When a grouchy old man slams the door on a persistent teen, he thinks he’s rid of her for good. But when a hurricane traps them together, the storm outside reveals the truth about her shocking connection to his past.
Frank had lived alone for many years. The quiet suited him, and he’d long accepted the absence of friends or family in his life.
So, when he heard a knock at the door one Saturday morning, he was startled but more annoyed than curious.
With a heavy groan, he pushed himself out of his recliner. When he opened the door, he saw a teenage girl standing on the porch, no older than sixteen.
Before she could speak, Frank snapped, “I don’t want to buy anything, I don’t want to join any church, I don’t support homeless kids or kittens, and I’m not interested in environmental issues.” Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door shut.
He turned to leave but froze when the doorbell rang again. With a sigh, he shuffled back to his chair, grabbed the remote, and turned up the TV volume.
The weather report showed a hurricane warning for the city.
Frank glanced at it briefly, then shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” he mumbled. His basement was built to withstand anything.
The doorbell didn’t stop. It kept ringing, over and over.
Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Each ring grated on Frank’s nerves. Finally, he stomped back to the door, muttering to himself.
He flung it open with a scowl.
“What?! What do you want?!” he barked, his voice echoing down the quiet street.
The girl stood there, calm, her eyes fixed on him. “You’re Frank, right?
I need to talk to you,” she said.
Frank narrowed his eyes. “Let’s say I am. Who are you, and why are you on my porch?
Where are your parents?”
“My name is Zoe. My mom died recently. I don’t have any parents now,” she said, her voice steady.
“I couldn’t care less,” Frank snapped.
He grabbed the edge of the door and started to push it closed.
Before it could shut, Zoe pressed her hand against it. “Aren’t you curious why I’m here?” she asked, her tone unwavering.
“The only thing I’m curious about,” Frank growled, “is how long it’ll take you to leave my property and never come back!” He shoved her hand off the door and slammed it so hard the frame rattled.
The doorbell stopped. Frank peered through the curtains, checking the yard.
It was empty.
With a deep sigh, he turned away, feeling victorious. Little did he know, this was only the beginning of his nightmare.
The next morning, Frank woke up, grumbling as he dragged himself to the front door to grab his newspaper.
His jaw dropped when he saw the state of his house. Smashed eggs dripped down the walls, their sticky residue glinting in the sunlight.
Large, crude words were scrawled across the paint in messy black letters, making his blood boil.
“What in the world?!” he shouted, looking around the street, but it was empty.
Grinding his teeth, he stormed back inside, grabbed his cleaning supplies, and spent the entire day scrubbing.
His hands ached, his back throbbed, and he swore under his breath with every stroke.
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