I Inherited A Farmhouse, The Cellar Holds A Sinister Legacy | Part 1
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It's got good bones. That's what the first contractor said when he came out to look at the place. It's got good bones.

In other words, he planned on making a short-term career out of the farmhouse by rebuilding it from the studs up. I thanked him and promptly tossed his card in the trash. He sent me his quote a week later. It was more than my yearly salary. I thanked him again and moved on. Four more contractors came out. They all said different versions of the same thing: "It's got good bones."

They all wanted me to sign over my firstborn, the deeds to the house of everyone in my contacts list, and a pint of blood every third Wednesday after a full moon. I turned them all down, of course. I'm a librarian and don't have that kind of money. Also, I'm single, have no kids, don't know anyone who owns a house, and I can be squeamish when it comes to blood. Once I explained all that, the texts and emails stopped until last November, the day after Halloween.

That's when I met Bridget Hanover. That's when my life changed forever. "Well, Mr. Stanton, the house has..." she began to say but I stopped her with a raised hand. "Good bones," I interjected. "Yeah, I've heard that one." "Well, sure, yeah. It's got great bones," she said. "But what I was going to say was that the house has a history, that's for sure." "Oh, a history," I responded. "Wait, what do you mean by that? What kind of history?"

Bridget Hanover was a tall woman, maybe in her mid-fifties like me. She could have been older too, but since I never asked, I never knew. She had blondish white hair pulled back in a ponytail that she kept tucked up inside a baseball cap. Wide set, deep brown eyes, and despite the hooked nose, which after the initial shock I found rather cute, she'd have been referred to as a handsome woman. Bridget gave me that smile of hers, half knowing, half apologetic.

I'd later come to know that smile well. "'How long has your family been in the valley?' she asked me. "'I have no idea,' I said. "'I just moved here two years ago.' "'On purpose?' she asked, and her smile widened. "'For work,' I replied. "'I'm the head librarian at—' "'Nearby Valley Public Library,' she said, finishing my sentence. "'I've seen you there, Mr. Stanton. Clem, please,' I said. "'Clem,' she said and nodded. "'Bridget.'

"'Yep, it's on your card,' I said, and held up the white rectangle she'd handed me the second she'd stepped up to shake my hand on the porch. "'It is,' she said and kept smiling. We were standing in the farmhouse's kitchen, which hadn't been updated since the 1950s or 40s. "'40s,' Bridget said. I frowned at her. She shook her head. "'I saw your eyes on the appliances, trying to work out how old they are. Everything in here is 1940s with the exception of the fridge.'

"You can only get that color of green in the 1950s, so they'll all need to be replaced," I said. "Jesus, why?" she said still smiling. "Do you hear the fridge running?" "No," I said.

"Oh crap, I know the power is on. I had it turned on last- " "Don't worry, the power is on," she said and flipped the switch onto the overhead light, then flicked it back off. "I'm saying keep the appliances. A fridge that old should be rattling its ass off and walking halfway across the kitchen. But it's not. It doesn't even have a hum. That damn thing purrs." "So that's a good thing?" I ask. "A purring fridge?"

"Yes Clem, it is," she said, and ran a finger through the dust and dirt that coated the kitchen counters. She rubbed the dust between her fingers and then gave it a sniff. "There was a fire here a couple decades back. The soot is coming out of hiding and drifting through the house as we speak. Do we need masks or something?" I asked. "No, we'll be fine," she said. Then I saw her smile slip. It was brief and if I'd blinked, I would have missed it.

But when something with that kind of wattage dims, you notice it. "Something wrong?" I asked her. She was looking at the door to the basement. "How about I buy you lunch?" she asked suddenly, making me jump a little. "Buy me lunch?" I responded. "Why would you buy me lunch? Because you're about to hire me, and it's the least I can do." She said.

"Hire you? You haven't given me an estimate yet," I said. "We'll go over all of that at lunch," she said, her brown eyes locked onto my green eyes. "Unless you have plans already?" "No, no," I said with a chuckle. "No plans. Since I inherited this place, meeting with contractors has pretty much taken over my day off." "You just get one day off?" she asked. "County budget cuts," I said. "The library can't afford another part-time employee."

"You should ask for volunteers," she said. "Everyone in this town has a duty to nearby Valley." Little did I know at the time how truly she believed that. "Liability," I said. "I've already been through that with the county attorney. The liability insurance is through the roof if a full-time employee isn't present with the volunteer during their shift. Sort of defeats the point." "Well, then you doubly deserve a lunch on me," she said and walked out of the kitchen. "Come on, Clem."

I glanced at the basement door, then followed her out of the kitchen. Why Nearby Valley? Bridget asked around a mouthful of pastrami on rye as we sat in the corner booth at Hildy's Diner. I'm sorry? I replied, just before taking a bite of my club sandwich. She swallowed her bite and said, What brought you to Nearby Valley? Work, I said. I got the head librarian position and... Yes, but why Nearby Valley? She interrupted.

"There are other places that need head librarians, sure. "Why here? "Give me specifics." "I don't know," I said. "I knew my family had roots here from way back. "My great aunt Flora lived here. "Keep going," she said and took a huge bite. "I, well, Flora died in May "and left me the house and land," I continued. "Is that why you moved here? "Because you knew you'd get the place?" she asked. I couldn't tell what she was fishing for,

Did she think I was some opportunist who moved to nearby valley to wait for my great aunt to die so I could inherit a money pit? That'd make me a pretty bad opportunist. "'You know what?' I said. I took my napkin off my lap and placed it on the table. "'I have errands to run. Do me a favor and send me your estimate when you can. It was nice meeting you, Miss Hanover. Sit down, Clem,' she said and turned on that smile. "'We aren't done. I think I am,' I said and started to walk away."

Bridget's hand grabbed my wrist and stopped me in my tracks. Her grip was insanely strong, and if I'd kept going, she would have probably pulled my arm right out of its socket. "Sit down, Clem," she said. When I turned to look in her face, she had that smile turned up to its full wattage, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Let go," I said and took a look around. We missed the lunch rush, so it was just us, a couple of late lunchers, the waitress, and the cook in the back.

"That house you inherited, it's worth more than a fortune, Clem," Bridget said. "More than you can even imagine. Let go," I said again. "I could, yes," she responded, and her grip tightened. "Or you can sit down, and I can explain what you've gotten yourself into. Or, I guess, what your great aunt Flora got you into by leaving you the family homestead. Let go," I said one last time. To her credit, she did.

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Oh, it's such a clutch off-season pickup, Dave. I was worried we'd bring back the same team. I meant those blackout motorized shades. Blinds.com made it crazy affordable to replace our old blinds. Hard to install? No, it's easy. I installed these and then got some from my mom. She talked to a design consultant for free and scheduled a professional measure and install. Hall of Fame's son? They're the number one online retailer of custom window coverings in the world. Blinds.com is the GOAT!

Shop blinds.com right now and get up to 45% off select styles. Rules and restrictions may apply. This was left for you. Bobby said as she handed me a sticky note. She was the only other full-time librarian. Thanks. I said, taking the sticky note from her. Who left it? What's-her-face set this on the checkout counter and told me to give it to you. She replied. Which I did. So now my job is done. What's-her-face? I asked, studying the sticky note. Huh.

"These look like reference numbers." "I know," Bobby replied. "But they aren't reference numbers for our system." I continued. "The numbers are too high. Our section doesn't hold this many books." "I know," Bobby said again and shrugged. "I didn't write the list." "What did she look like, the lady?" I asked Bobby. "She looked exactly like what's-her-face." Bobby replied, snapping her fingers over and over. Then she stopped and pointed at me. "Bridget Hanover, that's who it was."

Bobby was a good 20 years younger than me. She'd been hired three years before me, but had no ambition of being head librarian. We got along fine, except for the days when we didn't. A nearby Valley native, she lived with her disabled mother out off State Highway 53. So it stood to reason she knew who Bridget Hanover was. Oh, okay, I said and crumpled up the sticky note. I tossed it over her head and missed the trash can behind her spectacularly.

"You missed," Bobby said. "How do you know? Your back is to the can," I replied. She glanced over her shoulder then back at me. "Yeah, you missed." With a big exaggerated sigh, she walked the three feet to the crumpled sticky note and tossed it into the trash can. "She said you'd do that," Bobby said. "Who?" I asked. "Bridget Hanover," she replied. "Are you high, Clem? Pay attention."

A couple of the library's patrons looked our way. "I'm not high," I said loud enough for everyone to get the point. "And thank you for passing on the note." Bobby shrugged and walked off into the stacks. I guess our conversation was done. I took my place behind the checkout counter and started going through the overdue list on the computer. Nearby Valley, including the county as a whole, had maybe 3,000 residents. So the overdue list was only five names long.

Three of those names got their first warning emails. The fourth got their second warning email. The fifth required a phone call. "Kanye McKee?" I asked when a woman answered. "Yes?" She replied. "Klemsten from the nearby Valley Public Library calling." I said. "Oh no, no, no, no." The woman nearly shrieked. "I turned that book in." "Okay, okay, you probably did." I said, quite sure of the opposite.

"But unfortunately, our system doesn't reflect that. Can you tell me when you returned the book?" "Last year," she said. "July, I think." "July? Of last year?" I asked. "I think we're talking about different books, Miss McKee. My call is regarding the copy of Mortimer Darcy's A Day in Spain. It was due a month ago." "Wait," she said, sounding only slightly less anxious. "It must have slipped between the seats. I'll bring it by this evening." "We close at six," I said.

"I know." She replied and hung up. "Goodbye to you too." I said and placed the handset back on the cradle. I rubbed my face, then looked about the library. Bobbi was watching me from the stacks, but she acted like she wasn't when I turned in her direction. It was only 10 in the morning and things had already gotten weird. By lunchtime, I'd checked in, barcoded, and covered the shipment of new hardcovers UPS dropped off.

By early afternoon, I reset the displays on top of the young adult and the large print sections. By late afternoon, I told a group of teens to be quiet five times and a group of old men to be quiet six times. I take the teens any day. They only leave trash under their table. The old guys sometimes leave a little extra. But Mr. Lewis was wearing his adult diaper that day, so I had no hazardous material to remove from any of the chair seats.

At almost closing, a woman in her late 60s or early 70s walked in and hurried up to the checkout counter. She slapped a paperback down in front of me then gave me a hard stare. "It was between the seats," she said. "Thank you, Ms. McKee," I said. "Sorry if I alarmed you this morning." "No, it's fine," she said, then waved her hand at me. "Check it in and tell me the fine." She turned and looked around the library.

We close in one minute, so it's just us, I said as I took the book and scanned it in. No charge. No fees? Are you sure? She asked. Normally there would be, but we can let the $3.25 slide this time, I said. You said you'd bring it in before close and you did, so thank you. Uh-huh, sure, she said, still looking about. Are you alright, Miss McKee? I asked. You look like you're expecting someone to show up.

I'm fine, I'm fine, she said and leaned across the counter. You say we're alone? Yep, I said and turned away from her so I could set her returned book on the cart behind me. When I turned back, Miss McKee was hurrying away from the counter and sliding into the reference stacks. Miss McKee? I was about to follow her, but I saw the time on the clock and went to lock the front doors first. I didn't need any stragglers coming in when I should be closing up.

I close, Bobby opens. She needed to be with her mother in the evenings. It's a good system. "Miss McKee?" I called again after locking the front doors. There was no response. Moving to the reference station, I checked each row, but there was no sign of Miss McKee. "Miss McKee? Connie?" I called out. Up and down the rows I went, thinking maybe she was standing at the end of a set of shelves, and I just couldn't see her. But there was no one. What the hell?

Then I heard the rattle of the front doors. It got louder and stronger with each second. I raced to the front and saw Miss McKee shoving and pulling at the front doors. She had a large leather-bound book under one arm. "'Miss McKee?' I asked as I approached her slowly. Without turning around to face me, her shoulder slumped and she took a couple of steps away from the doors. "'I'm sorry,' she said and held the book out to me without turning around. "'I just had to try. Here.'

"Take it and unlock the doors please." I took the book and scooted past her. She refused to look at me and kept her head down, her eyes staring at her feet. I unlocked the doors and she shoved them open before I could even take a step back. Her shoulder collided with me and I nearly lost my balance as she raced away from the library and to her car. "Have a good night." I said as she got in and drove off, still without looking at me. The day started weird and the day ended weird.

Except the day wasn't quite over for me. Neither was the weirdness. Not by a long shot. I locked back up and carried the book to the counter where I set it down while I finished checking the logs before I shut down the system. It drove Bobby nuts that I didn't just let the system sleep overnight. But I'd learned in my short time running the nearby Valley Public Library that the system needed a hard start up each morning or there would be nothing but glitches all day long.

Mr. Lewis and his pals called the glitches gremlins. Bobby called them ghosts in the machines. I called them a pain in the ass, hence the full shutdown each evening. Once that was finished, I picked up the large book and walked back to the reference stacks. Then I checked the catalog number on the spine and stopped. "'This is too big of a number,' I said, reading the title from the spine out loud. "'Perkins Complete Compendium of Demonology.'"

I went to open the book when the lights above me dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed, then brightened, and finally went back to normal. The weirdness kept on rolling. With a glance up at the lights, I pivoted on my heel and went back to the checkout counter and the trash can sitting behind it. I set the leather-bound book down, then grabbed up the trash can. There was a good amount of trash in the can, including the remnants of Bobby's lunch, which I'd told her a hundred times to dispose of in the back room trash.

She never does. Despite my hesitation due to the soggy bits of Bobby's sandwich on top, I knew I'd find the crumpled sticky notes somewhere underneath it. I retrieved it with only a smear of mustard on the edge of my right hand. The numbers on the sticky note were way too high, just like the book sitting on the counter. In fact, as I read the numbers a second time, I compared the note to the number printed on the spine of Perkins' complete compendium of demonology.

One of the numbers written on the sticky note matched the number on the spine. I turned the computer back on, waited for it to boot up, then began typing in the other numbers. None of them were in our catalog. I typed in the number for Perkins' complete compendium of demonology. It wasn't in the system either, except I could see the book right in front of me, and Ms. McKee had found the book in the stacks. So I was off to the stacks again.

I searched for close to 45 minutes before giving up. The books didn't exist in the system or on the shelves, but one of them existed because I was staring right at it when I returned to the counter. I shook my head, retrieved my backpack from behind the counter, grabbed up Perkins' complete compendium of demonology, stuffed it in my pack, and left. I'd take out the trash in the morning, or maybe Bobbi would when she arrived. I wasn't going to hold my breath though.

The evening was dark and chilly, typical for a November night. Fallen brown and orange leaves were blown across the parking lot by a light breeze. A smell of coming rain was hinted at in the breeze. I reached my car, got in, and started it up. When I backed out of my parking spot, I caught the sight of a pickup truck parked in the far corner of the lot. I braked and turned my head for a better look. I must have been wrong. There was no pickup truck.

There were no other vehicles at all. I shook my head and drove out of the empty parking lot. All I had in my fridge were leftovers. I heated some up, then plopped down at the kitchen table with Perkins' complete compendium of demonology in front of me. I hadn't taken more than two bites when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail. Even over the smell of my leftovers, I caught a distinct whiff of age wafting up from the book.

It wasn't quite mildew, but it was close. There was also an underlying tang as if the leather itself had spoiled just a bit. As I leaned in to get a better sniff, my phone rang again. Same number. Whoever they were, they hadn't left a message the first time. "Hello?" I said when I answered. "You got my note?" A woman said. "Miss Hanover?" I asked. "Richard, please." She replied. "You got my note." "I did." I admitted.

And I have to say I'm more than a little confused." "And why's that Clem?" she asked. I could hear that smile in her voice. "The library's reference section does not hold books with catalog numbers that high." I said. "Yet you have one of the books right in front of you." She said. "Even though reference books aren't meant to be checked out." "How do you know I have it with me?" I snapped. I stood up from the table and went to the window over the sink. It was nearly pitch black outside with the rain clouds rolling in.

I leaned over the sink and looked left then looked right, but I couldn't see a thing out there. I closed the shade then left the kitchen. "You haven't answered my question," I said. "How do you know I have one of the books?" "I saw you with it when you left the library," she said. "No you didn't," I said. "It was in my backpack." Did she laugh? I felt like I heard her laugh, except I couldn't be sure. "Lucky guess," she said.

I yanked the drapes shut in the living room, then went room by room to make sure all blinds, drapes and curtains were also closed. "Meet me in the farmhouse in an hour," Bridget said and hung up. I lowered my phone and stared at the screen. The woman was crazy if she thought I was going anywhere with the storm coming in. Not that I needed the weather as an excuse. That was an unsettling phone conversation to say the least.

Meeting Bridget Hanover at my late great aunt's farmhouse at night was not in the cards. My stomach growled and I returned to the kitchen and to my leftovers. And to the book, which was sitting open next to my plate. The first thing I did was check the kitchen door that led to the mudroom and then outside. It was locked. I left the kitchen once again and double checked all the doors. They were locked. So were the windows.

Returning to the kitchen, I saw that the book still lay wide open. I hadn't opened it. I approached the book slowly. It was silly, but I was afraid that if I moved too quickly, I'd startle the book. Like I said, it was silly. Scanning the contents of the pages that faced me, I realized I was out of my depth. It looked like the book was written in Latin, but I knew enough Latin that I should have recognized at least a couple of phrases.

But I couldn't even recognize any of the words, let alone whole sentences. Then the book slammed shut. I screamed and fell backward, tripping over my own feet as I scrambled away from the table. A sharp jolt of pain shot through my tailbone as my ass hit the tile floor. I could just see the corner of the book's spine from my seat on the kitchen floor. Even seeing that much of the thing made my blood run cold. The book had closed itself.

It wasn't a gust of wind because I just made sure every door and window were shut and locked. I didn't have a ceiling fan on because it was November. The book closed itself. I saw that happen. My phone chimed with an incoming text. I patted my pockets, then realized I had set my phone down on the table, right next to my cold plate of leftovers. Right next to the self-closing book. Shit.

To say it took all of my willpower to get off that kitchen floor and retrieve my phone would have been an understatement. Keeping my distance from the book, I skirted around the table, grabbed my phone, and then retreated as fast as I could to the living room. Bring the book, the text from Bridget said. I'm not meeting you at the farmhouse, I texted back.

"Yes, you are," was her reply. "No, I'm not!" was my reply to her. I had several exclamation points at the end of my message, just so there was no misunderstanding. When I drove down the farmhouse's long, gravel driveway, Bridget's pickup truck was already there. The rain had started on the drive over, and now it was coming down hard. I snagged the book off the passenger seat, opened my door, and raced through the rain and up onto the front porch.

I told you you were coming, Bridget said from an old rocking chair tucked in the corner of the porch. Fucking hell, I snapped and nearly threw the book at her. Oh, best not use that word here, she said. She stood up and went to the front door. She opened it easily, even though I was positive I'd locked it the last time I'd been at the house. Come on, she said. I need to show you something. I held up the book and shook it at her. What is this? I asked.

"A book," she said. Her smile was the brightest thing in the gloomy, rainy night. She held up a hand to stop my obvious protest. "Sorry, I couldn't help it. Come inside. Once I show you what you need to see, then you'll get the explanations you're looking for." I didn't budge. She watched me closely then shook her head. "You came all this way," she said. "Why? For answers?" I snapped and shook the book again.

and I'm going to give you answers, she said. So stop acting like a scared kindergartner and come inside. She walked away, leaving the door open for me. I clenched my fist, not holding the book, and slammed it against my thigh a couple of times in frustration. Then I stepped over the threshold and followed her into my great aunt's house. I found Bridget in the kitchen, standing next to the basement door. Have you been down there yet? She asked.

"'The basement? Sure, a couple of times,' I said. "'No, you haven't,' she said. "'Excuse me?' I replied. "'I used to come here as a kid. My mom would bring me, before she died. I'm sure I've been down in the basement before.' "'The cellar,' Bridget corrected. "'It's not a basement, trust me. A basement has boxes of holiday decorations, a ping-pong table, unused exercise equipment and crap like that.'

"'Trust me, none of that is down there. "'Basement, cellar, what's the difference?' I asked. "'In this house, there's a big difference,' she said. Then she produced a set of keys. She sifted through them until she found the one she was looking for, the one that unlocked the basement door. "'How do you have that?' I asked. "'I don't even have a copy.' "'Exactly,' she said. "'That's one reason I know you haven't been down there. "'What are the other reasons?' I asked.'

"You're still sane," she said. Then she turned the knob, opened the door, and that smile left her face. "I'll go first." She reached through the doorway and found a light switch. Although, after she flicked it, there didn't seem to be any change in lighting on those basement stairs. Bridget did as she said she would and went first. I almost immediately lost sight of her, so I hurried over to the open door and peered down the stairs. I could just make out her in the middle of the stairs.

It took more than a couple of deep breaths and some internal confidence boosting before I set a toe on the top step. But as they say, the first step is always the hardest. I followed Bridget down into the basement. She was standing in the middle of the dirt floor with a single, very dim light bulb hanging above her. "Do you smell it?" she asked in a quiet voice. I took a sniff and frowned. "I smell rodent piss," I responded. "Try again," she said.

I took another sniff and recoiled. Did something die down here? I asked. She didn't respond. I think I smell rotting meat, I said. But it's not heavy, at least not like a dead deer on the side of the road in the middle of August heavy. More like a mouse has died in your AC ducts. It's not mice or any rodents, Bridget said. Keep trying. Try for what? I asked. To identify the smell, she said. But I just told you.

I stopped and took a deep breath. It wasn't the greatest breath to take, that's for sure, but I was finally able to identify the smell. "Blood?" I asked. Bridget was about to respond, but she cocked her head slightly and held up a hand instead. "What is going-" I started to ask, but she shushed me. "Shh, hand me the book," she said, and held her hand out behind her. I hesitated. Not that I really wanted to keep holding the book, because I didn't. It freaked me out, obviously.

But for some reason, at that moment, I felt like the book was protection, like a totem or something. The feeling made no sense, but then not a lot had made sense that entire day. I gave Bridget the book. "'Don't move,' she said. "'Stay right where you are so I know it's you.' "'What the hell does that mean?' I asked. "'I told you, it wasn't a good idea to say that word. "'That goes doubly true down here,' she said. "'So don't. Like, which word?'

She shushed me again before I could finish the word. "Shh, do not move." She reiterated. "Not moving." I said and crossed my arms over my chest. "Let me know when you want to start explaining what the heck, what is going on." "It's easier if I show you." She said and opened the book. In a low voice, she began to read out loud. I couldn't understand anything she said at first, but after a minute or two of listening to what I thought was nonsense, I started to understand what Bridget was saying.

Of the great many layers, let only the topmost reveal itself, Bridget said. Only what has been planted will be seen. Those below shall remain below. This is the command. The light bulb above us exploded. Do not move! Bridget hissed, predicting my sudden desire to bolt up the stairs and straight out of the house. Bridget pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight. She closed the book and held it out to me.

"Take it," she said when I didn't move. "And do not let it out of your grip, no matter what happens or what you see." That earlier feeling like the book held some sort of protection returned, and I gladly took the book from her. With Perkins' complete compendium of demonology no longer in her hands, Bridget focused on shining her flashlight around the cellar's dirt floor. She swept the light back and forth, then stopped on a spot in the far left corner.

"One of them is coming," she said, and stepped closer to the corner. "Come on, stay close. Keep behind me and stay quiet and you should be fine." I had a million questions to ask, so staying quiet didn't seem possible. But as I saw the dirt floor shift in that far corner, any words I may have wanted to say died in my throat, because a hand was poking through the dirt, and it didn't look human. Yes, it had four fingers and a thumb,

But this hand was dark green, scaly even. Long talons extended from each finger, and it looked like bone spurs were sticking out from each knuckle. And between the fingers was thick webbing, like a duck's foot, except very much not like a duck's foot. No, definitely not human. I wanted to ask Bridget a trillion questions, but I was stunned. I was scared, and I was curious. The hand coming out of the dirt was joined by another one,

In seconds, the hands had dug enough of the cellar dirt away that the crown of a green, scaly skull could be seen. Then a pair of massive eyes, black and glassy, appeared. They did not blink, even as dirt dropped off the top of the thing's head and slid over those eyes. Bridget said something, but I couldn't quite hear her words. Her tone had changed. She sounded commanding, insistent. The thing cocked its head and nodded.

Then it lowered itself back into the hole and the hands and head were gone. Bridget stood stock still. I did the same. It felt like a good idea. After what had to be a year and a half, or maybe only 15 minutes, Bridget slowly backed toward me. When she reached me, she held her hand out and I instinctively took it. Then she led me to the stairs and back up into the old kitchen.

When the cellar door was closed and locked, Bridget let out a long breath. Okay, it's not as bad as I thought, she said. Oh, good, I responded, unsure of what else to say in a moment like that. But it's not good, she added. Oh, I said. What does that mean? It means we need drinks and I need to explain a few things, she said. Let's get out of here.

Yes, to all of that, I said, and happily followed her out of the house and into the storm.