Where The Lost Go

A snowy journey

Content notes: Horror/Spooky, slow-burn, chill, ~1.4k words.

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When the storm first hit I thought it would be the end of me.

I was warned that it was a risky time of year to make the trek, yet I was determined to do it anyway. Something in those mountains was calling out to me, something unexplored and begging to be seen. I once dreamed of being an archaeologist, like Indiana Jones. That didn’t pan out. I wasn’t cut out to be a scholar, to be stuck inside studying when I could be out discovering.

When my father was alive he constantly cautioned me away from reckless and foolish decisions, but to me those were synonymous with adventure. Perhaps I should have invested in a thesaurus instead of a tent. The tent seemed like the smart move in case I ended up needing rest or shelter during my travels, but believing I made any wise choices on this journey is what got me here, isn’t it?

It was dusk when the snow began, the second I’d spent in the forest. I could feel that I was honing in on something out here, but I hadn’t found it yet. I couldn’t turn back when I was so close. I could practically hear the whisper of the mountain telling me that I was meant to find it. My mother scolded me softly about these feelings before, she said they were ‘unrealistic’. She was being kind, I’d heard the word delusional tossed around when they hadn’t realized I was in the next room. That may have been something I should have taken to heart, but I’d rolled my eyes at it.

I’d researched this mountain as extensively as I could, and other explorers had felt the same thing: A pull, a calling, a beacon for the lost. I’d always felt lost, perhaps because I was endlessly searching for something unknown. Perhaps this would be the expedition that finally filled that longing, the one thing I was really looking for. It seemed to be the ultimate journey for a handful of others on the forum, their accounts marked as retired after their expedition dates.

The temperature dropped rapidly as the last rays of light released their embrace. It was too cold. The tent was flimsy, the sleeping bag clearly meant for warmer weather, and the storm howled around me so ferociously I thought it might tear the entire encampment from the forest floor. Instead it sent a branch to impale the tent and render it useless, allowing the vicious bite of cold air to rip away what little warmth I’d had. This is when the feeling of imminent doom truly began, in the darkness, as I gathered my now-sodden supplies and began lumbering through the blizzard conditions in search of safety.

I shivered, joints stiffening as I trekked forward. The snowfall soaked through my clothes and the wind leeched every bit of warmth from my extremities. Every step was a labor as I dragged my legs through the growing drifts. I hoped for a cave, a copse of trees close enough to shelter from the wind, or even a visible path back towards civilization— instead I found the cabin.

Something in the back of my mind told me that this was what the mountains had been hiding. It was the source of the call.

I knocked, I circled, I delayed until the numbness of the cold crept over my body like television static, not wanting to disturb anything sacred. The structure was incredibly old, the porch sagged under my weight and the door hinges squealed as I entered. A quick sweep found the one room hovel to be abandoned, likely for a while considering the level of dust and mildewed scent. It wasn’t warm inside, but it was protected from the frigid winds and moisture. It felt right to be here.

It would take two full days for the storm to settle.

Luckily my camp stove and edible supplies remained intact, though I had nothing to help figure out where I had ended up or how to get back to town. I hadn’t prepared for anything more than a day or two of hiking along a fairly obvious path, a path which I was certain would now be invisible under the unexpectedly heavy snowfall.

The cabin itself seemed to hold no further mystery except the feeling, and after the first night that sensation had shifted. There was still something here, certainly, but it no longer had the same pull. I considered the fact that there might be something underground, but both my lack of supplies and the state of the earth made even the idea of digging ridiculous. I was grateful to not have frozen to death, but there was nothing else here for me.

When the weather cleared I went out into the forest, I wandered, I marked my path with sticks erected in the snow, and another day passed. Every direction I went was unfamiliar, every turn seemed to end with me circling back to the cabin.

Then the meagre food supply was gone, but I wasn’t hungry; my organs were filled to the brim with indigestible dread. The cheap radio I had saved for emergencies had been waterlogged in the tent collapse, and I hadn’t located any signs of a path or people anywhere nearby. Surely I couldn’t have wandered too far in the storm, yet it was far enough that every trek out of the cabin felt like seeing the forest for the first time.

It snowed heavily again that night. I hunkered down in the cabin as both darkness and crystalline ice fragments fell— at least it wasn’t as cold as the last storm. Still, a wave of unease overtook me as I peered out the windows and watched the thick, fluttering flakes descend from the sky. Any progress I’d made at marking where I’d already been would likely be buried tomorrow.

I awoke the next morning and looked out into the blinding white world that enveloped the forest, and was filled with a sudden hope. Someone has been here. Footprints decorated the fresh snowfall surrounding the cabin. Perhaps more hikers had been looking for shelter, or someone had noticed my extended trip and sent out a search party, but why had they not entered the cabin? Why hadn’t they knocked?

When I opened the cabin door my hope vanished, the dismay I’d felt since the loss of the tent bubbled up in my throat and threatened to drown me. There were footprints in the snow, half a dozen different sets at least. At first glance you might think that a group of people had wandered to the cabin, peered in each of the windows, and tried the front door. Under the windows, on the front steps, even near the gap in the foundation that led beneath the house, the tracks went in every direction.

And every single set led away from the cabin, as though mocking me.

I dashed into the trees without even feeling the frigid air or snap of branches against my chilled skin; I pushed through the pines and abandoned all paths. After some time I paused, breathing in, tasting the air for the lingering dust of the cabin. It felt far away. I felt like I’d made it somewhere.

I looked back in the direction I came from, just to be sure that nothing was trailing me. I saw the truth in that moment, blinding as the sunlight shimmering off the snow.

There was nothing. Nothing at all. The forest made no sound. No birds, no crack of dried twigs or crunch of snow as I rushed through the foliage. I didn’t feel the wind against my face despite watching it rustle through the trees. The snowfall behind me held no tracks, no marks, not a single sign of passage.

No feeling in my body, no impression in my wake. I turned to proceed, watching my boots slide over the snow. It felt like I was trudging through the drifts. The tree-line thinned ahead of me and I felt a pull, a tug on my heartstrings that told me I’d found what I needed. That I was safe. That I could go home.

I reached the clearing and found myself face to face with the cabin.

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