Storm Within

by G.R. Hastings

“You’re home, honey. You’re safe. Just take a deep breath. It’s only one night.” The voice, a distant crackle through the phone, was as cold as the dropping temperature outside.

“B-b-but I can’t find them.” Breanna rummaged through her purse, the drawers, the entire kitchen. Her long, dry fingers shook. “W-w-where are th-they?” 

“I don’t know. Have you checked the fridge?” Her mother’s voice buzzed, becoming more distorted with every passing minute. “You tend to misplace them in the strangest of places, honey.”

“The f-f-f . . .” She dropped the heavy phone on the counter, stumbled to the fridge, and pulled the doors open. She winced, as cold air blasted her face. Yes! Her hands, feeling like foreign appendages, snatched the pill bottle and tore off the cap. Her whole body vibrated, bouncing the solitary pill on the base of the bottle. She closed the doors and grabbed the counter
for support. “M-mom, I c-can’t.” Tears formed. Her heart raced. She struggled to breathe.

“Why not?”

“Th-there’s only . . . one left.” Breanna shook, placing the bottle as delicately as she could on the counter.

“You need to take it. We’ll order more tomorrow.”

“W-we can’t. T-too much snow.” Her legs wobbled, failing to support her body.

“We’ll figure something out.”

Breanna shook her head. “I-It’s going to be a foot! N-nothing will be open.” Her short, frequent breaths accelerated.

“When we get there, we’ll order more.”

“W-what if you c-can’t get here?”

“We’ll be there. No amount of snow will stop us. Even if we have to drive behind the snow plow from Newark to Wilmington. Just hang tight and take a pill.”

“W-what if I need another tonight?” Breanna struggled to stay upright.

“You’ll be fine. It’ll knock you right out, and when you wake up, we’ll be there. Okay?”

Breanna grasped the bottle, reading the label over and over again as if it might soothe her.

Hydroxyzine. Hydroxyzine. Hydroxyzine. I can’t. I can’t take one. I wouldn’t need one if I still had him. I miss my kitty. He would’ve made everything better. “I m-miss Remy.” Her lip quivered, wettened by her tears.

“I know, dear. How about this? Why don’t we go to the pound tomorrow and find a newcat?”

“W-what if it’s not open?” What does it matter? You can’t replace Remy.

“Then, we’ll find a new cat when it is. How does that sound?”

“I d-don’t want to be a b-bother.”

“Honey, please. You’re not—” The phone beeped as it cut out.

“M-mom?” Silence drummed in her ears, growing ever louder. Her legs, no longer able to hold her, gave out. She crashed to the ground, knocking over the bottle. The pill flew into the abyss of the kitchen. Lost.

Breanna didn’t even notice her salvation vanish as everything caved in around her. Hermotions, a blur. Every noise, a distant whisper.

The power whined and flickered. It fought desperately for its life. But it was no match for the howling wind and stifling blanket of snow and ice, growing ever heavier. The power gave one final cough and died, leaving Breanna in complete darkness.

She curled up, fighting her body’s erratic quaking. She struggled to fill her lungs. Struggled to move. The heavy shroud of darkness, a void into the unknown, turned her cold, uninviting residence into a complete stranger. Outside, there was already too much snow. Toomuch snow to get any more pills. Too much snow for her mother to come home. And the darkclouds overhead would further seal her in her tomb. Her body trembled, growing hot. Onethought repeated in her mind over and over again: Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.

She tried to focus on her breathing. Fight her mind. Remember what Dr. Rominez said. Ground myself. Ground myself. In. Out. In. Out.

Everything around her, a fright. Outside, the once warm, welcoming trees hugging thehouse became armed, dangerous thugs, hiding beasts with killer teeth. Danger at every turn. And without Remy, she was lost. That gray-and-white cat meant everything, and she had never fully recovered from his death.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

The silence grew louder. So did the bad thoughts. Can I trust my neighbors? What if someone tries to break in? What if the power can’t get back on? What if you’re stuck and freeze to death? What if you can’t call anyone? Why didn’t I charge my phone?

Stop it. Stop it. The more she fought, the worse it became. In. Out. In. Out. Ground myself. What was I doing? Working on my advanced biology paper? No. That was earlier. I was talking with Mom. And—

Remembering how the phone cut out made her spiral. You’re alone. All alone. Danger. Danger.

No. Please.

The shaking, getting faster, physically exhausted her body. Danger. Danger! DANGER!

Thump.

Breanna raised her head, trying to locate the noise. It seemed to come from nowhere. The two-story house was empty. No people. No pets. Yet she had heard something. Maybe it’s the power trying to come back on.

It’s danger. Someone broke into the house to kill you. When better to do so? You’re trapped. Alone. Vulnerable.

Thump.

This noise was clearer. Closer. The danger.

Fear gave Breanna’s legs new life. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, overloading her heart. She stumbled up, manically twisting her neck to locate the noise. Her eyes, wide and bewildered, tried to catch any remaining slivers of light. Where is it coming from?

Thump.

I’m not alone. It’s coming from above me. I have to hide! Breanna felt around the counter for the butcher block knife set, grabbed a sizable blade, dropped again, and crawled into the adjoining room. Able to see nothing in the inky canvas of her vision, she connected with the wall.

Bump.

Too loud. Breanna’s breathing became heavier. Deafening. Stop. Stop! Unable to control herself, tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt the wall, finding the frame, and dragged herself into the dining room. To her horror, whoever it was—the killer—heard her.

Thump.

The intruder flew down the stairs. Toward her. The killer.

DANGER! screamed in her brain as she darted under the dining room table, hiding behind the thick overhang of the tablecloth. Clonking her head on the thin, wooden chair legs. She struggled to keep quiet. Where is the killer? She fought hard to collect herself but couldn’t resist the urge to curl up into a ball. Here is where I die. This is it. I can’t stay quiet. I can’t. I can’t.

A new sound broke the silence. A low, droning sound. Heavy breathing.

He’s here. She could feel him just out of reach. On the other side of the cloth. The killer. He knows I’m here. On the table above her, light scratching tickled the wood under the cloth. He’s toying with me. He’s caught me. I’m dead already!

The droning sank from above her. To her level. On the floor. The heavy, hungry breath cut through the fabric, enveloping her. Inches from her nose, the cloth lightly chafed as it was methodically lifted.

I’m caught! The killer found me! Breanna screamed, backed up, and scrambled out from under the table. Her adrenaline pumped energy into her legs. She flailed her arms forward, blindly grasping for something to ground her. Trying to avoid colliding with every wall.

Slam!

Breanna dropped her knife, losing it to the dark, and raced to find another hiding spot. The killer is right behind me!

Thump-thump.

She crashed into a chair and plummeted onto the carpet, head-first. She pushed herself onto her elbows and felt her surroundings. Walls caging her. Death’s breath guarding the iron gate. She was trapped.

“What d-do you want?!” Breanna screamed. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Faster and faster. With flight no longer an option, her adrenaline redistributed into force back into her panic. Heart hurtling into oblivion. Danger. Seizing up. Danger! Out of breath. DANGER! Tears. Whole. Body. Shaking. Violently. Paralyzed. Coughing. Choking. Hyperventilating. Mind.
Screaming. DANGER!!

The thumping stopped, replaced by soft, rhythmic scratching across the toppled chair. Someone climbing over it, their long, dry fingernails reaching out for her. The breathing became heavier. The droning louder.

“S-s-s-stop p-p-p-please,” Breanna pleaded, begging both the intruder and her body. “S-s-s-s-s-s-s . . .” Speech was gone. Air was gone. Breanna tensed, trying to escape inside herself. Her chest tightened. It’s-s-s—

The scratching stopped.

The breathing stopped.

The droning stopped.

Silence.

In her protective shell, Breanna waited for the intruder to strike. Pick up her knife and stab her. Strangle her. She gagged, feeling faint. Waiting for it to be over. But he seemed to enjoy watching her suffer. And before long, her own hyperventilation would strangle her. Make her pass out. Then, she would be at his mercy.

Make it stop! Make it stop! The wait was agonizing. I can’t. I just can’t anymore. She forced her eyes open to locate the intruder. The killer. Moonlight! A break in the storm. It lightly illuminated the living room, a cemetery of silhouettes and shadows. Breanna scoured her surroundings for the killer she thought was looming overhead. Deserted. Is he gone? She rocked back and forth, back and forth, digging her chewed nails into her arms. Where is the killer? Where is the danger? Where is . . .

Her eyes landed on him. The killer. Gooseflesh hardened her skin. Tears blurred her vision. She held her face in her hands and gasped for air. It’s him. It’s him. It’s him! Coughing transformed into rapid breathing. Gasps. AIR! Sobs. Warm, familiar sobs. Relief. Her body relaxed, slowing the shaking. As the four-pawed spectral “killer” floated toward her, a wave of calm washed over. Every muscle relaxed. One. At. A. Time. “Hello, Remy.”

G. R. Hastings is a maritime archaeologist who specializes in colonial America and the Golden Age of Piracy, earning a Master of Science in Maritime Archaeology and Conservation at Texas A&M University and a Bachelor of Arts in Archaeology and Performing and Media Arts from Cornell University. Based on research and a prior screenplay, G.R. has published the novels The Undersiders (2023) and Guarded Streets: An Undersider Tale (2026) and has written numerous short stories and plays, some of which have seen the stage, including the 2025 Chapel StreetPlayers’ 24-Hour Playwriting Festival. One produced work, In the Mind, was self-directed as a one-act in 2019. An Undersider Tale won first place in the Jean E. Miller Young Playwright’s Competition at the Dorset Theater Festival in 2015. G. R. Hastings is an adventurer and storyteller who draws in crowds with original tales, including the fan favorite Veyman, in local venues and on the Isles of Shoals.