The Woodshed

By the third night of the storm, the neat stack of wood in the basement near the stove began to dwindle. Though the wind had finally abated, the snow kept piling up. Our closeness to Lake Superior always ensured plenty of snow. A trip to the woodshed would be necessary, Papa said. I got up from the couch and headed down the narrow staircase into the basement to get bundled into my winter gear. After wrapping a thick, wool scarf around my face and pulling my hat low over my ears, I stretched tall to grab the kerosene lantern from its hook beside the basement door. I lit the wick, slid back the barrel bolt on the door, and stepped out into the snowy darkness.

Normally, this was a chore that I enjoyed. The earthy smell of the woodshed, the heavy logs in my arms, the mindless rhythm of trekking back and forth across the yard. There was something meditative about it, and being able to help Papa made me feel strong. “The son he never had,” he always said. But at night, in the midst of a snowstorm, the fifty foot trek to the woodshed seemed endless.

Not to mention the deer.

Before the blizzard hit, Papa had shot a deer and strung it up in the back of the woodshed. In the daylight, it was only lifeless hide, meat, and bone. But it spooked me the way the deer’s glassy eyes seemed to watch me; I didn’t relish being alone in the dimly lit shed with it.

I shivered, tucking my face further into my scarf, and shuffled along the snow-filled path. Light from the kitchen window spilled across the yard, illuminating it with a cozy glow, but the last stretch of the path fell into darkness. I was glad for the lantern. Tiny snowflakes swirled around me, sticking to my eyelashes and the ends of the blonde braids that stuck out from underneath my hat. As I trudged through the deepening drifts, I briefly regretted not taking time to shovel the path, but I didn’t want to be in the bitter cold any longer than necessary. Deep winter had a way of muffling everything; my crunching footsteps and the swish of my snowpants seemed to be the only sounds in the whole world.

The woodshed sat at the edge of the yard under the eaves of the forest. Barren trees stretched out for miles behind its squat silhouette. I had never feared those woods; when I was younger, I would disappear into them for hours making forts, climbing trees, foraging for berries, and fighting imaginary battles with woodland goblins, armed with a stick sword. Now, the bare branches hung heavy with snowfall, trunks somber in the frosty night.

Upon nearing the woodshed door, I saw the lock and handle hanging broken from the hasp. Splintered wood clung to the icy metal where it should have been nailed firmly to the jamb. I stopped short, holding my breath and listening hard. For a long minute, I held as still as I could, listening for any intrusions in the quiet. Unsure of what to do, I looked around for any other signs of disturbance, but the only thing out of place was the broken lock. If there had been any footprints, the storm had long since covered them. It had been roughly two days since we last ventured out to the shed to restock the wood pile in the house. A break-in seemed unthinkable. Who would rob a small woodshed in the middle of a blizzard? There was nothing of any value stored there. Just a rusting axe, the body of the deer, and the winter’s supply of wood stacked in orderly rows. I peered at the edge of the grove, narrowing my eyes against the falling snow. Nothing moved. Perhaps it had just been the force of the blizzard that cracked the lock. Yes, that had to be it. The wind must have pulled the door in a way that wrenched the hasp from the aged wood. It must be, I thought, exhaling sharply and continuing on toward the door.

Snow had drifted against the heavy wooden door, making it difficult to open. Again regretting that I hadn’t grabbed the shovel, I set my lantern down and pushed as much of the gathering snowbank away from the door as I could. Finally, I was able to muscle it wide enough to enter. As I opened the door, a waft of fetid air from inside hit me. I wrinkled my nose, repulsed. This was not the usual comforting, oaky smell of the shed. Had the deer spoiled so quickly? Given the frigid weather, it seemed unlikely. Cautiously, I held the lantern in front of me as I stepped through the black maw of the doorway.

Holding my breath against the rotten smell, I scanned the shed for anything out of the ordinary. The neat rows of wood appeared undisturbed. I lifted the lantern higher to illuminate the back corner of the shed where the deer hung. A wet, sucking sound emanated from somewhere in the gloom, and as the wan light hit the deer’s body, I froze.

Something was eating the deer.

Some pale, gaunt thing that stunk of the wet earth and decay. If it had once been human, any trace had long since withered away. It hunched in the corner, intent on its meal. My stomach clenched in fear, and I bit down on my wooly mitten to repress a scream. By some stroke of luck, it hadn’t noticed me yet; it was too enthralled with the meal before it. Frozen in horror, I gaped at its cadaverous body.

Long fingers ending in filthy, claw-like nails ripped into the belly of the deer, shoving fistfuls of cold flesh into its mouth. Jaws opened, snakelike, to accommodate its appetite. Sharp, yellowed teeth ripped voraciously into the meat, blood dripping from the remnants of ragged, frostbitten lips down onto the woodshed floor. A few wisps of greasy white hair clung to its bony pate. Pale, waxy skin stretched taught over its skeletal frame. Its large feet, nails long and curved, were blackened by frostbite and covered in dirt. And the smell. Rotting meat, putrefaction, as if it had just clawed its way from the grave. It stung my eyes and rising bile burned the back of my throat.

Mercifully, it didn’t seem to see well; its milky eyes darted back and forth but hadn’t yet noticed me standing there. As I continued to watch, it paused its frantic chewing and sniffed the air. Its nose, though little more than twin cavernous holes rimmed with shreds of necrotic tissue, seemed to work just fine despite the disfigurement. Dropping the bloodied meat chunk, it kept sniffing, bending over onto all fours and crawling slowly toward me. Whether it was the kerosene from the lamp or my sweat, it had become aware that it was no longer alone in the shed.

Following my scent, it crawled nearer; its spindly limbs gave it the appearance of a withered spider. I backed slowly towards the woodshed door, careful not to make any excess noise. I feared taking my eyes off it in case it made any sudden movements. Reaching my hand back, I felt for the door. Finally, my mittened fingers brushed against the wood. I risked a look backwards to find the opening and orient myself. Turning back to face the creature, I gasped. It had stopped moving and sat back on wasted haunches, its milky eyes staring right at me. The creature then crouched low as if to spring, a hiss escaping through bloodstained teeth. Its putrid breath filled the woodshed. Dizzy from the smell, I scrambled through the door back into the snowy yard, falling onto my hands and knees in my haste. The lantern fell beside me in the snow, its flame snuffed out.

Struggling back to my feet, I shot a glance over my shoulder at the woodshed door. The creature hadn’t followed me. I gulped at the freezing air, desperate to catch my breath and clear my lungs of the reek. Reeling from the shock, I could only stare dumbly at the crack in the doorway.

As I watched, emaciated, bloody fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, forcing it open further. The ghoulish head followed, peering out from the unlit shed into the yard. It began its horrible sniffing again, taking long inhales, seeking my scent. I could bear it no longer; I took off, running as fast as the deepening snow and my booted feet would carry me back towards the house.

With an inhuman shriek, the creature leapt after me. I clapped my mittens over my ears to block out the frightful sound and quickened my pace. It fumbled through the snow behind me on gangly limbs, jabbering ceaselessly in my wake. My heart hammered in my chest as I drew closer to the house, the yellow light from the windows beckoning. Just a few more yards and I’d be there. As the basement door came within reach, I stretched my hand out, grasping desperately for the handle, my lungs burning from the cold.

My fingers grazed the door handle, and I sobbed with relief. But suddenly, a vice-like grip tightened around my ankle. I was dragged backwards into the snow, the creature’s skeletal fingers scrabbling at my legs. Its gangrenous smell filled my nostrils, gagging me, cutting short a scream of panic. I tried to kick at it in an attempt to free myself, but its grip was too strong. How could something so frail looking have that kind of strength? We grappled with each other in the snow, my snowpants and jacket being torn to shreds by its jagged, filthy nails. I knew that I was losing the battle. Warm blood flowed freely from slashes on my leg. Seeing the reddening snow, the creature shrieked with rabid delight and sunk its teeth deep into my exposed calf. I screamed in pain, kicking and clawing at its hideous head. My boot finally made contact, knocking the creature back for a moment. Furious, it began to drag me once again toward the yawning dark of the woodshed. I fought to gain purchase on anything within my reach, but my gloved hands only slid helplessly through the powder.

A shot ripped the night apart. I looked back towards the basement and there, silhouetted in the doorway, stood Papa. Shotgun pressed firmly against his shoulder, he fired off another round at the creature. It snarled, dropping my legs as inky blood seeped from a hole in its shoulder. I heard the snap of the breech close as Papa reloaded the gun. The creature snarled as another bullet struck its leg. With an otherworldly cry, it took off at a lope toward the treeline, leaving a trail of gore across the snowy yard.

I scrambled to my feet and hobbled as fast as my mangled leg would allow back to the basement, my Papa watching the creature’s retreat carefully before locking the door. Inside, I collapsed on the cool cement floor. Papa picked me up, carried me up the narrow stairs, and placed me gently on the living room couch. As he ran to the bathroom to retrieve our first aid kit, I pulled off the remnants of my snowpants and rolled up the tattered long johns I wore underneath to reveal the wreckage of my body. I tried to swallow my fear, but it lodged like a peach pit in my throat as I took in the extent of the damage.

Three long, angry lacerations ran down the length of my calf and shin. Blood oozed from the bite wound the creature had left; vicious purple tendrils snaked out beneath my skin, and it felt hot to the touch. A cloying smell emanated from the wound, as if it were already deeply infected.

Papa came back with the first aid kit. His brows furrowed with concern, lips pressed into a thin, grim line as he inspected my lacerated leg. I winced as he poured alcohol over the open wounds.

Wrapping a bandage tightly around my leg, Papa looked up at my tear-streaked face.

“What was that thing?” I whispered, my voice quavering.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Papa said with a deep sigh, securing the bandage and patting my leg reassuringly. “But you’re going to be okay. Just try to put it out of your mind.” I wanted to believe him, but his stern face betrayed his words.

I wiped my tears and swung my legs over the edge of the couch, gingerly putting weight on my leg. I was able to stand and walk, but the deep trauma within my leg throbbed. Exhausted, I slumped back onto the couch. The wind was picking up again outside; it battered against the windows like an angry spirit desperate to get in. I suddenly felt very small; a silly, young girl with only her aging father to protect her against a frightening world she no longer understood. With the storm persisting, a trip to the hospital was not possible; the plows had long been pulled from the roads, and our house was far too remote to risk the drive. We were trapped until the weather abated.

As the realization of our plight dawned, a keening wail rose from the woods at the edge of the yard. Panic twisted in my gut as an answering call came from somewhere deep in the forest. Papa ran to the picture window and threw open the curtains. I followed behind him as if in a trance, my heart pounding in my ears.

Thin, shadowy figures amassed along the treeline.

The quiet winter night filled with screams.

***

Kate Autio is a poet and indie horror writer from the frozen shores of Lake Superior.