Blood in the Snow - Written by: Fritz Swanepoel Chapter 1 - 14 Updated Every Week!

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Blood in the Snow: A Person I Once Knew

Chapter 1: A Person I Once Knew

(by \Fritz Swanepoel – Youth Author Spotlight)

 💀An original suspense tale unfolding one chapter at a time 👀follow the story weekly right here as we publish it chapter by chapter.

Diary Entry 1

1978 November 2nd

Dear Diary,

Today we are driving to that stupid timeshare Dad bought in the 60s "as a great investment opportunity" - whatever that means. Mom keeps suggesting dumb games to "pass the time." Dad is going to start screeching at the top of his lungs again in like 20 minutes, and worst of all, I forgot my phone charger and cassette player at home (which also includes my headphones), so I can't even pretend not to hear his request to join along in the song he knows none of the lyrics to. This is going to be a long drive to that old horror house this year.

____________________________________

My pen glides over the page to mark the end of my entry. I lay my head in my cold palms as I stare out into the trees. Flashing by like a thought through a busy mind, yet I can see perfectly into the forest. This old house we keep revisiting is barely holding together. Just last year, Dad walked upstairs and fell through the floorboard. I see a crumpled-up paper behind Dad's seat. I unfold it. It's been folded recently, as it still looks relatively new and undamaged. In the folded lines of the paper is written:

To Fix List

(in Dad's handwriting)

- The windows don't close.

- The doors creak.

- The floorboards crack.

- Privacy for Nina.

I roll my eyes as I always hated that nickname, Nina. The cold wind blows it out of my hand, and it vanishes into the forest like a thought in a sea of ideas. I get lost in thought and slowly drift into my mind. The cold wind brushes my face as I poke my head slightly out the window. The wind feels like the snow is dancing on my face with simple grace.

Then my peaceful mind is interrupted by a loud bang as the car shakes a bit, then comes to a full halt. I get thrown forward, I feel a hard bang and hear a ringing in my ear. I feel like my body won't move as I hazily open the door and fall into ice-cold snow. I feel the cold penetrating almost three layers of jackets, like I'm wearing nothing at all.

I get up in a haze, trying to find my footing, my head pounding like I just got hit by a hammer. The car is quiet behind me as the lights shine brightly. "How did I get in front of the car... where am I?" The car is empty, and I can barely see inside. Around me, a dark void swallows everything in its wake, the wind howling like a mother who just lost her child, blowing so strong it almost picks me off the ground.

I stoop forward, trying to find my footing with every step I take, my head pounding like it has a bullet wound in it. I hear a voice in the far-off distance. "NINO, WHERE ARE YOU?" It sounds like my dad, and I almost immediately reply, "I'm here..." When my blood runs cold. "Wait... you don't know that nickname."

The creature shows itself as it walks with an unnatural limp towards me. Its skin almost resembles flesh, its eyes jolting around like it's afraid. Its eyes lock on me, its mouth opens. Its voice was almost like my dad's but distorted. "Please... Neno... I'm hurt... please," its voice feeling like needles in my head, I scream in pain.

It comes into the light, revealing its face, its resemblance to Dad uncanny, but it looks unnatural and unsettling. I scream as I jolt awake on the backseat, laid down with an ice pack on my forehead, the smell of the old car entering my nose - the smell of grease and old leather and the occasional secret smoke from Mom in the backseat.

I sit upright and take in my surroundings. Mom and my brother are standing outside playing patty-cake in the snow while the hood is open. This old Sunbird has been with us for a long time. My dad bought it when I was just born.

I get out and feel the wind blowing my bangs behind me. I slowly walk around the car and peek over the hood to my dad. He struggles with the motor and grunts, then looks at me. "Oh, good morning, princesse. Is your head feeling any better?"

Chapter 2: "Brandon, is that you? "

I slowly make my way away from my mom and dad's chatter over buying a new motor for my car, and my brother laughing as he plays in the snow

I see the lines my bag made down the hill as I follow, and I pick up clothing that fell out as the bag was making its way down

Eventually, I found where the bag landed, but where it should be is just an indent in the snow and drag lines left behind by my bag being dragged away

"What, the?" I say to myself as I take out my Motorola phone to use as a torch, as I follow the lines made by my bag. It takes me on a wild goose chase for about 2 hours until I arrive and an empty field.

I look around and try and find landmarks to see where I ended up, but this place seems completely new to me. The air seems unnaturally cold, and the snow feels thicker

I hear a familiar laugh in the distance and jolt around to see the cause. Every time I look behind, I see his face. "How... could it be, "I staggered as I felt my head ache come back like a bolt to my head."YOU'RE DEAD," I scream as if I'm being stabbed.

The boy appears in front of me. I fall to my back and whimper. He leans forward. I finally see him fully, he has scars over his face, his eyes are pitch black, and he seems like he is in pain, but is standing in front of me right now

"You could have changed that."Tears start to form as I can only muster 3 words from my cold lips.

"I'm sorry, Brandon."

I jolt up. I don't know how much time later, by the sound of my parents screaming my name. I look around and see my bag on my lap, and I'm lying against a tree.

I try and stand up, but I feel like I was hit by a bus. "MOM... DAD." I scream at the top of my lungs. I hear footsteps quickly running towards me.

I only now notice their flashlights coming towards me. "Is it night?" I whisper to myself. I try and look around, by my eyes feel heavy and they slowly close.

Chapter 3: Where Am I?

My eyes slowly opened, and my vision began to adjust. After what felt like an eternity, I sat up, taking in my surroundings. The bonnet of the dusty car was open, and the wind no longer howled outside. A cold ice pack rested on my forehead; I removed it and placed it beside me. Holding my head, I assessed my situation, – sitting on the old, cold leather seats.

As I stood up, my brother rushed toward me, embracing me tightly. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. My mom smiled warmly at the sight of us hugging, but there was something off about her expression.

My gaze drifted toward the bonnet, where a boy emerged, walking toward me with a smile. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?" His familiar face sent a jolt through me – Brandon.

"Brandon," I stuttered, stepping back and losing my footing. I fell over a rock, my eyes wide with confusion. "How are you? How are you?" I quivered in the snow, my eyes darting around for answers.

My dad grasped my shoulder as I hyperventilated. "Hey, sweetie, what's wrong?" I focused on him, feeling disoriented. "Sorry, Dad, my head still hurts." He smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, sweetie, we're almost done. You can take a nap soon."

I sighed, getting back into the car, trying to gather my thoughts. As I glanced at the forest, I saw him again – Brandon, smiling, waiting, and waving. Whatever was happening, I felt like it was just beginning.

Chapter 4: Runaway Train of Thought

Dad got the car working again. I sat in my seat, still trying to collect my thoughts. Everyone spoke, but all of it seemed like a buzz to me. I turn back towards my window, deep in thought again. What happened in the forest plays on repeat in my head. As if my brain wants to make it make sense.

I once again stare out the window into the woods. All the trees stand still as we pass by like a flickering thought. I try and find that familiar face again. I still have so much to say, is all that I can think. I hold my forehead. It no longer hurts as much, but I still feel faint stings.

I slowly close my eyes and hear the dirt cracking under the wheels. The snow is becoming flattened by the cars' heavy weight. What, who, when, is all that swirls in my mind. My train of thought gets broken by my name slicing through my static scattered thoughts. My mom stares me down, waiting for answers to a question I did not focus on.

"Sorry, Mom, can you repeat that?" I ask. She rolls her eyes, and I can already hear her say Typical even though she stayed quiet.

I open my window and lean out, letting the snow dance on my face once more. I stare into the sky, thinking of better times. I feel bumps as we drive on the old dirt road that we drove over for almost a thousand times. That's a bit of an overreaction, but it feels like it. The road is tattooed by the old old white sunbird. My dad has changed so much on this car it's not even the same car anymore.

The car slowly comes to a halt in front of the rusted gate of the time share. The old house probably saw a million footsteps where 20% of them were us. Another 3 weeks in the horror house in Alaska's mountains.

Chapter 5: Frozen Memories

The car door creaked open, and I stepped out into the biting cold. The familiar creak of the door, the crunch of snow beneath my feet, it all felt like a routine I'd never escape. My parents exchanged a look, one that spoke volumes without a word. They were trying to gauge my mood, my willingness to be here again.

I gazed up at the old house, its rusted gate a testament to the passing of time. The wooden boards seemed to sag under the weight of snow, like an old, tired soul. The windows, once bright and cheerful, now stared back at me like empty eyes.

"Let's get inside," my mom said, breaking the silence.

As we trudged through the snow, I couldn't help but feel like I was walking into a nightmare. The memories of what happened in the forest still lingered, refusing to be shaken off. I glanced around, half-expecting to see... something. But there was nothing. Just the snow-covered trees, standing like sentinels.

Inside, the house was just as I remembered it. The same creaky floorboards, the same musty smell. My dad busied himself with the heating, while my mom started unpacking the essentials. I stood by the window, watching the snow fall gently outside.

"Hey, kiddo," my dad said, coming over to me. "You okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He put a hand on my shoulder, and for a moment, I felt a sense of comfort. But it was fleeting.

"We're going to get through this," he said softly. "Together."

I nodded again, still not looking at him. Together. That was the problem. We were together in this, but I felt so alone.

The sound of my mom's voice, calling out that dinner was ready, broke the spell. I turned away from the window, my eyes scanning the room. It was going to be a long three weeks.

Chapter 6: Fractured Peace

I pushed my food around my plate, my appetite lost in the sea of my own thoughts. Mom caught the lack of enthusiasm.

"Eat your dinner, don't just play with it," she said, her voice laced with frustration.

I sighed, a spark of defiance igniting within me. "I'm trying, okay?"

The words hung in the air, a challenge issued. Mom's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing. "You're not trying. You're just pushing it around like it's a game."

I felt a surge of anger. "Maybe I'm just not hungry, okay? Maybe I'm just tired of being here and eating the same old thing every day."

Mom's voice rose. "You're tired of being here? You're tired of being with your family? We're only here because of you, because we need to be."

The words stung. "That's not fair. You're always bringing that up."

Dad tried to intervene, his voice calm. "Hey, let's not fight about this."

But Mom and I were beyond reason. "No, let's fight about it. Let's fight about how you're always so perfect and I'm the one who's always wrong."

The argument escalated, voices rising in a familiar pattern. I finally broke, pushing my chair back and standing up.

"Whatever," I muttered, turning away from the table.

I stormed down to the basement, my sanctuary, a place I'd transformed into my own mid-80s punk rock haven. Purple walls pulsed with the energy of my favorite bands. I leaned against a wall, my eyes drifting over the familiar landscape of band posters and guitar picks.

A loose brick caught my attention. I tugged at it gently, and it came free, revealing a hidden space. A book lay nestled within, its cover worn. I opened it, and a photograph slipped out.

The image depicted a boy with a bright smile, his eyes sparkling. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized my dead brother. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I felt the world tilt.

Chapter 7: The Hollow Room

The photograph trembled in my hands, though it wasn't the cold that made them shake. His smile was too alive—too now. I traced the edges with my thumb, trying to remember if I’d ever seen this picture before. I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t.

The basement’s light flickered.

At first, I thought it was just the old bulb—sputtering, as it always did when the furnace kicked on. But this time it didn’t come back right away. Instead, shadows stretched across the purple walls, soft at first, then longer. Thinner. Sharper.

I looked back down at the book. Its pages smelled like mildew and memories. Handwriting, messy and uneven, filled the margins—notes about dreams, about seeing things. About the forest.

My heart sank. This wasn’t just some forgotten journal.

It was his.

My brother’s name appeared on the inside cover in a rushed scrawl. And beneath it… a date.

Two days before he died.

I shut the book too fast. Dust rose like smoke. Suddenly, the room didn’t feel like mine anymore. The posters on the walls—once loud and defiant—looked faded and curled at the corners. The strings on my guitar were all slightly out of tune, like they'd warped under pressure I hadn’t noticed until now.

I thought about going back upstairs, about apologizing, even if I didn’t mean it. Anything would be better than staying here with that book and that picture and the quiet that had started to hum in my ears like distant static.

But then I heard it.

A creak.

Not the groan of old wood or pipes—but softer. Intentional. It came from behind me, near the staircase. I turned, slowly.

Nothing.

Just the wall.

And yet… the air felt occupied.

I shoved the book back behind the brick, but the photograph wouldn’t fit. It fluttered to the ground like it belonged here, like it wanted to be found.

And that’s when I noticed the photo had changed.

His smile—so bright before—was now just… off. Slightly crooked. The sparkle in his eye looked dull, hollowed. His face, I realized with a drop in my stomach, wasn’t the same in this version. It was older. Like the boy in the picture had been… watching. Waiting. Aging without me.

The lights buzzed again. Then—click. Out.

Total dark.

I backed toward the stairs, bumping into the edge of the couch. My fingers fumbled for my phone. The flashlight flicked on, a thin beam slicing through the black. I aimed it at the picture on the floor. Gone.

A sharp breath caught in my throat.

Gone.

But there was something else now, just beyond the beam’s reach—shapes drawn on the basement wall. Symbols. Circles with slashes through them. I don’t remember ever drawing them. They looked burned into the paint. And in the center of it all, scratched in something darker than ink, were the words:

“He never left the forest.”

The furnace rumbled to life above me, sudden and loud. I flinched. The light flicked back on.

Everything looked… normal.

But I knew it wasn’t.

The photo was gone. The brick was back in place.

I stood there, heartbeat drumming, unsure if I should tell someone, or pretend it didn’t happen. Like maybe if I went to bed, it would all vanish by morning.

I didn’t sleep.

Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the creak again. Wondering if my brother had ever really left that place in the woods—or if part of him had followed me back.

Chapter 8: A Corner Left Out

Diary Entry 2

1978 November 5th

Dear Diary,

It’s cold this morning. Not just "winter cold," but stillness cold. The kind where the air doesn’t move, even when the window’s shut tight.

My room smells like dry wood and mothballs. There’s a splintered chair in the corner under a window that doesn’t close all the way. The glass is fogged around the edges, like it’s holding its breath. The wallpaper’s peeling in thin strips, and in one corner above the bed, there’s a brown water stain shaped like a cracked halo. I remember it being smaller.

The bed creaks every time I move, but not in a normal way—it creaks like it’s delayed, like the springs are reacting to something I did seconds ago. I don’t like how that sounds written down, but I’ll leave it.

My bag is still under the dresser. My coat, damp from yesterday, hangs over the bedpost, still dripping faintly. I haven’t gone outside yet this morning.

I woke up thinking about the photo. I keep trying to remember when I took it out. Or if I ever put it back. Maybe I never did. But it keeps showing up in the wrong place. It’s like…

Like it knows where I’ll look next.

That’s stupid.

My handwriting looks weird today.

I’ve read this entry three times and none of it feels real.

“COME EAT!”

Mom’s voice shattered the quiet. I flinched, scribbling a line across the page.

I shut the book and dropped it on the bed beside me. As I stood, I caught a glimpse of something pale sticking out from the edge of the blanket.

The photo.

Peeking just slightly from beneath the comforter.

I didn’t touch it. I didn’t want to.

The floorboards groaned beneath my feet, slow and sluggish like they were waking up with me. As I opened the door, I glanced around my room again.

The dresser drawer I’d left cracked open was now fully shut.

The closet door stood open about three inches. I didn’t remember touching it.

I left without checking.

The kitchen was the same as always:

Toast, eggs, stale cereal. Dad humming at the radio. My brother crunching loudly with his mouth open.

Mom barely looked up. “Nice of you to join us,” she muttered.

I sat down without a word.

“You were writing again?” she asked.

I shrugged. “It helps me think.”

“You should try talking instead,” she said, too flat to be sincere.

“I do,” I said, eyes on my plate. “No one listens.”

Her lips thinned. Dad cleared his throat but didn’t step in this time.

The rest of breakfast passed like frozen syrup—slow and sticky with tension.

Back upstairs, my bedroom was quiet. The light from the window hit the far wall at a sharper angle now, cutting across the dusty floorboards in a harsh line.

I stepped inside.

The bedspread was pulled tighter than I’d left it. My diary sat neatly at the foot of the bed, even though I’d left it beside the pillow.

And sitting dead center on the pillow—like someone had placed it there with care—was the photo.

I picked it up.

No faces. No smiles. No people.

Just the house.

Just the snow.

And in the center of the image, where a tall pine tree once stood:

A fresh stump.

Dark bark curling inward like old skin.

I turned the photo over.

Still blank.

But the back felt damp.

And it smelled—faintly—like pine and smoke..... 

Chapter 9 “Something Like Her”

Diary Entry 3

1978 November 5th, I think

(written in black ink, messy, trailing in spots)

 

Dear Diary,

 

I don’t know what time it is. It’s still dark outside, but I can’t sleep. I keep hearing the wind push against the window like it’s trying to whisper. Or knock. Or breathe.

I swear I saw something move past the window. I told myself it was a branch or a bird or snow—but it moved like a person. Fast and stiff.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this down. My hand feels like it’s shaking too hard to hold the pen.

Everything feels wrong. This room isn’t mine. The walls creak like they’re listening. The closet keeps opening wider at night. Every time I close it, it finds its way back open.

I feel like something’s watching from inside the floor.

Why did I come back here?

Why are we always coming back here?

The photo on the pillow—

No. No, I already wrote about that. I think I did. I don’t want to look at it again.

I feel like I’m forgetting something I was never told.

Like I’m someone I wasn’t supposed to become.

I—

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then everything went black.

The bulb above me gave a soft tick.

Silence.

Then—

“...Nina?”

My brother’s voice.

Not from the hallway. Not from the door.

It was coming from under the bed.

A breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move.

Then the door opened.

Mom.

At least… it looked like her.

But not quite.

She stood in the doorway, her nightdress hanging like wet cloth. Her face looked the same, but stretched. Like a painting left out in the rain. Her arms hung too low. Her hands—too many knuckles. Too many fingers.

“Nina,” she said, but the voice was slow. Dragged across gravel. Like something deep beneath, her was trying to mimic her.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

I opened my mouth to scream—

And bolted upright in bed.

Gasping.

The lamp was on. The window was shut. My room… normal. Too normal.

The diary was folded neatly on my chest. A ribbon marking the page I hadn’t finished.

I opened it.

There were no words from me.

Just a single sentence, written in ink I didn’t recognize:

Who are we... who where I

I slammed the book shut and shoved it into my nightstand like it could bite me. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to touch it again.

I lay there, eyes open, breathing shallow for a long time. Every sound made my skin prickle.

Eventually, I gave up on sleep.

I tiptoed out of my room, down the stairs. The air felt heavier the deeper I went, like the house didn’t want me down there.

The basement door creaked open.

My socks slid slightly on the old steps as I crept down.

I reached the bottom and paused.

The air smelled like melted wax and something older.

There was a soft flicker in the corner.

The loose brick was gone.

Instead, on the table near the old sunken couch—

The book.

Open.

A candle beside it, half-melted, its wax spilled like blood over the wood.

A black pen resting beside it.

And on the top stair behind me—

The photo.

Just lying there. Waiting..... 

Chapter 10: Things We Forget to Forget

I stared at the photo on the stair.

The edges curled slightly inward, like it had been clutched too tightly by invisible hands. I didn’t touch it. Just stepped over it and made my way to the table.
The candle beside the book flickered with a sickly orange light. The shadows it cast didn’t move right. They stretched too long. Shivered too slow.

The pen was still warm when I picked it up.
I wasn’t going to write anything. I wasn’t. But the book was open and the page was blank and my hand moved like it already knew what to say.

I don’t remember what I wrote.
I don’t think I was the one doing it.

And then—
The candle hissed. Went out.

Darkness.
And then it all fell in.

I was six years old again.
Running barefoot down the hallway of this very house, the wood cold and slick beneath me. Brandon was laughing ahead of me, dragging a blanket cape behind him. His voice echoed like it didn’t belong to this time.

We turned the corner—
—and Mom was there.

But not really.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

Chop. Chop. Chop.
Her fingers slipped.

But she didn’t stop.
Blood pooled on the cutting board.

Drip. Drip.
She turned to me slowly. Her mouth was a thin black line. Her eyes… gone.

Just hollow sockets, wet and dark and grinning.
“Dinner’s ready, sweetie.”

I tried to run, but the hallway was too long. The walls bent inward like a tunnel. My feet stuck to the floor with every step—slower—slower—until—
I was older. Eleven.

The night we lost Brandon.
I saw it all again, but wrong. Like someone else had drawn the memory in charcoal and smeared it before it dried.

He was screaming from the woods. His voice didn’t sound right. It echoed in loops.
I saw myself running into the trees, flashlights slicing through the dark like knives, my breath sharp in my throat.

And then—I found him.
Or what was left of him.

But he wasn’t dead.
Not there.

He was kneeling by the old tree, carving something into the bark with his fingernail.
He looked up at me, eyes bleeding black.

“It’s growing inside me,” he whispered.
Then he smiled.

A huge, splitting smile that cracked his jaw sideways.
“You brought it back.

 
Then I was in the basement again.

But it wasn’t the same. The purple walls were peeling. The posters were crying.
There were bodies beneath the couch.

Hands sticking out.
They looked like mine.

A single knock echoed from the far corner.
Then another.

Knock.
Knock.

Knock.
I turned slowly.

There was a mirror now, propped up against the wall.
But my reflection wasn’t moving.

She was smiling.
“I didn’t die here,” she said. “You did.”

Her smile split.
“Who were we?”

I woke up choking.
Heart hammering. Sheets damp. Limbs tangled like I’d been fighting for my life in my sleep.

My room looked… normal.
But it felt wrong.

The light filtering through the curtains was too pale. The air too still.
I pressed my palm to my chest to feel my heartbeat. It was there. Too fast, too loud—but there.

I sat up slowly.
My legs ached like I’d run miles. My throat was dry. The window had fogged over from the inside.

I looked around the room. Everything was in place, and yet—nothing felt real.
I whispered to myself, like hearing it out loud might help.

“It was a dream.”
But it didn’t feel like one.

I climbed out of bed, dragging my blanket with me. My limbs felt like stone. Every part of me heavy, drained. When I glanced in the mirror, I barely recognized my reflection.
Pale.

Sunken eyes.
Hair tangled.

Me, but hollowed out.
I opened the door and shuffled down the stairs. The old wood groaned under my weight, louder than usual. The smell of toast was in the air again—but it didn’t comfort me.

At the bottom of the stairs, Dad was humming something off-key in the kitchen. My brother sat at the table, quietly drawing spirals in the steam on his glass again.
Mom turned, already halfway through pouring orange juice.

She paused when she saw me.
“You look terrible,” she said, a little too flat.

I pulled out a chair. Sat slowly.
“I didn’t sleep.”

She placed the glass in front of me. “You never do when we come here.”
I didn’t answer.

My fingers curled around the cup, and I tried to ground myself in the present.
But part of me was still in the dark.

Part of me was still watching that reflection smile..........

Chapter 11: Not Quite Him

 

The morning air felt colder than usual, even inside the house. I pulled my sleeves over my hands and shuffled down the stairs, still haunted by the lingering fragments of last night—whatever it had been.

Mom greeted me with her usual forced cheer. "Morning, hon. There's eggs on the stove. Grab them before they get cold."

Dad sat at the kitchen table, thumbing through the newspaper, sipping his black coffee. Everything seemed normal. Too normal.

Then I saw him—my brother, already seated, spooning cereal into his mouth with mechanical precision. Chew. Swallow. Spoon. Repeat. His eyes stared forward, unblinking, like he wasn’t really looking at anything.

"You're up early," I said, sliding into the chair opposite him.

He looked at me.

His smile twitched before it fully formed. “Couldn’t sleep. Too excited for today.” His voice was... off. It sounded right, but it came out wrong—flat, like someone rehearsing a line.

“Excited for what?”

He blinked. "Just... the day."

I froze. That wasn’t how he spoke. Not even close.

The spoon in his hand clattered as he dropped it into the bowl, milk splashing up onto the table. No one reacted.

"Clean that up, please," Mom said, not looking up from the sink. Her voice was calm, detached.

“I’ll get it,” I said, rising quickly, grabbing a paper towel. As I wiped the mess, I glanced up at him again.

He was still smiling.

Only now, his eyes weren’t blank—they were locked on me. Watching me. Wide, glassy, and far too still. The smile didn’t move. Not when I looked away. Not even when I handed him a new spoon.

“I had a dream about the forest,” he said quietly.

I paused.

His voice had changed again—soft and deliberate. “It called me by name.”

I didn’t respond.

He tilted his head slowly, like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. Then he said: “Do you remember when we buried the bird?”

A chill crept up my spine.

He wasn’t there that day. He was with Dad in town when it happened.

“How do you know about that?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He smiled wider.

“Because it’s still down there. And it's not alone anymore.”

The room went quiet. Even the faucet stopped dripping.

I stared at him, searching for a trace of the brother I once knew—the boy who used to sneak chips into his room and make dumb noises to make me laugh. But this... this thing across from me just stared, unmoving, as if the words it spoke didn’t belong to it at all.

"That's not funny," I said.

He blinked, and suddenly—like flipping a switch—his expression softened. "I was just joking," he said, chuckling nervously, as if nothing had happened. “You’re so jumpy lately.”

I forced a laugh, but it got stuck halfway in my throat.

Mom turned from the sink. “Are you two alright?”

“Yeah,” we both said in unison.

Too quickly. Too perfectly.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence. The scrape of forks against plates, the distant sound of birds outside, the rhythmic thump of Dad’s spoon stirring his coffee—everything felt like it was repeating itself. Like a loop. My brother didn’t speak again. He just kept eating, eyes flicking to me every few minutes. Watching. Measuring.

I excused myself and went back upstairs.

My room smelled of dust and cold air. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the scent was... aged, like a place sealed off for years. I walked over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer.

The diary was still there, exactly where I had thrown it—perfectly folded, the bookmark peeking out near the end.

I stared at it.

Who are we... who were I.

The words made no sense. But something about them felt deliberate, like a code I wasn’t meant to understand. Not yet.

I shut the drawer and stepped back.

The window near my bed creaked slightly in the breeze. Outside, the trees swayed, heavy with snow. A few kids' footprints from yesterday’s trek still marked the frozen dirt—but they only led to the edge of the forest. None returned.

I shivered.

Something brushed against the back of my neck.

I spun.

Nothing. Just my jacket hanging on the hook behind the door.

I needed answers. And if he wasn’t going to give them to me, I’d find them myself.

Downstairs, I heard my brother laugh—sharp, high-pitched, like glass being scraped. It echoed for a moment too long, then stopped abruptly.

I didn’t move.

Then his voice floated up the stairs. “Hey sis, wanna go outside later? Like old times?”

I didn’t answer.

I shut the door, turned the lock, and leaned against it.

[Diary Entry – January 12th, 1978]

I don’t know how much longer I can pretend everything’s fine.

Not to them. Not to myself.

He looks like my brother. Sounds like him. Knows his jokes, his habits, the stupid way he chews cereal with his mouth open. But it's not him.

There’s a rhythm missing—a beat I can feel in my bones. It's like watching an old film reel of someone you loved, except the eyes don’t match and the laughter echoes in the wrong places.

He said something this morning. About the basement. About it not being alone anymore.

Did he mean the thing I saw? The voice in the dark? The face that looked like Mom but wasn’t?

Or was he warning me?

I’m not sleeping tonight. Not until I know more. I’ll wait until everyone’s asleep. I’ll bring the flashlight and gloves. Maybe even that rusty old knife from the cabin drawer. Just in case.

I’m scared. But I’m not crazy.

Not yet.

Whatever’s happening... it started with him. 

 

And I think it’s coming for the rest of us

Chapter 12

 

Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the kind that’s full of weight. Like the walls were listening. Like the silence was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Mom talked about the cold snap and whether the pipes would freeze again. Dad grunted about the woodpile needing restacking. They sounded normal. Too normal.

But across the table, he sat smiling.

That smile didn’t belong to him.

I know how my brother used to smile—lopsided, lazy, like he was too tired to show he cared. But this one? It was too even. Like he was rehearsing it in a mirror. Like he didn’t fully understand why people smile, just that it was the right thing to do.

He buttered his toast left to right, just like always. But the motion was too smooth, too exact, like he was copying it from a memory that wasn’t his. He didn’t even look down. Just stared. At me.

I stirred my cereal until it went soggy.

“You feeling okay?” I asked, casual. Light.

His smile twitched just a little wider.

“Never better,” he said. “I love mornings.”

He hates mornings.

He used to sleep till noon if we let him, muttering curses under his breath if anyone dared to wake him. Now he was bright-eyed and chipper. And wide awake before all of us.

Mom didn’t notice. Neither did Dad.

Of course they didn’t.

After breakfast, I slipped back to my room. The door creaked a little as I opened it, and I hesitated before stepping inside.

Everything looked the same. My pile of books near the window. The pen mug from the lodge. The old quilt. But the bed was made.

I didn’t make my bed

And the mirror—

It was fogged over. Like someone had breathed on it.

I walked up slowly. In the middle of the condensation, someone had written five words with their finger:

Do you remember my name?

My heart nearly stopped. I wiped it away with my sleeve and backed up so fast I bumped the desk. The closet door creaked open slightly behind me. I didn’t check it.

I just left.

 

The rest of the day passed like a slow leak. Like time itself had sprung a hole. I went outside to get firewood—he followed me.

Said he didn’t want me getting lost.

He didn’t wear gloves. He didn’t shiver.

When we were kids, he hated the cold. I remember him crying once when his fingers went numb. But now? He stood in the snow like it was nothing.

At dinner, he told a story about Daisy. Said she once chased her own reflection into the lake, barking like mad. Mom laughed. Dad chuckled.

But that never happened.

Daisy drowned before that winter.

He got the memory wrong.

And nobody noticed.

But I did.

 

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t even try. I sat under the covers, wide-eyed, barely breathing, watching the clock crawl toward 2 a.m.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Light. Barefoot. Careful.

They stopped in front of my door.

I pressed my ear to the wood and held my breath. A whisper followed—dry and soft, like paper folding over itself. I couldn’t make out the words, but I felt them. Felt them slide across my skin like cold fingertips.

The steps moved again. Back down the hall. Toward his room.

When I finally opened the door, the hallway was empty.

Except for the footprints.

Small, wet prints. Bare feet. Too small to be his. Too wide to be a child’s.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I just sat down at my desk. Opened my journal. And started writing.

 

[Diary Entry – January 13th, 1978]

 

He’s not my brother.

I don’t know what he is. But he’s not him.

There are things he remembers wrong. And other things he shouldn’t know—but does. He watches me like he’s waiting for me to slip up. Like he’s studying me.

And sometimes I swear I catch him mouthing things under his breath when no one else is looking.

Mom and Dad are still blind to it. But I think that won’t last much longer.

It’s creeping toward them, whatever this is.

Whatever he is.

I won’t run. I won’t play dumb.

I’ll figure this out. I have to.

Even if it kills me.

I watched him from behind the cracked doorframe.

He was in the living room, just… sitting. Staring at the static screen of the old Zenith like it was playing something only he could see. His head tilted occasionally—too sharply, like a dog hearing a sound out of range. His hands lay perfectly still on his lap, fingers curled inward like dried leaves. No tapping. No twitching. Nothing.

That was the first sign. My brother never sat still.

I waited for nearly thirty minutes, my legs aching and the wood floor biting into my knees, but he never moved. Not even when Mom called out that breakfast was ready. Not even when Dad passed by, muttering about picking up supplies.

He only spoke when he was alone. Whispering.

I couldn’t hear the words through the door. But I caught the rhythm—like a chant or a nursery rhyme. It made my scalp itch.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I slipped out of my room. I wore the thick socks that muffled my steps, the flashlight tucked into my sleeve like a secret.

He was gone from his bed. The sheets were neat. Too neat.

I left the hallway light off and crept downstairs. The old boards moaned under my weight, but I held my breath and moved between the creaks.

The living room was dark except for the TV. It flickered faintly, not static now, but a strange deep-blue screen with no image. The air was heavy—like something had been breathing in it all day.

I heard the whispering again.

Not from the couch. From the basement door.

I moved closer, barely breathing.

He was talking to someone.

His voice was hushed and sharp. Like he was arguing. But the second voice—it was wrong. Guttural. Wet. Like trying to speak through water and broken glass.

“I told you I’m trying,” he said.

Then silence.

Then: “No. Not her. Not yet.”

My stomach turned.

I backed away, slowly, every hair on my neck standing. Just before I turned to leave, the door creaked open an inch. I froze.

I could see his eye through the gap.

He was staring directly at me.

But he didn’t say a word. He just smiled.

I ran.

Didn’t stop until I was locked in my room. I shoved the dresser against the door. I could still hear my heartbeat in my ears 

I waited until morning to move it. When I opened the door again, the house was quiet. Sunlight bled weakly through the hallway window.

And my brother was sitting at the breakfast table, sipping juice.

Like nothing ever happened.

But his smile lingered too long when he looked at me.

This week’s chapter is one of the most chilling yet. A story of a brother who returns… but isn’t quite himself. It's a reminder that not all ghosts wear sheets. Sometimes they wear familiar smiles and butter toast like they always did. Until you notice something… off.

Read the full chapter above and tell us in the comments:

What would you do if someone you loved came back… wrong?

 Chapter 13: Hollow Echoes

 

I watched him from the crack in my door.

 

My brother—if I can even call him that—moved like he was trying to imitate something he once was. His steps had rhythm, sure, but not familiarity. It was like watching a puppet figure out how to dance.

 

He stopped at the hallway mirror. I held my breath.

 

He stared too long.

 

Not the casual glance of someone checking their hair, or their clothes, or a pimple. No. He was looking into it like he was trying to remember the concept of reflection itself. His fingers twitched at his sides. Then—this part still makes my stomach knot—he smiled at himself.

 

But the smile was wrong. Like he didn’t fully understand what the muscles were supposed to do. Like he'd only read about it.

 

And then, without warning, he turned. Walked away like nothing had happened.

 

I waited. Counted to thirty. Then stepped quietly into the hall and followed the creaks he left in the floorboards.

 

He wasn’t in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen. Not even in the living room.

 

No sound.

 

I went back to my room and opened my notebook.

 

 

---

 

Diary Entry

 

I know it sounds crazy to say this, but… he’s not who he was. I’m not being dramatic or paranoid. I swear I’m not. It’s in the way he looks at his hands like they’re tools, not part of him. The way he watches people when they aren’t looking, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong so he can mimic how to react.

 

Last night, I stayed up. I thought I heard him walking down the stairs after midnight. I didn’t follow. I couldn’t. My legs refused. But I heard something... like whispering. From the walls? From the basement?

 

I need to know more. Tomorrow, I’ll try to find where he goes.

 

He hums now. Tunes I’ve never heard. Not quite music—more like... notes strung together out of habit. And sometimes he gets the lyrics wrong to songs I know he used to sing all the time. I asked him today about our old hide-and-seek spot behind the woodshed. He blinked and asked, “Did we used to do that?”

 

We played there every summer.

 

I can’t trust him.

 

But I have to keep pretending.

 

I just need to hold on. Watch. Record. Stay calm.

 

Stay human.

 

I closed the diary with a snap and held it against my chest. The room felt colder than before, like someone had just walked through it. My window was shut. I checked twice.

 

A soft sound tapped beneath my fingers.

 

Wet.

 

I pulled the notebook away and felt a chill crawl up my spine.

 

There—leaking out from the bottom edge of the pages—was ink. Thick and sluggish. Blacker than anything that should’ve come from my pen. It crept down the side of the book, staining my blanket like veins branching across snow.

 

My breath hitched.

 

I flipped the journal open to the last page I had written.

 

But it wasn't the diary entry anymore.

 

It was filled—every inch of it—with frantic, looping words. The lines trailed over one another like a hundred overlapping screams, all written in my handwriting:

 

Who am I who are they am I me who am I who are they who who who

 

The ink was still wet. Still moving, like it was bleeding into the paper.

 

I slammed the book shut.

 

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just shoved it deep into the nightstand drawer, slammed it closed, and leaned back against the headboard, staring into the ceiling’s cracked plaster. My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a mile. I couldn’t stop shaking.

 

I whispered to the dark.

 

“I'm still me.”

 

But something deep in my head whispered back:

 

"Are you?"

Chapter 14 “Where am I ?”

 

I don’t remember falling asleep. Only that my eyes burned and my head ached, and the next thing I knew, gray morning light pressed through the curtains.

 

For a moment, I thought last night had been another one of my episodes—my imagination running away with me, again. I reached for the diary to prove it wasn’t.

 

When I opened it, I froze.

 

Every page—front to back, even the cover itself—was filled. My handwriting, but not mine, scrawled so thick it bled through the paper. The words layered over each other like graffiti carved into flesh.

 

Who are we who was he who are we who was he who are we who was he

 

Over and over, blotting out every entry I had ever written. Even yesterday’s. My thoughts, my fears, swallowed whole.

 

My hands shook as I dropped the diary onto the floor. It landed face-down, but I swear I could still feel the words staring through the pages.

 

I forced myself to stand. My legs were unsteady, but I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

 

The house was silent.

 

Too silent.

 

But not empty.

 

The smell of toast lingered in the air—warm, fresh, as if breakfast had just been made. And underneath it, faint but real, came the sound of eggs frying, slow and steady, a whispering sizzle from the kitchen.

 

I swallowed hard.

 

“Hello?” I called out.

 

No answer.

 

Just the hiss of something cooking.

 

And the unmistakable sense that whoever was making it wasn’t my family.

 

 

The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet.

 

The pan on the stove hissed faintly, but no one spoke, no chair scraped the floor, no footsteps shifted.

 

A woman stood with her back to me, shoulders hunched slightly as she stirred the eggs. Her hand moved in a slow, mechanical rhythm, like she wasn’t cooking so much as mimicking the motion.

 

I swallowed hard and stepped closer.

 

“Mom?” My voice cracked. “Is that you?”

 

She didn’t answer.

 

Something in me pushed forward, desperate for her to turn around. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and grabbed her shoulder.

 

The woman spun, and I saw her face—

 

My face.

 

But not mine.

 

The skin too pale, the eyes too wide, the smile cut too sharp across her cheeks. It was me, twisted, wrong, grinning as if she had been waiting for me all along.

 

I screamed.

 

And suddenly I was outside—flat on my back against the rough bark of a tree. The cold bite of forest air stung my lungs. My travel bag sat beside me, half-open, as if I’d only just dropped it.

 

“[Static]!” I hear my name being called, is it my name my father’s voice cut through the trees, calling me. Urgent. Too close.

 

I scrambled to my feet, running toward the sound, the outline of the car just coming into view—

 

And then I jolted awake.

 

I was in my bed.

 

My heart still hammering, my breath ragged, sweat clinging to my neck. The diary lay across my face, heavy, suffocating.

 

I pulled it off and stared. The last entry was still there, the one I’d written last night—the words thick and endless:

 

Who are we who was he who are we who was he

 

The pen was still in my hand, dangling loose between my fingers, the ink wet at the tip, about to drop to the floor.

The Book is reaching Climax .....can't wait for next Chapter

💬 Reader’s Corner – Books That Inspired This Story

Psychological Horror Meets YA Suspense -

• The Sleep Experiment – Jeremy Bates
• Mosquito Man – Jeremy Bates
• Suicide Forest – Jeremy Bates
• The No-End House
• The Asylum Confessions – Jack Steen

👉 All books available on Amazon

📚 As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.

🎨 From Storytelling to Sketching: A Creative Corner

Like his mom (that’s me!), Fritz doesn’t just write—he draws, sketches, and visualizes scenes before writing them. If you’re raising a young storyteller-artist too, here are some Amazon finds we love:

✍️ Stationery & Art Tools Fritz Swears By:

• Canson XL Sketch Pad – 100 Sheets
• Prismacolor Premier Colored Pencils, 72-Count
• Faber-Castell Pitt Artist Pens – Manga & Drawing Set

📚 Reader’s Corner – Books We Love This Week

Whether you're into mystery, coming-of-age, or something dark and magical, here are some thrilling reads to go along with Blood in the Snow:

• “Coraline” by Neil Gaiman – A chilling tale of parallel worlds and unsettling truths.
• “The Night Gardener” by Jonathan Auxier – Gothic suspense for brave young readers.
• “Small Spaces” by Katherine Arden – Creepy, clever, and impossible to put down.
• “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” by Alvin Schwartz – Classic spooky tales with haunting illustrations.
• “The Darkdeep” by Ally Condie and Brendan Reichs – Kids face their fears when the impossible becomes real.

 ✨ Message of the Day: Bee Happy! Like, follow, and share your favorite rescue pet stories on social media. We can’t all adopt, but we can all share a voice. Help spread the message. Volunteer, donate, support.

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With love,
Tanya Eyssen
🐾 Bee Happy Paws, Claws and More