Wipe head - Chapter 8 : The Mountain Is Not a Myth
The bell above the shop door rattled as a cold wind pushed its way inside, slipping through the cracks in the old wooden frame and whistling like a ghost trying to get in. Snow clung to the boots of the man who stepped in, stamping his feet against the wooden floor with a wet, crunching sound, leaving dark impressions that slowly began to melt into tiny puddles on the warped boards. The small mountain shop smelled sharply of gasoline, dust, and old coffee, a strange mix that made the throat itch but also carried the comfort of familiarity, like home, if home had more shadows than light. Outside, the sky was already turning dark, heavy clouds hanging low, even though the evening had barely begun, threatening snow that would blanket the town in quiet white as if the world itself had pressed a pause button.
"You're closing early again," the gas station man said, tossing a chocolate bar onto the counter with a casual flick of his wrist. The bar landed with a soft thud, bouncing slightly against the worn wood, and the wrapper crinkled loudly in the otherwise muffled silence of the shop.
The shopkeeper didn't look up at first. He was old and thin, the kind of thin that made his coat hang loose and his scarf look like a lifeline he might one day drop. His hands trembled slightly as he counted change, the coins clinking softly and ringing through the dusty air, each metallic note echoing like a tiny alarm. "It's past six," he muttered finally, his voice weak but carrying a sharp edge. "That's late enough." His eyes flicked to the window briefly, watching the snow swirl against the dimming sky, then back to his counting.
The gas station man scoffed, a sound that cut through the warmth of the shop like ice. "You still believe that nonsense?" He leaned against the counter, the fluorescent light above flickering once, then buzzing lazily as if agreeing with him.
The shopkeeper finally met his eyes, his pale face carved with deep lines of worry and memories too heavy to put into words. "It's not nonsense," he said quietly but firmly, the tremor in his voice betraying the weight of decades. "People don't go out after sunset for a reason. There's things up there… things that don't belong in the day."
The gas man laughed, loud and mocking, echoing off the shelves stacked with old snacks, motor oil, and chipped mugs. "Here we go again. Wipe Head, chainsaws, ghosts in the snow," he said, shaking his head slowly, as if trying to shake off the chill creeping up from the floor. "Stories like these are made to scare kids and sell drinks."
The shopkeeper leaned forward, lowering his voice so the words seemed to draw the darkness closer, pulling it into the shop, making it heavier. "I've lived here forty years," he said, each word deliberate, carved with experience and warning. "I've seen cars found empty. Blood on the road. Screams in the night. You don't just imagine that."
"You think you've seen," the gas man interrupted, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing. "Fear makes you imagine things. Fog makes roads twist. Wind makes trees scream. It's nature, not monsters."
The shopkeeper's eyes hardened. They were pale, icy blue under bushy brows, and held a cold clarity that only comes from witnessing things no one else wants to believe. "Then why don't you go up there tonight?" His voice was low, steady, a dare wrapped in the calm of someone who had seen too much to be afraid.
A brief silence followed. The kind of silence that tastes like cold steel on the tongue, filling the room with tension thick enough to touch. The gas man smiled slowly, a twitch at the corner of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe I will," he said finally, grabbing his keys from the counter. They jingled like a countdown. "I'll go up the mountain after dark and come back alive. Then you'll finally shut up about your myths."
The shopkeeper reached out instinctively, but the door was already swinging shut, snow gusting inside like a warning. "Don't," he muttered, voice almost swallowed by the roar of wind outside, but it was too late. The man was gone, leaving a trail of icy footprints that led toward the darkening roads and the shadow of the mountain looming beyond.
---
By nine o'clock, the mountain road was empty, silent except for the distant howl of wind that seemed to whisper secrets through the pines. The gas man's headlights cut through the falling snow, their beams slicing through the night like knives, illuminating icy branches that creaked and sagged under the weight of the storm. Behind him, the town lights disappeared, tiny pinpricks swallowed by the vast darkness stretching above and around him. His radio crackled once, twice, then went silent, dead, like the world had cut off its own voice. He muttered under his breath, shutting it off with a flick of irritation and tapping the dashboard like it owed him answers.
"Nothing but stories," he said to himself, trying to force confidence into his tone. His breath fogged the windows in swirling clouds that mingled with the falling snow outside, a dance of warmth and cold.
He parked near a clearing surrounded by tall trees that seemed to lean inward, watching him, whispering to one another in the language of cracking ice and rustling branches. The wind howled softly, carrying with it a strange stillness, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every heartbeat feel loud enough to be heard by the forest. He stepped out of the truck, boots crunching against ice, leaving prints that vanished almost immediately under fresh snow, as if the mountain itself was erasing him. His breath hung in the air in frosty clouds, mingling with the scent of pine and wet earth.
"See?" he said aloud, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow against the oppressive night. "Nothing here."
The mountain didn't answer. It just waited, silent and patient, hiding the secrets it had swallowed for decades.
A sharp sound came from above, a crack like a branch snapping under impossible weight. He froze, every muscle tensing, the warmth draining from his body as adrenaline surged. Another crack—wood bending—sharp, close, unnervingly deliberate. He looked up just in time to see something drop from the branches.
A viper landed in front of him, coiling and hissing violently, eyes like molten gold reflecting the dim light. He jumped back in shock, slipping slightly on ice, heart hammering like a drum in a festival of panic. The snake slithered away into the snow, leaving a thin trail behind, a fleeting ghost in white.
"Jesus," he whispered, chest heaving, hands shaking. Each breath came out in visible clouds, mixing with the snowflakes falling around him like tiny white sparks of fear.
Then he heard it. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Methodical. Not like a human walking, but like something that measured each step carefully, savoring the space between him and whatever it was. He turned around.
Between the trees stood a figure. Tall, unmoving, watching with a stillness that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. Snow settled on its shoulders, falling in silent flakes that melted before touching the ground. A mask hid its face, pale, stitched, lifeless and wrong, like a toy made from nightmares. The gas man's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His voice, trapped in his throat, seemed to vanish into the snow-filled night.
The figure lifted something in its hands.
The chainsaw roared to life, tearing through the silence with a sound that felt like it split the world. The scream of metal against metal, of engine and terror, echoed through the trees like a banshee caught in winter. The gas man barely had time to react. The figure rushed forward in a blur, faster than human eyes could follow, snow spraying into the air with every step.
One strike.
The impact crushed bone instantly. His neck snapped before pain could register, collapsing into the snow with blood spreading dark and fast beneath him, a stark contrast against the white. There was no scream, no struggle, only the chilling sound of snow crunching under the weight of the body.
The chainsaw shut off. Silence fell again, thick and heavy, settling like a second layer of snow over the scene. The figure stood over the body for a moment, breathing slow and steady, as if savoring the cold, the night, the proof of its dominion. Then it grabbed the corpse by the arm and dragged it toward the trees, disappearing into darkness as if neither man nor machine had ever been there, leaving no trace beyond the blood fading into snow.
By morning, the mountain would look untouched, pristine, the snowfall hiding every secret, every horror, every story whispered too loudly in the dark.
---
Miles away, laughter filled a small restaurant near the city, warm and fragrant with food and the smells of fryers and spices. Six friends sat crowded around a table, plates half-empty, drinks scattered like tiny colorful islands between them. Graduation caps rested on empty chairs, forgotten for the night, small trophies of battles won over essays and exams and late-night panic.
"To freedom," Marty said, raising his glass high, foam catching the light.
"To never seeing exams again," Laura added, clinking hers against his with a grin that could light the whole room.
Sam wrapped an arm around Hana, smiling, the kind of smile that promised tomorrow held only adventure, nothing heavy, nothing dark. "Tomorrow, we leave all this behind."
"Snow, mountains, peace," Luna said dreamily, eyes shining with possibility, hair catching the soft glow of the overhead lights. "No stress. No rules."
Michelle laughed, a bright sound that made the table vibrate. "And no creepy stories, please," she teased, nudging Sam gently.
They all laughed, the sound warm and full, carrying across the empty spaces of the restaurant, chasing away shadows, or at least pretending to.
None of them noticed the way the wind outside picked up, carrying snow across the empty road like tiny whispers of warning. Tickets lay folded in Sam's pocket, bags were packed, phones charged, plans made. The road awaited, a promise of adventure stretching into the unknown, bright and terrifying in its own way.
"Last night together before the trip," Hana said softly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight of fleeting time, of endings that always seemed too fast.
"Best one yet," Sam replied, and for a moment, the warmth at the table seemed enough.
Far away, high in the mountains, something moved in the shadows, silent and patient, like a predator knowing the night belonged to it. And the road waited, stretching into darkness, waiting for the next story, the next mistake, the next scream.