He looked back at the shelf.
The meat was dark red, neatly trimmed, and lying on the same type of wooden board she had used earlier.
It appeared perfectly fresh.
No frost covered it.
No salt had been applied.
No one had wrapped it in cloth.
Samuel lifted the lantern higher.
That was when Clara noticed the thread.
A tiny piece of blue cotton had been tied around one exposed bone.
She stopped breathing.
Samuel followed her gaze.
"What's that?"
Clara took a slow step forward.
"No."
Her voice sounded almost unfamiliar.
Samuel looked at her.
"Clara?"
She reached toward the blue thread but stopped before touching it.
"I tied that there."
"When?"
"This morning."
Samuel frowned.
"On the meat we cooked?"
She nodded.
"Before I started preparing supper."
"Why?"
"Because there was a little crack in one bone, and I wanted to remember which side to trim first."
She looked at the thread again.
Then she whispered, "But I removed it before seasoning the meat."
Samuel waited.
Clara's face drained of color.
"And I threw it into the fire."
Outside, the wind struck the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows.
Samuel stood completely still.
Then he leaned closer to the shelf.
The blue thread was tied in an unusual double knot.
Clara recognized it immediately.
Her mother had taught her that knot when she was a little girl.
A simple loop secured with a crossing stitch.
She used it whenever she wanted something tied tightly enough that it would not slip.
There was no possibility of mistaking it.
Samuel placed the lantern on a nearby shelf.
"Maybe the thread fell onto the floor instead of going into the fire."
Clara shook her head.
"I watched it burn."
"Perhaps you tied another piece."
"I only had one."
"Then someone must have brought more meat."
"Who?"
Neither answered.
The mountain trail was buried.
Their nearest neighbor lived almost four miles away.
And the pantry door had been closed all evening.
Samuel looked around the narrow room.
For the first time, he became aware of something else.
The pantry smelled faintly of damp earth.
Not the ordinary smell of stored potatoes.
Something colder.
Older.
Almost like the underground cellars he remembered from his childhood.
He approached the back wall.
The boards appeared normal.
Rough pine planks.
Darkened by age.
Fastened with square iron nails.
But a small line of dust lay across the floor, directly beneath the lowest board.
Samuel crouched.
He touched it.
The dust was fresh.
He pressed his palm against the wood.
Something moved behind the wall.
A low scraping sound.
Then silence.
Clara gripped his shoulder.
"Samuel?"
He raised one hand.
"Stay behind me."
The scraping came again.
This time, they both heard it clearly.
Three slow movements.
A pause.
Then one more.