A sudden crack of thunder jolted her awake, the sound being felt as much as heard.

  From the couch, Hannah lifted herself. She heard the sound of the rain battering the window. A quick check of her phone showed that she'd forgotten to recharge it again. Reaching for the cord of the lamp next to her, she gave it a tug. Nothing. After a few more frustrated tries with no success, she groaned and sat up fully. Stumbling around in the dark, she tried the light switch, but it gave her the same result.

  Oh, goddammit, just what she needed.

  Slowly making her way across the rustic living room and down the hall, she noticed the open door to her uncle’s study, illuminated with a faint, orange, flickering light. Well, at least her uncle is up.

  “Hey, Uncle A, the power’s out.”

  She turned into the room to see a blond, bearded man with a bit of grey hair sitting at his desk, looking over an old book by candlelight. At first, it seemed like he hadn’t noticed her until he finally spoke.

  “I’m aware, Hannah. It’s been out for hours now.”

  He turned the page as another flash lit up the window, followed shortly by another roar from Mother Nature. He didn’t look up from the text he was studying. If it was anything like what he normally read, it was most definitely an antique book of old folktales and obscure myths. Her uncle, Anthony Beckett, had always been strange and reclusive for as long as she’d known him. When she was little, he had a job as a history professor at the local university. That said, he was always more into legends, stories, and myths. To him, the possibility of what could've, even if fantastical, was always more fascinating than what is.

  She’d lost count of the volumes of forgotten gods and old cultures that cluttered his study, acquired one after another during many travels all over the world—their spines faded with age. Not to mention all of his trinkets depicting all kinds of places and histories: Greek, Egyptian, Indian, and Chinese. However, by far, most of his possessions were of Norse and Scandinavian culture. They both had Norwegian heritage, although that meant little to her.

  Most were interesting, but the wooden crows on top of the shelves always creeped her out. The beady glass eyes always appeared to be watching her. The runes carved along the doorways were kind of cool, giving a Viking feeling to the place, despite Uncle A not having a violent bone in his body.

  In the center of the biggest shelf was a large, leather-bound copy of the Prose Edda, propped up on a lectern front and center, as if the book were the crowning jewel of his collection. Black, aged bindings with a golden trim—it even had a stylized lock on it. It looked priceless.

  “Wait, what time is it? How long was I asleep?” If it was this dark outside, so much for her Sunday.

  He kept reading as he answered. “Oh, it’s only a quarter after eight. I found you passed out on the couch around six.” Finally, he turned to her, the candlelight reflected in his blue eyes. “You looked like you could use some rest. Was your homework really that boring?”

  He chuckled as he got up and returned the book to one of the tall shelves, which were crammed to the brim with oddities and similar-looking volumes. She really should remind her uncle to dust more often.

  “Why, yes,” she said dryly. “Yes, it was.”

  If her tone were any drier, she swore she could almost taste sand.

  Or maybe she was just dehydrated.

  “Thankfully, it's over with. All I got to do now is turn it in.”

  Math was never her strong suit, and she just knew Mrs. Halsey hated her. Of course, that miserable hag hated everyone, but Hannah was sure she hated her most of all, for reasons she knew existed even if she still couldn’t figure out. She looked up at the lightbulb dangling above.

  “Hey, any idea when the power’s coming back on?” Please let it be soon. Reading books by candlelight might have been a great pastime for her uncle, but it was the last thing she wanted to spend her evening doing. It wasn't the eighteen hundreds anymore, old man.

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  Anthony’s gaze roamed the shelves, combing through the tomes as a flash of lightning lit up the window. He looked out until the thunder followed seconds later.

  “Hmm, two miles,” he muttered, then went back to his search.

  She frowned. “Excuse me, what? What’s two miles?”

  “The lightning,” he answered, as if that were perfectly normal.

  How the hell could he tell how far away lightning was? Another of her uncle’s quirks, apparently. He continued his explanation without looking away from the shelves, dragging his finger along the volumes as he searched.

  “It’s something I learned in Europe. It’s all about the speed of sound, really.“

  Great. Sounds like more math. No thank you.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “the power will come back on when it comes on. I’m sure people are working on it right now.”

  She highly doubted that at this time, but before she could respond, he finally found what he was looking for—a rough book with a deep red leather cover binding its old, stained pages.

  “It’s times like these where patience is a useful skill,” he said, glancing at her before opening the book and skimming the first few pages. “Maybe you should practice it from time to time.”

  As he found a section worth focusing on, he turned toward his chair, ignoring the look of annoyance on her face.

  Figures. She should’ve expected that kind of response from him. Now the real question was what the hell she was going to do. She had no phone, no computer—at least their stove was gas-powered; she could still make use of that.

  Letting out a sigh, she looked at her uncle, still immersed in his book. “Hey, Uncle A, I’m gonna make some tea. Do you want any?”

  He glanced back at her for a moment before returning to his reading. “Sure, kiddo, thank you. I think there’s still Earl Grey in the cupboard.” He set the book down on the desk, closer to the candle. “Oh, by the way, there’s a flashlight by the door.” He glanced at her before flipping a page, his finger running along the text as though searching for something.

  Well, if he was just going to sit doing old-man things like reading dusty books, more power to him.

  Making her way down the hallway, flashlight in hand, it didn’t take long to find and get the kettle going. As she stood waiting for the water to come up to temperature, the house groaned with the wind of the storm assaulting its frame. Up on top of the cupboards, those unnerving ravens looked like they were staring at her, the beam of the flashlight gleaming off their creepy eyes. Even after living here for years, this place always put her on edge at night.

  Just as the kettle started to boil, the light flickered, and she heard a faint hum of static, the telltale sounds of electricity. Wait a minute.

  Could they really be working on the power lines at this time of night?

  The bulb above her flickered to life, and the entire kitchen came into view. In an instant, that uneasy feeling melted away.

  “Hey, Uncle A! It’s back on!”

  With the kitchen finally lit up, it felt less like the set of a budget horror film and more like a cozy cottage mixed with a regular house. Looking for the Earl Grey, she couldn’t help but notice a faint scent, something you wouldn't normally smell in your home. It wasn’t in the kitchen. The stove looked perfectly fine, yet she could just get a hint of... burnt metal?

  “Uncle A, is everything all right?” she called out, walking down the hall.

  Her uncle almost stumbled out of his study, nearly slamming the door behind him. His fingers visibly twitching—not unusual for him. He always swore up and down that he was perfectly healthy, but sometimes she worried if he was developing Parkinson's disease. Shame the stubborn dolt wouldn't get himself checked out.

  “Hey, kiddo, just forgot to take my pills. Need to keep up with that. Did you find the tea?” He walked past her before she could answer.

  She could still smell what she could only describe as scorched iron lingering in the air. Even after years of living with her uncle, he was as weird as ever. And no matter how much she got to know him, she always had the nagging feeling that something was always off about him. His aloof attitude in the face of absurdity didn't help to alleviate any of that.

  However, as time went on, she was determined to figure out what it was about her bizarre guardian. Following him back down the hall, she watched from the entryway as he poured himself a mug of tea and grabbed a prescription bottle from one of the cupboards. As he popped one in his mouth, she crossed her arms and felt the need to ask.

  “Do you smell that?” He was sipping his steaming cup. “That burning smell, like metal?”

  She hoped it wasn’t anything bad. This house seemed old, so a fire seemed like it was just begging to happen eventually.

  He paused mid-sip, looking at her for a second, seemingly in thought, before speaking.

  “Oh, that might be the wires in the walls. The storm must have caused a surge. I’ll check in the morning.”

  With that, he went back to his tea with a glazed look in his eyes. His quick dismissal of it was frustrating, but that was how he normally regarded most things. Unless something was exploding directly in front of his face, a quick hand-wave was all she’d get. He'd been like that for as long as she could remember. Must be his medication, and he’s what, early-fifties, if she remembered?

  She looked at the clock on the wall: eight forty-five. It was still pretty early, but with the power on, she could charge her phone and use her computer for an hour or two. Her uncle mostly kept to himself and stayed out of her business, but that never really bothered her. He was never neglectful of her in any sense—just quiet.

  “I’m heading upstairs. Goodnight, Uncle A.” He was still nursing his tea at the table before he called back.

  “Goodnight, kiddo.” And with that, she left him to his tea.