Luis pushed Emma back toward the couch, his hand shaking as he did. She couldn’t see his expression, but she was sure it was similar to her own – tired, devoid of shock, yet full of fear.

“What do you want?” Luis asked.

Emma could hear how tired he was. The soft grit in his tone, the way his posture slouched, the way his hand trembled before her.

“You’re an interesting man, Luis,” the stranger said. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the rectangular, wooden table in the living room. He pulled out a chair, and Emma’s head began to ache as the legs scraped against the floor. They emitted a grating squealing noise until he clunked the chair in front of the table. The stranger sat down and crossed his legs with polite precision. He proceeded to uncuff the suitcase and place it under the table. Lastly, he placed the revolver on the table, keeping the barrel pointed toward Luis.

“Where’s my daughter?” Luis asked, suppressed anger audible in his tone.

“Dead,” the stranger said simply.

Emma felt horror crack her heart, and Luis did not say anything further. His hand faltered, and he pulled it back to his side.

“As I was saying,” the stranger said, “you’re very interesting, Luis. Most men fall like Matthew does – he turns on the people he loves, and he only requires a little push. You – you get attacked by a wendigo, see a man get shot by his own brother, and watch your daughter get stolen away in darkness and rain, and yet here you are. Waiting. For what, I wonder?”

“How do you know Rose is dead?” Luis asked. His voice was trembling, but he spoke softly.

The stranger rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The wood groaned underneath his weight. “Let’s just say the last time I saw her Mary had a rifle – your rifle, in fact – pushed into her forehead, and she was getting ready to pull the trigger. I left before the show. I’m not terribly fond of gore.”
“So you don’t know that she’s dead,” Luis said.

“Well, no,” the stranger continued. “I didn’t see the murder. But even if your daughter’s head wasn’t turned into a mess of brain matter and bloody bone, Mary would still need to climb down the side of a cliff in the driving rain, sneak by the wendigo, and find her way back here. Needless to say – your daughter is dead.”
Emma reached her hand out to grasp Luis’s, as Rose would have done for her back at the house. He wrenched his hand away; she could feel anger radiating off him in invisible waves.

“Careful now,” the stranger said, cocking his head. “We wouldn’t want to attract any attention to ourselves, would we?”

The stranger picked up the revolver that he had placed on the table. He opened the cylinder, poured the golden bullets into his hand, and placed them in a precise line on the table. When he was finished, he placed empty weapon beside them.

Neither Emma nor Luis moved.

“Humans have an interesting game they play – Russian Roulette. Do you know it?” Luis didn’t respond. The stranger shrugged. “It might not be invented yet. Time is tricky that way. Well, in this game the rules are simple. You load a bullet, like so.”
The stranger demonstrated, picking up a round and sliding it into the silver cylinder.

“Then you spin the cylinder and snap it shut.”

He again demonstrated. The cylinder made a perfunctory clunk as he pushed it into place.

“Then,” the stranger said, “you cock the gun, aim it, and fire.”
The stranger pulled the hammer of his revolver down, aimed at Luis’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked, and Luis let out a loud sigh of relief.

The stranger chuckled. He placed the revolver back on the table. “A primitive game to say the least, but I’ve always found it humorous. In a macabre sense, of course. It’s such a surprising game. One that takes a lot of guts. You never know whether you’ll be able to put the gun down again.”

The stranger picked up the revolver and opened the cylinder again. He picked a bullet from the line, slid it into the cylinder and snapped it shut.

“You don’t have to do this,” Luis said.

“I know,” the stranger responded.

He aimed the gun at Luis and fired again. It clicked.

“You’re lucky,” the stranger said while raising an eyebrow.

Luis turned to look at Emma, and she saw determination flare in his face. His posture changed; his forearms tensed, and he put his leading foot forward. Still, Emma could sense the stranger was laying a trap. He was trying to get Luis to attack him, to goad him into his death. Or maybe he was trying to do something more devilish: to paralyze Luis in place and to shoot him without hesitation.

The revolver’s cylinder clicked for a third time. The stranger let out a barking laugh, and then grasped the next bullet and opened the cylinder.

She had to do something. They were running out of time.

Before Luis could stop her, before Emma could even process her own actions, she ran forward at the stranger. From her mouth she let loose a terrifying roar that was birthed from the deepest pit in her gut. The stranger’s eyes filled with surprise as the small girl rushed at him. To her disbelief, he lifted the loaded revolver – not at her, not at Luis, but at the back window.

He fired.

The explosion filled the small cabin, and the glass shattered as the bullet tore through it. Wind and rain began to billow in, dampening the floor.

The stranger moved with inhumane agility. Before Emma was able to reach him, he had clasped the briefcase’s handcuff around his wrist and was making his way toward the door, leaving the gun and the bullets behind. The last time Emma ever saw the stranger was as he exited the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Then, through the cold, night air, came the wendigo’s scream.

Emma realized what the stranger’s plan had been all along – not to kill her or Luis, but to draw the wendigo to them with noise, and to leave them to their death. If he had shot Luis, it wouldn’t have mattered to him – the task would have been accomplished no matter where he had fired the bullet into the window, or if he had left Luis bleeding out on the cabin floor.

“We need to board up that window,” Luis said. He pointed at the broken glass pane at the back of the living room. “Help me push the couch in front of it.”
Together, they managed to push the couch over to the window. Then Luis lifted it up, his forearms bulging, veins threatening to break free from his skin, and he pushed it against the open window.

“What’s the point?” Emma asked. She was scared, angry, and exhausted. All her emotions were swirling in her stomach as she stared at the couch, at their last, feeble hope for survival.

“What do you mean?” Luis asked. He rushed over to the table and picked up the revolver. He loaded the remaining bullets and snapped the cylinder closed.

“We can’t kill it,” Emma said. She wanted to run, wanted to hide.

That’s not what Mom would do.

That’s not what Dad would do.

That’s what Uncle Matthew would do.

“Emma, look at me,” Luis said.

Emma did. His eyes were kind. Brown flaked with green. In those eyes she saw safety and warmth.

“Listen, nothing on this Earth lives forever. Everything can be killed.”

“That includes us,” Emma said.

“Yes, it does,” Luis acknowledged. “But it also includes that creature, and the evil man who just left. Why do you think he’s afraid? Why do you think he’s running? Because he can die, and he knows it. This thing can die, too.”

Another screech. It was right outside. She could even hear it sniffing, trying to find them. Through the darkness covering the remaining, intact windows, Emma could see its emaciated shadow.

“We need a plan,” Emma said. She didn’t feel very brave as she said it, but she knew she had to be brave in that moment.

For Dad.

Luis smiled, the wrinkles in his face becoming more pronounced. “Damn right,” he said. “Do you have any ideas?”

Emma looked at the kerosene lamps placed throughout the living room. She thought about the lamp in the back bedroom, the one sitting beside the bed on the wooden nightstand.

“What’ll happen if you shoot kerosene?” she asked.

Luis smiled wider. “We’ll burn the bastard,” he said.

Next Chapter: Mary