As he twisted off the cap, his hand quickly turned raw from the frozen plastic. Fumbling with the can and flashlight, he eventually got the tank refilled, and pulled the ripcord.
The generator grumbled to life, but the overhead light didn’t come on. Nothing.
“Shit!” Then he thought about a flipped breaker.
He went into the workshop to check the electrical panel. His hands were numb. Shoving them into his pockets, Robert stepped around the cluttered workshop holding the flashlight tucked under an arm. He got near the breaker panel and bumped into a canvas bag full of debris. Robert teetered but caught himself.
He scanned the panel with his flashlight and saw two circuit breakers tripped. Robert flipped them and heard the unmistakable sound of the systems humming back to life. From the workshop, he saw light reflecting from the kitchen windows. A light switch was situated a couple feet away. Robert reached over and flipped it on. Relieved that it worked. Lights brightened the workshop.
As he turned to head back into the kitchen, Robert slipped on a patch of ice. He glanced around and saw what made him slip.
There hadn’t been a canvas bag.
Nathan lay strewn on the workshop floor near the table saw. His neck was gouged open. Blood had gushed out of the wound, congealing on the cold cement floor, and then froze into a crimson, crystal sheet.
Robert’s heart raced at the sight of the corpse.
He cut on the light to the barn and peered through a window. Nathan’s van was still inside; the side door was ajar with his tool boxes open.
More frightening than Nathan’s mutilated body was the fear bubbling up from deep inside Robert’s soul.
Turning, he dropped the flashlight and ran for Eliza.
Nineteen
Robert was struck by a wave of chilly air as he stepped through the kitchen door. He hurried inside, heart racing from dread. When the farm table came into view, he stopped in his tracks.
Will and Jean were slumped over the table.
Their heads drooped into their meals, with pieces of cracked pasta bowls strewn about. Limp arms had flailed on the table and decimated the stemware; broken glass was scattered everywhere.
Robert noticed holes at the base of their necks, where blood pumped profusely, spurting out, pooling onto the table, and then oozing to the floor.
Drip, drip, drip. A ghastly sound that paralyzed Robert momentarily.
He scanned the room looking for signs of intruders. No broken windows. Then, he stepped to the side hallway and found the door secure. Robert ran up the back staircase worried about Eliza.
Entering their bedroom, he scanned the room, panicked at what might have become of her.
The bedroom was empty.
Robert stepped into the bathroom. She was gone, but the tub was full of water. Steam didn’t rise from the bathtub. Sticking his hands into the water, he found it ice-cold.
He ran down the hallway, calling for her.
As Robert descended the back staircase, he yelled: “Eliza! Eliza, are you okay!”
She didn’t respond; he pictured her dead, or much worse.
Twenty
Returning to the kitchen, he was taken aback by the carnage at the farm table.
His cell phone lay near a pasta bowl. Robert reached for it. The phone felt tacky from a rivulet of blood that had run across the table. Wiping it on his pants, Robert planned to call the police.
Then, he saw the basement door ajar. A trail of ice crystals led across the hardwood floor and over the threshold to the cellar.
Robert rushed to the staircase.
Looking down the stairs, it was pitch-black. He couldn’t see a thing. Robert dashed towards the woodstove and grabbed the poker, then he flipped on the basement light, and slowly descended the staircase.
He eased along with his back against the wall, holding the poker ready to strike.
Robert reached the bottom of the steps and hesitated.
Eliza stood turned away from him, wearing just a bathrobe. The crystal trail led right to her. Her hair was frozen into wavy ice tousles, like a frosted Medusa.
She slowly turned and faced him.
Horrified, Robert gazed upon his wife; the paleness had abated to an icy snow-white. Her lips were dark purple, almost black, and her eyes were the same. Piercing black eyes that barely registered him.
“Now that we’re almost done,” she whispered, “we have to return the gift to its resting place.”
“What?” he said, confused.
“The find has to be restituted.”
“What’s done?” he repeated. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Almost done,” she corrected, waving a finger.
The finger was frozen to an icy, blue point. Except a crimson spattering ran along the nail, and speckled her hand and forearm.
She stepped closer, and it felt like a freezer door opening.
Her robe hung loose, revealing the diamond necklace. The find.
Shimmering white gold and diamonds reflected off her snow-white skin and icy hair. Although none of it made any sense, Robert suspected what had to be done. Restitution.
Moving closer to her, he tried to reason with the icy creature that had once been his wife. “Eliza, you know how much I love you…” He began to cry.
She canted her head, seeming to grasp his words.
An icy hand reached for him, gently wiping away his tears. The teardrops froze, falling from his face, shattering on the floor. The gentle sound of tiny crystals dancing along the concrete alerted him.
Robert reached for the find.
Grasping for the necklace, he touched the pendant and her frigid skin.
Eliza’s chest felt like ice, so cold that it burned his hand. His fingers stuck to the jewelry and her chest, affixed, like cement held everything together.
An intense pain thrust into his abdomen, causing him to keel over.
The pain ripped through his innards, as though a crowbar had been rammed into his gut.
When he hit the deck, Robert noticed that her entire right hand and arm had formed into a frozen pry bar.
The icy appendage dripped with his blood. Robert balled up on the floor, grasping his stomach. Blood oozed onto the concrete, spreading quickly.
Watching the pool expand, he noticed a patch of water emanating from under Eliza’s robe. Robert glanced up and said that he loved her.
He realized the necklace was gone.
Robert looked at his bloody hand and wiped it on his jeans. It was empty, devoid of the find.
Skin had ripped off his fingers, leaving them exuding blood, and raw. Scanning the floor, there wasn’t any sign of the necklace. Eliza’s feet melted and she dropped to the floor, lying face-to-face with him. Her dark eyes seemed to soften.
Just before passing out, he sensed that she registered him. Robert smiled and she responded in kind.
His blood and her liquid mixed together on the concrete floor.
And then he heard a distinctive sound. The familiar rattle of the necklace, clattering within the old tin box, reverberated from the recess at the top of the wine rack.
Restored.
About the Author
John W. Dennehy is a writer of Suspense, Horror, and Thrillers. His first novel Clockwork Universe is out now from Severed Press. He has two more novels expected from Severed Press in 2017, including Pacific Rising and Deepwater Drift. His stories have appeared in SQ Mag, Disturbed Digest, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Beyond Science Fiction, and in anthologies such as Winter Shivers, Bones III, and SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, and many others. Currently, he is working on a Supernatural Thriller novel.
After graduating from Pinkerton Academy, he enlisted in the U.S. Marines. Then, he earned a degree in English/Creative Writing at UNC Wilmington. John is a member of Horror Writers Association and Mystery Writers of America. He lives in New England, and can be found at his website: http://johnwdennehy.com/
Dennehy, John W., ICE STORM
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