I have spent scarcely enough years exploring to take the weight of the sights I bore this horrid night. And as I sit in my tent, I feel as though my helplessness can only be remedied by reflection, so one may find my writings and turn the other way.

 The present winter has made my adventures difficult, the moon provides a light that is less than half of what is necessary to see where my feet are landing, let alone my immediate surroundings. The lantern clutched in my hand remedied this, but still it was a greater challenge than what I had ever faced before. I was wrapped tightly in my darkest and most insulating clothing, effective during movement in keeping me warm as well as providing contrast against the snow below me. However, the frost still chewed through me, I had underestimated the temperatures the forest would force me under. The large pack strapped to my back helped divide the bitter wind that flowed through my body, yet I still felt my bones rattle beneath my flesh, and my muscles twitch with stress.

 The forest itself felt threatening at night, especially in the midst of the cold. In the day the natural scent and neutral colouring of the environment was therapeutic, rejuvenating even. I could see the dotted, striped patterns in the torn bark of the trees and hear the satisfying crunch of snow underfoot. I would crack a shivering smile whenever I was met with a new clearing, or spot to sit momentarily while I could take in the sight of the seemingly endless stretch of flora around me. In the darkness however, the deepening of the temperature froze the mucus in my nose and blocked any sensation of scent previously possible, the patterns once friendly turned to darkened swirls and lines that if left in the peripheries of my vision would transform into hallucinations of staring faces and claws that snuck out from the pillars that surrounded me. The wind howled and screamed faintly as it rushed over me, and each step forward no longer gave me a sense of peaceful satisfaction.

 As I walked I found myself met with divots in the snow, scattered, uneven, panicked. They emerged from my right and faded once more into the darkness ahead of me, a disparate path through the pitch black night.

 Footprints.

 I am not the misanthropic kind of gentleman that rejects all human contact that surrounds him, but such a sight shook me, a pit formed in my stomach. The image formed in my head of the person that would have left such a pattern, the markings suggested stumbling but I could not imagine someone seeking intoxication in such an environment, nor were there signs of a loss of blood. No conventional injury or debilitation caused this I discovered.

 I had heard tales of men pulled to delirium by the cold, but in each instance someone had been there to seat them by a fire, or cover them in a blanket, or feed them a hot meal or steaming beverage. I had never seen nor heard of the effects of a man left to the cold and its wicked devices uninhibited, and the notion terrified me. Yet no notion or imagined horrors can prepare one for meeting it face to face, and my discovery is one for which I refuse the idea that it was the cold acting as a lone operator, but all my evidence points towards it being the case.

 I found myself in an opening in the trees that the footprints had led to, my foot slid forward and picked up a flimsy smear that laid on the ground. I paused and leant down to pick up the item and as I lifted it the lantern’s light made it visible enough to recognise as a familiar object. It was a woollen glove, dark, not dissimilar to my own. I stored it in my pocket and continued onwards, pausing once more as I was met with its partner. Following the minor clothing were more major items, a jacket and jumper disposed of, followed by a shirt with its buttons popped off, peppering the ground. By this point in my discovery I had a terrible feeling in my chest, the feeling one gets when they become aware of the fragility of their own body, when you can feel the aching pulsing of your own heart and a tension in your body that shakes you to attention. As I traversed further forward, I was met with a sight that has bewildered and terrified me.

 Face down in the snow ahead of me was what could be recognised as a young man, he was stark naked aside from his boots and socks, his trousers hung from his leg, caught on the heel of his boot. Whether by rigor mortis or the cold itself his body was stiff and frosted over, a small pile of snow already beginning to form in his hair. His skin was white with large patches of grey and blue, leading into a pattern of red and purple across his back that formed the painterly stain his skin had taken the colour of. His nails were slightly bloody and small cotton fibers laid under them. His mouth was agape, a streak of drool formed a thin icicle that flowed down his cheek. I looked around the body for a sign of interference from man or creature alike, but the only footprints were that of him and I. The wind let out a ghostly whisper and I felt myself grow even more fearful.

 I decided then that the best course of action would be to set down my tent near the clearing. I would leave the woods the following morning and find the correct authorities to investigate what horrible attack or possession led to the death of the man in the snow. However, my dear reader. I do not believe this will be happening.

 I sit now, alone in my tent. My lantern is providing scraps of light and heat which are no match for the cold wind that cascades over me and slips through the fabric, beating my body and mind alike. I can feel my gloved fingers trembling as I write these words, numbness has seeped through me and has weakened a majority of my body. It is dark, and cold, and lonely. And I am afraid of not only what I have witnessed, but the sense that the same fate will find its way through me, and I will join him in the snow.

 I’m going to leave my tent, and try to find my way home. I can feel the heat returning to my body.