It was snowing again. Thick flakes drifted from the black sky, swirling like ash over the pine trees that stood solemn around the cabin. Bill Williams sat by the window, his breath fogging the glass, watching the storm devour the world outside. Beyond the porch, the wind screamed through the trees like a living thing.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep. Every night was the same now—silence, snow, and ghosts that refused to rest.
Anvil Mountain had become both his prison and his refuge. Two years ago, after Lenoir's death, he had driven as far north as the road would take him. He told himself the quiet would help him heal. Back then, when she was still alive, she used to sit by this same window, her face glowing in the reflection of the storm. She loved the cold. She said it made the world feel clean again.
He could still hear her voice, light and teasing, the way she'd shake her head when he complained about shoveling snow. "I could never go back to Texas," she'd laugh, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. "You saved me from that heat, my love. You gave me this."
Bill closed his eyes and tried to remember the warmth of that moment. But the memory twisted, as it always did, into the night she died—the memory of her blood on the snow, the sound of her screaming.
Two years. Two long years, and still the same emptiness. The police had given up long ago. They called it a cold case, told him to move on. But how do you move on from the only person who ever made the world make sense?
The house felt colder now. The fire barely fought against the draft that slipped through the old wooden walls. He had thought about leaving many times, but every corner of this place carried a piece of her: the mug she used, the scarf she'd forgotten on the chair, the faint scent of her perfume that lingered no matter how many storms passed.
He stood up, restless. Sometimes he swore he could feel her here—watching him from the stairs, her shadow drifting just out of sight. It had become a strange comfort, that feeling. Like maybe love could outlast death.
He turned toward the staircase, ready to give up on the night and climb to bed.
Then came the knock.
A sharp, heavy pounding against the door.
Bill froze.
"Mister Williams! You in there?"
The voice carried through the storm, muffled but familiar. Bill blinked, heart skipping. He crossed the room and peered through the frosted window. A figure stood on the porch, coat dusted white, face half-hidden by a scarf.
"Sheriff Thomas?" Bill said under his breath.
He opened the door, and a blast of icy wind tore through the cabin. "Sheriff! What the hell are you doing up here in this weather?" Bill asked, stepping aside. "You could've frozen to death on that road."
The sheriff stomped the snow from his boots. His face was drawn, his brown eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. "Had to see you," he said simply. "Couldn't wait till morning."
Bill's stomach knotted. Hope—small, fragile, dangerous—flickered in his chest. "Did you find him?" he asked. "The man who killed Lenoir?"
The sheriff looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded toward the kitchen. "You mind if we sit?"
"Of course," Bill said quickly. "Coffee?"
"Yeah. Strong."
Bill busied himself with the coffee pot, pretending not to notice the silence behind him. He knew that silence. It was the kind that came before bad news.
When he turned back, two steaming mugs in hand, the sheriff's expression hadn't softened. He was staring at the framed picture on the table—one of Bill and Lenoir, taken years ago.
Except it wasn't a photograph. It was a painting. A portrait she'd done of them both.
"Nice picture," the sheriff said flatly. "She painted this?"
"Yeah," Bill replied quietly. "She was an artist before… before it happened."
Thomas nodded, eyes unreadable. He took a sip of coffee.
"Bill," he began, his voice low. "Can you tell me again why no one's ever seen your wife? No neighbors. No friends. No family visiting. Just you and this mountain for two years."
Bill frowned, thrown off by the tone. "You know why," he said. "Lenoir had anxiety. She didn't like people. That's why we came here—to get away."
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, his hand tapping against the mug. "That's convenient," he murmured.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," the sheriff said slowly, "you've been living up here alone. You tell people your wife was murdered. But we found no body. No prints. No blood. Not a single trace she ever existed."
Bill's pulse quickened. "That's not possible! You saw the reports—she was right there when—"
"When what?" the sheriff interrupted. "When you say she was killed? Because all we have, Bill, is your word."
Bill slammed his hand against the table. "I saw her die!"
The sheriff didn't flinch.
"I went to the car to get her camera," Bill said, his voice shaking. "I heard her scream. When I came back, someone was there—dressed in black, face covered. He was stabbing her. I ran after him, but he vanished into the trees. When I came back… she was gone. Everything was gone."
He stared at the sheriff, breathing hard. "You think I made that up?"
The older man exhaled slowly. "I think there's more to this story than you're telling me."
Outside, the wind howled. The cabin creaked like an old ship straining against the sea. Bill glanced toward the window; for a second, he thought he saw movement beyond the glass—a figure standing by the treeline, motionless.
He blinked, and it was gone.
"Why are you here, Thomas?" he asked finally.
The sheriff reached into his coat pocket. His hand came out holding a small, black VHS tape. The label was smudged, the handwriting barely legible.
"You tell me," the sheriff said. "You recognize this?"
Bill shook his head. "I don't even own a VHS player."
The sheriff's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's all right. I brought my own."
He set a small portable player on the table, plugged it into the TV near the wall, and slid the tape in.
Static filled the screen for a moment, hissing like the wind outside. Then the image steadied.
Bill's stomach dropped.
The man on the screen looked exactly like him—same flannel shirt, same tired eyes—but paler, thinner. He was sitting in a white room, the kind hospitals used for patients who needed to be watched.
Across from him sat a doctor, clipboard in hand.
"Bill," the doctor said gently, "do you know why you're here?"
The Bill on screen didn't answer. His eyes were glassy, far away.
The doctor sighed. "You've been telling us about your wife again. About her murder. But Bill, we've been through this. Your wife isn't real. She never existed. She's a delusion. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help you."
The screen flickered.
Bill felt his knees weaken. "No," he whispered. "That's not me."
But the voice on the screen—his own voice—spoke again.
"She's real. I saw her. I held her. She painted us."
The doctor leaned forward. "No, Bill. You painted that."
The static returned, swallowing the image in white noise.
Bill stumbled backward, gripping the edge of the table to stay upright. "This is some kind of trick," he said, his voice cracking. "Where did you get that?"
The sheriff turned off the player. The cabin was silent except for the storm raging outside.
"From the old clinic south of town," Thomas said quietly. "You were there, Bill. Two years ago. You were released after your 'wife's' disappearance. They said you'd made progress."
Bill's heart pounded so hard he thought his chest might burst. "That's not true."
Thomas met his eyes, unblinking. "Then tell me, Bill. Where's Lenoir now?"
Bill opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The walls seemed to close in. The air felt too thick to breathe. He could almost hear her voice again—soft, sweet, whispering from somewhere behind him.
"I'm here, my love."
He turned.
The staircase was empty.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered. "She's here."
Thomas's hand went to his holster, but he didn't draw. He took a cautious step closer. "Bill, there's no one here. You need to come with me."
Bill shook his head. "No. You don't understand. She's right there!"
He pointed toward the darkened hallway, eyes wild with terror and devotion all at once.
And for just a moment—for one impossible heartbeat—Thomas thought he saw her too. A pale woman standing in the shadows, eyes hollow, smiling faintly.
Then the lights flickered.
And everything went black.