The Weight of White

Arthur had always found a kind of grim comfort in the snow. Not the fluffy, postcard kind, but the heavy, wet stuff that smothered the world in gray and white. It muffled the distant hum of the highway, the neighbor’s barking dog, the constant, irritating thrum of life. But tonight, it wasn’t muffled. It was utterly, absolutely gone. The silence pressed in, a physical weight against his eardrums, far heavier than any sound.

He’d been trying to read, curled in his worn armchair, the lamplight a small, defiant circle in the encroaching gloom of his cabin. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but even that felt muted, a stage whisper in a cavernous hall. He tried to focus on the words, but they blurred, his eyes darting to the window every few seconds. The snow was still falling, thick, steady, endless. Each flake seemed to absorb what little sound was left, pulling it down, down, into the deepening drifts.

It wasn’t just the absence of sound, it was the *quality* of it. A brittle, expectant hush. The kind that precedes something terrible, something breaking. He kept waiting for a tree branch to snap under the weight, for a gust of wind to howl, for anything familiar to pierce the suffocating blanket. Nothing. Just the endless, soft descent of white, piling up against the windowpanes, obscuring the familiar outlines of the woods.

Arthur finally tossed the book aside. He couldn’t pretend anymore. The silence had gotten under his skin, burrowed into his bones. It felt like the world had held its breath, waiting. For what, he couldn’t say. He stood, his old joints protesting, and walked to the kitchen window, peering out into the indigo world beyond the glass. The porch light cast a sickly yellow glow on the fresh snow, highlighting its untouched perfection.

Untouched. That was it. No tracks from the deer that usually ventured close to the feeder, no stray paw prints from the feral cats that sometimes prowled his property. Just an unbroken canvas, smooth and cold. He squinted, trying to pierce the falling veil. Was that a flicker? At the edge of the tree line, where the forest began its slow, dark creep towards his cabin? Just a trick of the light, probably. His old eyes playing games.

He rubbed his temples, a dull ache starting behind his eyes. Too much coffee, too little sleep. The cabin was old, settled. It groaned sometimes, the wood contracting in the cold. But tonight, not even that. He walked through the small living room, his own footsteps unnaturally loud on the worn floorboards. To the front door. He stood there, hand on the cold brass knob, listening.

Nothing. Not a whisper of wind. Not the distant, lonely cry of a coyote. Nothing at all. He pulled on his heavy coat, a wool cap, and thick gloves. The air inside the cabin felt suddenly too warm, too close. He needed to step outside, to break the spell, to prove to himself it was just snow, just midnight, just a quiet night. That’s all it was.

He unlatched the heavy deadbolt, the click echoing in the preternatural quiet. He pulled the door open, a rush of arctic air hitting his face. It stung, sharp and clean, but carried no scent, no sound. He stepped onto the porch, his boots sinking a little into the fresh powder. He took a deep, shuddering breath. The cold bit into his lungs, but he felt a perverse relief. He was out here now.

He walked off the porch, his boots leaving dark indentations in the pristine white. He headed towards the edge of the woods, where he’d thought he’d seen something. The snow was deep, up to his shins, making each step a deliberate effort. His breath plumed in the frigid air, dissipating instantly, swallowed by the vast, open space. He stopped, scanning the tree line, the darkness between the skeletal branches. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

Then, a sound. Not a loud sound, not even a distinct one. More like a pressure change in the air, a ripple in the absolute silence. A faint *shhh-shhh*, like dry leaves scuttling, or thin fabric brushing against itself. But there were no dry leaves, not under this snow. And there was no wind to move them even if there were.

His blood ran cold. He spun around, searching. The sound, if it was a sound, seemed to have come from behind him. But there was nothing. Just his own tracks leading back to the small, yellow-lit square of his cabin door. And then, he saw it. A series of faint depressions in the snow, barely visible, running parallel to his own path, leading from the woods towards his house. Not footprints, exactly. More like elongated, shallow grooves, as if something heavy and thin had been dragged, lightly, across the surface.

But they stopped. Abruptly. Just a few yards from where he stood. As if whatever made them had simply… lifted off. Or vanished. He strained his eyes, the biting cold a forgotten sensation. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck, the distinct sensation of being watched. Not by an animal. By something else. Something that didn't crunch the snow, something that didn't breathe.

He stumbled back, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, frantic drum. His foot caught on something, and he nearly went down. He scrambled back to the porch, his fingers fumbling with the doorknob, the metal freezing cold against his skin. He yanked it open, stumbling inside, slamming the door shut and throwing the deadbolt home with a resounding, desperate click.

He leaned against the door, chest heaving, the silence inside the cabin now feeling like a trap. The fire was dying, casting long, dancing shadows. He crept to the window again, pulling back a corner of the curtain. The porch light was still on, illuminating the unbroken white. The tracks he’d made, deep and undeniable. But next to them, the faint, disturbing grooves that led from the woods, stopping short of his porch. And then, a new set of grooves, already beginning to form in the falling snow, moving slowly, deliberately, around the side of his house. Not in a straight line. Like something was circling.

He saw it then. A shape, tall and impossibly thin, almost merging with the falling snow, pressed against the glass of his bedroom window. No discernible features, just a darker shadow against the white. And as he watched, a long, skeletal hand lifted, not quite a human hand, and tapped, *tap, tap, tap*, against the pane. So gentle. So inviting.

Arthur dropped the curtain, his hands shaking so violently he nearly tore the fabric. He stood there, rigid, the tapping echoing in the absolute silence, the sound somehow magnified, cutting through the thick walls, through the very air. He couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even breathe. The sound was so soft, yet so utterly, devastatingly clear. *Tap, tap, tap.* From the other side of the glass. And outside, the snow just kept falling, falling, erasing everything.