by Stone, Kyla
The traffic thinned out as he entered the Manistee National Forest. Dense hardwood forest crowded both sides of the road. Towering red pine, maple and oak, their branches and boughs heavy with snow.
Less than forty miles away now.
His hunting cabin sat on a twenty-acre lot nestled in the middle of the Manistee National Forest, along an unused dirt road that spurred off an old, unused logging road.
Manistee National Forest covered over five hundred and forty thousand acres of rivers, streams, and lakes, rolling forest hills, valleys, and marshlands. It was a mosaic broken up by private property and small towns, and crisscrossed by highways and hundreds of miles of hiking, biking, and snowmobile trails.
The cabin was located east of Manistee, just south of 55, and as far from the hiking and snowmobile trails, campsites, and popular rivers as possible. It was a wilderness oasis, cut off from civilization, exactly how he wanted it.
He didn’t mind the long, almost two hundred mile drive he took nearly every weekend. After endless days surrounded by sheep and fools and morons, he needed the solitude to get his head straight again, to remember who and what he was.
And if he was lucky, to hunt.
Pike knew how to divide his false life from his real one, to keep his genuine self carefully and neatly hidden behind a mask. He knew how to blend in, how to camouflage himself.
His very appearance was camouflage. Dishwasher blond hair, medium height, neither fat nor thin, pleasant smile. Bland and unassuming. He looked like anyone and no one. Completely forgettable.
He’d spent his life studying other people, learning to imitate their facial expressions, their tone, their body language. It was an art form he had perfected in his teens. He was an expert at copying the facsimile of emotion. Had learned how to manipulate others for his own advantage from a young age.
He was careful to cover his tracks. Always. Leave no trace behind. No evidence. No victims who could I.D. him. He was meticulous about that. None ever would.
Except for one.
The one still at his cabin. The one he’d kept.
He gripped the wheel, negotiating the rutted logging road. The old Tahoe juddered across frozen potholes and corrugated icy tracks. He slowed as the studded tires began to slide across the ridges of ice and snow.
Pike didn’t feel fear. He didn’t feel much of anything unless he was hunting. Feeling the blood of his prey slick on his bare hands. Feeding on the panic and terror in their eyes.
Then he felt many things—triumph, pride, delight. Power.
The only emotions that mattered.
He felt something now, a foreign, discomforting feeling turning his guts inside out—dread. He tossed the cigarette stub out the window and gripped the steering wheel with barely restrained rage.
She was the only person on Earth who could out him.
He cursed his mistake. He wasn’t a man who made mistakes. It’d been stupid to leave a victim alive for so long. What the hell had he been thinking?
He needed to correct that error.
He had his KA-BAR tactical knife on him. His Sig Sauer. And his Winchester Model 70 with a Nightforce SHV 3–10x42mm scope and plenty of .270 Win cartridges in his emergency pack.
He would finish this today.
10
Hannah
Day One
Cross-country skiing while pregnant was not a joke.
Hannah was immensely grateful that she’d kept up her calisthenics. Her lower back ached. A weight pressed constantly against her bladder and spread up into her chest, squeezing her lungs until she couldn’t inhale a full breath.
At least she was well-nourished and hydrated—for now.
It had been years since she’d skied, but she’d grown up cross-country skiing with her family. Her mother had skied competitively in college. They spent weekends snow camping and skiing miles of trails in the gorgeous UP wilderness surrounding the Porcupine Mountains.
Slowly, painfully, her muscle memory returned. It was awkward and difficult, especially with her belly altering her sense of balance. She tried to keep the skis parallel to each other, her torso straight as she bent forward at her ankles and slightly at her knees.
She scooted one ski forward, then the other, using the poles to help her remain upright. It took a while, and several hard falls, but she finally found a gliding rhythm that worked.
She had a hard time wrapping her left hand around the pole’s handle. She’d tied her hand to the pole with a short length of paracord and used her undamaged thumb to grip as well as she could. Her whole hand ached from the strain.
She’d followed the cabin’s long, winding driveway to a narrow road that was probably gravel or dirt beneath the snow. Only a few tire tracks marred the blanket of deep white snow.
Hannah skied along the middle of the road, heading south by her compass.
She still didn’t know where she was. She’d found no maps or information inside the cabin. She’d decided to head south until she found a road or town sign and could orient herself.
She could be anywhere in the whole state of Michigan. She was pretty sure she was still in Michigan. Her captor visited her often enough that he couldn’t be too far from his work and the fake life he’d built for himself.
She was going by instinct. Southern Michigan contained little to no wilderness. The larger cities of Detroit, Grand Rapids, Kalamazoo, Lansing, and Ann Arbor were all in the lower half of the state, along with hundreds of smaller townships and villages dotting the many lakes and rivers.
Pushing further north, Michigan grew wilder and more remote. The Upper Peninsula north of Mackinac’s five-mile long suspension was almost an entirely different state. A different country.
The land of endless dense pine forests. Rugged coastlines. The Porcupine mountains. The UP looked different; it tasted and smelled and felt different.
No matter where she was, if she headed south, she should eventually hit a village, township, or city. Still, it unnerved her that she hadn’t seen another homestead or cabin yet.
She was desperate to see another human being other than him.
Her left pole snagged a snow-covered bush on the side of the road and nearly ripped itself out of her left hand. Pain seared her misshapen fingers. Her hand muscles cramped.
Frustration bubbled up so hard and fast she nearly cried. She needed the support, but with her worthless hand, the stupid thing was worse than useless.
It had only been an hour or two, and already, her leg muscles ached in protest. Her back hurt and her lungs burned from the cold and exhaustion.
She tore the pole free, her gloved fingers fumbling with the paracord twisted and knotted at her left wrist. She hurled the pole as far as she could into the woods.
It struck a birch tree a few yards in and landed in a snowbank, the pointed end sticking out at a forty-five-degree angle.
Hot tears stung her eyes. Furious, she screamed. In the quiet, the sound exploded in her eardrums.
As if in answer, a branch snapped across the road.
She whipped around, her heart beating hard. She nearly lost her balance, but managed to lean on her pole and remain upright.
The hairs on her neck stood on end. Her skin crawled, like something or someone was watching her. Peering between the tree trunks, lurking in the shadows.
She heard nothing else. Saw nothing. Must be an animal, a squirrel or a raccoon. Still, it took several minutes for her heartrate to return to normal.
She paused for a protein bar and several sips of water from the canteen to settle her nerves. Hydration was just as important in cold weather as the heat, even if she didn’t feel as thirsty.
She’d been careful not to break a sweat beneath her layers. She’d unzipped her coat, loosened her scarf and removed her coat hood, even taken her mittens off for a while, leaving on the thin gloves underneath.
Even though it was bitterly cold, she was expending considerable calories and exertion. If she allowed herself to sweat
and her clothing absorbed the moisture, the dampness would decrease the insulation of her clothing. And as sweat evaporated, her body would cool even further.
The thought entered her head: COLD. The four basic principles to keeping warm. C—Keep clothing clean. O—Avoid overheating. L—Wear clothes loose and in layers. D—Keep clothing dry.
Her father had taught her that. She hadn’t thought of it in how long? Since long before the basement prison. She would depend on it now. It might just save her life.
She pressed on, traversing hills and ridges and crossing a wooden suspension bridge over a frozen, windswept river she didn’t know the name of. Great hardwood and coniferous forests towered on either side of her.
Occasional breaks in the trees offered sweeping overlooks of snow-studded valleys and distant hills. Pristine white snow blanketed everything.
It was beautiful, but in her fear, she barely noticed her surroundings.
Hours later, the daylight began to dim. She could just barely see the sun through the thick clouds. They were low and dark and rolling in fast. It would snow tonight.
She’d had to stop twice to pee. The immense pressure against her bladder had made it impossible not to. She did her business squatting, using a tree for balance—and realized in her frantic rush to escape the cabin, she’d forgotten to grab toilet paper.
At least there was snow.
She grabbed a handful, did what she needed to, and yanked up her pairs of pants, retying the paracord belt. She’d forgotten soap as well, so she found another clean patch of snow and cleaned her hands as best she could.
She leaned her remaining ski pole against her chest and raised three fingers above the horizon line: a trick her father had taught her. Each three-finger segment represented approximately an hour. Still three hours until sundown.
Exhaustion pulled at her. Her thighs ached. Her lower back hurt. Every muscle in her body was sore. Even with her regular calisthenics, jogging around a fifteen-by-twenty room didn’t replace actual exercise and exertion. Her condition tired her out even faster.
A clump of snow collapsed behind her.
Fear shot through her. She turned awkwardly, her boots and skis still pointed forward, and frantically scanned the trees.
A twig cracked to her right.
She stopped breathing.
Something—or someone—was out there.
11
Hannah
Day One
Hannah went completely still.
Pine and maple and oak towered all around her. Spruce boughs rustled against each other as the breeze picked up. Naked branches like claws scraping at the iron gray sky.
A flash of white. Something moving fast between a cluster of birch trees.
She squinted, straining to make out details. Heavy shadows crouched deep in the woods. Tree trunks and underbrush conspired into the ominous shapes of claws and teeth and hunched monsters.
A whitish blur as something knocked more snow from a waist-high tangle of bushes several yards into the forest. A white plumed tail. A black snout.
The dog.
She didn’t smile. She hadn’t smiled in five years. She didn’t remember how.
She did let out an icy breath. Something released inside her chest. She wasn’t alone after all. The dog was following her.
“I thought you’d be long gone by now.” Her voice was impossibly loud in the dense quiet. The snow muted everything. It felt like they were the only two beings alive in the entire universe.
She fished around in her pocket and tossed another piece of jerky onto the snow behind her. His ancestors were bred as sheep-herding dogs in the Pyrenees Mountains of France. A Great Pyrenees was born to the snow and cold and the wilderness.
He could feed himself better than she could, but she gave him the jerky anyway.
“I’m glad you’re not gone. I’m glad you’re here.”
Silence. No more twigs cracking or snowy footfalls.
She knew he was still out there. Moving as silent and invisible as a ghost. She could feel him, circling, studying her, trying to make up his mind.
“You can trust me. I think we need to trust each other.”
She turned back around and left the jerky. He could smell it. He would come for it when he felt it was safe. Maybe the food would help him make up his mind and decide to stay with her.
She felt better just knowing he was there. Less afraid. Less alone.
He hadn’t attacked her back at the cabin. He wouldn’t attack her now. He might be a friend—if she could convince him to trust her. Trust was a thing neither one of them would give easily.
She’d have to earn it.
“You need a name.” She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “I think I’m going to call you…Ghost.”
There was no answer from the woods. She didn’t expect one. Not yet.
Hannah continued on, pushing each ski with legs that grew more and more tired. She picked her way gingerly over the ice and snow, falling hard several times.
Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. It felt like days.
Snow started to fall. It spiraled down from the sky in thick wet clumps. Snowflakes gathered on her shoulders, her thick fur hood, her nose, and collected on her scarf beneath her chin.
The cold bit into her skin, burrowed into her bones. She shivered and blew into her gloved hands frequently to warm her exposed cheeks.
She needed to rest, and soon.
If she couldn’t find shelter under a roof, she’d have to make one. That wasn’t her plan when she’d brought the tarp and the sleeping bag, but the possibility had lurked in the back of her mind.
She’d hoped to find another cabin, a small town, or a vehicle on the road, but she’d passed no signs of humanity.
Everywhere she looked was dense wilderness, thick snow, and miles and miles of trees.
She kept pushing herself. A little further. Just a little more.
Her mind wandered. Bad memories kept invading her thoughts—pain, terror, darkness.
She tried desperately to push them away. They were like chains around her neck, dragging her down, threatening to pull her under.
She counted the trees. She hummed the chorus of songs she could barely remember. As the music came back to her, so did the memories, jagged and fragmented, but they came back.
She focused on the songs she used to sing to Milo every night before bed, not the traditional lullabies but slowed down, a cappella versions of her favorite classics: Guns N Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine”, Elton John’s “Your Song”, Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”, U2’s “One.”
And the one she and Milo had both loved: “Blackbird” by the Beetles. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly…Into the light of a dark black night…
She thought of her son. His chubby face. His beautiful smile. She would get home, wrap her arms around him, and never let go.
A faint sound snapped her back to the present.
She stopped, heart thudding, and strained her ears.
The distant rumble of an engine.
Someone was coming.
12
Hannah
Day One
Relief flooded her veins.
Someone to help her. To stop and pick her up and get her out of this endless freezing wilderness. After five brutal years, someone was finally here to save her.
The engine grew louder, closer. It was definitely coming her way. The vehicle would round the bend in the trees thirty yards ahead of her in only a few moments.
A tiny warning niggled at the back of her mind. What was a car even doing out here on this isolated road without a single home other than his? What was at the end of this road, other than the cabin?
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Her heart went cold in her chest. What if it was him? What if he was on his way to the cabin right now to check on her? How else would he get there but on this very road?
Here she was, just standing in the middle of the road like a rabbit waiting to be
snared.
The engine roared loud in her ears. Fear clamped down on her. The monster came for her—yellow eyes and a red slash of mouth, thin bony claws wrapping around her throat and squeezing, squeezing—
Panic overtook her. Run! Hide! Her only thought in her fogged and frantic brain was escape.
She scrambled awkwardly for the snowbank on the right side of the road closest to her. Her skis nearly crossed, nearly sent her sprawling. Her heart in her throat, her pulse a roar in her ears. She could barely hear the vehicle bearing down on her.
She hurled herself sideways over the snowbank and rolled into the snowy ditch between the forest and the road. As she fell, she glimpsed a flash of a truck’s white hood and shiny grille nosing around a cluster of black spruce beyond the bend in the road.
She lay on her back, panting and terrified. Her stupid skis stuck straight up.
They’d give her away.
Grunting in frustration, she tried to twist her skis to lay them down, but the back ends stuck in the snow. She reached for the buckle claps on the boots, her distended belly keeping her fingers from getting anywhere near them.
The truck was coming. She could hear it, could feel it vibrating through the ground straight into her throbbing heart.
She managed to wrench her body onto her side, the skis scraping with her, finally twisting sideways and clanking one on top of the other.
Her cheek pressed against cold snow. Her whole body shaking, trembling in a heart-banging, palm-sweating delirium.
The rumbling engine drew alongside her. She didn’t breathe. Forgot how to breathe.
It stopped. The truck stopped in the road, level with the snowbank. Idling right on top of her. Only the hump of snow and the ditch between her and him. If he got out of the vehicle and peered over the side, he would see her.
She had no idea what his car looked like. She didn’t need to know.
