            Vivaldi’s Summer.

            I hit a high vibrato and then slammed that G minor chord and started wailing. My fingers flew up and down the frets as the other hand picked in unison. Every note landed tight and clean. The fast runs were sharp. I could feel the sound through the walls, into the bed, and into me.

            The faint wind brushed against the house.

            I continued to play.

            The music swelled into every part of the room. There was no space left that was untouched by it. Somewhere between one measure and the next, the tone shifted.

            A faint rumble of thunder rolled outside.

            It synced perfectly.

            The storm hadn’t broken yet, just distant thunder, and the first drops of rain against the window. I got more aggressive. My blond hair whipped as I headbanged.

            Faster, stronger, darker. 

            The wind pressed harder against the house. Rain thickened, tapping faster, louder against the glass as the music followed. Its sound filled my head. The rain surged. Full force.

            Thunder.

            Lightning.

            Final chord.

            It was beautiful.

           The door opened. My mom’s arms folded as she stood in the doorway.

           “It’s lights out, sweetie,” she said.

           “Yes, Mom,” I said.

           “Oh, Evan,” said Mom. “If you’re going to do an Eddie Van Halen impression, make sure the whole neighborhood doesn’t hear it.”

           “Yeah, got it,” I said.

            She held back for a second, smiled, and then shut the door.

            I unplugged my guitar, put it on the guitar stand, and turned off the amp and pedals. The clock read 10:30. I got into bed, reached over, and turned off the light.

            Stillness filled the room. Lightning flashed through my window. The shadows of the curling branches appeared on my wall. Darkness again. I sighed as I stared at the ceiling. Would this be another sleepless night?

            Something moved.

            My eyes shifted to the corner. Nothing. It was just shadows. Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed.

             A spider sat in the corner.

            It was the size of a soccer ball.

            I had never seen one that big.

            My heart went from 0 to 100 in a split second, and my stomach did a bungee jump. I hate spiders. Mom called the exterminator last week. They were supposed to take care of this. What was one doing in my room?

            Adrenaline shot through my body. It’s okay, it's okay. Calm down, it’s just a spider. I did some breathing exercises. Breathe in, breathe out.

Lightning flashed.

            A shadow of a woman appeared on the wall behind the spider.

            Laughter filled the room.

            I sat up in bed.

            The spider changed. Its body raised itself and grew legs; taller and taller. The body formed as arms grew from it. A neck and head rose from the body.

            A girl?

            She was about my age, shorter. The black knee-length dress complimented her figure. Her red hair fell past her shoulders. She looked like the kind of girl that had an inviting smile, would give you a hug, and then bite your head off as you looked into her eyes.

            “Who are you!” I exclaimed. “

            “Names are not important, Evan,” she said.

            “What are you doing here?” I asked.

            “That is for me to know and for you to find out,” she said.

            Her glowing green eyes looked into mine.

            My right arm moved. I tried to fight it. It was like having an arm-wrestling match with an invisible arm. I could bench press almost twice my body weight. It was no use. She opened her mouth. A web shot out of it, pinning my arm to the bedpost.

            My left arm moved. Same struggle, same result. She opened her mouth. Another web pinned it to the bedpost. I tried to break out of them. No use.

           The girl smiled wide as she came closer.

          She tore off the covers and pinned my legs, webbing across them. I struggled, but it was useless. She kneeled by my bedside and lifted my shirt.

          “Wait, what are you…”

           She leaned down. For a split second, I braced for something sharp.

           A sudden vibration hit my stomach.

           PPPPPBBBBTTTTHHHH!!!

           I screamed. My brain stalled. It wasn’t just the sound; it was the feeling. Warm. Wrong. Lingering.

          “No, NO!”

           PPPPPBBBBTTTTHHHH!!!

          “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

          That one was longer. More powerful. I caught my breath as she laughed like a psychopath. The girl looked at me and smiled. She pulled back, studying me.

         “You react,” she whispered.

          My stomach twisted.

         “Stop,” I said. “Please just…stop.”

          She smiled. Not playful. Curious. Then she stood.

          “You're cute, Evan, but I need to go,” she said. She headed to the center of the room.

          “Wait,” I said. “You can’t leave me like this!”

          “Good night, Evan,” she smiled. The girl metamorphosed back into a spider and scurried into the corner.

         “Mom!” I screamed. “Help!”

          Nothing.

          “Mom! MOOOOOOM!!!!”

           I jolted awake. My heart raced like a race car. I was sweating as if I had just taken a shower.

          “Evan!” said a voice. “Evan.”

           I looked over. There was Mom sitting at my bedside. I looked around the room. It was morning. I moved both arms and legs.

           I was no longer trapped.

          “It was just a nightmare, sweetie,” smiled Mom. Her blond hair made her look like a guardian angel. I calmed down and slowed my breathing. I was safe and home. It was a new day.

          “Breakfast is in twenty minutes,” said Mom.

           I got up and stretched. It was time to get ready. Then, I saw it. There it was.

Webbing on my bedpost.

Good Dirt by: Melissa Andres (Team Otter)

Hattie Mae didn't budge for wind. Not until Clarence tore in, screen door banging.

The storm came quicker than expected. Dust. Dirt. Grime.

"Come on quick, Momma," he shouted, "there's a big black cloud comin' out of the sky." He ran back outside and pointed a stubby finger into the western wind.

Sure enough, there was the biggest, blackest cloud Hattie Mae had ever seen upon the horizon. It moved with great speed, the edges rolling. "Rain will be good for the parched fields." Her trembling lips attempted a smile.

But no rain would be forthcoming. It was no mere raincloud.  It was the dry earth, soil, and grit of a hundred farms lifted into the atmosphere.

The young mother's breathing came in spits. Her heart beat in her throat. She had to remain calm, at least for the children's sake. Her palms began to sweat as she clutched her eldest son by the shoulders and closed her eyes.

She prayed in silence. Lord, oh dear, Lord. What should I do? Where should we go? Our house will surely blow away.

Their nearest neighbor, Ol' Mr. Dickerson was a good mile away. Hattie Mae knew she could never make it that far. Not with Clarence, Herman, and the twins in tow.

Of course. The cellar! With the girls on each hip and the boys trailing behind, she sprinted through dry, crunchy grass. The cloud's shadow was already upon them. Wind clawed at the swaying farmhouse like a monstrous living creature, flinging sharp specks against the window panes. Trees bent around them. Figures moving in the storm. Shadows against the swirling darkness.

They didn't speak. They barely could.

It was just a hole in the ground supported by wooden beams and heavy planked doors. Shelves of canned tomatoes, fruits, berries, green beans, peas, and corn. Potatoes were in a bin by the door. Stone crocks of milk, cool and still, on the table.

Hattie Mae wiped her hands on her dirty patchwork apron, frowning at the howling of the wind rattling the rusted hinges overhead. She had lived through countless dust storms in West Texas before, but something about this one felt different. Weighty.

And then she heard Willie Maude's cry, barely carried forth through the gale. The child raised her little head, a pale face framed by damp, blonde curls. She was shaking. Clutching her tiny cloth doll to her chest. "Momma?"

The cellar suddenly felt smaller as she gazed into each pair of eyes before her. Willie Maude and Myrna Sue were too young to understand. Clarence and Herman were too young to understand it as well. Lord knew, she didn't understand it either.

Their breathing was ragged. Their eyes darted about the room, taking in every shadow. The mother only nodded, her jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.

Willie Maude sniffled, wiping her runny nose on the end of her tattered shirtsleeve.

Hattie Mae sighed, sat on the floor, and urged the children to sit with her. "Do you remember helping me plant vegetables? We took some seeds and planted a garden. You know the type of dirt you have is important to make that garden grow, right? If the ground is too hard, or full of rocks and weeds, you probably won't have a very good crop."

Clarence and Herman nodded and puffed out their chests. They loved helping their Momma with farm work.

"Jesus told a story about a man who went out and planted some seeds. This story that Jesus told is usually called 'The Parable of the Sower,' but actually, the story is more about the dirt than it is the man or the seeds." Hattie Mae cleared her throat.

"Some of the seeds that were planted fell on the path where the ground was very hard. The seeds just lay on top of the ground and the birds came and ate them up. Some of the seeds fell on rocky ground. Those seeds sprang up quickly, but when the sun came, the plants dried up because they didn't have good roots. Some of those seeds fell into the weeds and the plants grew for a little while, but the weeds took over and choked them out. Fortunately, some of the seeds fell into good dirt and the plants grew strong and healthy and produced a good crop."

Willie Maude and Myrna Sue listened. Enthralled.

"In Jesus' story, the Word of God is the seed, and we are the dirt. Lots of times, when we go to church, Preacher Driscoll is preaching the Word, but we aren't really paying attention, are we?"

Herman lowered his head.

"Maybe we're thinking about the fried chicken we're going to eat after the service or playing in the hayloft like we did the day before. We're hearing the Word, but we're not listening. That's like throwing seeds on the top of the dirt. It won't ever grow into anything in our life."

Each child's brow furrowed.

"There are other times when we hear the Word and we get excited. But then our excitement fades and we just drift away like the wind. It's like those seeds that fall on rocky ground. The plants come up, but then they die because the roots aren't strong. And sometimes we hear the Word and believe what it says, but we want to keep on doing the same things we've been doing. That's like planting the seeds with a bunch of weeds. I can tell you what'll happen, the weeds will take over.

"I don't like weeds," Myrna Sue whispered.

"When we hear the Word, and we listen, when we try to understand what it says and put it into practice in our daily lives, then we are like good dirt. We are like the dirt where the seeds take root and grow and produce a plentiful harvest. That's the kind of dirt that Jesus wants us to be. What kind of dirt are you?"

"Good dirt." All four children screamed and raised their arms over their heads in a celebratory triumph.

"Why don't we say a little prayer right now, huh?"

"Momma? What kind of dirt is it outside? That blowing kind?"

"I think that's God's special kind of dirt, son. He's using it to make us stop what we're doing for a little while so we can count our blessings." She paused and pointed. "One. Two. Three. Four."

Clarence. Herman. Willie Maude. Myrna Sue.

"Dear Jesus, we want to be like good dirt. Help us to listen to God's Word and put it into practice in our everyday lives. In your name we pray. Amen."

Team Otter

                                          The unexpected Storm

I never thought when the President declared war, that I would be headed to Kuwait. It was just two years ago that I graduated basic training and was awaiting my first set of orders while working a desk job at Wright Patt Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio. I felt like it was just yesterday I married my high school sweetheart, Natalie, and two months ago, the good Lord blessed us with the sweetest baby girl in the entire world-Our beautiful Samantha Jo. When I first decided to join the army, I couldn’t wait to see where I would be deployed first. But when I held my daughter on a wintry night in January 1991 silently watching the Special Report that rudely interrupted our favorite weekly show, I felt that my heart dropped into my stomach.

“The Liberation of Kuwait has begun,” declared President Bush as Natalie was making a snack in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” asked Natalie as I sat still, barely moving as the President droned on about how air strikes were already taking place. “Was she getting fussy?” Natalie set the chips and dip on the table and sat down. “Hey! I thought Beverly Hills 90210 was on...Oh..” she realized quickly as she dipped a chip into the French onion dip but let it fall back in the bowl. She was realizing what the Special Report could mean for us. She turned to me with her big blue eyes and said, “This doesn’t mean that you’ll be deployed. It can’t…” she murmured as she gently lifted Samantha from my arms. “Its just too soon after the baby has been born.” I sat up calmly. “Hey,” I soothed, “You’re right. It doesn’t mean I’ll be deployed. Let’s watch this show that you’ve roped me into, “I joked. I felt that I needed to talk myself into not worrying either.

I thought about that night when I drove home with the deployment papers in the passenger seat next to me, three weeks later.  I was to report to Wright Patterson Air Force Base in two weeks to be flown out to Fort Bragg for a mission that wasn’t disclosed to me yet. I had to go home and break it to Natalie. Two weeks was not enough time to spend with her and the baby. I felt that I could spend a lifetime with them, and it still wouldn’t be enough time. It would never be enough time. How was I supposed to spend a lifetime with them in two weeks?

I pulled the old station wagon into the driveway, put the car into park and just sat there. With a trembling hand, I picked up the deployment papers. I felt like if I stared at them long enough, those words would change from 0900 hours-flight from Wright Patt to Fort Bragg-then onto Kuwait to that I’d be stationed here, at my comfortable desk job at the base. I would have to go into the house and break the news to Natalie, my world, and comfort her when she sobbed. I would have to give her promises that I wasn’t sure I could keep, that I would promise I would survive, that I would promise that I would live to see Samantha grow up, get married, that we would have other kids, that we would live happily ever.

I put the deployment papers into my jacket pocket and walked into the house. As I walked in, I saw that Natalie was putting Samantha into her car seat and putting her woolen coat on. I dropped a kiss on her forehead and did the same to Samantha. “Hey…I had something I needed to talk to you about,” I said concerned. “I was just about to go to the grocery store. Will you be here for lunch? How about I make us some toasted cheese while the baby naps and then we can talk, “ She smiled. I decided not to push the issue. We had two beautiful weeks to spend together. I almost stopped her but realized we had plenty of time. “Sure,” I said gently. “It can wait. I’ll wait here for you and then we have lunch. Natalie gave me one last kiss and disappeared out the door with Samantha. I set the deployment papers onto the table and grabbed the wrench and set to work on the sink.

 An hour and a half later

Natalie and Samantha walked into the house, leaving the grocery bags in the car. She was hoping Matt could help with the bags.  “Matt?” she called. She was hoping he’d help her with the bags, and she was starting to get panicked about what he needed to talk to her about. She changed Samantha’s diaper, kissed her cheek and set her gently in the crib. “Matt?” she called again. She noted a piece of paper on the table. The message light blinking on the answering machine. She pressed play as she pulled her heavy coat off.

“Private Matthew Simmons, the storm came quicker than expected. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. You are to be deployed immediately...”

“NO!” she screamed. She ran over to the table and unfolded the deployment papers that were lying on the table. This is what he meant to tell her. She read through her tears that he was to be deployed in two weeks. How could this have happened? Her eyes settled on another piece of paper. She noticed that a quickly scrawled note was left for her.

“My beautiful wife and daughter,” it said. “I am so sorry I let you go to the store. I thought we had time. I will be deployed to Kuwait. I don’t know how long. I love you more than life itself and will write to you as soon as I can. Love always, Private Matthew Simmons.”

Tears streaming down her face, she wondered if this storm would end.

(critique would be appreciated!)

Wolves

Church Inspector Mauser had, as a younger man, enjoyed rainy days. He’d always loved the sound of drops on the roof, whispering and puttering, as he broke his fast on coffee and buttered toast. A very cozy way to spend one’s morning.

Three weeks’ travel in a cold buggy with only a coachman and a ceaseless spring thunderstorm for company had put quite an end to that sort of sentimentality. By that point, Mauser could hardly remember what it was like to live under a roof, let alone appreciate the sound of rain upon it.

But finally, the journey drew to an end. The carriage came to a rough halt and the door opened to let in air that Mauser realized, despairing, was even colder than the interior. As the old man dismounted with a groan, his boots slid nearly an inch into greedy mud. It was all Mauser could do to pull himself free as he blinked blearily around at the scene of their arrival.

They were in the middle of the Gerian countryside, that miserable stretch of scrubby moorland. The subject’s estate rose in stone blocks just a bit higher than the bare and wiry corpses of trees that could be very discerned in the darkness of the storm.

Mauser heaved his way through the slurry of mud to building’s front door. The old man pounded his fist on the heavy oaken front door, calling out, “Church inspector! Madame Woland, are you there?”

Just as Mauser was about to pound and holler again, the door swung inward on grating hinges, letting out warmth and light.

Madame Woland was a stocky, towering, middle-aged woman robed in a dressing gown and nightcap. She peered at Mauser with black eyes that glittered with interest. “You took your time, Monseigneur!”

“Sorry,” said her guest. “I am Mauser, of course—Church Inspector, if you please.”

“Well, come inside, Church Inspector.” She looked past him. “Just you?” she asked brightly.

“No, I…” Mauser’s voice trailed off as he looked over his shoulder and realized he was alone. “How odd. My coachman drove here with me.”

“Ah,” said Woland. “Look, your horse is missing too. My manservant must have reached them both and led them to the back while we’ve been talking.”

Mauser frowned. “Quite an efficient servant you have, Madame.” The rain was like a pounding hammer between his ears, drowning out all thought.

The woman smiled graciously and led him inside. “I inherited this estate from my great-grandfather, you know. It might appear grand, but my means are quite a bit more limited than his. Nonetheless, I can provide guests with a nourishing meal.”

They soon reached the dining hall, whose centerpiece was a banquet table with a hundred chairs. “Your dinner,” said Madame Woland. “Shall I leave you alone while you eat?”

“Please sit with me, Madame. I’ve had nothing to do think of questions to ask you for weeks.”

“Of course,” she replied smoothly. They both pulled out chairs and settled down, though Woland had no food in front of her.

“I’ll waste no time,” said Mauser over a gulp of cider. “The accusations come from the elders of the neighboring villages. They say you are a witch who has summoned a coterie of were-wolves, that animals and good people have gone missing.”

She laughed lightly. “I’m no witch, nor did I summon the wolves. No, they came to me.”

The church inspector froze. He carefully swallowed his soup. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a woman of science with no patience for the supernatural. So you’ll understand what a shock it was when a pack of the largest wolves I’ve ever seen in my life came to my estate and spoke in the voices of men. Were-wolves, it happens, are neither demons or witches. No, they were made by the hand of man. One man in particular. My great-grandfather.”

Mauser’s mouth tasted coppery. He could barely perceive the insanity of what was being told to him. Was he dreaming?

There was a clattering at the doorway. Mauser turned and stared at the enormous, silver-coated wolf standing there. Its eyes were those of a man’s, but old and rheumy. Its blood-red tongue lolled like a beefsteak from a mouth filled with more kinds of teeth than a wolf ought to have.

“He made them for the war effort,” Madame Woland continued. “Afterward, they were allowed to live on our moorland.” She nodded to the creature in the doorway. “But though science can make a man into a beast, it cannot, it seems, make something truly new. All of their cubs lack human intelligence.

“The first generation lives far longer than either human or natural wolf, but the oldest among them are quite decrepit by now. They came to me, descendant of their creator, to add fresh blood to their ranks. Indeed, I have obtained raw material and human brains from my neighbors—”

Mauser threw himself from his chair and ran shrieking for the unlit servant’s entrance, his only hope of escape. In the darkness, he slammed into a wall and was still.

***

The storm came quicker than expected. Mauser looked out from the moorland scrub at the darkening horizon with… what was it? Nostalgia? Mourning? He would never again hear the sound of rain on a man-made roof, that favorite noise of his childhood.

This was the first rain since Mauser’s change. It had been bright and sunny by the time he’d been released from the estate. His coachman hadn’t survived, nor had several other victims. This was troubling, apparently. Her great-grandfather had never failed once.

Madame Woland promised that she would keep adding to the pack until the day she was finally dragged off to prison or worse. She said a lot of things. She’d promised Mauser that he’d be far happier as a wolf than he’d ever been as a man.

Only time would tell. For now, Mauser would endure the storm.