"The Farmhouse":
The wind screamed outside my cell, tearing at the stone walls like it wanted to pull me into the cold. It was January 1830, and the Icelandic winter was merciless. Snow buried the world, and the sun, weak and pale, barely climbed above the hills. My name is Agnes Magnúsdóttir, and I’m waiting for them to take me to the axe. They say I killed two men, Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson, and soon I’ll pay with my life. As I sit here, wrapped in a thin blanket that does nothing against the chill, my mind drifts back to Illugastaðir farm, where the cold wasn’t just in the air—it lived in our hearts, sharp and unforgiving.
I was born poor, shuffled between farms, my hands hardened by work before I was grown. People said I was clever, good with words, but cleverness didn’t fill an empty stomach. I learned to keep my head down, to scrub floors and mend clothes without complaint. When I came to Illugastaðir, I was tired, but hopeful. Natan Ketilsson owned the farm, and he was different from the grim farmers I’d known. He had a quick smile, eyes that sparkled like the sea, and a way of talking that made you feel seen. I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d see something in me.
One evening, as I stirred a pot of soup over the fire, the kitchen warm with the smell of barley and fish, Natan leaned close. “You’re a good worker, Agnes,” he said, his voice smooth as a summer stream. “Keep that head of yours sharp, and we’ll get along fine.” My cheeks warmed, not just from the fire. I let myself dream he meant more, that he saw me as more than a maid. I worked harder, polishing the wooden table until it gleamed, folding his clothes with care, hoping he’d notice.
But then Sigríður came. She was younger, with soft hands and hair like spun gold. Her laugh was light, like bells on a clear day, and Natan’s eyes followed her everywhere. I’d see them by the hearth, her sweeping the floor, him smiling. “Sigríður, my dear, you’re doing a fine job,” he’d say, his hand resting on her shoulder. To me, it was just, “Agnes, make sure the soup’s hot.” My heart sank each time, the dream I’d built crumbling. I felt like a shadow, unseen, unwanted. Jealousy grew inside me, bitter as the frost that clung to the windows.
Sigríður wasn’t the only one at Illugastaðir. Friðrik Sigurdsson was there, too, a young man with a temper like a storm. He worked the fields, his hands calloused, his eyes always watching Natan. Friðrik didn’t like how Natan treated him, barking orders like he was better than us. One night, as we sat by the fire, the wind howling outside, Friðrik leaned toward me, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “It’s about Natan,” he said, his breath fogging in the cold. “He’s too close with Sigríður. It’s not right, Agnes. I can’t stand it.”
I nodded, my hands twisting in my lap. “He acts like she’s special,” I said, my voice tight. “And us? Like we’re nothing.” Friðrik’s eyes burned in the firelight, fierce and restless. “He’s got it coming,” he whispered. “We could do something, you and me. Make him pay for it.” My stomach twisted, but I didn’t look away. The anger in me, the hurt, it was too strong to ignore. I thought of Natan’s smile for Sigríður, the way he dismissed me, and I felt a fire of my own.
For days, we talked in whispers, our words hidden by the wind that never stopped. We’d meet in the barn, the air sharp with the smell of hay and frost, or by the stream, where the water ran black under thin ice. Friðrik’s plan grew clearer each time. “Natan needs to go,” he said one night, his voice steady. “For good.” I shivered, not just from the cold. “And Pétur?” I asked. Pétur Jónsson, Natan’s friend, was staying at the farm, always lurking, watching us. Friðrik’s jaw tightened. “If he’s there, he’s in the way. We can’t leave him to talk.”
I didn’t want to think about it, but the idea took root. I saw Sigríður laughing with Natan, her hand brushing his, and it hurt like a knife. I wanted her to feel what I felt, to lose what I’d never had. Friðrik’s anger fed mine, and together, we built something dark, something unstoppable.
It was March 14, 1828. The snow was so deep it swallowed our boots, and the night was black, the stars hidden by clouds. My hands shook as I held the knife Friðrik gave me, its blade cold against my palm. We waited until the house was quiet, the others asleep. The wind moaned, covering the creak of the door as we slipped inside. The air smelled of wool and smoke, and my heart pounded so loud I thought it’d wake the whole farm.
Friðrik led the way, his steps silent on the wooden floor. Natan’s room was at the end, his door half-open. He was asleep, his chest rising under the blanket. Friðrik didn’t hesitate. His knife flashed in the dim light, and Natan woke with a gasp, his eyes wide with shock. “What—” he started, but Friðrik was fast. The blade sank into Natan’s chest, once, twice, more times than I could count. Natan’s hands clawed at the air, then fell still, his breath gone.
I stood frozen, the knife heavy in my hand, my stomach churning. Friðrik turned to me, his face pale but hard. “Agnes, do it,” he hissed. I stumbled to Pétur’s room, my legs like lead. Pétur was asleep, his snores soft in the dark. I raised the knife, my hands trembling. He stirred, his eyes opening just as the blade came down. “Agnes, no—” he gasped, but it was too late. The knife struck, clumsy and desperate, and his body went limp, the bed soaked with warmth.
We dragged them to the floor, their weight heavy, their limbs awkward. My hands were slick, and I couldn’t look at their faces. Friðrik grabbed a jug of shark oil from the storeroom, the sharp smell filling the air. “This’ll cover it,” he said, splashing it over the beds, the walls, the bodies. He struck a flint, and flames roared up, bright and hungry, eating the wood. We ran into the snow, the fire’s heat at our backs, the night swallowing us. My chest burned with fear, with guilt, but it was done.
The fire didn’t hide anything. Neighbors saw the smoke, smelled the oil, and found what was left of Natan and Pétur. They knew it was us. Friðrik and I were arrested, and Sigríður, too, though they let her go because she was young and swore she knew nothing. In jail, the walls were damp, the air heavy with despair. I met Tóti, a young priest with kind eyes, sent to prepare me for death. One day, as we sat in my cell, the wind rattling the walls, he asked, “Why did you do it, Agnes? What drove you to such a thing?”
I stared at the floor, my hands cold. “I was angry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Natan made me feel like I was nothing. And Sigríður… she had everything I wanted. I couldn’t stand it.” Tóti’s face was sad, his hands folded in his lap. “Anger doesn’t make it right,” he said softly. “You know that.” Tears stung my eyes, and I nodded. “I know. But it’s too late now. I can’t undo it.”
The trial was a blur, voices loud with judgment. They called me a monster, said I’d planned it all, that I’d turned Friðrik’s heart to darkness. The courtroom was cold, the faces hard, and I felt small, like a child caught in a storm. They sentenced Friðrik and me to die, our heads to be taken by the axe. Sigríður walked free, her eyes empty when they met mine. I didn’t hate her anymore, only myself, for letting jealousy twist me into something I didn’t recognize.
Now, here I am, in this cell, the winter colder than any I’ve known. The snow falls endlessly, and the wind never stops. They say they’ll put our heads on spikes after, a warning to others, though I heard whispers that the heads vanish sometimes, lost to the snow or thieves. I think about Natan, his smile, his cruelty. I think about Pétur, who did nothing but be in the wrong place. The guilt is heavy, like stones in my chest, and the fire we set didn’t burn it away.
The guards are coming now, their boots crunching in the snow outside. My hands shake as I pull the blanket tighter, but it’s no use. The cold is inside me, and so is the fear. They lead me out, the wind biting my face, the world white and silent. The axe waits ahead, its blade glinting in the pale light. I wonder if anyone will remember me, or if I’ll be just a story, whispered on winter nights to scare children. The snow falls, soft and cruel, and the dark is all I see.
"The Hotel":
It was January 2013, and the winter cold clung to everything in Los Angeles. I worked the night shift at the Grandview Hotel, a crumbling old place downtown with faded carpets and lights that flickered when the wind blew. My name’s Alex, and I was the front desk clerk from midnight to eight. The hotel had a bad reputation—people whispered about crimes and tragedies from years past—but I didn’t believe in curses or anything like that. Still, the empty halls at night, with the chill seeping through the walls, made my skin prickle.
I first met Sarah Chen on January 28 when she checked in. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with a shy smile and a heavy backpack. “Just staying a few days,” she said, scribbling her name in the guestbook. Her voice was soft, and she looked tired from traveling. “Any good places to eat around here?” she asked, adjusting her scarf.
“There’s a diner a block over, open all night,” I told her. “Good burgers. Stick to the main streets, though. It’s not the safest area.”
She nodded, thanked me, and headed to her room on the third floor. I didn’t think much of it. Guests came and went, and she seemed like any other tourist exploring the city.
A couple of nights later, I was doing my rounds around 2 a.m. The hotel was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every creak sound louder. I was on the third floor, checking for burnt-out bulbs, when I saw Sarah. She was pacing the hallway, her hands twisting together, muttering under her breath. Her hair was messy, like she’d been running her fingers through it. I froze, unsure if I should say something.
“Hey, you okay?” I called out, keeping my voice gentle so I wouldn’t startle her.
She stopped dead, her head snapping toward me. Her eyes were wide, almost too big for her face. “I… I think someone’s watching me,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, and I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.
“Watching you? Did you see someone?” I asked, stepping closer. The hallway was dim, the light at the far end buzzing faintly.
She shook her head, her fingers gripping her sleeves. “No, but I feel it. Like eyes on me.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me. “I’m fine, I just… I need to sleep.” She hurried to her room, the door clicking shut behind her. I stood there, listening to the lock turn, my heart beating a little faster. I told myself she was just nervous, maybe overwhelmed by the city. But the way she looked at me, like she was pleading for help, stayed with me.
The next morning, I told Sarah—my coworker, not the guest—about it while we sipped coffee in the break room. “That girl in 306, Sarah Chen? She was acting strange last night,” I said, wrapping my hands around my mug to warm them. “Pacing the halls, talking about someone watching her.”
Sarah, who’d been at the hotel longer than me, frowned. “I saw her too, yesterday evening. She was in the elevator, pressing every button, just standing there staring at the doors. I asked if she needed help, and she just mumbled something and got off on the wrong floor.”
“Maybe she’s homesick,” I said, but I wasn’t convinced. The Grandview had a way of getting under your skin. Mike, the security guard, loved telling stories about its history—how a murderer had stayed here decades ago, how people had jumped from the windows. “This place is heavy,” he’d say, tapping his temple. I’d roll my eyes, but at night, when the wind rattled the windows and the halls felt endless, I understood what he meant.
On January 31, Sarah Chen came to the desk around 9 p.m. She was bundled in a coat, her scarf loose around her neck. “Any restaurants open late?” she asked, her voice steadier than before. Her hands still shook, though, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“The diner’s your best bet,” I said. “They’ve got warm soup, good for a cold night like this. You doing okay?”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, just exploring. Thanks.” She left, and I watched her step into the night, her figure swallowed by the fog. That was the last time I saw her.
A week later, on February 8, the phone rang at the desk. It was her parents, frantic, saying Sarah hadn’t called home in days. They’d reported her missing, and soon the police were at the hotel, their boots tracking dirt across the lobby floor. A detective named Ruiz questioned me, his pen scratching against a notepad. “When did you last see Sarah Chen?” he asked, his eyes sharp.
“January 31, around 9 p.m.,” I said. “She asked about restaurants, said she was going out. She seemed… okay, but maybe a little on edge.”
“Anything unusual before that? Behavior, anything out of the ordinary?” he pressed.
I swallowed, then told him about the hallway, her pacing, her talk of being watched. “She was scared, but I didn’t see anyone near her. I thought maybe she was just anxious.”
Ruiz nodded, jotting it down. “We’re searching the hotel. If you remember anything else, call me.” He handed me his card, and I slipped it into my pocket, my fingers cold.
The police turned the place upside down—checking rooms, stairwells, even the basement. I helped where I could, opening locked doors, shining my flashlight into dusty corners. We checked the roof, too, where the wind cut like a knife. The door was supposed to be locked, but the latch was loose, easy to push open. “No way she came up here,” Joe, the maintenance guy, said, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “It’s freezing, and those water tanks are bolted shut.”
They found nothing. No sign of Sarah, no bag, no clues. I kept thinking about her notebook, one I’d seen her carrying a few days before she vanished. I’d found it later, tucked behind a chair in the staff room, like she’d dropped it. The pages were filled with messy scribbles—words like “help” and “they see me,” written over and over. I didn’t touch it long; it felt wrong, like reading someone’s secrets. I gave it to the police, but they didn’t say much about it.
On February 13, the police released a video from the elevator camera. Sarah, the coworker, showed it to me on her phone during a break, the footage grainy and silent. Sarah Chen stepped into the elevator, her movements jerky. She pressed every button, then stood in the corner, peeking out like she was hiding from someone. She waved her hands, stepped in and out of the doors, then darted down the hall. The elevator stayed open, empty, for what felt like forever.
“What was she doing?” Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t know,” I said, my throat tight. “She looks terrified.”
The video spread online, and suddenly everyone had a theory. Guests started complaining about the water—low pressure, a funny smell, a bad taste. “Old pipes,” I told them, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. The hotel felt different, heavier. At night, I’d hear things—footsteps in empty halls, a faint tapping from the walls. I told myself it was the building settling, the cold making the pipes groan, but I started checking the locks twice before my shift ended.
On February 19, Joe burst into the lobby, his face white as snow. “Alex, get to the roof. Now.”
I grabbed my coat and followed him, my boots slipping on the icy stairs. The wind hit me hard as we stepped onto the roof, the city lights blurred by fog. Joe pointed to one of the water tanks, big rusted things that loomed like silent giants. “I was checking the water lines,” he said, his voice shaking. “I looked inside, and… there’s something in there.”
We climbed the ladder, my hands numb on the cold metal. Joe pried open the hatch, and a sour, heavy smell hit us. I covered my mouth, gagging. He shone his flashlight into the dark water, and I saw her. Sarah Chen, floating, her hair fanned out, her clothes tangled around her. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. I stumbled back, nearly falling off the ladder, my heart slamming in my chest.
“Call the police,” I choked out, my voice barely working.
They came quickly, taping off the roof, their radios crackling in the cold. They pulled her out, and I stood back, watching as they laid her on a tarp. Her skin was pale, bloated, but there were no marks, no blood. I overheard an officer say she’d been in the water for weeks. Later, the autopsy said she drowned, accidental, tied to her bipolar disorder. They found her medication in her system, nothing else—no drugs, no alcohol. But the questions piled up like snow. How did she get to the roof? How did she climb into that tank? The ladder was shaky, the hatch heavy, and the water was deep. It didn’t make sense.
I kept thinking about her notebook, those frantic words. The police said it was her mental state, nothing more, but I couldn’t let it go. I’d seen her fear, heard her voice tremble. Was someone really watching her, or was it all in her mind? The hotel’s history didn’t help—Mike’s stories about past guests, lost and broken, echoed in my head. I started noticing things: shadows in the corners of my vision, the elevator doors opening on their own. I knew it was just my nerves, the weight of what happened, but it felt like the Grandview was holding its breath.
The hotel stayed open, but guests trickled away. The news called it a tragedy, and the police closed the case, saying there was no foul play. I kept working, but every shift was a battle. I’d walk the halls, my flashlight beam shaking, half-expecting to see Sarah pacing again. I’d check the elevator, remembering her in that video, her hands waving like she was pushing something away. The cold seemed to settle deeper, curling around the walls, the floors, my bones.
Years later, I still think about her. The Grandview’s still there, sagging under its own weight. I don’t believe in anything beyond what I can see, but that place… it’s different. It’s not ghosts or curses. It’s the memory of her fear, the unanswered questions, the way the cold wraps around you and doesn’t let go. Every creak, every shadow—it’s just the hotel, but it’s enough to keep me awake, wondering what really happened that winter.
"The Mountain":
I’m Alfred Packer, and I carry the weight of the winter of 1874 like a shadow that never leaves. It was February when I set out with five men—George Noon, Israel Swan, James Humphrey, Frank Miller, and Shannon Bell—from Chief Ouray’s camp in the San Juan Mountains. The chief had warned us, his voice low and serious, that the snow was too deep, the cold too fierce. But we were stubborn, dreaming of gold fields, convinced we could outsmart the mountains. We were so wrong.
The first day wasn’t so bad. The air was crisp, our breaths puffing out in clouds as we trudged through the snow. Pine trees stood tall, their branches heavy with white, and the world felt quiet, almost peaceful. We carried packs with flour, some dried meat, and a few blankets, thinking it’d be enough. George, the youngest, hummed a tune, his boots crunching in the fresh powder. “This ain’t so tough,” he said, grinning. “We’ll be there in no time.”
Israel, the oldest, shook his head, his gray beard dusted with frost. “Don’t underestimate these mountains, boy. They’ve swallowed better men than us.”
I tried to keep spirits up. “Let’s just keep moving,” I said, checking the map. But the map was useless when the blizzard hit. It came out of nowhere, a wall of white that erased the world. The wind screamed, biting at our faces, and snow piled up so fast we couldn’t see our own tracks. My fingers ached inside my gloves, and my coat felt thin against the cold. We stumbled forward, hoping for shelter, but found nothing but more snow.
“Which way, Alfred?” Frank asked, his voice muffled by the storm. His hat was crusted with ice, his eyes squinting against the wind.
“I can’t tell,” I admitted, my heart sinking. “Everything looks the same.”
“We need to stop,” James said, his thin frame shivering. “We’ll freeze if we keep going like this.”
We found a small hollow under a cliff, barely enough to shield us. We huddled together, wrapping blankets tight, but the cold seeped through. Our food was running low—half a sack of flour, a few scraps of meat. We rationed it, each bite smaller than the last. At night, the wind howled like a living thing, and I lay awake, listening to my stomach growl.
Days blurred together. We tried to move when the storm eased, but the snow was waist-deep, and every step was a fight. Our faces grew gaunt, our cheeks hollow. We dug for roots under the snow, their bitter taste sticking in my throat. We boiled our leather belts, chewing the softened strips until our jaws ached. It wasn’t enough. The hunger was a constant ache, a monster that grew stronger each day.
Israel was the first to weaken. He was sixty, too old for this hardship. One evening, he sat by our small fire, his hands trembling as he held a tin cup. “I can’t go on,” he whispered, his eyes dull. “I’m done.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said, kneeling beside him. “We’ll find a way out. We have to.”
He just shook his head, staring into the flames. The next morning, we found him still, his body half-covered in snow, his face peaceful but frozen. My chest tightened. We’d lost one of our own.
“We can’t leave him like this,” James said, his voice breaking. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. “But… what do we do?”
Shannon Bell, who’d been quiet for days, spoke up. His voice was steady, too steady. “We’re starving, Alfred. We need to use what we have. We need to eat him.”
I froze, my breath catching. “No. That’s not right. We can’t do that.”
“We’re dying,” Shannon said, his eyes locked on mine. “You feel it too. The hunger. It’s gonna take us all if we don’t act.”
Frank nodded slowly. “He’s right. Israel’s gone. He’d want us to live.”
George looked away, his face pale. James clutched his coat, tears freezing on his cheeks. I wanted to argue, to say there was another way, but the hunger was louder than my conscience. We built a fire, our hands shaking as we prepared what we couldn’t name aloud. The smell was strange, heavy, and wrong. I took a small piece, my stomach turning as I swallowed. It was tough, tasteless, but it filled the emptiness for a little while. We didn’t look at each other after that. The silence was heavier than the snow.
Frank was next. He’d hurt his leg days before, a deep cut from a fall. It swelled, and he couldn’t walk fast. One morning, we woke to find him still, his lips blue, his body curled against the cold. We did the same, our movements mechanical, our hearts numb. Then James, too weak to stand, slipped away in his sleep. George followed, his breath slowing until it stopped. Each loss carved away at us, but we kept going, eating to survive, hating ourselves with every bite.
By then, it was just me and Shannon. He’d grown strange, muttering to himself, his eyes wild like he saw things in the snow. I caught him staring at me sometimes, his hands twitching. I didn’t feel safe. “We need to find a way out,” I told him one morning, my voice hoarse. “We can’t stay here.”
“Go look, then,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “I’ll keep the fire going.”
I left, trudging through the snow, my legs heavy. The mountains stretched on, endless and cruel. I followed a frozen stream, hoping it led somewhere, but found only more trees, more snow. The cold wrapped around me, my fingers numb, my face raw. I don’t know how long I was gone, but when I turned back, dread settled in my chest.
The camp was wrong when I returned. The fire was low, casting long shadows. The snow was churned up, stained dark. The bodies—Israel, Frank, James, George—were scattered, their heads broken, their limbs twisted. My stomach lurched. Shannon sat by the fire, a piece of meat cooking on a stick. He looked up, his face lit by the flames, his smile too wide.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice calm. “Just in time.”
“What happened?” I whispered, my hands trembling. “Shannon, what did you do?”
“They were weak,” he said, like he was talking about the weather. “They were holding us back. But you—you’re strong, Alfred. Or you were.”
He stood, picking up a hatchet, his eyes gleaming. My heart pounded as he stepped toward me. “It’s your turn now,” he said.
I backed away, my boots slipping in the snow. My hand fumbled for the pistol in my coat, the metal cold against my fingers. “Stay back,” I warned, my voice shaking. He didn’t listen. He raised the hatchet, and I pulled the trigger. The sound was sharp, echoing off the cliffs. Shannon fell, his body crumpling into the snow, still.
I stood there, my breath ragged, the pistol heavy in my hand. The camp was quiet except for the crackle of the fire. The air smelled of smoke and something darker. I was alone, surrounded by death, the mountains watching like silent judges. I wanted to run, but I was too weak, my legs barely holding me up.
I stayed there for days, too tired to move. I ate what I could, small pieces to keep my strength, each bite a reminder of what I’d become. The taste lingered, metallic and wrong, and I gagged but forced it down. At night, I heard whispers in the wind—Israel’s warnings, George’s humming, Shannon’s laughter. They weren’t there, I knew, but they felt real.
Finally, I couldn’t stay. I packed what little I had—a blanket, the last of our flint—and followed the river again. The snow was deep, my steps slow. My body ached, my vision blurred, but I kept going. I saw a deer once, its eyes wide before it vanished into the trees, and I envied its freedom. Days passed, maybe weeks. Time didn’t mean much anymore.
Then I saw smoke, faint against the gray sky. My heart leapt. I pushed forward, falling more than walking, until I reached the Los Pinós Agency. Men rushed out, their faces shocked. “You’re alive,” one said, wrapping a blanket around me. “How’d you make it?”
I couldn’t answer. They brought me inside, gave me bread and hot broth. The warmth felt strange, like it didn’t belong to me. “Rest now,” a woman said, her voice kind. “You’re safe.”
But I wasn’t. I sat by their fire, my hands shaking, seeing their faces—Israel, Frank, James, George, Shannon. I heard their voices in the crackle of the flames, felt their eyes in the shadows. I’d survived, but the mountains had taken something from me. That winter, that hunger, those choices—they’re part of me now, a cold weight I’ll carry forever. I’m alive, but I’ll never be whole.
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