The wretched gale of wind rammed into the plane. It shivered and shuddered as the water ran down it. The clouds broiled and bubbled above, their pulse felt after the flash. A boy sat on a chair beside the window, palm against the glass, feeling the beat of a heart most inhuman. Like so many tears the water ran down the face in the glass.
Who was the boy in the glass, the boy wondered, why was he crying? A world most unfamiliar. The glass shivered beneath his palm, and so did he. The trees danced and the bushes shook, another day of the rain had come.
Then there was a sound, a soft sound, but a sound nonetheless. The boy looked behind him and saw a woman in the doorway, black as the night and still as stone. But on his hand, a chill began to grow and in the glass behind him was a hand of black that crunched and clawed.
The woman ran and took the boy's hand but in the window, the creature watched, it's crooked smile cracking across the window. In her fear, she grabbed the boy in her arms and took him and ran from the glass, the creature in the glass.
.....
A knock was heard on the door. The bell was rung. With a creak, a face peered through.
"Who's there?" the crooked thing said.
A simple suited man stood before her, briefcase in hand. A man of middling years. An unremarkable man.
With a smile and a nod, with his hat in his other hand, he bowed slightly.
"I'm the one who knocks."
The woman frowned.
"I'm busy, leave me alone. I don't need whatever you're selling."
Concern was clearly written on his face, hat in both hands, he said, "Are you certain?"
"Yes. Yes, I am. So begone!", she said clearly growing irate at the man's persistence.
"Are you sure, Mis Robinson?", he replied with a slight smirk.
There was an emptiness in the air as the two stared at the other.
Perhaps it was a mutual understanding of their positions and roles or maybe an odd twist of fate, but the woman coincided.
A wrinkly clawed hand grasped against the peeling paint and pulled aside the door, revealing the hunched woman. The man nodded and lowered his head as he entered. And when the door closed, the house shivered.
In the room, was two things. a picture and an empty coffee mug. The picture was faded and the glass dirty, whatever thing that once was within lost to time and memory.
The man crossed his ever so long legs and placed the briefcase on the table with a smile.
"When will it be?"