It was mid-November in Northern Ontario, and the first heavy snowfall had come early. The wilderness stretched for miles in every direction—endless forests of tall pines and jagged, snow-covered rocks. The lakes had begun to freeze, their surfaces glassy and impenetrable. It was the kind of isolation that made you feel like you were the last person on earth. And that was exactly why Eric had come.
Eric McLeod was no stranger to the wild. He had grown up in Toronto, but every year, he made the long drive north to the deep woods, away from the suffocating hustle of city life. He needed this annual retreat, a few days of hunting, fishing, and solitude. It was a tradition he had picked up from his father, who had taken him on these trips since he was a boy. But this year was different. This year, Eric was alone.
His father had passed away the previous summer, a sudden heart attack at 62. The loss had hit Eric hard, but the cabin—their cabin—still called to him. It was a small, old place tucked deep in the woods, several miles from the nearest town of Red Pines. The kind of place where you could go days without seeing another soul.
As Eric drove his truck down the snow-covered road, the sky had already begun to darken, even though it was only mid-afternoon. The Canadian winters were unforgiving. The narrow road was lined with thick trees, their branches weighed down by fresh snow. There was something eerie about the quiet, the way the forest seemed to hold its breath. The snow muffled everything—no wind, no animals. Just silence.
He reached the cabin just before sunset. It was exactly as he remembered: a simple wooden structure with a small porch, a chimney, and a view of the frozen lake. The cabin had been in his family for generations, passed down from his grandfather, who had built it with his own hands. It was rough, but it had everything he needed: a fireplace, a bed, a small kitchen, and the most important thing of all—peace.
Eric unloaded his gear and got a fire going in the hearth. The warmth was a welcome change from the biting cold outside. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat by the window, looking out at the vast expanse of snow and trees. There was something comforting about the isolation. Here, he didn't have to think about work or responsibilities. He didn't have to think about the hole his father's death had left in him.
As night fell, the temperature plummeted. The wind began to pick up, howling through the trees, rattling the cabin's windows. Eric felt a shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He told himself it was just the loneliness settling in, the quiet playing tricks on his mind. He'd spent countless nights here before—what made tonight different?
The answer came as a sound. At first, Eric thought it was the wind, but then it came again, clearer this time. A distant, keening wail, like a voice carried on the breeze. It was faint, but unmistakable. Eric stood up from his chair and moved to the window, staring out into the darkness. The snow reflected the pale moonlight, giving the forest an otherworldly glow, but there was nothing out there. Just trees and snow, stretching into the endless black.
He turned away, shaking his head. It's nothing, he told himself. The mind plays tricks in the wilderness. But then, the sound came again—closer this time, louder. A long, mournful cry, like someone in pain. Eric felt a chill creep up his spine, and his skin prickled with unease. It sounded like a person. But that was impossible. He was miles from anyone, and no one would be wandering the woods in this kind of weather.
He grabbed his flashlight and stepped outside, the cold immediately biting at his exposed skin. The snow crunched under his boots as he scanned the treeline, his breath coming out in visible puffs. "Hello?" he called, his voice swallowed by the wind. The forest stood silent, indifferent. There was no movement, no sign of life. Just the oppressive stillness of the winter night.
Eric took a step forward, then stopped. Something moved. At the edge of the tree line, barely visible in the weak light of the moon, a figure stood. It was tall, unnaturally so, with long, thin limbs that seemed too long for its body. Its head was crowned with what looked like antlers, but the shape was wrong—crooked, twisted.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Eric's heart pounded in his chest as he backed up toward the cabin. He didn't know what he had just seen, but it wasn't human. He slammed the door shut behind him and locked it, his hands trembling. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, trying to calm the panic rising in his chest.
The wind outside continued to howl, but the strange wailing sound had stopped. He glanced out the window again, but the figure—whatever it had been—was nowhere in sight.
That night, Eric barely slept. Every creak of the cabin, every gust of wind made him jolt awake. He told himself it was just his imagination, that the figure he had seen was a trick of the light. But deep down, he knew better.
The next day, the forest felt different. Eric tried to shake off the unease as he geared up to go hunting, but something gnawed at him—a feeling like he was being watched. He moved through the woods, his rifle slung over his shoulder, scanning the trees for deer tracks. But all the while, he couldn't shake the sense that something was following him, lurking just out of sight.
By mid-afternoon, the weather began to turn. Dark clouds gathered overhead, and the wind picked up, biting at his face. Eric decided to head back to the cabin, cutting through a dense patch of trees to save time. As he moved through the thicket, he came across something that stopped him dead in his tracks.
In the snow, there were tracks—huge, clawed footprints, unlike anything he had ever seen. They were roughly the size of a man's foot, but with deep, sharp indentations where claws would be. And there was blood. Drops of it, splattered across the snow, leading deeper into the forest.
Eric's heart raced. The tracks were fresh, no more than an hour old, and they were headed in the direction of his cabin.
Without thinking, he broke into a run, following the trail back toward the cabin. The wind howled louder, and snow began to fall in thick sheets, obscuring his vision. The footprints grew fainter as the snow quickly covered them, but Eric pushed forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
When he finally reached the clearing where the cabin stood, he stopped, his blood running cold.
The door to the cabin was wide open, swinging on its hinges.
He raised his rifle, moving cautiously toward the entrance. Inside, the cabin was a mess. Furniture was overturned, the fire had gone out, and the window was shattered. Snow had blown in, covering the floor in a thin layer of frost. But it was the smell that hit him first—a foul, rotting stench, like decaying meat.
He stepped inside, scanning the room. There was something in the corner, something huddled and still. It looked like a bundle of old clothes, covered in snow. But as he approached, he realized it wasn't just clothes. It was a body—a deer, half-eaten, its eyes wide open in a frozen expression of terror.
Eric's stomach churned, and he fought the urge to vomit. Something had been in the cabin, something big enough to tear apart a deer with ease. His mind raced as he backed away from the grisly sight. He needed to leave—now.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind him with a deafening bang. Eric spun around, his heart hammering in his chest. The room felt colder, the air thick with dread. And then, he heard it again—the wail. But this time, it was inside the cabin.
He raised his rifle, his hands shaking as he scanned the room. In the shadows near the shattered window, something moved. A shape, tall and thin, with long, twisted limbs. It stepped into the weak light from the broken window, revealing its full form.
It was the creature from the night before.