The Waverlys

Elderspine was a place where time seemed to stand still, caught in an endless winter that seeped into every crevice of life. The snow came early and lingered late, turning the landscape into a stark, white expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see. I’d spent my entire life here, surrounded by mountains that loomed like silent sentinels, keeping the world out and us in. The only way in or out was a narrow, winding road that was often buried under snow for months, cutting us off from the rest of the world.

There weren’t many of us left here. Over the years, people had drifted away, seeking warmth and life beyond the mountains. But I stayed. I didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it was the familiarity, the comfort of knowing every face, every building, every inch of this frozen place. Or maybe it was something deeper, something that had its roots in the stories my grandmother used to tell me when I was a child.

She used to sit by the fire, her hands busy with knitting or mending, and tell me tales of the old days, when the village was larger, when the winters were even harsher, and when strange things happened in the dark. Her voice was steady, calm, but there was always a hint of something else, something that made me shiver even as I sat close to the flames.

“The cold is different this year,” she told me one evening as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows like a restless spirit. I was grown now, no longer the wide-eyed child who had listened to her stories with a mixture of fear and fascination, but something in her tone made me pause.

“How so?” I asked, my voice sounding small and unsure, even to my own ears.

“It’s deeper,” she said, her eyes fixed on the fire, the knitting in her lap forgotten. “Older. You must be careful, Jenna. We must not draw its attention.”

I tried to shrug it off, to tell myself that she was just an old woman who had lived too long in the cold and the dark, but her words lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind. The air in Elderspine had felt different lately, heavy and oppressive, as if something unseen was pressing down on the village. I could feel it in my bones, a chill that went beyond the physical cold, a sense of being watched, of being hunted.

The dreams started not long after that conversation. At first, they were just flashes—blurry, indistinct images that vanished the moment I opened my eyes. But as the days passed, they became more vivid, more real. I would wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, the image of the Waverly Cabin burned into my mind.

The cabin stood on the outskirts of the village, a dark, brooding presence that had always been the subject of whispered rumors and ghost stories. Thirty years ago, the Waverly family had vanished without a trace during one of the harshest winters Elderspine had ever seen. Their cabin had been left to rot, a silent reminder of the dangers that lurked in the cold.

In my dreams, the cabin was different. It was warm, inviting, with smoke curling from the chimney and light glowing in the windows. I could feel the warmth of the fire, the coziness of the rooms, and I would move closer, drawn to the light, the heat, the promise of comfort. But just as I reached the door, something would change. The warmth would vanish, replaced by a cold so intense it burned my skin. The light would flicker and die, leaving me in darkness. And then I would see them—the Waverlys, standing in the shadows, their faces pale and frozen, their eyes wide with terror.

I would wake up gasping for breath, the image of their faces etched into my mind, their cold, dead eyes haunting me long after the dream had ended. I tried to push it aside, to focus on the mundane tasks of daily life, but the pull of the cabin was too strong. It gnawed at me, a relentless whisper in the back of my mind, urging me to go, to uncover the truth of what had happened to the Waverlys, and of what was happening now.

Grandma noticed the change in me, the way my eyes would drift toward the cabin whenever we passed it, the way I would fall silent, lost in thought. She tried to dissuade me from my growing obsession. “Some things are better left alone,” she would say, her voice tinged with a desperation that made my heart ache. “The Waverlys are gone. They’re part of the past. Let them rest.”

But I couldn’t let it go. The dreams were becoming more frequent, more disturbing. Each night, I was drawn back to the cabin, each time getting a little closer, lingering a little longer in that cold, dark place that filled me with dread. And each morning, I woke with a growing sense of inevitability, as if something was pulling me toward the cabin, something I couldn’t resist.

One night, the wind was particularly fierce, howling through the village like a beast in pain. I went to bed early, hoping for a night of peaceful sleep, but the moment I closed my eyes, I was back at the cabin. This time, the dream was different. The door was wide open, and I could see the Waverlys standing just inside, their faces drawn and gaunt, their eyes pleading with me to come closer.

I tried to resist, but my feet moved on their own, carrying me across the threshold and into the cabin. The warmth was gone, replaced by a deep, biting cold that seemed to seep into my bones. The Waverlys were closer now, their faces twisted in terror, their hands outstretched as if reaching for me. I wanted to scream, to run, but I was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Suddenly, I was awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was freezing, the air so cold it hurt to breathe. I could see my breath misting in the air, and for a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. But the cold was real, and it was coming from inside the house.

I got out of bed, my body trembling uncontrollably as I wrapped myself in a blanket. I could feel the cold moving through the house like a living thing, creeping along the floors and walls, seeping into every corner. I knew where it was coming from, and despite the fear clawing at my insides, I had to see for myself.

I made my way downstairs, the house eerily silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. The cold grew more intense with each step, as if something was drawing me toward it, pulling me closer. When I reached the front door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. The dreams had always ended here, just before I stepped inside. But now I was awake, and the cold was real.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped outside. The night was dark, the sky hidden behind thick clouds, and the wind was a constant, low moan that seemed to come from all directions at once. The snow crunched under my feet as I made my way through the village, the cold biting at my exposed skin, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was the cabin, the dark, looming shape at the edge of the village that had haunted my dreams for weeks.

The cabin looked different in the moonlight, more sinister, more alive. The door was closed, but I knew it was waiting for me. I could feel its pull, a magnetic force that drew me closer with every step. My breath came in short, sharp gasps as I approached, the cold so intense now that it felt like a weight pressing down on my chest.

I reached the front door and pushed it open, the hinges creaking in protest. The air inside was so cold it burned my lungs, and I had to fight the urge to turn and run. But the pull was too strong, and I stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind me with a heavy thud.

The interior of the cabin was exactly as I had seen it in my dreams—furniture covered in dust, a cold, empty fireplace, and a thick layer of frost covering every surface. The cold was almost unbearable now, a deep, penetrating chill that made my teeth chatter and my limbs feel heavy and slow. I could see my breath in the air, each exhale a visible puff of mist that quickly dissipated into the freezing room.

I moved deeper into the cabin, my eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of the Waverlys. The silence was oppressive, the only sound the creaking of the old floorboards under my feet. I felt like I was being watched, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, but I saw nothing, only the frost-covered furniture and the dark, empty corners.

In the corner of the main room, almost hidden behind a large wooden cabinet, I noticed a small door. It was slightly open, just like the front door had been in my dreams, and a draft of icy air seeped through the gap. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached out, my hand trembling, and pushed the door open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.

The cellar. I had never dreamed about the cellar, but now it seemed inevitable, as if everything had been leading to this moment. The cold was stronger here, almost palpable, like a living thing that wrapped itself around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. But I had to know. I had to see what was down there.

I descended the stairs slowly, each step echoing in the narrow space, the cold growing more intense with every inch I moved deeper into the darkness. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one a visible puff of mist in the freezing air. The cellar was pitch black, the kind of darkness that swallowed everything, that made it impossible to tell where the walls ended, and the void began.

I fumbled for a light switch, but there was none. Instead, I pulled out my phone, using its weak flashlight to pierce the darkness. The light barely reached the edges of the room, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to dance on the walls. The cold was unbearable now, so intense that I could feel it in my bones, in the very core of my being.

And then I saw them. The Waverlys, standing in the far corner of the cellar, their bodies twisted and frozen, their eyes wide with terror. They were exactly as I had seen them in my dreams, but now they were real, so real that I could see the frost clinging to their hair, the blue tint of their skin, the frozen breath that still hung in the air around them.

My heart stopped in my chest as I took a step closer, my breath catching in my throat. They didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at me with those cold, dead eyes. And then I heard it—the sound of something moving in the darkness, something that wasn’t the Waverlys, something that was coming for me.

Panic surged through me, a primal fear that made me want to turn and run, to flee from this place and never look back. But I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to tear my eyes away from the frozen figures before me. The sound grew louder, closer, a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the very air around me.

I turned the flashlight toward the sound, my hands shaking so badly that the beam wavered wildly, casting strange, distorted shadows on the walls. And then I saw it—a figure, pale and gaunt, emerging from the darkness. It was not human, though it wore the semblance of one, its eyes hollow and black, its skin stretched tight over sharp, angular bones.

It moved slowly, deliberately, its gaze fixed on me, as if it was savoring the fear that radiated from my every pore. I tried to scream, but no sound came out, my throat constricted by the icy terror that gripped me. The thing moved closer, its breath visible in the freezing air, a cloud of mist that seemed to pulse with each labored exhale.

I backed away, my feet slipping on the frost-covered floor, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. But there was nowhere to go, no way out of the cellar, no escape from the thing that was slowly advancing on me. It reached out with one skeletal hand, its fingers long and bony, tipped with sharp, blackened nails.

I felt the cold before it touched me, a deep, searing chill that seemed to cut through me like a knife. And then its hand closed around my wrist, and the cold became a living thing, a force that consumed me, that froze the blood in my veins and turned my breath to ice. I could feel it spreading through me, a relentless, unstoppable tide that sapped the life from my body, leaving me numb, paralyzed, unable to fight, unable to scream.

The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was the Waverlys, still standing in the corner, their frozen eyes locked on mine, as if they were trying to warn me, to tell me that this was what had happened to them, that this was the fate that awaited anyone who dared to challenge the cold, who dared to defy the ancient force that ruled this place.

And then there was nothing. Only the cold. Only the darkness. And in that darkness, I became one with it, lost in the endless winter that had claimed so many before me, and would claim so many more.