Page 1

The first light of dawn crept over the Wasatch Mountains, painting the snow in hues of pale gold and blush. Rachel Caffrey carved a smooth line down Upper Horizon, savoring the crisp resistance beneath her skis.

This was her favorite time to ski—before the day-trippers arrived, when the mountain was still waking, its slopes quiet and serene.

She adjusted her line to avoid a patch of scraped snow near Moose Junction.

The spring skiing had been exceptional this year, but the unexpected cold snap overnight had transformed the mountain.

Temperatures had plummeted, and the icy crust on the snowpack made every turn more technical.

The cold air stung her cheeks and caught in her lungs, sharp and invigorating.

Perfect conditions for her first run of the day.

Rachel had given lessons until sunset yesterday—starting with the intermediate group still struggling with parallel turns, followed by two hours with the advanced clinic, and ending with a private session for a tech CEO who’d spent more time bragging about his ski gear than actually listening to instruction.

She loved teaching, but the solo moments like this were what fueled her passion for the sport.

She had the mountain almost entirely to herself.

The lifts weren’t even open yet, but instructors had special privileges during these early hours.

A few others were already scattered across the slopes, their distant figures tiny specks against the pristine snowfields.

She spotted Michael Wright, head of mountain security, making his rounds in his usual red jacket.

But mostly, it was just her and the whisper of her skis carving through untouched snow.

Rachel tucked into a racing position as the slope opened up, letting gravity pull her faster. The icy air roared past her ears, and she felt the pure thrill of speed, the mountain humming beneath her as she flew. There was nothing like it—just her, her skis, and the endless expanse of white.

Later, she'd be back to teaching wedge turns to nervous beginners, coaxing smiles from them as they conquered their fears. She genuinely enjoyed it—watching the transformation as students learned to trust themselves. But this moment, in the stillness of dawn, was hers alone. It reminded her why she’d fallen in love with skiing in the first place.

She slowed as she approached Eagle’s Rest, a rocky outcrop that offered one of the best views of the mountain.

The early light kissed the peaks, turning them into a sea of glowing ridges that seemed to stretch forever.

The valley below was still shadowed, the towns and roads hidden in the muted blue of twilight.

Rachel scanned the familiar landscape, letting her gaze drift down the slope—and froze. There, just below her, was a lone figure, perfectly still against the backdrop of glittering snow.

Something about the figure tugged at her instincts. They were hunched slightly forward as though carving a hard turn, but they weren't moving. No one held a stance like that without shifting, not in temperatures like these.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice carried away by the quiet vastness of the mountain.

No response.

Her watch read 6:13 AM. The lifts wouldn’t start running for another forty-five minutes, and no one should be out here before then except staff or patrol.

Rachel hesitated, then pushed off, skiing a cautious arc toward the figure.

The icy snow beneath her skis crackled as the temperature held steady in the low teens.

Overhead, the wind began to stir, carrying the sharp bite of another cold front.

As she closed the distance, details began to emerge.

A blue and black ski jacket. High-end racing boots.

Everything about the figure screamed expertise—the alignment of their body, the angle of the poles still clasped in gloved hands.

But as Rachel drew closer, a sickening unease curled in her stomach.

Something was wrong.

She stopped about thirty feet away. “Hey, are you okay?” Her breath plumed in the frigid air, hanging there before fading into the morning stillness. No answer. The figure didn’t move.

Her radio was back in her locker—a decision she was now regretting. She hadn't expected to need it so early in the day, but Michael would have one. She could ski back and report this… but what if the skier needed immediate help? The idea of leaving them alone and unmoving made her hesitate.

She moved closer, her skis rasping against the icy surface. Fifteen feet away now. Ten. The figure’s goggles were frosted over, obscuring their eyes. The wind tugged at their jacket, but their body didn’t respond to the movement. Her heart began to race.

Five feet.

The frost on the skier's jacket shimmered faintly in the dawn light, and then Rachel saw the pale, frozen skin of their face beneath the hood. Ice crystals clung to their eyelashes, their lips bluish and parted slightly as if caught mid-breath.

Her ski pole slipped from her trembling hand, landing with a muted thunk in the snow. Her mind raced, searching for logic, but nothing about this scene made sense. Before she realized it, a scream tore through her throat, echoing across the quiet slopes as the sun finally broke free of the horizon.

The skier wasn’t just still—they were utterly, impossibly lifeless.