Eve of the Storm

By Marc Sanderson

Leonard doesn't leave the house—ever! He finds her on the porch. Can he let her in? Will he?
Panic attacks keep him huddled inside his home looking out at the world… until one Christmas Eve when a fierce storm brings a young transient woman seeking shelter on his front porch. Can two lost souls help one another find their way back to the lives they led before the terrible events that turned their lives upside down? Can Leonard find the strength to push past his debilitating condition and take the first step back into the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Gold Publishing OLD
• Release date: Apr 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393013440

Marc Sanderson

Marc Sanderson lives on the coast of California with his wife and their three cats. He has at one time or another studied biology, history, education, English, and law. Because being a perpetual student doesn’t pay well, he has worked from time to time as a dishwasher, waiter, tortilla chip maker, newspaper ad-layout artist, marine biologist, high school and college teacher, paralegal, book-reviewer, writer and editor (to name a few). For more information, visit the author’s website at www.marcsanderson.com 

Book preview

Chapter One

From the top step of his wide front porch looking out over Santa Barbara Street, Leonard Stark watched the afternoon traffic roll by, tires hissing on the rain-slick pavement. He leveled his gaze to the train station across the street and tried to empty his mind.

He took a slow, steadying breath. At least, he hoped it would steady him.

At six feet two inches tall, with a rangy, athletic build, tussled brown hair and blue eyes his ex-girlfriend had called dreamy, life ought to have been great. It wasn’t, not by a longshot.

Slowly, he slid his leg out into the air over the first step down. His hand, with a death grip on the railing, began to tremble, sending a tremor up his arm. His leg froze, hovering impotently in mid-air, a useless appendage.

Sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the cold, as he focused on the recalcitrant limb, willed it to move, to step down and away from the house, toward the world, toward everything he wanted.

For the briefest moment, the leg moved. Ever so slightly, it inched downward. For a  moment, elation washed through Leonard. He would make it this time.

Then he felt it. Felt the heat rise in his chest and wash throughout his body. Liquid fear. His heart raced, pounding a terrified staccato beat that could only presage death. His vision blurred and tunneled dangerously. He slammed his lids shut, trying to keep the dizziness and nausea at bay.

A pathetic groan emanated from deep inside him.

Damn it, he ground his teeth and cried aloud, Come on. Come on!

Before he could make another sound, he whipped around, flew back across the large covered porch, ducked inside the house and slammed the door behind him.

He threw his back against the doorjamb and slid to the floor. His gasping pants assaulted his ears as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Pulling his knees to his painfully hammering chest, he bowed his head and ground sweaty palms into throbbing eye sockets. The headache he knew would come next already pulsed in his temples.

Dropping his hands, he lowered his head between his knees and concentrated on evening his breathing.

Okay, you’re okay! he croaked, feeling tears welling in his eyes, tears he couldn’t be bothered to wipe away. You’re safe, he whispered. Nothing’s happening. Just breathe... in... out... in... out.

The panic response that kept him prisoner in his own house was getting worse, he thought, as he used the breathing exercise his therapist had given him to calm himself.

He tried to remember the last time he walked to the bottom of the porch stairs or stepped out onto the sidewalk, but couldn’t. Time had taken on a strange amorphousness. If he didn’t pay close attention to the calendar, one day blurred into the next, measured only by the regular deliveries of groceries and the odd package from Amazon. On ever more rare occasions, his friend Max would stop by, and they would hang out playing computer games or arguing politics.

But Max was too busy these days. He had his new job, and his demanding girlfriend, Amanda, took up most of his time. And, according to the calendar, Christmas was two days away.

It would be nice if Max would come by, but he wouldn’t. Amanda got creeped out whenever Max dragged her along for a visit. She thought Leonard was weird.

And she was right, he thought bitterly. But weird didn’t begin to cover it. Lost, pathetic, damaged beyond repair might be better descriptions. He got lost within himself, trapped within narrow bounds, only able to function within the four walls of his home—his prison.

His house wasn’t a real home anymore, not in any way that mattered.

Lately, he’d even begun feeling uneasy going out onto the porch. If he lost the porch, he wasn’t sure what he would do. Go crazy, probably. The porch was the only place where he could go to feel the air on his face—fresh, beautiful, outdoor air.

He wouldn’t concede the porch to his demons; he’d fight to keep it within his reach, to keep believing it was safe.

Keeping his eyes closed, he lifted his head and laid it back against the doorjamb. He would force himself to go out every day and sit on the tattered, ugly couch, the one he and Max had bought at a yard sale. If the panic attacks came, he would have to fight them off—somehow.

With an effort, he shoved himself off the floor, leaning against the wall for support. He was okay, now. His heart rate had slowed to nearly normal, and the electric buzzing in his arms and legs had mostly gone. The headache that always followed a panic attack was pounding with full force, but some Ibuprofen would take care of it.

He pushed off the wall and walked unsteadily to the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer for the painkiller, and popped two into his mouth, swallowing without water.

He leaned back against the counter and looked up at the calendar. A wintery mountain scene mocked him with its cheery snow glistening off pine trees, majestic crags on distance peaks, and a hand-holding young couple in the foreground skating on a frozen lake.

Monday, December twenty-third, he muttered into the hollowness of the kitchen.

He was an atheist these days, so the holiday season had no religious significance for him, but once upon a time, it had meant family. It had meant joy. Now it only promised emptiness, and the renewed pain of being alone in the world—a rapidly contracting world.

He opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, rolling the icy bottle over his aching forehead. Like a lifeless automaton, he reached into a drawer, found the opener and popped the top, before walking back into the living room. He stared out through the large windows looking out onto the world, a world