Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
The next time I glance through the windows, there’s nothing but white. Not softly swirling white, either, but rushing sideways and driven by wind that—as soon as I pause Mariah—whistles and howls. I can barely see my car, though it’s parked only three feet from the porch.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, holding the plaid curtain aside. “Do you see this?”
Curled up sleeping in front of the fireplace, Hot Biscuit Slim doesn’t even lift his head. I stand there for a few minutes more, staring in wonder at a blizzard unlike any I’ve seen before. All the while, in the back of my mind I’m turning over any possible problems the storm could cause.
Electricity isn’t an issue. The well pump runs on solar, which should have enough juice in the batteries to last a few days, even if I drip water to make sure the pipes don’t freeze—and there’s a small gasoline generator in the well house that serves as a backup. The appliances use propane, which has a full tank. I’ve got a battery pack to charge my devices. If that empties, I can recharge it in the car. Wood fills the log rack by the fireplace, with more stacked on the porch and beside the shed. And I brought a lot of food, far more than I need. Just in case.
Really, I could be snowed in for several weeks without much problem. The only real issue might be boredom. This is already the longest I’ve been unplugged from the internet or any streaming service in…I don’t even know. A long time. But I knew I’d be off the grid, so I brought my paints and a few thrift-store canvases to work on—and if I finish those, I’ve got a ton of books downloaded to my phone. Even if my phone dies, Harris has paperbacks (all horror, exactly what someone needs to read while alone in the woods) tucked under the side table between the armchairs.
As long as I refrain from accidentally burning the cabin down, I should be fine for the duration of the storm—and however long it takes to dig myself out after.
But in all of the scenarios I pictured, of all the problems I considered, not once did I imagine someone would stagger out of the forest in the middle of a blizzard and pound on the cabin door.
Yet five minutes after I go to bed, that’s exactly what happens.
Abbie
Abbie
The idea that someone might be out in the blizzard seems so impossible that for a few seconds, I sit up rigid in bed, wondering if what I heard was the wind knocking down a tree. Maybe the branches thumped against the cabin door? That would probably mean my car was smashed, too, but I never really liked how the seat’s headrest makes it impossible to wear my hair in a claw clip anyway—
Thump, thump, THUMP!
Definitely someone pounding against the door. Maybe a shout, too, though over the storm it’s impossible to know what they’re yelling. But it’s unmistakably a voice. Then the knob rattles, turning back and forth.
I scramble out of bed. Halfway across the room, I abruptly recall that I’m only wearing my flannel pajama top and underwear…and that I’m completely alone, and there’s no way to call for help if the person outside is dangerous.
Maybe even a serial killer.
That thought freezes me in place, but I’m already right by the door. My heart thunders. What do I do? Put pants on, obviously, but that’s the easy answer. Do I let this person in?
A gust of wind makes an eerie, hollow sound inside the chimney. I can’t see anything through the small window that looks out over the porch, just my own faint reflection.
Thump, thump, THUMP!
I jump, then snatch the fireplace poker. Fear has dried out my mouth, and I have to work up enough saliva to shout, “Who is it?”
A male voice answers, though the words are muffled by the door and drowned by the storm. Probably yelling that he’s freezing out there. That he’ll die if I don’t let him in.
My stomach knots. Anyone stranded outside tonight probably will die. To save him, I just need to open the door.
And really, would a serial killer be out in a storm like this? Surely a murderer would wait out a blizzard in a nearby town? It’s not like I’m going anywhere and I could be killed just as easily after it stops snowing. It would be really stupid to come out here now to murder me…and surely I could outsmart anyone that foolish. Surely I could.
Okay, then. Whoever this is, I’ll save him.
Clutching the poker, I flip the first deadbolt, then the second. The door crashes inward so fast, I stumble back to avoid getting hit. A giant abominable snowman bursts through on an icy blast of wind—completely covered in white, from his enormous boots to the fur-lined hood that partially obscures his face. He slams the door closed by falling back against it, pushes up the ski goggles masking his eyes, and suddenly I’m staring at someone I wish I didn’t recognize.