Cole Burkhardt

She started racing towards me, and I prepared the shield for the dog door.

When I looked up again, the woman had unlatched the gate.

She stared at me, her hair parting for a moment."

I met her eyes, red from crying and blackened from rot.

The whimpers faded, and her face twisted into a snarl, fury and envy bubbling to the surface.

If a look could kill someone, the glare she shot in my direction might have eviscerated me where I stood.

Nugget ran inside, and I slammed the door.

I secured both locks and put up the dog door shield, then grabbed the salt off my spice rack and poured a line of it in front of the threshold.

I'd heard somewhere that this kept bad spirits out, and I figured any advantage was better than nothing.

I placed salt lines in front of every door and window in my house, eventually running out and doing the rest with my remaining garlic salt.

For the remainder of the storm, I sat on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, huddled up with my dogs.

I heard her walking circles around my house, alternating between whimpering and distraught wailing.

It occurred to me that, to her, it might feel like I had just stolen her children, and the moment of empathy I felt for her almost made me forget what she usually did with those children afterwards.

When the rain began to let up, her wailing became more violent, sounding less like grief and more like a tantrum.

In her desperation, she began banging on my windows, and I grabbed Nugget's snout to keep her from barking.

When the storm subsided, her tears dried up with it.

I realized that this was my reality now.

Until I could afford to move, I had to keep a constant watch on my dogs during every single monsoon storm of the season, never knowing when they could happen or how long they would last.

If I didn't, the weeping woman would come to take my children away.