Chapter 2 — Shadows in the Snow

Alice

The Arctic dawn was a pale, muted thing, more a gradual lifting of shadows than the arrival of daylight. Alice stood outside her tent, the frozen expanse of the tundra stretching endlessly before her. The biting wind tugged at her parka, its shrill whine carrying with it a faint unease. Her boots crunched against the icy ground as she shifted her weight, eyes scanning the horizon. The cold bit into her exposed cheeks, turning her breath into fleeting clouds that dissolved almost instantly.

The howls from the previous night lingered, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. They had been unnatural—low, resonant, vibrating not just in her ears but deep in her bones. She could almost feel the echoes of them now, like phantom tremors underfoot. Her logical mind clung to the explanation of wolves, their calls distorted by the Arctic’s acoustics. But behind her scientific rationale, unease slithered in—quiet, persistent. The memory of the enormous footprints she’d sketched weighed heavily on her. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her field bag.

She glanced back at the camp. The tents were still, dappled with frost that caught the weak light. Her team had yet to emerge, the cold keeping them cocooned in their sleeping bags. For a moment, she envied them. But there was work to do, and fear could not be allowed. The Arctic didn’t forgive hesitation. And neither did science.

By the time the others stirred, Alice was crouched at the edge of a snowdrift, cataloging a cluster of glowing moss. It hummed faintly in the dim light, its soft luminescence casting eerie shadows onto the snow around it. She pinched a small sample between her gloved fingertips, marveling at its resilience. In these conditions—no warmth, no visible source of nutrients—it shouldn’t have been possible for anything to thrive. Yet here it was, defying explanation. She quickly sealed the sample in an insulated container, her thoughts already racing toward potential hypotheses.

“Still at it, huh?” Callum’s voice broke the silence. He trudged toward her, breath puffing in rhythmic clouds. His light tone carried a forced levity, and Alice noticed the way his eyes flicked nervously to the horizon between each step.

“You do know coffee exists, right? Warm, caffeinated, life-giving coffee?” he added, his grin briefly flashing.

Alice straightened, brushing snow from her knees. “I’ll take coffee when it starts glowing in subzero temperatures,” she replied, her tone sharp but not without humor. She gestured to the moss. “This, however, might actually be useful.”

Callum smirked but didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze fell to the ground near her boots. His expression shifted, his playful edge vanishing. “Tracks?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Alice followed his line of sight, stomach tightening. The same enormous footprints from yesterday stretched across the snow, partially obscured by wind-blown powder but still unmistakable. Large. Bipedal. Wrong.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Same as before.”

He crouched to examine one, placing his gloved hand beside it for scale. His fingers were dwarfed by the sheer size of the impression. “You’re sure this isn’t some kind of bear? Maybe standing on its hind legs?”

Alice shook her head. “The spacing’s too even. If it were a bear, the gait wouldn’t be this regular. And the size...” She trailed off, unwilling to voice what logic resisted—what instinct whispered.

“Great. So, what? Arctic Bigfoot?” Callum’s attempt at humor faltered, the grin not reaching his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alice snapped, irritation flaring more at herself than him. She crouched, pulling out a measuring tape and carefully recording the dimensions of the print. “It’s probably just... anomalous wind patterns. Something natural.”

“Right. Natural.” His voice was light, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Well, natural or not, I’d prefer it stays far away.”

Alice didn’t respond, too focused on the tracks. She traced their meandering path with her eyes, following where they disappeared into the distance. The farther they went, the more distorted they became, as though whatever had made them was gradually losing form. By the time they vanished completely, all that remained was an uncomfortable silence, thicker than the cold air surrounding her.

Back at camp, the tension was palpable. Marcus was hunched over the communication equipment in the central tent, his brow furrowed. The faint, metallic whine of static filled the space, grating against Alice’s nerves.

“Any luck?” she asked, stepping inside. The warmth of the stove was a welcome relief, and she lingered near it, holding her hands over the heat.

Marcus shook his head, not looking up. “Nothing. It was fine yesterday, but now... I don’t know. It’s like something’s interfering.”

Letting out a slow breath, Alice crouched to examine the radio. Her sharp green eyes scanned the dials and wires. Everything appeared intact, yet the interference persisted, the static rising and falling like the crashing of distant waves. “Could be the storm. High winds, snow interference—it’s not unusual.”

“Sure,” Marcus muttered, though his tone carried doubt. “Unusual or not, it’s... unsettling.”

“Everything about this place is unsettling,” Sara interjected from across the tent. Arms crossed, she leaned against the wall, her sharp features shadowed by the dim light. “And it’s getting worse. Tracks, howls, now this? We’re pushing our luck.”

Alice straightened, her spine stiffening. “We’re scientists. We don’t run from anomalies. We investigate. Document. Learn.”

Sara’s scowl deepened. “You call this science? Because it feels more like walking blindfolded into a wolf’s den.”

“Wolves don’t make tracks like that,” Alice snapped, her voice sharper than intended. “And they don’t glow.”

“Exactly!” Sara shot back. “We don’t know what’s out there. And that makes it dangerous.”

The air in the tent crackled with tension, the unspoken fear weighing heavier than the frost-laden canvas above them. Callum shifted uncomfortably, his usual humor absent. Marcus fiddled with the radio wires, but his hands shook faintly.

“Look,” Alice began, softening her tone. “I know it’s unsettling. But that’s why we’re here. To find answers. If we leave now, months of planning, all the data we’ve collected—it’ll all be for nothing.”

Sara hesitated, her jaw tightening. The fear in her eyes flickered, barely masked by her defiance. Callum muttered something—likely a joke meant to lighten the mood—but it fell flat, humor failing against the weight of the unknown.

“Just... give me one more day,” Alice pleaded. “Let me figure out what’s going on. If things get worse, I’ll consider pulling the plug. But not yet.”

Reluctantly, Sara nodded, though the tension in her frame didn’t ease. Callum’s nervous energy lingered, his glances darting to the tent flap as though expecting shadows to breach the barrier.

That night, the howls came again. Louder. Closer. They tore through the stillness like claws on glass, resonating with an unnatural timbre that made Alice’s skin crawl. Lying in her sleeping bag, staring at the canvas ceiling, she tried to rationalize it—large wolves, territorial, perhaps disoriented. But logic felt hollow against the primal fear prickling her skin. She thought of the tracks, the distorted prints growing less defined as they stretched away. She thought of the shadow she’d glimpsed the night before, too fluid and large to make sense.

Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Each howl sent a tremor through her chest, the sound reverberating in her ribs like a drumbeat. When the noise finally faded, replaced by the restless hiss of the wind, she let out a shaky breath.

She would find answers tomorrow. Whatever it took.

But as her eyes drifted shut, one thought lingered, unbidden and unwelcome.

What if the answers were worse than the questions?