They hit the snow hard, tumbling through the narrow bedroom window and landing in a heap outside. Vera's knees scraped against the frozen ground. Ivy winced, catching herself on one elbow. Mason was already up, turning toward the cabin like he expected something to crawl out behind them.
But nothing came.
Only silence.
For a heartbeat.
Then—
Crack.
A branch snapped in the woods behind them.
Rustle.
Something moved through the trees — fast. Too fast.
"Run," Mason said.
They didn't ask questions.
Boots thudding against the snow, lungs burning, breath coming out in ragged clouds — they tore into the dark.
The woods swallowed them.
Snow whipped into their faces, the wind sharp as razors. Branches clawed at their arms and jackets, some low enough to whip their skin. Every sound was too loud: the crunch of their steps, the rasp of their breathing, the thunder of blood in their ears.
But worse were the sounds not coming from them.
A hiss to the left.
A low, dragging scrape to the right.
Twigs cracking — but none of them had stepped.
"I swear something's behind us," Ivy gasped, looking over her shoulder.
"Keep going!" Mason snapped. "Don't stop!"
They pushed forward blindly. The forest was endless. No path, no direction, only trees pressing in like a trap.
"Where the hell are we going?" Leo yelled.
"I don't know!" Vera shouted back. "Anywhere that isn't here!"
"We need to think!" Ivy said, stumbling over a root. Vera caught her.
"No time," Mason growled.
"There's always time to not die in the snow!" she barked.
They skidded to a stop by a cluster of trees, huddled in the shadows, all panting.
"We can't just run in circles," Vera said. "We don't know where we are."
"Back to the hotel?" Ivy asked, voice trembling.
"No way," Leo said. "That place is a nightmare."
"It's the only structure we know," Mason said. "There's the garage. The cars. Maybe we can hide there — just for now. Regroup. Figure out where the road is. We came up a trail, right?"
"Yeah," Vera nodded. "I remember a curve, a guardrail. If we can find that, we can trace it back down the mountain."
Leo hesitated. "Even if we get there… who says the cars still work?"
"We'll deal with that after we stop freezing to death," Mason said, already moving.
More rustling echoed through the trees.
This time, closer.
They didn't wait.
They ran again — hearts pounding, blood roaring in their ears — and behind them, something kept pace in the dark.
Watching.
Waiting.
_ _ _
The group veered left through the snow, back toward the hotel grounds. Their map was useless now — soaked and crumpled — but the memory of the layout burned in their minds.
Behind them: a distant crunch.
Then another.
Faster.
Whatever was following… wasn't slow anymore.
"Don't stop," Mason said through clenched teeth. "We're almost there."
Through the trees, the garage finally came into view — half-buried in snow, squat and square with a metal shutter and side door. One of the small security lights above flickered dimly, casting a jittery glow across the lot.
_ _ _
The garage door groaned as Mason forced it open. The cold followed them in like a shadow, curling into the dim space between the rows of parked vehicles. Concrete floors, high ceilings, and the lingering smell of oil and rust. The wind howled behind them until the door clanged shut again.
They all exhaled — not relief exactly, but a brief pause from panic.
Vera leaned against the wall, chest heaving. Ivy crouched down beside the nearest car, hugging her knees for warmth.
Leo straightened, scanning the garage. "Alright. Let's check the cars. Maybe—"
He stopped.
On a workbench near the corner, beneath a layer of dust and scattered tools, was a paper. Neat. Centered. Waiting.
He stepped closer, brushing snow from his sleeves, and picked it up.
The paper was crisp. The writing was typed — calculated, deliberate.
---
Status:
Guests have arrived – ☑️
Meal consumption (laced, ethically sourced flesh) – ☑️
Isolation ensured – ☑️
Vehicle tires deflated – ☑️
Phase Four: Exposure to elements and psychological weakening → pending
Objective: Complete transformation of subjects
---
Leo stared at it, breath caught in his throat.
He turned slowly toward the others. "Forget the cars."
Mason looked up. "What?"
Leo held up the paper. "Check this out."
They gathered around as he read it out loud. Each line landed like a stone.
Vera's face paled. Ivy backed away from the paper like it might burn her.
"This was all planned," Leo said, his voice low. "Every step. Even dinner."
Ivy shook her head. "Transformation? Into what?"
No one answered.
Only the wind outside — cold, hungry — clawing at the garage door.
_ _ _
---
They stood frozen in the dim, oily light of the garage. After Leo finished reading the list aloud, silence pressed down like a second ceiling.
Then Mason moved.
"There has to be something else," he muttered, pacing toward the corner of the room. A wardrobe, old and scratched, sat beneath a cracked window. He tugged the doors open, but it was empty. Below, though—there were drawers.
He crouched and yanked one open.
A faded, leather-bound sketchbook sat inside. Its pages were warped, stained, and curled at the edges. When he flipped it open, something dropped from between the pages—what looked like dried bark, or maybe a piece of withered skin.
Vera flinched. "What is that?"
But no one answered. They were all staring at the pages.
The first sketch was a tall, distorted figure — skeletal limbs stretched long beyond normal proportions, its hands ending in claws that were too many joints deep. It had a stretched face, eyeless, yet somehow watching. Neatly written beside it:
> "Elves — generally around 6–7 ft tall. Less delicate than they look. Most adept at magic. Too many fingers."
Mason turned the page slowly.
Another figure. This one was worse. It looked like a corpse dragged through a blizzard, skin clinging tight to bones, antlers rising from a head that seemed to scream. Ink scratches scrawled down the side:
> WENDIGO
Origin: Algonquian Folklore (USA, Canada)
Description: Tall and emaciated with skeletal appearance, decaying skin, sunken eyes, sharp elongated claws. It often has features of a deer—such as large antlers on its head. Depicted both with or without fur.
Powers: An evil, cannibalistic being, with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Legends reference it possessing humans—particularly those who commit cannibalism or come close to starvation.
Symbolism: Insatiable greed, hunger, and the loss of humanity. It reflects the harshness of winter and the consequences of isolation and desperation.
On the next page, the handwriting was messier, frantic:
> The Wendigo is often associated with greed, selfishness, and winter starvation. Some stories suggest that a human who resorts to cannibalism can transform into one.
In some cases, the legend has been linked to a mental illness known as "wendigo psychosis" — characterized by an intense craving for human flesh and a fear of becoming a cannibal.
Ivy's voice came out soft, shaken:
"So what... we're being turned into them?"
No one answered.
Leo slowly sat down, eyes scanning the page again.
"I think this was a record. Like someone was keeping track. Studying them."
Mason's grip tightened on the book. "Or becoming one."
Ivy stepped back from the sketchbook as though it had burned her. Her voice trembled.
"Is that why he fed us human flesh at dinner?"
The words hit the air like a slap — vile and undeniable.
Everyone fell silent. The memory of that overly seasoned meat, the strange texture.
staring down at the familiar, deliberate handwriting across the pages.
"This is probably Ellis's sketchbook."
She looked up, pale, voice low.
"He's not just studying them. He's documenting everything... planning something."
Mason closed the book, the snap of it echoing in the stillness.
"We need to get out of here," he muttered.
_ _ _
Vera took a shaky breath and pulled the folded map from her coat pocket. She spread it across the dusty surface of a workbench beneath a flickering light.
The map was hand-drawn, old, and confusing — crisscrossed with faded ink lines and cryptic symbols. Some areas were scribbled out entirely, while others were labeled with odd names like "The Hollow," "Feeding Grounds," and "The Watcher's Path."
"Do any of you know how to read this?" Vera asked, eyes darting across the mess of paths and circles.
Leo leaned over, squinting. "It's not a standard trail map. Half of this feels… wrong."
"Like a ritual layout," Ivy muttered. "Not a way out."
The group stood in silence, the weight of isolation pressing in.
"So what do we do?" Mason finally asked.
Vera hesitated, then looked up. "We find Ellis."
"What?" Leo turned to her, startled.
"He's the only one who knows what this place really is. And we hit him—back in the basement, when we escaped. If he's still alive…" she let the words hang in the cold air.
"He'll have answers," Leo finished, jaw clenched.
They exchanged glances—tired, scared, but unified. No one wanted to split up again.
"We'll check the basement," Mason said. "Where we last saw him."
"And if he's not there?" Ivy asked.
No one answered.
They grabbed the map, shoved the sketchbook into Vera's coat pocket, and stepped out into the snow again, heading back to the hotel doors—toward the place it all started.