Northern Yukon. Population: thirty-eight.
On a good day.
In February, the town of Hollow Pines becomes a white void where even echoes freeze. The nearest sign of civilization is a gas station 120 kilometers south, and no one refills the tank in winter.
Especially after last year.
---
Charlie McCrae, a climate researcher from Toronto,Canada took a temporary job monitoring ice melt near Hollow Pines. She brought her dog Yukon, six months' worth of supplies, and a naive enthusiasm that melted faster than the roads iced over.
Locals offered warnings.
"If you hear someone call your name after sundown—don't answer."
"If you see lights in the woods—don't follow."
"If the snow goes silent—run."
---
It started on the seventh night.
The howling winds stopped. Not slowed. Stopped.
Charlie opened the cabin door and heard nothing.
Not a bird. Not a creak. Not even her own heartbeat for a second.
She blinked, and Yukon was gone.
No tracks.
---
The next day, a man appeared at her doorstep. Pale, frostbitten, dressed like it was 1920. He introduced himself as Alaric. Said he was from the town. Hollow Pines.
The one on the map.
The one that burned down in 1962.
---
Charlie searched the archives. Alaric's face was in a photo from 1959.
He hadn't aged.
She confronted him.
He smiled.
And disappeared into the snow.
---
That night, the wind returned—but it wasn't wind.
It whispered her name. Over. And over. And over.
In Yukon's bark. In her own voice. In static from the radio.
She boarded up the cabin.
But the snow came inside anyway.
---
Charlie left a message on her laptop, typing with blue fingers:
"If the snow goes silent, it's already too late. They're inside it. They wear your face. They know your memories. Don't trust warmth—it's how they lure you."
That was the last thing recorded.
The rescue team found the cabin sealed shut from inside. Fireplace cold. Laptop fried. Charlie's jacket still hanging.
But no Charlie.
Only footprints in the snow… leading straight into the untouched white.
Then stopping.