The storm was taking a turn for the worse, and the wind and rain drowned out nearly all sound in its cacophony.  Two little piggies rushed through the long grass, snorting and scrambling towards a little house, slowly getting bigger and bigger.
 
“Let us in!” They say, desperately rapping, desperately tapping on the hardwood door. Behind them, the wind made long, droning, skirling sounds, once near and once far away.
  The door opens quickly. The little brick cottage is dimly lit, and at first the two soaked piggies mistake their brother for something much worse. “Come in, come in!” He cries over the veritable hurricane, the lantern shaking in his hand. The two drenched piggies leap inside the safety of the well built house.
 
“Our - Our houses - ”
“Destroyed! There was - ”
“ - as big as a cart - ”
 
The two little piggies could hardly speak, stumbling and tumbling over their words.
They managed to get the message across, though.  The third little piggy, wrapped up in his evening gown, handed the two others some towels and ushered them to take a seat beside the dancing fire. The muffled and dampened sound of rain and wind outside was comforting.  
Third was troubled. He asks them sheepishly:
 
“How far behind?”
“I think it’s still back at my house - ”
“I could have sworn it was right behind me!”
“That was just the wind, surely!”
 
  As the other two bickered, Third turned and hobbled over to the window, raising his lamp in a futile attempt to illuminate the landscape outside. The rain was dense, nearly horizontal so strong was the wind. The clouds had blocked out the moon, and meadow-like field around the house waved violently in waves and tides.
 
He told himself that he was just being foolishly optimistic. It would inevitably come, sooner or later, and he didn’t know how It would react when he realised that this house was made of more solid stuff. But something caught his eye. A glimpse of a mass of mangy, mottled fur and a flash of light reflected in two gazing, baleful orbs filled with malevolence and malice.
 
Obviously sooner rather than later.
 
~     ~     ~
 
  Three little piggies sit by a fire in a cosy little brick house, warming their little feet and drinking little cups of hot cocoa. A large pot of boiling water bubbles in the fireplace. The water is full of little clumps of grey hair. The three little piggies talk and converse happily, basking in a feeling of security, of a crisis overcome. The wind continues to howl and whistle outside however, and no matter how much the little piggies suppress that niggling feeling at the back of their minds, no matter how much they convince themselves that it’s just the wind, nothing can change the fact that the storm stopped long ago. The air outside is as still as treacle, and no breeze or draft is causing that skirling call.
 
 The air is as still as treacle, but for the call and howls of many, many wolves.