Horror Short Stories

Inside a cramped, makeshift shelter formed by an overturned snowmobile, the air is thick with the scent of gasoline, blood, and freezing metal. Outside, a blizzard shrieks, a constant, high-pitched wall of sound that erases the world, pressing in on the fragile space with the weight of a frozen ocean. The only light is a flat, featureless grey that filters through a gap in the tarp, promising no warmth, only the passage of another indistinguishable hour.

The Trans-Canada Highway dissolves into a maelstrom of white. Wind shrieks across the asphalt, burying everything in a thick, suffocating blanket of snow under a starless, iron-grey sky. The only sound is the storm.