I flinch and turn. Elena stands at the foot of the ladder, hair tangled around her shoulders, eyes wide and unfocused with sleep. My mother’s curtain has shifted. I hear the scrape of her feet against the floor, the soft confusion in her breathing.
"What is happening?" she calls.
I turn back to the doorway.
Rain lashes the threshold. The yard beyond lies empty, churned mud and dark shadow. The door hangs open, shuddering in the wind.
There is no body on the ground. No blood in the mud. Only the dark, swallowing what it holds.
Elena clutches the ladder post, knuckles pale. Mama’s hand presses against her chest, fingers trembling where they grip the fabric of her shift. They both stare at the open door, at the rain sweeping across the floor.
I draw breath.
"It was the wind," I say. The words scrape my throat raw. "It pushed the door open. A stray dog must have come in. I startled it."
"A dog?" Mama repeats.
"Yes." I nod too quickly. "I chased it out."
Wind drives another spray of rain across the threshold. I step forward and pull the door closed, the wood meeting the frame with a dull thud. I drop the bar into place and lean my weight against it for a breath longer than needed.
My heart beats high in my throat.
It was no dog. The weight of him lingers against my back. The scent of rain and moss clings to my skin. I feel the press of his chest, the shape of his hands. He stood behind me. He spoke my name without speaking it. His mouth hovered at my skin. I felt the shape of his teeth.
I let him in.
I do not remember lifting the latch for him. I do not remember inviting him with words. Yet he crossed the threshold. He stood inside our walls.
This was no dream. I called him. In sleep. In longing. In that place beneath my ribs that opened when his mouth hovered at my throat.
The fire cracks steadily behind me. I turn back toward them, forcing my shoulders to ease.
"Go back to bed," I say, gentler now. "The storm woke us all."
Mama murmurs something about storms and wandering animals. Elena climbs back toward the loft slowly, glancing down at me as if I might vanish if she looks away.
The room quiets again, as I stand alone before the hearth.
The storm does not loosen its grip. It thrashes at the roof, claws at the shutters, rattles the walls as if testing their strength.
The dreams.
The bundle burned at my door.
Irina’s blood.
The sheep drained in the fields.
His mouth at my throat.
God tests the faithful. The words rise through me with quiet certainty. Trials come to cleanse. Temptation comes to measure the strength of the soul. The devil prowls where vigilance falters.
I see the shape of it now. It has been unfolding for days, each sign laid down carefully, waiting for me to look. When I pressed my hands to his chest, something answered. Light moved through me. I did not call for it, I did not shape it. It rose on its own and cast him out.
My pulse slows.
If he can cross the threshold, then he can return. He can stand over Elena as she sleeps. He can part Mama’s curtain. He can bend his mouth to any throat in this house.
