They preferred the angry gnash of the storm over the silence.

Like nervous teeth, the panes chattered. The rafters creaked; dust floated down upon their heads.

The man—the man who had been taken in—spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. If it wasn’t for your family, I’d still be out there. Or worse.”

No one answered. No one argued his point, either. Finally, the father spoke. “The shed is about twenty yards back. It’s unlocked.”

The man massaged his crooked chin. “Door swing in or out?”

The father believed it was a good question to ask; this man was sharp. Pride swelled within him. It had been harrowing, but his family had done good, risking their wellbeing to drag the man in from the outside. But a pit burned the father’s stomach. The man had gotten lucky once. Luck would not prevail a second time. “In.”

“Long as the wind didn’t bang it open, I’m good.”

The father pressed his hand against the pane, its surface cooling his fever within. He could see nothing beyond the glass, however. “The generator is in the back, set on blocks. It should be deep enough into the shed to be protected. When you stand in front of it, look down to your right. The gas can will be there.”

“Only one?”

The father felt his family press behind him. Mother’s face stooped lower than the boughs of the snow-laden trees. What remained of them, anyway. She clutched their children—son and daughter—under breasts that hadn’t been touched in years. “Yes.”

“Mm-hmm.” The man knew what that meant. The generator would power the house for another full day, at most. “I won’t allow your family to grow cold. I’ll fill it. When it runs out, we’ll figure out what’s next. Together.”

The man shrugged into his coat, careful not to worsen the tear along the shoulder seam. He tugged his wool hat until it hung low over his brow. He looked at the children, the souls-sucked-dry children. “Together,” the man repeated, not sure for whose benefit he’d said it, and cradled his rifle in his arm.

He reached for the door, but the father seized his hand. “Keep low. Don’t stop.”

The man grunted and was ready. The father twisted the knob. The wind shoved the door aside, and immediately the shrieking swallowed the man as well the snow, the blinding snow. The father threw his back into the door, snaring the blizzard’s icy tendrils in the jam. The storm howled; the panes rattled like tormented bones. “He’ll make it,” the father said, talking to the walls. “He’ll make it.”

The father watched as the man sunk thigh deep into the drift, watched and lost him to the white. The blizzard erased his footprints in one exhale. Then he waited. The minutes passed. “We needed him,” he said to the mother. “It could’ve been me instead.”

“It should have been you instead.”

He exhaled icy smoke, then chewed the inside of his mouth. He slowly turned around, keeping vigil at the pane. Snowflakes clung, mounting and growing ever deeper, white locusts of a great plague. Minutes. Minutes. Minutes passed.

“Gas can’s emptied by now.” The father visualized the man’s progress, the man’s steps. “Priming it…cranking it over…he knows what he’s doing…he knows…”

The children sniffled on the hardened snot clotting their noses. And their mother hugged them close to a heart that had long grown cold.

The father clutched the knob. Waiting. It vibrated in his hand. “Any minute.”

A gust charged the house, a mighty bull outside the walls. The rafters groaned; dust danced upon their heads; small, ghostly marionettes. “Any time now…”

He heard a distant crack. Another trunk snapping. Another tree succumbing to the storm. He thought of his neighbors, the elderly neighbors, for whom he’d once mowed their lawns. “Any…time…now…”

A spirit beckoned from the nether; the man emerged, white, spectral white, coat and hat and legs white, face and brow crusted in wind-driven snow. The rifle slung like a long ice shard over his shoulder. “I told you,” the father said, voice rising like the wind, “I told you!”

The man, mere feet from the door, polluted the drift with a crimson spray. The father jerked from the window as if struck. But his eyes stuck to the pane.

They swirled round the man, the needle teeth, the razor claws, unnatural piranhas of winter’s blight, tearing and cutting as the gale disguised their intentions. The wind kept the man upright, and the drift kept him mired. And they swirled, swirled till the man was no more.

The crimson spray disappeared, the drift a new blank canvas from which to paint. The man’s entrails clung briefly to the pane before slipping away.

He shuddered, the father did, but he would not cry. He covered his mouth. “We lost a good man.”

Then a loud click in the father’s ear. “We lost a good man,” the mother said, “and now we have none.”

The father felt the cold metal against the back of his head. It pushed forward, forcing him toward the door. “We have power now. When it runs out, we’ll figure out what’s next. Together,” the mother said to her children.

“You won’t survive without me.”

“Maybe not. But I sure as hell won’t die with you.”

The rifle burrowed into the base of his skull. He clutched the knob. He would freeze to death without a coat, without the proper clothes. He prayed that would be the best thing to come.

The father stumbled into the maw of the blizzard. It chewed him alive.

“There, there, my babies,” the mother cooed to her children, watching as their father filled the pane. “There, there.”

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2016 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.



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About Joseph Pinto

Author of the poetry collection 'A Distilled Spirit' (2018), the novella 'Dusk and Summer' (2014), the horror novel 'Flowers for Evelene' (2005) as well numerous published works of dark fiction. Member of the Horror Writers Association. Rumored lycanthrope. New Orleans Saints fan. Pancreatic cancer advocate. Twitter: @JosephAPinto Share his unique spin at josephpinto.com

23 responses to “White”

  1. Angel with dirty wings says :

    Bravo that man! Well written as always , great story and loved the ending! (Thinks to herself I should of done that to my ex husband 😉) frenchie gave it 5* and the girls will reader it when they get home from work ! (Sure jazzy bear will love it) awdw and the Frenchman. Ps if anyone can explain how a man with a black eye is still looking amazballs ang highly f…… Well answers on a postcard !


  2. Joseph Pinto says :

    lol Thank you, Dirtied Winged Angel! And thank you Frenchie! Jazzy Bear better love it or else (just kidding, of course) 😉
    *scratches bald head* I”m not sure which man with a black eye you’re talking about, but get him to read WHITE and everything else on Pen of the Damned anyway 😉 lol


  3. deidremeyrick says :

    Gives new meaning to the turn of phrase, “the biting cold”. Seems the winter gods weren’t appeased by the hubs attempt at self-salvation. Well done, Joe!


  4. moondustwriter says :

    goodness Pinto that’s a chiller. Love the splashes of color – just enough.


  5. Joseph Pinto says :

    Good to see you Moonie!! 😉 So happy you enjoyed my little creature feature. Thank you for taking the time to read it 🙂


  6. zkullis says :

    Damned fine stuff Joseph! I felt the bite of the storm as I read, it was as cold as it was brutal. Nicely done!


  7. adeleulnais says :

    Excellent story. Atmospheric and leaves the reader to make up their own mind as to what is out there and when it arrived.


    • Joseph Pinto says :

      Much appreciated, Adele! Absolutely…if you’ve read some of my past stories here on Pen of the Damned, I often drop the reader into ‘a world’ without any sort of explanation. It’s a good way of picking out the brave souls out there… 😉 Thank you for supporting all us ‘Damned’ writers! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  8. Nina D'Arcangela says :

    Great piece, Joe, very well written – nice level of suspense! What the husband did to earn his exile (other than neglect his wife in a ‘husbandly manner’), I not quite sure, but apparently he received his comeuppance! Loved the tale as always, weaver!! 🙂


  9. Magenta Nero says :

    I really enjoyed this Joseph, you always do a great job with characterisation and build nail biting tension! well done!


  10. jonolsonauthor says :

    Hats off to you sir! I really enjoyed the bleak world you set up only to have it painted with some crimson! Loved it! Great job, brother!


  11. jonolsonauthor says :

    Reblogged this on and commented:
    WHITE by Pen of the Damned’s Joseph Pinto


  12. Thomas Brown says :

    Magnificent, Joe. From the opening line, I was enthralled. Every word and each sentence read with purpose and atmosphere. A pleasure to read on a Sunday evening.


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