Bleak midwinter, p.8
Bleak Midwinter, page 8
It couldn’t have been.
His head was no longer attached.
It lay a few feet away, against the door to the parlor.
She screamed, pure terror flushing her blood through her veins. A shadow filled the doorway opposite her, and she turned and ran without a single coherent thought in her head.
She fled through the back door. The snow was thick and deep and as she came around the side of the house, her feet reminded her painfully that they were still bare from sleep. She looked into the pitch blackness of the yard. The only light came from the miserly stars, giving enough to know her eyes were open but nothing beside. She stood at the corner of the house, shivering, frozen by winter’s spite, indecision, and abject fear.
The children were what made her turn back. She’d left them in the house with her dead father and some unknown murderer. She pictured Ernst Wressel, his broad, plain face gripped in a rictus of rage, bringing an ax down upon her father’s defenseless neck. Her own rage returned, muted by fear and cold, but it gave her the impetus to force herself back into the house.
She crept through the mud room and the kitchen, toward the children’s room. She took pains to avoid the creaks and by the time she reached their door, she’d formulated a plan. She would bundle them up and make for the neighboring farm as quickly as possible. They would take her in. They had their disputes with Klaus Schulz, as had anyone, but one look at her and her desperation would melt even the hardest of hearts. All she had to do was get the children.
Charlotte was not in her bed.
Her mind came further unmoored and she whispered and crooned to her eldest daughter as though she were hiding beneath the bed. She moved to investigate the cribs and realized she could see nothing. There were lumps in both, but she couldn’t tell if they were moving.
“Children,” she whispered loudly. “Oh, my children.”
She was grabbed from behind and screamed fit to burst her throat. When she was spun around, she saw it wasn’t Ernst Wressel at all, the two looked absolutely nothing alike. They were as different as coming and going.
Her eyes caught on startling blue ice-chips staring madly out of a dirty, contoured face and then she felt the fingers, thin but feverishly strong, quick around her neck.
Ernst Wressel stamped down the road in his thick winter coat, his feet aching and demanding to be brought somewhere to rest. Klaus Schulz had so far refused to bring him his payment, and Ernst, with the approaching call looming over him, had finally decided to pay another visit to the Schulz farm. It was not a pleasant walk, and the weather made it even more miserable. A stiff wind had whipped up, and as he’d walked, it had begun to carry strands of stinging, blinding white.
As he approached the Schulz farm, Ernst saw two figures leaving through the gate. They didn’t bother to close it. They turned briefly to look at him and Ernst couldn’t make out much. One was tall and thin, and the other small. He thought the taller one was a man and the smaller one a little girl, but he couldn’t be sure. They were wrapped in thick coats, gloves, and boots, and scarves obscured their lower faces.
The only feature that showed through the worsening storm were their eyes, blue even at a distance, like little hearts of ice floating in the winter air.
Then the wind gusted, and when Ernst was able to look again, they were gone. He stood as the snow slowly choked the road, and tried to pick them out again, but there was nothing save the sweep of endless, eternal white.
ALL HER LITTLE BONES
R.A. BUSBY
Oh, bury me beneath the willow,
Under the weeping willow tree,
For she may know where I am sleeping,
And perhaps she’ll weep for me.
--Traditional, “Weeping Willow”
Date: October 4
Time: 3:59 pm
I hope you’re not reading this, but if you are, I’ve got no clue how to get you out. I’ll tell you what I did, but if you’re here…well, my solution obviously wasn’t worth shit.
First, watch out for that baby.
I left this log behind to help folks who slipped through that crevice and came to this shelter. And to help anyone who tries to leave it.
Here’s what happened.
Date: October 1, 2022
Time: 3:58 pm
By the time I reached the old gray shelter off the trail, my cell read 3:58. So did my watch. Both had read 3:58 for the last two hours.
At first, I figured my cell had glitched and my watch batteries were shot, but the watch’s second hand still spun around the dial like always. Only the large hands flirted with the notion that 3:59 might work out for them, then clicked right on back.
I thought about that a lot.
So, my other problem was this: though my feet felt like raw burger from the hike, my first instinct on seeing that shelter was to get the hell out of there. My gut had it right—this was the Bad Place.
Too bad it was the only place.
First time I spotted it, the shelter sat atop a small rise, weathered logs rough-shaped to four gray walls and a backward-sloping roof like Grampa’s tool shed. It seemed solid enough—nothing leaning or broken. Not yet, anyway. What bothered me was that entrance, yawning open with an ancient, hungry mouth, and all about it a cluster of old firs with their heads together like gossiping neighbors.
The place seemed too still. At that time—3:58, in case you’re wondering—you might expect to hear a twig snap, a raccoon’s squeaky-rubber chitter, or a neh-neh-neh from chickadees.
Hey. Here’s a fun fact about chickadees I learned from a guy on the trail. Did you know if you die in the woods, those adorable round bois will dig through your skin and eat your fat?
I suppose you could’ve gone forever without learning that. Me too.
And what else had that creepy bastard told me before I ran the hell away? Why, he’d sucked his teeth and added, “Can’t blame ‘em. To a chickadee, it’s just suet.”
I don’t remember what I said back. Really, what can you say? Still, that’s what brought me here. Mr. Chickadee. Turned a corner uphill and there he stood, leaning on a beech like it was a bus stop.
He wasn’t a thru-hiker; I could tell that much. He had a pack, but it was one of those Jansports kids use for schoolbooks, and a dog—some floofy little thing—shivering at his feet. Not exactly the kind you’d bring for a long-ass hike.
Bottom line, he didn’t feel right. Or smell right. Five days since hiking from Pennistone Crag had made me rank from my pits to my bits, as my gramma would’ve said, and as I went by, I caught a whiff of him. Soap and a scent underneath I liked less. Something tangy.
Then came The Look. Soon as he clapped eyes on me, his face lit up with that speculative glance like someone out shopping. Jesus. You know when I first caught The Look on a man? Age twelve. No boobs yet, but predator season had opened all the same. Past thirty now, I found myself wondering when the fuck it would be over. Probably when I was dead. Maybe not even then.
I sped up. He waved, and when he said, “Hey there,” I shot him a quick glance: older, around sixty, but the kind that goes wiry rather than soft. I guessed if he flexed his fist, his arms would thread up like uncooked spaghetti.
I thumbed my pepper spray into my palm and switched off the safety, just in case. When I moved past, he grinned with teeth yellow as my Grampa’s dominoes.
“Well,” he said. “You sure do look healthy. Yes ma’am.”
I had no idea what to say.
My mind did, though. Make tracks, girl, or you’ll end up as the new titty vest for this fucker’s woman suit. My gramma’s voice chimed in, saying, If he comes for you, Ellen Marie, you use your poles, you hear? Aim for the eyes.
He chuckled. “A lotta them thru-hikers, they look like death, but you’re all right.” The dog wriggled as he picked it up. “You goin’ to Greentree Shelter? Nice place to spend the night. Nice bird-watching.” He gave a trilling call, good enough to fool me. Then he made that comment about the chickadees. I didn’t stop. And that changed everything.
So. What brought you here?
As soon as I got out of his sight, I busted ass, working those hiking poles like I was skiing. That’s when I noticed that overgrown side trail—just a thread of tamped earth, but that was in my favor. Good chance Mr. Chickadee would miss it if he decided it was hunting season for real. And no, I didn’t question where that trail headed. It headed away from him, and that’s all I needed to know.
Half an hour later, I lost my way. Ahead, the path looped around a dark field of granite where fallen slabs lay like Stonehenge lintels, then finally faded out. I’d turned off the trail somehow, but damned if I knew when.
With an irritated grunt, I fished out my phone and opened Hikertrash. On the map, the blue arrow that pinpointed my location kept flickering in and out, with the app showing me smack-dab in the Uncharted Forest or whatever. I tried to find the path on my paper map, but it was hard to make out through the creases and wear. Still, in about two miles as the crow flies, this trail should spit me out near town where there would be food, a bath, and an actual bed. That is, if I could find the way.
I heard a chickadee call behind me and nearly screamed. Glancing up, I spied a real bird, and even though he’d eat my dead suet, I didn’t begrudge him the meal. Gotta eat something. He leaped to another branch a ways up, and that’s when I noticed the path, hidden by overgrown bushes. The bird sat on a triangular stone archway, an ancient kiss of rock on rock. The trail passed right beneath it.
It was a gateway, yeah, but climbing between those slabs would be a tight fit. That put me in mind of Gramma. In her house, there’d been two sources of worldly wisdom: the Good Book and the old-time murder ballads. It was the Good Book and Gramma’s voice I remembered now. Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it. Well. I guess I found it.
Not long after, it began to snow, and by the time I came up on the shelter, I’d been post-holing about an hour. My ass muscles burned, and ice had snuck into my boots. The dark fell early in the turning season; and I wanted to stop, but like I said, my gut told me to run.
For one, the tarp flapping over the entrance gave me pause. From where I stood, I guessed it wasn’t the plastic sort from your local Costco, but old-fashioned canvas, dark and coarse. It gave the place a sense of inquietude. Of secrecy. A curtain drawn to hide inhuman things from human view.
I called out softly as I approached.
In the absolute silence, I felt certain the next thing I’d see would be Mr. Chickadee bursting from that shelter—naked, pale, and ravenous, his member dangling like a withered parsnip, a knife in his hand. The last word I’d hear would be suet.
But the silence still remained.
That’s when the wind whipped up, sounding like a weeping baby. I poked a hiking pole beneath the canvas to check if something stirred. Waited. Listened for the scurry of mice or raccoons. Everything seemed quiet.
Until the screaming began.
If you’re here, you know this shelter runs small. Still, the floor felt dry, and the tarp promised to keep my heat mostly inside. Best yet, the old gray logs held firm except for the rear, where powdered snow had drifted through a hole in the roof. Other than that, it seemed solid.
This time.
If you don’t know what that means, I’m afraid you’ll find out soon.
In any case, when I stepped inside, the canvas fell behind me, and just like that, the dark closed in. I’ll tell you this: I got a chill. Though that shelter was empty as a politician’s promise, the shadows swallowed me, and I swear to God, I sensed a thickness in the air, a taste of earth and metal. With that, I leaped for the tarp and yanked it aside, letting in a wedge of winter air.
All the same, that oppressive atmosphere wouldn’t leave me be. Even as I pulled my supplies from my pack, I couldn’t wait to bug out right quick as soon as it was morning. In the end, I didn’t make dinner. Didn’t even light my stove. Simply hauled out my pad and bag and laid me down to sleep.
Right about that moment came a sound I took for wind whispering through that line of firs skirting the campsite. The sigh turned to a thin baby wail that grew louder and more—more present, somehow. I pulled the canvas aside. Just to check.
It was no wind.
Before me stood a girl, probably five years old. In the gray twilight, I saw she was a little thing with black hair, a pinkish-red stocking cap slouching like a beanie along one side of her head.
She turned to me. Her mouth fell open. Then went wide. Wider.
And she screamed.
The girl never moved. Near the palisade of firs that seemed to cluster closer, she stood statue-like, arms bent into claws at her chin, face without expression.
“WHY?” she shrieked. “WHYYYYYY? WHYYYYYYYYY?”
I stumbled, feet shoving back until the rear walls pushed against them. The canvas fell, leaving me again in darkness, but now the girl was not the only one screaming. As she turned to face the woods, that’s when I understood she hadn’t been wearing a beanie. No, not in the least.
The pink thing spilling down her head had been her brains.
I stayed inside. For the longest while, I thought I’d just run away, but it was full dark now and cold besides. I couldn’t bring myself to see if she had gone. What if I pulled back the canvas and her face pressed up to me, close as a mirror?
I waited, listening for anything. A snow-crunch. A scream. A chickadee.
But the silence still remained. When I finally pulled the tarp aside to get it over with, nothing but the moon and sky and watchful firs looked back.
The snow sat smooth and featureless. She’d left no footprint. Not one.
I didn’t sleep much after that.
But please. Please tell me you haven’t seen her. Or that other thing.
Date: October 2, 2022
Time: 3:58 pm
Morning took its time, as it does. I’d not slept well, and my hipbones ached all the way to the marrow. Worst and oddest, my tits hurt like fire. I don’t mean side boob PMS, or even that tissue yank from doing cardio in a shitty bra. No, both nipples were pink and raw as if they’d been rasped with sandpaper. I figured the chest strap on my pack had rubbed me the wrong way, and between Mr. Chickadee and Lil Miss Scream, I simply hadn’t noticed. Plausible enough.
Plausible, but incorrect.
Suffice it to say I wasted no time packing. I didn’t even make tea since I only had a swish or two of isobutane left in the canister I’d bought before Pennistone Crag. I only wanted to leave this place with its “quare haints and apparitions,” as my gramma might’ve said, so the sooner my feet hit trail, the better.
Sitting in the doorway, I took a hard look at the firs. The snow beneath them rose in dunelike ridges, unbroken as I’d supposed. Not a sign of the girl.
Sure. I could say I had a dream, but that would be bullshit.
With a long sigh, I spread the paper map on my knee. I’d go north, I figured. In half a mile, the trail dipped till it crossed a creek, and from there it intersected the road to town a bit farther on. Seemed a good plan, anyway.
Bet you thought so, too.
Things went awry almost immediately. I couldn’t find north. Oh, sure, I checked my phone compass, and after the needle spun like a drunk at a square dance, I took out my lensatic and got the same thing. Then I opened Hikertrash and watched my arrow jitter briefly before it simply disappeared.
I was nowhere, I guess. I turned off the phone. “Fuck it if ya can’t take a joke.”
The sky loomed, white and featureless, the sun a lighter patch above the roof. Fine. That way lay east, then.
With a grunt, I shouldered the pack. I’d pretty much stuffed everything in willy-nilly, and now it all shifted and poked. If I kept the sun on my right, I’d be heading north as the crow flies. That would have to do until I got back in cell phone range. Or compass range.
Strait is the gate and narrow is the way.
After four hours, a couple things weighed on me. First, that I’d hiked four hours. Yeah, it had been uphill with snow, and that’ll slow you to a crawl, but it still shouldn’t have taken that long.
Second, why was I going uphill? By the map’s topo lines, I should’ve plateaued a half-mile past the shelter, simple as you please.
Except I hadn’t.
I knew I hadn’t hiked off-trail. Even through snow, anyone could follow where the trees gave way, and besides, the sun had stayed on my right all morning.
But the light seemed…odd. I can’t explain it otherwise. A deadness came from it, an inexplicable flatness. No birds sang, not since the chickadee at the place I called the Strait Gate.
Not until I crested another rise did I realize where I was.
Right back at the shelter.
I bet you figured it was a mistake when this happened to you. Trail shelters look pretty much alike, after all. Whoever built them wouldn’t reinvent the wheel for every lean-to. And I’m sure you were relieved when you noticed the two weren’t quite identical. Instead of a roof with a hole, the entire back corner of this one had rotted like an abscess. Clearly not the same.
Except it was.
You see, in the corner of this not-new place, I found my can of fuel. Same brand, same size, same swish of almost-gone. And when I unpacked, because what else could I do, I didn’t find my fuel with my gear. Naturally. Because I’d forgotten it, left it right here in the shelter all those miles ago.
Even in the Twilight Zone, you’ve got to sleep. Besides, it’s not as if I had a better option. I also had to eat, but like yesterday, I found myself oddly unhungry. Hot tea sounded halfway good, but if I ran out of fuel, I’d have to fetch wood from those trees. Though I kept in mind that old saw about Sharp spruce, friendly fir, they didn’t appear too friendly to me. Worse, they seemed closer than they had yesterday.
