As he walked, he began to breathe easier, as if the eyes that had been haunting him had slipped back into the shadows and he was alone again. But he watched carefully for any movement among the trees. The snow around him remained unmarked, not even the track of a bird to scar the even surface. He kept the thicker woods on his left, thinking that they would ring the yard and keep him from wandering too far into the depths. He felt the sun sinking deeper towards the horizon as he walked, its light fighting through the heavy branches and becoming more slanted and filtered. The bits of sky visible above him took on a darker blue, with a tint of orange. He was alone in a silent world; it was as if he had been completely cut off from the last vestiges of civilization and now moved among the dead.

That was a little too morbid, he decided quickly. All he needed to do was look for footprints, not dead bodies.

The trees were almost exclusively pine in here, tall and majestic towers of brown bark and green needles, the lower branches of most of them gray and stunted. He noticed where the ends of several had been broken off; the inside looked brown and fresh, and around a few he saw bits of wood scattered below on the snow. Like somebody passed through here and broke them. And not too long ago, either. In fact, the top of the snow just to the left of the nearest tree looked scratched, as if something had been dragged along it.

He crouched and studied the marks. Yes, something had passed through here. The snow looked as if it had been wiped clean. The marks continued in a wide path for about ten feet, then led up to a tree where they disappeared into the bare ground at its base.

What now, hotshot? the Chuckie voice asked. The silence around him seemed to deepen in reply, becoming more complex and intricate somehow, as if it was all part of some master plan with a key that hung just out of his reach. If he could only find the missing piece…

One step at a time. What the hell are these marks? Perhaps they had been made by a branch bending in the wind, or some kind of animal. Still, he felt uneasy again, like the eyes had returned to study him.

He suddenly felt like a rabbit with one foot in the trap.

Backing away from the tree trunk, he searched the woods around him frantically, straining to make out the vague shapes that hovered in the swiftly deepening shadows. Fear had crept up on him with ferocious speed, and now his pulse hammered in his head and his palms became wet with sweat. He felt the hair rise on his scalp.

Get out get out get out get out!