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Again there was the noise, a scraping sound, nothing more. |
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Her eyes darted apprehensively from one corner of the room to another. Was the weight of the wet snow on the roof of the old house shifting? Was it something in another room? |
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She pushed herself away from the featureless gray Formica expanse, senses now alert. If it happened again, she would capture it. The usually cold and drafty old house suddenly seemed unusually warm. The wind shifted, sending a new series of shudders through the old house. The drizzle had intensified; it had evolved into a steady rain. The clouds, what she could see of them, were lower. Long, low, gray, ominous-looking tentacles hung from a fragmented sky, wrapping the rooftop. Flora had to catch her breath. |
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Her eyes darted nervously about the room. She had blinked, and she had missed it. |
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It was here with her now, close by, in the kitchen. |
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The absence of light caused a chill to race the width of her shawled shoulders. She shuddered involuntarily. |
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She studied the murky container carefully, now convinced. The ugly glass jar with its |
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