Fourth night on the mount. Five careless campers scatter around. Five early deaths. Three in the unforgiving river. Two on the solid stone. Six trails of footsteps, under six inches of snow. Internally wounded, externally fine. A medical mystery, but nothing benign. Stilled beneath the bitter cold. These campers lay, their stories untold. What could have taken them from the night? What drew them out, into the blinding white? What was it that then extinguished their light? An additional four found in a creek, Then more in the snow, most nobody knows the true, twisted tale of their mysterious deaths, how they died, miles and miles away, back in the past. It is known, however, that a mystery simply cannot last. Remember? The sixth set of prints? Remember? Five careless campers, So who is this sixth? Materialized suddenly, from thick crystals, powdery snow, and sharp ice. Something sinister, something never nice. Something, that just may have set foot, In their camp that night. Overcome with hunger, unforgiving, and never satisfied. The cold itself, taking its first footsteps, in the white. Lulling and luring, Its promising glimmer and inviting light. Come forward, Step into her friendly frozen embrace, Don’t make her give chase As she welcomes you in, with her false promises of warmth and comfort. Casting fake feelings of hope, peace, and calm. The cold, unable to control it’s greed. The cold, wanting to consume all heat.