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The gas main had exploded, and the character that Virgil thought would have lived had been decapitated by a manhole cover flying through the air like a deadly ninety-pound Frisbee. Sometimes he felt like ripping apart Beth’s skin and searching for that reason she liked these kind of movies. But they made her happy and if she was happy he was happy.

Beth’s stormy blue eyes glittered between black tracks of eyeliner beneath parallel tracks of black-penciled eyebrows. “Isn’t this movie neat?” she asked. Beth spied that the front door was open. “Virgil, the door is open…”

“What the Hell is with this cabin?” he hissed, getting up and making his way to the door. She sprawled out on the couch and watched the movie while he attended to the door. Virgil was the man after all and this was his duty. But when something that should have taken at most three minutes became thirteen minutes, Beth got up.

She didn’t hear a single noise, her head started to buzz like it was filled with TV static or a hive full of pissed off bees. “Virgil?” Beth called out in a voice that was wispy and dry, like the rattle of willow leaves. He stumbled back into the living room and she smiled. “Don’t scare me!”

Virgil threw his back and from his long neck, blood flew across the room. “Virgil!”

Beth stumbled away from him as a man, a big man with a snow-frosted beard stepped into the room. His fingertips were black with frostbite, as was his nose. His cheeks were black with red rings, still life to his cheeks. Ice hung to his nose, his lips, his eyes lashes and eyebrows. He looked at her and pointed his axe at her. With a grunt, he lunged at her.

She fell to the ground, on her back, he stepped over her, a foot on either side, blocking her view of Virgil bleeding out. He raised his axe and she screamed, a scream that was swallowed up by the harsh white storm outside.

Beth lay on her back, staring blindly up at the ceiling of the cabin, a gaping, ragged axe wound in her belly. Virgil had been moved, sprawled next to her, arms outstretched. The frostbitten man took a seat in the kitchen as the darkside of twilight made its appearance outside the window, eating what had been left on their plates, drinking the wine that been left in Beth’s glass.

The twilight wind tore at the cabin. He had his fill; he grabbed his axe and trudged back outside into the storm. Leaving those same snowy boot prints as before. The wind outside was blowing hard and it cut through his clothes like a knife. He had left the radio on, as if to give the corpses something to listen to as they traveled to the next world.


Bill Porter, known to Pennsylvanian locals as the Snow Drifter, has escaped from the mental institution. At first sign of anything suspicious, please call the police. He is considered armed and dangerous.

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