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door,
staring at him without so much as a flinch or wink, even though
wind and snow smacked her in the face. Quickly, he locked the
deadbolt on the screen door.
    “You okay? Do you need something?”
    She just stared, piercing through his eyes as
if to get to his soul.
    “I can call someone to help you, but you have
to tell me what you want . . . okay?”
    Her long boney index finger pressed against
the window of the door, and slowly wrote a word: ‘Help.’ She had
written it backwards so it read perfectly from Scott’s viewpoint. Impressive, but definitely unusual.
    “Look, if I let you in, you need to sit by
the door while I call someone. Understand?”
    The woman gave no response.
    Hesitant, but certain he needed to help,
Scott unlocked the door and cautiously opened it.
    “Come on in and get warm.”
    The woman’s feet were under a foot of snow,
she inched forward, but without lifting her feet, as if she were
gliding. The snow gathered in front of her, and then she lifted one
of her feet up and placed it inside the door.
    “Slippery, eh?” Scott said, assuming she slid
on ice that built under the snow.
    The woman was finally in, so he closed the
door, leaving it unlocked—just in case. She stood in the entryway,
dripping until a puddle quickly formed at her feet.
    Sitting by the fire, and watching the woman
from ten feet away, she still stood just inside the door, thawing
out like something from the ice age.
    “Can I get you some hot tea, or cocoa
maybe?”
    The woman was still unresponsive.
    “How about a blanket or towel?”
    She turned and looked at him, her eyes filled
with intensity, as if she harbored hate for the man that brought
her in from the harsh storm and offered her help. It made no sense. This woman is crazy; I never should have let her in.
    “I’m only trying to help. If you like, you
can stay there while I call. Okay?”
    Dialing 911 on his cell phone, Scott felt
immense pressure to get help, and get her out of his home
immediately.
    One call after another, all he could manage
was a busy signal or nothing at all. “I’ll try again in a few
minutes, there’s no service—probably the storm.”
    Again, there was no response.
    “What’s your name? I’m Scott.”
    Her lips didn’t move, but he could hear a
grumble come from within her, almost like an animal growling.
    “Excuse me, I just need to go upstairs and
grab something.”
    Scott walked up the stairs while watching the
unresponsive stranger stand in his doorway—paranoid she would try
something at any moment. His compassion had overwhelmed his common
sense, and he was regretting it. I should have never let her
inside my house!
    After entering his room, Scott quickly went
for the closet where he hid his .45 ACP 1911 handgun. He popped a
fully loaded seven-round magazine in, and pulled the slide back,
placing a round in the chamber so the gun was ready to fire. He
shoved the gun in the rear of his pants, placed his shirt over the
grip to conceal it, and made his way downstairs.
    “OK, I’m back! I just wanted to try the cell
phone upstairs, but it didn’t work there either.”
    She didn’t believe him, he could tell by the
look in her eyes. In fact, she didn’t appear intoxicated, or high,
or even weakened by lack of nutrition or harsh weather; she had a
look of strength and eagerness, which made Scott uncomfortable.
    “Apage humani.” The woman said.
    “Excuse me?”
    The right side of her mouth curled up,
forming a half-smile.
    In a voice not proportionate to her
appearance, the woman quietly mumbled something else. “Audi
Satanas.”
    “I’m not understanding you. Do you speak
English?”
    Again she smiled, and then Scott realized
that he had seen the smile before. The man with the top hat that he
had seen on two other occasions had the same smile. He wondered: why does she share the same taunting grin?
    Feeling uneasy, Scott walked back another
four feet to create more distance between the foreigner and he. Her
long