The storm had come back and this time with triple fury.

The rain hammered mercilessly against the fragile cottage and the sea ate at the chalky cliff which surrounded the island.

“When’s Dad coming?” a small child wailed.

“Not for another day, he said he was stuck somewhere,” an older child whispered.

They sat in the cottage together, huddled by the fire. Suddenly the dark clouds tore open and a huge bolt of light slashed through the dark sky. The rain fell like stones and plundered their silence and suffocated every inch of the ground.

Then, through the haze, the older child noticed the dark figure gliding towards them, effortlessly pushing through the rain.

“Look!”

They froze in silence and waited for the inevitable knock.

“How did he get here?” whispered the younger. “Only father can get on the island.”

Thunder moaned and grumbled above them as if it yearn for some kind of melody but was silenced by its own disapproval.

The knock came sooner than they anticipated and the children were brought back to their senses. The old oak door creaked open slowly but the wind soon grew inpatient and hurled it wide.

“Hello?” They calles but only the wind answered. There was no one there.

“Is he there?”

“I can’t see anyone,” said the elder. “I wouldn’t want anyone stuck out here though, not in this weather.”

“We should go look!”

They pulled on their boots and battled into the storm towards the cliffs. The rain relentlessly ravaged the landscape and slashed the children’s faces until the felt the tingling sense of pain.

Before them lay a dark shadow only recognisable as a man by his ginger hair and blue eyes, much like their own, maybe too like they’re own. Wedges in between his ribs lay a knife cursed with the dark crimson of blood.

In the darkness they searched for an answer but upon finding nothing, the followed the dead mans, gaze almost hypnotically, back to the tiny cottage. In the left hand corner they noticed a figure, hooded and dark watching them through the haze of rain and thunder.