When a Cold Wind Whistles

"Someone once told me stories are best told on a cold night next to a warm flame."

The wind whipped through the trees, scattering the ashes of their campfire into the snowy air.

"Others say, stories of the creature are best left alone. Just saying its name is enough to bring misfortune upon you."

Bud and Larry sat listening, holding cans of cold beer between gloved hands. The old man had been guiding their hunt for three days, and hadn't said much beyond 'Deer, there' or 'Rest now'. Only after an hour silent by the campfire toward the midnight hour had he spoke at all.

"Fifty years ago, on a cold, starless night, I was guiding a camping group." He let his eyes drift to the sky, watching the ashes turn from white, to orange, to black. "Family of four, nice enough folk. Mother worked in town, father was a business man. Both wanted the boys to see something that wasn't concrete and glass."

"He's talking about the Millers," whispered Bud.

Larry nodded, silently remembering the legend that had grown almost as old as the town itself.

"Yes, the Millers, that was their name."

"One of the worst bear attacks in the county history," said Bud, taking another sip.

"There was no bear." The man sat silent for a moment.

In the distance, a branch cracked. Both men shivered, but the old man sat straight-backed, as if he had heard nothing.

"They had a dog too," he added. "Cute thing. Always liked dogs." He reached for the six pack of beers buried in the snow and broke one off the ring.

"Hey-" started Larry, but Bud stayed him with a strong hand.

It didn't seem the old man was asking permission anyway. With a gnarled finger, he cracked the tab with a snap hiss that echoed off the quiet forest beyond. He drained the can in one go, tossing the empty shell at the fire and sending a shower of sparks into the sky.

"My father had always told me no one wanders these mountains for free." He turned his eyes from the fire to look at each of the men in turn. They squirmed under his intense gaze. "I was a willful child. Something I think you two might know something about."

Bud laughed and the old man nodded.

"Yes, I thought so. Well, being the child I was, I had no desire for ancient rituals and hokum." He smiled, but it was thin, like the act was tearing at the edges of his fragile skin. "There's an altar just at the edge of the woods where all guides pay tribute beneath an ancient elk skull that was nailed there centuries ago. I never paid our passage, figuring I could use that money to buy a better bottle when I got back. So, we set off, me, the father, the mother, the two boys, and Rufus, that cute, yapping dog of theirs.

The first two days were really something spectacular. Clear skies, lots of wildlife, and good conversation around the campfire. Much like we're having here tonight."

The men didn't think it much of a conversation but remained silent.

"The first night, we sat around the campfire, drinking and reveling, the second, more of the same, and then there was the third. I should have known from the moment that damned yapping dog took off into the sunset that something was wrong. Never did see that dog again." He reached forward and pulled another beer off the ring. Once again, he drank it in a single gulp.

"You should slow—"

"We looked for that dog for hours, but when it grew dark, we did the only sensible thing; made a fire, left out a tin of food, and hoped the dog would find it before some other creature got to it. As last light faded from the sky, the children fell into a tearful sleep. I hated seeing them like that, but there were more pressing concerns.