Page 13 of The Intruder

I take a step back, covering my mouth with my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood. I can’t take my eyes off her.

It’s all over the front of her sweatshirt. It’s on her blue jeans. It’s on her hands. Yet she doesn’t seem to be injured. I don’t see any visible wounds at least, and she doesn’t look like she’s in pain.

“Are…are you okay?” I ask.

The girl shoots me a withering look. Despite her size, she is definitely not an elementary school kid. That look was very teenaged. She is scrawny, but she’s at least middle school–aged.

“Bloody nose,” she finally says in a voice I can barely make out over the sound of the wind.

As a former teacher, I have seen my fair share of bloody noses. Yes, there can be quite a lot of blood. It can get on your shirt, your pants, and even your hands. It can make a huge mess.

But I don’t think I have ever seen a nosebleed where somebody didn’t have any blood at all on their face.

The girl picks up the backpack at her feet and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to lead the way to my house.

I have, after all, invited her to stay with me.

And it doesn’t feel right to leave her out in the cold just because she is covered in blood that I am increasingly certain is not her own.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

The wind feels even stronger than it did during my journey out to the shed.

Worse, it’s coming from the opposite direction, so it feels like a giant hand is pushing against me, trying to keep me from making it back to the cabin.

I can’t help but think it’s a bad sign. I glance back at the girl, who is hugging herself tightly as she follows me across the yard in a wholly inadequate coat.

She is so scrawny, it looks like one giant gust could blow her away.

As we get closer to the cabin, I notice that tree is leaning even farther to one side. I can almost hear its roots groaning from the tension. It occurs to me that if the tree falls over, there’s a decent chance it might fall on the roof. And if that happens, it could kill us both.

I take quick stock of the situation: there is a violent storm raging outside, a tree is about to fall on my house, and I’ve invited a bloody girl with a switchblade to spend the night. All I need is to contract a flesh-eating virus, and my night will be complete.

I wrench open the door to the cabin and step back to let the girl enter before I do. She hesitates for a split second, then she scurries inside. And as I close the door behind us, I can’t push away the feeling that I have made a grave mistake by inviting her in.