FICTION BY CHARLOTTE ELEANOR

Charlotte Eleanor writes horror and speculative fiction that drifts between silence, isolation, and the uncanny nightmares. And her stories often end with twisted, tragic love. She is currently pursuing her undergraduate degree in her hometown.

You can read more of her work at Silent Shadows: silentshadows.substack.com

WHEN THE SNOW WATCHES BACK
by Charlotte Eleanor

The wind rattled the window again. I didn’t latch it. I never do.

Mom said the cold would worsen my cough. So I stayed by the hearth, wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the narrow road twisting past our house—the one I had walked just months ago, before the cough locked me in.

The winter never ends here, nor does the wind. It was 1927, but it might as well have been 1827 because things around here never seemed to change.

And lately, I noticed the sound of the wind kept changing. Tonight, it wasn’t groaning—it was whistling. Faint, familiar. Almost like… Sarah, humming in class when the teacher wasn’t looking.

That’s when Mom came in, and I shut the window before she noticed. It wasn’t just the cold that scared everyone. The wind had reached some people before they made it home; Dad said a few even walked out into the snow alone; everyone knew never to go alone. Those few who did never came back. Days later, their bodies would be found inside hollowed-out tents or abandoned cabins, their skin torn, blood drained, bones scattered nearby.

Mom was worried about Dad. He wasn’t home yet.

She sat down on the edge of my small bed, whispering prayers. Her desperation scared me. She got up and went to the living room and I followed her. I could see her eyes locked on the front door.

Dad pushed through it only minutes after. And behind him, another man entered. “He works with me,” Dad said, unwrapping his scarf. “Helps cut timbers.”

Mom looked at the stranger, then at me. “That’s Sylvie. Don’t get close—she’s sick.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” said the stranger. “I’m Laurent.”

Then Mom and Dad headed upstairs to check that all the windows were closed, leaving Laurent and me alone in the living room. In the hearth’s glow, I got a closer look at the him—no more than twenty, only three years older than me. His eyes were blue, and his dark hair curled slightly.

“It’s warm here,” he said after a while. “Isn’t it?”

I nodded, unsure if I should speak. My voice had rusted from disuse—days, maybe weeks, without speaking to anyone. Did he mean it was warm in the house? Certainly he couldn’t mean it was warm outside unless he had the constitution of a polar bear.

I finally found my voice. “You go into the woods every day?”

He blinked. “Yeah. When I have to.”

“And you saw the snow today—outside?” I hesitated, then said, “I wish I could see it too. Outside. I’ve been in for so long.”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“It hears you. Eldront. Seems like it knew you from before.” He was staring at the flame. “You watch the snow outside when it calls, don’t you?”

I didn’t understand and didn’t reply—just looked at him. He looked back, then quickly down at the floor, then all around the house, murmuring—more to himself—“Don’t listen to the wind, whatever it says.”

*****

The next morning, before leaving for work, Dad paused at the door. “You had a friend in school—Sarah, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, lifting my face. “What do you mean, had?”

“We found her in the woods. You know, just like the others.”

My breath caught.

“…and her father said she used to hear voices outside in the snow, calling from the wind. Then one evening, she walked into the wind.”

I didn’t touch my soup that day. My fingers remained stiff even by the fire. I was thinking about what the stranger had told me the night before.

By evening, Laurent came again. Said he was returning an axe. He tried to speak, but the words kept getting stuck, his eyes moving between me and the floor, just like before.

The next day, he returned to borrow ice boots.

And the days after that—he came for no reason at all.

I didn’t realize when it began—just that now, I was waiting for him.

Sometimes he said a word or two. Sometimes he didn’t. He’d just stand by the door, watching me, until Mom appeared. Then he'd ask about Father and leave.

Then, after the snow fell hard and fast one evening—he didn’t come. Not that day, nor the next. At dinner, Mom said the wind might’ve taken him. Dad nodded in agreement.

I didn’t believe them. I wouldn’t! I still waited for him every evening, watching the road outside the window, listening for the knock on the door that never came.

*****

The doctor finally gave it a name—pneumonia. A new word. A curse. They said there was no cure.

As always, the wind kept slamming the window open, and I lingered by it—watching, listening. But one night Granny’s words surfaced in my mind, so real it was as though she were still alive: “If you stare at the snow too long, it’ll stare back at you.”

I wasn’t afraid. Still, I shut the window. Maybe because I discovered another change—the wind didn’t whistle now. It stayed silent, then murmured faintly, like it was talking to itself… like Laurent.

Mom spoke less and less now, since the doctors had warned her about me. She’d come only to drop off meals and stoke the fire.

And when I’d jolt awake at midnight, the wind seemed to soothe me back to sleep.  The nightmares were always the same, again and again, each night: A red eye on the horizon—a creature watching the city from above, waiting for people to be alone. Then it would spread its tentacles, catching them, ripping them apart. Snow and wind clung to its limbs like ornaments.

That night, I had a vision. I saw the wind watching the axe men in the woods. They were chattering nonsense, some humming.

Suddenly one of them stopped. He tilted his head, listening to something in the air—then shouted, “The storm. It’s coming! It brings a beast! Everyone, run!”

It was Dad’s voice.

Silence followed as their axes dropped. Then they ran—for their precious lives, scattering in all directions. In a moment, the wind shook the trees, throwing timbers like matchsticks. The snow hazed the view.

Then—it was silent again.

I woke up gasping. The room was quiet—too quiet. Images from the dream stirred behind my eyelids.

Reaching the window, I opened it. The sky was clear; vast darkness stretched on forever.
I stared outside—was there a glow in the black?

Yes, a faint red glow—like a burning disc.

Like an eye.

Someone inside me whispered how absurd these four walls had been. I could walk the streets again—I just had to jump out.

Yes, just once wouldn’t do any harm. And Mom wouldn’t know, either.

The voice wasn’t mine. It was old. Cracked. I wanted, needed to obey.

I climbed through the window and dropped onto the ice-covered walkway. A soft whistle brushed past my ears—steady, pulsing. I turned, scanning the snow-blanketed dark.

No animals. No footsteps. No one dared to walk on that ice at midnight.

Then it came again.

The sound grew louder as I moved—closer, deeper.

No—

Not a whistle, but a gust. And I remembered too late.

Before I could turn to run, it was around me.

The wind didn’t just blow.

It spoke.

And then I saw them: figures rising from the snow. Long and twisted. Cloaked in black. They circled me, their bodies distorting in the wind, limbs unfurling. Ragged appendages crept toward me, stretching through the storm.

I stood frozen—

Then—a sudden yank at my arm…

“Run!” A sharp voice cut through the howl.

I staggered after it.  My legs nearly buckled when I saw who was holding me—

Laurent.

Just then, the wind slammed into us like a wave. He bent over me, shielding. Something cold and sharp grazed my chin. An appendage. Razor-thin.

Laurent groaned—low and pained.

I tried to move, but my lungs burned and eyes blurred; my throat tore open in another cough.

He caught me again. Held me upright. And somehow—through the snow, through the shrieking wind—we made it home. He climbed through the same bedroom window that I had climbed out of and pulled me through behind him.

Laurent slammed the window shut. I was acutely aware that he and I were alone in my bedroom. The snow’s hissing faded outside. I reached out to him and cupped his face, my breath ragged. “Where have you been so long?”

“Had… had some job back home. Had to stop going to the woods.”

“And you didn’t even think of letting me know!”

“Sylvie… I shouldn’t keep coming here. Not when I can’t stay. Not like this.”

Outside the snow stopped. It was now still and silent.

“I’d go with you. I’m ready.” My fingers curled in his hair. I couldn’t let him go again.

“You’ve got a family here. A home. And me—” He turned back to the window and opened it. Climbed through.

I wanted to say I don’t care, but another cough blocked it.

Laurent jumped outside. Once again, he was gone from me.

*****

Low, clinical voices cut through my sleep.

I blinked my eyes open as morning light spilled through the window.

The doctor stood at the bedside. “Sorry, Miss. But it looks like she’s been exposed to the cold again. Left in the snow, maybe. If her condition worsens…I’m afraid what few medications I have wouldn’t help anymore. And please don’t let anybody stay close.”

I tried to lift my head, but it was impossibly heavy—like my skull had swelled overnight.
The weight sank me back into the pillow.

Mom rushed toward me. “They found them.”

“What?” My voice came out hoarse.

“Your father and the men…they didn’t come back from the woods last night.” Her voice broke with sobs. “The police found the bodies this morning. Their backs were…sliced open. Like an animal would do. All the way down.”

An icy wave passed through me. The dream from last night crawled back, and the figures inside the wind.

The doctor cleared his throat. As Mom looked up, they exchanged a look. She stood up from the bed, tears still streaking her cheeks. The door clicked shut after they walked out of the room.

The sun rose and fell outside the window over and over, but I forgot to count. Time had already warped. All I had was the pain in my head. And the nightmares. The eye—the creature. The beast.

One night, the window creaked open.

Then, soft and brittle footsteps padded across the floor. I lifted my head, barely—just enough to see him.

Laurent. His face looked paler than before, sharp at the edges, touched by the cold.

“You shouldn’t be near me,” I whispered. “It’s…contagious. At least, the doctor thinks so.”

He didn’t answer that. Just said, “Sylvie, I’ve made it. I can fix this now—back to normal again.”

“What?” I tried to speak, but my lungs burned. I wasn’t sure the words even came out.

He went quiet again. Then, suddenly—like a promise—he said, “You’ll feel better soon.”

I tried to smile. “I hope so.”

He followed it up with jokes—awful ones. But I still laughed. Maybe I just liked the sound of him there. Maybe I just liked him here, period.

Then he picked up the bowl of soup by the bed—cold, left from the morning—and began feeding me. My stomach ached with hunger; I hadn’t swallowed a thing since morning. But best of all, Laurent was paying attention to me like a caring lover would do.

*****

He kept coming after that—only at night, when Mom was asleep in her room. I never touched the food she left. I couldn’t. My fingers didn’t move anymore.

One night, while pushing the spoon between my lips, Laurent asked, “Do you have…like, an empty room? Unused?”

I blinked. Did he want to stay here?

“The room next to mine hasn’t been used in months, but it’s barely livable.”

He sighed—then went back to his dumb jokes. And I fell asleep.

I couldn’t tell if Laurent came in the mornings too. The soup—it was warm these days. And sometimes, it tasted metallic.

Then one day, when I looked up at him, he looked different. His wan skin, almost blue from the cold, now appeared ruddy. Color had returned to his face, his lips full.

At night, when my mother was asleep and unaware, Laurent often lay beside me now—his nose and lips brushing softly through my hair, then down to my neck.

Half-asleep, I’d see the eye again. And the creature—its tentacles spreading, reaching me. My hands always slid along his back, pulling him closer, as though he was a talisman against the beast.

But every time I tried to engage him physically, he’d pull away, breathing heavily, “It… it’s getting stronger, Sylvie. You shouldn’t trust me.”

I never understood, just tried to hold him tighter. Closer. But I was weak, stuck in bed.

Still, my skull felt light again. And my eyes weren’t haze anymore. As if the sickness was loosening its grip, slowly.

But a thirst always lingered in my throat now. No matter how much I drank, it only kept growing.

One morning, I finally made it out of bed. My legs buckled at first—then held. A stench lingered in the house—foul, rotten. Mom said she smelled it too, but didn’t know where it came from. She couldn’t open the windows to air the house out, so the smell remained.

That night, I felt restless. I was alone again. Surely Laurent would come? Reaching the window, I checked the clock. 10 PM. The sky outside hung still and silent.

Suddenly, I felt a pain on my fingertip—a thin slice of wood from the windowframe had pricked me. I stuck it into my mouth, sucking to stop the bleed—then headed toward the kitchen to find Mom. She’d have some lotion and a bit of cloth to stop the bleeding.

But as I spread my hand to show her, her face twisted in horror.

Surprised at her reaction, I looked down at it. The skin wasn’t just cut.

It was bitten. By teeth. The flesh was torn, bulging, spiraled with grooves—intertwined and scattered around the wound.

Just then I felt the pain, more intense than before.

And the thirst—the one that never left. I poured water down my throat, though it never worked.

*****

Minutes after Mom went to sleep, Laurent came—as always through the window. He lingered by the wall, eyes looking low. “Sylvie, I have to return. To…you know, home—”

“But you promised!” I couldn’t believe the words—not now. “You said you’d stay.”

“I…I know. And I didn’t mean to leave like this. But after Eldront got its taste again—”

I heard the name before, but nothing more. Wasn’t that a name Laurent had mentioned the night I met him? He’d always left things half-said. “Who is Eldront? Why are you so afraid of him?”

“I actually meant—”

“No, you’re staying here.”

I reached for him and grabbed his arm. “Please!”

I wouldn’t let him go. Never. Then—

Our lips met. My fingers slid along his throat, curled into his hair. “I love you, Laurent,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. His lips brushed my chest—then stopped. He hovered there, breathing fast.

“I’m sorry, Sylvie,” he mumbled. “It’s not just…” His voice broke. His eyes were hazy with tears.

I couldn’t understand what he was afraid of. He never told me he loved me, but I knew he did. He did!

Without meeting my gaze, he climbed through the window and vanished into the night.

Silence fell. But then—

Drip…drip…drip… A slow, wet sound from somewhere behind the wall.

I shifted, standing up from the bed. My legs didn’t tremble; I could walk now.

The sound led me to the room next to mine—abandoned for months. As I pushed the door open, the smell hit first: raw iron and something sweet. Almost rotten.

The floor was wet. But not with water. Something thicker. Red—blood.

My eyes lifted—

And hanging from the ceiling: a body. Skinned. Blood poured in steady streams, coating the walls.

My throat, already dry, forgot to scream. My legs stood still.

And just before I could react—

From the corner of the room, Laurent stepped into the light.

His lips were slick. Dark red. His chest rose and fell as he’d been running.

I stared. “What’re you doin’…”

“Sylvie, run! Now!”

But I couldn’t. The scene before me had frozen my legs.

His body twisted. Shoulders contorted. Limbs warped—long, and thin—blackness stretched from his spine. The same shape I’d seen in the storm.

Then it snapped back. His form human again, trembling.

I recoiled, words spilling from my mouth. “You… you’re one of them. From the snow. Your voice in the wind.”

Laurent gasped for breath. “I thought I could control it. I thought I could stay with you. But…when I fed you—when I gave you the blood—I couldn’t stop. I drank a drop. Then another. And I realized…I can never stop.”

“No, Laurent! It can’t be like this! Listen, you—”

But even as I spoke, the thirst stirred in me again. The memory of the soup—hot, thick, savory. And a doubt: Would I fall ill again without it? Would the walls lock me inside again, forever?

Then—a single drop fell from the ceiling. Splashed onto my cheek.

Something slid from Laurent’s mouth—not a tongue. Not quite. A black, jagged appendage—like a wet tentacle—slithered forward and licked the blood from my skin.

Laurent shouted, “Come back, you devil!”

It retracted—but not fully. Then shot out again, faster.

“Sylvie, run! Please! I can’t hold it back!”

I turned—but my feet slipped on the blood-soaked floor. My head slammed into the wall. And my eyes locked onto the thing.

It reached my face in a second. I screamed. Fire tore across my skin—burning, sharp, like a thousand needles under the flesh.

Laurent grabbed at the base, jammed his fingers into his own throat. And then pulled. With a sickening tear, the appendage came free—along with a splatter of blood and flesh. He threw it on the floor. Then he collapsed, motionless.

The severed limb slithered in the blood like a worm. It moved on its own, squirming on the floor.

I crawled to Laurent. “No. No! What happened to you?”

He didn’t stir.

But, the scent hit me. Blood on his neck. Pooling thick and red.

My mouth filled with saliva. My throat ached. The soup taste returned to my tongue. God, I was thirsty. So thirsty.

And then—it spoke. Not aloud. But inside me—the same old, cracked voice. “You want to be out there in the snow, don’t you? You always did. We can help. We’ll give you a home. No more sickness. And no more walls.”

I shook my head weakly. “Me?”

“Yes, be like us. You won’t fear the cold like the others. It will be your home.”

I looked at Laurent again. At his neck. At the red. I wanted to taste it. Just once.

“You’re right,” the thing whispered. “Do it. The blood…it’s delicious. Only we understand.”

The severed limb slithered closer, rising, coiling. “Let me help.” And gently—it pressed against my lips. I opened my mouth. And it slid inside. My throat burned—salt, copper, metal.

Then—images burst behind my eyes. A circle of figures in strange robes, chanting around a fire. The night sky cracked open—and a red eye emerged above the blackened shore.

“Lord Eldront, save us from death,” they cried. “And from this cold.”

Their bodies twisted. Warped into shapes—like the ones in the snow. Like what Laurent had been turning into.

Then, a boy with an axe in the woods. His eyes blue, hair curled.

The wind howled. The snow surrounded him.

He swung his axe, and it hit a figure’s neck. Tentacles poured from the wound—offering rescue.

He accepted.

The appendages entered his mouth, and his body twisted, limbs stretching.

The creatures surrounded him, but didn’t strike.

He was one of them now.

The scene changed: a girl in a house. Alone. Sick. He visited her every day.

And he fell in love. But the thirst never left his throat. He wanted her blood.

He refused it, deciding to leave the town or to abandon hunting. But her sickness worsened, and he knew she was dying.

So he hunted. Brought blood to feed her. And healed her. But that thing inside—it got the old taste again, turned even more desperate. Every night she slept, it’d come out, reaching her skin, preparing to dig in.

Only her touch—her fingers in his hair—pulled him back to senses…

My vision cleared, and I was back in the abandoned room. I looked at Laurent’s body—motionless on the floor. No longer mine to hold.

Something stirred inside me. The tentacles. I didn’t want to—

But I lunged.

I tore into Laurent’s chest, ripped through skin and bone and threw his ribs aside like twigs.

“I’m sorry,” I kept whispering. “I’m sorry, Laurent. I’m—”

But I drank. Warmth flooded my tongue. And my throat—finally—wet.

The wind called me again, outside. I know the red eye was there.

And I had to go.