The Storm

It had been raining for three weeks when she found the boy on her doorstep.

She opened the door, and there he was, sleeping on the stoop -- or maybe not asleep. She didn't want to think about that option.

Instead, she stared at him, soaking wet with an expression on his face rather like if a cat had been put in the same position, eyes closed despite the grimace, unsure what to do about it all, and then his eyes snapped open. They made him look younger, she thought as she dragged him inside.

He was cold.

Something about him was rather inhuman, but she couldn't put a finger on it. She sat him on the couch and wrapped him in a blanket, and considered whether or not she should still go to work. He stared, unblinking as she made tea and brought two mugs to him, steam clouding up her glasses. Maybe he had died as she dragged him in, she thought, quickly proven wrong by him rolling his neck and looking around the room, turning in sharp, stilted movements.

The rain pounded on her front window as if it was begging for the boy back. Maybe he had fallen from the sky with all this water, crumpled on her doorstep with all his bones broken.

He opened and closed his mouth, maybe trying to speak, looking like a fish drowning in air. She offered him the second mug of tea -- chamomile, it's calming, she said. He shook his head and tried to get up, his bones making a multitude of unpleasant noises. Could I get you some food, then? she asked, because he looked hungry, maybe soup would be good? I have half a can in the fridge --

He ignored her, leaning heavily on the sofa as he pushed himself to standing. Thank you for your help, he croaked, barely pushing the words out. Not that it was all that helpful.

She jumped up, pushing to get him to stay, lie down, sleep on something soft just for the day, and I can get you to a hospital when you feel better, you really don't sound well at all, not well enough to go out into that storm, at least.

As if the storm will ever end.

His voice was a bit stronger, she thought as she blocked him from the door while he reached for the handle, throwing him off balance, and he fell. He made noises that a human body shouldn't have made as he hit the floor, not in the way that someone dying would, but in the way that it was most certainly not a person that she had dragged through her door. I can't stay here, he said. Can't you hear that it knows where I am? It's chasing me.

The rain was pooling on her windowsills in a way that did not look particularly good. It seemed as though the rain was piling up like snow rather than sliding off, as if it was growing into something tangible that would try its very hardest to creep in. It can't get in, she said, though she didn't believe her words one bit.

Trying to dive under her arms, the boy said, it can get in, and it will. It will creep through your doors and into your walls and it will find its way into your food and your water and inside of you until nothing of you remains.

And is that what it is trying to do to you?

He didn't respond.

Shouldn't you at least try to escape? she asked.

I owe it something, he said after a beat, and made another grab for the door handle.

The rain was rising on the windowsill now, tapping on the glass, looking for weak points. She tried to ignore it, but did not succeed. She didn't know how to respond to the boy, if she should ask what he owed, how he owed something to the storm, why he had to pay with his life.

I suppose, he said, if you really want me to survive, I could always pay my debt with you. He stood up a little straighter, and she noticed that his eyes were a watery grey not unlike the harbor. Not unlike the rain pouring out in the storm.

How would you go about that? she asked, feigning curiosity, wondering if maybe she should be scared.

His fingers were damp when he grabbed her hand and wrenched it away from the doorknob. It caught her by surprise, and she didn't have time to steel herself for the sudden movement. When the boy tried once more to open the door, she didn't have the chance to pull him away, and then the storm was in her house, the wind and rain were pouring in.

Don't you see? he said. All I need to do is step out, and it will have me, but if you could step out first -- just think about it -- then I would be free.

Why is it after you? she tried again, stepping back from the door. Both of them were trying their hardest to not let the water touch their skin, watching as it pooled on the doorstep with that strange sort of life resonating through it.

I took something from it, he said, and I need to give it something back.

He refused to elaborate.

The storm made itself known in her doorway, blowing a small branch into her door. She let out a small shriek. There aren't even any trees here --! she said. As if the branch coming from seemingly nowhere was the strangest thing that had happened this morning. She turned from the door, reaching for the mug of tea she'd left on the coffee table and checking her watch. I'm late to work, she said, as if the boy -- or the storm -- was listening. They'll have my head for staying home without calling in sick.

She didn't have any sort of plan, but she very much regretted trying to help the boy. He had been fine leaving on his own (taking the storm with him) until she'd said there must be a way you can escape it. There is, there always is with things like this, but it never ends well, does it? Maybe if she pretended none of it mattered he would leave, she thought, but then that insidious guilt wormed its way into her and asked, do you really want him to leave? he'll die if he goes out there, look at him, he's half-drowned already, just from that rain. do you really want that weighing on your conscience? do you really want to let him die?

She shook it off, brought her tea to her mouth, took a sip. It burnt a bit going down.

The boy watched her silently with sharp eyes.

Close the door, she said. You're letting the cold in.

The boy did not move. Neither did she, afraid as she was to go anywhere near that storm. It certainly was alive, she realized as she watched the rain flood her stoop, watched the storm wreck her rug and the original hardwood floor.

Why don't you just leave, she thought. You wanted so badly to leave not ten minutes ago. And you were practically dead on my doorstep -- what if I'd never helped you? It would surely have you then!

It wasn't worth thinking about. She took another sip of her tea, eyes locked with the boy. Neither of them noticed the bit of fog slip in through the door. They both were silently daring each other to stand up, to step through the threshold, and didn't see the fog until it was behind them both, until its tendrils had wrapped each of them in a bit of cold and damp, until it was clear that it would never let go.

What did I do to you! exclaimed the woman. Take him!

The storm didn't say anything, but the way the fog's cold rattled her bones seemed to say, You offered yourself to us when you dragged him through your door, or maybe what rules of fairness am I bound to? what did you do to me besides exist, besides be in my way? I owe you nothing.

The boy was silent throughout it all.

He met her eyes, and smiled just a bit. Isn't this what you wanted? his eyes said. You wanted to save me -- you wanted us to end up in the same place. You wouldn't let the storm take me, but we both know you'd never have gotten away with that, and now it will take us both. Are you happy now?

Aren't you happy now?