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Here is the beginning of a horror story inspired by the interior of Alaska where we have our cabin. Let me know what you think. I previously just published the very beginning. Here is the intro and the first Chapter. This is still a rough draft, but I am having a lot of fun with it.

The Headless Valley

Bryan took another swig of the Wild Turkey from the metal flask. Shoving it back into the cargo pocketof his camopants, he coughed and examined the track in the half-frozen sprucebog. He re-adjusted his pack; freeze-dried ash, willow and spruce needles crunching under his boots as he gazed into the mist.

Where’d that stupid fuckin’ moose go?

He mumbled to himself, breath making a white vapor in the early evening air. He gripped his rifle harder, fingers aching in the bitter chill.

Better not have fuckin’ lost it. Knew I never should have left my four-wheeler. He wheezed and blew a snot rocket, then tugged his camopants over his pot belly.

His head whipped at the sound of snapping branches further down the narrow valley.

 It’s almost dark, but fuck it, I’m not going back empty handed after coming all this way. He said to himself, creeping along through the thick brace of willow and spruce.

A chill went up his spine and his skin prickled under his woolen shirt as he came into a misty clearing. A cave gaped in the hillside above. The dark opening like the slack jaw of a drunk whore with no teeth. A sensation of being watched intensified.

I—I should go back to Miss Penny’s old lodge. It’s late—I don’t want to hack up a moose tonight anyway. I’ll try again tomorrow. Plenty of dumb moose out here. Don’t need this one. He thought, guts churning as his eyes searched the thick mist.

The spruce bog came to life around him in the rapidly dimming light. Silence broken by the snapping of branches and crunching of leaves. Yellow eyes, standing a little shorter than himself, appeared in every direction. Dark shapes forming in the silvery shadows.

“Fuck you! I’m leaving!”he shouted, voice cracking as a stream of wetness trickled down his leg to his boots. Urine hot in contrast to the clamminess of his skin. He stumbled back, bumping into spruce trees, their spiny frozen needles clawing at his all-weatherjacket and pants. Willow branches whipped his face, knocking his knit cap to the ground and exposing his nearly bald head to the freezing air. Breathing hard, he continued to try to push his way back out of the clearing.

The yellow eyes grew larger as they drew closer. He fired his rifle, discharging every bullet. Gunfire split the air, mingling with the rising sound of branches cracking. Boot catching on a hummock of moss, he sprawled backward rolling against his heavy pack, limbs flailing like a turtle. The useless rifle flew from his hands. His final scream cut short as the yellow eyes hovered above.

Rosamunde’s Journey

Rosamunde slogged through the hard-packed snow, the Iverson’s cozy roadhouse long behind her now. Heavy frost and snow graced the bare branches of spruce, willow and alder. The skeletal limbs shuddering from time to time in the later winter breeze. Her breath came faster, leaving frost around the mouth and nose of her gray facemask as she focused on sliding one ski in front of the other. The scraping sound against the snow as she built a steady rhythm echoed in the otherwise silent boreal forest. As she found her stride, digging each pole into the trail created by the arctic cat by Dick just a week before, she was able to forget about the heavy straps of the pack digging into her shoulders, and the way the belt pinched the tender skin of her hips as she dragged the sled along behind her.

She looked up at brilliant azure late winter sky. The blinding yellow sun hung just above the trees. Ice crystals hung in the air, creating a shimmering sundog. She wanted to stop and admire the beauty, but she needed to keep moving. A clear cloudless sky on a day like this meant one thing, a bone-chilling cold night. The sooner she got to the lodge and got a fire started, the better.

As she built a steady rhythm, her mind began to wander. At least I don’t have to break trail. Then she shuddered at the reason why she didn’t have to break trail. Dick had made multiple trips to Miss Penny’s old lodge in the last few weeks. First to retrieve her body after he and Ulrik had found her mauled and delirious on the floor. And then another trip last week to clean up the mess and lock everything back up.

Why did she come out here alone? Rosamunde asked herself, chest aching not only from the subzero temperature as she gulped air, hauling her heavy load, but from her thoughts of Penny’s death. Why didn’t she tell me she was coming out here to look for Bryan? I would have come with her. Maybe I could have helped. She closed her eyes for a moment, gliding along. She thought of the last entry in Miss Penny’s old diary, dated the night she was probably injured. Her desperate longing to find her son echoed in every word she wrote. It ate at Rosamunde that the older woman had faced it alone. Not only that, there was the letter, written on simple hospital stationary just before she died, asking Rose to come out here and try to find his remains.

Bryan’s remains.

The thought made her shudder. They had all grown up out here together at the lodge. Though Bryan had sometimes made her life miserable, no one deserved to die like that. And he wasn’t the only person she knew who had disappeared out here. While Miss Penny had adopted and fostered scores of abused kids like Rosamunde, Bryan was Penny’s only flesh and blood son. It had been two years since Bryan had disappeared into the Wrangel-St. Elias back country on a hunting trip, vanishing without a trace. Miss Penny had been crushed. The only initial clues had been his sleeping gear left behind at the old lodge.

Then last September, the Alaska State Troopers caught some teenagers in McCarthy joy riding in his four-wheeler. They led the police to where they’d found it parked, out by a dry campsite, down by Dan Creek. Beyond that, the trail went cold again. In such a large, uninhabited region, no one had the resources to scour the back country for a young man everyone was sure was dead. Not to mention he had been such an asshole when he was alive, no one terribly missed him anyway. No one except for his mother.

A rustling in the trees louder than the sound of her skis scraping along the snow made her pause. Her hand dropped to her pistol at her waist as her eyes scanned the frozen understory of the forest. A pair of eyes blinked at her, a furry face blending seamlessly with the ice and snow. The large cat moved its head again, giving away its location.

Rosamunde gripped her pistol. The lynx blinked again, eyeing her and cocking its head to the side. She expelled her breath in a long white cloud that froze instantly in the subzero air. The cat already had its dinner hanging limp in its large jowls. The white snowshoe hare, the large feline’s favorite prey, had been too slow today. The lynx eyed her again, then slinked away into the brace of spruce and willows, padding gracefully on top of the snow with its huge paws that acted as natural snow shoes.

The forest grew quiet once more. She shook her head as a new chill went down her spine. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and she looked around, scanning the snowy wood for other signs of life.

You’re just spooked. Yeah, something could be out there, just like that lynx, but you need to keep moving. It’s going to get really cold as soon as that sun sets. You need to get to the old lodge before dark. Edna said there’s plenty of wood, but you need to bring it in from the shed. Still, why do I feel like I’m being watched?

Rosamunde adjusted her face mask and goggles against the brutal cold and checked her compass in the alpine glow. Miss Penny’s old lodge should only be a few more yards, she thought to herself, snapping it close again and clipping it back to her jacket. The snowy boreal forest faded into soft shades of violet, navy and lavender as the sun dropped below the tree line. The black spruce trees casting long shadows all around, creating sinister shapes on the gleaming snow. Doubt set in as she shivered, the sweat permeating her underlayers.

Why am I doing this? Following the last wishes of an old woman who was probably hallucinating when she died? Rosamunde asked herself for possibly the hundredth time today.

Because she loved you, Rose, the voice in her head scolded. She was the only person who ever loved you. It’s the least you can do after everything she did for you.

She thought back to the funeral last week and her encounter with Aaron, when he had given her the diary.

“Hey there beautiful,” he’d said as she stood by the closed casket, gazing at the pictures of Penny and all of the children she’d adopted or fostered over the years, including herself and the man who spoke to her now, Aaron.

Before she had even turned around, her skin was already crawling at the tone of his voice. “Hi,” she replied, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand as she took a step back. Already he’d moved in far too close for her comfort. The smell of his cheap cologne overpowering the heady scent of lilies and roses arranged around the casket.

“Look,” he said, running a hand through his thin, fine brown hair. His beady blue eyes scaled up and down her black sheath dress. “I know this must be tough for you, I’m glad you were able to make it into town on such short notice.”

She nodded, taking another step back as he made a motion as if to touch her arm. “Yeah, fortunately they were able to get me on a flight down from Prudhoe, I’m on leave for the next few weeks.”

“Great, listen we started going through some things Mary had with her, and I found her old diary, and a note she wrote when she was in the hospital. It was addressed to you. Looks like she wrote it just before…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes slid to the casket.

She nodded, tears filling her vision again. He pulled a brown leather diary out of the sports coat of his jacket and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she replied, a chill going up her spine as his clammy fingers brushed hers. She couldn’t explain why she found him so repulsive. Other women seemed to find him charming. His date hovered nearby, glaring at the two of them, fluffing her long blonde hair.

“Well I should be going. See you around.” He said, managing to pat her shoulder. She shuddered a little as he walked away then chastised herself. He’s never been anything but nice. Sure he was really creepy as a teenager, but he seems to have grown out of it. She shook her head at the memories. When she read the diary and the simple letter enclosed within, she wasted no time making plans to travel out to the old lodge.

Her long sigh echoed in the air as she kicked off through the hardpacked snow as she continued along, following the trail made earlier in the week. Under her parka and multiple layers of gear, sweat trickled down the small of her back and between the cleavage created by her bra despite the subzero air. Her shoulders ached from the heavy pack, and the belt attached to her hips continued to rub as she dragged the small sled through the ice locked boreal forest. Her lips curled up in a relieved smile as the old wooden lodge came into view. Its lower windows boarded up with plywood, but the fortunately wooden porch free of snow. Probably from when Ulrik and Dick came out to get her. Rosamunde thought, closing her eyes against tears. Increasing her stride, she quickly crossed the small clearing to the large log cabin. Dragging the sled up the stairs onto the sturdy porch, the warped wood creaked as she eased her pack off her shoulders setting it down and looking around.

She rubbed her aching shoulders and looked back at the trail she’d made to the deep snow. At least I made it before dark, she thought to herself she pulled her pistol from its holster and tugged her headlamp on over her balaclava. She worked the combination lock on the front door and heaved it open. Holding her pistol high, she entered and searched the gloomy interior. Creeping through each room she listened for sounds of intruders, either animal or otherwise. Satisfied that nothing was disturbed, and everything was still securely boarded up, she went back into the main area of the Lodge and lit the ancient propane lantern by the cast-iron wood stove.

The lantern glowed to life, casting light and shadows around the room. She assessed the pile of wood next to the stove.

Enough for tonight, and just to heat this room, and I’ll need to melt water too. She thought to herself, I should get more before it gets much darker. Who knows how cold it’ll be tonight and tomorrow. And I’ll need more when I sled out to the service cabin near Dan Creek. May as well get it now.

She dragged her pack and sled inside, pulling the sled with her food and rifle in the kitchen. She unlashed the rifle from the sled and set it on the rack next to the front door, taking off the safety. She unloaded the dry goods and her packages from the sled, so she could use it to haul wood. Next she wandered over to the other side of the wood stove where the bed platform set back in an alcove. The old wooden platform creaked beneath the weight of her pack. Her gut sank as she spied a sleeping bag with familiar initials embroidered at the bottom: BSC. Next to the platform on the floor sat a-half empty bottle of Wild Turkey. She picked it up with the tips of her fingers and moved it to the counter and the old kitchen. Rosamunde thought back again to the letter Penny had written on her deathbed, tucked into her old diary.

Wow, Brian really was here. I wonder why Penny thought I could find him when the troopers couldn’t.

Maybe I can. They don’t really have the resources to do it. And we all grew up out here. I know the places he might go. So would Ulrik. Maybe I should have asked him to come along. She grew warm at the thought of spending the nights alone out her with the tall handsome dark-haired man she grew up with, who she’d idolized since she was a girl. She shook her head. No, Ulrik hated Bryan even more than I did, he would just try to talk me out of it anyway. But even he would agree with me, this is the best time of year to cross the spruce bogs. But to I really want to go out to “Headless Valley” alone?

Stop that, that’s just a story Ulrik’s Nana used to tell us when we were kids. It’s not real.

She eyed the bottle of Wild Turkey again, thinking of Bryan’s constant run-ins with the Troopers and Penny’s desperate wish for him to get sober. She swallowed hard. She saved so many of us, me included, but she couldn’t save her son from his addictions. She deserved so much more. I should have told her how much I loved her. The thoughts swirled through her head as Rosamunde looked around the lodge, taking in the weathered logs and the well-worn chinking. Tears filled her eyes as she noted the cast iron pots, still hung from their familiar nails on the wall. The cabinets that Miss Penny’s father had made by hand still stood against the far wall, Rosamunde had come here just two—Or was it three summers—to help re-paint them. The door to the downstairs bedroom was closed, but she knew that room by heart, having slept many nights there, being rocked to sleep by either Penny or Ulrik or Keira after being rescued from her own broken home. Rosamunde turned back toward the door. Her guts clenched at the sight of the dark stain visible in the lantern light in the middle of the floor. Penny, that’s where she…

Rosemunde swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, then she squared her shoulders. Get a fire built, then go get wood and snow for before it gets completely dark. You can think about Penny, how she died, and Bryan and the plan to find his remains later. Maybe you can even clean it up later tonight. It’s not like you’ll have anything else to do other than read a book and sleep after it gets dark. She drew a deep breath and turned her attention to the wood stove.

Log and kindling loaded into the stove, she struck a match, then sat back on her heels and watched it take hold, crackling and popping as it began to draw. Her skin prickled on her arms, and she looked around the room, almost as if expecting to see something watching from the shadows. Stop that, she told herself. You already checked everything. Go get wood before the temperature drops more.  She rose to her feet and went back into the deepening twilight, taking a pair of old wooden snowshoes from the rack next to the door and clicked on her headlamp. She made her way around the to the woodshed on the south side of the lodge, dragging her sled again. She loaded it with wood twice, floundering in the deep snow. She paused once or twice in her work, certain she heard a noise coming up the trail. But all she could hear when she focused was a distant howl of a wolf, or the light breeze rustling through the forest. Otherwise all was still.

She deposited one load of wood next to the fireplace, then the other load just outside the door to the cabin. She filled buckets with snow and set them on and around the stove to melt. Then she went back out onto the porch, hanging the snowshoes on a hook outside. She glanced around one more time at the empty clearing around the cabin, the woods were nearly completely dark, faint stars beginning to twinkle in the clear cold night above. The antique Coca-cola thermometer next to the door already read 25 below by the light of her headlamp.

Damn, it’s going to be chilly tonight, and it’s not even six o’clock yet.

She went back inside and bolted the heavy wooden door behind her. She pulled off her face mask and goggles then her parka and snow pants hung them all on the sturdy hooks next to the front door. She readjusted her belt with her pistol over her fleece pants. She yanked off her boots and pulled a pair of thick socks from her pack along with a clean dry T-shirt and sweater.

I really need to get out of these sweaty clothes, she thought, shivering in the still chilly cabin. The fire had warmed things substantially, and her pots of water were melting, but still cold. I really want to wash up before I put on a clean sweater. She crouched down to throw a few more logs into the stove and paused, hair rising on the back of her neck.

There is a noise coming up the trail, she realized. She dropped her hand to her pistol at her waist and glanced at the front window the Lodge, still covered in boards and plywood. Why didn’t I think to remove the boards? Her heart pounded faster as the pounding, sliding and heavy breathing got closer. Hand shaking, she pulled her pistol as heavy footsteps thumped against the wooden porch and the doorknob twitched.

“Who’s there?” she shouted. “Identify yourself!”

“Open up, Rosamund. It’s me, Ulrik.” A deep voice bellowed.

She re-holstered her pistol and sprinted to the door, hands trembling as she rushed to unbolt it. Ulrik stood on the threshold, stomping the snow off his heavy winter boots. His two hulking malamutes sniffed the air behind him as they wandered the clearing, investigating scents in the snow. She stepped back, heart fluttering, breath coming fast now as she gazed up at the mountain of a man, gray-brown eyes blazing as he looked her over through his winter gear. She backed toward the bed platform, crossing her arms over her chest. He threw back his hood and tore off his face mask.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, girl?” Coming all the way out here? Alone? This time of year?” He shouted, hands on his hips. His tanned high cheek bones flushed.

Her heart sunk at his words. Then her pride flared at the implication in his comments. Putting one hand on her hip she poked the air with the other.

“What you mean? You say that like I’m clueless. I’m just as capable in the backcountry as you are. Hell, you taught me everything I know.” She shouted back. “I have my pistol. I can defend myself against any predator, four-legged or two-legged.”

Ulrik caught his breath at her retort, taking in her flashing hazel eyes and golden hair in front of the fire as she stood her ground, defiant. “I–I’m sorry. You’re right. I sometimes forget you’re not like the other women I’ve known, Little Bird.” He said running his hands through his thick black hair. She pursed her lips and her porcelain skin flushed a deep rose at the use of his personal nickname for her.

His blood ran cold and his hair rose on the back of his neck as a pair of yellow eyes blinked on the dark bed platform behind her.

“Rosamunde,” he said dropping his voice and easing his rifle off his shoulder. “Don’t move. Stay perfectly still.”

Her pretty hazel eyes widened, but she froze in place. He closed the distance with a steady slow stride as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He could now make out a shape in the sleeping alcove behind her, crouched in the shadows. He placed his rifle over her left shoulder, aiming for where the baleful eyes still blinked out of the dark recess.

“When I count to three, drop to the ground, pull your pistol, okay?” He mouthed, gazing directly into her eyes. She blinked twice while her full coral lips formed the word “okay” in return.

One…Two…Three

Hope you enjoyed the beginning of my little story. My next blog post will be the legend for which this post is based, and some of the background information on this region of Alaska. Thanks for reading and stay tuned.