The Garbage Man

The cabin's chimney smoke, typically a comforting sight, was brutally torn away by the blizzard, swallowed by the relentless white. Inside, Jack lay on a rickety bed, absently whittling wood, the faint glow of the fireplace his only companion against the encroaching cold.

He'd sought refuge here from the unseasonal storm, a hike gone awry. His phone, a useless brick without signal, lay discarded. The wind howled a mournful tune outside, a stark contrast to the fitful quiet within, broken only by the occasional snap and hiss of the dwindling fire.

Then, a sharp 'CRACK!' startled him. Another, louder, closer. He convinced himself it was just the snow-laden trees, but as he lay back, a final, thunderous 'CRRAACK!' ripped through the air.

Suddenly, the familiar comfort of the bed vanished. He flailed, panicked, realizing he was no longer on solid ground. Darkness, absolute and suffocating, enveloped him. His heart hammered. He was no longer cold, no longer felt the bed. He felt nothing.

"Why is it so dark all of a sudden?" he thought, his mind racing. He strained to see, to hear, but there was only an oppressive void. His own breath, his own racing pulse, were the only sounds in this terrifying, featureless black.

"I must be dreaming," he whispered, but the words were swallowed by the emptiness. This wasn't a dream. This was real. And he was completely, utterly lost.