The alarm sounded, jolting Hannah from sleep and causing her to lurch upright, her hands clenching the sheets. She gazed around blearily at her darkened room, her chest heaving in short gasps for air--she had been running, trying to escape from something following close at her heels, something sinister and hungry--there hadn’t been a way out from her dream. She had pinched herself, slapped her own face, screamed for help; nothing had done the trick to pull her from the clutches of what felt like a reality within the nightmare. Every time she dared to look back over her shoulder, there was just a great expanse of blackness pressing in on her, threatening to overtake her the instant she stopped moving. It felt tangible--teeth and heat and the smell of burning hair. The clattering of hooves, or perhaps even the clicking of long talons on cold stone.
Her rusted blue alarm clock that she had nabbed from the charity shop months ago had been her salvation right in the nick of time, just as her legs were about to give out in her panicked dash. She felt her pulse vibrating in her throat as she wiped her sweating palms on the comforter, feeling a flush of embarrassment run up her neck and under her jaw. The nightmares had never been that difficult to drag herself up from--and they’d certainly never been so extreme--so horribly deceptive.
The deep blue light that shafted into her flat was bleak and lifeless, indicating the continuation of the rain that had plagued the better part of the month and was encroaching upon the impending dawn. But Hannah could see a breeze blowing the tips of the backyard trees that skirted the bottom of the pane, and she noted the rolling of the faint outlines of clouds that spat out a few stray drops, readying the earth for the next downpour that they were surely brewing up. It was familiar--real--and the sight of it all calmed her, steadying her breathing and forcing her to shed the fear she had awoken with.
That settles that. No more dessert right before I turn down for bed, Hannah thought to herself, remembering the chocolate cake Emil had given her upon closing at the cafe that she had indulged in as she put on her pajamas the previous night. All that sugar must’ve given me a poor sleep. And certainly no more if it means another dream like that.
Hitting her alarm to silence it, Hannah stretched her arms high over her head, yawning wide. She hadn’t slept much between the fitful dreams that she had bounced between, and it was her last day of work at the cafe before she had a glorious stretch of three days off, due to another manager trading a couple shifts with her to accommodate a vacation. Hannah had been more than happy to oblige, thinking that she could use the extra time during the days to study at the library, or perhaps even to work on the new song Bartrum had been teaching her on the piano--a basic classical piece that was challenging nearly every one of her brain cells. Although she liked to work, she felt…tired. And markedly ready for some time away from the cafe.
Tossing aside the comforter, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and rubbed her fists hard into her eyes, ridding the corners of some crust that had collected there. She stood and crossed in the dark of the wee morning to her washroom where she hit on the light, discarding her pajamas and stepping into the shower. Her flat didn’t have much in the way of hot water, so she tried to keep her bathing to under two minutes, or at least until the water began to shift from lukewarm to frigid. She scrubbed at her long hair--long overdue for a trim--and she rubbed at a few of the blotchy marks on her face with some drugstore cleanser she had picked up. She had once read that acne sprouted from stress, and she wondered if her skin was beginning to let her know that it was picking up on her recent heightened emotions.
Mailing in her application for King’s College had been an arduous task that she had nearly had to force her hands to accomplish the afternoon prior on her commute home from the cafe. As she changed lines, she stopped at a little red post box outside of a sweet shop and had dug the sealed manilla folder from her knapsack, holding it in her hands as carefully as if it were made of glass. She had studied it for a few harrowing moments, letting the sounds of the city’s late rush hour fill her senses, freezing her to the spot before the rectangle of galvanized steel--a gateway to her future should she choose to feed it all her hopes and dreams in the form of that blasted application. She wondered if she had written her return address legibly enough, if she had sealed it with the right amount of clear tape, if she had chosen a sturdy enough mailer to send it in, and if she had even remembered to insert her actual application into the folder itself at all or if it was still lying dormant in the drawer of her desk at home.
After assuaging all of those fears with the memory of lying to Abbey and telling her that she had submitted it, guilt finally swayed her. She dropped the mailer into the darkness of the post box, watching it disappear without so much as a goodbye. On her last tube ride of the day to West Hampstead, she had shed a few anxious tears.
The stress of that process, as well as the feelings it had brought up surrounding her worth--something that waxed and waned tirelessly--and at last paired with the week of poor sleep she had been experiencing, the pimples on her cheeks made her sigh into the steamy reflection she met when she hopped from the shower and peered into the mirror. She was still herself, whether she enjoyed that fact or not, and the application was a piece of paper that couldn’t hurt her more than she let it do so.
But the dreams were annoying, as well as the lack of sleep. She blamed it on the cake once more--I didn’t even need it. I just wanted to feel better.
She dressed in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, tying back her wet hair in a loose braid that left a track mark of dampness down her back, soaking the fabric of her shirt. A pair of gold earrings was next, and at last came her glasses that she had left on her nightstand beside the stack of fictional novels she had gleaned from the library the weekend before. She knew that she would have to leave her flat soon to make it into work on time, but she treasured her few moments in the morning where she could spend time in the company of silence, letting her mind wander and allowing herself to be on her own on her own terms.
She pulled the topmost book from the pile--the story about the gorgeous, mysterious hero and the stunning, fearless heroine in their quest to save a mythical land from evil--and she plunked it down on her little dining table. She dumped some cornflakes into one of her two bowls from her cupboard, splashed some soya milk from her refrigerator over top of them, and settled at the chair by the table, flopping the book open and burying her head in it as she worked on breakfast.
The letter from her mother sat on the table behind her cereal bowl, unopened. Bartrum had given it to Hannah a few days before, and she had taken it from him with a thin smile.
“Hopefully you keep them updated on all that you’ve got going on out here,” he had commented kindly. “They must miss you. You said it’s your mother, father, and you two brothers down south?”
“Yes,” Hannah had replied with a noncommittal nod. “Remind me to call them soon.”
But she hadn’t meant it, as much as it pained her to say so. She had only spoken with her mother once or twice since moving to the city, and every time it had been the same: her mother asked her a few polite questions, and then proceeded to spend the remainder of the conversation reminding Hannah how hard it was on them all that she had left home.
Bartrum didn’t know, and Hannah was content not to tell him about her family. It was a raw sort of place for her to speak from, and she preferred not giving much attention to it, lest she lose her control over it and get far too emotional and dramatic.
She kept it holed up, pushed down, and locked away; neatly tied with a bow.
With her cereal gone and her bowl in the sink, she strode to the hook beside the door where she kept her knapsack and her threadbare yellow rain jacket that she had procured at the charity shop around the same time that she had found her alarm clock. Although it had some burn holes in the sleeves from the previous owner’s habits, it did the job and kept her mostly dry on the mornings where she had to make the brisk walks through the torrents to the tube station. Yanking it on, she found herself longing for summer--her bike had been unused for quite some time, and she missed her commutes on wheels. Tossing the novel from the table into her knapsack and pointedly ignoring the letter from home, she threw the straps over her shoulders and stepped out into the darkness of the pre-dawn morning, locking her door tight behind her and pocketing the key.
She crept down the creaking stairs at the back of Bartrum’s home and clutched the railing, minding the slick spots in the wood where water had collected. She tried to be as discreet as possible in the mornings; she knew that the sound from her flat and the steps beyond it traveled down to Bartrum’s floor, echoing in the ancient wood beams of the home and announcing any heavy footfall. It was Saturday, and she knew that Bartrum would likely be sleeping in, seeing as the banks were closed for the weekend. She couldn’t help but smile as she crossed through the soaked lawn, her rubber boots squelching in the mud--she’d see him tonight for an evening of music. She’d promised herself that she would make a strong effort to stash away a couple of Emil’s eclairs to share with him after supper.
Once she passed Bartrum’s Cadillac and made it to the sidewalk, the streetlights were just beginning to flicker with the threat of shutting off due to the impending daylight, their sputtering warmth casting sparkling pools of light on the glass of the sodden pavement. She zipped her raincoat all the way up to her chin, burying her face up to her nose in the collar to stave off the rain that was picking up speed as the dawn awoke behind the blue of the morning, shifting the light into something paler, despite the world of Abbott still wrapped lavishly in gentle sleep.
A creak of a door sounded behind her, and a voice called out softly.
“Hannah, dear.” Hannah twirled on her heel, spotting Bartrum on the doorstep, peeking out from behind his front door. The lights inside were still off, and he was wearing his pajamas with a blanket wrapped thickly around his shoulders, and Hannah could just make out the small form of Freida at his ankles, her eyes glinting sharply in the flicker of a dying streetlight. He looked pale, even in the blue of the morning, and something in the way he said her name had her freezing on the sidewalk.
“Bartrum?” She replied, stepping back towards the driveway. “Are you well? It’s so early!”
He didn’t answer for a moment, merely gazing out at her as if searching for the word to say. Hannah waited, the rain pelting her jacket, something uneasy forming in her stomach. Freida meowed, the sound surprisingly sharp in the quiet of the morning.
“I’m well,” he said at last, bunching the blanket around himself against the breeze. “Are you off to work?”
“Last day before some time off,” she smiled, bringing a hand to her hood to pull it down farther over her head. “I thought we could spend tonight working on that piece of music after supper.”
“Yes,” his voice was tight, but kind. “Of course we can do that. Promise me you’ll hurry home after work, alright?”
His words hung in the air, unfinished, but he fell silent. Hannah nodded with a confused smile, wondering once more why her friend was acting oddly. “I will,” she promised. “As soon as everything’s done, I’ll run right back here. Are you quite sure you’re feeling well?”
Bartrum’s smile was watery from where Hannah could see it from the sidewalk, “I feel fine, my girl. Just a bit of a sleepless night, and I thought I’d see you off before you left for the day.” He gave her a sturdy nod. “I'll see you after work, then.”
He raised a hand in a small wave, and Freida gave a murmur of a meow, butting up against his calf as he backed away from the door, closing it shut against the wind. Hannah watched him do so, and once he was out of sight, she shook herself a little, remembering that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her shift. She turned back down the sidewalk, moving quickly through the puddles that sloshed flagrantly around her rubber boots, sending sprays of rainwater every which way.
He must be feeling the strange effects of little sleep as well, she thought as she hurried towards the turn at the end of Abbott that would lead her to the tube station at West Hampstead a few blocks away. I must’ve woken him up when I came down the stairs…I need to be more careful next time.
After a slog through the mire that was forming above the city, she arrived at the station and careened down the steps to the pay station and the platforms below, swiping her city card and pushing through the throngs of other early morning weekend commuters as she headed straight for the gray line of Jubilee. It wasn’t until she plopped herself down on the patterned padded bench of the train that she realized she had forgotten her promise to Emil to stay later than normal to finish off his work for him. His youngest daughter was in a theatre performance that evening across the city, and he had practically begged Hannah on his hands and knees a few weeks prior for her help to get him off a bit early. She, of course, had heartily obliged, stating how happy she was to help him and that she hoped his daughter's performance as “dancing flower” in the production was the beginning of her dazzling future in cinema.
Groaning to herself, she swung her knapsack into her lap and hugged it close to her, soaked as it was. She would be late getting home, and she had balked on remembering. Bartrum would have to wait up for her for a late supper. Frustrated at herself, and filled with shame at her lapse of memory in telling Bartrum, she sank low into the bench, sighing and swallowing down the tide of anxiety that was roiling somewhere far down in the pit of her stomach.
It would be alright…it somehow always was. But it didn’t save her from feeling poorly about it.
The day at the cafe was mercilessly busy, taking up all of Hannah’s attention from the moment the Closed sign on the door was flipped around to Open. She hadn’t had that busy of a Saturday in ages, and she found that it tested her energy, even if Emil’s eclairs had been so decadently crafted to perfection that the first nibbles fresh out of the oven were a needed boost of sugar. That and a sturdy cappuccino made by Claire--another of the cafe’s baristas who filled in on Abbey’s days off--was the only thing keeping Hannah on her feet as she rushed from the counter to the various tables, serving up coffee and pastries to the seemingly endless line of patrons that kept filing in through the door, filling the cafe with rain, the smell of steaming milk, and the chatter and clamor of conversation from every corner. Hannah saw many of her favorite regulars, all of which were delighted to see her and who bid her a happy weekend, and she regretted the demand of the day because it stole precious minutes from her where she would have enjoyed simply taking some time to chat with each and every one of them.
But alas, she was manning the register, and Claire was holding down the espresso machine. Emil was flying back and forth in the kitchen with Ruby, frantically throwing baking sheets in the ovens and folding beautiful dough creations atop his steel work table as puffs of flour exploded every few seconds from behind the swinging door. The opera music was set to a fervent revue, with each of the performers belting out stoccado-timed stanzas with passionate strength, causing every ring of the register to be accompanied by a string of faintly chaotic Italian words.
“Busy today!” A regular named Matthew admonished as he took the croissant Hannah held out to him in its neatly folded wax paper bag. He grinned goodnaturedly, “nearly every table is taken. Wherever shall I go to enjoy my pastry?”
“I spy a free stool by the counter at the window,” Hannah jabbed a finger in the direction of the vacant seat. “Go quick, and you just might find a bit of respite to eat your well-deserved treat.”
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Hannah filled and refilled and refilled the carafes of coffee as the hours ticked by. She and Claire didn’t speak much as they worked, simply opting to exchange information about orders and mistakes on drink tickets, and how they could help one another in the rushes. Hannah liked Claire well enough, but she always felt as if the girl didn’t enjoy working at the cafe--she often rolled her eyes at drinks and left her station a bit sloppier than Abbey would have ever allowed for--but Hannah knew she was a good barista, and it was certainly better than being alone to man the counter in such a day as that. Instead of looking for things to be upset with Claire about, she quietly took it upon herself to pick up the slack and fill in the holes, and she found that to make an overall better experience for both of them as they trudged through the line of customers together, warriors defending their homeland cafe from an onslaught of underfed and under-caffeinated intruders.
It took a long time for a lull to occur, and once it arrived, Hannah was shocked to see that it was three o’clock in the afternoon. The rain had finally let up, but the sky still boiled with angry, looming thunderheads that made the city outside appear quite flat, even as pedestrians wheeled every which way and cars came and went from the corners in the expanse of the front window. The cafe was still packed, but the line had at long last dwindled to only a few stragglers, and Hannah’s feet ached with the demand she had placed upon them in her persistent rushing about. She hadn’t had time to take her lunch break, and with a single hour left in the day, she imagined she’d eat once the cafe doors were locked up for the evening. Her stomach grumbled as she made the last carafe of drip coffee, and she peered back into the kitchen where she spotted Emil beginning the clean up for the night, a stack of dirty baking trays and mixing utensils by the sink piled so high that it almost scraped the bottom of the shelves lining the wall beside the dry rack. Ruby had left for the day, so Emil was working fiendishly to get the kitchen work somewhere manageable for Hannah to take over once he left at four o’clock to make it in time for the grand opening at five.
She gave a two-fingered salute to Emil through the fogged glass of the kitchen door window, and he held up both hands clasped together towards her with a massive grin, a token of his thanks as he finished up wiping the counter he had been sourcing with a damp rag. She smiled faintly back, feeling warmly conflicted. Perhaps she’d turn on his little radio and listen to some music of her own while she finished up the kitchen--it would certainly help the time pass. She had already tucked away a pair of heavenly eclairs in her knapsack for Bartrum, and she imagined that if she could just dredge up a bit of gusto to get the kitchen clean for the night, she’d be able to accomplish everything by six and be on her way home just after a quarter past.
She turned to greet a customer at the counter and rang up their latte, sliding the drink ticket to Claire before working out the change. As she handed it off to the gentleman before her, she spotted a familiar figure entering the shop, his peacoat unbuttoned to reveal a pressed white shirt and black trousers.
The man who always sat at the far table--the man and his blasted order of tea that he never touched. The man who consistently overpaid for basically a mug of hot water and cheap herbs. She’d seen him just the day before with his female companion, but today his presence did something to her that she couldn’t quite explain. He ran a hand through his dark hair and surveyed the busy cafe, his usual chair in the far corner was taken, giving him a fair amount of pause as he sized up where he should place himself. He looked a bit better than he usually did--his face was shaven, and the purple shadows that often lingered underneath his dark eyes were noticeably softer, as if he had gotten a few hours of quality sleep.
Standing tall in the doorframe, Hannah couldn’t help but feel as if he looked rather lost. As he smoothed his coat in the doorway, he shifted his gaze to the counter where she stood and locked eyes with her.
There was a moment where her breath caught in her lungs and she flinched--he had never once acknowledged her as neutrally as he was now; as humanely as he was now--and Hannah realized a moment too late that he had caught her staring when she blinked furiously and dropped her gaze to the register, her face burning with a rapid startle of shame. His face had looked so different when it wasn’t twisted up with annoyance, and it had taken her completely by surprise.
He approached the register, and Hannah prayed desperately that the heat on her cheeks wasn’t totally damning her, trying to come off as if she were merely routinely inspecting the individual grains of dust that had taken up space in between the aluminum keys of the cash machine. When he stood before her, she lifted her gaze, and was once again jolted by the sight of his eyes that met hers with something just barely softer than apathy.
“Afternoon,” he spoke politely, but his voice was still arid, as if he weren’t exactly aware of his dramatic change in demeanor. “A tea, please. Black. And I’ll have it to-go today.”
Hannah nodded, and she typed his order into the register without a word. He fished out two pound notes from his pocket and placed it on the counter, sliding it towards her before she could say the total. “I don’t mind what you do with the change, thanks.”
He left the counter and moved to the far end by the window, leaning one heavy hand on the surface and staring out at the bleak gray afternoon beyond. Hannah stood at the register for a single moment, eyeing the pounds he had left behind, feeling the whole world slow around her. What in the world was that about?
She eventually freed herself from her stupor and put the cash into the register, placing the change in the gratuity coffee can as per usual. She handed the drink ticket to Claire, who obediently filled the simple paper cup with boiling water and a limp tea bag, plunking a lid onto it before placing it down on the counter beside where the man stood.
“Here, sir,” Claire tapped the counter beside where she had left the cup, “thanks for coming in.”
The man took the tea without a word, and he strode to the door, peering around the cafe curiously--almost as if he were searching for something that wasn’t there. He paused before stepping out into the cold, and Hannah watched his back as he pulled his coat around him tightly, letting the door swing gently shut behind him.
With that, he turned left, and moved down the sidewalk out of sight. Hannah felt something absent in the space when he was gone, almost as if the people occupying his usual table in the far corner were disrupting something she couldn’t name.
The last hour rolled in, and then came to a quiet close. Hannah and Claire began to turn down the cafe as the clock struck four, and when Hannah moved to the front door and turned the hanging sign to Closed, lingering patrons at their tables began to pack up as well, realizing that they were starting to overstay their welcome. Claire bustled around the machine as Hannah swept the dining area, collecting crumbs and bits of thin paper from straw sheaths in her dustbin and replacing books onto the shelves. She even stopped to reset the little chess set on the coffee table that sat squat before the sofa, ensuring every piece made it back to their respective squares for the evening. The last of the customers left, leaving the cafe empty and humming with machinery.
Emil pushed through the kitchen door, having exchanged his apron for a crisp blue sport coat and matching trousers, and as he came to Hannah to pull her into a tight embrace, she dusted the traces of flour stuck in his dark hair with a warm chuckle.
“I owe you my life,” he exclaimed as he hugged her. “You are doing me a great service. Merci beaucoup, my lovely Hannah!”
“You better be off or you’ll be late!” She shoved him towards the door. “Tell Julia I say bravo, and that I send my congratulations on her opening.”
“I will not forget this!” Emil beamed as he leapt out the door, ramming his arms into his black overcoat and tossing on his gray hat. “See you soon, my dear. Have beautiful days away from this place!”
Hannah waved as he left, and she finished sweeping the floor. Claire finished closing down the espresso machine at half past the hour, and she moved towards the back door to collect her raincoat and her satchel.
“Good day today,” she commented lightly to Hannah. “Thanks for all your help during the rushes.”
“No worries,” Hannah said briskly as she kneed open the door to the kitchen, her arms full of dirty counter rags. “Thank you for all your hard work.”
“You getting out of here soon?” Claire asked as she shouldered her back and switched out her trainers for her heavy rain boots. “Don’t you usually leave when the bar girl goes?”
“I’m covering for Emil,” Hannah dropped a rag, and she knelt to pick it up, which promptly caused her to drop another. “Just staying a bit late.”
“Do you want me to stay and help?” Claire’s question was so unexpected that Hannah’s mouth opened in surprise. “Seems like a lot to leave you with. I don’t mind.”
“Oh, no,” Hannah shook her head quickly in humble thanks. “I can handle it, and I wouldn’t make you stay over your time for something you didn’t sign up for. Thank you, though--really. It’s kind of you to offer.”
“Alright,” Claire swung her satchel over her arm and waved as she cracked open the back door, raising her hand in a wave. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”
“Bye!” Hannah chirped with a little too much pep. As soon as the door slammed behind Claire, she deflated a bit, dropping another rag. She hadn’t known why she had refused Claire’s offer to help--it probably would’ve been nice to have Claire’s aid in finishing Emil’s tasks, and perhaps they would have had some conversation that would’ve draw them closer together as friends--but in the moment, Hannah had felt a slash of guilt in the thought of accepting. Claire hadn’t been asked to stay late, and Hannah had taken it upon herself to close for Emil. If Claire had stayed, and if there had been more work to do than she had anticipated, perhaps it would’ve soured Claire’s opinion of Hannah even further. Or, perhaps Claire might’ve begun to help Hannah, and Hannah would say something stupid or bring up a lame string of attempted conversation, promptly extinguishing Claire’s desire to be there a moment longer.
I can do it myself, Hannah bustled through to the kitchen, a few stray rags from the pile dropping to the floor and leaving a rank trail behind her. It won’t take me long.
Hannah kicked on Emil’s beloved little portable radio, and figured out how to turn it to the classical station, where she heard a lovely piano sonnet crooning through the static that soon filled the kitchen with sweet, ethereal sound. As she began to tackle the remainder of the dishes that were left in the sink and slosh pungent cleaner into the mop bucket in the back, she swayed to the tune of the crescendoing keys, humming along where she could follow the melody. Outside, she could hear rain begin to pick up once more, its soft pattering upon the roof wrapping the tiny world of the pastry kitchen in tender calm.
She didn’t take too long at the sink, and made quick work of the dishes. Once the mop was plunked into the bucket, she glided across the linoleum of the space, swirling the mop to the tempo spilling forth from the radio until the floors gleamed. She tapped her foot to the sound as she scrubbed the last of the counters too, her arms aching but her will to leave the place better than she found it pushing her to fight even the most stubborn of butter stains that had congealed along the surface.
When that was done, the clock showed a quarter to six. Hannah hung up the mop and tied off the hamper of dirty dish rags, bringing it to the back door to await the journey to the coin laundry on her way home. She sighed at the stack, knowing that even at a quick wash setting, her stop at the launderer would take an additional thirty minutes of time.
There was a sound at the front of the cafe, and Hannah’s ears pricked. A humming--different than the hum of the industrial refrigerators and various pipes of the cafe--almost as if something were vibrating the air. She froze from where she stood in the back, facing the archway through to the counter, but she could see nothing out of the ordinary. The hum hung in the air for a moment, and then it stopped, only to come back a second later, this time accompanied by a rattling of glass. There was a distinct shift somewhere in Hannah’s chest; something that she felt tremble and flicker, but not in an entirely pleasant way. Almost as if she sensed eyes upon her.
But she was alone, and she knew that. The cafe was closed.
Hannah stepped towards the way through to the counter, her pulse suddenly somewhere in her throat. She approached it timidly, and peered out into the empty cafe, the harrowing light of the storm casting a dim, tangible sort of heaviness through the overturned chairs on their places atop the tables. The hum continued--primal, constant--and there was a faint scent of ash, or perhaps something alike to a dying fireplace that was dwindling off somewhere in the near distance. Hannah could see nothing, but the gooseflesh that rose on her skin was entirely unignorable, and she realized that her mouth had gone quite dry.
The rattling sharply echoed through the cafe once more, and Hannah felt her blood freeze in her veins as her eyes at last fixed upon the door.
There, just against the outside of the entrance to the cafe, a single wisp of what looked like black smoke was twisting against the glass, causing the hanging sign on the inside of the door to shudder.
Hannah stared, utterly transfixed. What is that?
The smoke stopped its swirling, going quite taught, almost as if it had caught wind of her standing on the other side behind the counter. Hannah didn’t move--didn’t breathe--she felt completely incapable of looking away from whatever oddity that this thing was that she was trying to make sense of.
But before she really had time to confer with her thoughts any longer, the thing began to expand, covering the whole surface of the door and spreading to the window, blocking out the light from the outside. Hannah felt a shout bubbling in her throat as it grew--what in blazes is this?--and her heart began to pound in her head, scaring her.
The door groaned as the thing reached full height and began to push inward, bending the glass.
Hannah scrambled backwards, her spine slamming into the back wall behind the counter and knocking over a stack of spare paper to-go cups, sending them spilling every which way across the linoleum. She crushed a few of them underfoot as she went careening into the back of the cafe, heading towards the door, the grinding of the failing metal and moaning of the glass as it contorted, filling the silence and sending a shock of panic through her very bones. She slipped on the wet floor where she had mopped, flailing as she hit the floor and knocked her knees hard against it, crying out in pain and in fear, crawling towards where her rainboots and knapsack sat beside the back door.
A great cracking sound began to snap through the air, and Hannah knew without looking back that the huge window at the front of the cafe was yielding to whatever the hell that thing was doing. “Shit,” she hissed, reaching the back door in a frenzy and shooting to her feet, reaching for the handle of the door.
She lurched back before her fingertips met the metal, because as she made to grasp it, she noticed the tiny wisp of black smoke winding from out of the keyhole, moving towards her. She staggered backwards, and she saw the tendrils climbing up from underneath the door jam like thin, ghostly flames licking at the metal and winding upwards to the hinges. “What the hell?” Hannah cried frantically, “what the bleeding hell is happening?”
The back door sighed as a great, furious weight was thrown sharply against it and dented it inwards. Hannah screamed, launching herself away from it, covering her face with her arms.
The monumental blast of an explosion filled the air, and Hannah was thrown back against the kitchen door, falling through it and landing hard on her back on the floor, the wind knocking completely out from her lungs. There was an absolute cacophony of sound as glass rained down on every inch of the linoleum of the cafe, filling Hannah’s senses with the tinkling and bleating of shards that scattered like sand and dispersed into a fine mist, leaving the whole cafe covered in a gleaming blanket of stardust. Hannah felt it pelt her jeans, her arms, her head--the only thing that kept her from going blind was the mercy of her hands that she had clamped tightly over the whole of her face--and she gasped for air, pain rippling through her from the impact of her spine on the ground and from the cuts across the backs of her hands where the glass had met her flesh.
The glass settled, and there was silence. Hannah wheezed and coughed, rolling onto her side and feeling the crunch of glass underneath her as she tried to get to her knees and sit upright. She was too stunned to speak--to make any sound at all--and she dropped her trembling hands from her face, glancing around at the carnage of glass that was infiltrating every single last bit of the cafe.
The humming that had vibrated the very air was gone--choked out and stifled by the explosion--and Hannah no longer felt the terrible weight of indescribable eyes. She knew somehow that whatever had just been in the cafe was gone, disappearing into the chaos of the shattered window.
But then, another sound arose that caused her heart to leap into the space at the back of her throat, constricting her lungs. Footsteps--the sound of cautious movement shuffling through a sea of glass.
She turned shakily over her shoulder, turning her gaze towards the front of the cafe, and she rose to her feet, her legs jelly beneath her. She felt her head swimming with the threat of faintness as she took a terrible step towards the counter, her hands splayed out at her sides, panic setting every cell of her body singing with electricity.
She made it to the archway, and she looked out at what was left of the cafe, her eyes immediately catching upon the figure that stood at its center, causing her heart nearly to cease its hammering entirely within her chest.
There--ankle-deep in shards so thick they rippled with his every breath--the man in the peacoat stood frozen, his dark eyes fixed upon her and his mouth hanging open in an expression of total disbelief. Hannah felt a grip of fear so acute within her chest that it constricted her ribs, and she balled her hands into tight fists, unable to bring herself to do anything at all as he raised a hand and pointed a single damning finger in her direction.
“You,” he breathed, his voice catching in his throat. “What the hell did you just see?”