The Blizzard

The Blizzard

Her eyes shot open. Huntsy was barking. Where was she? What time was it? Then she smelled smoke and sat bolt upright.

There, just in front, a tendril of smoke rose from the parlor rug, fueled by a hot ember from the fireplace. She kicked out her foot and knocked the ember back to the grate. The smoke faded, and Huntsy lay down again beneath her chair.

"Good boy, for waking me up!"

Beyond the mullioned parlor window, enormous flakes swirled by. Farther back, trees along the forest’s edge twisted wildly in wind. A drift was piled against her garden shed, now barely visible through the storm.

“I’m sure glad I went shopping yesterday.”

The mantle clock chimed three PM - time to review her winter storm checklist. Neighbors had suggested the idea, and it helped give her peace of mind. Blizzards here in Maine could be dangerous, and though her neighbors lived nearby, it would soon get too cold, the snow too deep, to venture outside. She could end up on her own for a while, especially if the phone lines went down.

She reached for the phone, lifted the receiver to her ear.

"Item one – phone's working."

How reassuring, that dial tone. Folks took it for granted, but in times like these...

“Two – electricity is on,” she said with a glance at the glowing clock on the microwave.

“Three – house is toasty warm."

"Four – lots of firewood in the house. And there's a fire in the grate."

"Five – pantry's full."

"Six – no frozen pipes."

"Seven – furnace oil tank is almost full. Oh, and yesterday I got you a dozen cans of dog food!”

She reached beneath the chair, felt her dog’s soft, warm fur. One stroke along his back, and he began licking her hand. He licked and licked, until she chuckled and slowly withdrew.

“You silly old dog.”

She dried her hand and lay it on the chair’s well-worn arm.

"Look at those veins," she muttered. "I'm getting too old."

The veins stood out, shadowed in relief from the gray light streaming through the window. They looked like twisted green ropes, starkly visible beneath skin rendered thin, translucent with age.

----------------

Night fell early. The wind howled, rattled the exterior shutters during dinner - a thick slice of bread and a bowl of homemade beef stew with sweet pearl onions, carrots, potatoes, herbs. Huntsy had finished his own food and lay at her feet. He appeared content and half asleep – his paled muzzle and forelegs, his fur mottled white in patches.

She clicked to the weather channel. The forecast screen glowed bright red as a blizzard warning scrolled by.

“Remain indoors at all times, except for emergencies. Overnight, wind chills will drop below -50F, with wind speeds of 30-40 mph and gusts above 50mph. Another 12-14 inches of snow is expected before morning.”

She finished her stew and set the bowl on the floor. Huntsy was snoring, so she had to poke him twice before he lifted his head, smelled the offering, struggled to his feet to lick the bowl clean. Later, when she reached down for it, he showed his thanks by licking and nibbling her hand.

“There’s no more gravy on my hand, ya know,” and she chuckled.

After washing dishes, she added logs to the fire and pulled out her knitting. An old spaghetti western played on TV while Huntsy dozed at her feet. Occasional pops from the fireplace failed to wake him, but his presence warmed her mood.

Around ten o’clock, she yawned and switched off the TV. The fire had burned down to a bed of barely glowing coals. As she set aside her knitting, the whole house creaked, shifted in wind. In the silence between gusts, a strange unease crept in. Like she was being watched.

It wasn’t Huntsy - he was snoring.

That watching – it came from the window. She stared into the night, glass panes rattling as the wind rose again.

“What’s out there?” she said, to no one but herself. Wolves were seen in these parts, but they’d be sheltering from the storm. Same with black bears. Then… what?

She switched off the lamp and plunged into darkness. The world beyond was black and mercilessly cold. She blinked, and a shape suddenly loomed outside, just beyond the window. It looked blacker than the night around it. She blinked again, and it was gone. The sensation of being watched intensified, so she went to the side door in her kitchen and switched on the porch light.

Nothing but a fog of blowing snow. The drift against her door was growing taller by the minute. She switched off the light, shivered as the air around her went cold. It felt like someone, no, something, was just outside the door.

“Who’s there?” she said sharply.

She switched the light back on. No one. Just a smooth layer of snow on the porch planks, no footprints.

Should she call someone? The police? Who could get around in this weather? The roads were impassable by now.

Her sense of being watched faded as quickly as it came. She peered once more through the window and switched off the light.

A half hour later, she was tucked in bed, a small black and white TV playing as she got ready for her and Huntsy’s bedtime ritual – something they’d repeated every night for the past thirteen years.

It began when Huntsy stepped into the bedroom doorway, sat down, and whined, his faded fur awash in the TV’s bluish glow. Next, she rose onto her elbows and patted the bed.

“Come on, Huntsy. Come on,” she coaxed.

He padded inside and crawled under the bed. It was her turn, so she reached down between the mattress and the wall, where Huntsy licked her fingers until she laughed and withdrew her hand. Then he crawled out, jumped onto the bed, and curled up at her feet.

Not long after, they both fell into a deep and satisfying slumber.

----------------

She awoke to a cold bedroom, the furnace vents blowing at full. Bright light filtered through the drapes. Out in the parlor, wind whistled beneath the front door, and, just inside, a thin layer of snow had blown in through the unshielded gap.

“For Pete’s sake! How did that happen?”

She grabbed a broom and swept the snow back under the door. With the insulating strip missing, she had to roll up a bath towel and wedge it into the gap. As if on cue, claws clicked on hardwood and Huntsy appeared from the bedroom.

She sighed and removed the towel, opened the door, and shooed him out to do his business. A blast of subzero air sliced in and ruffled his fur. He winced, balking at her request. But after a firm nudge of her foot, he shuffled outside. He'd have to stay on the porch, but there was no other option in this blizzard. She closed the door behind him and checked the thermostat. Fifty-two degrees.

Soon, a bark sounded from outside. She let Huntsy in, closed and bolted the door, and packed the rolled towel beneath.

“There. Now this place can warm up. I wonder how that door strip came off.”

Huntsy cocked his head left, then right, ears pricked, as he tried to comprehend. He followed her into the kitchen, where she started a pot of coffee and stood rubbing her hands in the chill. He went to his water bowl, sniffed it, then backed up and made a low growl.

“What’s wrong?”

She checked the bowl. It was nearly empty, and a puddle of water lay around its base.

“Since when did you start sloshing out water?” she said, hands on her hips.

In the end, she had to wash the bowl in soapy water before Huntsy would drink from it again.

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They had a strange day. She still felt uneasy from the night before, and Huntsy was subdued, clingy, and insistent on following her everywhere in the house. At least the blizzard had ended. Now, they'd wait until neighbors could dig them out – maybe a couple days considering the subzero temperatures.

After dinner, she watched TV and knitted while Huntsy slept at her feet. Every half hour or so, she reached down to stroke his fur and reassure him. It eased the tension in the room. Later, as she prepared for bed, there was no repeat of the unnerving events of the previous night.

Now she lay under the blankets, an old episode of the Honeymooners playing on TV. She began to drift off until she heard Huntsy crawl under the bed. She hadn't coaxed him yet, but he sometimes tired of sitting in the doorway as she lay there half asleep.

She reached down and smiled as his tongue set to work on her fingers, her whole hand.

“Crazy old dog,” she said, giggling as she resisted his tickles, more intense than usual.

A whine sounded from across the room, and her head shot up. There was Huntsy, sitting in the doorway, his fur flickering in the dim light.

The tongue licking her hand felt as cold as ice...