The Storm and the Stranger

Journal Entry – October 13, 1871

The storm came without warning — no wind, no scent of rain to herald it. One moment the air was still, and the next it was trembling. I had been closing the shutters at the hotel when the first bolt struck, white and clean, splitting the sky in two. The thunder that followed rattled the bottles behind the bar and made the lamps flicker like they feared the dark.

By the time the stranger arrived, every man inside had turned his chair toward the door. He was soaked through, his coat dragging mud and lightning scent across the floorboards. His voice was low when he asked for a room, but there was something in it that silenced the room more effectively than thunder. He carried no trunk — only a satchel bound in black leather and sealed with a symbol I recognized but would not name.

I poured him a drink to steady his hands, though it was my own that trembled. He thanked me without looking up, eyes fixed on the flame of the nearest lantern. When he spoke again, it was not to me.

“It’s close,” he said. “The veil’s thinning early this year.”

The men laughed, uneasy, but his gaze never left the light. Something in the air shifted then — a hum beneath the floorboards, soft as breath. I felt it travel up through my shoes, through my bones, and settle behind my eyes. The storm outside grew louder, but his whisper cut through it all.

“You’ll hear them soon,” he said.

When I turned to ask what he meant, he was already gone. Only the satchel remained on the bar, still dry despite the rain.

I haven’t opened it yet. But it hums.