The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism I once read that before someone dies of hypothermia, they are overcome with an urge to strip off their clothes because of how paradoxically warm they felt. The hallucinations and mental confusion from freezing to death made the brain think it was overheating—perhaps a final mercy, or more likely an amusing final joke. Regardless, as I trudged through the knee-high snow in the Norwegian mountains, I think I would have stripped my skin off its bones if it meant feeling the warmth of my own blood. I was a reporter—recording and writing stories in a quiet, sunny little town. The biggest thing I ever covered in a given year were the mayoral elections. I wrote stories of the local apple festival, of school plays the grade school was putting on. Nothing ever big, or career-defining. But this year I was lucky—I had won the yearly Christmas raffle for a big trip, a big story, and a nice big holiday bonus. I was to fly to Norway, get a private helicopter tour from a local, and document this year’s Norwegian Lights and interview a local specialist on the science behind them. A once-in-a-lifetime trip—not that I had anyone but myself to share it with. I was pretty sure that the fact the company would only have to pay for 1 round-trip ticket was half the reason I won the trip in the first place. A trip I was excited for, nonetheless. Well, jokes on me, because the damn helicopter crashed. The blizzard that was now making it a personal vendetta to soak me through with snow and ice had knocked us out of the sky and directly into the ice. The pilot had died on impact, the lucky fucker, and left me nothing but a half-faded map that I couldn’t even read. The snow and mountains stretched ever on ahead of me, my skin pale and joints unmoving as I continued to push myself forward. The wind howled around me, the snow scratching at my face and skin with every updrift. And yet, I marched ever forward. There was a town, I knew—a little town on the ice past the mountains, supposedly in a straight line from where we had taken off from. I hadn’t seen the pilot make any turns or adjustments during the flight, so sadly it was all I could go off of. There were animals around me, seeking their own shelter from the blizzard. Perhaps they were the products of my mind—seeking comfort and company, desperate to not freeze to death alone. Or perhaps a mental attempt to terrify me enough to keep moving—the threat of being eaten alive before I even fell asleep in the snow, keeping me trudging along even as I could feel my limbs creak and the tips of my fingers blacken and bloody. Moving bodies in between the trees caught my frantic eyes, shifting sounds and the breaking of branches and the shuffling of leaves filled my freezing ears. Soon the sounds and body focused, becoming hoofs trampling through the snow, antlers blending in with tree branches. There was a deer in front of me—a magnificent thing. It kept appearing, staring down at me from the clearing that was always just a few yards ahead. Its eyes faced forward, its limbs jointed backwards and its jaw unhinged wider than I thought any animal could go. It wobbled in my vision, trailing me forward on antlers with dyed red tips, following droplets of red in the snow. I followed behind, half sure I was hallucinating, half-delusioned that perhaps it was a sign. The deer grew larger, the closer to the large house in the woods I came. It was a lodge, built of layered trunks of wood and brick. There was the yellow warmth of light beckoning me inside. There was the deer, standing on two legs, its skull staring at me from blackened eye sockets and antlers standing tall on its head. It wore animal skin pants, and wrappings around its chest to hold breasts, and nothing else besides the dark black tattoos inked into pale skin and muscle and leather strips into braided, blonde hair. Its antlers dripped red in the doorway of the hunting lodge. I wondered where it got such a beautiful color in this place of endless white. The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism No matter, my vision went black before I even hit the porch. I woke up warm and naked, which considering the steps of dying to hypothermia, did not seem like a good sign. The room I was in was wooden, the crackling of a fire bidding me good morning as I slowly sat up and looked around. I was in a large bed covered in animal skin and fur, the only piece of furniture in the room except for a single wooden chair at the bedside. There were no clothes for me to change into, nor food or water in easy reach—things that you’d hope for, waking up in a strange house after nearly dying in the middle of the woods. The door was across the room, slightly ajar. Perhaps to tell me that I was free to leave—or maybe, more likely, so that the other person in this lodge could watch me sleep without waking me. I don’t think it mattered, either way. I wrapped the lightest fur blanket around me, and stepped out into the hall. Directly across from my door was a mounted bear skull. It was large, big enough to fit my head between its jaws like a snack, with its maw open in an angry snarl. There was red, dyed into its fur and painting the tips of sharpened teeth. It stared down at me in hunger, and I shivered as I turned away to instead look down the hall. I could see 2 more rooms, but only 1 mask and 1 empty mount facing the doors. The second mask was a Moose’s skull—the antlers spanning the entire gap in the wall between the Bear and the empty mount. It was serious, dark eyes piercing down at me as I raised a hand to trace its fur. The same red painted under its eyes and its skull, symbols and droplets like tears. There was a door directly facing it, and when I opened the door the room was the same as my own. A large bed, covered in animal fur and skins, and a single chair. The third mask was missing, instead an empty mount. There was no plaque to say what animal it was, no shadow or indications of what it could be. Peaking my head into the third room, my eyes landed on an ax leaned against the chair beside the bed. It was big, the blade itself possibly as wide as my own torso. The thought ran through my mind to try hiding it, perhaps under the bed. It was a stupid thought—I don’t even think I could lift the damn thing. And it would probably serve me well to not root through and possibly anger the person that had stripped me naked and left me to wake alone in their house. I left the room and slowly crept back down the hall, passing by the Moose and the Bear and creeping out into the large living room that the hallway lets out to. The ceiling was higher here, showing a massive flute of a brick fireplace that dominated the center of the room and made my joints ache as they defrosted. There was wooden furniture, padded with animal hide and furs. There was a kitchen, reading chairs by the fire, a dining room table, and the prizes of multiple hunts hung on the walls, covering wooden floors, and draped over furniture. Closer inspection revealed work marks, scratches, nails—all homemade, all home stitched and hunted. There was a door, on the far side of the room, simple and unassuming. There were no pictures on the walls, no sign of life besides a pot hanging over the fire with the smell of meat and broth wafting from it temptingly. I carefully crossed the room towards it, leaving the safety of the dark hallway to be out in the open lodge as I let the fire warm my face and I peered into the pot. I didn’t know what I was expecting—maybe answers, spelled out in alphabet-soup—but what I was greeted with was meat, potatoes and wild carrots, and what seemed like onion all stewing in a dark broth. It bubbled invitingly, and my stomach growled. The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism The sound of a door slamming open, the winds howling outside and the fire flickering from the rush of wind made me freeze, heavy footsteps crossing the threshold forcing my breathing to stop as I slowly turned to look behind me. It was a woman, from what I could tell. She stood tall, taller than any person I had ever seen in my life, heavily muscled and tattooed with her only clothing being wrappings around her chest and animal-skin pants and boots. A massive deer-skull covered her face, head cocked at an angle to fit the remarkable , red-tipped antlers through the doorway before eyes became transfixed on me. Blond hair in thick, leather-twined braids poured down her shoulders, and a matching ax hung on her belt by the blade. A carrier full of wood and a simple, large sack slung over her shoulder occupied one hand while the other hand held the front door open, making me shiver as the cold air from outside sucked the warmth from my naked body, the blanket over my shoulders doing little to shelter me. The moment dragged on, quiet besides the screaming winds outside the door and the crackling fire behind me. I stared deep into the black sockets of the deer skull, wondering at what point it would be timely for me to scream as the woman stepped the rest of the way into the lodge, dropping the cut wood to the ground and drawing her ax as she stepped ever closer. I pressed myself back against the brick, a cornered animal as I drew the blanket around me tighter like pathetic armor, eyes wild as I looked for any opening I could get to run that wouldn’t inevitably end up with an ax bisecting my head from my shoulders. Too late, I realized, as she stepped too close and I was stuck craning my head backwards to look up at her as she towered above me. I wasn’t necessarily a short woman—5’5, average height all things considered—and yet it was generous to even say that I was eye-to-eye with the other woman’s stomach. I was pressed up against the brick, scared so shitless my body forgot to even quiver as the deer’s eyes pierced through me. The tattoos covering her skin were lines, swirling and following the form of her like stitching, like the skin she was wearing was sewn onto her. She held the ax with a hand big enough to wrap around my throat with ease, and yet after a moment she flipped the ax around so that the handle faced me, and she wordlessly scooped the pot off the hook over the fire and turned away from me without even taking a breath. Not even a word, or a breath of acknowledgement—just silence and the crackling of the fire to fill the air. She carried the pot to the dining table, already set with two bowls and spoons, where there were 3 chairs all sat at the far end. She sat the pot down and then stared at the side of the table that was missing a seat in silence—contemplation?—before looking over at me with the same intense stare. After a moment she strode over to an armchair, picking it up with ease and moving it to sit across from the chair at the head. It seemed to satisfy her, as she sat back down in her own chair and then turned to look at me. Seeing no other option, I crept forward and sat in the seat so clearly offered to me. The table wasn’t very long, I was easily within arms reach of the other woman—and sitting so close to her now, I felt like a rabbit staring down a very large, terrifying predator. My bowl was filled with the bubbling stew up to the brim, the smell rich and mouth-watering, and in a moment I forget such fears and barely remembered to pick up my spoon as I dug in. The meat tasted like pork, somewhat, I didn’t think there was wild pig in Norway and I saw no pig or boar heads decorating the walls. I thought for a moment that perhaps it was bear, but in the end I didn’t care. The broth was thick, the vegetables and meat warm and filling, and I ate until my stomach felt like it would burst. Eventually I looked up at the other woman, who sat still and stared back at me. After a moment of silence she stood and took my bowl, leaving the pot on the table and instead picking up the sack and going towards the unassuming door across the room. I stayed seated, wondering if I should follow, and yet no protest was made from the woman as I remained in place. The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism She opened the door, revealing stairs going down, and lumbered down them with the heavy sack. My ears strained as I listened intently, and after a moment the sound of carving, of a blade grating against bone, metal cutting through flesh, greeted me back. Had she hunted another kill? Was it food? Another trophy? A moment passed, the instinct to seize opportunity fighting against my better judgment as I felt myself standing up from the table. I tip-toed slowly, ears tense for every creak of wood, every shift of my own weight, as I crept ever-closer towards the front door. Could I escape? Run out into the howling cold winds and hope that the blanket around my shoulders and the terror of falling back into the hands of this woman in the middle of these woods would carry me into safety? Was I safer staying here and seeing what fate had in store? I didn’t know, but as I slipped out the front door my eyes landed on my answer in the form of hidden, gleaming metal. Bear traps. Multiple, spread throughout the front yard in front of the porch, rapidly beginning to be buried under the snow. A few blinks and they were effectively hidden—obscured by the darkness of the storm clouds and the white of snow and ice. It would be impossible to step out further than a few yards and not get caught. Hope, the small light of safety that had begun to glow in my chest, snuffed out like a candle in the wind as I felt a large hand land on my shoulder and draw me back inside to the warmth of the lodge. When I looked up, I was greeted by the cold stare of empty sockets. No hint of anger, nor malintent. Just coldness—like an intelligent animal, waiting for me to make the first move so that it may strike and respond. Words caught in my throat, head starting to spin as my heartbeat pounded loud enough to make my skull ache. My skin crawled, my breathing growing quicker as hands slowly traced down and lifted me aloft, carrying me back towards the room I had woken up in. I was carried like I weighed less than nothing, the ache from my skull traveling down through my limbs. It felt like my skin itself was splitting at the seams, my vision darkening as I was settled back into the fur-blankets and comfort of the bed. Moments passed, the large hands obscuring my vision for a moment, and I was asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but my mouth was dry and my body ached as I slowly awoke and sat upright. My vision was blurred, hunger gnawing in my stomach and forcing me from the bed as I crawled out—after a moment, I realized that I was clothed. Animal skin pants and a heavy shirt, providing my bones warmth as I scratched desperately beneath at the skin. I clambered to my feet, heavily trudging forward and pressing against the door in search of something to satisfy the growing hunger. Across from me was an empty mount, to the left the familiar skull of the Deer in its rightful place on the wall, and to the right the same growling Bear skull. The Moose was missing from its mount—and dread filled me as I slowly made my way down the hall. The smell of cooking meat drew me forward, my nose following the smell to the kitchen—a plate of meat, cubed and cooked and waiting on the table as if just freshly sat out. It felt like a trap, the meat reminiscent of the sharp teeth I knew awaited me outside—I descended on the plate regardless. Midway through scarfing down the meat, I knew it wasn’t bear. It was too lean—not fatty enough for a bear that would be in hibernation in this winter cold. I couldn’t stop eating, though. After finishing the plate of food, my stomach growled in hunger, and the smell of meat led me to look towards the simple door that I knew led downstairs. I braced against the wall as I traveled downwards, the stench of meat and blood drawing me forward as I salivated. The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism There was a long counter, blood soaked and upon it rested cuts of meat. Skin was hanging on hooks, pale and distinctly human, as I stared on in horror and yet...yet the meat on the counter dragged my feet forward, my hands descending and tearing at it, sinew and fat covering my hands as I scarfed and ate. My skin itched and burned, tears streaking down my cheeks from pain and desperation as I ate and scratched. My nails dug into my skin, ripping and tearing at the pain until I could no longer help myself and I looked down at the skin of my stomach. Black lines, raised and stark against my skin like bruises, tattooing along the dips and folds and muscle. Like stitches, holding my skin together. The black marks feel both right and wrong—a new part of my brain comfortable in their presence, and the other part, the dwindling, human , part, deeply horrified and terrified of the things forming from my skin. I was frozen, staring down at the moving lines in my skin as the sound of the front door opening, and footsteps coming down the stairs with a heavy thumping behind it, drew ever closer until they stopped in front of me. I looked up, and she was wearing the Moose. It stared down at me, but instead of fear I felt...protection. Like a guardian was staring down at me with kindness and care. On her hips were her axes, blades dripping with blood onto the ground. In one hand was a corpse—a woman, decked in heavy clothing, still clutching maps and a pair of broken binoculars. In her other hand was a mask of bone. Tears blurred my vision, my arms reaching up for comfort, for warmth—she dropped the corpse of the man and crouched down to give it to me. Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, lifting me aloft and giving me the mask to hold as she carried me with ease away from the corpses and meat and blood, up into the warmth of the hunting lodge. In my hands was a Fox mask, made of bone. Large enough to fit my head, lined on the inside with soft, warm fur. My hands traced the ridges, the stitches in my skin cooling as I lifted it to my face. It fit perfectly. Just like a new skin. »»————- ✼ ————-«« They had finally set out after 3 weeks — a mobilized manhunt in the pursuit of Jane Doe, a reporter with no family from a small town in middle-America, sent to write a small-town article on the Norwegian Lights. Reports of a helicopter that never reached its destination of Tromsø, and a steady stream of distress signals from a region of vast, uncharted woods had called out several hunting parties to the site, but the failure of any of those parties to return had set them on the case personally — Johnathan Smith, and Adam Clay, two experienced man hunters. “A nasty case, John — they took off from Narvik, looks like the blizzard took them down — the distress signal is in the forested region of the Målselv mountains,” Adam looked up from his hunched up position over a litany of maps and notes, “that’s around 3000 square kilometers that she could be in”. “And no sightings from any of the villages? That’s almost 100 miles off course from Tromsø,” John responded back, grunting as he checked gauges and tried to keep the copter steady in the steadily-increasing winds, “the signal is below us, assuming she went in a straight line from the crash she wouldn’t have made it far in these conditions.” The wind howled around them, the turbulence making the copter shudder as John grit his teeth: “This storm wasn’t on the radar, we may need to land at the site and go on foot at this point.” The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism Adam groaned in response, narrowing his eyes as he looked out the side window, before pausing and looking closer — a yellow light, standing out as a beacon amongst the storm of white. He reached out to grab John’s arm, pulling the other man’s attention down briefly. “There’s a light down there, not far off course from the site” he looked back down at his maps, whispering numbers and tracing a path with a pen — ”it’s reachable, all things considered. She’d have been frozen half to death, but it's possible...” “We land then,” John snaps back, “and thank God too, because any further and we may have been joining her unwillingly with these winds. How did the radar not pick up on this? No wonder they crashed.” The winds howled around them as they landed, the trees blowing backward from the wind of the rotor blades as the copter hit land in the same clearing that the snow-covered remains of a two-man copter sat. Adam cussed as he hopped out, adjusting the heavy coat and snow-mask sheltering his skin from the biting cold as he picked his way over, wiping away snow from a shattered windshield and wincing at the frozen corpse inside. There were chunks carved out of the skin, claw marks and a piece of metal impaled through the chest. It looked like an animal had torn chunks out of him — Adam hoped desperately that it was after the man had already been dead. “Yup, this is it, John — identity of the pilot?” “Benjamin Borstad, 42, male, about 15 years experience as a pilot and a Tromsø native, real familiar with the route apparently. It makes no sense that he would have crashed them all the way out here,” John retorts, pulling walking sticks out and shoving heating pads into his gloves as he flexed his fingers. Adam nods, marking the spot on the handheld GPS for later recovery, “God rest his soul — I’ve marked the location on the GPS, the FOA should send someone out to come recover the body soon. Let’s find our Doe.” They set out, trudging through snow and teeth chattering despite the protection and heat supplied through them with multiple packs and thermoses. Adam religiously checked his map and compass as he led the way and John lit the path, and yet the blizzard grew thicker and the winds howled louder — and in a cruel twist of fate, a sharp snap of a branch dumped a tree’s worth of snow down on the two. “Fuck!” Adam swore as he dove forward in order to dodge, snow crushing into his face as he raised his arms to shelter his head, the map ripping out of his hands and being taken by the wind as he was buried. John made a grab for it, stuck up to the hip in snow and unable to move fast enough as the wind swept it off mockingly. After a moment to cuss, John set upon the pile and dug through it, pulling Adam out and pressing against his chest in preparation — but Adam’s gasping for air was relief, as bitter as it was. “The map! Fuck — ” Adam coughed, hacking up snow and beating a fist against his chest to try and better bring air into his lungs, “ — did you grab the map, John?” John groaned, already taking out the GPS and the compass, knocking against it as the radar showed an error warning and the compass needle spun in circles wildly — ”No, and the damn radar and compass are down — are there magnetic fields in this area? It shouldn’t be spinning like this.” Adam’s teeth chattered as he squinted at the compass, watching with dread as the needle wobbled and spun wildly, and turning his gaze to look at the snow they had just passed through. Their tracks were The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism already covered, any trace of their fight through the snow erased as the blizzard raged around them. The wind danced around them, the snow and cold ripping at their coats and slivers of bare skin until Adam’s eyes caught movement in the underbrush. When he saw what it was, he sharply drew in breath and froze, causing John to turn to follow his gaze. John felt terror climb up into his throat as a large, brown body lumbered through the trees, moving slowly and yet threateningly as his eyes pieced together its form — a massive brown bear, snuffing at their tracks and raising its head to peer up at them, licking its lips hungrily. It looked bedraggled and...wrong, its limbs bending in places it shouldn’t, its form shifting and rustling unnaturally. It opened its maw wider than any natural jaw could go, and the two men watched in terror as they saw two hands slowly emerge from its throat, brace themselves on either sides of the bear’s shoulders, and start to push the rest of its body out. The bear’s body wracked and jerked as a head, bearing its skull, emerged from between the teeth, and following it tattooed shoulders, and then its torso. When its hips emerged, John’s eyes fell to the gleaming, blood-coated blades of two massive axes at the same time that he felt Adam frantically pulling on his shoulders, the other man rapidly beginning to back away. “John, John, man, we have to fucking go — !” Adam yelled, back pedaling away frantically — away from their copter, away from safety, in an effort to escape the thing beginning to free its legs and make its way towards them through the trees and the snow John was not one to argue, limbs finally moving at the prompting of his longtime partner and friend. They tore through the forest, branches tearing at their faces, snow impeding every step and wind howling and cackling at them as they fled. Heavy steps followed behind — not at a run, but steady and impeding like a hunter following slowly after its prey. When he saw yellow light flickering between the trees ahead, John pushed harder to reach it — the light of safety from their hunter, the hope of warmth from this bitter cold. Adam reached the clearing first, and the snap of a bear-trap closing on his leg tore John out of his hopeful reverie. Adam went down like a snared-rabbit, his howl of agony lost in the bloodthirsty screaming of the wind and snow. John’s momentum threw him past Adam, some form of cruel luck keeping his path true as he seemed to avoid any trap, freezing as he turned to look at his partner. His leg was mangled, the teeth of the trap digging deep and snapping the bone as Adam sobbed and clutched at his leg and looked up at him. His mouth was forming words — pleading perhaps. For help? Freedom? Death? John couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat — eyes moving up from the pooling-red in the snow to instead meet eyes with their hunter. The black sockets of the Bear pierced through him, the monstrous creature standing on two legs with torso bare besides animal-skin clothing. It lumbered slowly towards them, sure to come upon Adam within the next few seconds — and then John himself, not long after. To run towards it would be against his very nature — and so John turned and ran. Towards the lodge that emerged itself from the snow, towards the warm yellow light that was shining from its interior, on to the wooden porch, hands reaching for the handle as he heard Adam scream and then, with the sound of a blade burying itself into flesh, sharply cut into silence. He slammed through the door, throwing his body against it as he frantically looked around the room he was in. A chair right next to the door caught his eye, and with a grunt and a strained cry, he pulled and pushed and braced it against the doorway to keep the door from opening. To block himself in the hunting lodge. The Hunting Lodge Genre: Horror TW: Hypothermia/Frost-Bite, Horror-Themes, Cryptids, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism When he turned around, he was greeted with the view of a large, open lodge. Animal heads lined the walls, furs making rugs, furniture and wall decorations. Off to the side was the dining room table, and John felt dread build up as he saw what was sitting there. Another creature — a woman, smaller and thinner, sitting prettily in a wooden chair at the head of the dining room table with her back facing him. With a creak of joints, and the grotesque popping of bone, John watched in terror as she stood and started to turn towards him. The door to the lodge began to pound as large hands started to pound against it, the blade of an ax breaking through the wood next to his head — and yet his eyes were locked forward. The woman was wearing a bone Fox mask — red outlining the eyes and forming tear droplets down her cheeks. Her skin bore the same black tattoos as the monster outside — lines, like stitches, holding together the skin. And she looked hungry.