Chapter 3: Company in the Snow

Just then, Grandpa came in carrying half a basin of goat meat, his face and clothes splattered with blood.

He looked like something out of a horror movie, red spatters down his flannel shirt and jeans, the kitchen light catching on his steel-gray hair. Even his boots left dark, sticky prints on the faded linoleum.

He asked, “Is the water ready?”

His voice was rough, like gravel crunching under snow tires.

Grandma forced a smile. “It’s ready.”

She lifted the lid, and steam rose from the pot.

The kitchen filled with the rich, earthy smell of boiling water and old meat. For a moment, it almost felt normal—except for the tension that buzzed between them, sharp as a snapped wire.

Grandpa dumped the meat in and told her, “Don’t add any seasoning.”

He plopped the chunks in, hot water splashing on the stove. The sizzle echoed off the chipped tile. He didn’t even look at Grandma, just stood there waiting for her to obey.

Grandma was stunned. “Not even salt?”

She stared at him, spoon poised midair, as if waiting for him to take it back.

He nodded.

He just grunted, the pipe still clenched in his teeth.

She muttered, confused, “Without salt, who could eat it?”

She shook her head, more to herself than anyone else, trying to work out what game Grandpa was playing. In this house, not even canned green beans made it to the table without a pinch of salt.

Grandpa just squinted at her and said nothing, then turned and went out to the yard.

He stepped back into the cold, lighting his pipe with a match that flared briefly in the dark. The back door slammed behind him with a heavy finality.

As night fell, snowflakes drifted down into the yard. It was bitterly cold.

The kitchen window frosted over, and the old space heater in the corner rattled, fighting off the chill. I could hear the distant whine of a snowmobile from the next ridge, but otherwise, it was just us and the wind.

The trees cast long, wavering shadows over the snow, and somewhere far off a coyote howled. Our little house felt even smaller, huddled against the mountain like it was hoping not to be noticed by whatever was out there.

Grandma placed the cooked goat in a basin. The aroma was mouthwatering, and I swallowed unconsciously.

The steam fogged up the kitchen windows. My stomach growled—instinct, maybe—but the memory of Grandma’s warning made me shiver. The smell was thick and heavy, almost intoxicating.

She saw me and snapped, “Eli, not a single bite!”

She caught me eyeing the meat, her voice sharp as a whip. “Not a crumb, you hear me?”

I nodded. “I know.”

I hugged myself, remembering the promise. Outside, the wind rattled the porch swing, and I wished for anything—anything—other than goat stew for dinner tonight.

Afraid I’d sneak some, she took me outside. Grandpa was out there, smoking on the porch.

She bundled me in my puffy winter jacket and boots, then opened the door. The cold hit us like a slap. Grandpa stood on the porch, pipe glowing like a little red eye in the dark, his breath ghosting in the air.

She said, “Frank, the goat’s done. Why hasn’t anyone come yet?”

She pulled her shawl tighter, glancing out over the snow-covered yard, searching for headlights or footprints—anything to prove Grandpa right or wrong.

Grandpa took two puffs of his pipe and replied, “They’re here.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that for a second, I thought maybe he’d lost his mind. But the air changed, heavier, like the mountain itself was holding its breath.

As soon as Grandpa spoke, I heard footsteps at the gate.

The crunch of boots on snow sent a jolt up my spine. I glanced at Grandma, whose face had gone pale as the moonlit drifts.

By the moonlight, I saw a woman step into the yard.

She moved slowly, shoulders hunched, her long coat trailing behind her. Her boots left a line of deep prints behind her, untouched by the falling snow.

Her face was ghostly pale, her eyes bloodshot and terrifying. If she hadn’t cast a shadow, I’d have thought she was a ghost.

The porch light flickered, glinting off her white cheeks and those eyes—red, wild, feral. I pressed closer to Grandma, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Grandma was startled and spoke gently, “Ma’am, it’s so late—why have you come to our house?”

Her voice was soft, careful, like she was talking to a wild animal or a child she didn’t trust. She nudged me behind her skirt, her own hands trembling.

The woman replied pitifully, “Ma’am, the snow’s closed off the mountain. I got separated from my husband. I saw a light on the hillside and came toward it. I haven’t eaten in two days. I’m starving.”

She shivered, clutching her arms to her chest. Her voice wavered on the word “starving,” stretching it out until it was almost a threat. In that moment, I felt a chill colder than any winter wind.

When she said, “I’m starving,” she dragged out the word. Her eyes bulged, the blood vessels growing even redder, as if they might drip blood—like something hungry for flesh.

Her lips curled back from her teeth, and her stomach gave a deep, guttural rumble. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

I was terrified. I hid behind Grandma and clung to Grandpa’s coat.

My hands balled up in the thick wool of his sleeve, hoping maybe he’d protect me. My knees shook, and I pressed my face into the rough fabric, breathing in the scent of pipe smoke and snow.

The smell of goat stew twisted my stomach, but it was nothing compared to the woman’s scent—like wet fur and old pennies.

The woman forced a smile, took a few small steps forward, and asked, “Ma’am, I’m starvin’ out here. Smelled something good from the road—got any goat stew left for a hungry soul?”

Her voice twisted, a mix of pleading and warning. Every word made my skin crawl. It was like she already knew what was inside our house, and she’d do anything to get it.

Her smile was too wide, stretching past where her cheeks should’ve stopped, and her eyes glinted yellow in the porch light—slit like a goat’s.

For a moment, her eyes flicked to me, and I felt the weight of her hunger—sharp and dangerous, like a wolf eyeing sheep.

Grandma was so frightened she froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. For the first time in my life, I saw Grandma truly afraid, her fingers tightening on my shoulder.

Seeing the woman about to approach, Grandpa said coldly, “The goat’s in the pot.”

He jerked his head toward the kitchen, tone flat and emotionless, like he was talking about the weather.

He brought out half a basin of steaming goat.

The meat glistened in the cold porch light, steam rising into the dark, swirling in the wind. The smell grew even stronger, clinging to everything.

The woman was stunned for a moment, then grinned. “Sir, half a basin ain’t enough for me. I haven’t eaten in two days.”

She licked her lips, eyes glinting with something wild. Her voice was higher now, like a coyote yipping at the moon.

Grandpa shot her a cold look. “That’s all there is.”

He held her gaze, unblinking. For a second, it felt like the mountain itself had gone silent, waiting for what would happen next.

He set the goat on the ground. The woman immediately knelt down, grabbed the meat with her hands, and stuffed it into her mouth.

She tore at it with her bare hands, not caring that it burned her fingers. The sound of her chewing echoed in the cold night. My stomach flipped.

She even crunched the bones, and the larger ones she couldn’t chew, she swallowed whole.

I heard the bones snap between her teeth—loud, wet, wrong. She swallowed the biggest pieces whole, her throat bobbing like a snake’s.

Grandma pulled Grandpa aside and whispered, “Frank, I don’t think that woman’s human. She’s more like a hungry ghost.”

Her voice was low, shaking. She pressed her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. It wasn’t the kind of thing she said lightly.

Just as she said it, the woman froze, suddenly looked up at Grandma with a sinister glare, and grinned. Her mouth was pitch black—a gaping hole with not a single tooth inside.

I sucked in a breath, heart thudding in my chest. Her grin stretched too wide, lips peeling back over that black, empty mouth.

Grandma panicked and didn’t dare look at her, turning instead to Grandpa.

She clung to his sleeve, voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes darted around, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

He took two puffs of his pipe and said coldly, “Helen, go tidy up the guest room and let her stay the night.”

He tapped out his pipe on the porch rail, the ashes scattering onto the snow. His eyes never left the woman.

Grandma was stunned. “Who is she?”

Her question hung in the air, unanswered. The woman licked the last drops of grease from her lips, her gaze flickering between the two of them.

Grandpa pointed at the woman, growing impatient. “Hurry up and tidy the guest room.”

His tone was clipped, harsher than I’d ever heard it. The porch felt suddenly smaller, the dark pressing in.

Grandma frowned and snapped, “You know her?”

She dropped her gaze the way you do when you’re trying not to start a fight you know you’ll lose, but her chin tilted up in defiance.

Seeing her angry, Grandpa grew even angrier and shoved her, barking, “Go!”

The force of his words sent her stumbling. He was shaking now, voice like a whipcrack.

At that moment, the woman let out a ghostly, chilling laugh. She’d finished all the goat and was now licking the scraps from the metal basin with her tongue. Her tongue was long, forked at the tip like a snake’s.

The sound of her laughter sent a chill through my bones. Her tongue darted out, red and split, snaking around the rim of the basin. The hair on my arms stood up.

Grandma spat back, “I’m not going. If you want it tidy, do it yourself.”

She planted her feet, voice rising. “You want her in the guest room? You make the bed.”

She was about to take me to the other bedroom, but Grandpa blocked her path, his voice menacing: “You go tidy the room, now!”

He stood in the doorway, big and unmoving. His voice was so low and cold I felt a chill even through my jacket.

The way he spoke was terrifying, as if he’d strangle her if she refused.

For a moment, I thought he might actually hurt her. Even Grandma seemed to sense it, shrinking back.

Grandma didn’t dare defy him and angrily went to the guest room.

She stomped down the hall, muttering curses under her breath. I could hear her yanking the sheets and fluffing pillows, every movement louder than it needed to be.