The wind howled furiously outside, causing Evelyn Blackwood's eyes to spring open. 

The shadow of the tree branches outside her window swayed against the wall by her bed as if reaching for her through the darkness. She was frozen, listening to the wind howl and the rain beat her window. Her ears strained in the darkness, and then she picked up the sound of clacking wheels, and her heart did a backflip. Her father was still awake. She kicked the blanket off her and ran through the darkness to the door. She tugged it open and slipped out onto the landing. 

At the bottom of the stairs, she could make out the wheels clicking louder than last time. Her father had lost both of his legs in the Second World War, a year before she'd been born. She stood at the top of the marble staircase, staring down at her father. He was sitting in the darkness, staring at the front door. He often did that nowadays, his mind preoccupied with flashbacks of the war as if he were watching the scene before him. Or maybe they were images of something else, something scary, terrifying. Evelyn couldn't tell what.

She felt terrible for him, always sitting in that wheelchair, never being able to do anything because fear ruled his life. It couldn't have been a comfortable wheelchair. It was just a wooden plank; it had no cushioning or padding. Fixed footrests extended from the front, utterly useless to her father. Their metal bars glinted in the moonlight from the door, taunting. 

As if she could suddenly sense she was there, he spoke. "It's just a storm, Evie. Go back to bed." His voice sounded weird, almost trancelike. She shuddered. He turned from his chair around, the wheels clicking on the wooden floor as he rolled them forward and back so he could face her. The moon only lit up half his face, and she watched the shadows dance across the other half, his eye completely black, just nothing where his soul should be. 

"I'm scared, Daddy." She told him, "I don't like Mr. Storm." 

Her father's lips cracked into a smile. "Come here, Bunny." He said. 

The wheelchair handles were worn smooth from years of use. She padded down the stairs and over to her father, he pulled her onto his lap. "Can you see them?" She asked. "The figures, they're everywhere. They scare me, Daddy." He frowned down at her. 

"They're not real." He whispered, "I see them too." 

"Can you sing for me, Daddy?" She asked. 

"Sure thing, Bunny." Her father smiled. He hummed softly, picking up the lyrics somewhere along the melody. "Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run." He pulled a grey gun from his pocket and stared at it. "Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run." He ducked his head down, protecting her in the crevice of his neck. "I'm sorry, dear." He whispered.

"What for Daddy?" She asked, her voice containing a tiny hint of fear. 

"Never mind." He shook his head and closed his eyes, so she did the same. "Bang, bang, bang, goes the farmers gun."

Two apparent gunshots rang out around the house.