Flurries of snow blew like apparitions in the twilight wind, twirling and forming as they gained in strength, before dissipating against the gale. Gwendolyn kept her head bowed; strands of hair lashing at her face as her boots sank knee-deep into the fresh white. She gripped the letter opener, too afraid to drop her only weapon. Blood dripped from the blade, staining the pureness of the land, a pureness Gwendolyn lost long ago to the devil’s touch. The one whose blood caked her hands, face, dress. So much blood, she wasn’t sure if it was all from him, or if she had shed some as well. The struggle was such a blur, much like the storm. She held back her tears and braved forward, still in a state of shock. Her long skirt dragged as she huffed and puffed, her breath a ghost-like fog in the winter blur. Gwendolyn had to get to the woodsman’s old cottage before they found her. There she could think, devise a plan. No one would look for her there.

Nestled deep in the woodland behind her family's house, the cottage sat abandoned and decayed. It held memories of a lonely woodworker whose home was now the only place to hide a murderess. It was a place she claimed as her own, hiding there many times to escape the devil in the mansion. There she secretly kept handfuls of books, stored away dried goods, and pretended to be the witch of the woods that no soul dared to bother. Even scared off a handful of curious children, who ran away squealing: ‘Witch! Witch!” when they saw her at the door.

Gwendolyn made it to the edge of the wood and looked back to ensure she was not being followed. For a moment, everything tilted and swayed; the few lights from within the house a kaleidoscope of gold. She closed her eyes, took a shaking breath, and reopened her snowflake painted lashes. The swoon passed; the house no longer spun.

The drawn curtains in her stepfather’s study muted the faint light of the stained-glass lamps that had toppled to the carpeted floor. Her mother’s room lay dark, still asleep and probably in a laudanum dream. They must not have found him yet, she thought. Otherwise, lights would pour from the window’s eyes as they searched for the culprit. Her footprints and the light trail of blood were slowly growing faint from constant snowfall. She hoped the storm would eventually sweep her scarlet path beneath its ivory rug. 

Having only had time to grab boots and a cloak, she waded through the snow with haste. She would die out there of a frozen heart if she did not hurry, although a dead sense had already begun to rot inside of her. The moment her stepfather first laid his dark eyes upon her––eyes as dark as the very pits of hell––she was sure the devil looked through his hungry gaze, eating away at her insides with evil desire.

Gwendolyn entered the woods. The tall trees stood like knights in armor, providing some relief from the constant wind that whistled a din through sagging branches. The dark consumed the forest, but she memorised the way to the cottage like the words of her cherished books. As the wind quietened, a loud crack sounded from behind. Certain it was a gunshot—he was still alive—Gwendolyn crouched down, her hands and knees sinking into a bottomless pit of ice. A “ploof” tremored through her limbs, and she realized it was but a breaking branch. A tree limb too heavy to remain unbroken. Much like me, she thought. Even the strongest of warriors can break under such pressure. Grueling, nasty, sweat-filled pressure. 

Trembling, she took a deep breath; the air so cold it burned her lungs, and shuffled her way up. Tears stung her eyes and formed icicles that clung to her cheeks. When she finally made it to the cottage, she could barely walk.

Snow drifts surrounded the tilted boards of the hut, trying to claw their way in. Gwendolyn pushed at the door, praying the latch had not accidentally fallen in place—it sometimes did that. With the last of her dying strength, she shoved her shoulder into the wood, and caught herself as the door sprang open. With one last glance back, she entered the gloom, alone and unfollowed.

For a moment, a strange rush of air flowed right through her, even colder than the storm outside. She gasped; breath stolen by the spectral wind. Too distraught and frozen to think anything of it, she closed the door and locked the latch.

#

Blackness. 

Her eyes slowly adjusted, making out the familiar shadows and outlines: the fireplace, rocking chair (the one taken from the playroom she loved as a little girl), stacks of books in the corner, log piles she had collected, and cupboards full of stale bread and oats. 

The cabin moaned, whining along with the mournful wind. Despite it being ancient, its bones still held strong, and Gwendolyn knew she was safe inside its cavity. Placing the letter opener next to the hearth, she set about starting a fire with trembling fingers. The frozen blood on her flesh cracked with her movements like a snake shedding skin. After many failed attempts, a flame simmered and quickly spread into vibrant licks of fire like crimson ghosts dancing in an infernal ball. She stayed near its warmth for what felt like hours, then gradually stood. Realizing her cloak was now wet, she took it off and hung it by the fire to dry. Still cold, Gwendolyn wrapped herself in a blanket she had left on the chair. Numb and completely out of mind, she sat down and grabbed a book; the words appeared faint in the eldritch light. Gwendolyn rocked and read, rocked and read. The words on the pages commingling with her worried thoughts: at least he cannot hurt anyone else…no one will believe why I did it— they never trust a young woman’s words…at least mother is free of him…her head felt heavy as sleep crept into the cracks of her subconscious. And against the whistles of the wind, the moans of the cabin, and the pops and spits of the dancing fire, she fell asleep.

#

A rapid knock on the door awoke her. 

Her heart leaped. She sat up fast, registering where she was, and the blood on her hands. It all crashed down on her like an avalanche of snow—the heavy, frigid, suffocating nightmare was indeed real—when the bang sounded again. 

I am found!

She edged towards the door and listened.

Silence. Just the whistle of the wind.

“Who is there?” she shouted.

A tap–tap–tap at the window made her jump, and step back. Boards covered the thin, cracked panes of glass. It would be difficult to break the wood and enter, yet she still feared something was about to crash through. Thuds against the sides of the cottage reverberated through the foundation, her bones, her teeth.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. 

Someone, or something, was pounding against it. 

She circled, following the sound as it made its way around the cabin. It stopped at the second window, tapping against the glass. 

Gwendolyn approached it to find a small slit and peered a green eye through the opening. Nothing. Just frosted glass and curtains of snow. She sighed, fogging the window and returned to the chair.

There were rumors that the cottage was haunted. That the woodsman, who died long before her family claimed the land and built their abode, still walked among the forest. That he cut logs and frightened away anyone who trespassed on his clearing. Gwendolyn had never seen the spirit or even felt a dead one lingering. She had only felt a sense of freedom in the lonely woodsman’s cottage. A kinship. 

What was happening next was unexplainable.

She cried out as the door shook with another heart-thumping knock. 

“Who is there?” she said, throat dry and raspy. "I am armed!”

Again, silence. Then the same tapping at the window, the same thumping against the frame. 

It must be his ghost, come to haunt me. Come to get me. 

She brought her knees towards her chin and buried herself in a ball. The constant bangs and taps, thuds and raps of the ghost beckoning to be let in continued. On and on it went, for how long, she did not know. And then it stopped.

Gwendolyn, shaking, peeled her head from her knees, eyes wide as she listened. 

Just as she thought it gone, the door burst open with a bang; a wave of snow-filled wind ushered into the cabin, causing the dwindling fire to sputter out. 

She screamed and shot from her seat, expecting the worst. Chest heaving, she stood still, waiting for the monster to enter. 

No one appeared but the invisible cold. It seeped in, swallowing the warmth whole. Gwendolyn walked towards the door, her blanket falling from her shoulders onto the planked floor. 

She stood in the door frame in front of a pile of building snow that crawled onto her feet like skittering bugs. She looked outside, turning her head left and right. On instinct, she stepped out. As soon as she left the threshold of the woodsman’s cottage, the door slammed shut against her.

She jolted upright and twirled around, immediately trying to turn the icy handle; it would not budge. She pushed and shoved at the door, but it was locked. No! The latch! How? 

Not wanting to believe she was locked out, she pushed at the door again and again, her tears the only warmth on her weathered body. She moved her way around the cabin, digging through the drifts that piled higher and higher. Her hands tapped at the windows, but the cold, oh the cold made it hard for her to even form a fist. 

There must be a way…

On tiptoes, she looked through a sliver of boards across a window. A green eye stared back at her; an eye full of fear. Then it disappeared, leaving an opal mist on the glass.

“Oh!” she cried. Her mind spun: someone is inside! 

“Let me in!” she yelled, beating against the cabin. “Let me in, let me in, let me in.” 

Sliding against the ice-laced wood, she lost her balance several times, crashing into the thick panels and crying her litany. She would not give up. 

Around and around she went, delirious and frost-bitten, breathing the cold air—air almost as cold as her stepfather’s heart. Stained with his blood, and frozen in time on a night where she killed the devil to never again feel his touch, her heart solidified like a block of ice in her chest, and she perished with the wind.

#

The next morning, the storm clouds passed, and the snow sparkled in its delicious rays.

A search party dispersed, on the hunt for a young murderess. It didn’t take long to find her body, slumped in the snow on the edge of the property, almost completely buried in sheets of white. Found next to an icy pool of blood filled by a fatal wound to her stomach. 

And although they searched, the murder weapon was nowhere to be found. Thinking it was buried in the snow, the police were sure the snowmelt in the spring would reveal it in time. Spring came, then Summer, and still no weapon.

It wasn’t until the end of that summer (and to everyone’s bewilderment), that a group of boys who tantalized each other to enter the woodman’s cottage in delighted fear of seeing the witch within, discovered the letter opener sitting near the fireplace. Dried blood on its gilded blade, and red fingerprints stamped on its sleek bone handle.

***

Jasmine De La Paz is a Gothic horror author based in Bishop, CA, where she writes of the beauty within the darkness. You can find her work featured in Love Letters To Poe Vol. 3, Tenebrous Antiquities, Haunted Words Press, and more. She spends her spare time teaching yoga and spinning tales to her son, who, like his mother, loves the tradition of sharing spooky stories. She is currently writing a novella. X: @jazz_delapaz  Insta: jazz_delapaz