Catherine

Her voice split, literally. The scream became two screams layered over each other, one hers, one deeper, lower, older. She dropped, convulsing in the snow. I dragged her back to the shelter, heart hammering, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run and not come back. She was quiet for hours. When she finally came to, her voice was hoarse. Her eyes were normal again.

She didn't remember attacking me. She didn't remember leaving the shelter. But she said one thing I can't forget. It's not me anymore. I sat in that shelter until sunrise with the flare gun gripped in both hands and Sarah curled up under two emergency blankets, silent. She didn't sleep. Neither did I.

She didn't remember attacking me. She didn't remember leaving the shelter. But she said one thing I can't forget. It's not me anymore. I sat in that shelter until sunrise with the flare gun gripped in both hands and Sarah curled up under two emergency blankets, silent. She didn't sleep. Neither did I.

She never said another word, just stared off into the trees like she was waiting for something to step out and finish what it started. By morning, her skin looked paper thin. You could see the bones in her hands. Her breathing was shallow but not weak, controlled, like someone pretending to breathe like a person. That was the moment I knew.

She never said another word, just stared off into the trees like she was waiting for something to step out and finish what it started. By morning, her skin looked paper thin. You could see the bones in her hands. Her breathing was shallow but not weak, controlled, like someone pretending to breathe like a person. That was the moment I knew.

Whatever had come down from that fog-wrapped mountain, it was inside her, watching through her eyes, learning. I made a decision. I packed my gear, gave her the last flare, and told her I was heading south to try and find help. She didn't protest, just nodded, once, and whispered, don't let it take your voice. I didn't ask what that meant. The trail out was no trail at all.

Whatever had come down from that fog-wrapped mountain, it was inside her, watching through her eyes, learning. I made a decision. I packed my gear, gave her the last flare, and told her I was heading south to try and find help. She didn't protest, just nodded, once, and whispered, don't let it take your voice. I didn't ask what that meant. The trail out was no trail at all.

I was heading for the edge of Baxter State Park, maybe 20 to 25 miles away. No blazes, no markers, just compass, GPS, which barely worked, and instinct. By mid-morning, the trees changed. Birch gave way to fir, denser and twisted. The forest floor coated with frozen moss and icy mud. The temperature dropped, hard. My breath came out like smoke. The quiet deepened.

I was heading for the edge of Baxter State Park, maybe 20 to 25 miles away. No blazes, no markers, just compass, GPS, which barely worked, and instinct. By mid-morning, the trees changed. Birch gave way to fir, denser and twisted. The forest floor coated with frozen moss and icy mud. The temperature dropped, hard. My breath came out like smoke. The quiet deepened.

But now, I could hear something under it, a second silence, like the forest was waiting. Around noon I found the first sign, a rabbit, frozen upright, mid-hop, no wounds, eyes gone, skin frost-bitten black, steam still rising off it in the cold. A hundred feet further, deer bones, clean, white, stacked neatly against a tree like a shrine.

But now, I could hear something under it, a second silence, like the forest was waiting. Around noon I found the first sign, a rabbit, frozen upright, mid-hop, no wounds, eyes gone, skin frost-bitten black, steam still rising off it in the cold. A hundred feet further, deer bones, clean, white, stacked neatly against a tree like a shrine.

The antlers were tied to the branches above it with strips of flesh, hanging like wind chimes. I started to run. That night I found a structure, not a ranger station exactly, more like a field cabin, log built, maybe ten by ten, with a sloped tin roof and a rusted chimney. No power, no radio, but it had a door that locked. Inside I found a journal.

The antlers were tied to the branches above it with strips of flesh, hanging like wind chimes. I started to run. That night I found a structure, not a ranger station exactly, more like a field cabin, log built, maybe ten by ten, with a sloped tin roof and a rusted chimney. No power, no radio, but it had a door that locked. Inside I found a journal.

The pages were damp, curled with age, but the ink was still legible. A ranger named Don Farrell had kept notes from the late 90s to early 2000s. Most of it was trail conditions, wildlife sightings, snowpack levels.

The pages were damp, curled with age, but the ink was still legible. A ranger named Don Farrell had kept notes from the late 90s to early 2000s. Most of it was trail conditions, wildlife sightings, snowpack levels.

then starting in october of two thousand three the entries changed october eleventh girl came off knife-edge mumbling in french said the mountain was whispering to her we flew her out frostbite on her tongue october sixteenth found hiker boots frozen to stone no body no prints leaving October 20th. Saw someone in the woods last night. Looked like me. Didn't move right.

then starting in october of two thousand three the entries changed october eleventh girl came off knife-edge mumbling in french said the mountain was whispering to her we flew her out frostbite on her tongue october sixteenth found hiker boots frozen to stone no body no prints leaving October 20th. Saw someone in the woods last night. Looked like me. Didn't move right.

Closed station early this season. The final page was torn halfway through. They let the cold thing in. It wears the voice. Remembers the shape. It's waiting to feel warm again. Don't let it near you. Don't let it s- That was it. That night I locked the door. Piled furniture against it. Built a fire in the rusted stove. I didn't sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard the crunch of snow outside.

Closed station early this season. The final page was torn halfway through. They let the cold thing in. It wears the voice. Remembers the shape. It's waiting to feel warm again. Don't let it near you. Don't let it s- That was it. That night I locked the door. Piled furniture against it. Built a fire in the rusted stove. I didn't sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard the crunch of snow outside.

Slow, deliberate. Then a knock. Knuckle against wood. Knock, knock. Then my voice, through the door, soft, almost kind. Hey, open up, it's me. I didn't move. The knock came again. Then, scraping like nails or claws, dragging in slow arcs across the wood. Then silence.