Sarah rushed down the high street, her huddled frame reflecting starkly in the darkened shop windows. Even the greengrocers had closed by now; she’d stayed too long, listening to Mrs Clough’s endless prattling on about her vegetable garden and the wreckage it was wrought last time a storm this bad blew in.

She picked up the pace, skidding along the frosty paths with only the howling relentless wind to keep her upright. She pulled her wool lined layers tighter around her and pressed forward, drudging out of town and up the hill to the lone outpost they called home, all the while hoping Lucy was ok. That she wasn’t hiding under her bed, crying over how loud the storm had gotten.

Lucy hated storms, and they hadn’t seen one this bad in months. She’d begged, in her whimpering tone that tore right through Sarah’s heart, not to leave her alone, but Sarah had insisted; _no_, you stay here, it’s too bad out there. I’ll be right back. “But I’m _hungry_”, she’d complained. No matter, I’ll be right back.

That was how it always was when mum was gone; Sarah had to be the bad guy. She’d watched Lucy’s face grow smaller, pressed against the window as Sarah retreated into town to deliver Mr Clough’s syrup. And then she’d been kept far too long, and the guilt and regret of leaving her little sister alone rode her home.

Sarah’s breath was catching, burning in her lungs as she climbed the steep incline of the hill and reached their garden gate. She unlatched it and closed it behind her, when an unsettling sound broke through the howling wind. A banging; loud, clamorous. The snow pulled hard across the frosted landscape of their garden, and Sarah strained to see the house, where the broken beat was coming from. There, in the dim light cast by the porch lantern, the front door was ripping from its hinges, being tossed back and forth by the gails.

She was racing then, seeing the snow collecting in their hallway, dread settling heavy in her veins. She was past the withered orchard when the house came in to view proper and tiny red dots bloomed on the ground before their flapping front door. Blood, as cold as her own, leading from the house, through the garden, and in to the woods. _Oh god, Lucy_, she thought, _what have you done? _