The storm had turned Widows Bay into a blur of rain and darkness. Beneath the town hall, the shelter was packed shoulder to shoulder: families clutching blankets, neighbors checking their phones, and children trying to sleep through the thunder.
Then the old loudspeaker crackled to life.
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A voice, thin with static, spoke from somewhere above them.
“Everyone may come upstairs now.”
Conversation stopped. The storm sirens were still wailing outside. Rain hammered the town hall’s high windows, and water trickled down the bunker stairs.
The shelter manager stared at the speaker. “That system isn’t connected,” she said. “It hasn’t worked in years.”
A moment passed. Then the voice returned—closer this time, though no one could tell how.
“Please,” it said. “I’m the last one down here.”
At the far end of the bunker, a metal door shuddered in its frame.
No one moved. Above them, the storm raged on. Below them, something knocked once from the other side of the door.
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