Originally published in KAYTELL INK: THE ENCORE
Welcome to The Storm, a piece of horror flash fiction that introduces the unsettling phenomenon of a seemingly ordinary storm that defies all logic.
Shattering the night’s silence with the sudden roar of intense rainfall. An ounce more pressure, and the droplets could have probably shattered the windows. For a few minutes, the residents tried to ignore it and continue their slumber. It was a storm. No big deal. No one had seen anything about it on the news earlier, but they didn’t care. They were asleep—they weren’t up to go investigating.
Then, the screams began.
The heavy breezes carried the rigid cries through each house. From the inside, the winds were destroying the neighborhood. Trees were falling, car alarms blaring, and animals calling out.
Curiosity drove people from their beds to their windows. No rain. No wind. Everything was still. Yet there were still sounds of raindrops smacking against the windows in their faces, and they could still hear the trash cans crashing into their cars—causing the alarms to go off. But it wasn’t. Not actually. There was no rain, no wind, no alarms, and nothing moving.
People were torn between worrying about their property and the possibility of real danger outside, where someone was screaming for help. The moment finally came when they were tested on whether they were going to turn a blind eye or go out and investigate.
Fear pinched at the soles of their feet, urging them – forcing them – from the windows and tiptoeing out to their lawns. The solid green, patterned, manicured lawns cuddled together in the cul-de-sac. The moment their doors opened, and they peeked from the edge of their porches, all they could describe was uneasiness. Screams were coming from blocks away, their eyes darting around to see where the rain was, the wind, the animals, the sound. But nothing.
A few called out to each other, asking what was happening, but their voices trailed off. Interrupted by another crashing sound in the distance.
Angst trickled over the skin like drizzle at the beginning of a shower. For a moment, the neighbors made it to the road and looked out at each other. Their eyes asked if anyone knew what was going on, but their mouths remained shut.
The children and whoever else was too afraid stayed inside, still at those windows, watching. Everyone was awake now. Bedroom and kitchen lights clicked on like dominoes across the homes. Indoors were most of the elderly, the freshly divorced single mom who only had a bat as defense, and more of the residents that otherwise blended into the background of everyone else’s lives. They continued to peek out of their blinds or blatantly opened curtains, wide-eyed at the noise and the lack of reaction of those walking out into it.
The distant sounds grew hauntingly closer.
Outdoors was most of the men—either forced out by their wives or their innate need to protect—terrified women who felt more comfortable coming out when others did, and an angry mix of folk who woke for work in a few hours. They stood and looked around confused. While it sounded like the world was swirling through a mixer, most were convinced the chaos was coming from somewhere they could not see from the safety behind the double-paned glass.
The neighbors were all about to return indoors, still exchanging no words. Too uncomfortable to speak. They went to search for the truth where it felt safe. Make phone calls, check the news, find answers—inside. The questions they hadn’t known to ask were answered just then.
The street soccer mom stopped just before her porch stairs and held out her arms. It was something on her skin, yet no one saw anything. She fell back onto the ground, her sandy haircut bouncing shamelessly. Still holding out her arms, brushing them with her hands, rushing whatever the feeling was off of her. Nothing was there.
At first, she thought it was a bug. She wiped, nothing. Then, maybe it was raindrops from the shower they had heard inside. She wiped, nothing. Moments of silent panic passed when she began scraping at her arms frantically, her nails digging into herself, clawing at the invisible, unbearable pain.
Then came the screams. She curled against the concrete, now trying to force her hands into her ears and shield her eardrums. Screaming. It hurts, she repeated. No one could see what she meant, only that she was distraught – insisting that the pain was getting worse. Two other women and one man ran over to her, still hushed by fear, trying to help. Everyone else fell back from their progression and rushed into their homes.
Eventually, everyone outside that wasn’t behind a closed door or window shared her fate. Screeching in pain, pinned to their current spot, clutching at their ears. It was a searing, relentless ring that seemed to drill into their skulls, each pulse reverberating through their bones. The storm moved with a will of its own, striking where it pleased, defying any attempt to predict its path. Instead, the news anchors sent out warnings when there was word of it torturing a nearby city, and no one looked or went outside when they heard rain, yelling, or any sort of ruckus anymore. The streets stayed deserted, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
It lasted for hours the first time. Anyone outside when the wave of chaos passed would experience hours of torturous pain right where they stood until it moved on. After that, it sometimes lasted for days. There was no amount of protection that could be used if you were outdoors. The only safety was enclosed space. As years went by, being outside was for the riskier bunch. Being outside became a gamble only the desperate took. In affluent areas, sleek, enclosed sidewalks snaked between luxury condos, forming a glass maze that offered some semblance of protection. Meanwhile, in the lower-priority districts, haphazard frequency shelters dot the streets like afterthoughts, if they existed at all... Nothing was placed in the lower areas. The slightest car crash, sound of rain, or areas of loud conversation caused a clearance in an area, but if they had no place to go—everyone just ran.
Scientists had some sort of special name for it: Spectral Frequency Disturbance or Spectral Resonance. Something to do with some sort of frequency traveling around like a hurricane. But everyone just called it the storm. Others whispered about global warming, aliens, or government experiments. But whatever the truth was, everyone agreed on one thing: when it came, you didn’t ask questions. You just got inside and prayed it passed you by.
Awesome