The Snow Walker’s Breath

I’ve spent my whole life in this two-story farmhouse on the edge of the Cranston bog, ever since I was a toddler. My name is Elias, and I’m now twenty-two. For twenty-one years, nothing unusual ever occurred within these drafty walls. The only eerie thing about this place was the way the winter wind could howl through the gaps in the window frames, a sound I’d grown used to.

But last January, something changed. The bog had frozen solid for the first time in nearly a decade, covered in a thick layer of snow that muffled the world. I was alone, my parents having gone to visit my sister in the city. The first night, a Friday, I was reading by the wood stove when I heard it: a frantic crunching of snow outside my bedroom window, which faced the bog. The noise was so close, so rhythmic, that I knew something was sprinting back and forth just beyond the glass. The sound was unnerving—each step a sharp, compacted crunch that vibrated through the floorboards.

I crept to the window, but saw nothing but the white expanse, the tracks of my own footprints from earlier leading to the back door. The running continued for several minutes, then ceased abruptly. I dismissed it as a deer or a large dog, though the thought of any creature running that deliberately in the freezing dark unsettled me.

That night, as I tried to sleep, the silence was absolute. Then, I heard soft footsteps inside my room. They came from the direction of the window and moved slowly across the wooden floor. I froze under my covers, my heart pounding. The steps paused beside my bed, then circled around to the side I was facing. I could feel a colder presence hovering near me. A voice, low and gravelly, whispered, ‘Open your eyes, Elias. I won’t hurt you.’ The voice was familiar, echoing something from my childhood, but I couldn’t place it. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, my body rigid.

The presence lingered for what felt like an hour, its breath a soft mist against my cheek. Then the footsteps retreated to the window, and all was still. When I finally opened my eyes, the window was frosted over, and I could see a faint outline of a handprint on the glass, as if someone had pressed their palm against it from outside.

The second night was worse. The running returned, but this time it was on the roof above my room. The thumping was so violent that I feared the ceiling would collapse. Then, the footsteps in my room started at the window again, but this time they brought with them a stench of wet earth and decay. The voice spoke again, more urgent: ‘Remember the winter of ’06? The one you’ve buried?’ I knew no such winter; I was only five then, and I had no memory of anything unusual. I whimpered, ‘No, go away.’ The voice hissed, ‘You will remember.’ Then it left.

On the third night, the running outside was accompanied by a crunching that seemed to circle the entire house. The footfalls inside were heavier, as if the intruder was dragging something. The voice spoke in a broken parody of a lullaby, singing a tune I had heard as a child from my mother—but with twisted lyrics about ‘the bog’s cold embrace.’ As it sang, icy fingers brushed my cheek, and I finally screamed, ‘What do you want?’

The singing stopped. The voice, now right next to my ear, said, ‘Your grandfather made a deal with me. He promised me the firstborn of his blood in exchange for the bog’s bounty. He never paid. You are his only descendant.’ My grandfather had died before I was born, and my father never spoke of him. I was terrified, but also confused. ‘It’s been years,’ I stammered. ‘Why now?’ The voice sounded almost sad: ‘The ice has been unbroken for ten years. When the snow came, I was freed. My time is short. I need you to fulfill the bargain.’

Suddenly, the window burst open, and a blast of snow filled the room. The presence was gone. In the snow on the floor, I saw wet footprints leading from the window to my bed and back. They looked like they were made by bare human feet.

The next morning, the snow had stopped, and the temperature rose slightly. The footprint on the floor had melted, leaving only a damp stain. I never heard the running or the voice again. I searched the bog, but found nothing. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it was somehow my grandfather’s voice—a voice I’ve only heard on an old recording from a family reunion.

Now, the bog is melting, and spring is coming. I plan to leave this house forever, but I know it’s not over. The bargain remains unpaid. And I’m afraid that come next winter, when the snow returns, something will come back—not just to whisper, but to claim what’s owed. I can only hope my father knows more, because I don’t understand what I’ve inherited.