The Shuddering Part 1

The Shuddering.

Ania Ahlborn.

CHAPTER ONE.

Don slapped the trunks of the trees with his left hand as he ran past them, a small ax held tight in his right. He struggled for breath as steam rose from his lungs. As he twisted midrun, casting a wild-eyed look over a shoulder, he was sure he'd see them snapping at his heels, their hard black eyes glinting in the grayness of the morning. He saw nothing-only thin swaying pines bending in the breeze, cutting into the cold blue of the sky, drowning him in their shadow-but Don knew they were there. The drips of blood that trailed him like scarlet breadcrumbs a.s.sured him that this wasn't a dream. They were watching him as his legs burned with each footfall, waiting as his boots kicked up snow. The trees shuddered all around him, shaken by an invisible hand. No matter how fast he ran, they were one step ahead of him, obscured by branches and tree trunks and snow, keeping themselves concealed despite their conspicuous movements. It was a game, and Don was their target.

His heart thudded in his chest as he skidded to a stop, his mind reeling as he stared at the blood dripping from the fingers of his ungloved right hand. The throbbing of his arm reminded him that his heart was still beating, that he was still alive; that ax gave him a glimmer of hope. Maybe, by some miracle, he still had a chance. Maybe he could still make it home; he could survive. He launched himself forward despite the pain, stumbling headlong into what he hoped would be escape, unable to wrap his mind around the simple fact that the monsters his father had told him about-terrible stories whispered by the pale yellow glow of a lamp, quiet so that his mother wouldn't scold them both-had been far more than childhood fiction. The monsters of his youth were chasing him. They were hungry. They were real.

It was unbelievable to think that just an hour before he had been sitting at his kitchen table, listening to his wife hum as she washed the breakfast dishes. The only thing out of the ordinary that morning was the bitterness of the cold. Don felt the oncoming storm in his bones long before it hit the news, long before those so-called meteorologists fumbled the prediction. His right knee ached, and that meant more snow-snow on top of the four-inch base that already blanketed the mountains of southwestern Colorado.

It was the perfect reason to pile firewood high against the side of the house. Don had been lazy for the past few days, spending more time in his recliner watching Antiques Roadshow than keeping the place in order. The unseasonable chill meant that the firewood was almost gone, and the throb in his joints a.s.sured him that if he didn't get out there now, the impending blizzard would see to it that he paid for his idleness later.

But free firewood was one of the perks of living out in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't anyone to stop a man from grabbing his ax and doing it the old-fas.h.i.+oned way. So he finished his eggs and toast, b.u.t.toned up his North Face jacket, tied a hand-knitted scarf around his neck, and pulled a fur-lined hat over his slept-in hair. When Jenny turned to him, she couldn't help but smile. It was coming up on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, twenty-three years of which he'd spent half-hidden by an unruly beard that had turned white with age. It made him look like an off-season Santa, and Christmas was her favorite time of year.

"You be careful," she told him, tightening the scarf around his neck before kissing the tip of his nose. "Don't go chopping off any fingers."

He gave a sideways grin at her warning. Jenny still treated him like he'd never held an ax before, though Don had worked as a logger his entire life. It had been a tough way to make a living, but it had afforded them a nice little house and a full ten acres of unspoiled land. Grabbing his hatchet from next to the front door, he ducked into the cold morning without a good-bye.

His boot caught a buried tree branch and Don skidded onto his front, the snow momentarily blinding him as it blew into his face, stinging his eyes and catching in his beard. Had he known it would have ended up this way, he would have told Jenny he loved her; he would have reminded her she was still the woman of his dreams, always and forever, even today. And Jenny would have rolled her eyes at him and dismissed his boyish proclamations with a giggle and a wave of her hand.

Fumbling back onto his feet, he winced against the burning of his fingers as he swept them through the snow, grabbing hold of his weapon. The tips of his digits were beyond red, a bright magenta Don had never imagined flesh could turn. He'd lost his gloves when he had first spotted those shadows, obscured by branches but undeniably standing in a pack. Reeling with fright, he had run in the wrong direction-away from the cabin rather than toward it...because they had blocked his path.

The tree in front of him shuddered, and before he could react, one of the things that was tracking him leaped at him from the high branches of a pine. Don instinctively swung the ax over his head as the creature bolted for him, lodging the blade in its monstrous skull. The thing fell at Don's feet, convulsing, teeth clacking together as it bucked in the snow, giving Don his first look at what these creatures truly were. The twitching savage looked just like his father had described: all awkward angles, nothing but skin and teeth. He didn't think to pull the ax free from its skull when he stumbled away, desperate to put distance between himself and his childhood nightmare, the snow beneath the beast soaking up red so dark it nearly looked like oil. He reeled around, ready to run. And that was when he saw them, lined up like undead soldiers just beyond the trees, still hidden by branches as if afraid to come into full view. Don couldn't see them outright, but he could make out their shapes: skinny, sinuous, terrifyingly tall.

They only come when it snows, his dad had told him, repeating the stories his own father had whispered into his ear in the dead of winter. As a kid, Don a.s.sumed it was why he and his family packed up their stuff and left the cabin when the weather got bad. But as he grew older, he reasoned the stories away. Myth. Legend. Whatever he called them in the past made no difference.

The snow buffered all sound save for the haggard shudder of his lungs. His pulse whooshed in his ears as he tried to take in everything around him, every possible angle from which he could be attacked. Steam crept past his lips, coiling upward like smoke, making it harder to see. When the convulsing beast finally went still, something in the air s.h.i.+fted. Perhaps that was why the creatures had been keeping their distance. They had been watching, waiting to see the outcome of Don's attack on their comrade. But when that monster's movements went static, Don's blood ran cold. A low, unified growl sounded from the trees. It rattled deep in their throats, an eerie, almost human quality to its tone.

It may have been smarter to stand motionless, to play dead. But Don didn't think.

He turned and ran.

Twisting against the bulky padding of his coat, he was shocked at how difficult it was to move, having completely forgotten how tough it was to trudge through the waist-deep snow. He tried to slog through it as quickly as he could, his breaths coming in panicked gasps, the growling behind him rising in volume, becoming more aggressive, like the grunts of wild boar, the snarling moans of chattering hyena.

He was still running the wrong way, away from home rather than toward it, but they had left him no choice. He'd circle around, get back to the house, save both himself and Jenny- Oh G.o.d, my Jenny.

She was alone.

She'd be afraid.

She'd be waiting for him, chewing her fingernails, wondering where he was.

He had to get back to her, had to keep her from stepping outside to search for him. He had to survive to save her, had to get back...had to- Something hit his right shoulder.

He spun around like a top, lost his footing, and fell into the deep powder that covered the ground. Scrambling back to his feet, Don instinctively grabbed at his right arm-fire seizing his biceps, snaking up to his shoulder-while he searched the trees for the creature that had buzzed him, that had clawed him so fast he hadn't even caught its approach. The winter chill bit through the slash in his sleeve, down puffing out of the tear like a tiny cloud, almost immediately turning red from the blood that was sheeting down his arm. Oh G.o.d. Oh Jesus. He pulled his hand away from his arm, his fingers slick, sticky with red.

The d.a.m.n thing could have taken him down, but it hadn't. They were toying with him, playing a game of cat and mouse. He was still alive, left to fend for himself.

Inside his head, his daddy leaned in and whispered, They never let anyone get away, Donnie. Inside his head, Jenny screamed, Run!

Balling his hands up into fists, his left hand sticky with gore, he released a primal yell and ran. The trees whizzed by him. For a moment he felt incredible-as though he could outsprint anyone, anything. His adrenaline numbed the pain, the fear. It numbed the terror and pushed him forward, away from home but inexorably toward it. If he could outrun these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, he'd eventually get there.

His feet flew behind him as he leaned forward, leading with his head, a constant stumble as his legs failed to keep up with his body. Catching a shoulder on a tree, he grunted in pain but kept on, knowing that stopping would seal his fate, knowing that those things-those savages-were waiting for him to give up.

f.u.c.k them, he thought. f.u.c.k them, whatever they are.

But after a minute of his running flat out, that sense of invincibility began to fade. His pace slowed. His legs grew heavy. His heart thudded in his ears. He could hardly breathe, the glacial air burning the lining of his lungs. No, he thought. Get back to her. Get back home. But his legs stopped working. His knees went rubbery. His mind screamed, Keep going, but his body was spent. He ducked behind a tree as the snapping of branches echoed all around him. Jamming his shoulder blades against the trunk, he tried to make himself as small as he could, his bottom lip trembling, his vision going wavy with defeat. The longer he stood there, the more silent the woods became. That horrible, unified, groaning growl had faded. The trees failed to shake, and eventually the crack of branches ceased. The forest went ghostly quiet.

Opening his eyes, he dared to peek around the side of the pine at his back.

Nothing.

Could they really be gone?

He blinked, his arm burning with pain. It was impossible. He knew he hadn't outrun them. The one that had darted toward him was faster than anything he'd ever seen, running so fast it seemed to glide over the snow. Maybe they found something else, he thought. Something else to devour. Something else to kill. Because that was what they were doing out here-hunting. At least that was the story. That was what his father had said.

He was afraid to move, sure it was a trap, but he couldn't stay there long. His arm felt as if it were on fire. The blood that had overtaken the inside of his sleeve was seeping out from around his cuff, rolling down the inside of his palm, dripping onto the colorless ground cover next to his boot. If he didn't bleed to death, they'd smell him and come back. He had to move.

So he moved.

And crashed into the chest of a beast.

It had been waiting for him, utterly silent in its stance, its lips pulled back into a sneer, exposing a collection of jagged teeth in a maw that opened impossibly wide. He didn't have time to take in the horrifying view, hardly had half a second to take a backward step as it flared its nostrils, ready to strike.

It leaped.

Don screamed as he fell backward, the beast's teeth sinking into the side of his neck. Pain bloomed beneath his jaw, simultaneously hot and cold. He struggled, beating the creature above him with his fists, kicking his legs, bucking to free himself. The thing growled, a foul gurgle rasping from the back of its throat. And then it shook its head like a dog, tearing flesh, snapping tendons. It pulled away, mouth full of soft tissue oozing blood onto the snow.

Don gasped for air, his eyes wide as he watched the demon chew a piece of him, throwing its head back and swallowing the meat that was missing from his neck. Letting his head fall backward, he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and imagined himself back in his kitchen, back in front of Jenny as she kissed the tip of his nose. He pictured her hands, soft despite their years. He sucked in a breath of cold air and smelled vanilla. She was always baking something, her cakes and cookies making their tiny two-bedroom cottage forever smell of a five-star bakery. She loved music, always humming Bob Dylan and the Beatles beneath her breath. Don could hear her singing in the startling quiet that surrounded him now, humming just beneath the weakening rattle of his lungs.

"You think I haven't seen worse than you?" he croaked, the sound of his own voice sending a shock wave up his spine. He sounded rough, inhuman. "You ugly son of a b.i.t.c.h." Attempting to stand, he had to pause. Vertigo rocked him back and forth. Something warm filled his throat. He coughed, and blood bubbled from between his lips. When he finally managed to look up, he was alone again, the shadows of those creatures watching him from the safety of the pines. "You f.u.c.king cowards," he hissed. "Come out and fight!" Cras.h.i.+ng to his knees, he pressed a cold hand to his neck, then pulled it back as though he'd just scalded himself. Half of his neck was missing, nothing but a void. He coughed again, a thick slew of blood dribbling down his chin into his beard, his gored hands leaving prints in the snow.

"You ugly sons of b.i.t.c.hes," he repeated, choking, feeling himself start to slip. With his final wind, he forced himself to look up at the growling shadows of the hidden demons. "Take me, then," he hissed, extending his arms to his side like Jesus on the cross. Because if he sacrificed himself, perhaps they'd be satiated enough to move on, to distance themselves from his home, from his wife.

They fell on him, but Don didn't feel a thing. He was too busy picturing Jenny in her wedding dress, twirling in the sunlight that filtered through the stained-gla.s.s windows of a tiny church. He was too busy listening to her hum, her singing blocking out the silence of winter, distracting him from the tearing of his own flesh.

Ryan Adler squinted at the road and exhaled through his nose, his breath silenced by the music that coiled through the Nissan's interior. He loved the way fresh snowmelt made the road look black, like a stretch of satin ribbon glistening in the sun. The cabin wasn't near a d.a.m.n thing, and that was why Ryan loved it. Out here, there was nothing but mountains, trees, and an endless expanse of sky-pale blue with brushstrokes of wispy white.

He'd seen more of the world than he had ever expected to see, jetting off to places like Switzerland and Austria in the name of fresh powder, excusing the expense because business was business. He'd been born lucky; he was smart and handsome, thankful that he'd managed to escape most of his father's traits save for a few. Ryan was an entrepreneur, just like his dad; his charm and disarming smile had gotten him far. But to his father's chagrin, Ryan had no interest in "real" business; no pa.s.sion for stocks and investments-the very things that had built Michael Adler's empire. Ryan's pa.s.sion was tangled in the swaying pines that dotted every black diamond run of every ski resort on earth. But his heart was forever present in the San Juan Mountains; his pa.s.sion had been born in those hills.

Ryan slowed the Nissan and hung a left onto a rough road. The potholes were treacherous but still visible, most of the snow that had fallen onto the pavement having melted in the afternoon sun. The change of pace pulled Ryan's blue-eyed husky, Oona, out of her nap; he watched her move around in the rearview mirror, pressing her sleep-dried nose against the back window, her dog breath stinking up the place. The farther they drove, the rougher the road and thicker the snow became. Aspens and ponderosa pines flanked both sides of the drive, tall and swaying despite the air around them seeming calm. Stopping the car completely, Ryan lowered his window with an electrical buzz.

"What is it?" Jane asked her brother, stretching in the pa.s.senger seat with a road-tired moan. She peered through a dirty winds.h.i.+eld up at the trees that towered ahead of them.

The s.p.a.ce between them was filled a moment later when Lauren leaned forward between the driver and pa.s.senger seat, hiding a yawn behind the palm of her hand. She hadn't made a peep for a good few hours, and Ryan had nearly forgotten that his sister's best friend was back there at all. He reached down and twisted a k.n.o.b close to the bottom of the dash, engaging four-wheel drive.

"Are we going to make it?" Jane asked, a little worried. She had always hated the road that led up to the cabin, especially in the winter. Its steep pitch made it treacherous, and they had had a close call on their previous visit, the Nissan catching some black ice and nearly careening into the ravine that ran along both sides of the road.

"Of course we're going to make it," he told her, slow-rolling into a couple of inches of hard-packed snow.

Jane tried to relax as they progressed forward, but her muscles refused. It was Ryan's idea to come up here during the winter. He was the one who got snow-crazy at the mere suggestion of winter precipitation. Jane was more of a summer girl-bikinis and floppy-brimmed hats and suntan oil.

Her eyes widened as the Nissan started to slide sideways.

"Oh G.o.d." The exclamation came from their backseat pa.s.senger, and Ryan couldn't help but grin. Jane rolled her eyes at his glee. He loved freaking her out with his driving, and she'd learned that keeping her mouth shut made him less p.r.o.ne to try stupid maneuvers. But this was Lauren's first time as a pa.s.senger, and her little outburst was enough to have him stomping on the gas a little too hard, the Nissan spitting gravel out from beneath the back tires like a rock geyser.

"Almost to the driveway," he a.s.sured them, only to have Jane groan in reply at the reminder.

"What's with the driveway?" Lauren asked.

"It's not a driveway," Jane said. "It's a nightmare."

"It's a driveway."

"It's a nightmare, and it's more of a road than a driveway. It's like a quarter of a mile long, and it's all uphill."

"Well," Lauren said, casually crossing her legs as she leaned back in the center of the bench seat. "That sounds promising."

The Nissan spit dirty snow onto the road behind it as Ryan stepped on the gas, pus.h.i.+ng it up a precarious incline-a slope that was scary to drive up when it was dry, let alone when it wasn't. The Adlers had had many a mishap on that hill, the worst of which had happened during their final winter break as a family-her and Ryan, Mom and Dad. The road thick with snow, Michael Adler had insisted that he and his two kids get out and push the car that refused to make it up the slick incline while their mother jammed her foot onto the gas. Mary Adler had nearly burst into tears as her husband yelled for her to get behind the wheel. They never made it up that hill. The car caught traction and lurched forward just enough to have Ryan stumbling onto his knees while Jane fell onto her chest, hitting her chin on the frozen ground, nearly biting her bottom lip clean through.

Jane covered her eyes as the Nissan rambled upward, holding steadfast to her silence, and after a few tense minutes, the car crested the drive and Chateau Adler came into view. Lauren blinked at the house.

"The hostess didn't mention the size of this place, I gather," Ryan murmured.

A ma.s.sive stone-and-log home stood before them, tucked into the trees so thoroughly that it was invisible until, suddenly, it wasn't, its grandiose two-story front entrance dominating its facade.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," Lauren said. "This is the cabin?" She made eyes at Jane, then looked back to the house ahead of them. "This is a G.o.dd.a.m.n mansion."

It was a trophy home-the kind of houses the rich built for themselves as an occasional getaway. The landscape had been dotted with these estates for the last ten miles, no two less than miles apart, thousands of acres of heavily wooded hills separating one from the next. They were regal, inevitably decorated with the finest furniture, with expensive paintings that were far more status symbols than declarations of the owners' discriminating taste. The same could be said of the Adlers' chateau. Michael Adler had decorated the place in the style of a hunting lodge, but the man had hunted all of a handful of times in his life. The walls were decorated with mounted heads of deer and elk, of beasts that Ryan a.s.sumed his father considered a "catch," but they had been bought and paid for. It was all for show-as was everything in Michael Adler's life.

"Wait until you see it all lit up," Jane mused. She loved this place as much as Ryan did, though she liked it more when she could lie out on the deck and bask in the high mountain sun. There was something magical about sitting out on the porch, listening to the trees sway in the wind. But she could see why Ryan loved the snow. It gave the place a mystical feel; paradise in the middle of nowhere.

Lauren stood in the doorway-a side entrance that led from the porch into a ma.s.sive stone-walled kitchen. She watched Jane disappear down a hall directly ahead of her, apparently on some sort of mission-probably headed for the thermostat. It was cold inside, no more than fifty degrees. Ryan took a seat on the edge of a heavy table to the right of the door, bags at his feet, his phone already glowing as he checked his reception, not seeming the least bit interested in the grandeur laid out before him. But Lauren was stunned.

"This place is incredible," she confessed, almost afraid to step farther inside. The island at the heart of the kitchen was bigger than her apartment's bathroom. The cabinet doors were rich cherry gleaming with varnish. There were two ovens, one on top of the other, next to a stove that looked like it had come straight out of one of those fancy Food Network cooking shows. She paused, furrowing her eyebrows at a pair of ma.s.sive doors, both of them paneled to match the cabinets.

"Is that the fridge?" she asked.

Ryan nodded, still fiddling with his phone. "Probably empty," he admitted. "Jane's going to drag you into town for groceries. I guarantee it."

Lauren twisted a piece of blonde hair around her finger, looking through the kitchen to the centerpiece of the living room, visible through a large stone arch that connected the rooms. The fireplace was ostentatious, big enough for her to lie down in and not have her head or feet touch either end. Imposing stones crawled up the wall above the hearth, and she couldn't help but wonder how on earth anyone had managed to get them inside the house, let alone up on the wall like that. An elk's head stared at her from across the room, challenging her to recall a more impressive creature, dead or alive. The challenge was a futile one. Growing up in a two-room trailer in Winnfield, Louisiana, the only elk she'd seen before this one were the ones her dad skinned in the backyard.

Oona padded past her, crossed the expanse of the kitchen, and jumped onto the leather sofa. Lauren opened her mouth to protest but stalled when amus.e.m.e.nt danced across Ryan's face.

"That's okay?" she asked, nodding to the dog, who was dancing a circle on top of an expensive-looking couch cus.h.i.+on, her paws wet from the snow.

"It's fine," Ryan replied.

"Huh." She hadn't expected him to be so obliging. "I wouldn't have guessed." Her face flushed before the words had completely escaped her throat, her heart fluttering at the shadow of a beguiling smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

There was something about Ryan that held her attention-the way he carried himself, graceful and self-a.s.sured; the way he leaned against the table, his feet crossed at the ankles. He was one of those people who seemed always ready to be photographed even while doing the most everyday things; annoying, when she always looked awkward in pictures even when she tried to look good.

She had heard things about him over the years, like the fact that he was an adrenaline junkie, and how he'd turned his pa.s.sion for s...o...b..arding into a winning business venture. From what Jane had told her, what was once little more than a hobby now pulled in a hefty salary by way of advertising. Big companies paid to have their ads on Ryan's website-s...o...b..ards and winter gear-and all Ryan had to do was pay for bandwidth and travel to exotic destinations all in the name of photographs and reviews. And judging from the size of the place, if Ryan was anywhere near as successful as his father, he was as loaded as he was attractive.

"Are you going to come?" she asked, turning to face Ryan fully for the first time. "To the store," she clarified. "With us."

Ryan lifted his shoulders in a shrug, haphazardly tossing his phone onto the table, a.s.suring her that cell phone service out here was a bust. "I guess I should," he said. "She doesn't drink, so, you know, asking her to buy booze... You haven't been brainwashed into her wino ways, have you?"

"Wino ways?"

"Sure," he said, sliding off the table. "You don't believe that whole 'oh, I hate the taste of anything but Bordeaux' argument she gives, do you?"

Lauren stood silent, not sure whether to play along or defend Jane's honor.

"I'm convinced this is just the beginning. Today, only red wine; tomorrow, she'll be converting to Mormonism."

"I'll go find her." She hooked a thumb toward the hallway, waiting for Ryan to tell her it was okay to breach the perimeter of the kitchen and explore further.

"Sweet," he said, failing to look up.

Lauren ducked into the hallway, feeling awkward.

Jane paused at the top of the stairs and glanced down the hallway, which was gloomy despite the bay window at its center. The only door on the right side of the wall led to the master bedroom. She was sure Ryan wouldn't want it-too many bad memories, too much resentment-and she wasn't about to give it up to Sawyer and his girl once they arrived.

Her heart twisted against the splinter that had been lodged there since high school. She'd nearly bailed on the entire outing when Ryan had broken the news, but had stopped just shy of telling him to forget it. The place was on the market, ready to sell to the highest bidder, furniture and all. And to pile one heartache on top of another, Ryan had just sold half his company to a guy out in Switzerland. It was a huge step forward for Powder 360, but her brother would be spending six months out of the year traveling Europe, living in an adorable Swiss bungalow at the foot of the Matterhorn and calling her on Skype. She was sick over it, not sure how she'd be able to handle life without her twin brother at her elbow, always there when she needed him-sometimes there when she didn't. This was their last chance to visit their childhood haunt: Ryan's favorite place in all the world. She refused to screw it up, no matter how hard her heart thudded in her chest at the mere thought of seeing Sawyer with another girl.

Veering right, she pushed the door open into the master bedroom-her favorite room in the house despite its history. There had been many a fight within those walls during family getaways that had been intended to be fun but always turned sour, and the master bedroom was where all of that bitterness was born. But the window that swallowed the majority of the far wall pushed the sadness of her father's yelling and her mother's tears out of her mind. Spectacular in its size and view, that window overlooked tree-dotted hills and a stone-topped mountain distant against the sky. She'd spent many an afternoon sitting in front of that very window as a girl, gazing out onto the wilderness. The view, and the fact that the room had its own fireplace, was irresistible.

Lauren stepped inside the room, gaping at its size.

"Please tell me we're bunking together," she said. "I know there are plenty of rooms to go around, but, Janey..."

"I know," Jane mused, still appreciative of its grandeur after all these years.

Lauren immediately went for the bathroom, and Jane couldn't help but laugh when a gasp sounded from the open door. The master bathroom was just as extravagant as the bedroom, fit for a queen, with its oversize tub and vanity. For the next four days Jane planned on forgetting her students, the fact that Ryan was going to leave her soon, and that Alex was still back in Phoenix, waiting to make her life a living h.e.l.l; she'd soak in that amazing bathtub every night. If she was lucky, their father's Italian girlfriend had left expensive toiletries that could be exploited. It was the least that bombsh.e.l.l of a runway model could do.

"Oh my G.o.d." Lauren's voice echoed from inside the bathroom. Jane crossed the length of the room and c.o.c.ked a hip against the doorjamb, her arms pretzeling over her chest as she chuckled at her best friend's astonishment. "You don't get it," Lauren protested, plucking a delicate perfume atomizer off the vanity and lifting it to her nose. "I grew up in a trailer."

"I know."

"In the back country."