I’d like to say I sat bolt upright in bed, jolted awake by the sudden, stabbing pain in my stomach, but I was in no condition to sit up.

I started feeling sick three days after spotting those footprints in the snow. Barefoot, human prints that didn’t belong beside a frozen mountain lake. Whoever it was had to be stranded or crazy or both. I left bits of food out, what little I could spare. Three plates a day for three days. Each plate came back clean, silently placed by the cabin door. My visitor had some manners, at least.

Would they think me rude for cutting off the food supply?

I took a deep breath and hissed it back out as the stabbing pain returned. Taking more shallow breaths, I slowly shifted toward the edge of the bed as I pushed away the heavy blankets. The pain came back, and this time I screamed until my breath ran out.

In the relative silence that followed, every new sound only served to heighten my anxiety. A hooting owl seemed to be in the chimney, despite the low fire that still burned. The flames crackled as if they might split the air. Whispered voices danced around my ears like fruit flies out of season.

Were those footsteps at the door? Or was I just imagining that, too? A scratching sound followed, like fingernails on grainy wood.

Run. You need to run.

The scratching moved along the cabin wall, punctuated by the occasional tapping. I could feel it as much as hear it, a roughness trailing along my spine and reaching inward, as if searching for something.

There you are. Did you really think you could hide?

Was that a different voice? There was something familiar there. Something unsettling, beyond the words.

Clenching my jaws to stifle even a moan, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, then waited a moment for the dizziness to pass. I breathed slowly through my nose, counting off each exhale in my head. The scratching had moved on to the front window, with more frequent tapping in the mix. I tried to ignore the sound, but the rhythmic tapping was affecting the pace of my breathing.

A wave of nausea hit me, and I could taste bile in my mouth ... along with something else. Blood. Where did that come from?

This couldn’t be happening. None of this was real. Clearly, the fever was getting to me. Making me see and hear the impossible. How long had I actually been sick?

I blinked away the fever fog and zeroed in on the long gun mounted over the fireplace. A weapon might be needed, but would I be able to use it? Until now, I’d considered it little more than a decorative touch. I wasn’t even sure where he kept the bullets.

Come on, Grace. Get it together.

How nice to hear my own voice for a change, even inside my head. That had to be a good sign. Maybe the fever was breaking. Maybe the worst was over.

The window shattered inward as I doubled over in pain. My stomach burned like the stubborn flames in the fireplace. Not even cold winter air could dampen the heat. Everything was coming undone.

I slid off the bed, landing hard on hands and knees, and crawled towards the broken window. Glass shards cut into my flesh. I didn’t care. I kept crawling forward, making a bloody trail like some sort of demonic snail.

You’re getting closer, Grace. More fruit flies. Didn’t they know they should be dead?

I didn’t stop crawling until I hit the wall.

Almost there.

Grabbing hold of the heavy curtains, I pulled myself up and slowly uncoiled my spine. A blast of cold air hit me in the face, temporarily muting the fever.

Am I not merciful?

The broken window showed me a distorted reflection. Some parts were missing and others simply out of place. Snow swirled around the empty spaces, never quite connecting.

“Why don’t you come in?” My voice sounded strange after being silent for so long, like someone else had taken up residence. In fact, something already had. I couldn’t deny it anymore. The stomach pain. The blood and bile. The disembodied voices and the morning footprints. It was all me, and yet not me.

I hadn’t come here alone. Of course not. I wouldn’t have lasted three days on my own, especially come winter. We might have made it if we hadn’t screwed up the preserves. With little more than spoiled food on the shelves, starvation was inevitable. Desperation soon followed.

I took some comfort in telling myself that I didn’t kill him. What I did was so much worse. Even cooked, human flesh left a bitter aftertaste.

The transformation is nearly complete now. No more pain. No more fever. Soon, no more me. I tear off my clothing and let the cold air wash over me, like an unholy baptism.

I won’t need the cabin anymore, but I’ll leave it standing. Others will come, and I’ll be waiting for them, but they’ll never see anything but a few footprints in the snow.

Betty Dobson is a prize-winning author of short stories, essays, poems, articles, and one novella. She's always on the lookout for various shades of gray—and any other colors lingering around the horizon. Life has its quirks; whenever she can explore them, question them, and write about them, she will. Give her a mystery, and she's like a pit bull in her search for resolution. Getting there (and writing about it) is half the fun.