Far enough north, the winter seems like a sentient creature. Its ragged breath can make the trees tremble. It howls and moans as it whips snowy tears through the biting cold air. The winter feeds, like any other predator. It consumes the weak and ill-prepared like a wolf picking off stragglers from a herd of sheep.

On bitter nights, when my knees ache and I sit with my feet towards the fire, I wonder how my ancestors ever survived. I wonder why they possibly thought they should build a town here. But humans are relentless in their quest to conquer nature. Even the most inhospitable tundra must be settled and tamed.

Pickett is a small town. I wouldn’t expect you’d ever driven past it, unless you make a habit of driving through Montana, near the Canadian border. It’s a town full of ranchers. Old cowpokes and farmers who’ve been waking with the sun to till the land their whole lives. It’s about as close knit a community as you’re likely to find. Idle gossip is the only social currency that matters, and anyone with secrets best bury them deeper than bedrock.

That’s why the official records say Oliver Watson died of natural causes. Exposure on a cold winter night. The records don’t say nothing about the mangled chickens, lost pets, or the missing girl that led up to his death.

It’s been so many years since it all happened. Anyone who remembers never talks about it. The young people think it’s just a story to tell around the campfire. Another brick in the endless lore surrounding that godforsaken stretch of train tracks in the rolling fields outside of town.

The tracks don’t connect to anything, you see. It’s a two mile stretch of steel, starting from nowhere and leading right back to it.

There’s no shortage of stories about how the railroad was gonna come through and make Pickett a much bigger town. Stories about con artists who stole good people’s money and did just a few days work on a grand construction project before disappearing. The truth of it is probably lost to time. Pickett is too insignificant to have proper history books about it. Local myths are as good as fact, as there’s nothing to dispute them.

I gave up on trying to correct most stories years ago. People think I’m some crazy old man, ranting and raving about things that couldn’t possibly be true.

But sixty ain’t that old. I’ve got a perfectly good grasp on my mental faculties. And what happened to Ollie was so terrifying and downright bizarre that it’s been seared into my brain for life.