I knew something was going to happen from the moment I woke up that day. There was a nameless tension in the air, almost like the earth itself was holding its breath. I think it was the weather- if I lived closer to the Midwest I might say it was tornado weather, dark and foreboding.
I woke up before my alarm, blinking in the hazy darkness of an overcast dawn. Rain was tapping irregularly on the windows while the wind howled outside. I could hear the house creak, bracing against the weather.
Rolling over in my queen-sized bed I squinted through bleary eyes at the glowing red numbers on my clock. It was almost six o' clock, but it looked like the middle of the night.
I decided to try going back to sleep, and rolled back to my original position. My cheek landed in a cold puddle of my own drool.
I sat up, scowling back down at the pillow, and flipped it over before lying back down. But that had been enough to nudge me out of sleep, probably for good. I squirmed, turned over, squirmed some more, trying to find the comfortable position I'd been in when I woke up. The blankets were bunched up in odd ways, making it hard to settle down. Just when I would get the blankets sorted and get comfortable, something would itch. I groaned.
Finally I fought the blankets and my pillow and myself into submission, curling myself into a ball in the middle of the bed, wrapping the blankets snugly around myself, nuzzling against the pillow.
I had to go to the bathroom.
"Ugh, I give up!" I growled to no one.
Kicking off the blankets angrily, I rolled out of bed, grumbling when my bare feet hit the cold wood floor. The old boards creaked and groaned while I walked out of my bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom.
Had anyone else lived in the house, I would almost certainly have woken them with the creaking floors and the slamming bathroom door. Good thing I was alone.
The house was actually my parents', it was our vacation cabin. It was a moderately-sized log cabin, set up in the Adirondack Mountains. Every summer I could remember we'd migrated up there from New York suburbia, then spent two and a half months hiking, fishing, hunting, barbequing, and swimming in Lake George. My parents had offered it to me when I'd finished college. It was meant to be a 'just for a while' thing, or so I had insisted. That was two years ago.
Naturally my family still came up in the summer, so I wasn't alone all of the time. But I enjoyed my solitude through the rest of the year. Growing up with two younger sisters, you learn to cherish privacy and silence. I wasn't lonely at all- my Mom called me every Sunday afternoon, and I was always in contact with anyone through texting. No fuss, no one to disturb me, just how I liked it.
While washing my hands, I contemplated the weather. It was early fall, so a dismal, rainy day wasn't exactly a shock. The wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes, slapping wet leaves against the glass. It would be dark at six in the morning this time of year anyway, but the clouds made it even darker.
Walking down the hall towards my bedroom I finally decided it would be better to just get up and do something. I wasn't going back to sleep now, and the time I would spend trying to could be better spent on something else. So I switched on the light, shocking my sleepy eyes, and got dressed.
I stuck a frozen waffle in the toaster and started up the coffee maker before switching on the TV. The news came on by default, with the anchor going on in a nearly monotone voice about the recent chaos in New York City. Something about helicarriers crashing, and a side note about some massive leak of confidential files, I think. I didn't pay much attention. The city always had something crazy going on, or at least it seemed that way to me.
Of course when you live in such a quiet area, any upheaval probably seems worse than it is. Maybe all this superhero stuff is second-nature to people living in the city, I pondered while I waited for the coffee to be ready. Bored of the video of Captain America and the metal-armed soldier battling it out in the streets, I switched the channel to a different station.
After breakfast I settled onto the couch, my laptop and drawing tablet resting on a tv-dinner table in front of me. I switched to Netflix and queued up my latest multi-season obsession. I frowned when I noticed I had only a couple of episodes left before I was finished.
I'd been working as a freelance illustrator since finishing college, and was in the process of dealing with some particularly irritating clients, a sugary-sweet husband and wife pair. I was supposed to be designing a mascot for their little bakery in Houston.
"Make it cute." Had been their frustratingly vague stipulation. After three weeks of sending them concepts, they kept changing what they wanted. They wanted it to be a little boy, then a little girl, then an animal, then an anthropomorphic animal, first a chipmunk, then a llama, now a chameleon, then finally they seemed to settle on a puppy. I'd drawn up six different ideas for anthro puppies, three boys and three girls, and was waiting for their response.
While the TV played an energetic theme song, I checked my email. They'd responded. I took a deep breath and opened it.
"We absolutely LOVE number three! Do another one like that, but with MORE!"
I sighed and covered my face with one hand. "More WHAT?" I moaned. Dealing with these two was going to give me an ulcer, I was sure. I made a silent vow never to accept work without at least four clear statements from the client of what they wanted me to do. 'Make it cute'. What was wrong with me?
A few deep breaths and I was prepared to respond to their email somewhat rationally.
"I would love to, but what exactly do you mean by 'more'?"
Maybe that would get them to actually tell me what the frickle-frack they wanted.
In the meantime I decided to simply sit and sketch to unwind. It'd been a while since I'd updated my art blog. Maybe I could open for commissions again- with only one client and the job dragging on forever I wasn't nearly busy enough art-wise. My parents only charged a minimum in rent, but I still had to pay for my own groceries and shopping.
I opened my drawing program and got to work.
The day passed lazily, as my days typically did. I drew and binge-watched TV shows on Netflix, updating my art accounts online and corresponding with various online friends all the while. I had a quick, light lunch somewhere in there, too.
Somewhere around seven, my stomach growled loudly.
I leaned away from my computer screen and stretched. My back and neck were stiff, my legs complaining from being folded beneath me since lunch. My feet were both asleep. I stretched out my legs to allow feeling to return to them, resting my head on the back of the couch while I waited.
The wind was still howling, rain still falling. The only difference in the weather was the fact that the rain was heavier now. The day had been dark and bleak. An unexplained depression settled over my chest.
Staring up into the exposed rafters in the ceiling I sighed deeply. I was no stranger to that sudden, unexplained sadness at the end of a lazy day. The kind that sits sourly in the pit of your belly, makes you chilly and makes you wonder what went wrong that day. That feeling that you missed something you should have done, that feeling that you wasted your day.
With the feeling back in my legs and feet I stood up. I was about to head into the kitchen but the sad feeling in my belly needed to be addressed first.
As I usually did when that sour feeling started, I walked through all the rooms on the bottom floor of the house- the kitchen, the dining room, the family room, and switched on the lights. Finally I switched on the light in the living room. That light hung from the ceiling from one of the exposed support beams above the couch and coffee table, and was a bare candle-flame shaped bulb surrounded by glass panels etched with flowery designs. With that light on, small white reflections danced over the log walls and natural-wood floors.
Look Thalia, look at all the little fairies! I could practically hear my mother's voice from so long ago, holding me, only a few years old, pointing at the tiny reflections on almost every surface.
Reassured, feeling a little more cheerful, I smiled to myself before turning and walking to the refrigerator. When I opened it, however, that feeling of reassurance disappeared almost immediately.
Inside was only a half jar of mayonnaise, a mostly-empty gallon of milk, one slice of cheese, and a pickle left over from my parents' last visit. I vaguely remembered noticing my dwindling food supply this morning when I'd finished the waffles, and at lunch when I'd used the cheese and the rest of the sliced chicken for a sandwich...on the last roll.
"Ugh...dang it." I groaned, swinging the door shut. Checking the cabinets I found nothing that appealed to me for dinner, although I discovered a box of pop tarts I hadn't known I'd had, probably left over from the last time my sisters were here. I considered having a couple of those for dinner, but the idea made me a bit nauseous, so I closed the cabinet with a wince.
Wistfully I thought of my father's homemade chili. He made it every summer when they came up. It wasn't exactly the greatest dish for a Northeastern summer night, but we all enjoyed it just the same. My stomach growled at the thought of it.
With a sigh I glanced once more in my pitiful fridge, freezer, and pantry. There was nothing for a decent supper, outside of cereal, possibly a scrambled egg, and some stale crackers. I would have to go shopping.
The little grocery store roughly ten minutes from my house wasn't fancy, and so I didn't bother changing out of my ripped, baggy jeans and cozy dark blue college sweatshirt. I twisted my wavy, dark hair into a hurried, messy bun and set out.
I was most definitely craving chili at this point. Wandering the aisles I couldn't find anything smaller than a 'family-sized' can. I grabbed it anyway, figuring I could always freeze the excess.
Have you ever heard that you shouldn't go grocery shopping when you're hungry? Well, it's good advice. By the time I decided I was done my hand basket was fit to burst, mostly with snack food and the kind of pre-made meals my mother would scowl at.
I was walking to the checkout when a familiar face came around the corner- my father's longtime friend, who also happened to be the neighbor closest to my house. He seemed to consider checking up on me his personal duty, which I didn't always mind.
He was a small man in his seventies, with perpetually squinting eyes and a fishing hat he wore everywhere but out on the lake. After nearly running into me, he let loose a beaming grin.
"Little Thalia! Hello dear! How are yeh?" He chirped in his raspy ex-smoker's voice.
His smile was the kind you couldn't help but return. "Hi Mister Garibaldi, I'm doing fine, how are you?"
He chuckled as if I'd made a joke and then seemed to suddenly notice my load. "Havin' some comp'ny?"
I felt my cheeks redden, and glanced down at the basket I was struggling to carry. "Uh, no, just...stocking up. Haven't shopped in a while."
He gave me another chuckle and nodded, the brim of his hat wobbling. "Ah, I see. Thought mebbe a gentleman friend was payin' yeh a visit."
My cheeks reddened further but I forced a nonchalant smile, shifting my basket to my other hand. "Oh, no. Not this weekend."
Mr. Garibaldi suddenly fixed me with an uncharacteristically serious stare. "Too bad. You bein' alone up there all of the time," he shook his head sadly, "it's not good for you. Does things to yer mind."
I frowned. "I'm okay. I can take care of myself, no problem."
"I don't doubt that," he commented, "but that don't mean yeh have to live like a hermit to prove it." There was a brief silence between us, then suddenly he was cheerful again, smiling and bobbing his head like a happy cockatoo. "I'll tell yer Dad I saw yeh down here!" And he disappeared into the frozen foods section.
I frowned after him. What was he talking about? Was he really that worried about my living alone? Why? He'd never really said anything about it before. Even my parents only mentioned it now and then.
I wasn't trying to prove anything by living alone, I was just...comfortable that way. I'd never been a social butterfly, and the idea of someone else coming in...it made me uncomfortable.
Standing in the checkout line I remembered that sinking, unexplained sadness from earlier that night. Maybe I was lonely? Could you be lonely without knowing? Maybe I should get a pet.
After taking my bags and thanking the cashier, I nodded to myself on the way to the car. That was it, I needed a pet. I could head down to the shelter and find a nice, peaceful cat, or maybe an older dog that would be content to laze around the house and wouldn't need too many walks.
That would make me feel much better.
I was sure of it.
I wasn't the kind to be frightened easily. I'd grown up helping my dad chop wood, hunt, fish, whatever. I knew how to shoot several kinds of guns and could defend myself pretty well if someone were to attack me. The idea of burglars in the cabin didn't make me more than a bit tense. But there was something I was awfully afraid of.
Sitting at the dining room table, reading the comics in the newspaper, slowly nursing a bowl of the canned chili I'd bought, that fear confronted me.
With a 'thunk', a fat, long-legged wolf spider dropped onto the newspaper.
The pair of us just stared at one another for a long moment while my brain registered what I was seeing. Then I jumped up, squealing, my spoon landing back in the bowl with a loud 'clank'.
The spider ran the opposite direction, dropping from the table and scrambling for the heating vent by the floor. I looked around for something to smash it with, because I sure as heck wasn't stepping on that thing with my stocking feet.
I found a heavy rain boot by the back door and ran back to vanquish my enemy, but by the time I got back it was gone, lost somewhere in the vents. Somewhere in my house.
I sat back on the chair by the table, looking nervously up at the ceiling, feet pulled up off the floor, shaking, whimpering at the thought of the spider nearly dropping right on my head. I spent the rest of the evening jumping at every tickle on my skin.
The incident with the spider set me on edge, and the foreboding atmosphere of the wet, windy day and night didn't help. I kept all of the lights in the house on from the time I got back from the grocery store to the time I was ready for bed.
Thunder was growling in the distance while I changed into my pajamas and went about my before-bed routine, brushing my teeth, washing my face, going to the bathroom, all that. Lighting flashed when I climbed into the blankets, and thunder growled a little more loudly. Somewhere a dog barked.
Turning off my bedside light- after checking the rafters above me for any more unwelcome visitors, I snuggled into the warm comforter. Tomorrow, I'd decided, I would start browsing local shelters online to see what kinds of animals they might have. A pet of some sort would be just the thing, something to snuggle in bed with me and make me less lonely.
But I wasn't lonely, I reminded myself sternly. I was just tired of being by myself.
With a last yawn, I closed my eyes and drifted slowly to sleep.
Something woke me suddenly. It was still very dark. The weather had calmed, and the night was silent. A glance at the clock told me it was just past midnight. My heart was pounding, my body rigid. What had woken me? A bad dream? Maybe.
I shivered, pulled the blankets tighter around my body, and tried to settle down so I could go back to sleep.
Something downstairs fell over with a loud slam. My heart nearly stopped.
I opened my eyes, straining to see in the darkness. All I could hear was my own blood rushing in my ears. My hands tingled, by body trembled.
Maybe I'd left a window open, and the wind knocked something over.
A quieter thump, and something that sounded like a mumbled curse.
Someone was in my house.
My heart was racing now.
My first thought was of the hunting rifles and two handguns in the gun safe. But naturally the safe was downstairs, hidden in a hall closet behind some winter jackets. I hadn't thought before of how foolish that placing was. I should have brought one of the smaller guns upstairs.
Next I thought maybe I could stay upstairs, stay quiet, and the intruder would leave.
No. The police. I had to call the police.
I kicked off my blankets and looked to my nightstand where I normally plugged in my phone overnight. It was gone. I remembered suddenly that I'd last used it on the couch downstairs while watching TV. I'd browsed Pinterest until the battery ran low. I must have left it.
There was a phone in the office, the room a few doors down from my bedroom, but I'd have to walk past the stairs to get there, and the floors would creak the whole way. If I just sat in bed the intruder would probably find me eventually. If I ran for the office he would find me for sure, but I could call for help. Was it worth the risk?
My bedroom door was open, and I could see the kitchen light come on. What kind of burglar turned on the lights? Maybe he was unprepared? Inexperienced? Maybe knowing someone was at home would scare him away.
Anything was better than this tension. I flung the blankets away and slowly put my feet on the floor.
I managed to get out of my bedroom without making much noise, and in the hall if I hugged the wall and went slow the floors didn't creak much. As I neared the stairs I strained my ears to try and hear where the intruder was.
I could hear things moving in the kitchen, and frowned. What would a robber want in the kitchen? Maybe he was just some crazy homeless person looking for food?
Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching the stairs and my heart dropped. I moved forward some more, hoping to reach the office before he started up the stairs. It took both an eternity and a heartbeat for me to be directly across from the stairs. I could see the landing at the bottom. A shadow fell across the floor.
I tried to creep, but a combination of high-voltage fear and the adrenaline pumping through my body made my movements clumsy and too fast. I stumbled and the floor creaked beneath my weight. One of the stairs squeaked under the intruder's weight and I moved more quickly towards the office. I was almost at the door when something creaked behind me.
I turned reflexively to see what it was.
I saw nothing.
I turned back to continue.
I saw the intruder.
He was a full head taller than me, built like a fighter, and he was standing right in front of the office door.
Too scared to scream, I turned and ran for the stairs. I took them two and three at a time, almost twisting my ankle but too high on fear to notice.
I heard him coming down the stairs behind me and skidded on the landing in my socks, running for the hall closet. I slipped and stumbled to the skinny door and flung it open, shoving winter coats aside to reach the tall gunmetal-gray safe inside.
Before I could reach for the number pad to enter the code, something grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise it. The intruder yanked me away from the safe, spinning me around so I hit the wall on the other side of the hallway. When I turned to face him he had slammed the closet closed and was standing in front of it protectively.
He wasn't wearing a mask or anything, and I could see his face clearly, even in the dim light. He was nearly expressionless as he stared at me, one hand on the closet door.
We both stood in silence, the only sound in the hall my harsh, panicked breathing.
I opened my mouth to ask what he wanted, but then I noticed the way the kitchen light glinted from the fingers on the hand he held the door closed with, the metallic sheen on his forearm. The words died in my throat. I understood suddenly who this was.
He was the one from the news.
The Winter Soldier.
And he was in my house.
