The White Death

“The White Death”

The man was found half-buried in snow, a crimson trail behind him like the tail of a dying comet. His body trembled in a cocktail of shock, blood loss, and exposure. Frostbite gnawed at his fingertips and the edges of his ears. A shepherd boy spotted him crawling near the mountain’s base, south of Lukla, and ran to alert the village.

By the time the man arrived at the hospital in Kathmandu, he was barely conscious. He had no ID, no passport—just a shredded Gore-Tex jacket, cracked lips, and a haunted look in his eyes. Doctors stabilized him. Cleaned the wounds. Nine lacerations, four broken ribs, and what looked like defensive bite marks on both arms. He kept muttering in English.

“They came out of the snow… white… white… gods forgive me.”

Two days later, local authorities sat by his bedside.

“Your name, please?”

He cleared his throat. “Darren Holt. American. Trek guide. Group of five.”

“What happened to the others?”

He stared out the window, breath fogging the glass. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try us.”

Darren turned slowly, eyes hollow yet alight with something deeper than madness. Something sincere.

“We were attacked… by Yetis.”

The room fell still.

Three Weeks Earlier 

Snowflakes fell like whispers over the peaks of the Himalayas. Darren led five trekkers—three men, two women—along the Manaslu Circuit. All experienced hikers. All eager for the summit.

They made camp near a ridge known as “The Bone Step,” so named because bones—goat, yak, and occasionally human—were found there, snapped clean in half.

That night, the wind screamed like a widow. The first scream from a human throat came shortly after.

Darren burst from his tent, flashlight trembling in his hand. Blood streaked the snow. One of the hikers, Maria, was gone. Just gone. Only drag marks.

Then came a deep, guttural huff, like a gorilla breathing through its chest. Something massive stepped out of the shadows, blotting out the moonlight. White fur, mottled with gray. Shoulders as wide as a refrigerator. Eyes like polished onyx. Its mouth opened slowly—revealing blunt, jagged teeth—and let out a bellow that shook the trees.

Another scream. One of the men tried to run. The creature moved with impossible speed—two strides and it was on him. It raised a crude weapon, an ice pick made of bone and obsidian, and drove it into the man’s skull. Blood splattered in a wide arc across the snow. The others froze in place, paralyzed by fear and cold.

Darren shouted for everyone to stay together, but panic had already taken root. One by one, they broke and ran.

What followed was chaos:

One woman stumbled into a ravine, her screams fading into darkness.

A man swung his trekking pole at the creature—snap—his arm bent backward before a clawed hand crushed his windpipe.

The last tried to hide behind a boulder. Darren heard him sobbing… then a sudden silence.

Darren ran. He didn’t stop for hours.

“We tried to fight,” Darren said. “I tried to save them. I swear it. But they weren’t human. They were… ancient. They hunted us.”

The authorities gave him sedatives. Labeled his report as post-traumatic psychosis. No signs of foul play. No evidence.

Darren was released two weeks later.

And then… he vanished.

Three Years Later

A mountaineering team stumbled across a crevasse near the Bone Step. Inside, perfectly preserved by the cold, were five corpses.

Each one had a puncture wound through the skull—round, jagged, precise. Like an ice pick had been driven through each head.

Authorities panicked. They issued a warrant for Darren Holt. But he was a ghost. No travel records. No bank activity. His apartment abandoned, car still in the lot. Passport unaccounted for. Not a single footprint since discharge.

One Year After That – Off the Coast of Australia

A snorkeling cruise launched from Port Douglas with six passengers aboard: a honeymooning couple, two college friends, a marine biologist, and a retired schoolteacher.

Their captain greeted them warmly. Tall. Tanned. Smiling beneath mirrored sunglasses.

“Welcome aboard, folks. I’m Captain Darren. Let’s chase the sun.”

None of them questioned his identity.

They had no reason to.