A farmer went into the woods for firewood—but he found something chilling encased in ice.
Henry prided himself on being steady and unflappable, but in sixty years he’d never faced something quite like this. Logic urged him to walk away, to get back to chopping firewood before the storm rolled in. But curiosity—that stubborn, human flaw—kept him rooted in place.
Finally, he made up his mind. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t belong abandoned in the middle of nowhere. If nothing else, it was a mystery begging to be solved—and maybe, just maybe, one worth telling others about.
Henry fetched his sled from the treeline and dragged it into the clearing. Spreading a tarp over its surface to protect it from sharp edges, he braced himself and tried to tip the ice block onto its side.
It was far heavier than he’d imagined. The weight dug into his palms, forcing him to plant his boots deep into the snow for leverage. After several strained attempts, the block finally slid onto the sled with a deep, resonant thud that seemed to shiver through the frozen ground.
Breathing hard, Henry straightened, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. His hands trembled—not entirely from the exertion—and he wasn’t sure if the rapid beat of his heart came from the labor or from the presence of what was inside.
“Well,” he muttered, catching his breath, “guess I’m taking you home.” He gripped the sled’s rope and began hauling it toward the lodge. The weight fought him every step, carving deep tracks through the snow.
The forest around him groaned and whispered in the cold, and more than once he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting the shadow within the ice to shift.
Something about the woods felt different now—heavier, as though the ice had altered its balance. A snap of a twig here, a sudden drift of snow from a branch there—each sound jolted his nerves. Still, he pressed forward, stubborn determination pushing him on.
