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four
tempest | a violent, raging storm
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"WHAT A BEAUTIFUL name." Eileen's warm smile widened, this time to an expression more genuine. "Caila. It's lovely."

I shook my head. It was my name, but an incorrect pronunciation—an easy mistake when reading rather than having my name spoken. Still, it was foreign to hear my name spoken with a hard "C," no matter how often it happened.

Both Eileen and Locke's brows knitted together, and deep lines creased their foreheads. They were like twins from alternate times. The man clearly took after his mother more than his father—from her kind eyes and compassion to the dimples in her cheeks.

I scribbled quickly on my white board, Sye-lah.

"Caila," said Locke, the soft syllables a lullaby from his tongue.

Heat rose to my cheeks. I'd never thought much of my name, but the way he spoke it with such grace and a voice like the most expensive silk, made it sound so... beautiful. Elegant. Like it didn't belong to me yet was all I could ever desire.

Eileen squeezed my knee. "Even lovelier. Welcome to our home, Caila."

A white flash assaulted the room with a crack of thunder that rattled the open windows. Eileen's hand jolted back, and she clutched her chest with a breathless laugh.

"Someone should teach that storm some manners," she joked.

Locke casted a sideways glance to Sylas, whose twitching eyes rose to the ceiling. "Dad was trying to shoot manners into it earlier."

Unease settled in my bones. If only his statement was true. It hadn't been a storm that Sylas tried pumping full of lead—and judging by the way his lazy eye drifted toward me with disdain, I had a feeling it wouldn't be his final attempt.

As if sensing my discomfort, Eileen changed the subject. "Do you remember anything that happened?"

I went rigid. White dust rained from the chalk I choked between my fingers. It was silent, and then plinking, but I realized when I turned my head that the storm had begun. Rain battered the side of the house. Darkness blanketed the clearing, casting long shadows across the living room as natural light gave way to dim floor lamps.

Papers rustled on the nearby bookshelf, and the petals on the coffee table's fresh yellow rose ripped away to swirl around its cylindrical vase.

Eileen got to her feet. "It's getting dark. We need to seal the house."

With a curt nod, Locke made his way to the window by the stairwell. His mother raced to the large, open panes off the foyer. They worked in tandem to shut the house, and before I knew it, the young man's footsteps thumped hurriedly to the second floor.

Eileen pattered to the window overlooking the stairs. As she adjusted the blinds, turning them out rather than in as Locke had done, she smiled over her shoulder.

"You can't be too careful with these woods," she said. "Never know what's lurking about here." Her smile flickered, as if she only just realized she was talking to someone who understood what horrors this land held. "You'll be safe here. We take every measure to protect ourselves... and you'll learn, too."

The naivety of her words was amusing. I returned the kind expression, however. Whatever it took for Eileen to continue believing she had any control over Wailerun's malice.

At least, as the blinds closed fully, Eileen's distracted gaze never registered the looming silhouette that stalked past the glass.

A distant howl shuddered the air with a lethal promise. Eileen winced as if it was the wind hissing through the trees, spiraling the uppermost branches in quickening circles. Rotation was not what should have boiled her concern.

Heavy sock-feet thundered down the stairs. Locke descended two at a time, long legs moving swiftly at a pace I would have struggled to keep up with even at a brisk run.

"Strong rotation in the clouds out there." His words were breathless as his socks slid on the wooden floorboards. "We should hunker down."

Eileen stood frozen at the window, fingertips whispering against the tilt wand. She turned to Sylas, who gripped his Bible tighter than a weapon, but she did not budge. It was as if she'd been lost to the siren's call of hissing wind and torrential rain.

So lost that, when the weather's song ceased in the midst of crescendo, the middle-aged woman remained unmoving.

Locke scooped Teagan into his arms in one swift motion. His chest heaved in stuttering waves, ivy eyes wide. Wordless fright struck his expression and seemed to move his feet with purpose as he strode to his mother's side. The child on his hip wrapped arms around his neck and nuzzled into Locke's side.

"Mom." Locke's whisper was a gunshot against the hushed walls.

The world had gone still. Even the otherworldly screams hesitated from their prowling grounds.

Sylas gasped, a ghastly wheezing that lifted the hair on my arms. His eyes fired open with a glaze so thick it could have been a shimmering pool. Unintelligible mumblings fell from his lips until, finally, he stood on wobbly legs.

The Bible in his grasp fell to the floor.

And the woods spiraled into chaos.

Winds ripped the forest with a banshee's cry. An unforgettable sound sliced the evening air, penetrating the humidity that hung in near-visible droplets—the sound of a deadly train careening from the distance. Dread blanketed the room. In a city, there would've been a sharp wail to signal them to take shelter. In Wailerun, there were no sirens.

Locke and Eileen passed a wordless look between them, and Eileen welcomed Teagan into her arms. As her son rushed to his father's side, she motioned for me.

"We need to get to the basement." Warmth still encompassed her tone as she adjusted her grandson on her hip, but an urgent edge pierced the tempest's roar.

I didn't object. Storms in Wailerun were nothing to be messed with; they held the torrents of evil incarnate, with nature's fury at their aid. While no shelter was foolproof against their wrath, we'd stand a chance against forces unknown.

So I followed Eileen to a rickety wooden door at the farthest corner of the kitchen, with creaking hinges and worn off polish. Around the hinges, splinters scraped at the frame, either from being slammed shut or forced open by brute strength. The stairs were not much better as they bowed under foot. It was only a matter of time before an unfortunate resident drove their leg through it like a rotting coffin.

Moth balls permeated the air, nearly strong enough to douse the aura of impending doom. Must and damp stone intertwined with their strength to coat my nostrils.

Eileen reached overhead for a brass chain that dangled from a fixture screwed into the wooden beams.

The roaring wind deafened the chain's click. I clutched the chalkboard to my chest, squinting against the warm light. The basement came into full view, all cinder block walls and cracked cement floors with crevasses deep enough to fit half my shoe. Cardboard boxes lined the side wall, flaps crumpled and handles torn. They'd been stacked haphazardly until contents poked from holes in the old material. Pipes hung overhead, weaving through the wood and around...

Nails.

Thick, sharpened nails protruded from the upstairs floor. I ducked instinctively despite standing well below the longest offenders. Terror pulsed through my chest with a force stronger than any heartbeat. Piercing agony stabbed my arms, my hands, my feet. My skull. Everywhere that similar nails had once driven through my flesh.

"Sweetie, over here."

Eileen's gentle tone pulled me from the brink of repressed memory. Flames licked my chest with every forced breath as I approached the older woman, who stood at the side of the staircase.

Beneath the wooden slats rested a handful of beanbags, blankets, and large pillows. A makeshift shelter under the stairs, just enough for a small family. And, it seemed, a guest or two.

Their former tourists must have appreciated the gesture.

As Eileen lowered Teagan onto a faded gray beanbag, footsteps assaulted the stairs. Each one racked the wood with such sharp creaks and cracks that it seemed the two men and large dog would crash atop our heads at any moment.

Hawthorn appeared first, proceeded by clicking nails and long huffs. His tail no longer flicked back and forth, but instead stayed tucked between his legs. When another crack of thunder split the train-like winds, he ran to cower at Teagan's side. The boy opened his blanket to cover his best friend's backside.

A much louder crash rattled my bones. I lowered myself a little too quickly atop a mound of pillows that—thankfully—cushioned my fall.

The new noises were no longer thunder and an approaching funnel, but debris and objects far heavier than just lawn ornaments being launched to the ground.

Locke appeared a moment later, guiding his father by the shoulders. The older man's eyes remained glazed. Sylas may have been present in body, but certainly not in mind or spirit.

If only we could have heard what the woods whispered to him.

Eileen helped her son lower Sylas into a chair before shooing Locke away. She reached to a small, wooden crate beside the beanbag she now shared with her husband, and raised the antenna on an old weather radio. Static filled the room with a sharp tone that drove daggers through my eardrums. I dug my nails into the wooden edge of the blackboard.

"God, Mom," muttered Locke as he pulled Teagan into his lap. "If that thing isn't getting signal, turn it off."

Eileen scowled at him. "You just give it a moment. Poor thing hasn't been used for three summers. It needs time to tune in, I'm sure."

Locke only hummed in response. Uncertainty knit his brows together, but even as the static grew more piercing, he was the picture of calm. But, as I soon realized by the way he swallowed harder than any calm person, his demeanor was for show. It kept Teagan content as he sat in his father's lap, stroking Hawthorn's fluffy tail.

That was, until the radio went silent.

And when it resumed with a sharp click, the static was replaced by a blood-curdling shriek.