The Dark Somnium - The Place Beyond The Blizzard

Episode Date: March 21, 2024

This Creepypasta scary story is from the creepypasta website, written by A. K. Kullerden, make sure to check out the original story and support the author!"The Place Beyond The Blizzard" https://www.creepypasta.com/this-cruel-place-beyond-the-blizzard/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Do you think we're dead? I gave Eleanor a perplexed look. I can see her breath, and we're talking right now, so... No, no. She muttered, shivering in the keening wind. Not here. No sense in asking that here. I mean, out there.

I stared out past the dark sea, reaching to the horizon and likely further still than I could ever conceive of. They say hell is hot, as I sit on the ramshackle heights, we fight every day to maintain the cold clawing at my skin. I truly wish it was. My mother used to say, as long as you tried, those five words hammered strength into my psyche. They once gave meaning in battling hardships and misery. Now, that's a dangerous epithet. You're free to try, if so inclined. Just know that none of us will even try to save you when your belly is sliced open and your guts lirped by the creatures that dog this place. We've had our fill of brazen souls out here.

They serve to be torn apart in our place. I suppose it's something to be grateful for. The bravery you are, the quicker you'll learn. Bravery is as insubstantial as death in this place. I should backtrack. I'm an extremophile. Always have been. Ever since the first time that adrenaline rush flooded my veins, I was hooked.

Water sports, base jumping, spulunking, anything you can name is likely under my belt. The one activity I found myself coming back to was mountaineering. Ever since my dad took me up to Mount Snowden, there's been an inscrutable urge to summit something higher, something steeper and harsher. This leads me to my most recent trip, summiting Montereauze's tallest peak, the dooferspice. My climbing partner and good friend Robb climbed it in 2018. He shared plans of a second summit, so I took him up on the offer. I say climbing partner, but with my My skill level, I really mean guide. Rob's expertise blow mine out of the water.

Nothing much of interest happened on the drive. Long, boring, standard overall. When we arrived, the parking lot serving as our starting point was empty and quiet, dead still. There was an air of unease lingering around us, around me at least, if Rob felt it, he didn't show it. But it was there, and I should have taken it as a warning. That's retrospection for you. Looking up at Montereosa made everything seem so insignificant.

Its monster of a rock face stood mighty and gazed out across the landscape. Ants beholden to a molehill in its dominance. God help any who climbs it. Instead, we planned around the Marinelli Gulwar, a steep and snow-laden gully. We triple-checked our mandatory gear. Ice picks, crampens, ropes, etc. All present, clear and cold mornings were forecast for the ensuing week, perfect climbing conditions. Rob's meticulous planning was impressive, to say the least.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little envious. The mountain hut alone was a four-hour climb. Though the terrain was forgiving, hard-packed snow crackled below my crampens. A reassuring sound. Inside was cozy. The walls were insulated well, and the wood stove was stocked with more than enough firewood. Yet, even as the fire roared, a chill crawled up my back. Just like the parking lot, we were alone, and the nagging intuition in the back of my mind said that may not be coincidental.

Sure you're ready for tomorrow, mate. Rob said, glancing over at me from the counter. Well, I mean, yeah, yep. I'm with good hands, coming with you. Look, once we get up into the cooler, we ain't turning back. So there's no shame in having second thoughts. No, it's not that. I mean, yeah, I could come back another time, but who knows how long I'd have to wait?

Life's hectic, you know. Might be years till I can try again. Just making sure. Nurs are a dangerous beast up there. As long as you listen to me, you'll be fine. But remember, don't panic. If you're feeling anxious, remind yourself that getting upset won't help your situation. Heep from the waning coal coddled my body.

Only embers flickered by the time I began to nod off into a deep, dreamless sleep. We set off at 8 a.m. after having oatmeal and berries. The first few hours ended up being a tough trek along the snowfield, skirting round toward the cool year. As your sky gazed down through the wispy high cirrus. We were about a mile from the gully when light snowfall started up. It wasn't hugely surprising, being on a mountain and all, but the sky remained clear. If anything, it had grown clearer over the past hour, and still the snow fell regardless.

It was such a bizarre sight. I worried I might be getting altitude sickness. As icy pinpricks pelted my skin, the reality of the situation dawned on me. Visibility was dropping by the minute, and within ten I could scarcely see Robb twenty feet ahead, and then he was gone. I don't mean his silhouette bled away into the whiteout. I mean even his footprints were entirely covered over. I called out to him in a panic, cupping my hands together in a futile attempt to pierce the howling gale.

Hoping to catch sight of Rob, I plotted forward another hundred yards or so. Nothing. My next actions I still ruminate over today, forcing me to curse my own cowardice. Even if I was the one who disappeared, I didn't know that at the time. Without Rob to guide me, I thought I was surely going to die. So I turned back. Following the compass, I made a steady descent, hoping to get back to the hut faster than we'd come up. The fresh dusting of snow made frantic steps of danger, and I slipped several times.

After an hour, my view was unchanged, pure whiteness. In my retreat, I'd somehow failed to notice a crucial detail. I wasn't going downhill. It seemed like I was in a flat snowfield, but when I turned a full 360 to get my bearings, I understood I was actually facing a gentle incline. A fresh wave of terror crashed down in my mind. I glanced down at my compass, and to my horror saw the needle replaced by a listless spinning blur. I tried my best.

Mom would have been proud. But the cold wore me down. The snow merciless as it pelted me. My footsteps grew closer and closer together until there were no footsteps at all. I crouched on one knee. I wasn't shivering anymore. Well, I did feel pretty warm, the hot actually. I went to unzip my coat when a stark patch of lime caught my attention.

An abandoned tent long left to endure the elements. It looked old. My dulling mind didn't catch the oddity, that it wasn't already buried by the snow. Our tent was in Rob's pack, and with him out of the picture, this was my only chance at survival. There were a few small tears in the canvas, but the tent sufficed in its primary purpose. Still, I had no means of warming myself up. Bundled tight in my sleeping bag, I felt the weight of exhaustion settle. And no sooner did my eyelids droop, and my eyes rolled back.

The fact I awoke at all filled me with a sense of relief. Brain still groggy, I sat up and observed the tense interior. It fared well in the figurative flashbang of a snowstorm. Something was different. The small tears only looked out onto white, but all was quiet. Never has there been a silent blizzard. Only when a cold shock hit my foot did I notice the mounds of melting slush on the floor directly beneath each rip in the tent.

I was snowed in. Adrenaline flooded my veins and sent my thoughts into hyperspeed. How long had I been buried? How much oxygen was left in the tent? How deep was I? Don't panic. Freaking out won't help. I took in a deep, controlled breath and crawled over to the zipper,

hesitating before tugging it open in one swift motion. White fluff poured into the tent, and in a transitory state between dread and understanding, I scrambled backwards in fear of an icy casket. My mind cleared. Logically, if the snow was that powdery, I couldn't be down very deep. Still, the tent sagged, its backbone long since snapped. I dragged myself out and pushed my way through the dampening snow, lugging the pack with all my equipment behind. With the gap collapsing in on itself behind me, I planted my boots in the snow and stood.

I wasn't on Montereosa. I wasn't in the Alps. I wasn't even on a mountain at all. Standing near the bottom of a sort of half-cone slope, the horizon-wide expanse of dark water was the first hint I was somewhere else entirely. I could tell the ocean was a ways down, but only after shuffling down to the edge did I catch a glimpse of the precipice. A rugged ice face plummeting some 400 feet. Vertigo struck suddenly, knocking me onto my ass, hands splayed like a starfish. Something sticking up near the edge caught my eye.

It resembled the curve rails of a pool ladder. If said ladder was poorly made and rickety, with coarse gray rope tied to each side, graying fibers sequestered by an equally ashen backdrop, a tiny ray of hope beamed somewhere deep down inside of me. Maybe someone was here. I crawled through the powder and gripped the steel bars. My gloves did nothing against the inexorable chill of wind-beaten metal. Still, desperate curiosity willed my head and shoulders to lean over the precipice. Fixed into the mottled ice, a vertical tower of crude materials swayed in the ever-present winds.

It reminded me of a shanty town with its hastily flattened planks and battered metal sheeting. For the life of me, I couldn't fathom what reason and reason. sane person would have to build such a thing. Then again, I had yet to find anything in this place I could fathom. Hello? I called out. The first words out of my mouth since waking up were hoarse and weak, tumbling pathetically down the mismatched scaffolding.

There was an immediate response from somewhere below. I couldn't see anyone, but there were multiple voices bleeding together into a garbled slur. Relief warped into regret as I remained hunched, frozen as if I'd were some frost-caged gargoyle on a forgotten castle. Though my voice barely cut through the winds, I regretted opening my mouth. I didn't quite know why. The frantic shuddering on the platforms as someone clamored up to meet me instilled a deep, imminent foreboding.

I somehow hadn't realized before, but the ropes tied around the bars I clasped onto were actually those of a rope ladder. They whipped into the cliffside, heralding the arrival of the figure who just pushed their way out from under a rotten blue tarp. A disheveled and wild-eyed man pulled his way up the wooden rungs, patchy bundles of matted hair swinging around his face. When he saw me, he paused, wired eyes suddenly morphing into something rabid before continuing up the ladder with fervor. As if dislocated, his jaw dropped wide open and flopped around on its hinges. I didn't know what that expression meant, but suffice to say, I was horrified. Those eyes.

They betrayed hunger. I flopped onto my back and fumbled with the zipper on my bag, tearing out an ice pick and sleding myself. Two sets of blackening fingers curled over the rim before me, followed by this beastial visage of a human, climbing up onto the snow in all his wiry might. Hey, hey, what are you doing there, lad? I chuckled with transparent unease. He almost looked surprised after I spoke, as if language was a foreign concept to him.

He sucked air in through his teeth with a hiss. Cold, cold, so hungry, you warm. He spat in a gravelly voice. I backed up, raising the ice pick clutched in both hands. The man went a few uncoordinated steps before lunging out of nowhere and diving on top of me. I yelped in fear, falling backwards and raising the pick horizontal in defense. Spittle sprayed from yellow teeth gnashing inches from my feet. dashing inches from my face.

Acting swiftly, I rammed the blunt handle of the pick into his throat, causing him to recoil. Only a second later he persisted with all his rage, seeming to shrug off the blow to his jugular as though it were an insect bite. In the scuffle, he managed to grab my right arm and sunk his teeth into my wrist. I screamed and let go of the pick with my right. Instinctively I swung it in my left, the sharp end sailing true and embedding directly into the side of his neck. Viscous blood exploded over my face as I wrenched the pick back towards me, tearing the

front of his throat open in a ragged gash. The man shot up straight in response, stumbling uncontrolled back to the edge and dropping limply into the open air. Despite my close call, something else disturbed me. The blood that had poured on to me was cold. I don't mean lukewarm, cold, if not freezing. No steam rose into the air as one might expect. It just curdled and froze on my clothing.

With no other choice, I crept back to the rope ladder and looked down. A ratty woman had just climbed up into view and paused after seeing the man's body on the platform. Ugh, god damn it. Again, Kurt? What she said took me aback, but the bubbling laugh from Kurt was the kicker, and throat practically non-existent he was alive and laughing. Hey, uh, sorry about him. You can come down.

It's safe. I almost joined Kurt in his hysteria. It was such an absurd proposition. Safe. You're dangling off the edge of a cliff. Let me rephrase. Safer. Trust me, you don't want to spend another minute up there.

What? Nah, screw this. I'm out of here. Are you? Are you really? Take a look around. Where in the name of God do you think you are right now? No idea, but even if my chances are one in a million, you know, I'm not.

and a million at getting home, I'd rather die out there than stay here. Me too, traveler. Me too. With that, the conversation was over. The woman turned her attention to Kurt. I refused to witness any more of this madness and stormed off back up the slope I'd come from. After a few steady paces, I stopped dead in my tracks. Something was off.

Imperceptible movement in the snowfield. Distant thuds growing nearer. I squinted to make anything out. But I didn't need to. There, near the buried tent I'd crawled out of, the falling snow outlined in absence. Empty air. A strong gust flung pale dustings off the ground to form a haze, and in it, the shape was clear. I couldn't tell you what it was, only what it resembled.

Serpentine in form, and of simply vast size, it coiled through the haze the way an air bubble darts through water. Two, maybe three sparsely spaced legs jabbed out of the ground, leaving clear imprints of whatever this thing was. Scyth-like mandibles sliced through the air towards me. It wasn't a hallucination. I could hear its sharp limbs clacking, feel its heavy steps through the ground. I reneged on my words and scampered back down the ladder. Vertigo be damned, I couldn't stand up against whatever the hell that thing was. The girl was still tending to the man.

whose throat I'd torn out and shot a glance over to me. Told you. She said with an ill-fitting smile. What the hell is that? I couldn't see it. Well, I could, but... It's fine. They won't come down here.

I sank to the floor, if it could even be called that, and a sudden wave of despair overtook me. I hadn't the first clue where I was. Something deep in the recesses of my mind doubted I was even on earth anymore. I'm Eleanor, by the way. Shaking, I looked over to her with a grimace, then promptly winced from the pain of freezing wind whistling through my teeth. Nicholas, why, how are you so nonchalant right now? How long have you been here in this, this hell? How long? Hell if I now. Time doesn't have a say anymore. Not for me. It's not as if clocks work here, even if I wanted to know the time. A day could be months.

years, and a night could be five minutes, or vice versa. There's not many things a man can do when faced with impossibility. Do you deny, to enkindle self-d detriment, or accept and give up so easily? A question of hopeless fight versus hopeless submission. Look, how about you come down with us, get some shelter? I know it's not optimal, but believe me when I say it's a paradise to living up there. Before, I had Rob to guide me, whether he's still in the world I knew or he's here somewhere, I don't know.

I should hope he made it out, but the coward in me also hopes to see him in this cursed place, to let him take the lead, and the same cowardice in me chose to stay with Eleanor, Kurt, and the rest. The rope ladder ran down through entry level. A group of us sat on a nine-foot square base of cobbled ply and sheet metal, enclosed by flapping rolls of sun-bleached canvas and tarp, a room by some sliver of a margin. At the time there were six of us, a paler, sharp-faced man introduced himself as Aaron, and spoke on behalf of Kurt.

The hunger, you see, it breaks you down. However strong you think you are, you'll never win against it. To eat anything substantial is a godsend, let alone something warm. Of the remaining two were Naya, a tan woman whose dappled skin displayed mild vertigo, and an older gentleman bearing several tight pink scars over his hands. Same for his face. Well, what could be seen of it past a graying beard. He doesn't remember his name.

Everyone calls him Yago or Santiago. Something Hemingway. Never read his books myself, but as far as wind-beaten fishermen go, Yago certainly looks the part. It took a while of idle chatter for me to finally come around to the question, seeping through my thoughts. So, how do you survive here? Eight words were all it took to derail the conversation and have them exchanged pitied glances. "'Ain't a matter of surviving, son,' Yago rasped.

"'It's a choice between lesser evils.' I was exacerbated. What does that even mean, you old? Yago's sunken eyes toppled my will, and I trailed off. He huffed, more with fatigue than frustration. Try as you might, it can't die in this place. I went to bite back, but swallowed my words as I remembered Kurt. He laid beside us under a dirty sheet.

Naya must have caught on because she reached over and tugged the fabric down to reveal Kurt's injury. Now his ruined throat was filled with what looked to be ice, only the ice looked tainted, putrid almost, with sallow mycelia exploding within. Crimson tributaries forced their way through the frost, up on the left, down on the right. Tingling dread crept in a similar manner, up my spine and neck, and flowing back down through my chest. If this was reality now, then, well, I don't know. What moral is there?

What sadistic law of nature permits this? With no other choice, I've learned quickly what to do and what to avoid, either empirically alongside my fellow captives or from their lessons. Every few, actually, just whenever we need to, we sat out in the snowfield above in alternating groups of two or three. Oftentimes the invisible creatures moved to someplace new, leaving the path clear for us. I'd let them use my ice picks, though. I'd made it clear that if it was my turn, I'd always have one in hand. The third member used some kind of socket wrench with a sharp stone driven into the end.

The iceberg is possibly the most treacherous ground I've ever had to traverse. Fissures hide under deceptive snow overhangs. One misstep on such unstable ground means falling a hundred feet into an icy casket. That wouldn't be so bad since you could eventually climb your way out. Only the boar worms that tunnel deep inside the ice are quick to snatch up anything coming their way. Worse still, those see-through monsters come and go as they please. I myself have been caught, what, eight odd times?

The way their mandibles carve and cleave, they must be serrated because it hurts, it really hurts. And I'd rather not experience the sensation again, but we have to go searching. We have to. Most of the time we find little, usually nothing. A beaten metal sheet or frost-black in planks are cause for celebration. You see, our cliff dwelling doesn't stay by itself. Only it were that easy. No, the iceberg is sinking constantly at a glacial rate into the abyssal brine below.

Perpetual snowfall packs itself down into the ice over time and roughly maintains the iceberg's elevation. So we have to deconstruct, dismember the lower levels and lug them back up to the top, drive old rebar into the cliff with blunt objects and fasten everything back together. If that's not work enough, the whole iceberg sways imperceptibly over time. It tilts forward to precarious angles, resting for a drawn-out solstice before tipping backwards again. Lose your presence of mind, and there's no second chance. Down into the freezing waters you go, torn apart by scaled monsters with their jagged spines and shark's teeth.

Never blessed with the mercy of death until every cell in your violated body is torn and and asunder. Of course, there's a respite when the iceberg leans backward. It's not something to get complacent with. Listen to that nagging reminder tell you that at some point you'll be back in the same spot. That's your survival instinct talking, obsolete as it is. And even then, when you feel prepared for anything, this place always has an ace up its sleeve.

My first introduction to this concept was, well, it was a while after my arrival. I'd like to embellish the memory, to say we were sitting around a fire, something to that effect. No chance of that. Even behind cover from the wind, it's like the warped physical laws here outright forbid sparks and flames. No. I sat beside Aaron and Naya on a pile of salt-crusted clothes. Without much else to pass the time, we'd engage in half-hearted games and hobbies. Contrary to his appearance, Yago had a strong singing voice.

I'm kind of amazed he can remember him. any songs. The man can't recall his own name for Pete's sake. I guess it's like Alzheimer's, music's the last to flee memory, or so I've heard. At the time, he stood out on the platform before us. He was singing. I think it was green, green grass of home. In spite of the choppy gale, his voice carried. It was pleasant. This song in particular rang with poignant nostalgia. Once Yago finished, he stood with his hands held together. Hey, pretty good old man. Aaron cheered.

Naya nodded her head in agreement. Yago chuckled, and for a fleeting moment, our troubles were lost. I guess we were too distracted to hear the heavy shuffling from below, because we fell back to silence when an enormous hand wrapped around the edge of the platform. Whatever pulled itself over that edge, it was no creation of a sane god. Gray, blubbery flesh rippled in the wind. A disgusting, bloated thing, the size of a tractor tire peered over at us. A head. Scattered perforations in its side must have been ears, but it had no facial features other

than a burbling, X-shaped hole right in the middle. Three more sets of hands clambered their way up to us, somehow crawling up the ice as if it were a gecko. None of these details held a candle to what their overall features resembled. Infants. Elephant-sized hell-spawn toddlers crawling on all fours. Laggeredly with age, Yago had no chance. Swollen, sticky fingers curled around his body, squeezing him in a grasp, even world-record

strongmen couldn't escape. The awful harmony they made upon claiming their new plaything is etched into my soul. Gargling coups of childlike elation, deep in pitch and easily drowning out Yago's hysterics. In the brief period before they left, they were not. left, I watched, oblivious to the screams of Nya and Aaron. As the creature shook him around and pulled at his limbs, all I could hear were joints and bones snapping, cracking. The creature holding Yago brought him up to the dribbling hole on its face, the hole dilated, revealing a cavernous passage of dripping flesh, and, with slowness, I'm sure was intentional,

pushed Yago inside, feet first up to his neck. It closed around him with such pressure I could hear his body breaking and with crushed lungs he couldn't even scream. And just like that, they descended, leaving us with a cold, empty space shaped like an old man. That's how it goes here. No mercy. Just suffering. Endless.

Indiscriminate. Suffering. These are a handful of things we can predict or at the very least expect. It may be logical to melt the ice and drink it. We are, after all, still subject to thirst and hunger, despite needing no food or water to live. Fresh snow from up above is okay, but the ice is bad water. It's rotten. It putrefies and becomes teeming with disease. In particular, it hosts some kind of parasite. Drink it and they'll start breeding inside you until your organs are rife with them. They sap any moisture

they can from your body, drying you into a shriveled husk. Oh, and they're permanent. Literally no way of getting them out. I mentioned boorworms before. They're not an issue most of the time. Sometimes, if you look deep into the ice cliff, you can see them burrowing within. They're lightning fast, though, so I can never get a clear picture of them. From what I can gather, they're long, thick, and leech-like, their heads open up to reveal strangely mechanical sets of spike balls which spin against each other to grind through the ice. I don't know if they're immune to the parasites. Maybe they're symbiotic. Worm eat ice. Parasite take water. Who knows? This nameless hell has fates of plenty, except one. Death. I didn't know how it worked at first, but it later on became

clear. Months, perhaps years after Yago's abduction, something happened that was gut-wrenching and incredible in equal measure. About 25 feet from us, the ice began growing outwards, a small mound at first, swelling like rotten pustules. It was when a familiar visage began forming that it clicked, and we built a walkway across. Through some uncouth law of nature, Yago grew in the form of an ice sculpture. Then color flushed his skin, starting at his fingertips and slowly spreading. He eventually broke free with a crack and a pop and fell down into our arms, vacant-eyed and nude, a grotesque and wholly unnatural birth.

Yago was never the same after that. Deference held our tongues from prying until the curiosity got too much to bear. Even when he prodded him, asked him what had happened, not one in co-ent words slipped from his lips. I started to think about what might have happened during his absence at the hands of those abominations, things that considered him nothing more than a toy to wear out. We've taken to calling them blubbers. I'd say it describes them to a tea.

With a honed skill at hiding, they're not too hard to avoid. The problem is hearing them approach before they arrive, because if you don't, well, no need to repeat what's already been said. Past that, a worse revelation came to light. No matter what we do, no matter what happens to us, no matter how violent or peaceful the death, we'll return, spat right back out into the fray every time, no matter what. The brutality displayed in this realm is nothing to be scoffed at, but at the very least, you grow accustomed.

Meat and bone lose their sting, and yet there are some things the scars can't toughen you against. One in particular stands out to me. Kurt and I were out on a scouting trip. We'd long since made amends by this time and agreed to let bygones be just that. Plotting along the ridge of a snow dune, Kurt cocked his head to look at something, then grabbed my shoulder with a wary firmness. Get down. Now. We both dropped down below cover.

I hadn't seen anything, but by now I trusted Kurt's judgment. What? What do you see? Caught it in the corner of my eye. Thank fuck I ain't look at it. Without thinking, I went to peek over into the open snowfield. Kurt tore me back by the scruff of my jacket, bringing me to eye level. The hell's you doing, you fucking off. Don't look at it.

I stared, confused. At what? The uncoupled. Should really get Ellie to go over. Whoa, slow down. Uncoupled? Yeah. Don't look too deep into name.

I've only seen it in the corner of my vision before. Just a dark shape. Nah. Nah, more than that, a stain. A stain on the world. Carefully, I turned my head in the direction he'd seen it, as if I'd be able to see you right through the snow. Okay, if you can't look at it, how do you know?

Been plenty here before you, mate. Knew one or two of them. This kid called, uh, Kent. Yeah. He looked, said it was hollow. Sort of an empty imprint that might have once been a person. I think he said some along the lines of, It's like if you took someone and stripped everything away except they're being.

Still not sure what he really meant. But it's enough to know I ain't never going to look at it. Well, that and the fact that a moment later he's already 30 feet ahead and stumbling toward it. Pausing to let Kurt's words sink in, I muttered. Where is he now? I mean, Yago got taken and he came back. He shook his head. Eyes focused on nothing.

Couldn't tell you. Only way I even remember him is because his voice. Screams. God-awful wailing. Surfing across the dunes and through the air. In those short times when the wind stumbles, if you just listen. Following his lead, I cocked an ear upward, frost-bitten air slicing past my skin. There was nothing other than the howling gale in the hammering of my heart.

However, the longer I listened, I picked up on something distinct from the wind whistling. It did sound like screams. For all I know, Kurt could have just been pulling a sick prank. It's easy to hear things that aren't there, to see what you want to see. Only, as I focused, it began to morph into the tone and timber of a scream I still remembered. One I remembered well. It was the last voice I'd heard before this all happened. I tried not to think about it.

Help me. The words were hissed straightened to my ear. It startled me so bad, my leg straightened, and I hopped off the ground. No question that time. It was his voice. After that, it wasn't a matter of not thinking about it, but of trying to forget. I must have been in a trance when Kurt spoke up again, snapping his fingers. Hey, you all right?

Come on. We should get back. Ain't seen nothing out there worth the risk. Just, uh, if you ever see something in the corner of your eye, something darker than dark, leave. I nodded, grimacing, and we made our way back to our home. If constant freezing snowfall wasn't enough, the weather knows worse cruelty. For the most part, we have shelter if it starts raining anything untoward.

If you're caught out in the snowfield, though, well, let's say you'll be back in a few weeks at best, months or years at worst. That happened one time, while Eleanor and Aaron went scavenging. They must have been on their way back when it started raining these razor-sharp ice shards, finger-sized blades that sliced through the canvas and embedded deep into wooden platforms. Pain snarls from above heralded Aaron's arrival, the rope-ladder quivering under his descent. The best way I can describe how he looked was as if a shrapnel grenade had detonated three feet in front of him. Well, all around him, really.

Deep, weeping gashes littered his body, and strands of flayed skin danced in the wind. It was like looking at a mangled, human-shaped version of those cheese strings. You know, the ones you peel off? I wish I could taste one of those again. Anyway, there wasn't much more we could do except bandage him up. Even then, it was more so we didn't have to see his injuries. I realized in my stupidity something we'd overlooked. He was alone.

Naya asked where she was. He sat there, lifeless. It could have been the bandages wrapped around his head. I think he was just too broken to register the question. With his throat and chest, a pulpy mess, Aaron's voice was a little more than a grating rattle. Didn't make it. Ancles, Achilles all sliced to shit. She fell down a ravine.

Naya just stood there, letting her head lull back and let out a forlorn wail into the sky. one of transparent despair and indignance at this reprobate world. One I felt all too closely. I remembered looking into the ice and seeing torn flesh dangling from a boerworm's mouth. Dull pink smudges carried through the ice as they tunneled. A while later, two or three weeks at a guess, her rebirth began. It seems that whenever this happens, they aren't too far away. Thirty feet tops.

I don't want to jinx it. Maybe it's luck. More likely, it's just how this place works. I dream sometimes of being reborn from the ice, only to fall out rigid and lifeless. But all we get are failed miscarriages. There's one thing I find worthy of putting on paper, and that is the storm. It happens at random, according to Kurt. There's no pattern to its visits.

I've only witnessed it twice in my time here. The first time it swirled on the distant skyline. I found myself told a rapt in its magnificence, a terrifying sight to behold. We'd been imprisoned in a night that must have lasted at least two or three years, relatively speaking. And in accordance with the darkness, the only light being the bruised, moonless firmament, it took a while for the black clouds to register, congealing across the waters. Well, it wasn't hard to notice after deep crimson flashes lit up in its bowels, pulsating vermilion glimmers, so full of energy that I could feel heat wash over my face from across the waters.

That heat grew into a roiling whirlwind as the storm neared. The others were quick to stir from their meager shut-eye when they too felt it. The hell's that? Oh no, no, no, please God, not again. Aaron croaked. Uh, guys, what's happening? What is that out there? I asked.

Storm's coming. Yago said, we all turned to him in sync. Those were the only words he'd spoken since he returned from the blubbers. And the mere sound of his voice came as a shock. We pressed for details, but he'd already sunken back into his dead tongue dejection. Kurt was no help either. He just shivered and stared paralytic into the churning depths of that stormhead. I'll be honest.

After the storm drew nearer and patting rain replaced the snow, a certain excitement overtook me. Inky blots darted across the flashing lights deep in the storm clouds, captivating me in awe. I threw my head back and opened my mouth, allowing the rain to splash its warmth across my tongue. It felt heavenly. The sensation of warmth after so long deprived was like nothing I'd felt before. The euphoria was short-lasting, and concern replaced it as the raindrops turned scalding. When they started to burn and sizzle off my face, I flinched and dove back under the cover. Before long, the air was an all-encompassing haze of steam.

It was like we'd entered some malfunctioning steam room. Each breath brought with it a flaring heat that spread from my lungs to the rest of my organs. It's funny, isn't it? In winter, it's cold and dreary, and you wish it was summer instead. Then when summer rolls around, the beating sun and stifling night to make you yearn for the colder seasons. In that boiling cloud, I begged for the cold to come back. At least we could layer up in the coats and pants.

There was nothing to be done about the heat. He can't exactly take your skin off when it's too hot. Momentary relief came as cool, trickling streams from above. My relief was sorely misguided when I understood what it was. Meltwater. Minor Runnels quickly inflated to a formidable downpour. Then, into a violent rapid, nothing could be heard over the roar of rushing water. Blind, breathless, and panicking, I reached out for a hold.

My fingers wrapped around metal, a pole driven into the ice. I held on with everything I had, but there was a thump beside me. A gurgled shriek, Eleanor. Despite my total exertion to keep from being swept away, I outstretched a hand. Ellie, grab my hand! I said, a candle in the wind to the rapids. Without delay, I felt her slippery fingers intertwined with my own. I heaved.

I felt as if my spine would snap right there and then. I didn't have the strength, but cold torrent sapped all of the excess energy from my muscles. Following the cry, I barely made out Kurt clinging helplessly to a torn canvas. The steam swallowed him up again, and my stomach nodded when a harsh tearing noise scraped my eardrums. In total, uncut despair, I watched as Kurt plummeted past the platform and out of sight. As if on cue, Ellie's fingers slipped away. My heart felt as empty as my palm.

Her screams faded for my ears, replaced by the incessant torrent. I don't remember the weight following. Only the waterfall suddenly abating, giving way to a familiar gray murk hanging in the sky. Kerr and Eleanor were gone. In any other situation, I might have found solace knowing they drowned or perhaps even died on impact with the ocean. Of course, that was out of the question. We were left knowing with absolute certain. they were going through unimaginable suffering, and far more to come.

Whether at the hands of unseen Leviathens, blubbers, or any other nameless thing lurking in the depths, it didn't matter. I just hoped whatever found them was vicious enough to tear them apart, digest their bodies into nothing, and allow them to return. A week passed, and Eleanor began to regrow. Another two weeks later, Kurt appeared. After their rebirth, we all knew better than to prod. Just leave them be. Let them process it. Let them decompress.

Loss may seem a trivial affliction without death, but I would be naive to think of loss as a purely physical separation. Yes, you may be taken away, put through unspeakable suffering, and then be reborn, but for lack of a better term, those victims lose some integral part of their being, slowly chipped and whittled away. Something so abstract, so important, yet it can. cannot be grasped by the hand. Once it's gone, there's no reeling it back.

And still, we went on. We had no choice and fell back on mindless habits for comfort. In a way, we found paltry success in learning what makes this place tick, trial and error. However awful those trials have been. My thoughts lingered on the storm after it happened a second time. We were seasoned, prepared for what was to come, making sure our cover was unbearable. infiltrated by the elements. We pulled together ropes and twine, tied them around ourselves, and fastened the ends to various driven poles and stakes. Maybe I'd been too focused on the storm

and its sizzling droplets to catch Yago unfastening himself and standing up. A yell from Aaron brought me to attention, but it was too late. Yago, already several paces away, lumbered toward the edge of the platform. We all thought he'd jump, futile as it be. He didn't. Instead, he'd He threw off his shoes, socks, jacket, and pants, everything, until he stood stark naked, exposed to the elements. At this point, we knew better than jumping up to help. We had no fault in this. He'd come back eventually, after all.

Yet I could sense something changing. I don't know what, or when it started, but it was there. A shift. A redirection of energy. Yago howled as his skin bubbled and blistered under the storm's ferocity. I think it was when his skin began sloughing off in great swaths that it happened. Without warning, Iago's entire being burst into a furious red flame, a sparking vermilion plasma, crackling with the intensity of lightning.

Eyes watering from the heat, I watched transfixed as his silhouette, shrouded in hellfire, seemed to be eaten away into nothing. Not a puff of smoke or steam bellowed from him. His backlit shadow disintegrated inch by inch until the last smattering of front. fragments were burned away entirely. Absolutely nothing remained of Yaga once the storm passed, not one stray hair or nail fragment. Of course, we expected him to grow out from the ice face, right away in fact. Nothing happened. We scanned every last inch of the cliff. Nothing. It's been, hell, I can't even guess how long it's been since then. It's all so, so damn arbitrary,

meaningless. Could be decades, centuries, millennia. My family might be long dead by now. Hell, humanity could have already gone extinct. And in all that time, I've yet to see a hint of Yago's return. Maybe he's in another worse place. Maybe he's dead. Or maybe he made it back home. Those are the only possibilities I can imagine. And as far as I can see, that's a two out of three chance of escaping this place, escaping eternity. Next time the storm comes around, I think I'll follow that old man's example, strep down to my most human form, raw for the whole world to see. And maybe, just maybe, the rain will set me free.