Two hundred eighty-two. The storm is coming

Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang——

The rhythmic hammering of wooden boards resonated from behind the walls of the corridor.

Rustle Rustle——

The Long House seemed to tremble slightly in fear, stirring ripples in the water accumulated in the barrels.

Dimly lit oil lamps hung in the corridor, voices conversing faintly traveled from within the rooms to the hallway.

Whoo Whoo Whoo——

A piercing wailing noise swept across the empty corners of the streets.

Several children and youths gathered behind the door, standing on sandbags, the shorter ones tiptoeing to peer through the cracks in the wooden door.

The oppressive sky and dim streets suggested that night was approaching.

Pitter-patter, raindrops as large as small insects fell. Carried by the strong wind, empty cans clattered as they rolled along. Commuters struggled against the fierce winds, walking home late.

Menacing dark clouds enveloped Belfast, concealing flashes of purple lightning.

The hammering on the boards ceased.