25 Days

by Per Jacobsen

Behind it is a clerk chatting with the only other customer; a brawny man in coveralls, holding a rolled-up newspaper in a fist that looks as if it could pulverize a pool ball without any problems.

"We like to mess a bit with strangers that wander out here into the middle of nowhere," he says, as if that one sentence explains and justifies everything. "Especially if they're city slickers." I see. What a great joke. Netflix hasn't called to offer you a stand-up special yet?

Adam isn't sure why, but something about the woman makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Then again, maybe he does know. Her black coat, pale skin, and the bun in her hair make her look like a character from a horror movie. The oil lamp doesn't exactly work against that idea either.

It's a clean cut. Whatever being separated the chicken's head from its neck wasn't a fox or a similar predator. If it were, there would've been bite marks and strands of shredded flesh on the neck. But there isn't. There is only one single cut. Straight and completely clean.

"What the hell is this?" he mumbles—and then once more, a little louder: "What the hell is this?" In the palm of Adam's trembling hand lies a pile of small, scruffy feathers in shades of brown and gray. He has seen feathers in the exact same colors before. The headless chicken.

"Yeah, but … I don't feel safe anymore, Adam. So maybe it's best to just throw in the towel and say that we gave it a fair shot." Are we still talking about the trip, Beth?

And even though this day has been great in many ways, she feels relieved that they'll say goodbye to this place tomorrow.

Very doubtful

"No! You've got to be kidding me!" is what he says. "I don't believe this shit!" "What's wrong, Dad?" "It's the car. It's completely dead. Fuck!"

I knew you'd be staying longer

It was Bumbleball's foot. The pattern of the fur told her right away. White with black spots. Like a soccer ball. Someone has cut the foot off Chloe's favorite rabbit and left it in the Christmas stocking for them to find.

For a moment, her imagination plants an idea in her head—that the eye might wink at her—and

The closest he gets to building a campfire is lighting a disposable grill in the backyard for the annual summer party at home. And one year this resulted in a large, scorched patch of grass that his neighbors quickly dubbed Adam's crop circle—a recurring topic of conversation every year.

Sounds like me

A vehicle, parked in the middle of the road a bit further down the mountain. A vehicle that she—despite the snow on the roof and the hood—instantly recognizes. Bill's SUV.

One single word. That's all. No protests, no complaints, no questions. Just okay. Never has a single word from Abby hit Beth so hard.

It's as if he is deliberately revving the engine once in a while so they don't forget about him. Psycho.

while he senselessly staggers backward, straight toward the edge of the canyon. And then past it.

😳😳😳

It doesn't matter, says a voice in his head, and Adam couldn't agree more. He has a first aid kit now, maybe even some food. And above all else, he has hope.

He is going to witness his own burial, not under ground, but beneath a pile of white ice crystals.

She looks behind and sees him standing there, backlit at the end of the corridor. The man with the ski mask. The man with the tranquilizer gun.

GOD DAMNIT

Beth raises her hand up to her nose and smells the burnt bits. It smells like barbecue meat … and the worst part is that it makes her stomach rumble. How sick is that?

The goggles are gone, but he's still wearing the white ski mask. It's him. Their nightmare.

GOD DAMNIT