He Who Brings the Storm

The arrival of a stranger brings a deadly power to a small town...

It is a clear day when the stranger enters town.

      He wears a cloak the colour of storm clouds with a hat a strange shade of black that makes you think of what a sunless day would look like. Under the cloak her wears a yellowish dress shirt with a red tie, and his legs are covered by black jeans. He has boots on that have been scuffed, torn and dirtied by years of travelling. If you were to see his face, you would forget its features even while looking at it.

      The stranger does not arrive by car, but walks beside the main road before reaching a sidewalk to travel down. Those who see him think of him as odd before driving on. That cloak nags at their minds, and they think things along the lines of, Where there shapes MOVING in the cloak like clouds? However, since this thought is preposterous, they try to force it from their minds.

      Doesn’t work.

      He follows the sidewalk, crossing a few roads, before going into a café. As he enters the building, everybody inside of it turns to look at him, doing so because of a strange feeling. However, upon seeing that the man is just a normal, everyday bloke (although that cloak is pretty weird…and what is it about that HAT?), they all go back to their respective businesses.  

      He does not stand in line to order a coffee. Instead he finds an empty table and makes it taken. He looks down at the surface of the table, letting his strange hat’s brim cover his face, until a waitress comes over to the table and says, ‘’Scuse me, sir, but can I help you?’

      He looks up at her with his bland face and smiles a forgettable smile. ‘Yes, actually, you can. Where would you say the heart of this town is?’

      ‘The heart?’

      ‘Yes, the heart. As in, how the Eiffel Tower is the heart of Paris. The heart.’

      ‘Oh! Okay, I get what you mean now.’ The waitress seems to ponder this before saying, ‘Probably the old clocktower in the middle of the roundabout. It’s the one near the shopping centre; go there and you’ll see it straight away.’

      The stranger smiles and says thank you before standing and leaving the café, everybody watching him go. Although they are not sure why, everybody there feels a pang of relief as he walks out the door.

      The stranger asks for directions a few times before finding the old clocktower. It is, as the waitress said, in the centre of a roundabout that could be considered busy, and is, as the name suggests, old. Its golden paint is peeling, the metal underneath beginning to rust, and the white clockface is being turned brownish by dust. The clock’s hands move with a stagger.

      The stranger crosses the road and stands at the grassy island that the clock was built upon and stands before the town’s heart, looking at it with expressionless eyes. He then slips his cloak off and throws it into the air. The cloak floats up into the sky, expanding as it goes, and to those beneath it the fabric seems to turn into a plain of dark, gloomy clouds that promise heavy rain, booming thunder and slithering lightning.

      The clouds cover the whole town, and a mist begins to rise from the ground at where said clouds stop. Some of the townsfolk prod at the mist, but find that it is solid, impenetrable. Then it begins to rain, but instead of water what falls is a green, sticky liquid that smells like something otherworldly.

      And from the clouds come shapes, slippery tentacles and brown pincers, hands with claws for nails and thin stalks that end in eyes. And behind the clouds, citizens of the town can hear noises like thunder but can be identified as roars or strange words.

      Then the townsfolk are taken: tentacles wrap around their waists; pincers pinch their bodies; fingers pluck them up. The humans are taken into the clouds, and those that are not taken right away can hear their neighbours’ screams.

      The rooves of houses and other buildings are demolished and those inside of them are taken. Vehicles are torn at and their drivers are taken. Tables are thrown about and those seeking refuge beneath them are taken.

      In a matter of minutes, everybody is taken.

      Except for the stranger.

      His body dry of the green rain, he stands at the old clocktower and watches the chaos around him, occasionally turning to watch the clock’s feeble hands hobble around its face. Soon, when silence has replaced all noises, the rain begins to stop. Then the clouds start to come towards the ground, shrinking as they descend, before the stranger snatches his cloak from the air and throws it over his body.

      And, with that, He Who Brings the Storm begins to walk to the next town.

Author's Note

Please excuse any errors you find in this story, which I hope you enjoyed.