Chapter 1: Into the Woods

When I was a kid, I’d go back to my hometown in northern Minnesota for winter break.

The second I stepped off the Greyhound, the wind slapped me so hard my eyes watered, and that sharp pine smell hit like a memory you can’t shake. My cheeks would go numb in minutes, but I’d still grin, stomping snow off my boots onto the battered wooden porch.

My younger uncle, Derek, would take me up into the woods to hunt wild rabbits.

He’d show up in a faded Vikings beanie, a wool-lined camo jacket, and that goofy grin that said he was still just a big kid himself. He’d let me carry the pellet gun—made me feel like a real hunter—and always snuck a Thermos of cocoa for afterward. Out in the woods, everything felt like an adventure.

We chased after the rabbit’s tracks, running through the snow.

The powder was up to our knees in places, and every time I slipped, Uncle Derek would help me up, brushing snow off my mittens. The rabbit tracks zigzagged under thickets, sometimes doubling back. My breath made little clouds, and our laughter echoed between the trees.

Suddenly, a thick fog rolled in off the lake.

I stopped, rubbing my arms as the damp cold seeped through my jacket. I blinked against the sudden whiteout, barely able to see my own boots. The air felt heavier, colder, as if the woods were holding their breath. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered a playground chant—"Fog means the woods wake up, don’t let Old Mo see you." We used to whisper that at recess, scaring the new kid and huddling under the monkey bars. I shivered, wishing I hadn’t remembered it now.

I called out anxiously, “Uncle Derek, I think we’ve chased the rabbit into the old forest.”

My voice barely made it past my lips, like the fog was swallowing every word. I clutched the gun tighter, heart pounding in my ears.

My uncle’s face instantly went pale. “Crap, we need to get out of here. The rabbit’s tracks looked weird just now, too.”

His hands shook as he fumbled to reload the pellet gun, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected something to step out of the mist any second. It was rare to see Derek scared, and the way his eyes darted around made me want to grab his hand. He always joked about monsters and ghosts, but this was different. He looked like he’d seen one.

In my rush, I tripped and twisted my ankle.

The pain shot up my leg. The snow was cold and packed hard beneath me. I gasped, biting back a yell, embarrassed by my clumsiness.

Just as I was about to cry out in pain, Uncle Derek quickly clamped his hand over my mouth.

His glove was scratchy and cold. He whispered, "Shh! Not a sound." I could hear his own breathing, shaky and scared, so unlike the fearless uncle I knew.

Through the mist, I could vaguely see a figure—a person-shaped silhouette, bundled in a fur coat and hat—walking toward us from deep in the old woods.

The outline didn’t move quite right, like it was gliding instead of walking. My stomach turned, and I pressed back against Derek, wishing I could disappear. The fog made the stranger’s form seem enormous, shifting and wavering in the dim light.

Uncle Derek immediately dropped flat to the ground, slung me onto his back, and crawled out of the forest on all fours.

My heart hammered as pine needles scraped my face and the cold soaked through my jeans. Derek’s breath puffed above me, and every crunch of snow sounded thunderous in the silence. My twisted ankle throbbed, but I didn’t dare whimper.

Once we got out, he picked me up and sprinted away, boots crunching on the frozen ground.

The air felt sharper outside the woods, and for a moment I thought the fog would chase after us. Derek ran like a linebacker making a break for the endzone, not looking back until we reached the edge of our backyard, breathless.

I asked, “Uncle, why are you running?”

I tried to sound brave, but my voice was a squeak.

His voice trembled. “Old Mo. Old Mo.”

He didn’t look at me, just scanned the tree line like he expected something to lunge out at any second.