The Word Cloud

He knew they would come today. The estate looked regular and dull, like nothing out of the ordinary could possibly happen, but Sam knew different. The signs, hidden from casual view, stood out when he focused on them. He shook the evidence away with a toss of his head, an unsettled horse scared without blinkers. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to know.

No precautions had been taken by his neighbours. Their paths were cleared of snow, almost an invitation to the horror that would come. Sam knew it was pointless to try and warn them, to make them see the vulnerability in the open-curtain rooms at the front of their homes. To see how the light and colour would draw the visitors straight to them.

A twitching at the corner of his vision. Margaret looked through a slanted crack between the defensive drapes in their front room. He'd told her to go inside, to see to some blankets and quilts to let them both hide in one room, with no heating or lights to reveal their presence. He flicked his hand at her and she disappeared into the gloom of the house.

Flurries of snow circled around him, and he pulled the wool of his hat further down his forehead, anything to stop the flakes landing on his eyelashes and slowing him down. With the back of his hand he dashed away the moisture on his face, then stared down the close to the road at the bottom. Empty.

Sam shook his head. There should be at least one policeman. He knew they couldn't be everywhere, but the estate was a sitting duck, the first residential area the visitors would come to. They would be drawn straight to the warm glow of the houses.

He spun back to the garage door and kicked snow up against the bottom of it. He'd covered over all their footprints, and now it was time to make it look like no one had been in or out. He reached the end of the door and stood surveying his work, hands on hips as he breathed smoke into the freezing air. To his critical eye, the white humps looked staged, but another dusting and his tread marks would fade. He hoped the visitors wouldn't come this close, that they'd just move on to richer pickings.

Sam moved backwards to the front door, his boots making soft arcs as they rubbed out his retreating footprints. He let out a long sigh as he felt the thick wood against his back. Margaret had left it unlocked for him even though he'd told her not to, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and rolled his eyes as he stepped inside.

The air was still after the wind that circled the white flakes into small eddies. It was only punctuated by Sam's decisive bolting of the main lock, then the safety one. He tapped a finger against his bottom lip as he studied the hallway. With a lunge, he reached out for the short bench where they sat to pull their boots off. It fit under the door handle snugly.

Leaving the evidence of damp shapes on the carpet, he went first to the bedroom window, then after checking it was locked, he moved to the bay that looked from the front room over the garden. It was secure too, but he watched for a moment, knowing that the pure covering of white would soon be impacted by the horde, the peace of the close broken.

A huddled shape behind the sofa caught his attention and he turned to see Margaret already in place. She held up a thermos and he gave a weak smile at the idea of tea. He took a pace towards her but paused with his foot in mid-stride. The sound of crunching snow and frost cut into their space.

In swift movements, Sam joined Margaret and covered himself with the quilt. The visitors made no effort in hiding their presence, and their calls to each other could be heard as their bulk moved closer.

Sounds at the bottom of the garden.

Then at the front door. An interested dog snuffling out a rabbit's burrow.

Sam shrank down further as if they could see through the wall.

Then the sounds began, the ones the visitors used to try and entice their prey out.

'Good King Wenceslas looked out, On the feast of Stephen... '