Inside, it's warm. The Tiffany lamp on the entry table casts a honeyed glow across the hardwood, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air.

Effie is perched on the third stair, clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear, chattering away to it in that half-formed language only she understands.

Thump.

A sound, muffled by the storm. I almost miss it.

Effie stops mid-sentence, her big eyes finding mine.

Through the frosted glass panel, I can make out a silhouette. Tall. Drenched. Shifting its weight like it's about to fall over.