Three Fords raced along the floor of the high-walled valley of snow and pines, their taillights like a splatter of crimson blood in an otherwise black-and-white movie. They roared over the dirt road, swerving dangerously every time they careened into the bushes on either side of the path whose crackling screams were the only indicators of the road’s edge from within the vehicle; the windows were rendered useless by an incessant downpour of rain so thick it might as well have been hail. The first car was stolen; the thief who drove it was alone and shivering with cold and anger, not fear. He could just make out the headlights of the car pursuing him, and he knew his cohorts were struggling to follow the two red blips that were his existence. They, in turn, could see in their mirror three lights: two white, and one flashing red and blue.

Fifteen years later, three Fords again traversed this valley. Snow drifted pleasantly to the ground as they trundled up to a turnoff. The first car turned in to the even shabbier dirt road than the one they had come from, and a few moments later, the GPS veritably shouted, “Turn left in twenty feet.” 9-year-old Emmy rolled her eyes and flipped the off switch; it was a miracle they had managed to find the place with that thing.

It had begun pouring even more severely—the noise of the precipitation deflecting off of the windshield was so deafening that the thief steering the middle car couldn’t hear his friend’s shouts from the passenger seat. All he could do was follow the pointing finger. He looked out into the blur in time to see the pair of crimson lights he had been staring at for an hour veer quickly to the left; the driver must have had seen a turnoff. But abruptly, the pair of lights twisted—they tumbled off into the darkness accompanied by a series of loud crashes, and then they flickered, and in another moment the middle car was hurtling toward nothing but darkness.

The windshield wipers scooped inches of snow off each time they swooshed. As Emmy watched them, she saw them begin to reveal a classic rustic cabin, beautiful with two stories and huge glass windows. She began to hop up and down in her seat, squealing with excitement: “Mommy! Mommy! Please, can I choose my room?”
The mother looked back at the rest of the caravan, and then at her daughter. “Alright, dear.”

Skidding through sludge and rain, the car barely made the turnoff, but in the end, it pulled through. It its driver had no idea whatsoever where he was going. He looked behind, and saw the police car skid dangerously into a ditch. The criminal pressed down on the accelerator; there was no need for the siren to fade into the distance, for it had not been audible before. He swerved around trees ridiculously unsafely, scratching the car and tearing off a side view mirror. In the distance, he saw a cozy-looking cabin with tall windows in the front. They grew quickly in the headlights, and when they became large enough that it was time to press on the brakes, the car hit a patch of mud and skidded. It wouldn’t stop; he couldn’t control it, and finally, there was a sound that could be heard over the deafening rain.

Emmy ran around the house, squealing like the little girl she was. Her first time sleeping away from home, and it was going to be here, in the vast cabin of wonders which she so desperately burned to explore. But then, a room caught her eye. There was no bed, just a huge rug, a few chairs, and a coffee table nicely arranged. It looked quaint. She looked over to her mother, who was just descending the stairs. “How about here, mommy?”
“What, in the living room?”
“Pleeeease?”

Both of the robbers scrambled out of the smoking car; they couldn’t have much time. One glance at the woods told them each that it would be impossible to survive the night out there. So, they looked at each other and together stepped into the house through the broken windows. A man was standing in the room now, in response to the noise, and when they came in he greeted them and invited them further into the abode. As he turned, one criminal caught up to his stride.
“Do you have any family here?”
“No, I’m all alone.” Then, the old man screamed and fell onto his back.
“God—what did you do to him? Get off of him!” But the criminal kept coming back with the knife. And so his partner leapt on him, tackling him to the ground, and planted the criminal’s own knife in his chest. It was too late for the old man.

Emmy watched the puffy white flakes gather on the sill as she set up her bed. For it she simply spread a large quilt over the nice, thick rug, and plopped her pillow where her head would go. It was quite primitive; it suited her nicely.

The man looked at the large grave he had created in the floor by prying up three floorboards and tossing the bodies down the hole. Trembling, he knew he could never live with himself after what he had done. So he propped up three floorboards against himself and stood at the edge of the hole, where he stuck himself with the knife and dragged it downwards; he felt something warm and moist in his arms and realized he was holding his own intestines. As he died, the floorboards fell neatly over his corpse.

“Mommy, please come sleep with me.”
“No, sweetie, you’re a big girl now.”
“But I like to know there’s someone close to me while I rest. It’s comforting.” As Emmy lowered her head to her pillow on the floor, it let out a soft, hollow thunk.
“Good night, Emmy.” Her mother switched the light off. Someone was closer than she thought.