ICE STORM
A Supernatural Thriller
John W. Dennehy
Copyright 2016 by John W. Dennehy, P.C.
Macabre Tales Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events or organizations in it are product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Ice Storm © 2016 by John W. Dennehy, P.C.
Ice Storm was accepted for an anthology by Emby Press entitled Ghost Papers, which has yet to be published, but should be out in the future along with several other chilling stories. We hold all rights to this work and publish here as a standalone single.
Macabre Tales Publishing
127 Main Street, Suite 1
Nashua, NH 03060
Written by John W. Dennehy
Cover Design by Greg Chapman
Edition: eBook
ISBN: 978-0-9984721-0-2
First Printed in the United States of America, 2016.
One
Robert awoke to a loud hum followed by abrupt silence. “The power’s out,” Eliza said, sitting up.
The bedroom was dark and already felt chilly. Robert knew the drafty windows and plaster walls of the old farmhouse wouldn’t keep the biting cold out for long. He grew sullen at the prospect of another weekend without power.
Glancing toward the dormant digital clock, beeping of the smoke detectors started in. An incessant sound that grated on his nerves. Sometimes the detectors quit, but often he had to disconnect them.
“What time is it?” he said.
Eliza reached for her cell phone and fiddled with it. “Five-thirty,” she replied, throwing back the bed covers.
“What are you doing?” he asked, reaching for the blankets.
“I’m getting up now.”
He watched her shadowy figure step away from the bed. Her plaid pajamas fit closely over an athletic body. She stepped to a window. Pulling the blinds open caused the dull, grey light of a New England dawn to creep into the room, reflecting on her long blonde hair. Then, using the light on her cell phone, she made her way into the bathroom.
“I’m getting up too,” he decided.
While Eliza busied herself at the bathroom sink, Robert headed down the back staircase to the kitchen. He stumbled in the dark trying to find his way to the cupboard where they stored the flashlights.
Fumbling through the shelves, a jar fell over and cracked. He should have waited for Eliza. His cell phone was in the study but he didn’t dare venture that far. He’d wind up with a bruised knee from the antiques cluttering the house. Robert continued to grope in the cupboard, feeling the contents. He grabbed onto jars and bottles, then finally found purchase on a plastic handle.
He grabbed the cheap, discount-store flashlight. Clicking the button, nothing happened. He turned the lens-cap tighter and light flickered. Robert shook the flashlight, rattling the batteries; it finally came on. A hazy beam lit on the floor.
Downstairs, the air was cold and the tile floor emanated a chill through his socks. He heard Eliza bounding down the back staircase, light from her phone cast into the kitchen, and then she turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs.
“Could use some coffee,” she said.
“Me too,” he replied. “The smoke detectors quit buzzing.”
She smiled and scrunched her shoulders from the cold.
“I guess we should’ve gotten a generator,” he continued, “just like everyone else… after the last ice storm.”
“This isn’t as big of a storm,” she said, optimistically. “I doubt that it will be out two weeks, like last time.”
“Probably will only be a couple of days,” he agreed. “But it would’ve been nice to avoid the inconveniences.”
“We do okay.”
Robert fumbled around in the pantry, reaching for another flashlight. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. “I’ll get the woodstove going. Then I can get the camp stove from the basement, so we can make eggs and coffee.”
“Get the lantern too.”
She smiled kindly at his efforts. “The gas lantern, sure thing,” Robert said, nodding as he bent over the woodstove.
While he adjusted the logs, Eliza fetched a box of blue-tip matches. Robert struck a match and watched the flame catch on the little matchstick, and then lit a piece of newspaper. The little pyre caught fire and quickly blazed.
He closed up the stove, hoping it would provide enough heat, and wondered when the isolation caused by the storm would end.
Two
Descending the rickety stairs, Robert slowly made his way into the basement. The flashlight bobbed as he stepped from plank to plank, illuminating small, wavy patches of dull light in the darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs, Eliza had set up rows of drinking water for the storm. The plastic jugs were placed along the fieldstone basement wall, constructed long ago of smooth boulders and mortar. The stones had once lain in the surrounding fields.
Cool dampness from the basement made him shiver, and puffy clouds exuded from his breath. There were also jugs of tap water for cleaning up; she’d placed them in neat rows near the drinking water.
All the preparation she’d done within the last few days.
Robert stepped around the jugs. His flashlight bobbed as he treaded across the uneven floor toward storage shelves. Stepping past the wine racks, he scanned the beam of light toward the ceiling where the racks attached to floor joists.
A week beforehand, he’d reached for a bottle of red to celebrate their anniversary. Robert had noticed the corner of a metal box; it stuck from a perch on top of the fieldstone wall. The box was nestled in a niche alongside a beam, nailed to the wine rack for support.
Now, he glanced at the empty space remembering the serendipitous find. The little metal box had been ensconced in dirt and debris. When he’d reached for it, the slightest displacement of the box caused dirt to shift, cascading onto the dusty wine bottles, and then trickling to the basement floor. A cloud of dust had permeated the air, causing him to cough and sneeze.
Walking toward the camp stove, Robert paused and put the flashlight on the floor. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, and then shoved them into his pockets. A troubled marriage, he considered the recent intrigue of the tin box, and how it had brought them closer. They’d come a long way in the last few years, so he couldn’t help thinking back about the find.
The dust had cleared, and Robert stood by the wine rack trying to discern the significance of the box, tucked away in the crevice long ago. A light bulb hung overhead, providing scant illumination. Thumbing the tin box, he’d felt a shudder of cold air nip at his neck and run down his spine.
The box was cheap tin. About four inches wide, the top held on by a metal ridge; it was decorated with blue, gold, and red shapes. The bottom was tarnished with rust. He surmised that it had been used for cookies or crackers in the 1940s, or even as far back as the late 1800s. Just the kind of tin he’d find in his grandmother’s pantry.
Robert picked up the flashlight and made his way to the shelves that stored camping equipment. He grabbed the camp stove and then waved his flashlight, casting the cloudy beam of light around the dank basement. The gas lantern wasn’t with the camping equipment; he had to look for it. As he searched the cluttered basement, he thought further about the big discovery.
Looking over the box, Robert had shaken it slightly to feel the heft of its contents. Something slid back and forth, a muffled clang against the sides. Clearly, a small metal object rattled around inside the tin box.
He shook i
t again and then tried to pry the lid open. Eliza had called from the top of the stairs, wondering what was taking so long. After all, it had been their anniversary, and he’d only gone into the basement to fetch another bottle of wine. They’d already finished a bottle and the drink was getting to his head. He’d put the tin box on his tool bench, grabbed a Merlot, and then bounded up the stairs, feeling a creepy chill run down his spine.
Spotting the lantern, Robert’s thoughts returned to the task at hand. He snatched the lantern from a shelf and headed for the stairs. The dull beam of light provided little help guiding his way. Inevitably, he knocked into clutter here and there, minor nicks on his shins.
At the bottom of the stairs, he set the camp stove down to rest his hand.
He felt the bitter cold settling into the basement.
Robert flashed the beam of light into the darkness by the wine rack, scanning the mysterious niche where he found the tin box. Uncanny that he had even discovered it.
Robert bent down and grabbed hold of the camp equipment, tightening his grip around the stove and lantern handles. Slowly ascending the dilapidated staircase, flashlight tucked under an arm, loaded down by the equipment, Robert felt a chill creep along his spine. Eerie.
He rushed up the stairs.
Three
The camp stove only took a few minutes to set up. Robert got it situated on the kitchen counter, near the electric range, and then fired up the gas lantern and placed it nearby.
Eliza fumbled around in the cupboards looking for the coffee pot. “This is why we don’t go camping much,” she said.
“We’re roughing it more than a camping trip,” Robert admitted. “At least a mild weather trip.”
“I’m not sure if we’re even novice campers,” she said. “We’ve only gone a handful of times.”
“That’s because we have the house at the lake.”
“With all the conveniences of home,” she said, laughing, still poking around the cupboards. “Found it.”
He glanced at her. Eliza held a metal coffee pot proudly. It was dull stainless steel with a black plastic handle. The pot looked ancient. She pulled off the lid and removed the metal tin that held coffee grounds.
“This will work,” she said. “We have some coffee beans already ground up in the freezer, Guatemalan Antigua.”
“While you get the coffee pot set…” He stepped away. “I’ll get the camp stove lit.”
The gas lantern illuminated the entire preparation area of the kitchen. When he reached for the blue tip matches, Robert knocked over a can of cooking spray. It clinked over and rattled to the floor.
They knelt down at the same time, reaching for the fallen can. Eliza snatched it up before Robert could grab the spray-can. She smiled at him. He felt the cold tile floor and thought a generator was worth the cost.
As they stood up, Eliza handed him the can of cooking spray. She looked pale from the wintry air.
“It’s pretty cold in here,” he said.
“Tell me about it. I can barely feel my hands.”
She scrunched them into fists and then rubbed her hands together. Robert looked Eliza over and noticed that her exposed skin looked pale, white.
And her lips were dark, a discolored purple.
“See what I mean,” she said. Reaching out with the back of her hand, Eliza touched her fingers to his cheek. They felt like icicles; a shiver ran up his spine.
“Maybe you should go stand by the woodstove for a few minutes.”
“I’d rather get breakfast going,” she said, peeking into a cupboard. She quickly pulled eggs and milk from the refrigerator. “It will only take a few minutes, and I’m starving.”
He grabbed the box of matches. After twisting the gas tank onto the stove, Robert turned the knob to a burner, and then struck a match on the side of the box. The tip ignited into a flame. Holding the match near the burner, a bright ring of gas lit up.
“The lantern and the stove should get a little heat going over here,” he said, shaking out the match.
“It’ll just be a few minutes…” She shivered. “Then, I’ll be sitting in that chair closest to the stove. How do you want your eggs?”
“Whichever is easiest,” he replied. “Do you want any help?”
“No, it’s too tight in here for both of us.” She cracked the eggs into a steel bowl. “And scrambled is definitely the easiest.”
Robert walked over to the stove. He stood by it for a minute, keeping out of her way. Heat raged from the little iron stove.
“Have you ever gone camping in the winter?” she said, whipping the eggs.
Robert grinned at her. “My brother and I were in the Boy Scouts when we were kids, and there were a number of winter camping trips.” He rubbed his hands together. “We set up tents in the snow and built huge fires just five feet from the tent openings. Back when you could build fires in the woods.”
“So, you had all the gear to do it, right?”
“Not exactly,” he chuckled. “Our sleeping bags were for summer weather.”
“So, you froze at night,” she said. “Like we’re doing now.”
“Seems like it’s warmed up in here,” Robert laughed, “to a balmy 52 degrees.”
Eliza shook her head grinning at the comment. She lit the other burner as though she’d done it a hundred times. The pot of coffee was heating up on one side of the camp stove and she had eggs simmering on the other burner.
Robert added more logs to the woodstove and then took a seat at the farm table. Heat radiated off the iron stove, casting a warm sphere of comfort, extending about six feet. The temperature was frigid outside, below zero, and a draft whisked down the back staircase. This storm hit harder than anyone had predicted. He wondered how long it would take for the power to come back on.
“This is almost done,” she said. “You can come and get the coffee ready. My cardinal mug is in the dishwasher.”
“What a way to spend a Saturday.” He went to the dishwasher for coffee mugs.
“Could be worse,” she said. “This could have happened in the middle of the week, interrupting work.”
“Very true,” Robert replied.
Pouring steaming coffee, the tarnished pot reminded him of the old-fashioned coffee makers he’d seen growing up in the late 1960s and early 1970s.
Eliza scraped the eggs onto a couple of plates. “We can start with these. And then I’ll get some sausages warmed up.”
“Where did we get this coffee pot?” he said, returning it to the camp stove.
“That belonged to my grandmother.”
They both walked over to the table carrying a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. Eliza moved gingerly without spilling a drop. Robert trailed behind her at a slower pace, managing to slosh coffee onto the floor.
She took a seat with her back near the woodstove.
He sat down across from her. The spot was warmer than the kitchen but the heat radiating from the woodstove was less intense than where Eliza sat.
“You better eat before your breakfast gets cold,” she said.
They both laughed. Robert began working at his breakfast, worried the eggs and coffee would quickly grow cold.
Four
Robert’s thoughts drifted back to their anniversary dinner. After finishing desert, he’d gone down into the basement and placed empty wine bottles into a recycling bin. The alcohol had really gotten to his head.
Grabbing the staircase railing, he looked over at the tin box on his workbench. Curiosity got the best of him. He trundled toward the bench, bumping into boxes that Eliza had stacked while preparing for a yard sale. The overhead light was dim and his vision foggy. Robert leaned on the bench to steady himself, and perused the box.
His legs felt rubbery; it was difficult to stand. Picking up the tin box, Robert shook it and heard the familiar rattle. Something inside slid back and forth, a simple metal object.
Robert rocked back a bit on his heels, then leveled off holding the box tightly
. He attempted to pry the lid off. Nothing. It held fast.
He tried again but the lid wouldn’t budge.
The box felt like it was vacuum shut. Now, he suspected even more that it had been used for crackers or cookies. Whatever was inside had been sealed tightly for a long time. Robert put the box down and scanned his tools on the pegboard. He grabbed a small pair of vise-grips, which he clamped onto the bottom of the tin.
Looking over the box, there wasn’t a place to pinch pliers on the lid. A slight ridge ran around the edge. There was a similar lip located at the top of the box.
He reached for a chisel.
Robert bent over, pulling on the vise-grips, and pressed madly with the tip of the chisel, forcing it between the ridges.
The chisel slipped, gouging his thigh.
He felt intense pain. A tinge of anger flared over the mistake. Blood oozed through a tear in his pants. Robert put the box down and tried to roll up his pant leg. But his pants jumbled at the knee, so he couldn’t see the wound.
Dropping his pants, Robert peered at the cut in the dull lighting. The blood already began to clot. His pants had prevented the chisel from cutting the flesh too deeply. After wiping the blood away, he pulled up his pants and focused on the tin box.
Robert picked it up and removed the vise-grips.
Then, he stepped over to a bench-mounted vise. Setting the box into it, he slowly closed the vise until it was snug. He wanted to open the box without damaging the tin, but the task seemed impossible.
Securing the box, he pulled on the sides slightly. It shifted. The box remained shut in the vise, tilted to one side.
Robert slammed his fist on the bench in frustration.
He twisted the vise tighter, crimping the sides of the tin box. The metal crunched. Then he fumbled for the chisel and grabbed a hammer. He pounded at the lid near a corner.
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