Part 1

The sun crested the ridge, turning the gray morning into a blinding white sheet. I shifted my weight on the metal grate of the tree stand, and the movement sent a spike of voltage through my left hip. The joint felt like it was filled with gravel and ice water. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the nerve to settle, and chambered a round in the rifle.

The wind was sandpaper on my cheeks. It found the gap between my scarf and collar, hunting for warmth. I sat fifteen feet up, a spectator to the morning, waiting for the invisible night to reveal itself.

I listened. Winter silence isn’t empty; it’s brittle. Trees popped as the sap froze and expanded. Icicles snapped in the distance. I breathed through my nose, the hairs stiffening instantly as the moisture crystallized.

Then the light hit the clearing.

My grip on the rifle tightened until my knuckles ached. The adrenaline dump hit my stomach first, then my bad leg, causing the muscle to spasm into a hard knot.

The forest floor was a butcher shop.

Mangled carcasses littered the snow. I counted four deer in the immediate vicinity. Further back, the black-and-white bulk of a Holstein cow lay on its side, flanked by two more whitetails. The snow wasn’t just stained; it was painted.

I lowered the rifle, resting the scope on the rail to stabilize the view. I breathed shallowly, trying to keep the lens from fogging.

Wolves don’t do this. A pack kills to eat. They separate a weak straggler, drag it down, and strip the bones. These animals hadn’t been eaten. They were broken. The spacing was wrong, too. No drag marks. No signs of a chase. It looked as if they had been gathered in the center of the clearing and detonated.

A bear would be hibernating, and even a waking bear doesn’t kill for sport on this scale. A cougar kills one, caches it, and guards it.

I pulled my eye from the scope. The data didn’t fit the model.

I tied the gun stock to the haul line and lowered it. My hands shook, not just from the cold. The rope burned through my mittens. I followed the gun down the ladder, each rung a fresh negotiation with my hip. When my boots hit the snow, the shockwave traveled up my spine.

On the ground, I was blind.

The brush that looked sparse from above was a wall down here. I untied the rifle and checked the safety. The wind covered the sound of my breathing, but it also masked everything else.

I started back toward the cabin. The snow was knee-deep, heavy and wet. I had to swing my left leg out and around to clear the drift, a motion that ground the ball joint against the socket. Step, grind, drag. Step, grind, drag.

I stopped.

The crunching of snow to my left stopped a fraction of a second later.

I stood still. My ears rang in the silence. I waited for a squirrel, a bird, anything to explain the noise. Nothing.

I took three fast steps and stopped again.

Crunch-crunch-crunch. Silence.

Something was pacing me.

I slung the rifle and moved. I didn’t run—I couldn’t. I shambled, throwing my weight forward, forcing the bad leg to act as a pivot. My lungs burned. The air was too cold to process. I didn’t look back. If I turned, I would slip, and if I slipped, I wasn’t getting up.

The cabin roof appeared through the trees. I reached the door, fumbled the keys with numb fingers, and shoved into the lock. The tumbler clicked. I fell inside and slammed the bolt home.

Ruth sat up in her sleeping bag, hair wild, eyes adjusting to the light. “Blaise?”

I leaned the rifle against the wall and grabbed the 12-gauge shotgun from the rack. I cracked the breach, checked the shells, and snapped it shut. The metallic clack-clack was too loud in the small room.

“Get up,” I said. My voice was a rasp. “Pack the bag.”

Ruth scrambled out of the bag, her gaze snapping from the shotgun to my face. “What? Why? Is it a bear?”

“No.” I moved to the window, staying to the side of the frame, peering out through the grime. “Just pack. Essentials only. We’re leaving.”

“Blaise, you’re scaring me. Why is there blood on your coat?”

I looked down. A smear of red brightened the gray wool of my sleeve. I must have brushed a tree on the way in. “It’s not mine. Get Calvin.”

Ruth didn’t argue. She moved. She grabbed the duffel bag and started shoving diapers, wipes, and clothes into it.

I walked to the corner and grabbed my cane. It was a piece of twisted hickory my father had used, and his father before him. I hated the thing, but the run from the woods had spent whatever structural integrity my hip had left. I leaned on it, taking the weight off the joint.

Calvin sat up in his toddler bag, rubbing his eyes. “Daddy?”

“Hey, buddy.” I shoved my wallet and keys into my pocket. “We’re playing the fast game today. Remember the fast game?”

He blinked, hazel eyes groggy. “Do I get ice cream?”

“Huge ice cream. But you have to move now.”

Ruth had him out of the sleeping bag in seconds. She grabbed his winter coat but didn’t put it on him. She tossed it to me and picked up the duffel.

“Car seat,” she said, breathless. “Coat off for the straps.”

“I’ve got him.” I tucked the coat under my arm and scooped Calvin up. He felt light, fragile.

“Daddy,” Calvin said, looking over my shoulder as I reached for the door handle. “The monster is looking.”

I froze. My hand hovered over the deadbolt. “What?”

He pointed a small finger toward the back window. “In the glass. The monster.”

I spun, bringing the cane up like a club.

The window was empty. Just the white glare of the snow and the dark line of the pines.

“There’s nothing there, Cal,” I said, but the skin on the back of my neck felt tight.

“It was there,” he whispered.

“Go,” I told Ruth.

I unlocked the door and we pushed out into the cold. The wind had picked up, swirling snow around the driveway. The car was ten feet away, a block of ice on wheels.

Ruth threw the bag in the trunk while I yanked the back door open. The hinges groaned. I dropped the cane in the footwell and wrestled Calvin into the seat. He shivered in his fleece pajamas.

“Arms up,” I said.

I threaded the straps over his shoulders. My fingers were clumsy blocks of wood. I couldn’t feel the buckle. I listened for the click.

Crunch.

It came from the driveway entrance.

I froze, my body blocking Calvin from the open door. I turned my head slowly. The wind stung my eyes, forcing me to squint against the glare.

At first, I saw nothing. Just the driveway and the dense pine line.

Then, the pattern broke.

Twenty yards away, a massive pine tree stood at the edge of the clearing. Something was behind it. Not hiding, exactly. Waiting.

It stepped out.

It was the color of wet charcoal. It stood on two legs, but the geometry was all wrong—too much joint, too much limb. It was wet, slick with something that didn’t freeze. And it was painted in the same bright red I had seen in the woods.

I stared at the blood on its chest. I stared at the blood on my sleeve.

The buckle clicked.

“Daddy?” Calvin asked.

My leg locked up. I couldn’t breathe. The thing watched me, its head tilting with a bird-like twitch. It wasn’t an animal. It wasn’t a man. It was a hole in the world, shaped like a nightmare.

I slammed the car door.