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The drips of blood that trailed him like scarlet breadcrumbs assured him that this wasn’t a dream.
The monsters of his youth were chasing him. They were hungry. They were real.
They only come when it snows, his dad had told him, repeating the stories his own father had whispered into his ear in the dead of winter. As a kid, Don assumed it was why he and his family packed up their stuff and left the cabin when the weather got bad. But as he grew older, he reasoned the stories away. Myth. Legend. Whatever he called them in the past made no difference.
Her fingers drifted across Stoker’s Dracula, one of the few she’d read.
