The westward journey to California was supposed to be the start of something grand. James Walker, his wife Eleanor, and their two children, Abigail and Thomas, dreamed of striking it rich and building a new life together. Their covered wagon creaked under the weight of their meager belongings as it rolled across the vast, unforgiving plains. But dreams, as they learned, don’t come without a cost.

  Winter came early that year, with howling winds and driving snow trapping their wagon train high in the Sierra Nevada. Supplies dwindled. The other families huddled together at night, whispering desperate prayers and rationing the last of their food. James tried to stay strong for his family, but the frostbite gnawing at his fingers and the hollow ache in his stomach told him time was running out.

  ...

  When a lone traveler approached their camp one evening, half-starved and seeking shelter, James saw an opportunity. The man was a stranger, after all. He carried little more than a satchel of dried meat, just enough to keep his family alive for another week. Driven by the primal urge to protect his wife and children, James lured the man away from the camp under the pretense of gathering firewood.

  Under the shadow of the pines, he struck. The knife trembled in his hands as he took a life for the first time, the snow drinking the stranger’s blood in silence. But desperation is a strange thing—it doesn’t end with the act. As James stared at the body, a darker hunger clawed at his mind. There were whispers in the wind, promises of strength and survival if he took one more step into the abyss.

  And so, he did.

  James vanished that night, leaving Eleanor to comfort her frightened children in the bitter cold. They searched for him at dawn, finding only scattered footprints leading into the wilderness. “He must have gotten lost,” Eleanor told the children, though her heart knew otherwise. The fire in his eyes had dimmed for weeks. Something was wrong, but she clung to hope.

  ...

  Days passed. Snow piled higher. Then came the howls at night—low, mournful cries that echoed through the trees. Eleanor and the children huddled together in the wagon, gripping the hunting rifle James had left behind. The horses had vanished, their reins torn and scattered in the snow. Something was stalking them.

  The first attack came at dusk. Abigail screamed as a shadow darted past the wagon, rattling the boards. Eleanor fired blindly into the dark, the gunshot echoing across the canyon. Whatever it was retreated, but not before leaving behind long, jagged scratches in the wagon’s side.

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  It returned every night, testing their defenses, until finally, Eleanor made a choice. “We can’t stay here,” she said, clutching the rifle tightly. “We need to find help.”

  ...

  The journey through the frozen forest was grueling. Abigail and Thomas trudged behind their mother, tears freezing on their cheeks. The creature followed, its empty, hollow gaze always watching from a distance. It never attacked outright, as if savoring their fear.

  It was Thomas who spotted the old mining camp buried beneath the snow. The buildings were half-collapsed, but there was shelter, and more importantly, there was coal for a fire. Eleanor worked tirelessly to build a blaze in the hearth while the children barricaded the doors.

  But fire brings more than just warmth.

  ...

  That night, the creature attacked with a fury they had never seen before, tearing through the flimsy barricades with inhuman strength. Eleanor fired shot after shot, but the bullets barely slowed it. It was Abigail who grabbed the iron poker from the fire and thrust it into the beast’s side.

  The creature let out a horrible scream, its hollow eye sockets dripping black blood as it staggered backward. Eleanor seized the moment, grabbing a lantern and smashing it against the monster, setting it ablaze. The fire roared, consuming the creature in moments as it thrashed and howled in agony.

  Then, just as the flames began to die, it spoke.

  “Ellie…”

  The voice stopped Eleanor cold. She stared in horror as the creature collapsed to the ground, its charred, skeletal form reaching out toward her. Its empty eye sockets seemed to weep as it rasped, “I’m sorry… I just wanted to keep you safe.”

  Eleanor’s knees gave out as the realization hit her. The voice was unmistakable.

  “James?”

  The creature gave one last shuddering breath before falling still. The embers around it faded, leaving behind only a lifeless husk. Eleanor turned to her children, who stood frozen in shock.

  “It… it was him,” Abigail whispered. “It was Papa.”

  Eleanor didn’t sleep that night. As the fire crackled in the hearth, she sat alone, staring at the spot where the creature had fallen. She thought of James, of the man he’d been before the wilderness took him. He had always been a good man, a kind man. But even the best of men could fall when pushed too far.

  The journey to California ended that night. Eleanor packed what little they had and turned back east, determined to take her children somewhere safe, somewhere far from the darkness of the frontier. She would tell no one what had happened in those woods, nor of the unspeakable crimes her husband had committed.

  But as they left the mountains behind, she couldn’t help but wonder: how many others had made the same desperate choice? And how many more would follow in their footsteps, leaving behind only echoes of the people they once were?