"Once Upon a Dark and Snowy Night..." (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The wind howled like a banshee through the skeletal trees, rattling the windowpanes of Liam’s isolated cabin tucked deep in the northwoods. All night the storm had been building—first a whisper, then a murmur, and by dusk a wild, primal roar. Snow now drifted in shoulder-high waves across the clearing, erasing the world in a shroud of white. The nearest neighbor was miles away, the roads long since impassable.
Liam knelt by the woodstove, feeding the fire another armload of birch. The flames leapt eagerly, casting long, wavering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He paused there, letting the warmth seep into his hands. Nights like this reminded him why he loved the solitude—though tonight something felt different, the kind of different that settled into the bones before the mind could name it.
He stood and walked to the window. The swirling snow glowed faintly in the lantern light outside, a storm-born luminescence that made the world feel enchanted…or haunted.
Then--
THUD.
A dull, heavy blow against the front door.
Liam froze. His breath caught, shallow and sharp.
Probably just a branch, he told himself. The wind had been hurling debris through the woods all evening.
But then came a second sound—a long, deliberate scrape, slow and dragging, as though something was seeking its way across the slick porch boards.
Every hair on his arms rose.
Liam reached above the mantel and pulled down the old rifle. His father’s rifle. A relic more than a weapon, but its weight steadied him. He moved toward the door, each step measured, heart pounding a frantic rhythm inside his ribs.
“Who’s there?” he called, though the words came out as a hoarse whisper.
Only the storm answered, its shriek like distant, mournful singing.
Liam leaned toward the peephole. His breath fogged the cold glass. The snow was a swirling vortex, chaotic and blinding—yet in a brief lull, the storm parted like a curtain.
That was when he saw them.
Two eyes.
Watching from just beyond the porch.
A faint phosphor-green glow pierced the darkness—unblinking, unearthly.
And when they blinked, they blinked vertically.
Liam stumbled backward, his shoulder slamming into the table. Somewhere in the storm a low, guttural moan rose—a sound older than words, older than mankind itself. Hunger was in it. Cold. Loneliness.
Another thud hit the door, harder this time, making the hinges groan. The door shuddered inward a fraction. Snow filtered through the crack, swirling like ghost-white dust.
“Not tonight,” Liam whispered, shoving a heavy chest of drawers against the door. The wood thudded into place. The thing outside responded with rhythmic blows accompanied by the sickening scrape of claws—long and curved—testing every inch of the barrier.
He stepped back, gripping the rifle. The cabin dimmed as the lantern flickered. The eyes outside remained fixed on the peephole, unwavering, patient.
Waiting.
And as the storm raged on, Liam could not tell whether the cold tightening around his heart came from the December wind--
or from the ancient thing that had found its way to his door.
* * * * * * * * * *
The clear, handsome voices of The Three Priests singing Jenkins’ “Benedictus” interrupt—thankfully—my ghostly reverie. Their music rises pure and calm, a balm after the night’s wild imaginings.
Yesterday’s winter storm was a dramatic one—the kind that, as darkness deepens and the wind creaks the trees, sets the mind wandering down shadowy hallways. The kind of night where a picture like the one I took—branches clawing at the sky, a lone streetlamp wearing a halo of snow—invites a story of watchers in the storm and ghosts tapping at the door.
But now it is morning.
Now the wee cottage is warm and safe. The soft lights of the Christmas tree glow quietly. Coffee steams in my favorite mug. The music fills the room with peace. Outside, the world is transformed—clean, shining, still. A cathedral of frost and silence.
My thoughts drift toward gentler things:
Christmas cards waiting to be written.
A trip to the post office (once the plows pass).
Maybe even a winter nap as the afternoon softens.
And into this quiet reflection, the old wisdoms of winter settle like feathered snow:
“Snowflakes are kisses from heaven.”
“Winter is a celebration of nature’s quiet beauty.”
“To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold.”
Storms may fill the imagination with ghosts—but morning brings its own magic.
Snow renews the world, smoothing the rough edges, offering a gentle, unspoken invitation to slow down, breathe deeply, and let the heart grow quiet.
Snow is nature’s way of giving us a clean slate--
a moment of togetherness, reflection, and wonder.
And as I sit here, safe and warm, I am reminded:
Winter may rattle the windows, but it also blesses us with beauty.
It may stir the ghosts of imagination, but it also offers peace.
It may unsettle the night, but it restores the morning.
Outside, the forest shimmers.
Inside, the day begins.
And all is well.
* * * * * * * * * *
“In winter’s hush we remember: even the darkest storm carries its own quiet light.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
Liam knelt by the woodstove, feeding the fire another armload of birch. The flames leapt eagerly, casting long, wavering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He paused there, letting the warmth seep into his hands. Nights like this reminded him why he loved the solitude—though tonight something felt different, the kind of different that settled into the bones before the mind could name it.
He stood and walked to the window. The swirling snow glowed faintly in the lantern light outside, a storm-born luminescence that made the world feel enchanted…or haunted.
Then--
THUD.
A dull, heavy blow against the front door.
Liam froze. His breath caught, shallow and sharp.
Probably just a branch, he told himself. The wind had been hurling debris through the woods all evening.
But then came a second sound—a long, deliberate scrape, slow and dragging, as though something was seeking its way across the slick porch boards.
Every hair on his arms rose.
Liam reached above the mantel and pulled down the old rifle. His father’s rifle. A relic more than a weapon, but its weight steadied him. He moved toward the door, each step measured, heart pounding a frantic rhythm inside his ribs.
“Who’s there?” he called, though the words came out as a hoarse whisper.
Only the storm answered, its shriek like distant, mournful singing.
Liam leaned toward the peephole. His breath fogged the cold glass. The snow was a swirling vortex, chaotic and blinding—yet in a brief lull, the storm parted like a curtain.
That was when he saw them.
Two eyes.
Watching from just beyond the porch.
A faint phosphor-green glow pierced the darkness—unblinking, unearthly.
And when they blinked, they blinked vertically.
Liam stumbled backward, his shoulder slamming into the table. Somewhere in the storm a low, guttural moan rose—a sound older than words, older than mankind itself. Hunger was in it. Cold. Loneliness.
Another thud hit the door, harder this time, making the hinges groan. The door shuddered inward a fraction. Snow filtered through the crack, swirling like ghost-white dust.
“Not tonight,” Liam whispered, shoving a heavy chest of drawers against the door. The wood thudded into place. The thing outside responded with rhythmic blows accompanied by the sickening scrape of claws—long and curved—testing every inch of the barrier.
He stepped back, gripping the rifle. The cabin dimmed as the lantern flickered. The eyes outside remained fixed on the peephole, unwavering, patient.
Waiting.
And as the storm raged on, Liam could not tell whether the cold tightening around his heart came from the December wind--
or from the ancient thing that had found its way to his door.
* * * * * * * * * *
The clear, handsome voices of The Three Priests singing Jenkins’ “Benedictus” interrupt—thankfully—my ghostly reverie. Their music rises pure and calm, a balm after the night’s wild imaginings.
Yesterday’s winter storm was a dramatic one—the kind that, as darkness deepens and the wind creaks the trees, sets the mind wandering down shadowy hallways. The kind of night where a picture like the one I took—branches clawing at the sky, a lone streetlamp wearing a halo of snow—invites a story of watchers in the storm and ghosts tapping at the door.
But now it is morning.
Now the wee cottage is warm and safe. The soft lights of the Christmas tree glow quietly. Coffee steams in my favorite mug. The music fills the room with peace. Outside, the world is transformed—clean, shining, still. A cathedral of frost and silence.
My thoughts drift toward gentler things:
Christmas cards waiting to be written.
A trip to the post office (once the plows pass).
Maybe even a winter nap as the afternoon softens.
And into this quiet reflection, the old wisdoms of winter settle like feathered snow:
“Snowflakes are kisses from heaven.”
“Winter is a celebration of nature’s quiet beauty.”
“To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold.”
Storms may fill the imagination with ghosts—but morning brings its own magic.
Snow renews the world, smoothing the rough edges, offering a gentle, unspoken invitation to slow down, breathe deeply, and let the heart grow quiet.
Snow is nature’s way of giving us a clean slate--
a moment of togetherness, reflection, and wonder.
And as I sit here, safe and warm, I am reminded:
Winter may rattle the windows, but it also blesses us with beauty.
It may stir the ghosts of imagination, but it also offers peace.
It may unsettle the night, but it restores the morning.
Outside, the forest shimmers.
Inside, the day begins.
And all is well.
* * * * * * * * * *
“In winter’s hush we remember: even the darkest storm carries its own quiet light.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
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