coldly through the crevices in the rickety foundation of the old house, the frost on the window panes hampering my attempts to peer out into the snow. Both the fireplace and the central furnace were roaring full blast, trying to keep pace with the blizzard that swept suddenly through the sleepy little Midwestern town.
There would be no work today, only bundling up by the fire, sipping coco, and trying to read with candle light the yellow tinged relic of a book that the original owner had kept in his library nearly 2 centuries ago. The floor joists creaked and the foundation tweaked, and the house never let its character be forgotten for long. Suddenly, the wind increased and the snow outside the frosty window became a white, opaque sheet that was impenetrable by sight.
And then, I heard a knock outside followed by a moaning cry that beckoned help. I jolted upright and shakenly wondered who would be calling at my little house at the end of a long dead end lane in the middle of a snow storm. As I rushed to the front door, I heard the porch floor boards squeak and the screen door crunch as it was pulled through its arthritic hinges, and a solid knock on the front door implored me to hurry. With horror I opened the front door and. . .