Wheezing
Ðursdâ, the 19th of Ostaramonað in the year 267
The temple bell tolled, echoing through the stillness of dawn as the roosters greeted the new day. Slate-grey clouds loomed overhead, casting muted light across the hillside. Viktor stepped from his small, weathered home and yawned. His worn leather boots thudded lazily against the earthen path, the sound giving way to the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.
His gaze settled on the tiny structure beside the towering dark-stone temple. The modest shed, with its peeling blue door, looked diminished in the shadow of the grand temple. From the pocket of his chestnut jacket, he retrieved a long silver key.
As he approached, a faint hum drifted through the air, distant at first, then warping into a coarse, rattling pulse. His aged hands trembled in the bite of early-morning chill as he slid the key into the stubborn lock. It resisted for a moment before yielding with a reluctant click. Drawing the key free, Viktor braced himself and pushed open the door, stepping into the room’s enveloping darkness.
He fumbled for the lamp on the wall, found the matches, and struck one. The flame caught the wick with a soft whoosh, spilling warm, flickering light into the cramped space.
He shut the door behind him with a firm slam, the sound echoing through the shed. Turning back to the lamp, he wrapped his frozen fingers around its warming base.
“Ah,” Viktor breathed, surveying the tiny room.
The lamp’s glow wrestled with the lingering shadows, lighting only half the space and casting elongated silhouettes across the walls. Moving with practised purpose, he crossed to the back corner, lit a second neglected lamp, and watched as its glow joined the first, warming the room, though an unwelcome chill still clung to the air like an oppressive shroud. He returned the matches to their place.
Milda needs to buy more matches and oil, he thought with a faint sigh.
Before him loomed the chunky black-metal stove. With a flick of flint, he sparked it to life. Flames erupted with a fierce roar, their heat making the metal clink and pop. An old, battered kettle rested atop it, its once-bright surface dulled by years of use. Nearby stood a sturdy broom. Rakes, shears, and other tools lay scattered in disordered clusters, the implements of work worn by tireless hands.
In the shadowed corner, the stone cooling cupboard waited in its usual chill, half-full with yesterday’s remnants: bread, a wedge of cheese, a few tired vegetables. The air was thick with damp earth and the faint smokiness of the stove.
At the centre of the left wall, a small unglazed window fitted with narrow slats beckoned. Viktor approached and nudged it open, the hinges protesting before settling. A thin slice of daylight filtered in, barely warding off the gloom.
“What is that?” he muttered.
He shoved the shutter wider, but the meagre light did little to penetrate the dimness. A sharp, rhythmic sound echoed from outside. A gust of cold air rushed through the slats, biting at his cheeks and fluttering the edges of his worn slacks. Leaning out, he peered toward the tree line where bushes rustled against an unseen boundary, their branches swaying gently in the unsettled breeze. He held his breath, listening, there it was again: a dull, rattling pulse punctuated by coarse huffs, the sounds melding into a discordant rhythm.
Turning, he bowed his head toward the black silhouette of a wolf etched into the plastered wall.
“Kanum, grant me strength as I walk into the unknown. Blessed Kanum,” he whispered.
As he lifted his gaze, an icy tingle seized his hand, creeping up his fingers. Ghostly images flickered at the edge of his thoughts. With a shuddering breath, he reached for the shed door. Its handle felt cruelly cold against his palm. He wrenched it open, unleashing a frigid wave of air that washed over him.
Blinking against the dimness, Viktor stepped outside.
Rain, he realised as moisture seeped into his shoes. Grass squelched under his heels as he steadied himself against the shed’s wall. The narrow outline of the window gave him pause, but he forced himself forward.
Huh! Keep going, he chided himself.
The rattling grew louder as he approached the far corner of the shed. He braced against the wall, drew a trembling breath, and slowly leaned forward to peer around it.
A guttural scream tore from his throat.
A woman lay sprawled on the ground, a figure in a worn black dress, her eyes sunken deep into a pallid, gaunt face.
“Madeline!” he croaked, his fear rooting him briefly to the spot.
He staggered on the slick, rain-soaked grass, the chill of the earth stabbing through his legs. But adrenaline surged through him, and he lunged forward, racing past thick vines and towering evergreens toward the nearby house.
He crashed through the door with a desperate cry.
“Milda! MILDA!”
The dim room inside flickered with light from four gas lamps, shadows stretching into the corners. A murky-brown three-seater settee, pressed against the off-white fence, faced another identical settee. Between them, a small wooden table cluttered with scattered papers sat close to the stove’s lazy flames. Doors loomed on either side, hinting at rooms beyond.
“MILDA!” Viktor’s voice cracked, ragged with fear.
Milda burst into the room, her greying hair pinned neatly into a bun.
“Viktor!” she gasped. “You scared me to death!”
“Milda!” he wheezed, clutching at his chest. “Send word! It’s Madeline Mikaelson. She, she’s in the yard. B-behind the shed. She’s been attacked! She needs help!”
Milda’s face blanched. She pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling her gasp.
“Oh!” she choked, terror welling in her eyes.
“Well, quick! The guard!” Viktor barked, already turning toward the door.
