Fire. A ring of fierce red flames beyond the door—there’s no way through.
Gray clouds of smoke swirl through narrow corridors. Someone’s hands pull her forward, urging her on.
A black shadow blocks the path. A white shadow falls onto burning stones.
A woman’s groan. A sharp tug.
The searing brick of a shelter. Gentle hands cover her eyes. A whisper.
“Pency, be a good girl and wait here.”
A distant scream.
Silence. Darkness. Waiting. Fear.
Cold, gripping and cruel.
Terror.
Devastation...
Tangled sheets, a damp nightgown, a pillow tossed to the floor, and a heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from her chest. Pency struggles to catch her breath. In the next moment, relief floods through her entirely—from her messy hair and scratched hands to her aching stomach and the icy tips of her toes. Joy, vast and boundless, washes over her. Her laughter sounds like the creak of unoiled skis, her throat burning and itching from dryness. The nightmare has passed, leaving behind weakness, trembling, and a faint headache.
Pency stretches out to her full height and rubs her stomach. It’s too early for her monthly discomfort, but in a place like this, strange pains are no surprise to anyone. Cannibal Pass is a creepy hole, even for the Black Woods. It’s the setting of countless horrifying but true stories and grim fairy tales. The dangers here are real: wild beasts, oddities, ancient ruins, dangerous folks, the Black Woods that twist your tracks, and heavy snow that blankets everything in a white wave. There are plenty of places like this in Pency’s homeland. But nothing compares to the spirit of the Pass itself, the thing that makes it so terrifying.
They don’t call it Cannibal Pass because the monsters here feast on human flesh. That wouldn’t shock anyone. No, the Pass itself devours everything human in a traveler who lingers too long. Hunters barely manage to cope with strong liquor and long, grueling work. Even then, it’s not enough. Over time, senses dull, thoughts muddle, the raw core of a person is laid bare, and in the silence and darkness of a bleak winter, fears or obsessions crawl to the surface. Or nightmares...
Tears well up in her eyes from the pain and the lingering horror of what she just experienced. What was in that dream? She can’t recall. Pency gives in to a sudden impulse and curls up like a child in the womb, and the taut, painful string inside her begins to loosen. For long minutes, she just lies there, then opens her eyes and looks around. The wall with the window is familiar down to the last stain and crack—old whitewash and uneven brickwork.
She’d much rather live in a wooden house made of smooth, fragrant logs, with a high porch and clean, honey-colored floors and walls. A warm house where a fireplace built of carefully chosen white stones radiates heat, and in front of it—far enough to avoid stray sparks—lies a soft-furred hide. Then she could warm herself through the long winters, breathing in the scent of cherrywood and dried herbs tossed into the fire, reading a book while lying on the floor. Pency closes her eyes, and her dream home feels almost real before her.
But no one rents out rooms in houses like that, at least not on Cannibal Pass. And buying one down in the valley, where snowdrifts don’t grow taller than a person and warm winds bring spring right on schedule, is out of the question. What use is a cute, cozy home to a hunter of oddities? No use at all, Pency convinces herself yet again. Houses left alone age quickly, and she needs to work.
Her eyes slowly adjust to the dimness. The faint light seeping through the frosted glass of the small window is enough for her. Outside, it’s the same old winter: darkness, faintly glowing white snow, and the gloomy, silent forest. Nothing new... Cannibal Pass looked just like this fourteen years ago, though she remembers little from back then.
Lying in the dark is pointless, and she won’t be able to fall asleep anyway. Pency slides to the edge of her narrow bed, finds a change of clothes by touch, and quickly gets dressed. The damp fabric is tossed into a far corner of the tiny room. She knows she should hang it up to dry, but she still feels unwell and cold. Wrapping herself in three sweaters, she creeps out of the room and heads downstairs to the common area of the lodge.
The air down here is so smoky it makes her eyes water. The clock above the bar shows twenty minutes past five, and Pency takes a few seconds to figure out if it’s morning or evening. The view outside the window looks the same almost year-round in this place. People are a rare sight too. But she doubts she could’ve slept for nearly a full day, so she wishes a good morning to the only other person in the room.
“What, nightmares again?” the sleepy owner asks in a muffled voice. He’s completely sunk into a deep armchair, wrapped in a thick robe so only his beard sticks out.
“People complaining already?” Pency grimaces. She doesn’t remember what she screams in her dreams or how loud, but the neighbors on her floor never appreciate it.
“Nah, the snoring in room eighteen is so loud they wouldn’t hear a fire alarm. And the couple in twenty just finished partying half an hour ago and dragged themselves to bed. You couldn’t wake them with a foghorn right now—could fire a cannon over their heads... But you wouldn’t be up this early for no reason.”
As if by magic, a mug of milk appears in front of Pency.
“Thanks,” she says, not about to refuse the treat. She blows the annoying foam to the edge of the mug and takes her first sip, anticipating the warmth. She’s been staying at Mr. Layton’s place for years now, so the lodge owner knows her preferences. Pency, pleased with her choice, savors it as always and says, “Delicious! With honey, too!”
“Nothing but the best for regular customers,” Mr. Layton smiles, settling back into his chair with a sense of duty fulfilled. “How many years have we known each other now?”
“I started coming to the Pass on my own about six years ago,” Pency calculates mentally. “Why?”
“Just looking at you, I can’t help but feel sorry,” Mr. Layton purses his lips. “You’re a fine young woman, even if you are a hunter. Not that I can blame you for your choice of work: hunters found you, raised you, brought you up. What else were you gonna be?”
Pency shrugs. She’s not about to say she knows next to nothing about the life she had before her adoptive family. Her childhood was spent moving around and learning the tricks of the hunting trade. And does that past even matter, if it only haunts her in nightmares? She liked living with the hunters who took her in. Besides, Pency has a sharp nose and quick hands, so picking up all the skills from her adoptive family came easy.
“I remember you as a little snot-nosed kid: pale, burned, all bristly. A light-haired, scorched little bird in distress. Tiwara Sharp’s crew dragged you out of these woods. She was out hunting with her husband, her eldest son, and his buddies. Serious woman, skilled too, but even she couldn’t keep an eye on everything. They gave you water and a piece of bread, wrapped you in a jacket, but your boots—man, they were just rags, like house slippers. How you didn’t freeze your feet off, barefoot kid like that, I’ll never know!” Mr. Layton slaps his knees in a burst of emotion. “But it all worked out, even though you were sick for almost a week.”
Pency nods steadily. Truth be told, she barely remembers being found, but politeness keeps her from interrupting Mr. Layton’s monologue. She has to listen. Maybe that’s why hunting on Cannibal Pass never felt pleasant to her—because of the people. These woods breed plenty of oddities, and she makes decent money in a season. But the past lurks around every corner here: in people’s words, in their looks, in her nightmares.
“So, what I’m getting at,” Mr. Layton stands behind the counter right across from Pency and raises a finger, “is that you’re a real good girl, proper, hardworking, a skilled hunter. But it’s not right for a young woman to be without a home... A real one, warm and true. Guys your age are reckless idiots: either they’ll die overestimating themselves, or they’ll drink away every penny. But you, I believe, will weigh the risks, bring in that oddity, and put the reward to good use...”
Pency sets down her mug, sits up straight, and does her best to show she’s interested. And she really is. If Mr. Layton says she’ll make a profit, then she will. The owner of the coziest spot on Cannibal Pass isn’t known for empty promises. So maybe houses don’t age so fast when left alone, especially ones built from smooth, fragrant logs, with a high porch and clean, honey-colored floors and walls.