A dark, freezing cold storage unit, faintly illuminated by moonlight through a crack. Ice drips, the air thick with the smell of old metal and damp.
Patti woke up to the cold first. A sharp, deep chill that settled in her bones, squeezing. Her breath plumed out, a ghost in the absolute black. She tried to move, but her arms felt stiff, her legs heavy, like they'd been weighted down. Her head throbbed, a dull ache behind her eyes.
She pushed herself up. Her hands, when they found the floor, were numb. The surface was rough concrete, coated in a slick, thin layer of ice. The smell hit her then: old meat, chemicals, and something sweet, sickly. Rot. Her stomach turned over. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting it down.
Where was she? The last thing she remembered was the note, tucked under the latest ice sculpture – a delicate, intricate swan, wings spread as if in flight. It had read: Come find me, my swan. The coldest heart hides the warmest truth. She’d been so stupid. So incredibly, hopelessly stupid.
She fumbled for her phone. It was in her jeans pocket. Cold. So cold it hurt her fingertips to touch. She pulled it out, her fingers clumsy. The screen was black. Not just off, but dead. She pressed the side button again and again, nothing. A shard of panic, sharp and unexpected, pierced through the numbness.
Dead. Completely dead.
No signal. No light. Nothing.
She started to shiver, a deep, uncontrolled tremor that shook her whole body. The cold was seeping into her, a physical presence. It was everywhere. It clung to her clothes, to her hair, pressing in from all sides. She could hear it now, too. A slow, steady drip... drip... drip... somewhere close by. Water melting from ice. Or maybe ice forming, cracking.
Her eyes adjusted, or maybe a sliver of light found its way in. A faint grey line, high up, where two metal panels met. Enough to confirm: this was a box. A metal box. A freezer, maybe. An old one. The kind they used in butcher shops, or the back of a defunct restaurant. The thought made her skin crawl.
She stumbled forward, her feet slipping on the slick floor. Her knee hit something hard, a low groan escaping her lips. She reached out, felt around. It was a metal shelf, empty, rusted. Another one above it. She slid her hand along the wall, searching for a door, a handle, anything.
The metal was rough against her skin, pitted with age and rust. It was freezing, leaching warmth from her palm. She kept moving, a desperate, fumbling circuit of the room. It wasn't big. Maybe ten by ten feet. A cold, dark square.
The dripping continued. Regular. Hypnotic. And then, another sound. A soft, scraping noise. It came from outside the door, the direction she'd felt was the entrance. A dry, grating sound. Like fingernails on a rough surface. Or metal on metal, but duller. Something being dragged. Or something trying to get in.
Her breath caught in her throat. The romantic delusion, the 'Ice Prince' testing her devotion, it shattered. It broke apart like brittle glass, leaving sharp, ugly edges. This wasn't a game. This wasn't a test. This was real. The gifts, the notes, the cold. It was all a prelude.
He wasn't testing her. He was coming for her.
The scraping stopped. Silence. Then, a low, guttural thud against the outside of the door. A deep vibration that rattled the metal, traveling through the concrete floor and up into her feet. Patti pressed herself against the cold wall, her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting the scream that wanted to tear itself from her throat. The sound was too close. Right outside. He was there. And he was about to get in.
“She clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting the scream that wanted to tear itself from her throat. The sound was too close. Right outside. He was there. And he was about to get in.”