Snowflakes melt on the stovepipe. Dead silence. The canvas lies motionless. He hears only his own breath and that of the dog’s. There’s nothing out there for miles. Just trees. Best tighten the guide ropes before dark.
He steps outside, the cold vacuous and bitter. An unmarked blanket of white has fallen across everything. He takes a step and halts. Before him, in the snow, a marking. Perfectly square. Deep in the snow. He feels a sweat breaking out.
He rounds the other side of the tent and looks out across the forest. There he sees them in their thousands. Shallow shadows where square indentations mark the ground at even intervals.
It’s happening again.
Paddy Dobson
16th August 2021