Main street was lined with charming red-brick shops featuring picture windows with hand-painted signs. The town center had the only commercial street in Mountain Ridge. It branched off into quiet residential lanes which eventually gave to gravel roads, lurking away on dirt paths through dense woods.
The shops were quaint, those that hadn’t closed their doors forever. The ones that had were dark and deserted, windows thick with dust and grime, their insides hollowed out but for the random abandoned footstool or paint can.
Tragedy and financial ruin hung from many doorways as a warning to tourists to keep driving. History had not been kind to the town of Mountain Ridge, and things would get worse before they got better.
The few open shops ran the gamut from Mom and Pop convenience stores and Father and Son hardware stores to the rundown diner every citizen faithfully went to for breakfast, even if their shoes stuck to the floors, and the counters had a layer of grease that no amount of wiping could remove.
Mountain Ridge didn’t seem like the place a stranger might go to disappear, but it had one peculiar charm other towns like it didn’t: the citizens were used to visitors who never seemed to leave. They’d seen plenty of unusual types hanging around, and they were happy to leave well enough alone. Perhaps they’d learned the hard way not to bother outsiders.
Whatever their reasons, Lenox was glad of it. She didn’t need anyone asking questions. She needed to escape.
Her escape, the small rented cabin outside of town, gave her all the solitude she was looking for. It was nestled several miles into a moss-covered, mountainous forest with a small lake nearby that spread fog through the woods as dense as the growth on the trees. The only way to reach the house was by the winding private road past the gate, or by a day’s hike through the forest. The woods were thick, dangerous, and hard to navigate.
Lenox was safely tucked away in borrowed anonymity.
She interacted with people only when she needed supplies from town. The beat-up truck that took her there had been around longer than her, with its domed hood and fenders, and rounded headlights from days gone by. The rotting wood slats barely holding onto the flatbed announced it hadn’t been handled with care. The paint had long-since chipped away and the metal was rusting in many places, but still it wheezed into town twice a month, and that’s what mattered.
The wind was bitter when Lenox stepped outside. Its gusts were angry and howling, like a rabid wolf. She could almost hear voices whisper in it as it snaked through the trees and hissed along the canopy. Lenox banished the idea. She didn’t need the wind to haunt her with things that weren’t there. Her memories were enough.
Her thin sweater felt as useful as a tank top in the frigid air. She hadn’t prepared for snow. It was only December, winter storms should be a far-off threat. The heavy clouds gathering in the sky foretold otherwise.
Lenox hurried to her truck. The dusty cab provided little respite from the cold, and the heater blew foul-smelling air in protest. She drove towards town as fast as the whining engine allowed, hoping to return to isolation quickly.
* * *
People scurried across Main Street, like an ant colony breaking into clusters and panicking. Shopping bags hung from every hand. Even small children carried them as they ran after their parents, desperate to keep up in the chaos.
Lenox climbed out of her truck and glanced around in astonished confusion.
She weaved her way through the crowds and into the tiny supermarket, puzzled by the behavior. “What’s going on?” she asked the same clerk who always handled her shopping.
He barely glanced up as he jammed prices into his ancient, typewriter-like cash register. “Storm’s moving in,” he said. “Better stock up. You don’t want to get stuck out in the woods with nothing for weeks.”
That was exactly what Lenox needed. She could easily grab enough food and spirits to keep herself stocked up. She smiled as she moved down the aisles, loading a cart with bread, canned soups, frozen foods she could toss in the oven, whiskey and wine. Weeks of solitude. What a lucky break.
She knew what the doctor would say. It’s not good to be alone in your grief. You need a support system.
Lenox didn’t care what some crackpot thought. Or anyone else. Everyone thought she needed to talk to someone but all she wanted was to be left alone.
It was one of the reasons she packed up all that her little car could carry and drove until it broke down. It was a turn of good fortune when her car died just down the street from a garage with an old truck parked out front, a For Sale sign on the windshield. And even better fortune when the truck’s owner had a cabin for rent. It was meant to be. So, Lenox stayed.
As she hauled her groceries into the truck’s flatbed, her mind wandered to those first few days in Mountain Ridge.
She’d first arrived in the early morning hours as a heavy fog hung over the sleepy little town. Thick woods pressed in on the single, silent street, and the trees stood in darkness like ancient sentinels. Or demons. Lenox hadn’t been sure if she’d wandered into a haven or a horror.
The wind had grown colder while she’d shopped. It blew her hair free of its tie and whipped it around her face, her cheeks already stinging from the chill. She needed to get on the road before the snow began to fall.
Lenox felt someone watching her.
She looked around but found no eyes on her. Overwhelmed by a sense of dread, her heart began racing and a light sweat broke out on her upper lip despite the freeze in the air.
Quickly, she fumbled for her truck key. It was a testament to her nerves that there were only three keys on the chain.
“Do you know where my mommy is?”
Lenox jumped and swiveled around.
Standing behind her, wedging her between the truck and the neighboring car, was a small boy. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of him before turning to lead and sinking into her gut. His amber curls, the way they fell across his forehead, and his hooded lids reminded her of Jake. Her Jake. There was something in the roundness of the cheeks as well, they were angelic, though this boy’s skin was paler than Jake’s. He wasn’t him. Jake had a way of putting people at ease. He was like sunshine.
This boy turned her blood to ice. There was a darkness about him. Lenox didn’t know why, but he frightened her.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t know your mommy,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
The boy’s head hung low, perhaps with shame. Perhaps he’d wandered away from his mother in one of the stores, knowing he was supposed to stay by her side.
His mother had dressed him oddly, too. His white tunic was out of style by fifty years, if not more.
“Can you help me find my mommy?” the boy asked, his voice betraying no emotion. Small boys who’ve lost their mothers should be afraid, or a little sad. As she pondered this, the boy slowly raised his head.
His entire eyes were black as coals, his face an emotionless void.
She screamed, flinching and hitting her elbow on the side mirror. It’d hurt later, but, for the moment, she was too concerned with getting away. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.” Lenox jammed the correct key in the lock, opened the door, and slid inside.
Before she could close it, a tiny hand clasped her wrist. It was tight. Much too tight. “Please, can I come with you?” the boy begged. “I don’t know where my mommy is. I’m so cold.” His hand felt waxy, gelid.
Dead.
“I…I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Lenox wavered. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and it was freezing. Wouldn’t she want someone to help Jake? Shouldn’t she do something for the child?
But those eyes. Staring into them was like staring into the abyss. The depths of them reached out to seize her soul.
There was something wrong with him.
A banging on the truck’s hood made her jump. Standing in front of her truck was another pallid young man, this one older, much older. He had straight, black hair and skin with the same waxen quality as the little boy still clutching her arm. His hair lay untouched by the wind, as did his outdated clothes, though it continued to gail. The two were clearly together.
“Please. Let us come with you,” the little boy insisted. “We’re so cold.”
The dead stare in the older boy’s eyes released Lenox from her hesitation: there was malice in his manner, and she no longer felt sorry for them. A quick slap freed her from the little boy’s hold.
“No, get the hell away from me!”
Lenox slammed her truck door and fired the engine. It whined in protest as she threw it in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. She took a fearful look in the rearview mirror as she drove away.
The two boys stood in the middle of the busy street holding hands, ignoring the angry honks as traffic swerved around them, staring at her truck as it disappeared over the hill.
* * *
The cabin felt more like a sanctuary than ever after that. Lenox locked the door for the first time since moving in. She checked every paint-crusted window. They were tightly secured, and—in some cases—rusted in place.
There was a hallway closet full of blankets that Lenox refused to use because they were covered in dust and smelled like moth balls, but they worked well as supplemental curtains. No one could glance through her windows with heavy wool covering the glass.
She felt calmer and a little embarrassed. It seemed silly in the aftermath, with the safety of a locked door and the miles between the cabin and town, to be so afraid of two young boys looking for their mother.
As for the black eyes, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d hallucinated. How many times had she seen Jake standing in her bedroom doorway, or heard him whisper for her to wake up?
The younger one had looked so much like him. Those amber curls. She could still feel the feathery softness of Jake’s between her fingers. They were the same color as Jake’s, the only difference being that Jake’s were like gemstones catching the sun, and that boy’s were like gemstones beneath the full moon. Cold.
It was little wonder she’d reacted so poorly. She came to Mountain Ridge to escape the painful memories, but they’d followed her with brutal reminders and doppelgängers.
By the time the sun set, snow was falling in thick, wet clumps. The ground was losing its hold against the storm and became more white than yellow-green with every passing moment. She stopped peering past the blankets and pulled herself away from the windows. Exhaustion set in, deep at her core. She needed sleep.
Lenox built a fire in the hearth and eased into the chair before it, listening intently as the wind reached a wrathful crescendo. She might need more blankets before the night was through, foul-smelling and filthy as they were.
* * *
She felt the dream coming to its inevitable conclusion: the agonizing seconds she relived the worst moment of her life.
Lenox watched through the front window as Jake played on the lawn. The basketball bounced too high, slipping out of reach. It was his pride and joy, that basketball. He asked for just one thing for his sixth birthday, and, for a split second, he stood there watching as it rolled to the end of the yard and over the curb. Lenox knew she would never reach him in time, never stop him in time.
It didn’t matter. She spent this part of the dream running in place anyway, trying to stop an event she could never alter.
Only, the dream changed.
She was in the cabin. A light tapping at the window above woke her. She stirred, groggy, trying to shake sleep, nightmares, and spirits from her brain, trying to make sense of the sound. The tapping came again, a quiet knocking. She almost mistook it for a branch against the windowpane, but there were no trees that close to the house.
Then came the voice.
“Mommy?” the little boy called. “Mommy, it’s Jake. Can I come in? I’m cold.”
Lenox rushed out of bed to yank the curtain back.
There, outside the window, was her little boy. Soft curls clung to his forehead, damp with snowflakes. He was shivering from head to toe. He kept his chin tucked tight against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, trying to keep in what little warmth his small body could produce.
“Jakey?” Lenox cried. “What are you doing out there?”
“I’m cold, Mommy, but I can’t come in unless you say it’s okay.”
Jake met Lenox’s gaze.
His face was inhuman, his pallid skin otherworldly. An alien mimicry of human emotions twisted his features. His lip quivered. Lenox couldn’t stop staring at his eyes.
Black. They were black as death.
* * *
Lenox jerked awake, choking on a scream.
Something heavy hit the floor and rolled away, clinking against the corner of the limestone fireplace. Hair clung to her damp forehead. She shoved it away and rubbed her face. Her hand pressed against her mouth as though holding in the screams she desperately wanted to release. She stared into the dwindling fire, allowing their warmth to burn out the nightmarish freeze inside her mind.
Slowly, she sat forward, elbows on her knees, and let her head fall into her hands. The safety and security she’d felt that afternoon was gone. How could the cabin be a sanctuary when she was never alone? Not when her thoughts were still with her. Not when her memories followed her no matter how far she ran.
The whiskey bottle lay against the fireplace, sparkling in the dim light like the devil’s grin. The taste of bitter spirits and sleep had dried out her mouth, and her body begged for water, but that citrine glow, like a taunting wink, was so alluring. Too alluring. Lenox snatched it off the ground.
Her sweet Jake, reduced to a monster by her subconscious.
A shiver went up her spine. The bottle was at her lips. The sting of cheap bourbon warmed her insides as it turned her stomach sour, but it burned away the cobwebs from her mind and the ache from her heart. Lenox tucked it into the cushion next to her.
The flames were dying out, the embers weren’t long to follow, and Lenox trembled. The temperature had dropped drastically as she slept. Her eyes scanned the blanketed window. The wood sat in a neat pile just outside the door but it was already dark. Too dark to step outside.
Lenox stood slowly. The window seemed to watch her as she moved. It waited for her patiently. Maybe she was back in the dream, always running, but never moving. The minutes ticked by but each one was an hour. A pounding began in her chest as she stared at the window. Her nerves were on edge, and she couldn’t explain why. The pane grew further away as she reached for it. Her fingers trembled in anticipation.
Rough, woolen fabric grazed her fingers at last. She gripped it gingerly, easing it back with bated breath. Virgin snow, blueish purple in the darkness of night, came into view.
BONG.
Lenox jumped and spun around, her hand falling away from the blanket. Another bong rang through the cabin.
“That damn clock,” she hissed. Across the room, an ancient grandfather clock chimed out the hour. “It’s only six o’clock?” Lenox whispered in confusion. It was so dark out. She’d watched the sun set.
Lenox rolled her eyes as the clock finished its boisterous song. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she hurried outside to gather an armful of wood. She left the door open wide. The temperature would drop further, but she felt an irrational need for a quick re-entry.
The hair stood on the back of her neck. Her body tensed, responding to a threat she couldn’t identify. She felt exposed, vulnerable, like the forest at her back crept ever closer, ready to devour her. Apprehension burrowed through her gut, hollowing her out. Her limbs twitched with the urge to flee, to hide beneath the blankets of her bed like a child.
She turned, gaze roving over the trees. Shadows crawled and stretched in her vision. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing the illusions to vanish. When she opened them, she was alone in the night.
Except for one small shape, peeking from behind a tree, almost too far to see. Lenox squinted, craning her neck to force it into focus. It almost looked like—but how had they found her?
It looked like a small child.
Lenox froze. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine like melted snow, cold as ice and chilling. No amount of rationalization could convince her she was imagining it. With a jerky, awkward pirouette, she ran for the door. The porch was slick from the storm, and she fell through the door, splitting her lip on the logs in her arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she scrambled to her feet, sensing that tiny, dead grasp closing in. The door fought against the wind as she tossed the logs unceremoniously to the floor and pushed it shut. Panic took hold as the deadbolt slid home.
Her chest ached as she started to hyperventilate.
She rushed to the kitchen sink, trying to breathe. She snatched a cup from the dish drainer as she turned the small silver handle for the cold water. The facet spluttered and bucked. The pipes creaked and clanked beneath the basin. The storm had done everything it could to freeze the ancient waterlines. The water came out so cold, it froze the air struggling to escape her lungs. She tasted blood from her lip and rust from her cup.
Lenox yanked a tattered dish towel from a drawer and stumbled to the bathroom tucked away in the only bedroom, at the back of the cabin.
The single bulb above the sink washed the cramped space in dim light, giving the dark, wood-paneled room a haunted feeling. The mirror was warped and discolored, spotted brown behind the glass where the reflective coating had chipped away. It worked well enough though.
Lenox stared at herself in concern. Tears, drink, and lack of sleep had left her eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. There was a scratch on her cheek, probably from bark, and dirt coated her face except where the tears had run and where water had dribbled down her chin. Worst of all was the cut on her lip. When she dabbed away the blood, the cut was wide and already turning purple and swelling.
Her stomach flipped with butterflies that hammered so strongly it felt more like crows. Hysteria threatened to overtake her. Her heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest, and she slowly drew in her breath and held it, attempting to calm herself. Her head spun with the effort and lack of oxygen. She exhaled in a gust and squeezed her eyes shut until she was ready to face exposure to the front door again.
She returned to the kitchen, hoping there was some ice left in the small freezer above the antique refrigerator.
She heard the first taps just as she slumped into the armchair.
The fire was completely dead, the room dim with only the table lamp’s weak light. Lenox stared morosely into the hearth, trying to ignore the cold as she pressed the ice pack against her throbbing lip. The logs still laid haphazardly across the floor. She glanced at the clock and gave herself ten minutes to sulk, then she would rebuild the fire.
Something knocked gently on the door.
It was quiet. So quiet, Lenox told herself it wasn’t real.
The door rattled, and the knocking came again. The door rocked against the frame in time with the howling of the wind. She sighed with relief. It was the wind. Just the wind. Maybe it was time to build that fire and take something for the nerves.
The floor creaked as she stood. The window groaned in its frame. The sound was followed by the rap, rap, rap of a single small object hitting glass. Something soft, like a finger.
Lenox didn’t imagine it. She wasn’t dreaming. Fear bubbled inside and her lip ached with the rush of blood. The pain brought on a new emotion, one she hadn’t felt in a long time. Anger.
Lenox spun toward the window. I dare you, she thought, I dare you to do it again.
Rap, rap, rap.
“Mommy?”
The voice was like a knife through her heart.
Jake.
She drifted toward the window. The anger died like the embers of the fire. She felt cold all over. Was it her Jake, or the one from her nightmare?
She drew the curtain back.
The porch was empty.
No pale, black-eyed child greeted her. Jake wasn’t there to beg his way inside. She was alone.
Air escaped her lips in a harsh gust. A watery laugh bubbled up from her throat. She felt like a fool. Lenox dropped her head in relief and despair. Her eyes fell on the snow-blown porch below the frame.
And the small set of footprints outside the window.
* * *
The unpleasant clanging of chimes woke Lenox. They rang so loudly, she felt each one banging at her temples as though the clock were inside her head. She counted six before opening her eyes.
They were crusted with sleep and hard to focus. Was it only six in the morning, or had she slept through the first insistent bongs of the battered old timepiece?
The pounding in her head wasn’t her body’s only complaint. A sharp stabbing demanded attention in her neck, and she couldn’t feel her arm. It didn’t take long to realize it was pinned beneath her, and she sat up with a great deal of effort. A groan escaped her lips as she straightened her stiff neck. Her eyes fell on the flames, still going strong. Somehow, the fire had not only survived the night but thrived.
A stale taste overtook her other senses, and she tried to swallow against the offending flavor, but her mouth was too dry to clear it. It could only be described as old spirits, dried leaves, and ash. Lenox almost choked.
Emotions tickled at the edges of her mind, her heart. The sensation of being desperately lost weighed on her, accompanied by visions of dense woods and burning trees. A half-forgotten childhood fear of shadows played hide and seek with her subconscious. Lenox tensed and shivered to shake away the creeping thoughts. It made her stiff neck pop loudly in the quiet room.
She dragged herself from the chair—that she’d once again slept in—with the intention of drinking as much water as she could.
The early morning hours were melancholy, full of disparaging reveries. The smart thing to do was go back to sleep. That was what Lenox planned, once she rinsed her mouth, and her mind, clean.
The clock caught the firelight on her way to the kitchen, winking at her as she passed. It was an impudent, Good morning to you, said with malice in its clockwork heart. Its constant taunting and demands for attention probably drove the last tenants out of the cabin. Lenox glared before giving the clock a pointed snub. She snickered at herself and paused. Perhaps she’d spent too much time alone.
Lenox stopped dead as the clock left her periphery. There was something not right about it, and it wasn’t its perceived animosity. It was something more sinister. She was afraid to take a second look.
It was six in the morning. A new day. It was a day to forget the one before, the anniversary of the worst day of her life. On the twenty-third of December, Lenox got to pretend that the twenty-second was a bad dream.
So why, then, did that forsaken instrument taunt her? Why did it pretend it was still the twenty-second?
The small window above the kitchen sink sat unassuming and innocent. Lenox hurried to it. The mechanisms on the clock were just stuck. She’d peer around the curtain, and the sun would be rising and she’d laugh at how ridiculous she was all the way to bed.
Her heart pounded as she yanked aside the flannel.
It was dark as pitch outside. It should’ve been nearly sunrise.
She cranked the cold water on and splashed it in her face before risking another look. It remained stubbornly dark outside. She pinched her arm until it turned purple but the sun refused to rise.
Lenox turned on her heel in a daze. Her eyes burned, an early sign of tears. Anguish squirmed in her stomach like snakes in a pit, making it hard to breathe. She recognized the onset of a panic attack. How hadn’t she realized? The nightmares, the voices, the phantom knocking. She left home without so much as a goodbye and drove until she could literally drive no more. It was all building to this moment.
She was broken.
The armchair was suddenly beneath her. The fire was too hot on her skin. It felt prickly and tight. Yet her blood ran cold.
How could she ever be whole again when she’d left all the pieces of herself behind? They were a breadcrumb trail through the trees, now scattered and buried in snow. She’d never find them again. Tears fell. The clock chimed a new and sorrowful hour.
And the tap, tap, tapping joined the tune.
* * *
The doorknob turned in one direction, then the other. It shook quietly—almost sadly—in its frame. Another round of tapping broke the silence left by the maddening clock. Lenox stared at the door. Her heart fractured with every knock. Her mind shattered a little more with every turn of the handle.
“Go away, Jakey,” she whimpered. “You aren’t real.”
The knocking persisted, this time a little louder, a little more frantic.
She stood and took a step towards the door. “Damn it, Jake,” she screamed, feeling completely unhinged. “Go away! You’re dead! You can’t be here. Do you hear me?” Her voice cracked. “You’re dead, Jake. Leave me alone!”
Lenox began to sob as the door shook violently in its frame. The knob turned aggressively, clicking like ravenous insects desperate to devour flesh.
“You’re dead!” Her shoulders drooped, and with them her last vestiges of strength. “You’re dead, and it’s my fault.”
The door fell still.
“Jake?”
Lenox took another step towards the door. Butterflies fluttered painfully in her chest. Every nerve in her body begged for her to run but there was nowhere to go. Not anymore. The truth had caught up to her, and it was time to face it.
Jake was gone, and it was her fault.
The knob was cold but she didn’t flinch. Slowly, Lenox unlocked the door. It glided open without a sound. The arctic breeze barely registered against her skin. She was already numb.
There, standing on the porch, was the little boy with the cold amber curls. Her heartbeat faltered as moonlight danced in his gemstone locks. It stopped as the older boy stepped into the frame and took the small one by the hand.
They smiled in unison. Their dead, black eyes empty, their grins predatory and terrifying. Neither spoke.
“What are you doing here?” Lenox asked. “How did you find me?”
“Can we come in?” the little boy asked. “It’s so cold.”
The words hit Lenox like a punch to the chest. Hadn’t Jake said the same thing in her dream? He was so cold. This same boy had complained about it when she’d first met him.
Understanding dawned on her and the boy’s smile widened.
“Why are you here?” she asked again. “What do you want from me?”
“We want to help you,” the older boy said.
“Can we come in?” The little boy reached for Lenox. Her eyes fell to it, entranced by the dark blue lines that ran along the pale, waxy skin. “Aren’t you ready for winter to pass?”
The cabin melted away, the snow with it. Lenox saw herself happy again for the first time in a long while. She felt alive again. She couldn’t remember what had made her so unhappy. A nagging memory poked weakly at the back of her mind, something small and cold, something that she used to know, something that she never wanted to know again.
And so, it disappeared.
Warmth enveloped her and a blissful smile spread across her face.
She was at peace.
Her vision cleared and she was back at the cabin door. The children were watching her. She stared into their lifeless eyes and knew they could give her the peace she sought. All she had to do was invite them in.
Lenox reached out and took the little boy by the hand. “Come in, won’t you?” Lenox’s voice sounded strange in her own ears. Empty. As though she were talking in her sleep. “It’s so cold outside.”
The little boy’s hand felt soft and sweet in hers. Lenox remembered summer days when she and Jake would walk through the park holding hands. He loved to feed the ducks. She smiled as his little voice rang through her memories with authority.
“No! We can’t feed the ducks bread. It’s not good for them. My teacher says to give them wild bird seed.” Lenox had laughed at how grown up he sounded. She agreed, though, and they stopped at the pet store on the way to the park.
She smiled down at the little head of curls at her side. Not the sunlit curls of her memories, but sweet moonlit ones.
He could be her Jake, for a little while.
“Come stand by the fire, li’l man,” Lenox said. “You must be freezing.” She brought him before the hearth and knelt. “How ‘bout some hot chocolate? I have your favorite.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. He gave her a peculiar look. She didn’t remember Jake ever looking at her like that before.
“Are you sure? You never turn down chocolate and marshmallows.” Lenox stood and stared at him, perplexed. Something was wrong with Jake.
Icy breath grazed her neck.
Lenox jumped and turned.
The older boy. She’d forgotten about him. He stood mere inches from her, his blank face as menacing as the day he’d blocked her truck. She pushed Jake behind her, glancing down to see if he was frightened, and the illusion shattered.
It wasn’t her Jake. It had never been.
With a tight grip on her head, the older boy forced her gaze back to him. He stared into her eyes. “It’s time that winter passed,” he said. “We’re here to help you. Help you forget.”
“Forget what?”
The little boy squeezed her hand as if to reassure her. Lenox jerked free of the older boy and backed into the hearth. Her free hand brushed the iron poker she used to stoke the fire.
“Everything, Mommy,” the little boy said. He gave her a sweet smile, devilishly sweet.
Lenox’s hand closed tight around the iron handle.
She swung, striking the older boy in the ribs. He fell into the armchair with an angry grunt.
Lenox shrunk away from the smaller child and held the poker at arms’ length, a warning for them to stay away.
“Enough,” the older boy growled. “We’re only here to help. To give you peace.”
“I don’t want your help,” Lenox shouted. “Stay the hell away from me!”
He regained his composure and moved in on her. The little boy did the same. Lenox had nowhere to run; the hearth was at her back and the boys were blocking her escape to the door. Dread, the feeling she associated most with the two before her, took hold. She felt as though she might collapse.
“It’s time to come in out of the cold, Lenox.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile. It was ugly and frightening. Inhuman. Her stomach soured.
“Come inside, Mommy.” The little boy reached out. “It’s too cold.”
Lenox looked from one boy to the other. The fire crackled. She turned to the flames, to the logs blackening to ash, the burning embers. What she saw was destruction. And salvation.
“You’re too cold?” she asked quietly. She didn’t wait for a reply.
She jammed the poker in the flames and ripped the logs from the grate. They scattered across the floor, leaving tiny, blossoming flames along the threadbare rug. The tweed armchair went up as though doused in gasoline.
The entire cabin was a tinderbox.
Grotesque howls of protest rent the air. The demons’ faces contorted with rage.
Lenox curled in on herself and ran, shouldering the older boy aside. She didn’t stop until she crossed the threshold and her feet hit the snow.
Already the sky was choked with black smoke. The acrid smell made her head spin. Her mouth was cured in it. Old spirits, dried leaves, and ash.
More screams ripped through the night; angry, violent screams. Coming from inside the cabin, and inside her head. She chanced a look back.
Shadows made chase. The boys were free, and they were coming.
Lenox ran until her lungs were ready to burst. She ran until snow soaked through her shoes and into her socks and she could no longer feel her toes. She ran until she ran out of forest to run through. The lake stopped her, and she collapsed on the frozen ground. Fog washed over her.
If the boys wanted her, they could have her. She had done all she could.
Lenox looked up at the night sky. The twenty-second was the worst day of her life, and now it would be the last. What a fitting end. Lenox closed her eyes, and as she did, Jake came to her. His small hand reached for her.
Lenox smiled.
I’m coming, Jake.
* * *
Nothing was left but a smoldering pile of rubble. A group of hunters saw the smoke from miles off as the sun was coming up, and headed into town for help, but it wasn’t fast enough for the Crest County Fire Department to save the cabin. It was a blessing no one was inside at the time. The sheriff was glad of that.
An old Chevy pulled up the drive as the sheriff saw the ambulance off. They were lucky to find the girl passed out by the lake before she suffered more severe frostbite, or worse, hypothermia. As it was, she had a long recovery ahead of her. The sheriff couldn’t fathom what went through her head, running into the woods like that after the storm. If she’d stayed by the cabin, the fire would have at least kept her warm.
She hadn’t said a word since they found her. Shock, according to the paramedics.
An old man climbed out of the Chevy. He stretched his back, as though the twenty-minute drive was too much for his aching bones, and scratched at the few wisps of hair on his head.
“Sorry about your cabin,” the sheriff called when he got close enough.
“Yeah, me too,” the old man said. He reached out to shake the sheriff’s hand. “I’m Mr. Owens.”
The sheriff took his hand. “Sheriff Daniels.”
“To be honest, I was ready to sell and move down south. These old joints can’t take the harsh winters anymore.” Mr. Owens looked at the cabin and shook his head.
“Had a buyer all lined up. ‘Course, when I heard that girl had lost her boy, and so young too, it didn’t feel right running her off. I offered to waive the closing costs if the buyer would hold off until she was ready to move on.”
Sheriff Daniels rubbed the back of his neck. “Lenox Abernathy never had a son. I don’t know what gave you that idea.”
Mr. Owens gave the sheriff a strange look. “Agnes, down at the diner. Lenox told her so herself.”
“Mr. Owens, Lenox disappeared from Flagstaff after a tragic accident involving a young boy she used to babysit.” Sheriff Daniels motioned for him to follow as he walked to his cruiser. From the passenger seat, he pulled out a missing person’s flier. There, in the center of the flier, was a black and white photo of Lenox.
“She was pulling up to the boy’s house when the boy ran out into the road. The mother saw the whole thing from the front window. Never forgave Lenox. It destroyed the poor girl, apparently. The detective who was looking for her said she loved Jake Anderson like her own flesh and blood.” The sheriff frowned.
“Is she gonna be okay?” Mr. Owens looked like he might tear up.
“Physically? Sure.”
* * *
Sheriff Daniels was the last to leave the scene. The cabin was nothing but a pile of blackened rubble and wisps of smoke. He thought again about Lenox Abernathy as he drove down the narrow driveway. He told Mr. Owens that she would be okay, physically, but could the doctors ever repair the damage that had been done mentally? Tragedy had a way of haunting people, of seeping into their bones like a winter frost. It found them no matter where they hid.
He looked back at the cabin one last time before it passed out of sight. The cold would swallow it up now, as well. Sheriff Daniels turned up the heating as a chill took hold. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, like dread. He pressed a little harder on the gas.
* * *
At the ash and ruins of the cabin, two boys watched as the sheriff drove away.