Wipe Head – Chapter 13: When the Music Stopped
The mountains did not sleep peacefully that night.
Snow continued to fall in thin, quiet sheets, layering the forest, the cabin, the roof, and the narrow paths between the trees. It swallowed sound, softened movement, and made the world feel distant—like reality itself had stepped back. The sky was heavy and gray, pressing low over the peaks, and the wind barely moved, as if even it feared disturbing whatever waited in the dark.
Inside the cabin, the night had finally claimed everyone.
Sam lay slumped on the couch, one leg hanging over the armrest, his breathing slow and uneven. Hana slept curled beside him, her hand loosely gripping his sleeve. Laura had claimed the bedroom near the hallway, her phone dead on the nightstand beside her. Luna and Michelle shared the second room, exhaustion having pulled them into silence after hours of whispered conversations and nervous laughter.
No one heard anything.
No one sensed the shift.
Outside, above them, Marty sat alone on the roof.
The cold bit into his fingers as he held his guitar, but he welcomed it. The air felt sharp, clean—real. Below him, the cabin was dark, lifeless except for faint warmth leaking from the windows. He strummed softly, barely touching the strings, letting the sound dissolve into the open night.
"This place is weird," he muttered to himself, glancing at the forest. "But kind of peaceful too."
The forest stared back.
Trees stood tall and motionless, their branches heavy with snow, their trunks forming endless black lines that stretched deep into darkness. Somewhere far away, something cracked—a branch snapping under weight—but Marty dismissed it as nothing. Animals. Wind. Mountains settling.
He adjusted his jacket and kept playing.
The melody was slow, unfinished, more feeling than structure. Each note faded quickly, swallowed by the snow-filled air. Marty's eyelids grew heavy. He yawned, fingers slowing.
"One last minute," he whispered. "Then I'll head in."
Behind him, something shifted.
The sound was so small it barely existed—a soft compression of snow, a controlled breath—but the temperature around Marty changed. The air no longer felt empty. It felt occupied.
Marty paused mid-chord.
His fingers hovered over the strings.
A strange pressure crawled up his spine, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He turned his head slightly, scanning the darkness behind him, but the roof edge blocked his view.
"Sam?" he called quietly. "That you?"
No response.
The forest did not answer.
Marty laughed nervously under his breath. "Yeah, okay. Losing it already."
He turned back to his guitar.
That was when the hand covered his mouth.
It came from nowhere.
Rough, massive fingers clamped down instantly, crushing his lips, cutting off air and sound in one violent motion. Marty's eyes went wide as his body was yanked backward with shocking force. The guitar slipped from his grasp, scraping against the roof before sliding off the edge and disappearing into the snow below with a hollow thud.
Marty kicked, his boots scraping uselessly as he was dragged away from the cabin's edge, away from the light, away from safety. His heartbeat exploded in his chest, panic flooding his body so fast his limbs felt weak.
He tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
The grip on his mouth tightened, his jaw aching under the pressure. A second arm wrapped around his chest like a steel bar, lifting him partially off the roof as he was pulled down the side of the cabin.
They hit the ground hard.
Snow burst up around them, icy and blinding. Marty thrashed, his boots kicking into nothing, his hands clawing desperately at the arm restraining him. He felt fabric, muscle, something solid—immovable.
He was dragged further, into shadow, where the cabin walls blocked any chance of being seen.
Marty's breath came in sharp, silent gasps through his nose. His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. He could smell earth, old metal, cold air—and something else. Something rotten.
The hand over his mouth finally shifted just enough for him to suck in air.
"Please—" he tried to whisper.
The figure leaned close.
The mask was inches from his face.
Its surface was pale, cracked, emotionless, with empty black holes where eyes should be. Marty froze, terror locking his body in place. He had no words for what he was seeing, no logic that could explain it.
William's voice came low and calm, brushing against Marty's ear like a blade. "Quiet."
The axe lifted.
Marty shook his head violently, tears spilling freely now. His legs trembled so hard they barely held him upright. His mind raced—Sam, Hana, the cabin, the night, the stupid guitar—everything collapsing into one overwhelming realization.
He was going to die.
The axe came down.
The sound was wet, final, unmistakable.
Marty's body jerked once as his neck snapped, bone and spine shattered by the sheer force. His eyes went empty instantly, his body collapsing forward into the snow as if all strength had been erased from him in a single moment.
No scream echoed.
No one heard.
William stood over the body, breathing slow and steady. Snow collected on his shoulders, his mask, the blade of the axe. Blood pooled beneath Marty, dark against the white ground, slowly spreading before the snowfall began to hide it.
William crouched and picked up the broken guitar neck that had landed nearby.
He studied it.
Then he snapped the remaining strings with one sharp pull and tossed it into the trees.
The music was gone.
Without another glance, William turned and stepped back into the forest. The darkness closed around him immediately, swallowing his shape as if he had never been there at all.
Inside the cabin, everyone slept on.
Morning came quietly.
Gray light filtered through the windows, weak and cold. The storm had passed, leaving behind a perfect, untouched landscape. Snow rested on every surface, smooth and clean, hiding the violence beneath it.
Sam stirred first.
He groaned, rubbing his face, blinking against the light. His body ached from the couch. He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. "Man… I slept like crap."
He looked toward the stairs. "Marty?"
Nothing.
Hana shifted beside him. "He probably went to bed late," she murmured, still half-asleep.
Sam stood, stretching. "Marty! You alive, bro?"
No answer.
Laura stepped out of the hallway, tying her hair back. "Why are you yelling so early?"
"Have you seen Marty?" Sam asked.
She frowned. "No. Thought he slept outside or something."
A cold knot formed in Sam's stomach.
Luna and Michelle joined them moments later, their expressions confused, then uneasy as the silence stretched.
"He was on the roof last night," Sam said slowly. "He said he'd come down."
Hana's face went pale. "He wouldn't just disappear."
They opened the door.
Cold air rushed in.
The snow reflected the morning light, blindingly bright.
Sam stepped out first.
Then he stopped.
There was something near the side of the cabin.
A shape that didn't belong.
"Marty?" Sam called, his voice cracking.
He moved closer.
Then he saw the body.
Marty lay twisted in the snow, his neck broken completely, his eyes frozen wide open, staring at nothing. Blood stained the ground beneath him, partially hidden by fresh snowfall, as if the mountain had tried to erase the crime.
Hana screamed.
Luna dropped to her knees, shaking.
Michelle backed away, covering her mouth, whispering over and over, "No… no… no…"
Laura collapsed against the cabin wall, sobbing.
Sam couldn't move.
His mind refused to process what he was seeing.
Then he noticed the footprints.
Large.
Deep.
Leading away from the body.
Into the forest.
And stopping.
As if whoever made them was still close.
Watching.
The wind moved through the trees.
Somewhere in the mountains something breathed.
Something was watching and waiting for them ....