Snow came down sideways as the two cowboys rode into Windy Run, their silhouettes dim behind the rising blizzard. The town's lanterns flickered weakly through the white haze, casting long, unsteady beams across the main drag. Three horses pushed forward—two burdened with riders, the third dragging a narrow sled behind it, where the outlaw lay stiff and silent.
Elias Granger rode in front, back straight, hat brim neat even in the storm. His long coat was dark wool, cut sharp at the shoulders, dusted now with snow like frost on polished stone. Beside him, Hank Mercer slouched deeper in his saddle, collar pulled high, hair uncombed and beard half-frozen. His coat was patched, his gloves mismatched, but he rode like a man born in storms.
Between their horses, the outlaw's body bumped lightly with each drift the sled crossed. He'd been alive that morning—awake enough to curse them both while blood ran hot from the hole in his shoulder. Somewhere on the trail, sometime after noon, his curses had quieted, then thinned, then stopped.
"Windy Run," Hank muttered through the scarf around his mouth. "Damn place lives up to the name."
Elias squinted at the swirling snow. "Long as the sheriff's awake, we'll collect and move on."
They reached the stables first, a long, low building huddled against the wind. A lantern swung above the door, creaking as the blizzard toyed with its chain. Old Man Corbit stepped out before they could dismount—a wiry figure bundled in so many layers he looked like a scarecrow stuffed too full.
"Evenin', boys," Corbit croaked. "Storm's blowin' in mean. Best tie down anything you don't wanna see in the next county."
Elias dismounted with practiced ease, flipping Corbit two silver coin. "Three horses. Feed 'em, blanket 'em."
Hank climbed down slower, joints stiff from the cold. He gave Corbit another coin. "If they freeze, we'll know your name to blame."
Corbit snorted. "Ain't lost a horse yet—don't intend to start with yours."
The cowboys unhooked the sled from the third horse. The body lay under a heavy tarp, edges crusted with ice. Together they gripped the sled's handles and dragged it through the deepening snow toward the saloon at the center of town—the only building still glowing bright, laughter spilling out into the storm.
"Drink first," Hank said. "Law business after."
Elias nodded once. "We earned it."
Snow swirling around them like a curtain, they hauled the dead outlaw to the saloon porch, leaned against the railing, and stepped inside—shaking off the cold like two men ready to thaw, drink, and forget the road for an hour.
Hank struck a match with his thumb as they crossed the saloon threshold, the small flame trembling in the draft. By the time the swinging doors slapped shut behind them, his cigarillo was already glowing. Elias followed with his pipe stem set firmly between his teeth, tamping it once with his thumb as he lit it. The sweet curl of tobacco drifted around him like a personal fog.
For five seconds at most the sound of the room dipped. Laughter thinned, chairs creaked, a few card players paused mid-deal. It wasn't fear, just the instinctive sizing-up strangers received in a place where half the men carried guns and the other half carried grudges. Then the noise resumed, louder, rougher, as though the moment had never happened.
The two bounty hunters moved between crowded tables, dodging elbows and sidestepping a spilled drink. A pile of coins clinked at one card table; at another, someone muttered a curse under his breath. Elias caught the tension in the air—half storm, half saloon—but kept walking.
At the back stood a brass-trimmed bar polished to a shine that didn't belong in a frontier town. Behind it was a bartender dressed finer than some bankers Elias had known—navy vest, crisp white shirt, hair parted sharp enough to cut a man. He greeted them with a smooth smile.
"Evening, gentlemen. Rough storm blowing in. Telegraph man said it'll get worse by midnight—might even shut down the line."
Hank didn't bother with pleasantries. "Two double whiskeys. First round's on me."
"A fine choice," the bartender said, sliding two heavy glasses their way.
Hank raised his in a silent toast. "To a job well done."
They clinked. Elias took a deep draw, letting the burn settle warm in his chest. Hank knocked his back in a single swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before exhaling a ribbon of cigarillo smoke.
The bartender leaned in, polishing a glass more out of habit than need. "If you don't mind my asking—what line of work puts two men out on a evening like this?"
Elias opened his mouth, but Hank spoke first, voice gravelly and blunt.
"Bounty hunters."
The word hung in the air just long enough for a few nearby gamblers to glance their way, then drifted off like smoke caught in the draft.
The hours slipped by like warm whiskey, smoothing the edges of the cold outside. The dead man on the sled—once a snarling outlaw, now just a shape under a stiffening tarp—was turning rigid in the rising storm, snow piling over him until he looked more like a forgotten log than a person. But inside the saloon, life pulsed loud and bright.
Drinks came steady. Laughter rose and fell in rolling waves. A piano man played with numb fingers, hitting half his notes but doubling the spirit of the room. Hank drifted away from the bar, whiskey in hand, smoke trailing behind him as he found himself a seat at a card table where a few rough ranch hands were dealing in small stakes.
"Mind if I join?" he asked.
They looked him up and down—his patched coat, his half-frozen beard, the holster riding low on his hip. One of the players shrugged. "Buy in's 50 cents."
Hank tossed the coins with a smirk. "Let's make this interesting."
Across the room, Elias found comfort near the roaring fire. The heat washed over him, thawing the last traces of the trail. His pipe rested between his fingers, glowing soft in rhythm with his breaths. He'd settled into a seat beside a woman whose beauty did not belong to such a storm-scoured town—dark eyes, polished curls pinned neatly above her neck, a dress that shimmered faintly in the fire's glow.
She smiled at him, warm and sure. "You look half-frozen, stranger."
"I was," Elias said, combing his neatly trimmed beard with a touch of pride now that the frost had melted away. "But I believe this fire is bringing me back to life."
They talked—about the weather, about the road, about nothing and everything. Her laughter was light, like bells softened by distance, and for a while Elias forgot about the dead man outside, the long miles behind him, the law office still waiting for their drop-off. The saloon hummed with good spirits, and all seemed right.
Fine whiskey. Warm fire. Cards and music. A lovely woman's voice. If fate had any courtesy, the night would have rested there.
But outside, the wind howled louder. The blizzard thickened, pressing against windows like a living thing. Lanterns flickered. Horses in the stable stamped uneasily, sensing something before any human did.
And though no one inside the saloon knew it—not Elias with his calm smile, not Hank with his winning hand, not the bartender polishing another glass—the real trouble had already begun its approach, stalking silently through the storm.
Terence had slipped out of the saloon unnoticed, bowl of beans and salted pork steaming in the crook of one arm, lantern in the other. The woman who'd prepared the meal had pressed it into his hands with a smile and a simple request: "Take this to Corbit, will you? Man's out there alone all night."
He'd nodded, wrapped himself in a thick wool blanket, and stepped into the storm.
The blizzard was worse now—snow up to his knees, wind clawing at his face, lantern light swallowed inches from the glass. Each step was a struggle, boots dragging through drifts that seemed determined to pull him down. By the time he reached the stable doors, his fingers were numb, and the bowl's warmth felt like the last bit of life in him.
He pushed the big barn door open.
At first, he saw nothing. The lantern cast thin lines of gold between the wooden pens, long shadows stretching like claws. The horses should've greeted him—their snorts, their shifting weight, the creak of leather tack. But the barn was silent.
Too silent.
"Corbit?" he called softly.
No answer. Only the groan of the storm pressing against the roof.
He stepped inside. The heat hit him first—unnaturally warm, as if the stables had been shut tight with a furnace burning inside. Then came the smell. A thick, coppery musk that didn't belong anywhere near hay or horses.
Terence froze. His breath caught in his throat.
He took a careful step forward, then another. The lantern shook in his hand, shadows jumping wildly across the walls. He reached the first pen, braced himself, and leaned over—
And saw Corbit.
Only… not the Corbit he'd known.
The old stableman was hunched unnaturally over the body of a horse. His clothes were gone, skin slick with sweat despite the cold outside. His back—larger somehow, muscles bulging and shifting under the flesh—rose and fell with heavy, frantic breaths. Terence could hear the sound now, clear as a whisper in his ear:
A deep, greedy gulping.
He went cold all at once, colder than the blizzard could ever make him.
Corbit didn't turn. Didn't even twitch. Just kept… feeding.
Terence's lips trembled as he mouthed a prayer, barely audible.
"God… give me the strength to run. Please, oh Lord…"
The words steadied his legs. On the second recitation, he felt life surge back into them.
He stepped back—slowly at first—then turned. Dropping the bowl of beans. Then bolted, the lantern swinging wildly in his grip, leaving the stable door wide open behind him, snow and wind roaring inward like a warning bell.
Back at the saloon, an argument had erupted at the farthest table.
"You filthy cheater!" one man shouted. "You had a card under the table, Colt!"
Colt, broad-shouldered and burly, grunted. "Yeah, I saw it."
Billy, seated beside the man, lunged, fist connecting with the man's jaw. Chairs toppled. Glasses flew. The corner erupted into chaos—three on one, bartender abandoning his station, others watching eagerly.
Amid the chaos, the front doors slammed open. Terence stumbled in, chest heaving, eyes wide and frantic. He fainted, hitting the floor with a thump. By the time the card brawl had ended and the cheater was dragged out, pistol-whipped and face-first into the snow, Terence had been lifted to the fire and was beginning to regain consciousness.
"Corbit… it was Corbit… he killed the horses!" he shouted, voice cracking. "All of them… I saw it!"
The bartender froze, setting his glass down. "Terence… what did you say?"
"I swear! He's killed all the horses!"
Buck, the enforcer, tall and imposing holding a pump shotgun low in hand with a history as a gunfighter, listened. so the bartender and buck came up with a plan. Six men were chosen to confront Corbit: Colt, Billy, Hank, Elias, Buck, and Terence. All men agreeing without seconds thought.
The bartender produced a bottle of old Overholt rye, poured double for each, and laid out instructions. "Wake the Sherrif, tell him everything. Gather real firepower—he has two deputies. Then… set off to the barn. Give Corbit what's coming to him."
Hank puffed on his cigarillo and nodded. The men drained their glasses in one appreciative gulp, warmth spreading through their chests. Around them, the saloon continued as if nothing had changed, but these six men now had a mission.
Bundled against the storm, they stepped through the saloon doors. The wind had gone strangely quiet, almost unnervingly so. Hank and Elias walked side by side at the back of the group as the doors swung shut behind them with a hollow clang. All six men looked to the right, where the stable sat in the distance, its door hanging open. A faint, flickering light spilled from inside, casting long, dancing shadows on the snow. Chills ran down the men's backs, carrying a sense of foreboding. They drew their pistols and began making their way toward the sheriff's office opposite the stables, the crunch of snow under their boots echoing in the still night.
As they walked, each following the footprints of the man in front, a low‑pitched scream pierced the air—something human, something agonized, coming from the stables. Fear set their hearts pounding. All six men pressed forward, moving as though the snow up to their knees was nothing at all.
They pushed open the sheriff's front door. Tanner sat at the desk, head nodding slowly, as though he had just been awakened from a dream. Buck stepped inside, and Tanner snapped upright. "Shut the door—you're letting all the heat out!"
All six men entered. Tanner's sharp gaze swept over them as he ordered them to holster their guns while he slowly drew his own. They obeyed, standing wide-eyed in the dim light, the faint smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
"What is the matter with all of you?" Tanner demanded.
Buck started, his voice tense. "The stables… Corbit killed all the horses. We need to get over there and get him—make him pay."
Tanner's brow furrowed. "What? Corbit? That old man wouldn't kill a mouse. There's no way in hell he'd kill a horse. Now all of you—get out."
"It's true!" Terence shouted. "I saw it with my own eyes. He was sucking their blood!"
Tanner's face shifted from anger to worry—he knew Terence never lied. He headed upstairs, the six men drawing their guns again. Tanner knocked on the sheriff's office door. No answer. He knocked harder.
A sudden voice came through. "What do you want?"
"Tanner, sir—there's been an incident that needs your attention."
Movement came from inside—boots thudding against the floor, clothes rustling. Then the door opened. Tomahawk stood there in full sheriff's attire, hat in hand, eyes scanning the group.
"What happened?"
"Sir… it seems Corbit killed all the horses at the stable."
Tomahawk ran his fingers through his mustache. "Alright. Let's get the fucker. Wake Dusty—he's in the basement."
Guns in hand, the men trudged toward the stables, leaving a long, disturbed trail in the snow. As they passed the saloon, people pressed their faces to the windows, breath fogging the glass. The door opened and a woman slapped a man. "Close the door, you're letting the heat out, idiot!" she shouted, then slammed it shut.
Halfway to the stables, Hank tripped and fell, revealing someone's hand sticking out of the snow—holding a pistol. "Hey! Look!" he yelled, brushing snow away. Beneath lay the body of the cheater from the card game, his neck severed, blood frozen in thick rivulets.
Everyone gathered, faces pale.
"We beat him up," Colt proclaimed, "but we didn't kill him. It must have been Corbit."
Tomahawk's jaw tightened. "The fucker wakes me from my sleep and kills in my town? This ends right now."
He moved faster toward the stables, the men following closely. At the doors, he raised his lever-action rifle and stepped inside. The group fanned out across the entry.
Carnage met them: horses lay in their pens, necks gaping, eyes wide in frozen terror. The smell of iron and hay mixed with the cold, damp air. Silence screamed louder than words.
"Holy mother of God…" someone whispered.
"May God protect us from this savagery," Terence murmured, his voice trembling.
Blood drained from Hank and Elias's faces. The men looked ready to throw up their beans on the floor.
Deeper in the stables, in the back-right pen, sat a man holding a lever-action rifle, upright but still—except his throat had been torn open, blood spattered across his chest, arms, and weapon.
"Is… is that Corbit?" someone asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Confusion rippled through their faces.
Then it came—from the shadows above the men.
A creature.Lanky.Skin grey and pale.Hunched on all fours, its movements unnatural, twitching in the flickering light.
I leaped down from the roof the first to go was the sheriff. Its claws ripped his head clean from his body, spraying blood like a fountain. Gunfire erupted from the men.
Then it leapt onto Dusty. Dusty raised his lever-action to block it, but the creature crashed down on him, long claws digging into his chest around the gun. The men fired wildly, bullets ripping through its body. One shot struck Duty's leg—and the creature seized Dusty's skull, tearing it from his shoulders.
It turned, eyes glinting in the darkness, and leapt through the front door.
Hank, mid-reload, muttered, "What the fuck …"
The others reloaded rifles, shotguns, and pistols, hands shaking, voices mumbling prayers. But all they heard was the quiet, crying wind… and Terence whispering.
"We… we need to tell the others. We need to go back to the saloon," Terence said.
"Alright, men—get your shit together. Let's go," Hank commanded.
"Yeah—let's go," Elias echoed.
They stumbled back to the saloon. Light spilled through the wide-open doors; eight people stood outside, staring at the stables.
Inside, the men gasped for breath, chest heaving. Questions came at them all at once.
"What happened?""Where is the sheriff?""Where is my husband?" a woman cried.
Hank, between breaths, said, "There… there's something out there… it's dangerous."
"What is out there?""A monster," Colt said."It wouldn't die," Terence added.
Panic rippled through the crowd. Fearful whispers and frantic chatter filled the room.
The bartender stood behind the bar, gripping a shotgun. Hank and Elias made their way over. Hank's hands shook as he fumbled for a cigarillo. He dropped one, picked it up, and struggled to light it. A kind woman sat beside him, steadying his hand. He took a deep drag. "Thank you, miss," he said, voice rough. She offered a worried smile.
Elias downed a double whiskey, finally calming his trembling hands. "Oh boy… we're in deep shit," he whispered.
"Yeah… this is bad," Hank agreed.
The men nearest the fire continued their card game, oblivious. Outside, night deepened, shadows lengthening. A crowd gathered in the center, discussing next steps. Hank and Elias sat quietly, smoking and drinking.
After some time, a plan emerged. A small woman in a white dress approached. "We're boarding up the windows," she said.
Men were already dismantling tables with hammers, preparing for the unknown to strike again.
Hank walked up to a group of women huddled around the fire. The orange glow flickered across their anxious faces, casting long, wavering shadows along the walls and ceiling.
"I'd like a room," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the chill of the night still clung to him.
Annie gave a faint, tired smile. "It's on the house," she replied, handing him a key. A small paper tag dangled from it with the number thirteen scrawled in ink.
Hank bowed slightly. "Thank you, ma'am."
The women murmured among themselves, voices low and trembling, returning to their fearful conversation as Hank moved away. He found Elias leaning against the bar, the smoke from his pipe curling around him like a ghost.
"We're sharing a room," Hank said quietly. "It's too dangerous out there. We might have a chance if we stick together."
Elias nodded, puffing slowly on his pipe, the glowing embers casting brief shadows across his face.
The room was upstairs, at the end of a narrow, creaking hallway. Hank opened the door to find a single bed, a worn wardrobe, and a small window rattling against the wind. Without hesitation, he ripped the doors off the wardrobe. The wood splintered under his hands, giving him a small, fleeting sense of control in the chaos outside.
He went back downstairs and grabbed a hammer from one of the men finishing up the barricade on the front door. Each strike of the nail into the window sounded unnervingly loud in the stillness. Thirty nails later, the boards were secure, yet every shadow outside seemed alive.
Finally, he returned to the bed, sat down, and lit another cigarillo. The smoke curled lazily upward, filling the room with its sweet, acrid scent. He sank back, muscles loosening, but even as exhaustion claimed him, the wind outside whispered against the walls like dry, skeletal fingers.
Down at the bar, Elias could hear anxious voices.
"We only have a few more hours before we need more," someone said, voice tight with worry.
Ida replied firmly, "We can use the tables."
"Okay," Pearl said. "That will buy us more time. But when we run out, we'll have to go for more wood—it's only a few steps to the shed."
The group didn't move. Fear pinned them to the floor for now. They were warm, huddled together, back to back, sharing what little body heat they had. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks toward the ceiling. Shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching across the walls with each flicker, as if trying to reach the corners of the room.
Outside, the wind moaned and rattled the windows, shaking the boards Hank had hammered in place. A soft scraping noise drifted over the snow, barely audible, like claws sliding over frozen earth. Everyone froze. A shadow passed over the window, long and sinewy, and the firelight flickered as if in fear itself.
Hank's fingers tightened around the cigarillo. Elias pulled his coat closer, eyes darting toward the ceiling where the shadows pooled. Even the barroom chatter fell into uneasy silence, replaced by the faint, rhythmic creak of the building swaying against the storm.
A louder snap outside—a branch, or perhaps something heavier—made everyone flinch. The creature, whoever—or whatever—it was, waited. They could feel its gaze, patient, calculating, hunting.
Every floorboard groan, every rattling shutter, every whisper of the wind seemed magnified. The room was warm, but the cold terror from outside seeped in through the cracks, threading itself into their bones.
They huddled closer, some clutching hands, some gripping weapons they dared not raise. The firelight threw dancing shapes across terrified faces. Every sound—the creak of a floorboard, a gust rattling the window, the low sigh of the wind—was a potential herald of something watching, waiting, stalking.
And somewhere in the darkness, beyond sight but always present, the monster lingered, patient and hungry.
For now, they were alive. But they all knew the quiet was only temporary