Carlos Llanos Writing

The Storm

Paw hammered boards over the windows, each strike of the hammer echoing through the quiet house. Outside, the wind had started to moan low through the trees, a warning.

Inside, Brian was trying to focus on his work at the kitchen table, but the noise pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Paw! What’s all that racket?” he called, annoyed. “You’re scaring Rascal!”

Paw didn’t even pause. “Don’t you know nothin’, boy?” he shouted back. “Storms comin’. Now quit standin’ there and make yourself useful—grab that board.”

Brian rolled his eyes and muttered, “Why’s everybody freakin’ out over some rain?”

Paw turned to face him, eyes narrowed. “This ain’t no regular rain, boy. Hold that board right. We gotta finish before dark.”

Before Brian could argue, the dog ran in, skidding across the floor and barking wildly, distracting him. Paw cursed and went back to his work, determined to get everything sealed in time.

Later That Night

The house was quiet, save for the wind scraping against the boards like fingernails.

Brian crouched near a small gap in the wood over the window, peering out. “Paw said not to go out for nothin’,” he whispered to himself, uncertain.

But something outside caught his eye—figures in the distance, being lifted off the ground, pulled straight into the swirling sky. His breath caught in his throat.

He scrambled back from the window, heart pounding, and ran down the hall.

“Paw! Paw!” he shouted.

He found his father asleep in his worn-out chair, a bottle of whiskey loose in his hand. The dog was hiding under the bed, tail tucked, trembling.

Brian hesitated only a second, then turned and opened the front door.

Outside, the storm had centered itself over the house. The wind was silent now, too silent. Above him, hanging in the eye of the storm, was... an eye. Enormous. Watching.

Brian stared up, frozen, transfixed by the impossible sight. The wind whispered around him, but he no longer heard it.

He couldn’t look away.

Brian stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and unblinking. Above him, the storm's center loomed—an immense eye swirling in the sky, watching, alive. Its gaze pierced into him.

A pale, unnatural light shimmered in his eyes.

Without warning, Brian began to rise.

His feet left the porch. The wind didn't howl—there was no sound at all, only a deep, resonant hum, like the world was holding its breath. He floated upward slowly, limbs limp, face blank.

Then--

A sharp bark.

Rascal.

The dog lunged forward, sinking his teeth into Brian’s pant leg. With every ounce of strength in his small body, Rascal pulled. His claws dug into the wooden floorboards, growling and yanking, refusing to let his boy go.

With a final tug, the grip of the eye broke. Brian fell with a thud just inside the threshold. Rascal was on him in an instant, licking his face furiously.

Brian stirred, dazed. “Hey, boy… did you pull me back?” He wrapped his arms around the dog. “You saved me. Good boy…”

But there was no time to celebrate. A low rumble, then a violent shudder.

The floor buckled beneath them. The windows shattered inward.

The roof exploded skyward.

There, hovering above the ruins, the monstrous eye had returned—closer now, angrier. The wind shrieked. The air thickened, crackling with unnatural force.

“Run, boy! RUN!”

Brian and Rascal scrambled through the collapsing house, leaping over beams and falling debris. Walls caved in around them. The very earth beneath the house seemed to tremble in fear. They darted into the bathroom and dove into the tub, the only thing left intact as the house tore itself apart above them.

The Next Morning

A strange stillness blanketed the land, broken only by the distant caw of a crow.

Where a house once stood, there was only ruin—splintered wood, broken furniture, and dust. The storm had passed, but it left scars.

Suddenly, a hand burst from beneath the debris. Paw clawed his way up from under a fallen beam, coughing, eyes wild. He staggered to his feet, bruised and bloodied.

“Brian?! Brian!” he shouted, voice cracked with panic. “Where are you, son?!”

He tore through the rubble, overturning cabinets and doors, calling again and again.

Finally, he heard it—the faint sound of a whine.

He pulled aside a section of the bathroom wall. Underneath a slab of roofing and broken tile, curled up together in the bathtub, were Brian and Rascal—covered in dust, but alive. Asleep.

Paw dropped to his knees, overwhelmed with relief. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed, voice trembling. “You’re safe…”

Brian blinked awake, coughing. “Paw?” he asked weakly. Rascal barked once, tail wagging even through the dust.

Paw pulled them both into his arms. “I thought I lost you…”

Brian looked up at the empty sky. The eye was gone. But he knew in his bones—it had seen him.

And it would never forget.