Moments Before the Storm

Frank walked to the window, and pulled the louvres down a little. He peered outside. He could see no less than 10 mean-looking men standing at the gate and talking to Eva in loud, angry voices. The men who had locked themselves inside Jenna's room began to shout on top of their lungs, shouting, "Save us! Save us! He's a spirit! He's not a human being! Help us!"

The men outside, upon hearing this, hesistated for a moment, staring quizically at the window were the shouts were emanating from. As they hesitated, the men in Jenna's room increased pitch of their voices, shrieking madly.

Frank continued watching the men outside, enjoying the look of trepidation on the men's faces. Frank smiled in glee. He wanted the men to come. By God, he wanted them to come. His joy would be full if he could snap the necks of all the bad men in Bariga and end them to tje grace where they belonged.

Frederick saw that Frank wasn't looking at his direction and he glanced at the door, relishing the possibility of a quick escape. He looked at Frank again and noticed that he was still peering through the window. Had the spirit been so carried away by the noise outside and forgotten about him? Could hs take bis chance now and bolt towards the door? The door was not locked; if was just shut. He could spring to it and open it and run away madly. But goddamn! This spirit was a fast spirit. A fast wicked spirit who moved with the speed of sound. Frederick reckoned that he would likely be caught if he tried to run. All that was required for the spirit to catch him was for it to turn back and grab him him by his shirt before he even opened the door.

Frederick began to think. He began to weigh his options. There were noises outside the house, beyond the window, and there were noises inside inside the house, in the bedroom. And the spirit was still peering through the louvres. Why, exactly, was he doing that? What was he observing? He he scared of the multiple outside. Impossible. So what was this about? Was he waiting for them to come at him so he could kill them all, including him, at once? Or was he being entertained by all that was happening? Just why hadn't he even raised his spirit-hand on them? Was his intention not to kill? Then why had he locked them up in this room? What on earth was the spirit on about? Why, oh why was this spirit still looking out through the window? Didn't he see that the men wouldn't come into Jenna's room. Didn't he see that the men outside were scared stiff—scared by the idiotic shouts of the cowards jumping in fright inside the locked bedroom? Fools! Frederick thought. Those boys in that room were fools. They bad spoilt what he had thought would be a way of escape. Surely if the men outside had stormed this apartment now, this spirit was have been have been sufficiently distracted for him to run away to safety. But here he was, still in this room, still within the horrific reach of death. What could he do now, right now, to avert the impending doom? But had the cowards jumping and shouting inside Jenna's spoiled any chance they he thought he had? For all he knew now, damn, they had improved his chances, because it appeared that this spirit was enjoying the look of fear on the men's faces beyond the window. Maybe it was such spectacle that he really wanted. Perhaps this spirit didn't want to kill anyone. Perhaps what he really wanted was to have some fun looking at the terrified faces of mere mortals. Still on his knees, Frederick thought: Could this be my chance?

There was definitely no more time to think now. Now was the time to act. To damn the consequences and act. To make a last-ditch effort at salvation. So Frederick stopped thinking and sprang madly to the door.

Damn.

It all happened in a blink of an eye. Frederick didn't know what happened or even it happened. He didn't know that it was all a bait. He didn't know that Frank knew he would try to run away. He didn't know that Frank had been waiting for that moment all along, just to add some climax to his kill. Frederick didn't know what hit him. He didn't know when Frank moved from the window. It had all taken less than a second. He didn't know when caught him by the neck. He didn't know when his head was snapped back to face the other direction. He didn't know when his neckbones broke; didn't know when the wind left his lungs. He didn't know when he fell down in a heap, with a thud, crashing down on the tiled floor of Jenna's living room. He didn't know when his heart slowed or when it stopped beating. He just didn't know how he died. If he were to come again in another life and someone asked him how he had died that day, he would probably say: "I don't know. The last thing I remember was that I stood up from my knees and sprang to the door."

And so that was it. Frederick was dead before he could even lay hold on the door knob.

The men in the had fallen quiet now. They must have heard the sound of bones breaking and of a body hitting the ground. And of course, they had no illusions about who the dead man was. They knew Frederick was dead. What scared them the most—what made their hearts move upwards from between their ribs to their throats—was the chilling fact that no a sound was heard from Frederick. No shouts. No voices. Just death. Instant, quiet death.

All five of them knew that it would be pure foolishness to start shouting again. Their boss was dead, and their comrades outside were too scared to advance. And they knew it was partly their fault that the men outside didn't want to come inside. But what could they have done differently under the circumstance? It wasn't like they had a choice, or that they had complete control of their minds. They had been galvanized by fear to shout for help. Now, that fear had totally paralyzed them.

"Guys," one of them spoke in a hushed time. He was sweating all over and shivering. The rest had their back on the door to prevent a possible invasion by the spirit. "If we don't do something now we're going to die," he said to them.

And what followed had all the makings of a thriller.