They Come In The Snow: Part III

The third and final act of the novella "They Come In The Snow," originally serialized on Schlock!

Recap of Act I: In the first act, we were brought to a cold day in February 1855, somewhere in the Utah territories, where we found four men who had been snowed into a lodge. Joe Edmonds�"a gambler and borderline alcoholic owns the lodge, offering shelter to an elderly chicken farmer named Whitey Douglass, a cowboy named Corey Baggett, and an unnamed Sheriff. During a snowstorm, Whitey discovers a loose tree outside. After losing a bet, Corey is sent out to chop it down. A snow flurry picks up, hiding him from view. When it subsides, the cowboy and tree are no where to be found. Instead, there is a strange, deformed creature lurking on the outskirts of the property. Concern begins to settle over the men, when Joe�"slightly drunk off whiskey and irrationally confident�"takes the Sheriff’s gun and heads outside to confront the person or creature. As soon as Joe steps out, another snow flurry, similar to the one that started when the Cowboy exited the lodge, begins. Panicked screams followed by several gun shots are heard outside. When the flurry subsides, Joe and the figure are both gone, leaving Whitey and the Sheriff alone in the lodge. Act II picks up with the men sitting by the door, trying to process what had just happened.

Recap of Act II: In the second act, we found Whitey and the Sheriff confused about what they had just witnessed. Both men are polar opposites; Whitey begins to panic while the Sheriff remains calm and collected. Due to their conflicting attitudes and the unusual circumstance they have found themselves thrust into, the men begin to grow skeptical of one another. Worried that the old man was about to go mad, the Sheriff subtly interrogates Whitey. This is interrupted by a knock at the door and the voice of Joe outside, who demands they unlock the door and let him in; claiming that he saw the creature that was watching them outside in the woods when he went to empty his bladder. The Sheriff is about to comply, before Whitey stops him upon a horrid discovery. There is no shadow of a man standing outside at the bottom of the door. Suddenly, the voice grows more sinister and demands they let them in, because the creatures in the snow will find their way in eventually. A long and skinny arm with an eye on its hand slides beneath the door. The eye looks at the Sheriff then turns to the old man, looking at him a great deal longer. Then, the hand withdraws itself from the lodge. The Sheriff rushes for the door and throws it open to ambush the abomination outside, however, instead he is greeted by the hatchet the Cowboy had taken outside during the first snow flurry. The Sheriff discovers small brown particles in the snow which turn out to be pieces of wood. He turns around to see that the name “Corey the cowboy” has been carved into the door. In this final act, we will see Whitey and the Sheriff find themselves forced to put their differences aside and confront the creatures in the snow.

1.

            “The Cowboy’s name?” The Chicken Farmer asked, referring to the door with Corey’s name carved into the wood that the Sheriff had discovered outside.  

            “Yes,” The Sheriff removed his jacket and hung it on the rack then crossed the room to the Chicken Farmer and knelt so they were on the same level.

            “What the Hell was that thing?” Whitey said in monotone; his face a blank stare.

            “No idea.”

            “Why was the Cowboy’s name on the door?”

            “I can’t conclude anything for certain, but my guess is that this creature or I guess creatures depending on how many there are, did this as a way of marking their victim.”

            “Victim? So, you think Corey’s�""

            “Dead,” The Sheriff nodded solemnly, “I’m afraid so.”

            “What about Joe?”

            “If they killed the Cowboy then they most certainly killed the Gambler, as well.”

The Sheriff exhaled a disappointed sigh then, using the armrest on Whitey’s chair, helped himself to his feet. A subtle grinding radiated through his arthritis inflicted knee. His nose scrunched up in a grimace.

            Silently but swiftly, Whitey removed himself from his chair and strode across the room and out of the lodge before the Sheriff had time to process what had happened.

2.

            Whitey ran as fast as his slender old legs could go. He had never been in the best physique, but Whitey Douglass was no sedentary man, either. The adrenaline coursing through his old and damaged heart gave him just enough strength to reach a top speed of maybe six miles an hour. However, his relatively slow pace didn’t matter�"he was running for the stables which were only a block away. Heat spread across the back of the Chicken Farmer’s neck as he felt the sensation of the hand with the eye watching him. It was always watching him; he could sense it. What his late wife would call paranoia, Whitey called a sixth sense.

“It’s a strange world, Marla, I figure that the only reason I’ve survived this long is by going on my gut in bad situations,” He had told his wife months before she died. A few weeks later, just before his wife fell ill, Whitey had a dream warning him of the disease.

            Not a sound came from the stables as Whitey approached them. Not a good sign. After another moment, Whitey slammed into the door out of breath and threw it open. Inside were the bodies of all four horses slumped against each other like loaves of bread dropped carelessly to the floor. Three of the stallions looked as if they were sleeping, apart from the undeniable stench and flies circling the carcasses. The fourth dead horse, however, had a clean incision across the center of its neck.

            Whitey’s heart sank as he came to the ungodly conclusion that he was trapped in the lodge until the snowstorm subsided. Nearly shivering out of his wrinkled skin, he turned to head back to the lodge. A shadowy figure lurked in the doorway. The creature that had slain the Cowboy and Gambler had come for him. The old man jumped back with a scream, tripping over the carcass of his white-spotted stallion. He fell to the cold, unforgiving ground with a fearful cry. The figure rushed towards him; arms cast out in front of it, reaching for Whitey. The creature grabbed him beneath the arm pits and hoisted him to his feet. When the Chicken Farmer reopened his eyes, he saw the Sheriff standing before him; a questioning look on his face.

            “Whitey, why did you…” The Sheriff began, before trailing off upon noticing the bodies on the floor.

            “They’re dead. All of them!” Whitey said, pulling himself free from the lawman’s loosened grip. He dropped to his knees at the side of the black stallion with its throat filleted like a fish and sobbed.

            “This is not good,” The Sheriff said, concerned but still maintaining his composure. Whitey couldn’t understand how the man was human when he hadn’t panicked upon any of the harrowing spectacles that have been presented to the two of them.

            “We’re stuck here with those things�"those… monsters!” Whitey’s eyes had reddened with exhaustion and tears. His vision turned blurry until he wiped at his face with a sleeve.

            “Whitey?” The Sheriff said. His attention had fallen to the wall behind the old man.

            “W-what?” The Chicken Farmer glanced over his shoulder. His heart sank. Painted sloppily across the cherry wood in a black, rotting ink, was; Joe the gambler.

            “There’s the mark. Our pursuer has claimed his second victim.”

A high-pitched whistling hissed outside as hail began to pelt the tiled roof right on cue. Another snow flurry had begun.

“Whitey, get up, we have to get inside!”

            The old man remained on his knees; his breathing now coming in short, quick gasps, “But, Sheriff, we let them in.”

            “We aren’t safe out here!”

The roaring of the wind amplified; partially masking the Sheriff’s voice.

            “We aren’t safe anywhere!” Whitey shouted as he jumped to his feet and spun around. The expression instantly vanished from his face.

Confused, the Sheriff looked over his shoulder and saw the same contorted figure that had earlier resided on the outskirts of the forest now standing in the doorway of the lodge. The figure gazed towards them; neck craning back and forth as if it were a snake ready to strike. Then, it reached out its left arm�"which appeared much shorter than the right�"and slammed the door shut.

            The Sheriff rushed from the stables with his hands cast out blindly; shielding his face from the hail that pelted his body. Fat red welts popped up across his neck as the tiny bullets of ice exploded against the flesh.

            “Freeze to death in the stables if you want. I’d rather fight,” he shouted over his shoulder.

The door was latched shut when the Sheriff slammed against it. Grabbing the hatchet from the snow, he began to chop frantically at the wood. Glancing to his left, he saw that the Chicken Farmer had decided to join him.

            Whitey peered through the window into the lodge and saw not one, but two of the disfigured creatures. One was concealed by a jacket, while the other wore no clothes at all. Like its hooded counterpart, the naked creature had two abnormally shaped arms. The right was long at three or four feet while the left was half the length. Scars in the shape of symbols twisted across the sides and back of its bald head. One of the symbols appeared to be a swan while the other was a hieroglyphic unknown to the old man. The scars bulged from the discolored scalp of the creature and seemed to almost vibrate. The only humanlike trait the creature had was the average width of its short neck�"although its spine curved dramatically to the left, taking on the shape of the letter c. Multiple tiny lacerations ran down the back and side of the creature. Its legs�"like tree trunks�"jutted down from its misshaped pelvis. Between its legs hung what appeared to be a mix between male genitalia and a fleshy hook curved upwards towards the ceiling; a red slime seeping from the tip.

            The creatures leaned against the poker table, as if in conversation, when the cracking sound of wood being broken rang out. Then, both creatures turned their attention, not to the door, but to the window where Whitey peered through. Neither of the figures had anything more than the outline of a skull beneath the skin of their empty faces. Upon the second swing of the Sheriff’s hatchet, the naked creature lifted its long arm�"a shriveled, yet living eye emerging from the center�"and pointed it towards the window at the Chicken Farmer. Simultaneously, every one of the hundreds of small lacerations decorating its body like medals popped open. Oddly enough, blood didn’t pour from the cuts like one would expect. Instead, the creature’s body was covered with hundreds of tiny eyes which were all focused on the man spying on them

            Whitey watched in horror as the creature with a hundred eyes stumbled to its feet; knees bending at the sides instead of straight, then rushed towards him; arms arched out to claim the Chicken Farmer as its third victim. As the abomination neared the window, it opened the hand at the end of its shorter arm; revealing a mouth filled with jagged, serrated teeth. The mouth was without lips. In fact, it looked more like a bloodless wound filled with sharp rocks. With a yelp, the Chicken Farmer jumped away from the window as the Sheriff brought the axe down one last time against the wood. The dull end of the hatchet connected with the latch on the inside of the door and shattered it.

            Without hesitation, the Sheriff rushed inside; hatchet held in a defensive stance by his chest. Whitey slowly popped his head around the corner, becoming baffled when he saw that both creatures inside were gone. Cautiously, he tiptoed into the lodge behind the Sheriff like a child sneaking downstairs at midnight to catch a glimpse of Santa.

            “They aren’t here,” The Sheriff said. His ax-wielding arm dropped to his side, but his tight grip on the cracked handle remained.

            “No, they are. They have to be. I saw them!” Whitey’s eyes scanned the room. There were no tricks being played on his mind that he could see.

Suddenly, the Sheriff’s leading foot slid out from under him. He stumbled backward into the Chicken Farmer who half-caught him. Tearing off his boot angrily, the Sheriff observed the floor where he had slipped. A red jellylike substance was smeared across the wood; and, imprinted in the middle, was a shoe mark. The Sheriff knelt and scooped up two fingers full of jelly. It was warm to the touch and slightly sticky, but definitely a substance he hadn’t seen before.

            “Holy Jesus!” Whitey shouted from beside the poker table.

The Sheriff jumped to his feet�"ready to strike�"when he saw the old man, jaw agape, staring at the tabletop. A stack of red poker chips was splayed across the wood; shaped into the words: Chicken Farmer.

            “Huh,” A sigh passed between the Sheriff’s cracked lips upon his discovery of the message.

            “W-w-w�""Whitey stuttered, breathing rapidly in terror, “Wh-what…” he was unable to find the words as panic overloaded his senses as he pieced the puzzle together. The first name, carved into the wood, was the Cowboy. The second, painted in blood across the stables, was the Gambler. Now, here for all the world to see, was his name.

            “Whitey, what’s this?”

            “I… I…” The Chicken Farmer gasped.

For a split second, the Sheriff thought the old man might collapse of a heart attack.

“I’m next.”

            In an attempt to calm the panicked man, the Sheriff said, “Not necessarily. You’re still here, aren’t you?”

            Whitey was deaf to the lawman. With his eyes still fixated on the message, he began shaking his head in denial, “No, no, no!”

He lunged forward and flipped the table over; scattering the chips across the floor. The name vanished from the top, but that didn’t make Whitey feel any better.

“No! I can’t! I can’t! Jesus, God almighty!”

            “Calm down. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” The Sheriff reached for the Chicken Farmer’s arm but was stopped by a sharp backhand to the cheek. He staggered backward, almost losing grip on the hatchet, then brought his hand to the insult. Pins and needles resonated through the Sheriff’s jaw, and a strong coppery taste filled his mouth. He spit a wad of saliva on the ground. It was tinged with blood. Turning his attention back to Whitey, he saw the Chicken Farmer pacing the room frantically; paying no attention to him.

            “I know you can hear me!” The manic man shouted at the wall. “Both of you, whatever you are! Your ears are everywhere! Hell, I can feel you watching me, too! What are you waiting for?”

The Sheriff wanted to intervene but didn’t want to be greeted by another backhand. Instead, he stood to the side and watched Whitey unravel.

            “God almighty, don’t let them take me like they took Corey and Joe! I’ll do anything! Just not me, don’t let me die like this!”

The Chicken Farmer’s breath was taken from him as a stitch developed in his side. He crumbled to his knees in tears. At this, the Sheriff dropped the hatchet and rushed to Whitey’s side then seized him by the shoulders and pinned him to the floor.

“What are you doing?” The old man asked, confusion and terror combined as one.

            “Don’t lose it on me,” The Sheriff said, “You’re not dead, so stop acting like you are!”

            “But my name�""

            “Your name was on the table, but you’re still here,” Sweat dripped from the Sheriff’s ungroomed hair. “Don’t you see what they’re trying to do?” He let go of the old man’s shoulders and crossed the room, then took the hatchet from the floor.

            Whitey sat up, “They’re coming for me next.”

            “Why would they warn you?”

            “I… I don’t know?” The Chicken Farmer struggled to his feet.

            “The eye saw that out of the two of us you are the weakest mentally. They put your name on the table knowing that you’d find it and panic. They’re trying to turn us against each other!”

Although this was perfectly plausible, the Chicken Farmer couldn’t force himself to believe it. He was done listening to his heart. That beat up old muscle had always seemed to mislead him. His gut, however, was something that never told a fib. And, right now, it told him that the Sheriff was one of those creatures in disguise.

Speaking suddenly, as if he had read Whitey’s mind, the Sheriff said, “Only thing we can do now is lock ourselves away and wait out the storm.”

            “No,” Whitey said defiantly.

            A bitter laugh came from the Sheriff. He shrugged and headed for the stairs, “Fine by me. You stay down here with that broken door, and you’ll really become the next Corey and Joe.”

            The Chicken Farmer stood silently amongst the scattered poker chips as he skeptically watched the Sheriff ascend the stairs. He didn’t make a move until he heard the door to the Gambler’s old room close and lock. His eyes found a spare bedroom across the hall from where the Sheriff now resided; then scanned the room before him. Ice had formed at the entrance, making the wood slick and hazardous. The Chicken Farmer looked back to the spare bedroom, then turned to the forest a hundred yards from the lodge. He swallowed what little courage remained and staggered towards the door.

            “Anyone but me, Lord,” He prayed. “Anyone but me.”

3.

            After locking the door, the Sheriff listened for the sound of Whitey ascending the stairs, but was greeted only by silence and the winter wind whistling outside.
            “Son of a b***h really has lost his mind,” he muttered. He crossed the room to the window and peered out. The magnificent mountain ranges sat on the horizon; visible only from the backside of the lodge. As the Sheriff studied the black, arched ridges of the structures, a thought came to mind.

Do they come from the mountains?

“Can’t be. They’re much too far, and a human can’t survive the climate dressed in only a hood.”

But those things aren’t human.

The Sheriff laughed softly with a hint of irony in his tone. “Look at me talking to myself. It looks like I’ve lost my mind, as well.”

            The Sheriff left the window and sat on the bed next to him. The snowstorm had returned, and hail pelted the glass, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, the man’s attention was grabbed by a dark green crate that emerged slightly from under the bed. The metal sides were painted gold to give it an antique look, and a long rope was strewn across the top. The Sheriff used it to pull the chest free. The box was tremendously heavy; weighing at least two of him, or four of the Chicken Farmer. Once it was free, the Sheriff slipped his fingers under each side of the crate but was unable to lift it more than a few inches off the floor.

            “Alright, I’ll sit,” he said, taking a knee on the ground.

            An old, rusted lock secured the crate’s latch; sealing it closed. The Sheriff tried to jimmy it open but failed. Although it was old and worn down, the lock held strong.

“I’ve got an idea.”

He crossed the room to the door and removed the hatchet from the desk on the right, then returned to the crate and brought the dull blade down onto the metal. Sparks jumped out�"fire ants stinging his hands and exposed ankles. The U-shaped loop had dented inwards but still held. The ax came down onto the same spot for the second time. More sparks�"more licks of fire on the Sheriff’s skin. The metal was grossly deformed but still intact. The Sheriff took a few seconds to catch his breath then rolled his eyes with a laugh. In his prime, he would have been able to break even the strongest of metals in just one swing. Tightening his grip on the shaft, he lifted the tool above his head and brought it down with a powerful grunt. Finally, the lock snapped and skittered across the floor like a crab fleeing the waves.

            Lifting the heavy lid, the Sheriff exposed the contents of the crate; several dusty tomes, a few small portraits, half a dozen journals, and countless folded letters bound together by a tiny rope. The topmost journal had the number 1856 written across the red velvet in ink.

“This must’ve been the Gambler’s newest yearly diary,” he said. The book had a small latch across the side; keeping its contents a secret. However, the Sheriff was able to easily pop it open with the flick of a thumb. He flipped to the first page. The handwriting inside was sloppy but still legible.

Something is not right in this part of the States. Those damn bandits, Indians, or whatever the Hell they are have returned, as they always do when it snows. I don’t even understand why they do this to me in the Winter months. Although, I guess they technically aren’t really doing anything aside from frightening my customers. What those pesky b******s do every year is lurk at the edge of the forest and stare at the lodge. They don’t come close. They don’t make sounds. Hell, they don’t even reply when I call out to them. They just stand there; their faces hidden behind hoods. You know, I used to operate the biggest and best lodge in all the West, then when those b******s showed up that first year my customer base has begun to decline steadily year-after-year. But it’s not just that my regulars quit coming by, it’s like they refused to even communicate with me. I’ve sent several letters out to close acquaintances of mine who used to frequent this lodge. However, not a single piece has been returned. And, now that I think about it, every time I’ve lost a customer it had happened after another encounter with those hooded b******s. You know, I’ve begun to believe recently that these hooded rats have been tracking down my loyal customers and threatening them. Now, I don’t know what they’re saying or what they’ve got against me, but it’s thoroughly annoying and I intend to get to the bottom of it. Will write more soon, I’ve got company at the door.
~Joe

            When his eyes reached the end of the page, the Sheriff froze. He found himself feeling like a child afraid of the dark again. It wasn’t exactly fear that had settled into his aging bones, but more like a general sense of unease. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he turned the page with his trembling fingers. The next note was blunt and directly to the point, as he had found the Gambler to be upon first impression.

            Well, suck on a witch’s tit, I must’ve gotten my god damned lodge cursed. At least, that’s what that Indian who has stayed the past few nights with me has said. I have found this tribesman, surprisingly, to be a very soft-spoken but knowledgeable fellow. I came to make the Indian’s acquaintance a few days prior when he showed up at my door looking for a room to rent. By his arrival, the snow had recently settled and a storm was on the horizon. I wasn’t currently looking for someone to host but figured that money is money and that this man could probably use a warm place to stay. So, I revealed to him the nightly fee and told him he could stay until the snowstorms came and went. Now, all was normal for the first few hours, until the first flurry began. As soon as the wind outside became a whistle, the Indian’s eyes went wide and he jumped to his feet. Finding his actions particularly queer, I kindly asked him what had happened to peak his interest. He turned to me and looked, not just into my eyes, but into my soul. I felt oddly vulnerable, as if I was a child who had gotten caught in a lie. It was as if the Indian was one of those occult-practicing Pagans who can read your mind or whatever they do down by Carver’s Creek.

 Without even noticing, I had absent-mindedly reached for my blade out of habit�"bandits are all too common in this area. The Indian, noticing my subtle movement, told me that I can relax my hand because I did not need to be afraid of him. I asked if there was someone else that I should be afraid of instead. What he said next, I swear to you, almost made me wet my britches. The Indian’s face changed into a solemn look�"as if he had just received some troubling news. He said, and I quote, “Those who come in the snow,” At this moment, I had the image of those hooded figures lurking on the outskirts of my property come to mind. Naturally, as any sane man would do, I asked him who the Hell “those” are supposed to be. The Indian shrugged and told me that he didn’t know their true form or some other crazy fallacy but that they were “bad spirits meaning to do harm,” Now, I’m not normally a superstitious man, but that Indian has gotten me quite disturbed as of right now. I don’t believe he means any harm, but he still gives me an odd feeling that I don’t like very much so I have begun locking my door. I don’t know how he seems to know about those figures that have plagued my lodge, but I intend to get to the bottom of it in the morning if possible. Will write again.
~Joe

The Sheriff reread the diary entry several times; looking for a clue to tell him when it had been written. Flipping through the rest of the journal, he saw that there were maybe five or six entries following the one he had just read. A few pops radiated from his achy knees, causing him to wince, so the Sheriff climbed to his feet using the bed post as support and took a seat with the journal at the desk across the room. He leaned the hatchet against the wall then turned his attention back to the diary, only to have his eye caught by a single parcel sitting to his immediate right. It was an unread letter; still sealed shut with melted wax, and without a return address or name of the sender. All that was written across the parcel was: Concerning “those”.

With his heart racing, and the hail beginning to crack the glass behind him, the Sheriff broke the seal and withdrew the letter. When his thumb brushed the top of the paper, the words smeared across the parchment, signaling that it had been written recently. The text below where his thumb had been was unreadable, but he could tell that it had been a name�"and a long one at that.

“Probably the Indian,” he said under his breath. He unfolded his discovery the rest of the way and began studying its contents. The handwriting was organized and methodical; much easier to read than the Gambler’s scribblings.

Mr. Joe,
            I want to thank you for your generosity and the hospitality shown to me during my stay at your fine establishment last week. I hope when you are reading this isn’t too inconvenient for you, but it is urgent news that I need you to become aware of before the next snowstorm hits. When I told you of a bad spirit wanting to get into your lodge last week, I felt that you weren’t heeding my warning. I was disappointed, but I can’t say that I was surprised. I know that what I told you seemed illogical, but you must believe me when I say it is true.

I belong to the mighty Ute tribe of Native Americans. I had told you my reason for heading West, last week, was to rejoin my tribe in California, for we migrate during the Winter months only to return to our land in the Spring. However, I didn’t tell you precisely why, because I feared you wouldn’t believe me since you were extremely skeptical at everything else I had said.

There is a race of dark-spirited humanlike creatures that reside in the deep forests of the Utah territory. We natives of the region had begun calling these beings “Buimo” countless generations ago. It is said in ancient history that the Buimo are the lost descendants of a mighty angelic figure known as “Sholiski” that was birthed from a blue star when the universe was young. No one knows the reason Sholiski chose to settle on the Earth, or why it chose this region specifically. However, it has been speculated that, because of the cosmic depths of which the angel was born, that Sholiski settled over the mountains of the Utah territories because the cold air and seclusion most closely resembled its original home. Now, that brings us to the Buimo�"the sons and daughters of Sholiski. The Buimo are bad news; there’s no doubting that. However, there are two theories of how these creatures came to be. Both are tales passed down orally from generation to generation.

The first claims that long ago, when the Earth was still hot�"a soft ball of clay shaped in the images of the Gods�"that Sholiski arrived from the abyss pregnant with a thousand babes. Sholiski found that the Earth was currently uninhabited by much more than wildlife and vegetation, so she decided to make this planet the home for her children. And so, the Buimo were born; innocent and untainted at first, until the arrival of the humans caused them to become corrupted and evil�"reliant on the blood of the settlers to survive and grow.

The second claims that hundreds of years after man had colonized the Earth, that the pregnant and needing to give birth Sholiski happened across the world most suitable for her and her children. However, disgusted with the sinful and barbaric nature of modern humans, Sholiski laid her children as a scourge upon those who live within her presence. In this theory, the Buimo are like locusts cast down on man as punishment.

I’ll let you choose your poison here. Believe what you want; it doesn’t change anything. All I ask is that you do believe and you heed my warning. My tribe flees the area in the Winter months because it is said that that is when Sholiski awakens from her long slumber and casts a new generation of Buimo out onto those who live within range. By the time you are reading this, I will already be a good distance away from your lodge, Mr. Joe. However, my people and I would be more than happy to offer you shelter from the Buimo as you have offered me shelter from the cold. Head South to the long river that spans in multiple directions that you call Carver’s Creek and follow it West until you reach the river’s end. Once there, you will find my tribe’s settlement. You must act fast before the Buimo return, Joe. I don’t know how you have managed to keep the Buimo out for so long, but with the worst snowstorms on the horizon, it’s only a matter of time until they find their way in to you.

4.

The Sheriff sat at the desk in silence for a moment; parcel in hand. Then, he looked back to the ink smeared across the first page.

“This must be only a day old at most,” He said.

He wondered briefly why the Gambler wouldn’t have opened the letter, then it hit him. He figured that Joe most likely found the letter then headed upstairs to read it until there was a knock at the door�"his arrival at the lodge late last evening. This realization was a tough pill to swallow and gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. That was when the Sheriff realized that he had been absent-mindedly chewing on the inside of his cheek. He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor then grazed the wound with his tongue and winced. It stung. The cut was still raw.

Carefully, as to not smear the rest of the text, the Sheriff folded the letter then placed it in the back pocket of his crusty and unwashed pants. The skin of his legs clung with sweat to the fabric. A sharp, hot pain from his thigh pulsated; he had probably developed an infection, which wasn’t surprising due to the fact that he hadn’t been able to wash himself or his clothes for nearly a week. However, with these inhuman abominations called the Buimo nearby and with easy access into the lodge, the Sheriff figured that the infection was the least of his problems.

            “I’ve got to do something,” he said, crossing the room to the window which now held a spider web pattern across the top corner from the hail. The Indian had written of the worst storms on the horizon, and it looked like what he had warned of had already begun.
“Damn. Heading out on foot now would be suicide.”

            As the Sheriff gazed into the white abyss, there was a firm knock at the door. His eyes went wide and his breathing ceased for a few seconds. The Sheriff turned back to the entryway and cautiously approached it.

            “Whitey, is that you?”

            Immediately replying in an agitated state, Whitey said, “Yeah, Sheriff. Who damn else would it be? It’s only us left.”

            “What do you want, Whitey?” The Sheriff’s tone was stern and rough.

            “The window’s busted in the spare room. I can’t stay in there.”

            “Well, I’ve only got one bed in here.”

            “That don’t matter,” Whitey said. He sounded desperate and afraid, “I’ll just sleep on the floor then. Also, you got a lock on this door. There ain’t no lock in the guest room. Those things outside could just throw open the door in the middle of the night if I stayed in there.”

            “Whitey, you sound oddly calm. The last I saw you, you had just about lost your mind.”

The Chicken Farmer didn’t respond.

“I’m still thinking you’re a madman, but since I’m a Sheriff and it’s my job to protect the vulnerable, I’ll let you in on one condition.”

            “Okay, one condition, what is it? I’ll do anything,” Whitey’s voice had now taken on the familiar panicked tone as if it were just an act.

            The Sheriff paused, took a deep breath, then said, “You’ve got a blade on your person, Whitey. I’ve seen it on your waistband. I want you to remove it and slide it under the door so I know you can’t come in here and slice my throat in the middle of the night.”

            “Cut your throat?” Whitey was exasperated, “Why would I do that?”

            “I don’t know, Whitey. But I’ve seen plenty of people in a frantic state do some irrational things. It’s a precaution. I want to keep you safe, but I don’t want to risk my hide doing so.”

            “Okay, okay. Hold on a moment,” there was a pause, then the sound of frantic shuffling and skirting about in the hall. A moment later, a scratching sound came from the floor as the blade was slid through the crack. The Sheriff knelt and reached for the knife, but his hand froze in midair. There was no shadow on the other side of the door.

He quickly snatched up the blade and tucked it in his own waistband, then said, “Whitey, you still there?”

His heart was racing. The Sheriff stood up slowly then reached for the hatchet. With his non-dominant hand, he grabbed the latch.

            “Yeah, Sheriff. I’m still here,” The voice said. It sounded like the Chicken Farmer, but now that the Sheriff really listened to it, there was something slightly off about it, as if someone were doing a very convincing impression of the old man. It was like the voice of the Gambler that had come from outside the lodge earlier. The Sheriff glanced back to the window and saw an army of the Buimo emerging from the forest.

“Hurry up,” The voice shouted, it had now completely lost every trait that made it sound like the Chicken Farmer, “Let us in, Sheriff.”

            The Sheriff threw the latch to the left then took a step back and fixed both hands tightly on the handle of the hatchet.

            “Alright,” He said. “It’s unlocked.”

            The door swung open.

End...

Author’s Note

Wow. That was a long one! Not just for you patient readers, but also for myself. I initially started writing this tale back in October 2016 but didn’t finish it until the end of April 2017. The fact of the matter is that I got stumped at the moment when the Sheriff and Whitey had their confrontation in the poker room. Honestly, I just didn’t know how to end it. The original concept was going to be that Whitey was right�"that the Sheriff actually was one of the Buimo. However, I felt like that would be a cliché and predictable way to end this tale. Then I figured after a few weeks, “Okay, so we’ll have it be implied that Whitey rushes outside to make a break for the woods to escape. The snow flurry that appeared following the first two disappearances will return, but the Sheriff won’t think anything of it because he’ll be distracted by something. But then that brought up the question, “What will he be distracted by?” Then it came to me, “A letter. But by who and what does it say?” as well as, “How can I dive even deeper into the lore and backstory of the Buimo without just saying ‘this happens because of this and this happens because of that, etc.’? Then it hit me, the Native American. And, yes, as a person I know the difference between an actual Indian (someone from India) and a Native American. However, due to the time-period, this story takes place in, I felt that it wouldn’t make much sense to have the character called “Native American” unless by the omnipotent narrator.

            I want to write a little bit more about how this story came to fruition. However, if you have things to do or frankly don’t care and just came to read the story and not how it came to be, then, by all means, you can go about your day and I won’t judge one bit. But for those of you who are interested, I’ll keep it short and sweet. A year prior to writing this story I saw the fantastic Tarantino film “The Hateful Eight” in theaters. It was, by far, my absolute favorite film by the brilliant director. I also really liked the setting of a tale based in the wild west but with snow. That film, for those of you unfamiliar with it, concerns eight dangerous individuals who are snowed into a cabin and amongst them, there’s a murderer. It’s a great film; a murder mystery set in the frontier age with snow. After watching the film, I asked myself “What would have happened if the killer wasn’t actually human? What if it was luring them out and taking them one-by-one?” Those two questions were the seeds that I planted in my imagination that later came to be this tale. Another fun fact; The Buimo isn’t just a random name. In the Central-West of Utah, New Mexico, and (I think) Arizona, the Native American tribes at the time would speak a language called Shoshone. It’s a dead language now, but there are (maybe) about one hundred words still in existence; mainly colors, greetings, and body parts. I took the most common trait of the creatures; the eye on the right hand and translated that into Shoshone. Bui = eye and Mo = hand. So, the creatures are literally named “Eyehand”.

            The creatures also came from two sources that inspired me; I am a big fan of both Native American and Ancient Japanese folk lore. In my opinion, those two cultures created some of the creepiest and most disturbing spirits and entities. There’s this Japanese spirit (I forgot the name of it, but a simple Google search should bring it up rather quickly) and it is lacking eyes on its face, but instead has them on both of its palms (The Buimo only have an eye on one hand. The other has a mouth that is used to drink the blood from its victims, which is why it is able to impersonate their voices). The whole thing with Sholiski was completely fabricated from my mind without any inspiration whatsoever. But the origin of the name, I think, is fairly interesting. I broke it into two parts; “Sho” and “Liski”. Sho I derived from the Jewish word “Sheol” which means the underworld. “-ski” is a common Polish suffix, and I just thought “Sholiski” sounded better than something like “Showendowski”. Now, before I leave you with feeling unsettled by the end of the tale, I want to give you two suggestions. Numero Uno- Go rent the Hateful Eight from Redbox as soon as possible and watch it. And Two- If you were unsettled by this story, you should really look into Japanese and Native American folk lore. As always, thanks for joining me in this journey.
Cheers,
~Ellis Hastings            25^th April 2017