Echoes of the Hollow Woods,
I couldn't remember exactly when the blizzard began to feel alive—like it pressed cold breath against my face and whispered in my ear. When Max steered the truck down the snowy forest road toward the ranger station, the wind's howl turned into mocking voices echoing through the dark pines.
The truck's heater sputtered its last breath. I leaned closer to the dashboard vent, hoping for warmth. Instead, a chill sank into my bones, carried on drafts slipping through cracked windows. Lena, in the seat behind me, trembled every time the frame rattled. Nika huddled beside her, clutching her final flashlight battery with white-knuckled desperation.
Coach Roberts drove with grim resolve. His eyes never left the narrow ribbon of road. Every time fresh snow hit, he wrestled the wheel with mountain-like strength, though I could see the tension in his jaw. His jacket sleeve was torn—like metal had bitten him—and he didn't even notice.
Nurse Clarke sat beside my mother's still form, blanketed in layers of wool and survival gear. The spiral carved into my mother's hand glowed faintly, a wound that refused to heal. Clarke checked for a pulse every few minutes, as if gauze and bandages might bring her back. I reached across and pressed my palm to my mother's ice-cold cheek, wanting to remember her warmth. I needed to hold onto that. A sob caught in my throat.
Outside, the forest closed in. Snow-laden branches formed haunted arches overhead. Now and then, we passed a twisted stump or a half-buried hunting cabin. Each sight made me wonder who else had traveled this road—and what had claimed them.
I forced my mind back to my father and that empty porch, the way the door had groaned, as if calling us. The thing wearing his skin had beckoned with a trembling arm. I suppressed the urge to stop and stare. We had to keep moving.
Max turned onto a side trail where drifts rose higher. He slowed as the headlights cast long, snapping shadows behind us. The truck fishtailed once. My heart lurched.
Ahead, a glow appeared. The ranger station: a squat wooden building, its porch lantern swinging, a thin plume of smoke spiraling from the crooked chimney. I swallowed hard. We were almost there.
We rolled onto the porch. Boards creaked under the truck's weight. Coach Roberts cut the engine, and the sudden silence felt like a trap. For a moment, I thought the wind sighed in relief.
"Stay close," Roberts said, lifting the duffel bag. He tested the lantern's flame—it sputtered, then burned steady. He knocked on the solid door. No answer. He knocked again, harder. The door swung wide on rusty hinges.
Inside, camping gear lay scattered, maps adorned the walls, and a desk bore radio equipment. A notebook lay open—its pages blank but for a resting pen. Roberts set down our supplies. "We're in luck," he murmured, though none of us felt thankful.
He flipped on the radio. Static crackled, then a low hum, and a voice—distorted, growling.
> "…This is Ranger Dalton… If anyone hears… stay away… the blizzard is alive… don't follow the tracks…"
Static roared, and the voice died.
Nika's whisper trembled. "Alive? The blizzard is alive?"
Coach Roberts slammed his fist on the radio. No response. The storm pounded the windows like a predator at our walls.
A crack sounded behind us. I spun, flashlight ready. Through the desk's window, a tall black shape glided past the lantern light. I pointed. "There—through the window!"
Roberts opened the door a crack. Snow swirled against the porch, but no tracks marked the boards—only wind-blown patterns. "Someone was here," he said.
Clarke's beam swept the floor. "Footprints," she said softly. Long, thin toes—like frost-covered claws. Each print glowed with a frosty residue.
"They're coming," I whispered.
Roberts drew his pistol. I tightened my grip on the staple gun. Max readied the shovel; Lena gripped a fire poker. Clarke raised her medical kit like a shield.
From the silent radio speaker came a whisper: "They hunger…" Then nothing.
We eyed one another. This wasn't rescue—it was a trap. We were prey.
Roberts motioned toward the door. "We barricade in here. Let them come."
I hesitated. "Why stay?"
He met my eyes. "Small space. We have weapons. Light. Each other."
Nika straightened. "We can do this."
We shoved the desk before the door. Radio equipment slid with a clang. Max and Roberts wedged a chair under the knob. Lena jammed the poker into the frame. The storm's roar grew louder, an unseen beast pacing just outside.
Roberts checked his watch. "They'll arrive soon." He turned to Clarke. "Ready?"
Clarke lifted her bag. "As I'll ever be."
We backed against the far wall. Lantern light flickered, casting dancing shadows. The footprints stopped at the door. Only the wind's howl answered.
Then: scratch… scratch… scratch.
Roberts raised his pistol. "Show yourself."
Silence. Then the door shook violently. Nails scraped wood. Lena squeezed Nika's hand. Clarke held her breath. I squeezed my eyes shut.
The noise ceased.
A voice croaked from outside in a slow, twisted whisper:
> "Open the door…"
My blood froze. That voice—deep, dragging each vowel—sounded like the storm itself.
Roberts fired a warning shot. The bullet punched through wood into rushing snow. The door stilled.
We waited, hearts slamming. At last, only the wind remained.
I said, "We could lure them with the radio."
Roberts shook his head. "It's bait."
"But no one knows we're here," I pressed.
He met my gaze. "Then we find another way."
Clarke's light swept a narrow hallway. "There's a vent back there—like the one at school."
"I'll check," Roberts said.
He and Nika moved the desk aside and pried the grille open. The draft that rushed in smelled of metal and old fear. They climbed inside, disappearing into darkness.
Max and Clarke followed. Lena and I remained, pulse pounding as the grate closed.
Lena drew a steady breath. "We did it."
I nodded. "Stay close."
The vent was narrower than before—only one person at a time. Roberts's distant voice echoed: "Keep moving."
Lena climbed onto a crate. I followed. We crawled into the gloom, the metal walls dripping frozen moisture onto our sleeves. My light bobbed, revealing joints and rivets—but no sign of anything living.
After twenty feet, the duct split: one branch angled upward, the other ran flat. Roberts's voice crackled: "Take the upward branch. It exits near the back."
I exhaled. "Up it is."
Lena and I scuttled up the incline. My flashlight caught glints of frost-crusted metal. Then, ahead, a faint glow.
We reached a grille overlooking a narrow storage closet. Moonlight poured through the exit door's small window. Roberts's voice drifted down: "Hurry."
We snapped the grate closed behind us and tapped on the door's push bar. It swung open into a blast of frigid air.
We tumbled onto the snow-laden porch, Lena against me. The storm assaulted us. I staggered toward the edge, where a faint trail cut through the drift.
Behind me, a rasping breath. I spun—cold dread seizing my chest—only to see a dark uniform framed in the doorway. Black eyes, a frozen grin. Its mouth opened in a silent shriek of rage.
I grabbed Lena's hand. "Run!"
Snow whipped our faces as we fled across the porch into the swirling white. Lena's sobs were lost in the wind. I ran on, branches clawing at my coat, the creature's steps pounding behind me.
Every heartbeat felt like a drum of doom. But I couldn't stop. Not now.
We reached the treeline and plunged into the darkness of the storm, footprints vanishing in the drift. The ranger station receded behind us, a flicker of light swallowed by the blizzard.
Ahead lay unknown tunnels beneath the snow, haunted by something ancient and hungry. Lena stumbled. I helped her up.
"We have to keep going," I panted.
She nodded, tears freezing on her lashes. "Together."
As we jogged into the white abyss, I thought of my mother, left behind but not forgotten. Of friends huddled in that trap, betting their lives that we'd make it.
Ulzakar's hunger trailed us like a shadow. But so did hope—dimmer now, but stubborn. And I clung to that, even as the storm roared and the forest whispered our names.