The rumble of distant thunder can be heard through the flowing spring rain. Sven, trusty hound of the Helland family farm, remains mostly unbothered by the noisy weather. Mostly unbothered. He has noticed the steady stream of water running by the edge of his little dog house is inching closer to where he’s resting his snout. He gently opens his eyes an inch and notices the stream has crept into his bed and is now soaking through his raggy pillow. What a bother. With a yawn and a stretch he gets up from his position of comfort, steps in a short circle, then another one, and bites down on the worn edge of his pillow dragging it to the back of the little square that is his house. In his ten years of service, he has long since gotten used to his home's unfortunate weather conditions, but tonight seems like a particularly nasty case.
There’s the rumble again. It’s getting closer. Sven pokes his snout into the rain and sniffs the air. Cold droplets pelt his fur and he takes a second drag of the moist air. He huffs and sneezes. Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s the rain, the faint scent of sheep droppings, and the freshly painted deck by the door, now surely ruined by the rain. Still, the aging dog can’t shake the feeling something’s different tonight. The feeling started moments ago, but now he can’t shake it. A subtle gnawing in the back of his mind stretching into his bones and making his neck hair tingle.
*CRACK*
Lightning flashes and Sven yelps in surprise. Too close. Too loud. He quickly scoots back into the corner and burrows his head under the pillow, all sleepiness chased from his system. Not comfortable at all. He waits there, huddled in the back, while the seconds become minutes. A second, milder crack comes from just to the right of where he is sheltered. Not thunder? It’s the door! Oh, thank god, it’s the door to the farmhouse creaking open.
“Sven? Sven, are you still out there?”, a girl's voice rings out through the splashing rain.
Wasting no time Sven takes his pillow in his mouth, skitters out of the dog house, and hurries through the rain. With a muffled, appreciative yipp he meets the warmth and light of the comfortable inside.
Sven shakes the wet out of his fur to a less than pleased, “Hey, wait!” and unhurriedly trots over to his favorite place in front of the glowing fireplace. Warmth. Silence. Peace. He shuts his eyes and begins to drift off. A minute passes, then several.
Sven kicks his legs and rolls over. His ears peak and swivel as the window lights with distant lightning and the floorboards vibrate with the rumbling weather. There’s no peace. The feeling in the back of the hound's mind is still there, gnawing at him. Warmth be damned, he drags the pillow under the bench in the kitchen nook and lays down. With a huff containing all his silent discontent, he lies in his little bunker of safety and tries to achieve some level of comfort yet again.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Outside the window, the wind continues to howl and rainwater flows in angry streams. They stretch along the twisting country-side road, turning earth into mud and pushing all kinds of debris this way and that. Great clumps of grass, dirt, and pebbles will travel further on this night than they have in centuries. Most of this muddy substance will pass down the shallow incline and eventually into the river called The Grime by locals, and from there will take the express route to the sea.
Through the clouds lightning spears and crackles violently. Thunder rumbles as the energy streaks off to scorch a hole halfway up the mountain called The Little King. Streaming water soon fills the hole and begins its tedious, and largely unhelpful, work of turning the soggy mountainside even more treacherous. It doesn’t take long before the sandy mountain dirt gives way and in seconds several square meters of topsoil slides down the mountainside and just over the displaced dirt a now much more precariously placed boulder starts to reach for open air.
The boulder sits there for another hour, seemingly undecided as to whether it really wants to vacate its position of comfort before the water makes the decision for it. Another piece of the dirt that makes up its foothold goes sliding after the first and the back of the boulder smells fresh air for the first time. At first a slow lean. Then, rapid tumbling. The massive rock goes careening down the mountainside, building up speed as it flies and rolls. It begins digging deeper and deeper with each touch of the ground as the incline begins to level. With an ear-splitting crack stone meets wood. The base of the telephone pole is obliterated in an eye-blink. Splinters go flying in all directions as what remains of the pole tears loose from its brethren and flies through the air, burying itself next to a tree. A family of terrified hares skitters out from their hole next to the still-swaying pole, deciding to brave the weather rather than remain in their pierced home.
Halfway up the Little King, the rain continues its assault on the ground like it has been personally insulted. The ditch in which the large boulder recently rested grows deeper by the minute until the bare rockface kisses open air. Undeterred by its progress the drizzling water washes the surface of gravel and crust until a crack is revealed between the shingles. As if by invitation a gust of musty air burst forth from the crack shoving aside plates of rock and gravel. Moist fresh air seeps into the unveiled hole and with it the pitter-patter of rainwater follows. Deeper and deeper these lifegiving substances make their way into the mountain until the trickle meets something unusual.
*Drip* *Drip* *Drip* Droplets of cold fresh water fall from the ceiling and gather in a hollow of bleached white bone. The water pools for a minute, serene in its new resting place, content to moisten this dark and dry cave.
A brush of warm breath makes the droplets quiver where they lie. Ancient eyes blink open. Orbs of the deepest black observe the curiosity before extending a spiny tongue to lap up the spill of delicious fresh water.
More. It needs more. The creature uncoils and begins moving. Limbs, stiff and withered from underuse shift its weight forward, towards the sweet smell of fresh air, and with it a second need makes its presence known. A feeling that never left the creature and had only strengthened with its endless captivity. It needed to have it, to feel it caress its skin yet again.
Warm. Wiggling. Flesh.