Outside the window, the wind continued to howl. The house creaked under strong gusts. I got up, walked to the bedroom window, and looked out. The yard was drowning in pitch darkness. Only the weak yellowish light of the single lamp by the gate snatched swirling thick snowflakes from the gloom.
A strange, anxious feeling seized me, tightening my chest. Something important was happening this night. Something fateful.
I returned to the bed and lay down. I did not want to sleep at all, despite the fatigue. The old clock on the nightstand ticked monotonously, showing 11:00 PM.
Vernon was probably speeding along the snowy night highway, thinking about his own things. What did he even think about lately? We lived like strangers. Maybe it all started after we realized we could not have children. Or maybe it was my serious illness three years ago. Vernon had become especially distant then, as if I had become a burden.
Sleep came in snatches, restless and anxious. I dreamed of that old woman. Her piercing eyes. Her dry fingers. “Do not touch the snow,” she repeated in the dream, like a spell protecting me from an invisible evil.
I woke up early, while it was still completely dark. The clock read just past 6:00 AM. Outside, the blizzard had finally stopped. The silence was heavy, dense.
I got up, threw a warm knitted robe over my shoulders, and went down to the kitchen. I mechanically put the kettle on the stove, lit the burner, walked to the window, and froze.
I blinked, not believing my eyes.
The yard was entirely covered in untouched, smooth snow, absolutely white. But leading from the gate to the house, and right up to the windows of the first floor, were clear, very deep footprints.
Men’s footprints. From heavy, large boots. Definitely not Vernon’s.
