Silhouette in the Snow

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The lodge smelled of cedar smoke and old wool, a ghost of summers past trapped in the timber beams. I’d come to the Berghaus seeking silence—three days alone to finish the manuscript my editor had been threatening me about for months. The alpine retreat promised nothing but snow, solitude, and a fireplace older than my grandfather.

I found two of those things.

The silhouette appeared on my second morning. I was nursing black coffee at the window, watching dawn bruise the sky purple-gray, when I saw it: a human figure standing motionless at the forest’s edge, perhaps fifty yards from the lodge. Perfectly still. Perfectly black against the white.

I blinked, assuming my eyes were adjusting poorly to the early light. But the figure remained.

What struck me immediately—what sent the first thread of unease through my chest—was the snow around it. Fresh powder had fallen all night, coating the world in virgin white. Yet this figure stood in the open clearing with not a single footprint leading to or from it. The snow lay pristine, undisturbed, as smooth as frosted glass.

I set down my mug, the ceramic clicking against the wooden sill.

The figure didn’t move.

I pressed closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass. From this distance I couldn’t make out features, only the stark outline of shoulders, head, arms hanging at its sides. A person-shaped void in the morning light.

My rational mind supplied explanations: a trick of shadow, a stump I’d somehow failed to notice yesterday, morning mist gathering into human-seeming form. But I’d walked that clearing just yesterday afternoon, crunching through older snow to reach the woodshed. There had been nothing there.

I grabbed my coat.

Outside, the cold bit through my layers immediately. My boots squeaked against the fresh snow as I made my way toward the figure, each step sinking ankle-deep. I counted my own footprints as I went—one, two, three—watching them trail behind me in a clear, unbroken line from the lodge door.

The silhouette remained ahead, and as I drew closer, my pulse began to hammer in my throat.

Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

I could see now that it was definitely human-shaped, the proportions too exact to be natural. But there was something wrong with the edges—they seemed almost too sharp, too defined, as though someone had cut a person-shaped hole in reality and the darkness underneath was bleeding through.

Five yards away, I stopped.

“Hello?” My voice sounded foolish in the vast silence.

No response. No movement. Just that terrible, absolute stillness.

I noticed something then that made my skin prickle. The air around the figure seemed to shimmer slightly, the way heat rises from summer pavement. But there was no warmth here—just cold, and snow, and that impossible shape.

I took another step.

And another.

When I was close enough to touch it, I extended my hand.

My fingers passed through empty air.

I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing. The silhouette remained exactly as it had been, unmoved, unreal. I circled it slowly, my heart racing. From every angle it maintained its human form, always facing the lodge regardless of where I stood. When I passed behind it, I could see the trees through its center—or rather, I couldn’t see them, as though the darkness was absolute, consuming even the light that should have penetrated it.

I was standing in the snow, staring at a shadow with no source, trying to make my scientist’s mind accept what my eyes were showing me, when I heard the crack.

Not loud. Just a small sound, like ice settling. But in that vast silence, it was enough.

I turned toward the forest. The trees stood dark and dense, their pine-heavy branches sagging with snow. Nothing moved. But I had the sudden, overwhelming sensation of being watched.

The lodge owner had mentioned something when I’d checked in—what was it? I’d been tired, barely listening, focused on getting my bags inside and the fire started. Something about the property, about the old families who’d owned this land. About not wandering too far into the woods.

I’d laughed it off as local color, the kind of spooky story every remote place seemed to have.

Now, standing in the clearing with an impossible shadow and the forest watching, I wished I’d paid more attention.

I backed toward the lodge, not taking my eyes off the silhouette. It remained frozen in place, but I could swear the shimmer around it had intensified, the edges seeming to pulse almost imperceptibly. When I’d put twenty yards between us again, I turned and ran, my boots slipping on the snow, my breath coming in white clouds.

Inside, I locked the door. Then felt ridiculous for it. What was I locking out? A shadow?

I spent the next hour at my laptop, searching for anything about the Berghaus, the valley, the history of this place. Most of what I found was tourist information—skiing, hiking trails, the scenic alpine experience. But buried in a local historical society’s website, I found a reference to the “vault families,” old money that had built lodges throughout these mountains in the nineteenth century. Private retreats for private business.

One line caught my attention: “The families were known for their elaborate security measures and deep commitment to privacy, particularly regarding their mountain holdings.”

I looked up from the screen. Through the window, the silhouette was still there.

My editor’s deadline suddenly seemed very unimportant.

As the day wore on, I watched the figure from various windows, photographing it from different angles. In every image, it appeared as nothing but a dark blur, the camera unable to capture whatever strange property kept it visible to my eye but resistant to being recorded. The photos showed only the clearing, the trees, the snow.

It was only when the sun began to set, painting the snow gold and orange, that I noticed the pattern.

The angle of the silhouette, the precise direction it faced—it wasn’t random. I pulled out the lodge’s map, marking the figure’s position and sight line. If I extended the direction it was facing, the line pointed directly to the oldest part of the building, the original stone foundation that the wooden lodge had been built upon.

The basement.

I’d glanced down there when I arrived—just old wine racks and storage. But I hadn’t really looked.

The stairs creaked as I descended. I’d brought a flashlight, and its beam cut through the darkness, illuminating stone walls that were far older and more carefully constructed than I’d initially noticed. The wine racks covered the far wall, dusty bottles lying on their sides.

I began pulling them out.

Behind the fourth rack, my light caught something: a seam in the stone, too straight to be natural. I pressed against the wall, feeling along the edges until my fingers found a small depression. When I pushed, something clicked.

The section of wall swung inward silently, revealing a passage lined with metal—modern metal, steel and chrome, utterly incongruous with the ancient stone. And set into the wall, a panel glowing with soft blue light.

A biometric scanner. A keypad. A small lens that could only be a camera.

Or a projector.

I thought of the shimmer, the too-sharp edges, the way cameras couldn’t capture it. The security measures of old families with secrets to keep. Not a ghost. Not magic.

A warning.

I backed away from the hidden door, letting it close. The mechanism was smooth, well-maintained. Whatever was behind that vault was still important enough to protect, even now. And the silhouette outside—the guardian with no footprints, no substance, no shadow—was just another lock on a door I had no key for.

Upstairs, I packed my bag. The manuscript could wait. Some silences were better left uninterrupted, some mysteries better left alone.

As I loaded my car in the dusk, I looked back one final time. The figure was gone, melted into darkness or switched off—I couldn’t say which. But I understood now what I’d been seeing.

Not what was there, but what someone needed me to believe was there.

source: Claude

prompt:

Write a brand new short story nobody has read before (≈1 000-2 000 words) titled **Silhouette in the Snow**.

Genre / Category: Mystery
Mood / Tone: Atmospheric‑suspenseful
Core Theme: Perception

Setting: An isolated alpine lodge surrounded by dense pine forest and fresh snowfall.

Premise / Hook (Idea): A silhouette appears in fresh snow with no footprints.

Story Prompt (full instruction):
Begin the story in the setting described above. Introduce the main character(s) and quickly establish the central conflict hinted at in the premise. Keep the narrative voice and mood consistent with the tone indicated.

Twist (optional but encouraged): The silhouette is a holographic projection used by a secret society to guard a hidden vault.. Foreshadow it subtly earlier in the story.

Additional constraints:
- Choose a narrative voice (first-person / third-person limited / omniscient) that fits the mood.
- Include at least one vivid sensory detail.
- End with a line that reflects the story's theme.

Deliverable: Return the completed story only — no extra commentary or headings.