I put my slicker on again and circled the property for a last check. The wind was picking up, and I walked down to the edge of the wildflower field to recover the bird feeders. The last cosmos that stood amid the elephant grass were losing their heads to the elements, and the rain swept away small flecks of white and fuchsia petals.

My caretaker's cottage, beyond the rise at the foot of the hill, looked snug and tight. It was two small rooms, an old Menemsha fisherman's shack that once stood on the dock and had been moved up here in the sixties, before Adam and I bought the place. Now charmingly redecorated, it was home to an islander who maintained the property for me in exchange for a year-round residence.

Back inside, I hung up the rain jacket on a hook, stepped out of my boots, and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I tried again to find Jake, with no better luck, and decided against leaving more messages.

A fresh cord of dry firewood was stacked in the bin beside the rear door, and another neat pile was in the fireplace, ready to be lighted. I knelt on the granite hearth and placed a match against the thin pine starters beneath the sturdy logs, watching the flames take and spread. I was ready to give up rock and roll in favor of some Beethoven piano concerti, music that I hoped would soothe and calm me.

Now the wind howled at the top of the chimney, drawing up the smoke and carrying it away. I stood and looked outside, watching the tall evergreens bend and sway with the pounding gusts that swept the hilltop.

The rolls of tape were in the kitchen, and I made the rounds of the rooms, standing on a chair to place X 's across the glass, corner to corner, on each of the enormous panes that afforded me such a glorious view.

As I balanced myself on my tiptoes in the bedroom, I heard a loud banging noise coming from the opposite side of the house. The tape dropped from my hand and rolled across the floor. I climbed down from the chair and followed after it. Retracing my steps through the kitchen and hallway, I found the front door open and swinging wildly as huge drafts of air pressed against it.

When I was at home, I rarely locked the doors. But the booming noise was so jarring that I pushed the door shut and turned the bolt. I circled the house, making sure the side entrance and the other two doors leading out onto the expansive rear deck were fastened as well, before going back to taping the glass.

Fierce weather spooked the animals. I was used to seeing that here in the country. Cottontail rabbits that usually didn't appear until dusk were skittering across the lawn. A family of skunks huddled against each other under the leeward side of a beach plum tree. Flocks of birds were fighting the wind in an effort to steer themselves south.

I was just as unsettled as the wild creatures. Somehow this old farmhouse had weathered scores and scores of storms, but now a cedar shingle ripped loose from the barn roof and flung itself against the window, reminding me that the glass was all that stood between me and the approaching squall.

Again, I paced around the house, checking windowsills for places that had leaked before, and laying old beach towels beneath them. When I returned to the living room, I fixed myself a spicy Bloody Mary, switched on the radio to track the storm, reached for an old copy of Sterne's Tristram Shandy in the bookshelf behind the fireplace, and settled onto the sofa to relax, read, and wait for Gretchen.

I must have fallen asleep, aided by the warm combination of the alcohol and fire. A loud thud right behind my head startled me awake. A large bird, some sort of grackle, had become disoriented and crashed against the pane. Dazed for a few seconds, it picked itself up and flew off with a few taunting squawks.

The day had changed. It was after three o'clock, and the sky had turned from a pastel gray to a deep black. Everything in the landscape was atilt, yielding to the power of the wind that was gusting at almost seventy miles an hour, according to the local newscaster.

For the next half hour, I felt as though I were on an amusement park ride that wouldn't stop to let me off. Objects swirled around outside and thumped against the roof and sides of the house. Tree branches snapped in half with a terrible cracking sound and slapped at my taped windows. I moved to sit on the floor in the middle of the room, fully expecting a limb or bough to hurtle itself through the glass and impale me against the sofa's cushion.

It was exactly 4:05 in the afternoon when the flickering lights went out and the electricity went dead. No radio, no music, no quiet hum of kitchen appliances. The interior darkness mirrored the weather, and I inched closer to the fireplace to add more logs to my only source of warmth and light.

I had flashlights at the ready in every room. I turned one on and tried to continue to read, but the drama outside the window made reading impossible.

The storm raged for more than an hour. The strange noises of nature's destructive forces had unnerved me. Old wooden floor-boards creaked and groaned, damp drizzle seeped in through cracks in doors and window sashes, squalls pounded against every surface of the house.

And something moved up above me. Footsteps in the empty second-floor bedrooms? I took the flashlight and followed the beam up the staircase. Squirrels, probably, or field mice. Had to be some frisky critter that had found its way inside or burrowed under the attic eaves.

I checked from room to room, but all seemed fine. I shined the ray into the bathroom, and highlighted a spider on the outer window screen, clinging to an iridescent web as the wind tried to tear it from its hold. Standing at the top of the stairs, I could hear the pitter-patter of small-clawed feet echoing over my head. Whatever was in the attic could spend the night. I wasn't going up to investigate.

Now there seemed to be a distinct tapping coming from below me. I took three steps down and listened again. It was pitch-black, save for the narrow path of light leading from my hand. Lilac bushes stood outside the door. Their bare, hearty branches must have been scraping against the old six-over-six windows on the house's facade.

I returned to the living room and tried to settle down again.

Still there was something besides noise that was disturbing me. There were shadows, too. I hadn't put enough vodka in my drink three hours earlier to distort my vision, but ghostly shapes seemed to move back and forth along the length of the rear deck. I would have offered shelter to almost any form of animal life, but not to these weird, unwelcome dancing phantoms.

Maybe the bedroom was a better place to be. Careful not to trip over chair legs or stools, I made my way through the house. Too much glass, I told myself. I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone was looking in at me. Was I foolish to want to climb back upstairs to one of the guest rooms and snuggle under a quilt, out of range if someone wandered onto the property? How stupid to be afraid in my own home.

I pulled the chaise longue away from the foot of my bed into a corner of the room, flipped open my cell phone, and punched in Jake's number. A mechanical operator told me the call I wanted to place could not be completed as dialed. I tried Jake again before dialing Mike. The problem was clearly on my end, so I gave up.

I rested my head against a small pillow my mother had needle-pointed for me, just as a violent spasm brought something crashing through what I thought must be one of the kitchen windows. I jumped to my feet and ran through my office to get to the large, open room, trying not to let my agitation overcome my wits. Why hadn't I gotten extra small batteries for the radio when I was at the store? Why had I wanted to ride out a hurricane in the first place?