The first thing I noticed was the absolute, suffocating silence of the mountain, broken only by the howl of a rising blizzard. The second was the blood.
Small, stark drops of crimson stained the pristine snow leading up to the porch of the Blackwood Mountain cabin—the sanctuary my wife, Mara, had built, and the place she had died eleven months ago. I killed the engine of my truck, the heater’s hum dying with it, and stepped out into the biting, sub-zero wind.
Two little girls stood on the wraparound deck, watching me as if I were an executioner sent to decide their fate. They were barefoot. Their lips were a terrifying shade of translucent blue, and in their trembling, frostbitten hands, they gripped pieces of stale, rock-hard bread.
“Where are your shoes?” I asked, my voice cracking against the wind.
The twins looked to be about seven, maybe eight. They shared the same raven-black hair, the same sunken, hollow cheeks that spoke of days without a proper meal. The older-looking one pulled her sister behind her, shielding her with her own frail body.
“Mom said not to talk to strangers,” she whispered, her teeth chattering so violently I could hear the rhythmic clicking over the gale.
A cold dread coiled in my gut, heavier than the grief I had carried for nearly a year. “This is my house.”
The braver child tilted her head, her dark eyes studying the lines of my face. “Are you Daniel?”
My chest tightened, feeling as if a fault line had cracked open right through my ribs. Only one person had ever called me Daniel with that specific, hopeful cadence in this isolated place.
“Yes,” I managed to say. “I’m Daniel.”
The smaller twin collapsed against her sister, a weak sob escaping her throat. “Aunt Mara said you would come.”
I didn’t ask another question. I scooped them both into my arms. They weighed next to nothing, their bodies feeling like hollow bird bones wrapped in ice-cold skin. As I carried them over the threshold, I realized the smaller one—Rose, I would soon learn—was radiating unnatural heat beneath the freezing surface of her skin. She wasn’t just cold; she was burning with a severe fever. Her breathing was a wet, shallow rattle. Pneumonia. It was setting in fast.
The interior of the cabin, once a haven of warmth and cedar wood, felt like a tomb. The air was stagnant, smelling of damp dust and sheer panic. Every family photograph had been violently torn from the walls, leaving behind pale rectangles on the wood. The pantry had been ransacked, its shelves completely barren save for mouse droppings. Sofa cushions were sliced open, white stuffing scattered like indoor snow. Floorboards had been pried up with a crowbar.
