December 11, 2025

By the time Emily reached the outskirts of Coldwater Pass, the wind was already screaming. The little town looked like a snow globe turned upside down — rooftops drowning in powder, fences swallowed whole, and smoke curling from chimneys like spirits trying to escape. It was perfect. Picturesque. Dead quiet.

She wasn’t supposed to stop here. Just passing through on her way to Denver, until the storm hit hard and the backroads iced over. The only sign of life had been a crooked hand-painted marker half-buried in snow: Coldwater Pass — Est. 1872 — A Good Place to Rest.

The innkeeper, a woman with eyes too old for her face, handed Emily a brass key without asking for ID or payment.

“There’s soup downstairs at six,” she said. “And keep your curtains shut after sundown. Light attracts… things.”

Emily had laughed, assuming she meant wildlife.

She didn’t laugh that night.

In her attic room, behind the frosted glass, Emily saw a glow at the edge of the woods — a flickering orange dot bobbing between the trees. It moved slowly, like someone carrying a lantern.

Curious and restless, she bundled up and followed it into the forest. The storm had quieted, but the silence felt wrong — muffled, not peaceful. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums like you’re underwater.

She found the lantern in a small clearing. It sat atop a weathered stone pedestal, its flame steady despite the wind. Carved into the base was a warning, worn smooth by decades of snow and time:

“Light the way home, but not too soon. The dead remember who forgot them.”

She didn’t touch it. Not then. But something in the air changed — a heaviness, like being watched. She turned to leave, heart pounding, only to find footprints trailing behind her… but not hers. Larger. Bare.

And there was humming.

Low and dissonant. Not human.

Back at the inn, she locked the door, shut the curtains, and lay awake till morning. But sleep did find her — eventually. And in that uneasy slumber, she dreamed of faces in the snow, mouths full of ice, whispering in a language she didn’t know, begging to come inside.

When she awoke, the lantern was on her nightstand.

Still lit.

That night, she tried to leave Coldwater Pass. She drove ten miles in every direction, only to return to the same crossroads with the same sign.

Coldwater Pass — A Good Place to Rest.

She’s not alone now. More visitors have come. Drawn to the light. The innkeeper has run out of keys.

And the dead?

The dead know their way back.

They remember.