Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“Well, most scholars believe that this man is the artist,” said Oswald Plummer pointing to one figure. “And this other one... well, it’s some sort of demon, possibly a dragon.”

A Terrible Storm by William T. Lowe

I broke my ankle the week before the Great Ice Storm, but I did what I could during the emergency. With a cast halfway up to my knee I couldn’t handle a chain saw or drive a truck or run a back-hoe, so I worked in the shelter the fire department had set up in the Fountain Town Hall.

As people were driven out of their houses by the storm, they were brought to the shelter; we assigned them cots and issued blankets. The women’s auxiliary kept the kitchen open day and night. Since I used to be a deputy sheriff, I know most of the people on this side of the county, and I kept a log of names so relatives could find each other.

It snowed on Sunday, and a heavy freezing rain began on Monday. In hours everything was coated with ice. Twigs as small as pencils were encased in three inches of ice. Mature trees splintered and fell under tons of weight. In less than a day power lines were down, phones were out, roads were blocked from the Adirondacks far into Canada. There was a continuous barrage of noise — limbs tearing away from trunks and crashing into ice-coated underbrush.

By Tuesday the shelter was pretty well organized. The fire department had hooked up some generators to provide light. The Red Cross sent in cots and blankets and bottled water. Without electricity, grocery stores had no refrigeration; they donated meat and produce and milk.

Fountain was dark and deserted. Schools were closed. The only traffic was work crews. The hardware store had been open but was out of batteries, flashlights, any kind of heaters. The Mobil station pumped gas with a standby generator until the underground tank ran dry. We had already had four inches of freezing rain.

Everybody knew what had to be done. Clear the roads so repair crews could reach downed power lines. Check the houses, transport people to the shelter. Watch for wires on the ground, stay clear of overhead branches. The fire department, the ambulance squad, the highway crews all worked double and triple shifts.

The Town Hall had a basketball court — that was where we set up some eighty cots. I slept that night in the clothes I had on, my cane and some aspirin for my ankle at hand. The rumble of generators outside and snoring and coughing inside didn’t keep me awake.

Like the other small mountain towns we were isolated, but we were in good shape. We had radio contact with the police and hospitals; we had bottled water, kerosene, and the promise of oxygen tanks tomorrow. The radio said the storm was not about to let up, but we were too tired to worry about it.

On the second day I logged in more people, those who had decided against staying at home without heat or lights or a telephone. Someone brought in games and puzzles for the children. The women gravitated to the kitchen.

A Mrs. Julie Allen brought me a cup of coffee at my desk by the door and handed me a letter.

“Mr. Sessions,” she said, “the Post Office is closed, and this letter can’t go out. What can I do?”

I explained that because we were now a federal disaster area the mail trucks were not running. I put the letter in my pocket. “I’ll mail it for you the first chance I get.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sessions.” She remembered something. “Oh, there’s a check in it. It really should go registered, and I left home without my purse...”

“Don’t worry. You can pay me back later.” She thanked me again and headed for the kitchen. Before I put the letter in my pocket, I glanced at the address. Reverend Daniel Fisher, Church of the Sacred Word, a post office box in Orlando, Florida.

Mrs. Allen must have spread the word that I would be a substitute mail drop. That afternoon another lady asked me to mail a letter. It was addressed to the same Reverend Fisher in Orlando.

I was busy; I forgot about it. The shelter was also headquarters for the relief effort. Work crews came and went, clearing downed trees and utility poles. One crew went through town pumping out flooded basements. As soon as Route 9 going south was open, the power company began trucking in tons of dry ice to be distributed here and in other small towns to people who wanted to maintain their home freezers.

The freezing rain continued, coating everything except workmen’s faces and the warm hoods of trucks. Now there was the threat of flooding along the river. Volunteers began showing up from all over the county, asking what they could do to help. I paired them up with local crews.

“Are you sure we can’t rent a car or something to get outa here?”