Bitter Cold by J. Joseph Wright Page B

feeling. That thing might have gotten out of the canyon. He shivered, thousands of pinpricks streaming down his spine.
    Then he heard another shriek. Logan’s eyes widened, his mouth stretching with surprise.
    Jeff bolted alongside the house toward the back porch, wondering what scene of carnage he’d come upon.
    As he approached the back patio, he saw light penetrating the fog, reflecting off the snowflakes. His feet slipped on the icy wood surface where the winter storm infiltrated below the awning. Logan stayed just behind, his labored breath signaling his presence. Jeff felt energized. His heart wanted to jump out of his chest when he heard more screaming, agonized wails of a woman in distress. It sent him into an even deeper frenzy.
    It had to be Carrie Mitchell, Doug’s wife. Hairdresser. Mother of four. Her screams reverberated throughout the small valley, winding along the ten-acre property. Jeff imagined her trapped by the monster, bathed in blackness. He pictured her slipping in the snow and the dark substance surrounding her, eating away at her fur-lined jacket, dissolving her exposed hands and face.
    Brightness blinded him momentarily, shrouding the shapes, obscured by a thick layer of fog. The Mitchell’s weren’t millionaires, but like most on the street, they could afford luxuries like a large back deck with a pergola adorned in wine grapes, and a hot tub that could fit just about every adult on the road.
    Jeff shielded his eyes. With his other hand, he felt for his son, realizing it might not have been a great idea to lead Logan directly into the creature’s jaws. Yet some other instinct took hold, a reaction he couldn’t resist, similar to the response triggered when one hears a person drowning and calling for help. Jeff would always be the first one into the water.
    He took Logan’s hand, dragging the boy in his haste. He justified bringing Logan back there, to where the black maw of death might very well have been attacking someone at that very moment, by reasoning his son could help when the time came.
    He stopped dead in his snowy tracks.
    “Hey!” Logan ran into him, forcing him a step forward.
    “Quiet.”
    Splashing water.
    He remembered the way the black snow flowed toward Dexter like a stream. He’d heard the same kind of noise then, a watery, sloshing sound.
    As his vision adjusted, he recognized a hot tub gazebo. One of those fancy cedar numbers with tinted windows and room for a sitting area. The spa was lit up like the Vegas strip, strings of white Christmas lights wrapped along the sides, then tracing the roof.
    The same image kept flashing through his head. He’d arrived too late. If he’d only gotten there to warn them sooner. If he’d only heard Carrie’s cries for help earlier.
    He shook the thought away, approaching the spa while still clutching Logan’s wrist. Through the gazebo’s darkened windows, he noticed someone had been in the hot tub, though it didn’t seem anyone was in there at the moment. He got close, pressed his hands, and peered in.
    “Nobody’s in there,” Jeff craned his neck, searching the corners to make sure. Nothing. “What happened to them?”
    He flashed his son a look and showed him an open palm as if to say, ‘stay put,’ while rounding the gazebo to the entrance. Inside, he found what he’d expected. The hot tub looked like it had just been used—jets running, Etta James on the speakers crooning, ‘ At Last.’ Burning candles encircled the rim of the tub, some floating in the turbulent foam, some burnt out or ready to at any moment.
    Jeff shivered. The clues spoke volumes. A scene of struggle. No way would the Mitchells leave their precious spa in such shambles.
    Another shriek made Jeff’s ears ring. He knew the responsible thing was to deliver his son from harm at all costs, but another human being’s life hung on the line. He couldn’t leave her like that. It sounded like she was going to die.
    She screamed again, and this time