The White Void

The wind howled, a banshee's wail ripping across the barren landscape. Snow blasted sideways with such force it stung like shards of glass against Dylan's exposed skin. His parka hood flapped wildly, tugging against the weight of the storm. Each step felt like wading through a sea of quicksand, the drifts swallowing his boots whole. 

It was supposed to be a simple hike. A weekend escape in the mountains. He had checked the forecast—clear skies and a crisp chill. But weather in the high altitudes was unpredictable, and the blizzard had swept in with terrifying speed. One moment he was following the marked trail, the next he was in a swirling white void, his footprints erased almost as soon as they were made. 

Dylan stopped to catch his breath, hunching against the wind. The cold wormed its way through every layer, biting into his core. He tried to calm the rising panic. Don't think about it. Just keep moving. He squinted, but there was no distinguishing up from down, near from far—just an infinite expanse of white. His compass was useless; the needle spun erratically, the storm's magnetic fury rendering it a cruel joke. 

He pressed forward, leaning into the gale. His fingers, despite two pairs of gloves, were numb. Every step was a gamble. He couldn’t tell where the ground ended and a hidden ravine might begin. The wind carried strange noises, like distant voices. Sometimes, he thought he heard his name whispered in the howling gusts. Hallucinations, he told himself. 

The hours blurred together. Or had it only been minutes? The biting wind and relentless snow drove all sense of time from him. His body screamed for rest, but he knew stopping was a death sentence. He’d read enough survival guides to understand hypothermia’s tricks: the exhaustion, the lure of sleep, the deadly warmth. 

Something loomed in the distance—or at least he thought it did. A shadow, faint and fleeting. He blinked, his frozen eyelashes crackling. Was it a tree? A rock? A mirage? Desperation pushed him forward, toward the faint smudge. 

As he approached, it solidified into the jagged remains of a dead tree, its skeletal branches clawing at the sky. Dylan dropped to his knees beside it, pressing his back to the trunk. The wind still screamed, but the tree provided a thin semblance of shelter. 

He reached into his pack, fumbling with stiff fingers to retrieve his emergency blanket. Unfolding it was agony, but he wrapped it around himself as tightly as possible, cocooning against the cold. He needed a plan. If he couldn’t find shelter soon, he wouldn’t make it through the night. 

But there was no plan, only the storm. The realization hit him like a physical blow: no one knew he was here. He hadn’t told anyone about his hike, thinking it unnecessary. His phone, buried somewhere in his pack, was useless—no signal, and the battery likely dead from the cold. He was utterly alone. 

The wind shifted, momentarily easing its assault, and Dylan heard it again—a voice. Faint, indistinct. It wasn’t the shrieking wind this time. It sounded human. 

"Hello?" he called, his voice cracking. The wind swallowed his words, but he shouted again. "Is someone there?" 

There was no reply, only the endless roar of the storm. Yet something compelled him to move, to follow where he thought the voice had come from. He dragged himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest, and stumbled forward. 

The voice came again, clearer this time. A woman’s voice. “This way.” 

He turned sharply, his heart hammering. He hadn’t imagined it. Someone was out there. "Wait!" he yelled, staggering toward the sound. 

A figure emerged from the white. She was shrouded in the storm, her outline indistinct, but she was there—slim and graceful, her movements unbothered by the howling wind. 

"Who are you?" Dylan called. 

She didn’t answer, only beckoned him with a wave of her hand before turning and walking away. 

He followed, desperation overpowering caution. She moved effortlessly, her steps light and sure, as if the storm bent to her will. Dylan struggled to keep up, but she never seemed to move too far ahead. 

"Where are we going?" he gasped, his lungs burning. 

“This way,” she repeated, her voice calm and soothing. 

Something about her felt... wrong. Her presence in the blizzard, her composure, the eerie way her voice cut through the storm. But she was his only hope. 

The terrain changed beneath his feet. The drifts gave way to a smoother surface, and Dylan realized he was walking on ice. His heart sank—had he wandered onto a frozen lake? 

"Wait!" he shouted, but the woman didn’t stop. She moved farther ahead, her figure becoming hazier in the swirling snow. 

Then she was gone. 

Panic surged. "No!" he screamed. "Come back!" He stumbled forward, his boots skidding on the ice. 

A loud crack split the air, sharp and menacing. Dylan froze. The ice groaned beneath him, spiderweb fractures spreading in every direction. 

He barely had time to react before it gave way. 

The freezing water hit him like a sledgehammer, stealing the breath from his lungs. The weight of his soaked clothes dragged him under, and he thrashed wildly, his limbs sluggish from the cold. The darkness below yawned wide, an abyss waiting to swallow him. 

This is it, he thought. I’m going to die. 

And then, a hand. 

It grabbed his wrist, strong and unyielding, and pulled him up. His head broke the surface, and he gasped, coughing and sputtering. The hand hauled him onto solid ice, and he collapsed, shivering uncontrollably. 

Through his haze of exhaustion and cold, he looked up. The woman was kneeling beside him, her face finally visible. She was striking, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to glow faintly. 

“You have to keep going,” she said, her voice soft but firm. 

“I... I can’t,” Dylan choked out. 

“You must,” she insisted, her grip on his arm unrelenting. “There’s shelter nearby. Follow me.” 

He didn’t have the strength to argue. She pulled him to his feet, and he stumbled after her. 

The storm began to ease. The wind died down, the snow lessened, and shapes emerged from the white—a rocky outcrop, a cave. 

The woman led him inside, where the air was blessedly still. A small fire crackled in the center, as if it had been waiting for him. 

“You’ll be safe here,” she said, helping him sit near the flames. 

Dylan turned to thank her, but she was gone. 

When he was found days later by a rescue team, Dylan told them everything—the storm, the woman, the fire. 

But when they inspected the cave, there was no sign of anyone else. No footprints, no ashes. Only the faintest trace of warmth, lingering like a memory. 

Some said it was an angel. Others, a hallucination. But Dylan knew the truth. 

The storm hadn’t taken him. The white void had let him go.