And so, we come to the last part in my series, where we will leave any pretense of academic results and delve deep into personal experience. This is, after all, a part about putting medieval slinging into practice, and since I was the one putting it into practice, it will lack what we call statistical significance.

About me

The first topic would be the man behind the sling.
To keep this short and as unlike YouTube face reveal as possible, the relevant facts are these:

• I live in central Europe
• I’ve been active in local re-enactment scene for about 10 years
• place of choice for re-enactment is Kingdom of Hungary
• time of choice is 1300, right as the Arpad interregnum ends
• I’ve been slinging daily for three months, as of February 2021

It‘s really hard, you guys

This is the first thing that struck me. I‘ve read about how hard slinging is, so I was reasonably prepared, but it was still a little surprising to see just how bad the skill floor for a sling is.
It took about a month of daily practice to get to a point where I was comfortable enough in my skills to want to use it anywhere near other people, like an audience - we’ll get to that.
The most shocking thing was probably the sheer difference between where bow and crossbow start versus that of a sling, which is why this is a chapter of its own.
The second thing that struck me was both how physically demanding it was and at the same time was not. You’d expect that slinging somewhat large rocks would put something of a strain on your arm, but it turns out that muscles are the least of your problems – you will feel the burn, but it’s not that bad.
The strain on your joints, on the other hand, specifically wrist and elbow, is considerable, about on par with full-speed sword fighting. Which is somewhat apt, as both are about imparting circular motion to objects at their base level, and a sling with a baseball ball loaded in it is not that far in weight and weight distribution from a mace. It’s not a crippling strain, but it is pretty noticeable over an hour-long session, and if you go from sitting at your computer straight into slinging rocks without warm-up, you will have a bad time.
Comparing these two levels of strain to bow and crossbow is interesting as well. A crossbow has very little strain in any fashion associated with it – maybe if you have a heavy direct draw or stirrup crossbow. A bow, on the other hand, is physically much more demanding – the joint strain is about on par with sling, albeit in different direction, but the demand on your physicality is much higher.
I have a 60 lbs bow and if I shoot it rapidly, I can get to about 20-30 shots before I have to stop for a bit. I’m not sure where my sling limit is at, but it’s well over a hundred at least, which makes sense since I’m not faux-lifting a 30-kilo weight every time I sling a rock.

Choice of ammunition

I’ve used rocks of varied sizes, tennis balls and baseball balls.
For practice, use baseball balls, no contest. Tennis balls are a tad too light to give you proper feedback when you swing a sling around, and it’s even worse with a staff slings. They are also closer to medieval-size rocks in weight, which is important if you want to reconstruct medieval slinging with any degree of accuracy.
Rocks are heavier than baseball balls, but you can’t use them everywhere. They are also a pretty scary ammunition type, since you start at a rock the size of a tennis ball and go up from there, to keep things period-accurate.
I managed to fumble one rock - slightly smaller than my fist - a bit higher than I wanted to and it crashed through a tree branch a finger thick without significantly deviating from its path. I absolutely believe the disappearing rabbit story that is immortalized on slinging.org forum.
As for incendiaries, I haven’t done any experimenting in that area. I might eventually, but not before I manage to set something up with firemen and after I check what the legality of various mixtures is around here. Don’t hold your breath.
That said, I do wonder if making a chain mail sling would be viable for use with these. Worst case scenario, I’d end up an owner of something as cool as chain mail sling.

Picking your targets

This is the big one, the one that eludes pretty much everyone who doesn’t actually go out there and sling.
There are plenty of references to supremely accurate slingers out there, and many have taken that to mean it’s difficult but not that difficult to match a bow in accuracy.
That is not the case.
Looking at David and Goliath, many take it as a story of accurate slinging, but let’s compare that to Robin Hood or William Tell.
To showcase Robin Hood being accurate, he splits his arrow in two. Only he doesn’t, because that’s a product of mistranslation from a time when longbow was no longer used of older texts, he instead splits a small wooden stick, about a thumb’s width, in two.
William Tell’s apple shot is, in contrast, actually contemporary, and Tell was so unsure of being able to make it he prepared a second bolt to assassinate the guy who ordered him to do it if he failed. It bears mentioning these are medieval apples, and significantly smaller than what you can find in Tesco these days – about the size of a tennis ball, if that.
David, on the other hand, needs divine help just to shoot a guy in the face.
The difference in what is considered an amazing shot is pretty telling:

• crossbow: 5 cm
• bow: under 2 cm
• sling: 10-20 cm

This seems to indicate that sling’s angle of dispersion is possibly twice or more of that of a bow or crossbow. If anyone has some solid datasets for this, I’d be very interested in compiling them and then contrasting them with traditional archery competitions.
Either way, this means sling can’t pick weak spots in armor in most hands, while bow and crossbow can – and that starts to be especially important in 1300 when coat of plates begins to spread and face stops being uncovered, even on some infantrymen, thanks to visor-ed helmets.

You will need two styles

One underhand and one overhand.
While it could be argued that these two are necessary to get you better odds of hitting uncovered bits of someone with a shield – underhand to hit shins or generally under the shield, and overhand to hit chest from above – these only apply at a relatively short distance, about 15-20 meters or less.
While you can theoretically sling at people that close, it’s generally a bad idea to do so, since they have swords, axes and maces in hand and don’t like you, and 20 meters is not a very long distance to sprint. You may get a guy, but not his five friends, and that assumes you hit and hit well enough to immediately drop them.
The real reason is your slinging platform. If you are in a shield wall, you can easily ask the guy in front of you to make a small gap to underhand through with no risk of hitting anyone, and with some shields (e.g. “viking” round shields with gaps under them, heather shields and so on), that gap making may not even be necessary.
If you are in front rank of a shield wall, you may even be able to sling without moving your slinging hand in front of a shield, and into the line of fire.
Overhand slinging, on the other hand, is for slinging from a wall – low release point of underhand makes it impractical at best. It doesn’t let you be in a tight formation, though, but we already covered that in part 2.
You could, in theory, use it to sling from the back rows, like a bow or crossbow, but you need to be very confident in your ability to not hit your friends, and your friends need to be very confident in said ability as well. You can sometimes solve this issue with the right terrain elevation, but beware return fire if you do that.
Of these two, overhand is probably more important, since defending the walls is when your sword and spear are useless initially, and angling overhand up is easier than angling underhand down. The downward angle you can achieve with overhand release is surprisingly steep, the one I managed with a figure eight style was a slope of about 70 degrees.
That said, you’re not a medieval soldier, you’re a hobbyist slinger. Learn one of each, because why not? Your life doesn’t depend on it these days.
As for what specific overhand style, they all have their good and bad bits. Helicopter lets you only poke your head and hand out, figure eight gets you faster rate of fire and so on. The differences are so small they probably don’t really matter outside of highly specific and therefore rare situations.

What you wear is what you sling in

These few chapters will be all about how different things you may or may not wear affect your slinging – in general, the effects are surprisingly small.
That said, especially when it comes to armor, you must be sure that the thing you are testing is accurate enough to period gear, rather than just some stainless steel helmet you bought online. Not only are there differences in quality and amount of protection, the cut of the things actually matters.
Most period armor, be it a helmet, chain shirt, gambeson or plate, was tailored to a specific individual, because you need to make it by hand anyway, so you might as well. The munitions-grade, low-quality stuff was not as well made, but unlike modern “reproductions”, the corners that were cut on it weren’t ones that were critical to functionality.
What I’m trying to say is that no, you can’t really sling in mail and gambeson ensemble that is so poorly fitted you can’t raise your arms above head level – but that is a fault of the reproduction, not of the actual medieval armor. And these traps are everywhere: helmets that don’t fit right and reduce your vision to nothing, shields that are far too heavy or far too light, or fitted with improper grips, plate mittens that don’t overlap in the right direction and so on.
So, before you test some theory, make sure your testing props are the right ones. Okay, rant over, on to the fun.

Medieval clothing

Same as slinging in modern clothing. There are details that differ, sure, but they are so minor (sweat absorption, thickness of fabric, inner and outer clothes as opposed to just a shirt) they don’t really matter.
Just about the only exception to that are some of the fancier clothes, usually for nobility, that have extremely wide sleeves. They are not for slinging in, but then and again, they are not for doing anything in – except looking imposing – so we can safely ignore them.
There is a final addendum – those among you who know medieval clothes are already aware, but… cloaks. They are not for moving in, fighting in or doing anything in. You can do so in a pinch, but you’d be better off to discard said cloak.
Cloaks are traveling clothes meant as winter jackets and raincoats, and occasionally as ceremonial garb. Use them outside of that, and you will have a bad time.
Also, hoods are fine for slinging in, but they aren’t worn the way you think they are where they cover your peripheral vision.

Gloves

First thing that needs to be said is that the period use of gloves to not damage your hands by splinters or labor wasn’t a thing. Most of the people did manual labor, and therefore had leathery hands – you can see those even today with some professions – and those don’t need gloves as much as we do. Early medieval period reenactors should be especially vigilant in this, mail mittens weren’t a thing yet and leather gloves were exception, not the norm, to wear in battle.
That said, some mercy is to be extended to reenactors, because ungloved hands aren’t particularly safe from blisters and swords, but we must keep in mind it’s a modern concession to health, not a period practice.
There is no drop in accuracy or speed when wearing leather gloves, and the effects of plate gauntlets are minor at best. The worst issue is that some of the plate gauntlet models have overlapping plates that could snag your finger loop a little, and that’s a minor issue, easily fixed.
That said, there are some gloves that would get in the way – integral mail and padded mittens have bits hanging off of your hand even when you slip your hand out of them, and mittens in general usually don’t let you sling at all.

Shields

It is possible to do, you can even reload your sling without exposing any of your bits to the enemy. That said, your rate of fire will suffer fiercely.
What’s worse, it affects your form. You can’t step out and you have to have your left arm out there, either stretched out or braced against your chest (former for lighter shields, latter for heavier ones), statically – if you do not do this, you will be not covered by a shield for some periods of time, while being shot at. All of it will mess with your form.
This is where underhand comes in really handy – unless you step during it, you can do all of the motions behind the shield with almost no effort.
From personal experience, underhand felt a little off, but was serviceable in its accuracy, figure eight suffered quite a bit and had the added issue of a different startup motion, since shield was in the way. The figure eight style I use also has my hand moving down and right to left on release – right to where the shield is if I have my shield hand stretched out. All of these factors were solvable by making slight modification to where I held the shield or how I moved the sling, but they did have to be solved.
How much a shield throws you also depends on the shield, a buckler was almost unnoticeable, a heather shield, not so much.
Still, if you are being shot at by disagreeable crossbowmen over yonder, these are all known as details. At most, you will be more likely to choose underhand as your style of choice.

Helmets

I have tested this in great helm – specifically a replica of Bolzano great helm – and a generic replica of a kettle hat. Both had a padded cap, a crevelliere/skull cap and a mail coif under them, in total clocking at 7 kg with great helmet and about 6 kg with the kettle hat.
And I found out… that helmet doesn’t really matter. This was especially surprising with my kettle hat, because it has a pretty wide brim, but it didn’t even interfere with my figure eight.
That said, if you already know how to sling, then helmets may well interfere with your style. I’ve seen some videos of slingers that moved their hands around what would be helmet-occupied space, and some of you lean quite far forward on release – something that is inadvisable with 7 kilograms of steel on your head.
There is also increased strain on muscles that attach your neck to your back. This doesn’t even require you to sling, and can lead to hell of a migraine if you decide to suddenly start to wear a heavy hat without getting used to it. I noticed that my accuracy fell off because of this at about 30 minutes initially, but I’ve gotten to about an hour by now.
If your helmet happens to have a narrow visor, such as a great helmet, you will also not be able to track the start of your projectile’s path. This didn’t affect my accuracy, it was just a bit disconcerting at first – then I got used to it and it was business as usual.
All in all, if you are someone who has trained in helmets, you will have no significant problems when slinging in them. About the only exceptions to this are helmets with heraldic figures (e.g. lion, tower) on top of them, but those are for tournaments – what on Earth are you doing slinging in them? Unscrew that lion and put the poor thing down.
And as an aside, if you are outside in cold weather and move around, your breath condenses on the brim of your kettle hat helmet or on your face-plate, creating a mini-rain eventually. This has absolutely nothing to do with slinging, it’s just a neat detail.

Armor

The armor tested was thick, standalone gambeson (~3-4 cm thick), padded legs with plate knees and helmets described above. I wasn’t able to do tests in chain mail, once the pandemic situation gets resolved and I will be able to see people I want to make it, I will let you know how it went. I do have experience with wearing chain mail, though, it’s just that I don’t currently have easy access to one.
With that in mind, the effect of armor is noticeable, but not drastic. Armor is heavy, though not as heavy as some movies, books and – what’s worse – schoolbooks would have you believe. I don’t know who put the thing about 70 kilos of armor at Lechfeld into our history schoolbooks, but I wish to yell at them, and possibly make them wear 70 kilos of armor by layering four chain shirts over them.
Accuracy of slinging, whether staff or standard sling, remained unaffected, what was slightly lowered was the exit velocity of the projectile. No matter what you do, fact of the matter is you are wearing added weight on your arm, and that will slow you down.
The effect of armor slowing you down on account of having to bend it at the joints was almost unnoticeable – I attribute that entirely to having a very good replica armor, I have no doubt that there are replicas that would affect you badly out there – I have owned some of those in the past.

The curious case of towel slings

After testing some of them, I’ve found out a few things about these emergency measure slings.
First of all, they are not as good as your standard slings, but they are good enough. The area where they are slightly lacking is, to the surprise of no one, accuracy.
The reason for this can be twofold.
First issue is the width of the towel, make it too wide and the sling releases kinda late – this can be fixed with making sure your towel is no wider than diameter of projectile plus about one half.
The other and harder to solve issue is that of weight. The release end of the sling is, on the more chunky sling models, usually made thinner as it goes forward – you could do this on towel sling, but even if you do, you will still need quite a substantial amount of fabric and that means more weight.
That means your projectile may well get tangled into it.
However, I discovered that the larger and heavier the projectile gets, the less this matters. If this finding holds up to repeat tests (feel free to do them and share the results), we just found out the exact reason why you don’t see towel slings in pre-medieval era: they would be awful to use with lead shot and small rocks that were used at the time.
Another possible solution, or at least mitigation, is to twist the release cord. Clearly, there is a lot of room here for further discoveries, and should I run some tests, I will keep you posted.

Staff slings

Staff slings are terrifying.
I don’t have anything that would allow me to accurately measure exit velocity of a projectile, but by sound and feeling, I estimate that staff sling projectiles I release are about three times faster than those I release from a sling. My standard sling is 75 cm, my staff is 26 cm sling, 91 cm staff (which is about the shortest you can make them) and hook that is 45 degree angle with the same diameter as the staff, 2,5 cm.
Or to put it another way: I had a pouch sling I was using for a month before the leather was worn through and broke. I made a staff sling with a pouch from the same leather – it broke on my tenth shot.
Part of this is because I’ve been fencing with swords for a decade and a half, so my swing is pretty damn good, while my slinging is still not where it should be, but still.
The crucial thing to realize is that the place where I am right now – good at sword swinging, mediocre at slinging – is where everyone without significant prior slinging experience would be in a medieval army. This means a staff sling is an excellent device to use for those without much slinging experience if accuracy isn’t as important as putting rocks out there.
That said, accuracy of a staff sling is a difficult matter. You can regulate speed of your swing to a degree and a different starting guard will give you different arcs with similar swing speeds (tested with low Vom Tag, high Vom Tag and behind the head Posta di Donna), but the ability to control your shot is nowhere near that of a standard sling.
What’s worse, the distance and the arc also depend on the shape of the staff and length of sling, something which you can’t change easily. I tried using slip knots, but they were unable to withstand forces of a full-power swing.
And a final nail to the coffin of accuracy is that the staff sling’s release angle changes with the projectile weight. When I switched from a baseball ball to a tennis ball, tennis ball released about 5-10 degrees sooner.
On the positive side, once the staff sling is calibrated, i.e. the sling lengths are set, there is not much you can do to screw up your shot. I handed my staff sling to a friend of mine and he managed to achieve accuracy similar to mine on his first swing.
Another good thing about these is that the angle of release can be anything you please, up to and including almost straight down – you could question if you really need a staff sling to hurl stone on tops of heads of people under a wall, but you can do it if you want to.
This also means that the idea I had in part one, the one about having a sling you could use as a stand alone as well as tie it to a staff is probably bust. You’d have little reason to do so if you are a skilled slinger, and you’d have to carefully make sure you have the right lengths of staff and sling, which seems like more hassle than it’s worth.

Slinging in battle

There are three skills you need in battle that are rarely trained, be it with slings or with other ranged weapons.
First is rate of fire, and to be more precise, rate of fire under specific conditions. Maybe you are a slinger with a shield in the front ranks, maybe you have a staff sling and squat up and down to pop up over the top of a wall and pelt the besiegers – all of these have specific bits to them that make them different from just standing at a range and going at it.
I don’t think people would necessarily train for these back in the day, but they would gain experience in the field and pass on tips and tricks – tips and tricks they then failed to write down and pass to us. Training for these circumstances is the only way to glimpse what slinging in them may have looked like.
Second skill is shooting at moving targets – often at targets running straight at you. This is where underhand is superior to overhand styles, since its lower release point means it will intersect more space that can potentially be occupied by a human (especially in a shield wall 10 people wide and 3 people deep), as opposed to overhand that flies over people’s heads for a lot of its trajectory.
There are probably several dozen observations about this, style-specific or otherwise, and it’s something that we should keep in mind when discussing military slinging.
Third skill is rapid target acquisition while on the move. Some styles can perhaps be used while running or jogging, others should at least bet rained to be used with as little stop time as possible. Stop running, pick a target at a random distance, hit it, start running again.
As an unofficial fourth skill, we have formation cohesion and situational awareness, these are, however, not specific to slinging and belong to a more general battlefield skill set.

Slinging in re-enactment

As usual, first rule of anything in re-enactment: don’t be an asshole.
That said, I’m operating under local re-enactment rules for steel battles, which are that you should have a gambeson and a good helmet as a bare minimum.
Slings can be very powerful, and even something like a tennis ball can be very bad for you when it hits a face at full speed – that means you need to limit yourself to relatively light ammunition and slow down your release velocity.
Slowing down release speeds should be trivial once you have some practice under your belt. About the only time you can afford to go full blast with your lighter ammo is when all of the enemy opposition happens to be wearing helmets that protect their faces – visor-ed bascinets or great helmets are fine, kettle hats are not, unless they happen to be late German models with visors and bevors.
Ammunition choice is pretty much limited to tennis balls or baked potatoes (potentially other vegetables as well? More research is needed). Former is lighter and can be reused, latter is heavier, can’t be reused and splatters in a manner that threatens people hit with it with some small potential for potato-in-the-eye incidents – and also looks pretty cool from the spectators’ point of view. Both can be painted gray to look like rocks, but even if you don’t, people in the audience will understand why you aren’t pelting each other with actual rocks.
Staff slings represent a category of their own, and when it comes to them, I’m leaning towards not allowing them at all under a certain distance – maybe 30+ meters? We don’t know enough about them to be able to tell, really.
A final note is this – you have an audience when you’re re-enacting, and you must always, always keep in mind that should your sling miss and nail a toddler behind the enemy lines in the head, your ass is on the line. Always watch your backstop, and observe how your ammunition of choice bounces. And only showcase rock slinging if you are confident in your ability to not send it wide.

Final conclusions

And so we come to an end.
This last part was all about testing things in practice, and as far as that goes, it was an unmitigated success. While there are no theories that were overturned and no drastic surprises, there are many details that surfaced, and several theories were confirmed.
The simple sling was, during the medieval period, in the same place bolt-action rifles are today: not entirely useless in a battle, but decidedly obsolete in most applications, with a few niches where it is still the best tool for the job. Fittingly enough, both the medieval sling and the modern bolt-action rifle use larger ammunition than their more common counterparts: assault rifles and bows and crossbows.
Staff sling shared the fate of its brethren, but managed to avoid several deal-breakers of a classic sling – namely, it was a lot easier to use, sacrificing some of its accuracy to accomplish this. The niches of its use remained the same as those of the sling, and it probably reached parity with it: there was about a 50/50 chance that, should a sling be used, it would be the staff variant.

Where to now?

As I have said right at the start, the entire field of slings is under-researched, so there’s a lot of room for improvement.
I have already managed to find some illuminations of mounted sling use, as well as someone who claims his father was able to use it, something that I was very skeptical of at the start. It seems that mounted slingers were perhaps a feature in areas north of the Black Sea – but it is too early to tell.
There are also several new avenues for experimentation open to those of you that want to go for them, be they two-handed slings, relationship between length of staff and length of string in staff slings, comparing staff sling velocities to standard slings or even an almost-entirely unexplored possibilities of towel slings.
Then there is the potential for actual, live tests of slings in reenactment battles, albeit with a wimpier ammunition, that also have potential to reveal a thing or two.

Good bye for now

And that is all for now.
I hope that this series helped you in some way, whether it was in learning something new about your hobby or in giving you a place to start in the unexplored waters of medieval slinging.
I now return to blessed anonymity and will continue to gather data and practice my slinging. Who knows what exact area will strike my fancy next? I’ll keep you posted. (It’s probably gonna be the mystery of mounted slingers, honestly)
Sling you in the next one.

And now, at a slightly slowed pace from previous rounds, we have our second match.
No M1 results yet, obviously, as there are, at the time of this being posted, about five hours left in voting for that! So you need to act quickly if you want to have your impact on a tourney first, wherein two player characters each align with a powerful judge-created ally to fight over the fate of an exploited, defeated sea monster.
Memory:
It was generations ago that Sentient Oona was dug out of the ground in Alltai Basin, and unusually quickly - even back then, they had developed their reputation as almost as standoffish as I am - locals of the AD were taken in by this being, turning it into a local mascot and tourist attraction in a district already full of them. They say it’s an alien… No way it could be, right? But ah, it doesn’t make any difference. The family that controls the area, they’ve never much liked the idea of people trying to get to understand it, study it. It was only by the chance of being there when it was unearthed that I could try.
That thing… It hasn’t done anything yet, but every day, I know it. It plots. It waits. For what, for when, I cannot say… But its power is immense, and I think we’ve only ever seen a fraction.
Ugh, you’re still going to try and capture it? Listen, you’re young. You have your lives ahead of you, all six of you. Do not fuck with that thing… Heh, even that damned Venus knows better than to bother, and she was bold enough to commune with the damn thing. You’d think ten years retreating out here would make a person complacent, but she’s as fiery and stubborn as ever. And even she knows this is a stupid idea. So run back to your uncle before you get hurt. I won’t get any satisfaction out of an I-told-you-s-
Gnnkh-! Don’t be rash, c’mon! This fucking overgrown bug can’t kill me with a trick like- Ugh! I told you idiots to run!
(Credit to CPU_Dragon for the match idea!)
Scenario:
The Black Hill Estate - Morning
Jade, Antlerhead to many, had been on autopilot somewhat in recent days. That last outing to the city had proven to be enough excitement for a few months, even managing to take down some stranger who, since, they had learned was one of the strongest people in the Metropolis. This made them feel…
It didn’t, really, beyond their continued questioning of what compelled them to spare Elliot’s life. Hell, they’d barely even looked at the drive Nova Nascens had left them afterwards, though Jesse and tall sunglasses boy had definitely seemed interested in trying to crack that ever since the self-destructing computer it had been in repaired itself, replenished as all resources in the estate tended to be.
They didn’t care, and the vegan (whatever a vegan was) had said that its encryption was tight enough that even he couldn’t crack it, and Jesse wasn’t here to explain a word of it, so why should they bother looking into it? Waste of time.
They could see the Jackalope they had given Keith Moon, maybe, but that was so far, and the people in the way would shoot them. Waste of time.
Maybe they would have some cereal… Or milk. Or bowl. Perhaps even combine them if they were feeling spicy. Yes… Eating wasn’t a waste of time.
Certainly, the green-clad teenager in an aviator hat seemed to agree, by how he sat on the kitchen counter, drinking Nix’s orange juice, as Jade often did, from one of Cab’s overpriced wine glasses that looked no different from ones you could get at any superstore.
He glanced up, then, tilting his head at Jade. “Home alone, huh? I was wondering who would be here if I waited… it seemed like the most obvious place where there’d be somebody, anyway. Honestly, I’m glad it’s you…”
“What are… You… Doing here?”
“He’s escorting me.” A tense, tired-sounding voice spoke up behind Jade as they had begun to approach Green. Turning around, then, they saw the form of an older woman, one who by gossip was in fact very, very old: Memory Management, a historian of sorts. She snapped, then, at her companion. “We don’t have time for pleasantries, Flying Man, or stealing breakfast. Don’t get comfortable.”
“Got enough time to explain to Jade, right?” Green began downing the juice rapidly.
“Urgh… Eternal children, I swear.” Memory groaned, then, saying quickly, “we were in the area when I received an ‘anonymous tip’ that some idiot was going to mess with Sentient Oona again, and this was the closest place where people like you gathered.”
“I was surprised you wanted to come out here, Memory.”
“I’ve been out this way before,” she answered, “even further, even… Coming here is nothing to me.”
“Sentient… What?” Jade had little interest in Memory’s lore, only wanting to highlight information on that jumbled mess of syllables they were being bothered about. “Explain.”
“Sentient Oona is one of the many ‘cryptids’ of this area,” Memory explained, “a beast of terrible power unearthed quite some time ago, and something I’ve seen generations of idiots revere like some kind of local mascot.”
“I have a few t-shirts!”
“It killed you.”
“You know what they say, right?” Green shrugged, “if an animal attacks you, it’s probably your fault somehow… And anyway, I don’t think of the boys who died back then as ‘us,’ you know?”
“Stop… Getting… Sidetracked.” Jade was getting tense. “What… Do you… Expect me... to do?”
“Right. Not one to waste time…” Memory nodded. “The biggest idiots of all are the ones who think that they can exploit its power, or capture it, or kill it, or contain it… When these things happen, it goes into something of a frenzy, as do its acolytes. In short… It’s going to kill a lot of people, bystanders or just idiots, and nobody is going to give a damn in that town afterwards, if this ‘tip’ is true.”
“Fragile humans… Getting killed?” Jade pondered, then, what had been said there. “Why… Should I… Help...”
Jade thought about it some. Inch, from the few times they were briefly in conversation, seemed to really have it out for Memory for some reason, so they had an excuse to dislike her and want to spite her, but Jade wasn’t sure why from meeting her themselves.
Meanwhile, there weren’t any others home… And of course, Jade didn’t care enough to ask if any of them were near enough to pawn this off to. If they were telling the truth (and they had no reason to think they weren’t…), then refusing to do anything here to… Stop Oona? Maybe?
Anyway, refusing here, when they might have been the only one who could do anything, and when even thinking about fighting this thing gave them this sense of overwhelming dread, frustration, an unnatural unease…
Then what could others do, who couldn’t fight like they did?
“Lead... the way. And... do not… annoy me.”
In a nice convertible - A Rural Road towards Sentient Oona
“You believe in ‘aliens,’ Delacroix?” Two very evil, very white individuals were en route to Sentient Oona themselves, listening to evil music while fresh off a conversation about evil lairs. Mr. Jones had asked the question, and Emilie ‘Dread’ Delacroix responded first with a “hm?” before more silence, contemplative.
“Certainly, I do not doubt the existential status of extraterrestrial beings, not only of the primitive monocellular variety, but also of beings of immense intellect comparable to or perhaps even surpassing humanity’s own… In my own opinion and assessment, it is more absurd to postulate without falsifiability that we are truly solitary in this vast universe. Perhaps, even, it is plausible that otherworldly life has at points communicated with that of our own… Though I doubt there are any formalized agreements, as some individuals have postulated throughout time, by considering the logistics of covering up such a thing in a world where our leaders are so unsubtle as Presidents West and Supreme.”
“Heh, yeah, imagine Kanye knowin’ about aliens and not sayin’ a thing for four years… Think 46 was gonna give them free ponies too?” That earned a harmonized chuckle from both parties, then, before Mr. Jones shook his head. “You about took the words outta my mouth, personally…”
“It is the soundest conclusion, yes, the ability to ultimately say, ‘I don’t know, but it would make sense, so I believe it.’”
Mr. Jones turned the radio down. “They say Sentient Oona’s an alien, you know that? That they straight dug an alien outta the ground and put it on display… But the family that rules Alltai Basin, they sure as hell don’t let nobody research to say otherwise. You can literally get arrested and fined for tryin’ to say there’s some other explanation for it, it’s in the town charter. Would take a master of infiltration to get in and out to try an’ talk to it.”
“Are you insinuating you know of its intentions, through the utilization of your ‘Worm?’”
“Just a bit. Helped a friend look into it a few months back… Didn’t get an answer for sure on if it’s from space or not, but apparently surmised that it ain’t brainwashing all those crazy fans, they just actually like it enough to kill and die for it and the idea of it, but that other than knowin’ that, Sentient Oona doesn’t really care about ‘em either way. Mostly means to just sit there and vibe and wait until its own version of the end of days or something.”
“Ah, I see! So you are bringing me out there because it relates to the apocalyptic conundrum we all mean to prevent! A show of harsh altruism… It is almost a shame, though, when you describe it as such. A malicious and evil being who nonetheless is the sole ruling power over its subjects, allowing them to do as they please as long as it can kill them… Sentient Oona may be the figurehead of my ideal society.”
“Hey, don’t get it twisted!” Mr. Jones chuckled. “First off, this ain’t anarcho-monarchism… I don’t feel like getting into a whole talk about the theory, since I’m sure you’ve read more about it than me, but nothing in the AD is anarcho-anything. Second off, nah, it’s a completely unrelated end of days, somethin’ set to come, like, long after we’re all dead. It’s apparently pretty miffed that something might beat it to the punch.”
“I… See.” Dread, confused, looked to her driver. “So why, then, are we troubling ourselves with this? You’ve said before that the very presence of persons such as myself and my contemporary city arrivals are more likely than most to incur its hostility simply by being within proximity of it, so if it is of no consequence to us, this seems like an error in judgment. My compatriots had been complicit in some trouble for the nearby Keshem family, I recall, and they have been missing ever since, either dead or in some torturous prison I don’t even get to know anything about. But I bet the family in charge of this era doesn’t even have torture prisons like they do, so getting apprehended won’t even be fun.”
“It’s not about fighting Sentient Oona, Delacroix,” Mr. Jones explained eagerly, “it’s about who it’ll bring… Just trust me on this, yeah? The goals you’re hopin’ to achieve, something essential will come of you bein’ here through all this chaos. I wouldn’t burn ya on this, c’mon, you know my good character!”
“I see… Yes, you say that, and already, I think I’m beginning to understand.” Dread had remembered some other bits of the conversation that had started this, but rather than discussing them outright, she recognized that they were growing closer to town. “So all I must do is stay close by and survive, yes?”
En Route to Alltai Basin, Agriculture District
“Alright, almost there,” the green kid led the party forward, having suggested that, given the current state of affairs, the final stretch of this journey would be best managed on foot.
“Keep calm… Er, if you even can get phased by anything. You might feel something strange as we get close.” Memory chimed and drilled in the warning for what was now the fifth time. She was less physically capable than the other two, and looked almost silly piggyback on the much shorter aviator hat kid, but she had seemed adamant about not wanting to be abandoned by this.
Jade snorted and looked around for signs of danger. The forest was quiet, nothing out of the ordinary. Their run in with a jackalope told them that looks could be deceiving but they believed they could handle whatever was thrown at them.
The sky suddenly went dark as a flock of birds damn near blotted out the sun.
Then Jade felt something not alien to them, but completely out of left field, like a sudden wave washing over them, as if both at once alien and nostalgic in the worst of ways. The hairs on their body rose and their pulse elevated. Jade put a shoulder on the green kid in front of them to stop him from moving further.
“We are… being… watched.” Jade looked around slowly for an unseen assailant. Their senses tingled, unable to pinpoint any tangible threat.
The flock of birds passed and sunlight streamed back through. The feeling didn’t pass; if anything it was getting stronger.
“This means we are close,” Memory stated, Jade growled in response at the obvious to them statement, “and already, it has awoken… I had a feeling we would be too late to affect that.”
“You are close, I mean,” Memory continued, “Sentient Oona has a way of triggering this effect, some people are more sensitive to it than others. When alert like this, Sentient Oona recognizes some people as potential threats to its existence, whether they have malice in their hearts or not.”
“How...far…” Jade still didn’t let up. The sensation was overpowering, it was like an attack could happen at any moment from any direction. The rustling leaves, the snapping of branches, any motion or sound was enough to grab Jade’s eyes for a split second before they refocused on the direction they were headed.
“We have exactly one mile left as of the end of this sentence!” Green spoke with a certain confidence.
Jade gave another growl, all of their instincts were telling them the fight would happen here. Jade grappled with the knowledge they were being presented, gripping tightly to Green’s shoulder as they contemplated.
“Maybe we should go now, if you can’t keep calm here who knows what will…”
“No...” Jade interrupted, this threat… They had begun to feel it all the way from the estate. It was upsetting the natural order of things and couldn’t be allowed to remain as is.
Jade calmed themself; as Memory put it, showing hostility would be their own demise. Their heartbeat stilled as they resolved themself. A faint buzz could still be felt in their mind, but Jade resolved to overcome this poisoning of the senses.
Sentient Oona (The town, not the namesake)
Emilie Delacroix’s very presence had begun to start something of a scene, she could feel. There was a certain agitation in the air as she and Mr. Jones parted ways; he’d said he wanted to evacuate some people from the epicenter of the incident… Even in the midst of nefarious mischief, sometimes he would turn full-on benevolent community organizer like the two were no different. It intrigued Dread.
Regardless, though, as she moved closer to the core of the ringed town, to the shrine which commemorated the ‘alien,’ she thought she might as well ‘act natural’ while the heat was still low. To that end, then, she poked holes in an overly-large newspaper and held it in front of her face as she walked in an overly-secretive stride towards a gift kiosk selling marketable plushies, t-shirts, and keychains bearing a very extraterrestrial likeness.
“Hey, unsuspicious newspaper-reading stranger!” The man running the kiosk said, as Dread held the newspaper even closer to her face and whistled a jaunty, successfully unsuspicious tune, “sorry to say Sentient Oona’s closed to outside visitors now, but you can still buy its merch! Proceeds all go directly to supporting the Sentient Oona Fan Society!”
“Fan society? Enlighten me on what it is this organization does, and why I ought to support it financially.”
“Oh, we do plenty! Parties around town, upkeep for the shrine, talk about how to keep tourists coming in and coming back, live shows, armed guards to shoot anyone who tries to mess with our mascot, you know, typical stuff! But we do it all for free!”
It was then that Dread noticed the rifle strapped to the man’s back, and that elsewhere in the town, a few other figures were patrolling about with much the same. Urgh, Jones had mentioned that Sentient Oona had an overzealous fan club with direct ties to community leaders, who might help it if violence broke out, but he’d neglected to bring up that it was an outright volunteer militia. Perhaps because he basically ran one of those himself until ODIN took it over?
“Certainly, I will part with paltry amounts of my currency so I might commemorate this occasion with a souvenir to place right by my other fun trinkets. Tell me, what is the unsafest of your knick-knacks?”
While speaking, then, Dread felt something buzzing within the pages of her newspaper, making a quizzical sound as she turned the page, only to drop the thing in surprise as fluttering dragonfly wings emerged from it, sparking and flying right into her face before detonating in a sort of electrical charge.
“Gh…” She had to hold it together for the sake of not being weird in public, quickly fixing her mask and straightening her hair, whose natural pink was overtaking black at the roots, out so it wasn’t caught in it. “You’ve a strange insect problem, you know…”
The man was giving her an alarmed, appalled look, then, as she heard more buzzing and fluttering from nearby. She could see him beginning to reach for his rifle.
“You… What have you done to Sentient Oona? It doesn’t just attack people unprompted, you know!”
“I assure you with utmost honesty, this is my first time setting foot in this town, and I have never once conspired against it,” Dread spoke, nonetheless realizing that backing up was a good idea now.
“Well, it knows stuff like this! You’re a threat to it somehow, stranger! So no! I will not even sell you my SAFEST of trinkets…” He cocked his rifle, and Dread noticed others also readying theirs. “But we’ll give you commemorative bullets for free.”
Dread could take this guy easily, but if this was the Stand(? These people could certainly see it fine… But even with Stands, that wasn’t unheard of) ability of ‘Sentient Oona’ she had been primed on, then she couldn’t just attack thoughtlessly. No, if she was going to kill anyone in this town, she needed to make sure it didn’t bite her in the ass in the bad way.
For now, she ran towards the shrine, over the calling of, “STOP THAT WOMAN BEFORE SHE KILLS OUR MASCOT!”
Jade turned their head in the direction of the man calling to stop some woman.
They had been swatting away dragonflies with some irritation this entire time, slowly making their way towards the shrine. Green and Memory had been aiding in the evacuation, and Sentient Oona, for some reason, had not targeted either of them, but rather honed directly in on Jade as they reached the outskirts of the town. These bugs were starting to be everywhere, and so too was this ‘fan club’ with guns, who were also training their sights on Jade while mostly focusing for the moment on securing escape for those not interested in dying to protect an invincible alien mascot.
“ALIENHEADS ASSEMBLE!”
“NOBODY SAYS A BAD WORD ABOUT OUR EXTRATERRESTRIAL!”
“HURT IT AND YOU HURT THE WHOLE COMMUNITY.”
“Ugh… Bothersome… Making me… WANT to punch it.” Jade snickered at the mental image, but understood that the social ramifications of trying to kill the alien just were not worth it, and that they would absolutely be stopped before it could happen, if they knew this ‘ability’ properly.
Jade, then, finally saw another figure running in, deftly hopping over another dragonfly and skidding to a halt before them, mere meters away from the shrine wherein the alleged alien had rested for so long, currently outfitted with local sports memorabilia and ‘GO GOLD KNIGHTS’ spray paint atop a ‘Sentient Oona Aliens’ sportsball team banner, overcoated again with dried blood and dragonfly bits.
“Ah… Salutations! I have… Heard tell of you,” Dread said, catching her breath and waving. “We’ve encountered quite the conundrum, haven’t we?”
“You…” Jade wasn’t at all ‘plugged in,’ per se, but some news was impossible to avoid, especially with Jade having been in the city on that day several months ago. This was a well known Stand User of some kind… And someone who had clearly been in town longer, by the novelty mug with the price tag still on it which had just fallen out of her clothes. “You… Caused… This.”
“It would appear so, unfortunately,” Dread answered, a sharp hand on her own chin, “though you speak as though I am to be faulted for it when, likely, any one of the ten-times-eight of us to be nigh-simultaneously brought here could have agitated it like this, let alone a pair of us. I wonder, then, if neutralizing one of us might pacify it, bring it to exhaustion… Assuming we cannot kill it outright, which seems likely.”
“You... Talk... Too much.” Jade had a headache just hearing Dread speak twice, curling their fists and taking a firmer stance, “If I… Take you out... It stops attacking… Then... These people... Are safer…”
“I suppose I should have seen this coming…” Dread sighed melodramatically, “foreseen that you would have been led to believe that I am your enemy in this, rather than another individual caught up in this hullabaloo.” She paced around some, then, fixing her outfit again with a slight spring in her step. “But it is no matter… Be it here today, or halfway across town tomorrow, assuming both of us kept fighting for long enough, we would cross paths eventually. Now is as good a time as any to subdue you. Ah, but that said! You ought to learn who your opponent is first… Antlerhead, I believe you were spoken of as? You may call me ‘Dread.’”
“Dread…”
Jade’s stance remained firm, and they looked around, gnarling, growling, snarling, and assessing the situation with visible annoyance at Dread’s verbosity. They would retort one more time, then.
“Shut up and fall down.”
OPEN THE GAME!
(credit to CaptainSpooky27 for the match art!)
Location: The center of the town of Sentient Oona, in the Agricultural District. Here are rows of various souvenir shops and a shrine built in the middle of a river basin. Jade starts near the right center and Dread starts near the left center.
The area here is 80 by 80 meters with each tile being 5 by 5 meters.
The grey tiles are concrete street paths, the green tiles are grass, the blue tiles are a river basin, and the yellow tiles are sand. The green circles are 5 meter tall circles, the purple rectangles are souvenir shops with the doors shown in orange and some have rooftop access as shown by the yellow squares.
The souvenir shops all have about the same types of products, but each shop’s wares are hand-made or designed locally. Some examples are post cards, T-shirts, hats, mugs, wooden carvings/figurines, key chains, plushies, posters, and whatever else you would expect to find at a small souvenir shop, except all based around Sentient Oona.
The oval in the middle of the water is the fully walled shrine structure and the brown rectangle is a bridge. Inside the shrine is an alien beast as represented by the oval (more on that in the additional information) and there are 6 security guards as represented by circles. Around the area are more security guards represented by black circles. The river is only around 1.5 meters deep near the center of the basin and the center of the river itself.
The light blue diamonds are dragonflies produced by a stand effect (more details on them below) the rightmost 4 are targeting Jade and the leftmost 4 are targeting Dread.
The area has civilians around, mostly in the streets and in the stores, but as they noticed the conflict that’s about to happen and will fully clear out through the walkway paths a minute into the match. They will essentially start to file/trickle through the nearest exits they can find as safely as they can. There are about 100 of them but that number will rapidly decrease as they file out.
Goal: The Sentient Oona has been agitated by your presence and is attacking. Avoid being RETIRED before your opponent. After one of you is defeated, the match will count as concluded.
Additional Information: The town of Sentient Oona has an alien beast inside, after which it is named. This beast is mostly dormant and unmoving, but has recently become agitated, and attacked both players.

Sentient Oona has 515 physicals, Alien 5, and Popular 4. The people of this town love it, and will do basically anything to defend it. This isn’t an ability of any sort; it doesn’t even seem to have the capacity to manipulate, let alone the inclination; if it can understand any human or animal language that it has been exposed to, it has given no indication.
Sentient Oona is a multi-eyed, scaled, horn-covered giant with a glowing, translucent ribcage, within which one can constantly see vague shapes and hear the beating of wings. It is constantly sitting within its very hot, modestly decorated shrine, cross-legged and immobile, unblinking yet at once staring at everything.
It does not have a clear way of communicating, yet if a person sits opposite it, matching its stillness for several minutes and staring into its eyes, sometimes, they will understand something of its knowledge, and it will know something of them in return. Doing this is illegal in Sentient Oona, and can be tried in any court in Alltai territory as a quite serious offense. Every time this is repeated, meanwhile, a person’s own physical safety and sanity grow more and more at risk.
It fundamentally distrusts each and every one of the active player characters unless given strong reason not to, and will bestow upon those who remain no gifts.
Stand(?) Name: [Static God]
Its appearance is an electromagnetic shimmer, similar to an aurora borealis around Sentient Oona’s body.
Ability:
[Static God] creates an ambient neuro-electrical field around it. This acts as an electromagnetic sonar and lets it sense neural signals.
Out of the electrical field, [Static God] can also manifest a semi-autonomous swarm of electric dragonflies. Each one has the ability to turn into and move as a bolt of lightning and deliver powerful and potentially lethal shocks. While as a bolt they can only travel in roughly a straight line and will take awhile to remanifest themself, but they move extremely quickly while it lasts.
Hostile actions can alert these dragonflies to your location and cause more to manifest based on the degree of hostility.
Power: B (Dragonflies and their electricity can be highly lethal.)
Speed: S-C (While the swarm takes awhile to manifest units naturally, they have the base speed of dragonflies and their charge/electric attack is very quick.)
Range: S-A (While the practical and damaging effects of its ability don’t reach past 200 meters, the ambient electrical field can still be faintly felt by those who are sensitive to it.)
Durability: A (Immeasurable staying power. The electromagnetic field around its user’s body is able to deflect all manner of attacks without giving them a chance to even touch the user’s body.)
Precision: S-C (The swarm is semi autonomous, but they are able to be directed at targets. Oona can “see” clearly through the electrical field it creates and sense what people are doing.)

Match Details and Mechanics:
Due to the stand’s effect, all “Hostile” actions by the Players will cause more dragonflies to manifest nearby, around within 15 meters of the player.
“Hostile” action here is defined as any action where you directly try to harm an individual or group. This does extend to say doing property damage or causing a fire with the intent to harm. Self harm doesn’t count as a hostile action.
The larger the Hostile action, the more dragonflies are spawned.
Here are some general hostility levels and examples

• Physically inconsequential: Say a grab, throwing sand in somebody’s eyes, or mildly debilitating them; something that doesn’t necessarily injure but does harm a person in the moment. Causes dragonflies to pick up your location.
  
• Physical Harm, but not lasting damage: A punch that would result in knock out or pain without any lasting consequences. Causes dragonflies to pick up your location and 1 more to spawn.
  
• Physical Harm, lasting injury: A stab wound, intending to break bones, or moderately debilitating. Cause dragonflies to pick up your location and 2 more to spawn.
  
• Physical Harm, MajoPermanent injury: Cutting off somebody’s arm or crippling them for life. Causes dragonflies to pick up your location and 3 more to spawn.
  
• Lethal: Intent to kill or attempted murder. Causes dragonflies to pick up your location and 4 more to spawn.
  
• (Special) Any Action to Harm/Attack Oona: 10 extra dragonflies to spawn on top of whatever level of hostility it was.
  

There is a 3 second cooldown window where the stand cannot spawn more dragonflies to you if you go for something of roughly the same hostility level or lower in that time frame.
Any dragonflies you cause to spawn will be targeted on you. More details below on how they function.
Sentient Oona: Will remain stationary for the entire match and is impossible to Retire due to a combination of its stand ability, its alien physiology, and its high natural endurance relative to its species.
Security:

• The active members of the Sentient Oona Fan Society Guard Unit have 343 physicals, 4 in Firearms Trained and a 3 in Perceptiveness.
  
• These fans each come equipped with a pistol and a semi-automatic rifle. They have very good trigger discipline and will not shoot unless they have a clear shot. For the first minute or so of the match they will be much more cautious about shooting due to the civilians around or causing a panic, but that won’t stop them if they can line up a completely accurate shot.
  
• In general they will keep their distance from players to maintain their firing range. If you start approaching the shrine or seem to get within 15 meters of it or the bridge, the guards inside will go out onto the bridge and target you.
  
• The guards on the roofs generally won’t move from their position unless they are about to get compromised in which case they can opt to jump down or to other roofs.
  
• After a minute passes 6 more guards will come through the north street and will seek out and attack the players if they find them.
  

Dragonflies:

• As the match progresses, every 5 seconds [Static God] will spawn 1 dragonfly within 25 meters of each player.
  
• These dragonflies can turn themselves into bolts of electricity and launch themselves towards the players. If these bolts hit anything else they will discharge themselves in a 1 meter electrical explosion, de-manifesting themselves. After de-manifesting after 15 seconds they will re-manifest where they last were and continue looking for the player they initially targeted. While these attacks can be blocked, the heat and force generated from the discharge can wear down objects over repeated attacks.
  
• They have the average durability of a dragonfly but when they die they only de-manifest without discharging. They also exhibit all the other average traits of dragonflies, such as near 360 degree vision, being able to see the world in slow motion, 30 mph top flight speed, 4 winged flight maneuverability, and a boasted 95% success rate on hunting (albeit on insects it preys on).
  
• The various NPCs, while obviously very hostile right now, are recognized by Sentient Oona as fighting to protect it; while it doesn’t particularly care if they live or die, no dragonflies will spawn in to target the various attackers supporting it.
  
• There is no upwards cap of how many dragonflies there can be, they will continually be spawned and remanifest until the match concludes.
  
• They will generally search for the player they are targeting as best they can flying through the sky, but if they can’t get to the player, they can take a second to manually de-manifest themselves and re-manifest themselves to say get inside buildings or out of confinement.
  
• They will not switch the player they are targeting at any point, but can harm them as collateral damage if their behavior is exploited in order to do so.
  
• Dragonflies made by the stand do count for triggering “Hostile” actions if they are targeted directly, but all other stands do not.
  

Team	Combatant	JoJolity
Black Hill Estate	Jade	“I cannot stand this terrible, discordant noise! Stop it at once!” Sentient Oona… It just wants to be left be, is that it? Well, you can’t let it kill you, but you can try to make that happen. Creatively integrate as much property damage into your strategy as you can so the townsfolk will never want to come back here again.
Red Carpet Rennaisance	Emilie “Dread” Delacroix	“What in God’s name are you?! Give me a straight answer this time!” This so-called extraterrestrial sits on a throne of lies, and because of those who parasocially worship it, blood will spill again and again… And probably make your mission here harder. Creatively integrate as much property damage into your strategy as you can so the townsfolk will never want to come back here again.

Link to the Official Player Spreadsheet
Link to Match Schedule
As always, if you would like to interact with the tournament community and be among the first to get updates for the tournament, please feel free to PM a member of our Judge staff for an invite to our Official Discord Server!

Part 2
"Are you sure, Mr. Roger?" Rachel asked me upon hearing my request.
We were outside of her family home, a big but cozy looking house in a small town near the Appalachians. My pickup truck idled behind us, parked on the side of the road, as we sat there knee deep in snow. She'd invited me inside for warmth and a cup of tea when I arrived, but I was in a hurry so I turned her down. I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible and be on my way.
"We don't rent out the cabin during winter, the area is too dangerous during this time of year," Rachel said, trying to dissuade me from my course of action.
And she wasn't wrong. The thick snowfall turned the world into a white, shining, slippery mess. One wrong step, one daring turn of the steering wheel, and I'd be in big trouble. But I wasn't worried about the weather or the cold, they'd be the least of my issues.
"Some friends told me you do, they said your family rented them the cabin for Christmas the past few years," I said, feigning ignorance.
"They must've gotten us confused for someone else," Rachel said. "My parents haven't rented the cabin during winter for as long as I can remember."
"How so?" I asked, curious to see what her answer would be. Did she already know? Did she have me figured out? Did she see through the fake name I provided her?
"From what I understand, a group of people rented it from my grandparents some thirty years ago. The weather trapped them up there for a week, they ran out of supplies and firewood, and all of them died of hunger and hypothermia," Rachel answered in a worried whisper.
So she didn't know. Not about the avalanche, not about me surviving, and most importantly, not about what we found up there. I couldn't fault her grandparents for hiding it from her, that week is better left forgotten. I know that. And yet I can't bring myself to do it, to uproot those memories and cast them aside. Their roots are too deep.
"That sounds terrible," I said after a short pause, with a sad expression that was all too real. "But we'll be careful, I promise. Look, I have supplies for two weeks and an emergency GPS beacon." I jabbed a finger over my shoulder as I talked, pointing at my truck. Its bed was indeed filled with supplies and covered by a tarp that gathered snow. "It'll be me, my two sons, and their families. We just want a quiet place far away from the city to spend Christmas together, but it’s difficult to find one with this pandemic."
"I understand, Mr. Roger," Rachel said sympathetically. "But I can't, my parents were clear on it. I'm sure you'll find someone else more than willing to rent you a cabin."
"This close to Christmas?" I asked. "I doubt it. Look, what was your rate? 140 a night? I’ll pay triple, with a promise to leave the cabin spotless.”
I hoped that this would convince her, since this stunt would blow through all of the savings I had left. Rachel gave me a surprised look, but seemed to be thinking the offer over.
“Fine,” she said after a few tense moments. “No triple rate, I don’t want to rob you of your money. But I have a few conditions.”
“Shoot away, miss,” I said, faking a dumb, old man smile.
“Your security deposit will be triple, I know how wild Christmas parties can get,” she said with a half-smile. Her lips curled just enough to denote that she wasn’t malicious, but that she wouldn’t take crap from me either. “And I will come up there, unannounced, to check on you guys. Sounds fair?”
“Sounds perfect,” I assured her, keeping up my facade.
We shook hands, and Rachel invited me inside to take care of the transaction away from the prying eyes of her neighbors. I wanted to refuse her at first, seeing as the sun was racing towards the horizon and I was losing precious moments of its protective light, but I gave in. The last thing I needed was for one of her neighbors to call the cops and risk having them crash my little outing.
So I followed her inside, shaking my boots of snow and taking off the layers of clothes that protected me from the biting cold. Rachel led me into the living room, and had me sit at a small, yet comfortable table next to a raging fireplace. She made herself unseen into the kitchen, with the promise that she’d be hasty and would return with warm tea.
Left alone in the room, I looked at the countless family photos adorning the walls. There were a lot more of them than the last time I passed through here, but the centerpiece was the same. An old family portrait depicting a large group of people, hung in the same place above the fireplace. Although, the yellow sheen it had picked up over the years was new.
A Christmas carol began singing gently from another room, and Rachel was humming along to it as she returned. In her hands, she carried two ceramic cups painted with winter scenes, with steam rising up and out of them and spreading a festive smell. She handed me one, depicting a snowman going down a steep hill atop a sleigh, while she kept the one showing a lumberjack swinging a heavy axe at a fir tree. I took a tentative sip, careful not to burn my tongue on the hot liquid.
“Clove, cinnamon, orange,” I listed, and made a show of smacking my lips while taking another sip. “And it’s subtle, but I’d be willing to bet apple cider.”
Rachel gave a short, courteous laugh. She blew air into her own mug a couple of times, and took a sip as well.
“Good thing we weren’t betting then, Mr. Roger,” she said with a soft smile. “You’re bang on.”
I shrugged my shoulders, returning her smile in kind.
“Thirty years of making tea and cooking Christmas dinners for everyone will do that to a person,” I said.
And oh, how much I wished for that to be the truth. For me to cook for a large family, toiling between stoves and pots only to see their smiles around the dinner table. How I wished for my reality to be different, for me to not cook dinner all by myself no matter the occasion. But reality is cold, bitter, and unapologetic, it never cared much for my wishes.
“I bet,” Rachel said, her smile extending a little.
“And you’d win that bet,” I said, burying the painful memories that threatened to surface under sweet lies.
After all, in that moment I wasn’t Aiden. I wasn’t a fifty something year old man, and a widower with no family to speak of for the last thirty of those years. No, I was sweet old Mr. Roger, with a large family waiting for my word back at home, hoping to spend Christmas together at this particular cabin that claimed everything from Aiden. A sweet lie, a masquerade so convincing that I wanted to believe in it myself for as long as possible.
“Say,” I spoke before Rachel got to talk. “Is that portrait over there of your grandparents?” I asked, pointing at the photo.
“Yes,” Rachel said, and I could feel her love for them radiating from her words. “My grandparents, my young mother and father, and all of the aunts, uncles, and cousins on my father’s side.”
She looked at it longingly for a moment, and it didn’t take me long to realize why. Her grandparents were about my current age when that photo was taken, they were probably no longer among the living. Regretting the scars I opened up in her, I steered the conversation into a more cheery direction.
“So I take it that sweet little girl in a summer dress is you?” I asked.
“Mr. Roger, do you have a sixth sense by any chance?” Rachel asked with amusement, and I took her jab with a proud smile. “Bang on again. That’s five year old me holding my mother’s hand, I was a clumsy kid and needed the support.”
I wanted to tell her that she’d grown into a splendid woman since the last time I saw her. That the fire she carries in her eyes right now is something she’s always possessed, passed down from her mother who got it from her grandmother. But I abstained.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said. “Most young kids are like that, I should know.”
We exchanged some more pleasant small talk after that. I was enjoying my time with Rachel so much, I was so engrossed in the Mr. Roger persona, that the passage of time escaped my notice. The grandfather clock in the room striking three in the afternoon was what opened my eyes, and I realized it was too late to make the drive and the trek up to the cabin today. Nightfall would catch even a young lad in his prime on that attempt, of which I was neither.
“My, how time has passed,” I said. “I’m so sorry for taking so much of it from you, miss. Let’s conclude the payment and I’ll be on my way.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem,” Rachel reassured me. “Your company is a pleasure, Mr. Roger. You’re not holding me back from anyone, don’t worry. I’m all alone in here.”
I didn’t want to probe her on the matter. It wasn’t my place to, and I had no interest in it either. But the sad expression that flashed across her face for a split second told me everything I needed to know, she had no husband or children to speak of. With her parents away to spend Christmas somewhere else, she was left to spend it alone.
With a knowledge of the craft that only comes with time and practice, Rachel calculated my security deposit and rates for four days up at the cabin in a heartbeat. She displayed the total for me and wanted to walk me through the process, to assure me that she wasn’t asking for a single extra penny, but I refused. Partly because math was never one of my fortes, and partly because I believed her. I pulled out my wallet, handed her the money down to the last dollar, and got up to leave.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, miss Rachel. But it’s getting late, I’m afraid I have to go.”
She got up to see me to the door, following with delicate steps that pitter pattered on the hardwood floor. I reached the coathanger where I’d left my padded jacket and went to retrieve it, but Rachel stopped me.
“Are you planning to go up to the cabin right away, Mr. Roger?” She asked, making no attempt to hide the worry in her voice.
“Yes,” I lied. I wouldn’t try to, I reconciled with the idea that I would spend the night in my truck. But that was something that sweet little Rachel didn’t need to know.
“Don’t you have a place to stay around here? It’s almost dark outside, it would be dangerous for you to attempt it.”
“I don’t,” I admitted, knowing full well where this was going. The only thing I didn’t know for sure is if I was on board with it or not.
“Then stay here until morning,” Rachel offered, beaming at the prospect of company.
“No, no, I can’t,” I said, though at that point I would’ve regretted her taking me up on my words and retracting the offer. “I’ve been enough of a bother for one evening.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Mr. Roger,” Rachel said, reaching for my hand and cupping it with both of hers. Small, warm, soft things, so out of place around my burly, calloused palms. For a moment, I felt like a grandparent accosted by a loving grandchild. “There’s plenty room in the guest bedroom, free of charge.”
“Well, how could I argue with that?” I said, smiling down at her. “I’ll just go to the truck quickly, I have to turn off the engine and call everyone.”
“I’ll fix us up another batch of tea, then,” she said, and took off towards the kitchen with a newfound spring in her steps. “Oh, and pull the truck into the driveway. Wouldn’t want to risk a ticket.”
‘What a lovely woman,’ I caught myself thinking as I dressed up.
Just like I said I’d do, I walked out to the truck. I pulled it into the driveway like Rachel asked me to, and faked a short phone call in case she watched me through a window. Though, thinking back on it, I did it more for myself than for her, to help the lie along in the vain hope its roots would dig deep enough tonight to uproot my reality.
Back inside the house, I heard Rachel calling for me from the kitchen. Her words guided me towards the well furnished and equipped room, and I found a chair ready for me at the empty table. I sat down, picking up the sleighing snowman cup that she refilled with fresh, steaming tea.
Rachel had put on an apron while I was gone, a frilly black thing that would’ve been right at home in a housewife cooking show. Not that I watch any of those. She did laps between cabinets and the double fridge, retrieving pots and pans and ingredients that she carefully gathered on the table. It didn’t take me long to guess the menu based on the items in front of me.
“Let me help with that,” I offered. She stopped dead in her tracks, perched on her toes as she tried to reach a high cupboard. A quick swivel had her facing me, and I could see she hadn’t grasped the exact meaning of my words.
“Sure thing,” she said, taking a step away as I walked over to her and retrieved the box that her fingers could barely touch.
“I meant with the cooking in general,” I clarified. Her fingers paused briefly around mine, her attempt at getting the box from me cut short. “Consider it payment for the room and the plate I assume I’ll be getting.”
“Correct assumption again, Mr. Roger,” she said, her deer in the headlights look vanishing in favor of her smile. “You’re on a roll tonight. And fine, but just know that I’ll feel bad about accepting your help the entire time.”
Another playful jab, this one a bit more daring but not any less obvious. I took it with a grin, and helped her pick out the final few bits and bobs. We stood side by side, taking in the chaotic assortment of ingredients laid out haphazardly in front of us.
“Whatever we make, it has to be both fast and flavorful,” I decided, taking the lead from her. Which felt disrespectful, yes, I was in her kitchen after all. But it didn’t look like she was making any progress on pinpointing any particular recipe.
“True,” she admitted. “Any suggestions?”
We went back and forth for a few minutes, bouncing ideas off of each other until we settled on a menu that we were both satisfied with. Buttery mashed potatoes, an assortment of roasted veggies, roasted turkey breast, a spiced cranberry sauce, a gingerbread trifle for dessert, and a quick and dirty eggnog to get tipsy. For the more culinary literate ones among you, yes, all of those are anything but fast, especially the turkey. But here’s a quick tip while I’m at it, butterfly your turkey breasts. It’ll cut down on the cooking time considerably, without sacrificing any of the flavor.
At any rate, I’m not here to host a cooking show. After spending a few more minutes discussing the details of the recipes, which is a crucial detail if you cook along with someone else, we sprang into action. Rachel tackled the mashed potatoes and roasted veg, I took on the turkey, the cranberry sauce, and the trifle, and we decided to meet in the middle for the eggnog while helping each other out here or there when an extra pair of hands was needed.
Dashing between the pots by her side was a lovely time, to the point I didn’t mind how long it took for everything to cook. And, by her smile and dancy demeanor, I figured she didn’t mind it either. We were both having a blast, one that we didn’t know we desperately needed until we received it. Taking a short breather after I deposited the well seasoned turkey breast in the oven next to Rachel’s veggies, I couldn’t help but watch her for a while. The smile on her lips, the way her hips swayed as she kept on her toes, her warm presence that brightened the atmosphere, she reminded me so much of...of my Jennifer.
My sweet, lovely Jennifer. The fun times we had as young, reckless kids. The parties we went to that rocked entire blocks as teens. All of the hikes and traveling we did as young adults. She’d been the soul of the party wherever we went, and more than that she’d been my soul. The integral part that made me, me. She was my one and only, the person I wanted by my side through thick and thin, the woman I wanted to age next to. My mind threatened to sink like a cannonball, down into the murky waters of what ifs and could’ve beens, and I was entirely unprepared to stop it, just as always.
I was about to go on a stroll down memory lane. To watch my being slowly splinter into a million pieces, while I peered uselessly at the resulting shards that I didn’t know how to pick up and put back together into the whole they’d once been.
I guess Rachel noticed my thousand yard stare, the way my eyes fixated on a point millions of miles away. She froze, looking at me with worry from the other side of the kitchen.
“Mr. Roger?” She asked, taking a tentative step towards me. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”
As I came to my senses, my mind easing back into the present, I caught my reflection in the smooth surface of the refrigerator. Blurry as it was, I could still make out just how pale my skin went.
“I’m…” I said, the words leaving my throat weak and frail. “I’m fine, Jen. No need to worry. A glass of water would do me plenty good.”
I went around the table, sitting down in my chair as I tried to regain my composure. Rachel got a clean glass from a cabinet, and filled it with ice cold water from the fridge. She rushed over to me, putting the glass in my hands and leaning over me as she checked my forehead with the back of her hand. A sweet gesture, but completely misguided, since panic attacks don’t bring about fever.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the glass from her and taking a hearty swig. “And please stop calling me mister. Just Roger is fine.”
“Okay, Roger,” Rachel said. “Are you okay? Do you have any medication you need to take?” She knelt in front of me as she talked, staring into my eyes and cupping my hand with both of hers. The amusement in her eyes was gone, its place taken by an urgency and worry for my well being that I didn’t like nearly as much.
“No,no, I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’m not that old. It was just a...a harmless panic attack, that’s all. I’ll be right as rain in a few.”
She didn’t seem convinced by my words, but she got up. The food didn’t care about my panic attack, it kept boiling and threatened to burn regardless of my mental state. She did another lap of the kitchen, stirring what needed to be stirred, tasting and adding salt to what needed more of it, but it was clear that she got scared by my episode.
“Hey, look,” I said when I could take it no longer, and got to my feet. “I’m fine, promise. I’ll help you finish up, it’s too much for a single person.”
“I...it’s just that…” she stuttered.
“If I’ll feel bad, I’ll sit back down,” I said, getting back to my cooking duties.
“Pinky swear?” Rachel asked out of the blue. I turned to find her next to me, with her hand extended and her pinky finger wiggling around.
“Pinky swear,” I said, twisting my own pinky finger around hers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” she accepted, and her smile made a shy but welcomed comeback. “I promise I’ll watch you more carefully, to make sure you’re fine.”
With the strain of my episode hanging in the air, we continued cooking. Rachel warmed back up after a while, and by the time dinner was ready she was cracking jokes again. We met up in the middle for the eggnog like we initially planned, poured ourselves a healthy glass of it, and plated up. Dinner was tasty, but I didn’t expect any less from the two of us at that point. She proved she could hold her own in the kitchen next to a veteran cook like myself.
“You’re an amazing chef,” she said as she tasted my contributions to the menu. “Mrs. Jen is one lucky lady, getting to eat like this every night. That’s if you do all the cooking, of course, I didn’t mean to…”
“No, no,” I said, but did a double take as her words finally hit me. “Where…” I stammered, feeling myself go white again. “Where do you know that name from?”
Rachel looked taken aback. She fumbled her utensils, dropping her spoon into her bowl as she tried to form words.
“It’s...that’s what you called me when you...when I came to help you earlier,” she stuttered. “And I figured...I assumed...I mean…”
“Did I?” I said, waving a hand through the air to diffuse the situation. “Don’t mind that, I just tend to get a bit...confused at times. Mixing up times and places, you know.”
I returned to eating, hoping Rachel would drop it. To my dismay, she didn’t. Her curiosity was mounting to levels beyond her ability to hold in. But don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame her or anything, I would’ve just preferred if she didn’t try to dig deeper.
“I’m...uhh...I’m sorry for prying,” she said timidly. “I hope I didn’t cause you discomfort by assuming there’s a Mrs. Jen.”
I sighed, finished what was already scooped up in my spoon, and placed it down next to the plate.
“There was a Mrs. Jen,” I corrected, and felt the mood sour right away. “A long, long time ago.”
“Sorry for bringing it up. Thank you for the delicious meal.”
Rachel instantly went as cold as the snow outside, but I couldn’t fault her for it. The turns this evening took were probably as confusing for her as they were numerous, not knowing how to feel about me anymore was only natural for her. I reminded myself that I was still a stranger in her house, no matter how well we clicked up to that point, and I was a seemingly mentally unstable stranger to top it off.
She cleared the table, gathered the leftovers into airtight plastic containers she placed into the refrigerator for later, and began washing the dishes. All of the wind in her sails was gone, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Both for blowing said wind, and for leading her on like I did. I didn’t want to admit it, I intentionally misread her signals in my deluded attempt to find out what having a child or grandchild would feel like. And to top it all off, to my complete and utter disgust for myself as a person, near the end I did start seeing her for the beautiful, flirtatious woman that she was, and I liked what I saw.
I excused myself from the table, asked for the bathroom and the guest room, and followed the directions Rachel provided. By the time I was done splashing cold water into my face in order to help me sober up, she was done in the kitchen and was heading up to her own room. She only briefly paused by the half-open door, handing me the keys to the cabin.
“I might sleep in a bit late,” she told me. “Help yourself to the leftovers in the fridge, you’ll need the strength for the trek. I’ll come to check on you and your family like I promised.”
“Good night!” I wished her as she left, but my words went unanswered. The only thing I heard was her locking the door to her room from the inside.
I made it to the guest room a few minutes later, finding a tidy bed with a nightstand and a drawer next to it. The space was cramped, but homely, and most importantly it was warm. I dressed down to my shirt and boxers, seeing as I had no pajamas at hand, and walked over to the large window after folding my clothes neatly and placing them on the nightstand. Free of my soft boots, my prosthetic left foot clicked against the floor at every step.
I said that this was a small town, but I’m partly wrong in that assessment. It’s just two lines of houses, one on each side of a central road, populated entirely by people with land up in the mountains and cabins for rent all year round. The window of my temporary abode faced the backyard, which ended with a sturdy fence that kept out the countless miles of untainted forest that sprawled behind it. I had a nice view of the breathtaking wilderness, and I put it to good use for a while, standing by the window and peering out.
I had one question that desperately needed answering, so I reached for the window’s handle and opened it wide. The cold winter winds invaded the room right away, sapping it of warmth and sending chills down my exposed body. But I didn’t pull away. I pushed into the frigid air, allowing it to freeze me further as I sharpened my hearing. The minute background noises of the pine forest grew more apparent, until I could make out the distant sounds of critters going about their nightly business.
A few minutes later, on the verge of hypothermia, I heard what I was waiting for. The forest went quiet for miles and miles across, and a howl descending from the highest mountain tops claimed that silence for itself. It was such an ugly, soul rending call, that it managed to chill me in a manner that the coldest air couldn’t hope to match. A warped, unnatural mix, somewhere between man and the lowest form of beast to walk this earth. The scream of endless hunger and agony, aimed solely at me.
I jumped back from the window, having gotten all the confirmation I needed. After closing it, I turned the radiator up all the way and all but nearly hugged it to warm myself faster. The stunt I pulled was risky, so long as I was cold the beast could find me, but it was the only way I knew to drag it out of hiding and have it make its presence known. When sensation returned to my toes and fingers, and I was sure I was warm enough to not be found anymore, I went to sleep. I covered myself with the thick blanket, and succumbed to a fitful sleep.
Morning came fast, leaving me surprised when the sun’s first rays reflected off of the spotless snow and into my room. It had been a long time since I last slept without an eye open, three decades now to the day. Feeling well rested, I got dressed and left Rachel’s house. As tempted as I was, I didn’t take any of the leftovers.
By 8 AM, I was already driving. The furthest point up the mountain I could reach with my truck was about half an hour away, and I had a three hour brutal trek through knee deep snow to look forward to after that. I wasn’t exactly enthused about it, but I was hasty regardless.
I parked the truck in the clearing where the road ended, locked it up, and took to its bed. The first thing to come out from under the tarp was a sleigh, followed closely behind by the harness I’d use to pull it. More items came, and I strapped them all firmly to the sleigh. A dane axe with a silver-coated blade, a chainsaw, a shotgun with both normal and silver pellets, a couple canisters of gasoline, a few jars and vials of my own blood that I gathered and kept refrigerated over the last month or so, and some other miscellaneous items like changes of clothes and a first aid kit.
Starting through the snow, I soon hit the incline that would only grow steeper as I advanced. The path I took was one I knew, and I used familiar landmarks to guide my way. A weird shaped tree here, a large boulder that hasn’t moved in millenia there. They jolted memories in me, and before I knew it, I found myself reminiscing of better times as I trudged ahead. Laughter and banter among friends spawned between the trees, echoing through my mind as if they were real and not merely echoes from a different era. Snow crunching beneath our boots, as we merrily made our way towards a much expected vacation. Jennifer by my side, me inhaling her intoxicating perfume with each labored breath. The sensation of her warm skin against mine.
It...it was enough to bring me to tears. In the middle of the forest, hours away from anyone, I cried. The salty drops running down my cheeks froze in the frigid air, threatening my skin with streaks of frostbite. After a while, seeing that the cabin was about 2 miles away, I wiped the tears and refocused on the task at hand.
“It’s a good place to start,” I mumbled to no one in particular.
I pulled out the first vial of blood, and bit down on its cap to remove it. With an arching motion, I spilled it over the pine needles and fresh snow behind me, careful to not get any on the sleigh. My speed faltered as the incline grew beneath me, but I kept going, marking the forest behind me with blood every five hundred feet or so. After twenty vials and the realization that I miscalculated the distance, I opened one of the jars as well and dipped my gloved fingers in it. Three more markings later, I reached the clearing that the cabin was built in.
I expected another flood of painful memories when I laid eyes on it, but I was pleasantly surprised to find out it wasn’t the case. The cabin itself looked nothing like I remembered it, but then again why did I think it would? After that week we spent in it, of course it needed to be rebuilt. And rebuilt it was, bigger and better than its former incarnation.
I pulled up to its porch, releasing myself from the sleigh’s harness and leaving it behind as I entered. The inside had a slight frowsty smell to it, which along with the fine layer of dust that settled on everything was a dead giveaway that the cabin hadn’t been used since the first snowfall this season. After a hasty check of all of the rooms, I looked at my wrist watch. It read 1 PM, which meant that the trek took me much longer than expected.
Now, if I may be allowed to toot my own horn for just a bit, I’m in great shape for my age. I’m my own cook, so I eat well. I’m my own personal trainer, and God knows I’ve not gone easy on myself. Most nights I can’t feel my limbs after strenuous bouts of workout. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, in fact the last thirty years of my life have been spent solely on preparing for tonight. Time used to better my mind, body, and arsenal, all so I could see this one night through. But even with all of that, I can’t compare to a man half my age. Despite my best efforts, the passage of the years robbed me of my vigor little by little.
The only aspect of me that hasn’t faltered in the slightest is my determination. If anything, it only grew stronger, and I put it to good use. After lighting the fireplace in the cabin to warm it up, I went outside, checked and fueled the chainsaw, and took to the forest. It had a wide selection of trees just ripe for felling, so I got to work.
The hours passed, flying me by like summer birds as I cut and cleaned a dozen trees of their branches. With great effort that my back was more than unthankful for, I dragged their trunks through the snow and piled them up in the clearing around the cabin. As the sun kissed the horizon, and the night threatened to engulf me with its all consuming darkness, I finished constructing the enormous pyre that I would need. I doused the wood with the gasoline from one container, allowing it time to soak up the fuel, and had the other container ready next to the pile.
The last thing I did before going inside the cabin to warm myself up and catch my breath was to open the two jars of blood, leaving one at the edge of the forest and the other one next to the pyre on a log. The sun slowly disappeared and, from my vantage point next to the fireplace, I could see the shroud of night time settling across the forest. I waited, biding my time for as long as possible, until every last ray of light was gone. My mind was eager to spring into action, but after a grueling day of manual labor, my body had other plans. I soon fell asleep on the chair, lulled into it by the heat of the fire.
To my displeasure, my sleep wasn’t as restful as it had been back at Rachel’s house. The night terrors I’d grown accustomed to returned to haunt me again, offering me a sweet release from the present only to tear it away from me.
I was back down the mountain, trekking through the December snow with my friends and my soon to be wife. The date was the 24th of December 1991, and I was a strapping young lad of only twenty five years of age. With my future looking bright, and my fiance next to me, I felt invincible. King of the world as far as I was concerned.
Seeing as we were planning our wedding, and our years were slowly advancing beyond parties and travel and into settling down, finding good paying jobs, and starting a family, me and Jennifer decided to throw one last party. Like the good old times. We saved up money all year round, and got four more of our closest friends to join us in what might have been our final outing as a group. We found a cheap cabin, far away from civilization so we wouldn’t disturb anyone’s Christmas night with our loud music and drinking.
The hike took hours but, with Jen by my side to keep me going, I felt no cold or exhaustion to speak of. Michael, David, and myself, the three men in the group, pulled the sleighs with supplies. Jennifer, Kelly, and Lori followed us closely, talking between themselves about anything and everything that they talked about when they weren’t pestering us. David and Lori were fiances getting ready for marriage, just like me and Jen, and Michael and Kelly were already married with a kid back home, just wanting to break free from their busy lives for a few nights.
By the time we reached the cabin, evening was only hours away. Me, Michael, and David were hasty in setting up the battery powered cassette player, and before long, music was blasting out of it. The girls warmed up the prepackaged food, drinks were being passed around from the portable cooler, and by nightfall we had a proper party raging on. One we planned to extend into the early hours of the next morning.
I’m tempted to say that it was the best party of my life, but I know I’d be lying. I only see it that way now because it was the last party where I actually felt good. The fun reached a crescendo around midnight. We were all properly drunk by then, dancing and bumping into each other in the small cabin. Michael needed to relieve himself of surplus liquids, so he went to the outhouse. He was barely gone for half a minute before he barged back inside, his eyes wild and fear plastered across his face.
“Guys, come outside right now!”
By the urgency in his voice and his out of character attitude, we knew he wasn’t messing with us. We dropped whatever we were doing and followed him into the clear winter night, flashlights at the ready. Hushed murmurs rippled through the group, we were all worried and wondering what had happened to scare Michael so bad.
“There!” He said, and pointed towards one of the mountain tops. “What the fuck is that?”
Our collective sights followed his finger, settling on the peak looming above us. But none of us could make anything out.
“Turn off the lights! And the music!” Michael ordered.
David complied. He was in and out of the cabin in a heartbeat, leaving us stranded in soul crushing darkness and silence. With nothing left to pollute my senses, my eyesight and hearing sharpened. Against the spotless white snow and ice that engulfed the cliff faces, I saw a shadow emerge. The longer I stared at it, the more I could feel my mind fracture, as if it wasn’t something that my mortal eyes were meant to witness. Still, from this far away, I couldn’t make out much of it, save for its eyes that seemed to glow in the night like a pair of bloody stars.
“Why is it so quiet?” Jen asked.
I hadn’t even noticed her get next to me and wrap her arms around mine, pushing herself into me in her startled state. But as soon as she brought it up, I could hear it as well. A complete and utter lack of sound, except for our own breathing and shuffling through the snow.
“Do you guys see it now?” Michael asked.
We didn’t get to answer him. The thing, the creature, let out a howl unlike anything I’ve heard before or since. The call of endless winter, of bone shattering cold and gut wrenching hunger. Its voice reverberated down the mountain, echoing through the valleys and piercing our ears with its volume. It lasted for what felt like a lifetime, forcing images of fates worse than death into my mind. I saw all of us, huddled around a dying fire deep in the forest. Cupping our palms around the dying embers in a last futile attempt to warm up. The days and nights passing, with no hope of salvation. Growing ever more hungry and thirsty, until we turned feral and set our sights on each other.
I...I saw the bloodshed. The bodies. Flesh rendered from bone and shoved between greedy, clacking teeth. But it wasn’t real, none of it was real. We wouldn’t do that, we couldn’t do that.
Lost in the visions, I didn’t see the creature wave an arm towards us. I didn’t see the sheer force of its action tear through the layers of snow, freeing it in slabs that slid down the slope. The others told me of all of that later.
“Avalanche!” One of them yelled, though I can’t for the life of me remember which one.
Their cry, and Jen pulling at my arm with desperation, was what finally broke the creature’s spell over me. With the avalanche picking up speed and mass as it plowed down the mountainside towards us, we took shelter in the only safe place around for miles. We huddled in the center of the cabin, hoping that the structure was sound enough to withstand the assault.
When it finally hit, the avalanche sounded like a thunderstorm mixed in with an earthquake. The world around us shook from its very core, sending us flying every which way as we tried to hold steady against it. And then, as soon as it had started, the calamity ended, leaving us gasping in terror.
A scream reverberating from outside the cabin woke me up before the nightmare got to the worst part. I jolted in the seat, strangely thankful for being spared of the horror that would’ve followed. With the axe and loaded shotgun in hand, I got outside into the quiet night. My hairs stood on their ends right away, as a feeling of deep anxiety welled within me. This was it, the moment I’d been preparing for for the past thirty years. My life’s goal was within reach, and yet I feared I was woefully unprepared to face it.
I walked around the pyre, checking the clearing for signs of the beast. The jar of blood left on the log had been thrown into the snow, licked clean of every last trace of the crimson fluid. Even the snow around where it had landed was gone. The beast was hungry.
Leaving the axe next to the one remaining fuel canister, I raised the shotgun in front of myself and marched towards the forest slowly. The beast ran around between the evergreen trees, using them for cover, but I could tell that each one of its steps brought it closer to me. My heart pounded away wildly in anticipation, preparing my body for the fight that would shortly ensue.
“Come out!” I yelled into the night, stopping half way to the tree line.
The skittering stopped, sending me on edge. Bouts of laughter emanated from the forest, its echoes making it hard for me to pinpoint the source.
“Come out!” The beast repeated my words back to me. Only they were twisted and slurred, uttered by lips that had grown unaccustomed to human speech.
“I’m not fucking around!” I pressed. “Come out! Now!”
“Me neither!” The beast yelled, sending an icy chill clean through my soul.
In one final leap, it flew through the air from the branch where it had been squatting. With a heavy thud, it landed a few feet from the edge of the clearing. My body froze when I laid eyes on it. The skeletal frame that betrayed its decades of malnutrition. The sunken eyes, the retracted lips that exposed diseased gums and teeth charred by decay. The skin turned to a blue and black mess from constant hypothermia and countless frostbites. Clothes torn to rags and a once beautiful head of dirty blonde hair reduced to sick strands barely hanging onto its scalp.
I couldn’t take it anymore, I could feel the beginning of another panic attack writhing beneath my skin. My heart rate reached a maximum, my body trembled from its core, and cold sweat poured out of my pores, chilling me to the bone. The mix of impending doom and all consuming fear sent adrenaline surging through my veins, and I tried to latch onto it, to let it help me through the ordeal soon to follow.
Letting go of the shotgun with one hand that I reached towards the beast, with my voice catching in my throat and coming out a hoarse whisper as my rapid breathing cut it short, I uttered a single word.
“Jen.”

Part 2
"Are you sure, Mr. Roger?" Rachel asked me upon hearing my request.
We were outside of her family home, a big but cozy looking house in a small town near the Appalachians. My pickup truck idled behind us, parked on the side of the road, as we sat there knee deep in snow. She'd invited me inside for warmth and a cup of tea when I arrived, but I was in a hurry so I turned her down. I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible and be on my way.
"We don't rent out the cabin during winter, the area is too dangerous during this time of year," Rachel said, trying to dissuade me from my course of action.
And she wasn't wrong. The thick snowfall turned the world into a white, shining, slippery mess. One wrong step, one daring turn of the steering wheel, and I'd be in big trouble. But I wasn't worried about the weather or the cold, they'd be the least of my issues.
"Some friends told me you do, they said your family rented them the cabin for Christmas the past few years," I said, feigning ignorance.
"They must've gotten us confused for someone else," Rachel said. "My parents haven't rented the cabin during winter for as long as I can remember."
"How so?" I asked, curious to see what her answer would be. Did she already know? Did she have me figured out? Did she see through the fake name I provided her?
"From what I understand, a group of people rented it from my grandparents some thirty years ago. The weather trapped them up there for a week, they ran out of supplies and firewood, and all of them died of hunger and hypothermia," Rachel answered in a worried whisper.
So she didn't know. Not about the avalanche, not about me surviving, and most importantly, not about what we found up there. I couldn't fault her grandparents for hiding it from her, that week is better left forgotten. I know that. And yet I can't bring myself to do it, to uproot those memories and cast them aside. Their roots are too deep.
"That sounds terrible," I said after a short pause, with a sad expression that was all too real. "But we'll be careful, I promise. Look, I have supplies for two weeks and an emergency GPS beacon." I jabbed a finger over my shoulder as I talked, pointing at my truck. Its bed was indeed filled with supplies and covered by a tarp that gathered snow. "It'll be me, my two sons, and their families. We just want a quiet place far away from the city to spend Christmas together, but it’s difficult to find one with this pandemic."
"I understand, Mr. Roger," Rachel said sympathetically. "But I can't, my parents were clear on it. I'm sure you'll find someone else more than willing to rent you a cabin."
"This close to Christmas?" I asked. "I doubt it. Look, what was your rate? 140 a night? I’ll pay triple, with a promise to leave the cabin spotless.”
I hoped that this would convince her, since this stunt would blow through all of the savings I had left. Rachel gave me a surprised look, but seemed to be thinking the offer over.
“Fine,” she said after a few tense moments. “No triple rate, I don’t want to rob you of your money. But I have a few conditions.”
“Shoot away, miss,” I said, faking a dumb, old man smile.
“Your security deposit will be triple, I know how wild Christmas parties can get,” she said with a half-smile. Her lips curled just enough to denote that she wasn’t malicious, but that she wouldn’t take crap from me either. “And I will come up there, unannounced, to check on you guys. Sounds fair?”
“Sounds perfect,” I assured her, keeping up my facade.
We shook hands, and Rachel invited me inside to take care of the transaction away from the prying eyes of her neighbors. I wanted to refuse her at first, seeing as the sun was racing towards the horizon and I was losing precious moments of its protective light, but I gave in. The last thing I needed was for one of her neighbors to call the cops and risk having them crash my little outing.
So I followed her inside, shaking my boots of snow and taking off the layers of clothes that protected me from the biting cold. Rachel led me into the living room, and had me sit at a small, yet comfortable table next to a raging fireplace. She made herself unseen into the kitchen, with the promise that she’d be hasty and would return with warm tea.
Left alone in the room, I looked at the countless family photos adorning the walls. There were a lot more of them than the last time I passed through here, but the centerpiece was the same. An old family portrait depicting a large group of people, hung in the same place above the fireplace. Although, the yellow sheen it had picked up over the years was new.
A Christmas carol began singing gently from another room, and Rachel was humming along to it as she returned. In her hands, she carried two ceramic cups painted with winter scenes, with steam rising up and out of them and spreading a festive smell. She handed me one, depicting a snowman going down a steep hill atop a sleigh, while she kept the one showing a lumberjack swinging a heavy axe at a fir tree. I took a tentative sip, careful not to burn my tongue on the hot liquid.
“Clove, cinnamon, orange,” I listed, and made a show of smacking my lips while taking another sip. “And it’s subtle, but I’d be willing to bet apple cider.”
Rachel gave a short, courteous laugh. She blew air into her own mug a couple of times, and took a sip as well.
“Good thing we weren’t betting then, Mr. Roger,” she said with a soft smile. “You’re bang on.”
I shrugged my shoulders, returning her smile in kind.
“Thirty years of making tea and cooking Christmas dinners for everyone will do that to a person,” I said.
And oh, how much I wished for that to be the truth. For me to cook for a large family, toiling between stoves and pots only to see their smiles around the dinner table. How I wished for my reality to be different, for me to not cook dinner all by myself no matter the occasion. But reality is cold, bitter, and unapologetic, it never cared much for my wishes.
“I bet,” Rachel said, her smile extending a little.
“And you’d win that bet,” I said, burying the painful memories that threatened to surface under sweet lies.
After all, in that moment I wasn’t Aiden. I wasn’t a fifty something year old man, and a widower with no family to speak of for the last thirty of those years. No, I was sweet old Mr. Roger, with a large family waiting for my word back at home, hoping to spend Christmas together at this particular cabin that claimed everything from Aiden. A sweet lie, a masquerade so convincing that I wanted to believe in it myself for as long as possible.
“Say,” I spoke before Rachel got to talk. “Is that portrait over there of your grandparents?” I asked, pointing at the photo.
“Yes,” Rachel said, and I could feel her love for them radiating from her words. “My grandparents, my young mother and father, and all of the aunts, uncles, and cousins on my father’s side.”
She looked at it longingly for a moment, and it didn’t take me long to realize why. Her grandparents were about my current age when that photo was taken, they were probably no longer among the living. Regretting the scars I opened up in her, I steered the conversation into a more cheery direction.
“So I take it that sweet little girl in a summer dress is you?” I asked.
“Mr. Roger, do you have a sixth sense by any chance?” Rachel asked with amusement, and I took her jab with a proud smile. “Bang on again. That’s five year old me holding my mother’s hand, I was a clumsy kid and needed the support.”
I wanted to tell her that she’d grown into a splendid woman since the last time I saw her. That the fire she carries in her eyes right now is something she’s always possessed, passed down from her mother who got it from her grandmother. But I abstained.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said. “Most young kids are like that, I should know.”
We exchanged some more pleasant small talk after that. I was enjoying my time with Rachel so much, I was so engrossed in the Mr. Roger persona, that the passage of time escaped my notice. The grandfather clock in the room striking three in the afternoon was what opened my eyes, and I realized it was too late to make the drive and the trek up to the cabin today. Nightfall would catch even a young lad in his prime on that attempt, of which I was neither.
“My, how time has passed,” I said. “I’m so sorry for taking so much of it from you, miss. Let’s conclude the payment and I’ll be on my way.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem,” Rachel reassured me. “Your company is a pleasure, Mr. Roger. You’re not holding me back from anyone, don’t worry. I’m all alone in here.”
I didn’t want to probe her on the matter. It wasn’t my place to, and I had no interest in it either. But the sad expression that flashed across her face for a split second told me everything I needed to know, she had no husband or children to speak of. With her parents away to spend Christmas somewhere else, she was left to spend it alone.
With a knowledge of the craft that only comes with time and practice, Rachel calculated my security deposit and rates for four days up at the cabin in a heartbeat. She displayed the total for me and wanted to walk me through the process, to assure me that she wasn’t asking for a single extra penny, but I refused. Partly because math was never one of my fortes, and partly because I believed her. I pulled out my wallet, handed her the money down to the last dollar, and got up to leave.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, miss Rachel. But it’s getting late, I’m afraid I have to go.”
She got up to see me to the door, following with delicate steps that pitter pattered on the hardwood floor. I reached the coathanger where I’d left my padded jacket and went to retrieve it, but Rachel stopped me.
“Are you planning to go up to the cabin right away, Mr. Roger?” She asked, making no attempt to hide the worry in her voice.
“Yes,” I lied. I wouldn’t try to, I reconciled with the idea that I would spend the night in my truck. But that was something that sweet little Rachel didn’t need to know.
“Don’t you have a place to stay around here? It’s almost dark outside, it would be dangerous for you to attempt it.”
“I don’t,” I admitted, knowing full well where this was going. The only thing I didn’t know for sure is if I was on board with it or not.
“Then stay here until morning,” Rachel offered, beaming at the prospect of company.
“No, no, I can’t,” I said, though at that point I would’ve regretted her taking me up on my words and retracting the offer. “I’ve been enough of a bother for one evening.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Mr. Roger,” Rachel said, reaching for my hand and cupping it with both of hers. Small, warm, soft things, so out of place around my burly, calloused palms. For a moment, I felt like a grandparent accosted by a loving grandchild. “There’s plenty room in the guest bedroom, free of charge.”
“Well, how could I argue with that?” I said, smiling down at her. “I’ll just go to the truck quickly, I have to turn off the engine and call everyone.”
“I’ll fix us up another batch of tea, then,” she said, and took off towards the kitchen with a newfound spring in her steps. “Oh, and pull the truck into the driveway. Wouldn’t want to risk a ticket.”
‘What a lovely woman,’ I caught myself thinking as I dressed up.
Just like I said I’d do, I walked out to the truck. I pulled it into the driveway like Rachel asked me to, and faked a short phone call in case she watched me through a window. Though, thinking back on it, I did it more for myself than for her, to help the lie along in the vain hope its roots would dig deep enough tonight to uproot my reality.
Back inside the house, I heard Rachel calling for me from the kitchen. Her words guided me towards the well furnished and equipped room, and I found a chair ready for me at the empty table. I sat down, picking up the sleighing snowman cup that she refilled with fresh, steaming tea.
Rachel had put on an apron while I was gone, a frilly black thing that would’ve been right at home in a housewife cooking show. Not that I watch any of those. She did laps between cabinets and the double fridge, retrieving pots and pans and ingredients that she carefully gathered on the table. It didn’t take me long to guess the menu based on the items in front of me.
“Let me help with that,” I offered. She stopped dead in her tracks, perched on her toes as she tried to reach a high cupboard. A quick swivel had her facing me, and I could see she hadn’t grasped the exact meaning of my words.
“Sure thing,” she said, taking a step away as I walked over to her and retrieved the box that her fingers could barely touch.
“I meant with the cooking in general,” I clarified. Her fingers paused briefly around mine, her attempt at getting the box from me cut short. “Consider it payment for the room and the plate I assume I’ll be getting.”
“Correct assumption again, Mr. Roger,” she said, her deer in the headlights look vanishing in favor of her smile. “You’re on a roll tonight. And fine, but just know that I’ll feel bad about accepting your help the entire time.”
Another playful jab, this one a bit more daring but not any less obvious. I took it with a grin, and helped her pick out the final few bits and bobs. We stood side by side, taking in the chaotic assortment of ingredients laid out haphazardly in front of us.
“Whatever we make, it has to be both fast and flavorful,” I decided, taking the lead from her. Which felt disrespectful, yes, I was in her kitchen after all. But it didn’t look like she was making any progress on pinpointing any particular recipe.
“True,” she admitted. “Any suggestions?”
We went back and forth for a few minutes, bouncing ideas off of each other until we settled on a menu that we were both satisfied with. Buttery mashed potatoes, an assortment of roasted veggies, roasted turkey breast, a spiced cranberry sauce, a gingerbread trifle for dessert, and a quick and dirty eggnog to get tipsy. For the more culinary literate ones among you, yes, all of those are anything but fast, especially the turkey. But here’s a quick tip while I’m at it, butterfly your turkey breasts. It’ll cut down on the cooking time considerably, without sacrificing any of the flavor.
At any rate, I’m not here to host a cooking show. After spending a few more minutes discussing the details of the recipes, which is a crucial detail if you cook along with someone else, we sprang into action. Rachel tackled the mashed potatoes and roasted veg, I took on the turkey, the cranberry sauce, and the trifle, and we decided to meet in the middle for the eggnog while helping each other out here or there when an extra pair of hands was needed.
Dashing between the pots by her side was a lovely time, to the point I didn’t mind how long it took for everything to cook. And, by her smile and dancy demeanor, I figured she didn’t mind it either. We were both having a blast, one that we didn’t know we desperately needed until we received it. Taking a short breather after I deposited the well seasoned turkey breast in the oven next to Rachel’s veggies, I couldn’t help but watch her for a while. The smile on her lips, the way her hips swayed as she kept on her toes, her warm presence that brightened the atmosphere, she reminded me so much of...of my Jennifer.
My sweet, lovely Jennifer. The fun times we had as young, reckless kids. The parties we went to that rocked entire blocks as teens. All of the hikes and traveling we did as young adults. She’d been the soul of the party wherever we went, and more than that she’d been my soul. The integral part that made me, me. She was my one and only, the person I wanted by my side through thick and thin, the woman I wanted to age next to. My mind threatened to sink like a cannonball, down into the murky waters of what ifs and could’ve beens, and I was entirely unprepared to stop it, just as always.
I was about to go on a stroll down memory lane. To watch my being slowly splinter into a million pieces, while I peered uselessly at the resulting shards that I didn’t know how to pick up and put back together into the whole they’d once been.
I guess Rachel noticed my thousand yard stare, the way my eyes fixated on a point millions of miles away. She froze, looking at me with worry from the other side of the kitchen.
“Mr. Roger?” She asked, taking a tentative step towards me. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”
As I came to my senses, my mind easing back into the present, I caught my reflection in the smooth surface of the refrigerator. Blurry as it was, I could still make out just how pale my skin went.
“I’m…” I said, the words leaving my throat weak and frail. “I’m fine, Jen. No need to worry. A glass of water would do me plenty good.”
I went around the table, sitting down in my chair as I tried to regain my composure. Rachel got a clean glass from a cabinet, and filled it with ice cold water from the fridge. She rushed over to me, putting the glass in my hands and leaning over me as she checked my forehead with the back of her hand. A sweet gesture, but completely misguided, since panic attacks don’t bring about fever.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the glass from her and taking a hearty swig. “And please stop calling me mister. Just Roger is fine.”
“Okay, Roger,” Rachel said. “Are you okay? Do you have any medication you need to take?” She knelt in front of me as she talked, staring into my eyes and cupping my hand with both of hers. The amusement in her eyes was gone, its place taken by an urgency and worry for my well being that I didn’t like nearly as much.
“No,no, I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’m not that old. It was just a...a harmless panic attack, that’s all. I’ll be right as rain in a few.”
She didn’t seem convinced by my words, but she got up. The food didn’t care about my panic attack, it kept boiling and threatened to burn regardless of my mental state. She did another lap of the kitchen, stirring what needed to be stirred, tasting and adding salt to what needed more of it, but it was clear that she got scared by my episode.
“Hey, look,” I said when I could take it no longer, and got to my feet. “I’m fine, promise. I’ll help you finish up, it’s too much for a single person.”
“I...it’s just that…” she stuttered.
“If I’ll feel bad, I’ll sit back down,” I said, getting back to my cooking duties.
“Pinky swear?” Rachel asked out of the blue. I turned to find her next to me, with her hand extended and her pinky finger wiggling around.
“Pinky swear,” I said, twisting my own pinky finger around hers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” she accepted, and her smile made a shy but welcomed comeback. “I promise I’ll watch you more carefully, to make sure you’re fine.”
With the strain of my episode hanging in the air, we continued cooking. Rachel warmed back up after a while, and by the time dinner was ready she was cracking jokes again. We met up in the middle for the eggnog like we initially planned, poured ourselves a healthy glass of it, and plated up. Dinner was tasty, but I didn’t expect any less from the two of us at that point. She proved she could hold her own in the kitchen next to a veteran cook like myself.
“You’re an amazing chef,” she said as she tasted my contributions to the menu. “Mrs. Jen is one lucky lady, getting to eat like this every night. That’s if you do all the cooking, of course, I didn’t mean to…”
“No, no,” I said, but did a double take as her words finally hit me. “Where…” I stammered, feeling myself go white again. “Where do you know that name from?”
Rachel looked taken aback. She fumbled her utensils, dropping her spoon into her bowl as she tried to form words.
“It’s...that’s what you called me when you...when I came to help you earlier,” she stuttered. “And I figured...I assumed...I mean…”
“Did I?” I said, waving a hand through the air to diffuse the situation. “Don’t mind that, I just tend to get a bit...confused at times. Mixing up times and places, you know.”
I returned to eating, hoping Rachel would drop it. To my dismay, she didn’t. Her curiosity was mounting to levels beyond her ability to hold in. But don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame her or anything, I would’ve just preferred if she didn’t try to dig deeper.
“I’m...uhh...I’m sorry for prying,” she said timidly. “I hope I didn’t cause you discomfort by assuming there’s a Mrs. Jen.”
I sighed, finished what was already scooped up in my spoon, and placed it down next to the plate.
“There was a Mrs. Jen,” I corrected, and felt the mood sour right away. “A long, long time ago.”
“Sorry for bringing it up. Thank you for the delicious meal.”
Rachel instantly went as cold as the snow outside, but I couldn’t fault her for it. The turns this evening took were probably as confusing for her as they were numerous, not knowing how to feel about me anymore was only natural for her. I reminded myself that I was still a stranger in her house, no matter how well we clicked up to that point, and I was a seemingly mentally unstable stranger to top it off.
She cleared the table, gathered the leftovers into airtight plastic containers she placed into the refrigerator for later, and began washing the dishes. All of the wind in her sails was gone, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Both for blowing said wind, and for leading her on like I did. I didn’t want to admit it, I intentionally misread her signals in my deluded attempt to find out what having a child or grandchild would feel like. And to top it all off, to my complete and utter disgust for myself as a person, near the end I did start seeing her for the beautiful, flirtatious woman that she was, and I liked what I saw.
I excused myself from the table, asked for the bathroom and the guest room, and followed the directions Rachel provided. By the time I was done splashing cold water into my face in order to help me sober up, she was done in the kitchen and was heading up to her own room. She only briefly paused by the half-open door, handing me the keys to the cabin.
“I might sleep in a bit late,” she told me. “Help yourself to the leftovers in the fridge, you’ll need the strength for the trek. I’ll come to check on you and your family like I promised.”
“Good night!” I wished her as she left, but my words went unanswered. The only thing I heard was her locking the door to her room from the inside.
I made it to the guest room a few minutes later, finding a tidy bed with a nightstand and a drawer next to it. The space was cramped, but homely, and most importantly it was warm. I dressed down to my shirt and boxers, seeing as I had no pajamas at hand, and walked over to the large window after folding my clothes neatly and placing them on the nightstand. Free of my soft boots, my prosthetic left foot clicked against the floor at every step.
I said that this was a small town, but I’m partly wrong in that assessment. It’s just two lines of houses, one on each side of a central road, populated entirely by people with land up in the mountains and cabins for rent all year round. The window of my temporary abode faced the backyard, which ended with a sturdy fence that kept out the countless miles of untainted forest that sprawled behind it. I had a nice view of the breathtaking wilderness, and I put it to good use for a while, standing by the window and peering out.
I had one question that desperately needed answering, so I reached for the window’s handle and opened it wide. The cold winter winds invaded the room right away, sapping it of warmth and sending chills down my exposed body. But I didn’t pull away. I pushed into the frigid air, allowing it to freeze me further as I sharpened my hearing. The minute background noises of the pine forest grew more apparent, until I could make out the distant sounds of critters going about their nightly business.
A few minutes later, on the verge of hypothermia, I heard what I was waiting for. The forest went quiet for miles and miles across, and a howl descending from the highest mountain tops claimed that silence for itself. It was such an ugly, soul rending call, that it managed to chill me in a manner that the coldest air couldn’t hope to match. A warped, unnatural mix, somewhere between man and the lowest form of beast to walk this earth. The scream of endless hunger and agony, aimed solely at me.
I jumped back from the window, having gotten all the confirmation I needed. After closing it, I turned the radiator up all the way and all but nearly hugged it to warm myself faster. The stunt I pulled was risky, so long as I was cold the beast could find me, but it was the only way I knew to drag it out of hiding and have it make its presence known. When sensation returned to my toes and fingers, and I was sure I was warm enough to not be found anymore, I went to sleep. I covered myself with the thick blanket, and succumbed to a fitful sleep.
Morning came fast, leaving me surprised when the sun’s first rays reflected off of the spotless snow and into my room. It had been a long time since I last slept without an eye open, three decades now to the day. Feeling well rested, I got dressed and left Rachel’s house. As tempted as I was, I didn’t take any of the leftovers.
By 8 AM, I was already driving. The furthest point up the mountain I could reach with my truck was about half an hour away, and I had a three hour brutal trek through knee deep snow to look forward to after that. I wasn’t exactly enthused about it, but I was hasty regardless.
I parked the truck in the clearing where the road ended, locked it up, and took to its bed. The first thing to come out from under the tarp was a sleigh, followed closely behind by the harness I’d use to pull it. More items came, and I strapped them all firmly to the sleigh. A dane axe with a silver-coated blade, a chainsaw, a shotgun with both normal and silver pellets, a couple canisters of gasoline, a few jars and vials of my own blood that I gathered and kept refrigerated over the last month or so, and some other miscellaneous items like changes of clothes and a first aid kit.
Starting through the snow, I soon hit the incline that would only grow steeper as I advanced. The path I took was one I knew, and I used familiar landmarks to guide my way. A weird shaped tree here, a large boulder that hasn’t moved in millenia there. They jolted memories in me, and before I knew it, I found myself reminiscing of better times as I trudged ahead. Laughter and banter among friends spawned between the trees, echoing through my mind as if they were real and not merely echoes from a different era. Snow crunching beneath our boots, as we merrily made our way towards a much expected vacation. Jennifer by my side, me inhaling her intoxicating perfume with each labored breath. The sensation of her warm skin against mine.
It...it was enough to bring me to tears. In the middle of the forest, hours away from anyone, I cried. The salty drops running down my cheeks froze in the frigid air, threatening my skin with streaks of frostbite. After a while, seeing that the cabin was about 2 miles away, I wiped the tears and refocused on the task at hand.
“It’s a good place to start,” I mumbled to no one in particular.
I pulled out the first vial of blood, and bit down on its cap to remove it. With an arching motion, I spilled it over the pine needles and fresh snow behind me, careful to not get any on the sleigh. My speed faltered as the incline grew beneath me, but I kept going, marking the forest behind me with blood every five hundred feet or so. After twenty vials and the realization that I miscalculated the distance, I opened one of the jars as well and dipped my gloved fingers in it. Three more markings later, I reached the clearing that the cabin was built in.
I expected another flood of painful memories when I laid eyes on it, but I was pleasantly surprised to find out it wasn’t the case. The cabin itself looked nothing like I remembered it, but then again why did I think it would? After that week we spent in it, of course it needed to be rebuilt. And rebuilt it was, bigger and better than its former incarnation.
I pulled up to its porch, releasing myself from the sleigh’s harness and leaving it behind as I entered. The inside had a slight frowsty smell to it, which along with the fine layer of dust that settled on everything was a dead giveaway that the cabin hadn’t been used since the first snowfall this season. After a hasty check of all of the rooms, I looked at my wrist watch. It read 1 PM, which meant that the trek took me much longer than expected.
Now, if I may be allowed to toot my own horn for just a bit, I’m in great shape for my age. I’m my own cook, so I eat well. I’m my own personal trainer, and God knows I’ve not gone easy on myself. Most nights I can’t feel my limbs after strenuous bouts of workout. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, in fact the last thirty years of my life have been spent solely on preparing for tonight. Time used to better my mind, body, and arsenal, all so I could see this one night through. But even with all of that, I can’t compare to a man half my age. Despite my best efforts, the passage of the years robbed me of my vigor little by little.
The only aspect of me that hasn’t faltered in the slightest is my determination. If anything, it only grew stronger, and I put it to good use. After lighting the fireplace in the cabin to warm it up, I went outside, checked and fueled the chainsaw, and took to the forest. It had a wide selection of trees just ripe for felling, so I got to work.
The hours passed, flying me by like summer birds as I cut and cleaned a dozen trees of their branches. With great effort that my back was more than unthankful for, I dragged their trunks through the snow and piled them up in the clearing around the cabin. As the sun kissed the horizon, and the night threatened to engulf me with its all consuming darkness, I finished constructing the enormous pyre that I would need. I doused the wood with the gasoline from one container, allowing it time to soak up the fuel, and had the other container ready next to the pile.
The last thing I did before going inside the cabin to warm myself up and catch my breath was to open the two jars of blood, leaving one at the edge of the forest and the other one next to the pyre on a log. The sun slowly disappeared and, from my vantage point next to the fireplace, I could see the shroud of night time settling across the forest. I waited, biding my time for as long as possible, until every last ray of light was gone. My mind was eager to spring into action, but after a grueling day of manual labor, my body had other plans. I soon fell asleep on the chair, lulled into it by the heat of the fire.
To my displeasure, my sleep wasn’t as restful as it had been back at Rachel’s house. The night terrors I’d grown accustomed to returned to haunt me again, offering me a sweet release from the present only to tear it away from me.
I was back down the mountain, trekking through the December snow with my friends and my soon to be wife. The date was the 24th of December 1991, and I was a strapping young lad of only twenty five years of age. With my future looking bright, and my fiance next to me, I felt invincible. King of the world as far as I was concerned.
Seeing as we were planning our wedding, and our years were slowly advancing beyond parties and travel and into settling down, finding good paying jobs, and starting a family, me and Jennifer decided to throw one last party. Like the good old times. We saved up money all year round, and got four more of our closest friends to join us in what might have been our final outing as a group. We found a cheap cabin, far away from civilization so we wouldn’t disturb anyone’s Christmas night with our loud music and drinking.
The hike took hours but, with Jen by my side to keep me going, I felt no cold or exhaustion to speak of. Michael, David, and myself, the three men in the group, pulled the sleighs with supplies. Jennifer, Kelly, and Lori followed us closely, talking between themselves about anything and everything that they talked about when they weren’t pestering us. David and Lori were fiances getting ready for marriage, just like me and Jen, and Michael and Kelly were already married with a kid back home, just wanting to break free from their busy lives for a few nights.
By the time we reached the cabin, evening was only hours away. Me, Michael, and David were hasty in setting up the battery powered cassette player, and before long, music was blasting out of it. The girls warmed up the prepackaged food, drinks were being passed around from the portable cooler, and by nightfall we had a proper party raging on. One we planned to extend into the early hours of the next morning.
I’m tempted to say that it was the best party of my life, but I know I’d be lying. I only see it that way now because it was the last party where I actually felt good. The fun reached a crescendo around midnight. We were all properly drunk by then, dancing and bumping into each other in the small cabin. Michael needed to relieve himself of surplus liquids, so he went to the outhouse. He was barely gone for half a minute before he barged back inside, his eyes wild and fear plastered across his face.
“Guys, come outside right now!”
By the urgency in his voice and his out of character attitude, we knew he wasn’t messing with us. We dropped whatever we were doing and followed him into the clear winter night, flashlights at the ready. Hushed murmurs rippled through the group, we were all worried and wondering what had happened to scare Michael so bad.
“There!” He said, and pointed towards one of the mountain tops. “What the fuck is that?”
Our collective sights followed his finger, settling on the peak looming above us. But none of us could make anything out.
“Turn off the lights! And the music!” Michael ordered.
David complied. He was in and out of the cabin in a heartbeat, leaving us stranded in soul crushing darkness and silence. With nothing left to pollute my senses, my eyesight and hearing sharpened. Against the spotless white snow and ice that engulfed the cliff faces, I saw a shadow emerge. The longer I stared at it, the more I could feel my mind fracture, as if it wasn’t something that my mortal eyes were meant to witness. Still, from this far away, I couldn’t make out much of it, save for its eyes that seemed to glow in the night like a pair of bloody stars.
“Why is it so quiet?” Jen asked.
I hadn’t even noticed her get next to me and wrap her arms around mine, pushing herself into me in her startled state. But as soon as she brought it up, I could hear it as well. A complete and utter lack of sound, except for our own breathing and shuffling through the snow.
“Do you guys see it now?” Michael asked.
We didn’t get to answer him. The thing, the creature, let out a howl unlike anything I’ve heard before or since. The call of endless winter, of bone shattering cold and gut wrenching hunger. Its voice reverberated down the mountain, echoing through the valleys and piercing our ears with its volume. It lasted for what felt like a lifetime, forcing images of fates worse than death into my mind. I saw all of us, huddled around a dying fire deep in the forest. Cupping our palms around the dying embers in a last futile attempt to warm up. The days and nights passing, with no hope of salvation. Growing ever more hungry and thirsty, until we turned feral and set our sights on each other.
I...I saw the bloodshed. The bodies. Flesh rendered from bone and shoved between greedy, clacking teeth. But it wasn’t real, none of it was real. We wouldn’t do that, we couldn’t do that.
Lost in the visions, I didn’t see the creature wave an arm towards us. I didn’t see the sheer force of its action tear through the layers of snow, freeing it in slabs that slid down the slope. The others told me of all of that later.
“Avalanche!” One of them yelled, though I can’t for the life of me remember which one.
Their cry, and Jen pulling at my arm with desperation, was what finally broke the creature’s spell over me. With the avalanche picking up speed and mass as it plowed down the mountainside towards us, we took shelter in the only safe place around for miles. We huddled in the center of the cabin, hoping that the structure was sound enough to withstand the assault.
When it finally hit, the avalanche sounded like a thunderstorm mixed in with an earthquake. The world around us shook from its very core, sending us flying every which way as we tried to hold steady against it. And then, as soon as it had started, the calamity ended, leaving us gasping in terror.
A scream reverberating from outside the cabin woke me up before the nightmare got to the worst part. I jolted in the seat, strangely thankful for being spared of the horror that would’ve followed. With the axe and loaded shotgun in hand, I got outside into the quiet night. My hairs stood on their ends right away, as a feeling of deep anxiety welled within me. This was it, the moment I’d been preparing for for the past thirty years. My life’s goal was within reach, and yet I feared I was woefully unprepared to face it.
I walked around the pyre, checking the clearing for signs of the beast. The jar of blood left on the log had been thrown into the snow, licked clean of every last trace of the crimson fluid. Even the snow around where it had landed was gone. The beast was hungry.
Leaving the axe next to the one remaining fuel canister, I raised the shotgun in front of myself and marched towards the forest slowly. The beast ran around between the evergreen trees, using them for cover, but I could tell that each one of its steps brought it closer to me. My heart pounded away wildly in anticipation, preparing my body for the fight that would shortly ensue.
“Come out!” I yelled into the night, stopping half way to the tree line.
The skittering stopped, sending me on edge. Bouts of laughter emanated from the forest, its echoes making it hard for me to pinpoint the source.
“Come out!” The beast repeated my words back to me. Only they were twisted and slurred, uttered by lips that had grown unaccustomed to human speech.
“I’m not fucking around!” I pressed. “Come out! Now!”
“Me neither!” The beast yelled, sending an icy chill clean through my soul.
In one final leap, it flew through the air from the branch where it had been squatting. With a heavy thud, it landed a few feet from the edge of the clearing. My body froze when I laid eyes on it. The skeletal frame that betrayed its decades of malnutrition. The sunken eyes, the retracted lips that exposed diseased gums and teeth charred by decay. The skin turned to a blue and black mess from constant hypothermia and countless frostbites. Clothes torn to rags and a once beautiful head of dirty blonde hair reduced to sick strands barely hanging onto its scalp.
I couldn’t take it anymore, I could feel the beginning of another panic attack writhing beneath my skin. My heart rate reached a maximum, my body trembled from its core, and cold sweat poured out of my pores, chilling me to the bone. The mix of impending doom and all consuming fear sent adrenaline surging through my veins, and I tried to latch onto it, to let it help me through the ordeal soon to follow.
Letting go of the shotgun with one hand that I reached towards the beast, with my voice catching in my throat and coming out a hoarse whisper as my rapid breathing cut it short, I uttered a single word.
“Jen.”