The firewood in the fireplace crackles with a blue spark as outside the wind whips through the tops of the pine trees. I’m alone in the cabin. I brought three books, enough coffee, and the false hope that a few days in the mountains would clear my head. The creaking of the roof is constant, but I’ve grown accustomed to the old wood expanding in the cold. It’s a dry, rhythmic sound. Crack. Crack. I hold the hot cup in my hands and look out the large window that opens onto the porch. The forest is pitch black; I can only see the reflection of my own living room cast upon the glass.
Then the creaking changes pitch. It’s no longer coming from the ceiling. Now it’s sounding on the wooden planks of the porch, right on the other side of the glass. A heavy, cautious footstep that stops just inches from the window. I clench my teeth to keep from breathing. In the reflection on the glass, I see myself sitting in front of the fire. And right beside me, floating in the shadows, a deathly pale hand rests on my shoulder.
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