Chirping of Crickets unfinished

It was an unusual day, muggy and dreary. Fortunately, it was a day off. People were sitting at home, tending to their domestic responsibilities. With the storm on and off all day, people had to stay indoors.

Little Sasha, with her round face, was playing with her toy made by her father. It was a wooden doll, with a head made of straw, and a dress hand-sewn by her mother. Sasha hummed to herself, imagining the doll speaking back, telling her little secrets only she could understand. It was Sasha's birthday. Her mother, a woman of twenty-five, was baking a cake. Her face, already worn with wrinkles, showed the signs of a difficult childhood. She paused, taking a deep breath, thinking about her own lost childhood and hoping that Sasha’s laughter could be a balm for both of them. Sasha's father, a forty-two-year-old man, was tinkering around the garage with his old rarity car from the 30s. He ran his hands over the dusty metal, thinking how fragile life is — tomorrow, maybe everything could shift, maybe for better, maybe worse.

The cake would be ready in a few minutes. Sasha and her parents gathered at the table. Everyone joined hands to say grace, thanking the Lord, and then Sasha's father went to the cubby to bring a small wooden crib for the doll. The birthday girl, who turned five that day, was thrilled! Her big blue eyes sparkled with delight as she laughed. With her curly head, she dashed into the bedroom with the doll's crib. The parents looked at each other and broke into big smiles. "Tomorrow, everything changes," whispered Sasha's father. He felt a strange mix of excitement and dread — a new job in a city far from here, a fresh start, yet leaving behind what was familiar. Her mother touched his arm gently, reading his thoughts, and nodded: “We’ll manage. Somehow we always do.”

Meanwhile, near Sasha's house, a local drunkard lay, attracting the attention of dogs. They were used to him and didn't bite, but only barked at his heavy body, having consumed another portion of ale. A man approached him and drove the dogs away. The drunkard rose and looked at him attentively: 'God forbid, Peter! It's time for me to stop drinking! Leave me alone, evil spirit! You died a couple of years ago.' The man stared at him in silence, his already large eyes bulging. His skin was gray, and his lips were blue and dry. 'What do you want, fiend? You were always my friend, but you died,' cried the drunkard, sobering up instantly. John felt his chest tighten. Memories of Peter, of their youth and failures, surged through him. Was this truly a spirit, or just his mind dragging him back to what he had lost? 'Get out of me. God knows I won't drink anymore. I promise.' The man turned and walked away. 'Hey, where are you going?' the drunkard cried. 'Why are you leaving?' 'Change is coming, John,' the man replied cryptically. John’s hands trembled. Change? Was it salvation or punishment? He wasn’t sure he deserved either.

But John was gone. The drunkard rubbed his eyes and crawled back to his house. Surely, his wife was waiting for him, as always, in a stupor. How long had it been since he'd seen his wife? He entered the house soon after. It was an old shack made from the wreckage of an old carriage. It consisted of only one room, which contained an old sewing machine, a mattress, a blanket, and an oven. The rest he had sold to buy loads of vodka. The room reeked of old smoke and missed opportunities. John sank into a chair, staring at the floor, thinking of all the lives he had failed — his patients, his family, himself. His wife was a gaunt woman of 32, had always tried to cure her husband of alcoholism, but had given up these attempts. At that moment, she was packing her things into a bag before leaving. Her hands shook, not just from fear, but from sorrow. She had loved him once, with a heart that trusted too much, and now she had to leave to protect herself and her unborn child.

'What are you doing?' John cried out.

'I'm tired of you and your empty promises. I'm pregnant, John, and I don't want my baby to grow up with you!'

'A child?' the drunkard cried. 'We never had children, Alice! So it's true, and you've been seeing Alex?'

'Yes, I'm tired of you. I'm leaving you tomorrow!'

'You're not going anywhere, woman!' John screamed and hit her. 'I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!'

'Don't!' cried Alice, covering her bloody mouth. Her mind raced — she had tried to fight for him, for them, for this family, but it was all gone. She remembered the nights she cried alone, the hope that died with each empty promise. But John had already left the house. The door slammed behind him like the closing of a chapter in both their lives.

At the same time, Alex, happy and contented, was sitting with a beautiful woman, drinking whiskey on the porch of his house. Alex was a famous heartbreaker, a handsome man in his forties. His raven-colored hair and deep-set blue eyes attracted all the women in the area. But he, like many men, loved unattainable women. His companion, a twenty-three-year-old woman, stirred the minds of many men but remained unattainable. Alex had been pursuing her for a long time, while also having fun with many other women. And now, the fortress had fallen, and he encouraged her. Tomorrow, he was going to propose to her. He imagined their future together and smiled, oblivious to the darkness approaching, unaware that this night would change everything.

With this brilliant idea in mind, he lit a cigarette and thought about being in the limelight even more. 'Gotcha in marriage,' this thought crossed his mind.

After a while, he extinguished the cigarette butt and saw a nearly translucent figure merging with the darkness. It seemed to be swaying.

'Was it that riffraff approaching?' he thought.

'Hey, fella, how are you doing?' a man mumbled.

'I'm fine! Get the hell out of here,' Alex replied.

Alex recognized his ex's husband. He looked utterly disgusting, his hair seeming greasy even at night, perpetually unkempt. Alex could partially understand his wife. Every creature needs love. This fool was always in mud, filth, and dirty clothes. He did not notice the murderous intent simmering beneath the surface, the years of rage and humiliation that had fermented into this moment.

'I just came by because I thought you should have this,' John said as he pulled out a knife and stabbed Alex. For a fleeting second, John remembered the operating room, the steady hands, the lives in his hands — and then that part of him died forever.

The girl sitting on the porch screamed and ran into the house, slamming the front door shut.

Alex was bleeding profusely, starting to lose consciousness, gripping his wound which had been thoroughly aimed at his spleen. Of course! John had been a well-respected surgeon and, at the same time, a veterinarian in this backwater before he lost his mind. John’s mind raced — triumph, fear, and disbelief intertwined. He had destroyed a man, yet part of him felt the old surgeon’s calm detachment, as if this act were another procedure.

John's smile shone. He had a vague sense of the future, but he knew he had done the right thing. But in the echo of the girl’s scream, in the distant thunder, a pang of guilt struck him like a knife sharper than any he had wielded. When he returned home, he didn't see his wife anywhere. But something bothered him. Every animal outside was making a racket. Dogs were barking, roosters were crowing, birds were screeching. He sobered up and checked outside to ensure there were no wolves or predators. But there was nothing. The world seemed alive with judgment, as if every creature sensed the blood on his hands. He felt small, cornered, and yet strangely exhilarated. He wanted to stop this madness and even tried throwing stones at them, but nothing changed. As for the murder he had committed, he knew he would come up smelling like roses. Yet deep down, every bark and screech reminded him that he had crossed a line from which there was no return.

He hedged his bets, telling them he'd been drowning his sorrows in booze, and everyone would have believed him. Even that girl who ran away, whom he had never seen before. Now all he needed was a tankard. But the house was silent in a way that mocked him, and the storm outside seemed to whisper that the night itself had marked him. He was alone now, facing the consequences that would not wait until tomorrow.
John stumbled through the muddy path, bottle clutched loosely in one hand, the night pressing down on him like a living weight. He was heading toward the old cemetery at the edge of the village, a place whispered about in half-drunk stories and local superstition. The fog rolled low over the gravestones, curling around the cracked marble like ghostly fingers. His legs wobbled; the alcohol in his system and the terror in his mind made him sway unpredictably.

Some dogs from nearby yards barked furiously, sensing the intruder. They charged at him, teeth bared, but something—something in the air, heavy and unnatural—made them retreat with long, frightened howls. John froze, trembling, eyes wide. The wind shifted and whispered through the bare trees, carrying a metallic scent he could not name. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched, a sound that seemed almost mournful.

Meanwhile, back on the village streets, other villagers tried to make sense of the night. A farmer hurried to secure his animals, his lantern casting a jittering glow across the yard. A mother pulled her children inside, doors slamming shut, while her husband stood staring at the horizon, squinting at the unnatural movement of crows gathering in the fields. In one window, a couple argued quietly, unaware of the larger horror approaching, their voices swallowed by the rising wind.

Alex lay on the porch, bleeding slowly, consciousness ebbing with each heartbeat. Memories flashed across his mind: surgeries performed, lives saved and lost, moments of tenderness and cruelty, victories and failures. And yet, despite the life he had lived, his last coherent thought was one of dread: the horror approaching this village was far greater than any knife or human wrath. He would not face it; he could not. His hands fell limp, his chest stilling as the first drops of rain began to fall.

In her bedroom, little Sasha clutched the wooden doll to her chest. The straw head shivered in her arms, as though it felt the impending danger before she did. Her small eyes, wide and blue, reflected the flickering lightning outside. She did not cry. She only held on tighter, sensing the storm of something unseen approaching, feeling a weight that pressed even against the walls of her warm, safe home.

The village itself seemed to hold its breath. Trees bent unnaturally, leaves rustling with sharp whispers. Cats hissed from roofs, shadows seemed to move on their own, and the air smelled of rain, iron, and something else—something rotting and ancient. A few villagers ventured outside, daring to peek at the night sky, only to hurry back, shivering. The wind tugged at clothing, hair, and even resolve, as if warning all who remained awake: nothing would survive unchanged.

And somewhere, on the road to the cemetery, John vanished into the fog, the night swallowing him entirely, leaving only the echo of a stumble and a distant, terrified howl.
…
A doll in Sasha's room started shaking in its crib. Sasha got scared and started sobbing.
Her parents stepped upon her asking if she was okay. She, weeping more, was crying over that something was wrong with her dear dolly. Her mama silently approached, embraced her telling that it was okay having earthquakes here every time. A girl calmed down.
Her parents, Liana and Liam left her, smoothly closed the door. They didn't actually realize what was going on. They didn't see any earthquake here, this was quite place for living. Liam stepped up to the window and looked out it: a lot of crows were sitting on the ground, which was quite unusual, since they were always sitting in tall trees and cawing. Also, their tiny cat and her  feline world, who usually always sat near the porch and looked for birds, had disappeared. Liam opened the window, put saliva on his finger and raised it wanting to know the direction of the wind and he felt the chill on the side of his finger where it was blowing. It was north wind but a slight gust of it.
They relaxed and went into their sleeping area. It was time to take a rest around lunchtime.
 
 In another part of the village, John sat hunched on a crooked bench outside his shack, his back curved like a wilted branch. The bottle in his hand was empty, but he still held it as if it gave him purpose. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there—minutes, hours—but something in the air sobered him more effectively than any slap ever could. The wind, so thin and sharp, whispered in a way that made him look up. His bloodshot eyes scanned the horizon. There was nothing, and yet his skin crawled.
 “Something’s comin’,” he muttered. “God have mercy.” He stood slowly, unsteady, and stumbled inside, only to find the place emptier than before. Somewhere further down the road, Alice, clutching her bag and running for the main highway, felt the pressure drop. She didn't hear the roar—only a sudden, sharp blast in her ears—before a dense, churning bank of fog, smelling acridly of iron and rot, rolled in from the field. It didn't just obscure her; it swallowed her whole, instantly and silently. When the fog cleared a moment later, the road was empty, the only trace of her flight being a single, muddy footprint and the sound of the wind, now carrying her desperate, unheard shriek. She was gone. Alice was gone. No note. Just silence. Meanwhile, back at the house, little Sasha clutched her doll as if it could shield her from whatever she felt creeping closer. She didn’t cry this time—only held it tighter, her small chest rising and falling quickly, like a bird sensing a predator. The room was dim, the shadows long and stretching, and then, from somewhere far above, a low groan rolled across the sky. It was as if the heavens themselves had bent under some unseen weight. Liana froze in the hallway, Liam already at the window. “Now it begins,” he whispered.
The dreary day turned into a wet, unwelcome night, the rain unrelenting.
The bitter wind had died down to a mere whisper of a breeze. Not even the crickets were calling. It was as if night was holding its breath, waiting. Suddenly a roaring fury dropped out of the sky. The sound was defeating, as if a giant freight train was bearing down on the city. Then it exploded, as powerful-and deadly-as a bomb.
Terrified people ran out of their homes-some dressed in nightclothes, some even less. Running as if their lives depended on it(because it did), people raced toward the safety of storm cellars. They were wailing bitterly, not realizing what had happened.  Those who dared to look saw a black funnel cloud, which  slithering like a snake, chasing after them across the fields. All over it were scattered things: slippers, cotton vests, jeans and a whisky bottle…
Most of them made it to safety, but some of others didn't. One entire family of 3 were killed trying to ride the storm out in their home. Not far from the mutilated bodies lay a wooden doll.
In all, more than 200 homes were destroyed, 216 people were killed and 700 others were injured. Local Accident and Emergency Department didn't even have enough place to put to hospital. People who didn't need to be hospitalized, felt giddy and vomit and fell off. Something strange happened in this area. The remains of one man were scattered all over the field. One woman was found under the rubble of her own house. She was dead and had a happy and serene smile on her face, her eyes fixed on the brown, turbulent sky, as if in her final moment, she had seen the answer to the horror, and it was a welcome release.
There was a very nasty odor of rot, that people had to pinch their nose.
The storm cell continued straight away, after hospitalization. The clouds were colored in a brown colour, horrifying on superstitious people.
The nature exposed the dark sides of earth s life, was in advance of its time. It was the spookiest storm which people had ever seen. It was furious, swept all on its way. People bursted out crying, trying to run from that terror away. Some of them broke down and gave up. The parts of people overspread area.  The streets ran with blood. It was a blood Storm of the Century, seemed to be colourful burly, which appeared so suddenly as well as disappeared, not leaving stone unturned. And then, as abruptly as it began, everything vanished. The clouds, now a sickly, pale grey, drifted silently away. It had come, it had taken, and it had exposed the dark, ancient side of the earth's life. It was over. But the true change had begun: the village was now a graveyard, its survivors marked by a spooky terror that was not about the wind and the rain, but about the smell of rot and the knowledge that something older than humanity had paid them a terrible, furious visit. The storm had passed, leaving behind a silence that was even more terrifying than its roar, a silence that waited for tomorrow—a tomorrow that would never be the same. The next morning, under a sky that seemed too innocent to have witnessed such carnage, the authorities began to sort through the debris. Among the scattered remains of human life—a child’s shoe here, a torn photograph there—they found the crumpled body of Alex, his murder now indistinguishable from the storm's wrath. But there was no trace of John. He had vanished, not a piece of clothing nor a single drop of blood belonging to the drunkard was ever found in the wreck or on the muddy road to the cemetery. Only on the porch of Alex's destroyed house, embedded deep into a splintered wooden beam, they found a single, antique surgeon’s scalpel, unnaturally clean. It was the only item in the entire village that the storm had chosen not to destroy, leaving a silent, chilling testament to the human violence that had preceded the cosmic horror. And the survivors, huddled in fear, knew the change had not been the city, but the night itself. The air was heavy with the smell of rot, but through the devastation, the chirping of crickets was the loudest, most persistent sound, mocking the silence with its indifferent, tiny rhythm.