The sound of the glass breaking must have been heard on every floor, even though I can tell there are still working lights on at least two of the building’s other levels.

There’s no saying how much longer those will last.

“All students should head home IMMEDIATELY,” Mrs. Magworth is saying hurriedly, her tone notably more frazzled than it was a moment ago, “School buses are waiting directly outside the front doors to take you all home. Students who live outside the bus route are advised to call their parents, if at all possible, and ask for a ride home. Please be careful and remain calm. Teachers and teaching assistants are standing by on each floor to help you exit the premises in a safe and orderly fashion.”

“We have to go outside in this weather?!” a girl shouts, from an upper floor, “It just broke the light bulbs.”

“The light bulbs were likely broken by a power surge,” Mrs. Magworth replies, still over the intercom, “The windows are still intact, and as of yet, the wind has not reached a dangerous speed. Hence why it’s of the utmost important that you all get home n-”

Magsworth voice is drowned out by a collective cry of dismay as an additional light bulb shatters- only one this time - but that’s enough to make the female half of the student body scream.

“They’re going to run,” Christopher George whispers in my ear.

“What?” I whisper back harshly.

“I said they’re gonna run-!” Before he can finish his full statement I see the wave like a bloodcurdling ocean of horror come charging down the stairs through the spotted darkness at a speed that’s nothing short of terrifying.

Classmates are rammed and knocked down the stairs, some fall on the landing, someone is almost knocked over the railing as the entire student body rushes toward the door like an army of ghosts or on their tails.

I see what they’re all running from just as Christopher and I stumble out of the way and press our backs against the floor to ceiling windows to avoid being crushed by the human sea.

A mist almost as thick as a cloud rushes over the sky outside the giant windows in a shade of amythyst that’s almost as mesmerizing as it is unearthly.

It looks like something out of a horror movie.

Hurricane. 

There’s a hurricane coming.

The loud speaker clicks as I look sideways at Christopher and whisper over the noise of the stampede “Should we call your Dad?”

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” he shakes his head, “Dad’s working at an apartment all the way on the outskirts of town on the North side. There’s no way he’d be able to get to us faster than we could get home. Especially if everyone is on the road trying to make it home before the storm.”

That sounds like logic, but for some reason a part of me doesn’t want to agree that easily.

Maybe I just don’t want to step out into that insanity, when it looks like armageddon had found Montana and touched down on Larksborough of all places.

God-! Why does it feel like armageddon follows me?

“We should go,” Christopher shouts, when nearly the entire crowd has passed us and is pushing their way out the front door amongst deafening noise.

Something about the roaring seems to paralyze me, eyes closed, back still to the glass.

But when I don’t reply or move to follow him, he reaches out and takes my hand leading me toward the back door we just came back into the school through.

The second his hand touches mine a shiver surges from my fingertips up to my shoulder and I want to yank my hand away but I don’t.

It doesn’t move.

I think I’m freaking out. 

I was already doing that. But I’m freaking-out-er.

I barely feel my own limbs as Christopher George and I cut across the football to cut time, turning a thirty minute walk into a fifteen minute semi-run.

Thank God his legs are longer than mine or I’d have left him miles behind by the first hundred yards. Or maybe it’s adrenaline of some kind that helps him match my pace for such a long stretch without flagging.

Purple and green mix in the sky above us into a psychedelic whirlpool of glowy neon crayon box colors.

This is not good. Not good. Not good.

Mr. George’s truck is pulling into the driveway by the time we arrive, and he shouts to Christopher the second his feet hit the asphalt, “We’ve gotta board the windows. Grab the t-”

Christopher has already hurried into the house, presumably for whatever hammers and nails they’ll both need, and I’m right on his tail, trying my best not to actually tread on his heels.

The sky is so saturated in the eerie aura that the shades of purple standing out against the green start to look like a nebula.

It’s been a very very very long time since I saw a storm like that.

8 years.

I hoped I’d never see one again.

There must be a whole family of halcyons being s-

The thought somehow makes its way to my throat and sticks there, choking me.

I feel sick all over. I feel cold all over.

“Is there anything I can do?” Therese is asking fretfully as Verner rushes through the front door and stomps the dirt off his boots in the entryway.

“Put tape around the windows, and the back doors,” He nods hurriedly, quickly rummaging through the coat closet for something in one of his raincoat pockets.

“What can I do?” I hear myself ask, all of a sudden-

Forgetting myself. Forgetting I’m not home. Forgetting we’re not back in Iris Wood.

I want to help. This time. I didn’t know how- there wasn’t anything I could - they said there wasn’t anything I could do the last time-

But something or everything about today is reminding me of the Rayfords. The look in Therese’s face is almost exactly the same breed of terror I remember seeing on Heloise Rayford’s face the last time I saw any of them-

And I feel a part of my guard fall, the barrier that I know I’m supposed to keep up for safety's sake shatters into a million pieces like so much broken glass, but for a minute, I don’t even care if they’ll kill me after this storm.

There’s an expression in Mrs. George’s dark eyes, terrified, glistening, and as round as dinner plates, that seems to ask a question that’s all too familiar, as she glances from my face to her husband’s.

“You don’t need to do anything, darling,” Verner smiles reassuringly, or with an attempt at being reassuring that really just makes me feel useless. “Why don’t you just go ahead and shower and change out of your school clothes. We’ll have a sort of…family game night once Chris and I are done with the windows. Sound good?”

No.

I want to do something.

But I can’t say that. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and Verner simply ruffles my hair, trying to soothe my anxiety.

A subtle vibration seems to pass through my body to my very bones.

“Don’t worry. We have plenty of food and supplies to last us all until the storm blows over.”

I feel myself nod and turn around, though I don’t want to, and make my way to the stairs at a snail's pace that only seems to make my body grow heavier with every half-hearted step. 

I hear humming again. But this time it almost sounds like the fading tremors of a violin playing an old-fashioned-

…almost…ancient…?

Lullaby.

Halfway up the stairs, I stop, and turn back to see Mrs. George still looking at Mr. George with that look of terror covering her entire face.

“What should I do after I tape the windows, mon amour?” She whispers, and her voice is so faint it almost sounds weak and aged.

Mr. George hesitates for a second, looking at the slight tremor that has taken over his wife’s frame, though she puts her uninjured hand on her opposite arm as if to steady herself.

If only it were that easy to tell the fear what to do.

Verner’s blue eyes seem to darken with the same wearied weakness that dances in his wife’s expression, but the reset of his face remains so firm it almost looks defiant.

“Nothing,” he whispers, gently taking her quivering chin in his thin, calloused hand, and kissing her lightly, “Christopher George and I have everything under control-”

But then he pauses suddenly, his hand still on her chin, and a new kind of dread-

No, an old dread revisited-

-scratches at the back of my psyche as a new thought makes Verner’s face turn as white as a sheet and he whispers to his wife quickly, in a tone barely above a breath, “Therese, call Leera. See if she replies.”