 I caught my fiancé looking under the bed for monsters. I'd never seen her do this before. Usually we climb into bed the same old way we always have, throw off the big pillows, and get in. But this time, I suppose she thought I was still in the bathroom, but I was behind her and I saw her look under the bed for monsters. It was the type of look my parents did when I requested, scared and clutching the blanket to my chin. She wasn't looking for anything. She didn't get down on her knees and start searching. There's nothing even down there. It's about half a feet off the ground. She pulled back one flap of the comforter, leaned down and looked, confirmed something, and then crawled into bed. When she saw me behind her, she blushed a deep red. Did you just? I don't know why I did that. I'm sorry. Don't apologize. It was cute. I feel stupid. So was there anything down there? No. Come on, just get in. Wait, is there a killer loose or are you looking for monsters? Shut up, she said. Three weeks ago, there was a severe storm and our whole town had a blackout for about a week. It was hell. Katie and I ate cans of food. We cooked with a makeshift fireplace. After a while, we just swallowed our pride and lived at our neighbors, the bombings, who, for some reason, had electricity. The worst of it, thankfully, was that our window in the attic blew open. The water damage wasn't too bad, but glass and debris blew in and made cleaning up shit. It was a bit after that she started complaining about hearing skittering in the walls in the attic, under the floors. I said it was possible that the hurricane scared some vermin into our house for shelter. But every time I called it a rat or a mouse, she just got quiet and shook her head. The second time I caught her looking under the bed, I didn't say anything. But the third time, well, the third time I brought it up. So I feel like there's something you're looking for. Did you see something? No. No. I just, I don't want to talk about it. I sure would like to. Do we have bed bugs or something? Have you been getting bit? You don't hear that scratching at night? No, I don't. Is it in the floors? I think it's under our bed. Scratching up. Scratching at us. I've never heard that. Alright, then maybe I'm just hearing things. She crawled into bed and got under the covers. I crawled in and kissed her. I listened for scratching but didn't hear anything. The thing is, I watch a lot of horror movies. In fact, it's my job to work on and in horror movies. I work in the special effects department and I'm surrounded by prosthetics and clays and synthetics. I read horror scripts and stories every week. I never take things home. I didn't show Katie because I know she doesn't like it. But here's the idea. In horror movies, the husband never believes the wife. It's called the Cassandra Paradox. Way back when in the Greek times, this girl Cassandra was cursed and when the Trojans were invading or something like that, nobody believed her. It's a classic plot device and horror stories and I made a promise to myself that I'd always believe Katie if she got scared about something. But the thing is... I don't hear anything. I woke up to brightness, a flashlight on my face. Katie was standing across the room. Do you hear that? I listen. Is it raining? The storm's coming back, she replied. The storm coming around the first time was, in fact, an odd occurrence. We live in a small little pocket outside of New York City and I commute by train to my effects warehouse. It's deep November now and these tropical storms from the Atlantic are making less and less sense, particularly since they're isolated just over our town and a couple miles beyond. It won't be as bad. It sounds light. The scratching gets worse when it rains, Katie says. She shines the light towards the bedroom window and for a moment my heart turns to ice. A face stares back at me through the streaked glass, but then I realize it's my own reflection. Just help me look around the house, okay? I think of Cassandra. Nobody believed her when the men with swords and shit came across the water to murder and lay waste. Nobody believed her. Yeah, of course, I said. There's a strange feeling of forced déjà vu when you examine your own house with a flashlight. If we turn on the lights, they'll scatter, Katie says. And so we don't. Instead, we look at every corner and crease and floorboard with the flashlight we got from this hardware store. You notice different things. I didn't know there was an outlet there or that the banister over here was warped. Look at those splotches on the ceiling. Wow, how long have those been there, et cetera, et cetera. I don't want her to be Cassandra, but I also don't want this to happen every night. I broach a subject. You know, babe, if you don't feel comfortable staying here, you can probably stay at the bombings tonight or until we get this figured out. I'm not staying at our neighbor's place. I'd look crazy. She says, wearing the $5 flip flops, a senior frogs t-shirt and a flashlight. God, I love her. The bombings love us. They have a giant house and they love company. I said, I'm just not going to bed. I'm not tired anymore. You go to sleep. I'll just hang here and watch Netflix. She replied, you're just going to watch TV on the couch all night. Come on, Katie, you're going to be a wreck tomorrow. It's fine, seriously. I don't want her to be Cassandra. And I think screw it. I won't get a good sleep knowing she's out here anyway. All right, I say, I'll stay with you. So we turn on Netflix and she wraps herself up in a blanket. I open a beer and sit down and throw my legs up on the coffee table and I'm asleep in about two seconds. When I wake up, she's gone and it's raining a hell of a lot more. Netflix isn't asking if I'm still watching. And then I spot that the cable box is blank. The power's out and the house is dark, beyond dark, and I can hear the rain pound loudly against the walls and the roof. Strong winds come and it almost sounds like the house is trying to whistle. There's a draft somewhere, a window's open. I feel for the flashlight on the coffee table, but it's not there, Katie. I call out nothing. I get up and feel my way back through the house. My eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness and the black walls are now lightening to a deep gray shapes start to come out of the woodwork. Whatever light the moon is casting is all I got to go on as I shuffle slowly through the house, feeling the cold walls and cold hardwood floor. When I get to my bedroom, things go from bad to worse. From the lights of the window, I can see in a dull blueish gray that the bed is on its side. Moreover, it's on its side and the floor beneath the bed is gone or rather cracked. The stone foundation and pipes are laid bare, twisted shadows of metal and masonry. The wood is splintered upwards. Something broke in and damn near threw the bed out the wall. Katie, I say louder. The rain clatters hard against the window. Across the lawn, I can see at a cockeyed angle the bombons. They have electricity. Katie, I call again and flinch at my voice. I didn't want to sound panicked, but I did. And I am. My voice betrayed me and hearing it made me worse. Then another draft of wind comes and the house gives a raspy noise. I feel for my phone against the wall and I take it off the charger. The power went out and because of that my phone is at a measly 4%. I put on the flashlight and start moving through the house. The bathroom is clear. The living room is clear. The storage room and garage is clear. And then I feel the wind, the cold, wet wind. It's coming from the attic, the stupid window. We never fixed it. Instead, I being a total bum, just taped it up with a layer of black garbage bags. I reach up and pull down the damn strap and the wooden ladder comes creaking down. And I notice something that doesn't make me feel very good. From the steps of the ladder is a black sludge, a dripping sludge that catches the light of the flashlight and has a shine more like oil than mud. I climb up the ladder and now I'm in the attic. And I see something else. The black garbage bags, my sorry idea for a fix, are blown off flapping in like a pirate's flag, like it's trying to escape the wind and the rain. And on the ground is a cheap flashlight from the hardware store. It's flickering out. It's one bright light, now a dying orange. I run to the window, Katie, I call. I practically lean my whole top half out of that small, stupid window. The rain pelts my face, soaking my hair and t-shirt. I scream her name again, but the rain quickly stomps it out and the wind buries it alive. It's been two months now since the storm came and took Katie. I'm now at Dave Bauman's house. His wife said a girl's night and so we're tying one on. I'm drinking bourbon neat and he is too. It doesn't get any easier. He said, I just need to know. I say, I look into my drink, it's brown and I can see myself just barely. When it came and took our children, I thought I was going to die. Just die right then and there. How'd you get better? I ask, I didn't. Dave says he takes a large sip from his drink and exhales. Father Rodriguez said it was critical and it happened to everyone. We all have to give up someone to the storm, he says. And I'm here, blubbering like an idiot and begging the son of a bitch for answers. I ask him why both? Why both? And he looks at me and asks, which son did you want to keep? And that pretty much shut me up. I don't know if it was fair or not, but it's shut me up. I believed her too, I say. I really believed her and, like, I feel the tears sting my eyes. My jaw tenses up, I take another drink of the bourbon and as soon as I set it down Dave fills it back up. Do you know about Cassandra? I ask Dave and he practically keels over laughing. I mean he really has a fit with it and I get the urge to knock his ass out. Once he stops, he takes another drink. Man, he starts. We always believed. As soon as Tanner, that's the youngest one, started coming to us about hearing scratching. My wife and I were like soldiers on patrol. We did everything we could to stop it. And honestly, I think that made it worse.