A Script for Iron Taste on the Tongue

“Honestly, Sean, must you drag your feet like you’re pulling a sled full of bricks?” Alice’s voice, sharp as ice shards, cut through the quiet crunch of Sean’s boots on the packed snow. She didn’t wait for a response, already half a dozen paces ahead, her breath pluming white against the stark grey sky. “We’ve got half the north fence line to check before sundown. Grandfather will have our hides.”

Sean kicked at a small, frozen chunk of earth, watching it skitter into a drift. “And whose brilliant idea was it to do the fence line past the old lodge, then? The one we’re not supposed to go near?” He squinted, the biting wind making his eyes water, blurring the distant, dark outline of the lodge. It looked like a hunched beast, abandoned to the winter’s indifference.

“Oh, don’t play innocent. You’re always looking for an excuse to poke around up here. Ever since that… incident with Raina last spring.” She glanced back, a challenge in her quick, dark eyes. “Besides, it’s not like Grandfather checks this far out. Probably thinks we’re still stuck in the bog by the old creek.”

He didn’t answer, just pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, the worn leather of his gloves rough against his knuckles. Alice was right, mostly. The forbidden aspect of the lodge, the hushed tones when it was mentioned, it was like a magnet. But it wasn’t just curiosity. Lately, a tremor had run through Silverwood, a barely perceptible crack in the family’s placid façade. Grandfather’s tight-lipped silences, their parents’ strained smiles, the sudden, forced cheerfulness. It was all a little too thin, like ice over deep, dark water.

The wind picked up, whipping stray strands of Alice’s hair around her face. She shivered, pulling her scarf tighter. “Come on, stop dawdling. This isn’t a leisurely stroll. The sun’s already starting to dip.”

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the wind and the rhythmic squeak of snow beneath their boots. The air felt heavy, pressing in on Sean. The cold seeped into his bones, reminding him of other, less physical chills that had settled deep within Silverwood’s walls. The family’s money, the land, the carefully maintained image—it all felt like a burden, particularly to the younger generation.

“Heard Aunt Beatrice mention something about a surveyor last week,” Alice said, breaking the quiet. “Asking about the north boundary. Specifically, around the old lodge.” Her voice was lower now, a hint of genuine worry replacing her usual sarcasm. She knew, like he did, that nothing around the lodge was ever simple.

Sean stopped dead. “A surveyor? What for?” He looked at her, his stomach tightening. “The boundary hasn’t been disputed in decades. Not since Great-Uncle Silas… well, since he disappeared.” The words hung in the frigid air, unspoken, but felt. Silas. Another family ghost, whispered about, never openly discussed.

Alice shrugged, pulling her shoulders up to her ears. “Didn’t catch the specifics. Just that it was ‘routine’. But Grandfather slammed his fist on the table, which for him is practically an explosion.” She kicked at a snowdrift. “Honestly, sometimes I wish we’d just sell this whole frosty pile of rocks and move to, I don’t know, somewhere with actual internet and no centuries of repressed angst.”

“That’s not funny.” Sean’s voice was sharper than he intended. The thought of selling Silverwood, for all its problems, felt like a betrayal. This land, this house, it was them. Messy, complicated, full of secrets, but theirs.

They reached a particularly neglected section of the barbed wire fence. It sagged, strands snapped in places, partially buried under heavy drifts. A few skeletal branches, ripped from a nearby spruce, lay caught in the wire, resembling bony fingers reaching out. It was a bleak, forgotten corner of the estate.

“Look at this mess,” Alice grumbled, already trying to disentangle a branch. “This is going to take forever to fix.”

Sean, though, wasn’t looking at the fence. Something else had caught his eye. Just beyond the sagging wire, nestled amongst a cluster of thick, snow-dusted cedars, was a small, crude cairn of stones. It looked old, partially collapsed, but oddly out of place. No markers, no remembrance plaques. Just a pile of weathered rocks, covered in a thin, fresh layer of snow.

He walked towards it, pushing aside a low-hanging cedar branch. The air here was stiller, colder. A faint, almost imperceptible metallic tang hung in the air, distinct from the usual winter smells. He knelt, brushing away the fresh snow with his gloved hand. The cairn wasn’t just rocks. Beneath them, partially exposed to the elements, was something else. A rusted edge of metal.

“Sean, what are you doing?” Alice’s voice was hushed now, her earlier annoyance replaced by a sudden unease. She had followed him, her steps softer than before.

He didn’t answer, his focus entirely on the exposed metal. It was a box, old and iron-bound, covered in a thick layer of reddish-brown rust. He tugged at it, but it was firmly wedged in the frozen earth. He worked his fingers under the lip of the lid, gritting his teeth against the cold that pierced his gloves. Slowly, with a groan of metal and a crack of ice, the lid lifted slightly, revealing a dark, earthy cavity.

“What is it?” Alice knelt beside him, her breath puffing out in excited, nervous bursts. Her elbow accidentally jabbed his side, but he barely noticed.

He pulled the lid back further, exposing the contents. There wasn’t much. A small, tarnished silver locket, almost black with age, its delicate chain tangled. And beneath it, a brittle, folded piece of paper, yellowed with time. He carefully reached in, his fingers numb, and retrieved the paper. It crackled in his hand. It was an old newspaper clipping, the print faded but still legible.

“What does it say?” Alice leaned closer, her nose almost touching the page. “’Local Man Vanishes… Silas Caldwell… Silverwood Estate… No Trace…’” She trailed off, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s about Great-Uncle Silas.”

Sean felt a cold dread spread through him, colder than the wind. He glanced at the locket. It was heavy, unexpectedly so. He fumbled with the clasp, and it sprang open, revealing two impossibly faded photographs. One was of a young woman, smiling shyly. The other, almost completely obscured by scratches and discolouration, seemed to be of a child, a girl. He couldn’t make out her features.

“This can’t be good,” Alice breathed, her eyes wide, flickering between the locket and the clipping. “They always said he just… left. No one knew why. But this…”

A sudden, sharp snap broke the stillness. It came from the dense line of spruce trees, perhaps fifty metres to their east. Like a twig under a heavy boot. Sean’s head shot up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The hopeful glow in his stomach, the thrill of discovery, had evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling certainty. They weren't alone.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Alice was already scrambling to her feet, her gaze darting towards the sound. Her face was pale, all traces of her usual bravado gone. “Someone’s out there. Sean, we need to go. Now.”

He clutched the locket and the clipping, stuffing them into his coat pocket. He glanced at the box, then quickly pushed the stone cairn back over it, hoping to conceal it. His fingers trembled with adrenaline and cold. He stood up, his eyes scanning the tree line, trying to pierce the gloom of the approaching twilight.

There was nothing. Just the whispering wind, the swaying branches, the vast, unforgiving expanse of white.

“Run,” Alice urged, already backing away, her eyes still fixed on the spruce trees. “Just run.”

He didn't need telling twice. They turned and plunged back into the open, snow-covered field, boots churning, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The air felt colder now, sharper, biting at their exposed skin. Sean kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a figure emerge from the trees, silhouetted against the deepening twilight. He didn't. But the feeling of being watched, of having disturbed something ancient and malevolent, clung to him like a shroud of ice.

They didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the manicured lawn, the main house a distant, warm glow in the gathering darkness. Their lungs burned, their legs ached. Alice leaned against a sturdy maple, gasping for air, her face flushed red from the exertion and the cold. Sean, still clutching his coat pocket, felt the hard outline of the locket pressing against his ribs.

He walked towards the back porch, his movements stiff, almost mechanical. The kitchen light spilled out, a beacon of normalcy. He could hear the faint clatter of dishes, the murmur of voices. His parents, Grandfather, Raina… oblivious. He stopped, looking back at the dark expanse of Silverwood. The snow was beginning to fall again, light, feathery flakes drifting down, erasing their tracks, blanketing the secrets they had just unearthed. The cold seemed to deepen, settling into the hollows of the world.

The locket felt strangely warm through the fabric of his coat. What had they found? What story did this tarnished silver and faded newsprint whisper? He didn’t know. But the taste of rust, of old iron, seemed to linger on his tongue, a bitter promise of what was yet to come. The hope he usually felt, a deep-seated belief that things would always work out at Silverwood, was now fractured. Yet, a different kind of hope sparked within him—the hope that by unearthing this, by confronting it, they could finally mend some of the fissures in his family’s foundations, even if it meant breaking them further first. The falling snow seemed to absorb all sound, all worry, leaving only the quiet pulse of his own blood and the unsettling knowledge that Silverwood held more than just winter’s chill.