"The January rain lashed the Jones farmhouse, turning
the Iowa plains into a blur of shadow." Margaret rocked six-month-old
Sarah in the dim kitchen, her eyes on the storm. Each drop tapped the windows—a
cold reminder. Sarah's chest rose and fell like a gentle lullaby. Margaret
clung to the fragile hope of simplicity, but beneath the rhythm, an unseen
pressure pressed close, hunting blood.
"Benjamin!" she called, voice tight. Her husband,
cleaning his shotgun by the fireplace, set it down with a farmer's wariness.
Trouble, he knew, often wore a human face. Through the rain-streaked window, he
saw two figures on the porch—cloaked in black, soaked to the bone: their forms
blurred like shadows in water.
"Please!" a woman's voice cut through. "Our
car broke down. We need help!"
Margaret's maternal instinct overrode Benjamin's caution.
Shifting Sarah to one arm, she unlatched the door. The strangers stumbled in,
with a smell of wet dog and a faint whiff of desperation. The man, tall with
jet-black hair and battle-worn eyes, extended a trembling hand. Roman
Thorne—this is my wife, Minnie. The streets are cold as ice tonight.
Minnie, small and sharp-featured, wrung her coat, her
fingers dancing nervously. Her gaze locked on Sarah, an intensity that made
Benjamin's skin prickle. She murmured, her voice soft but heavy with an unsaid
guilt, "What a beautiful child. Sorry if we troubled you."
"Nonsense," Margaret said warmly. "You're
freezing. Benjamin, fetch blankets, please."
As Margaret bustled about, brewing coffee one-handed,
Benjamin watched the strangers.
Roman's gaze lingered on Sarah; Minnie's fingers traced
faint, vanishing patterns on the table. The house felt heavier; the rain's
rhythm pressed into the walls, intrusive and wrong.
That night, Margaret woke to a faint hum, sung underwater.
Sarah slept peacefully, but the air pressed in, thick with the scent of decay.
Downstairs, the Thornes knelt by the fire, their voices weaving a chant in a
tongue that twisted her stomach. "What are you doing?" she
whispered.
They turned, their eyes away from the fire, as if rudely
interrupted.
"Praying," Minnie said, "for your child's
salvation." They held something between their palms, almost as if they
were worshiping it.
Margaret, both spooked and intrigued, asked, "What is
that thing in your hands?"
Minnie replied, "Something that will change everything
for you."
Margaret questioned, "What could be better than the
life I already have?"
Roman said, "Knowing you spared a life by ending it. A
life that is unborn never sees evil."
Margaret said, "You sound like you've been through a
lot… but I think you might have a point."
Roman apologized, "Sorry, my facetiousness is showing.
We won't harm your family while we are under your roof, we
promise."
Minnie added, "Yes, we promise."
Margaret said, "Thanks. I'll try to convince Benjamin
to let you stay as long as you need. Sorry for interrupting your
prayer."
Minnie said, "It's okay, Margaret, and thanks
again!" She then whispered under her breath, "She has not a
clue."
Roman said, "Yes, thanks, since you welcomed us in.
We'll try to get back on our feet fast, I promise."
Margaret said, "You're welcome again. Just
sleep well."