Find somewhere high, somewhere safe. Hide.
The white noise of the monsoon-born storm transcended anything Simon had experienced in England, it was deafening and terrible, biblical. The walls rattled and shook and he feared the chapel would be torn apart.
The locals had warned him of such weather, and the things it drove above ground: things better left unseen, unimagined.
He shivered and pulled the blanket around himself. Superstitious nonsense.
He almost missed the rough shouting, half-stolen by the storm. Then there was a heavy, urgent thumping on the doors. He went to unbar them. Some company would be good.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)