It was a chilly night, one of the coldest days of the year, and the snow was falling down heavily as if every snowflake was in a rush to go somewhere. It was the middle of the night and Mark was fast asleep, until the sudden rush of frost travelled through his body. He groggily awoke from his slumber, shivering under his thin blanket, knowing someone would have to restart the fire, and it would have to be him. Mark slowly took off his thin beige blanket revealing his red plaid pajamas, and reached his feet onto the chilled wooden floor, groaning in discomfort. Departing from his moon lit room, he began essentially sleepwalking. His house was silent, and Mark fell envious, knowing all his house was asleep. The boy made his way through his small home to the fireplace, observing the remains of the fire that was once waving at him only a few hours prior. He began to restart the fire, watching it come back to life. The only sound filling his ears was the warm fire crackling, and the clock ticking periodically, he was at ease.Marks trance was abruptly broken when he heard the noisy howling of wolves, he trembled anxiously, he knew they were close by. “The chickens!” he thought to himself, knowing the chickens well being was his responsibility. Mark hesitantly stood up and made his way to the steel door. Putting his thick red jacket on to his body, followed with his matching mittens and toque his grandma knit for him for his twelfth birthday. He picks up the black flashlight sitting on the hard floor beside the door, right next to his dad’s axe. The axe was rusty, it had been inside Mark’s house as long as he could remember. He debated on taking the axe outside, along with the flashlight, and decided to bring both along for the ride. Mark analyzed the initials on the handle of the worn down axe, which read, “PS,” his dad’s initials, before leaving his cozy home. Mark struggled to open his frozen shut door, but eventually took his first steps outside that night. He was greeted with the familiar ice cold wind, and immediately wished he was back inside his cozy, warm home. With one hand holding his flsahlight, and the other his dad’s old axe, he began to walk towards the chicken coop. The howls of the wolves echoed through the forest, and in response he tightened his grip on both objects in his hand and began quickening his pace.Mark opened the chicken coop door, and sighed in relief when he saw every chicken was safe and sound. He began exiting the coop and touched his boots to the fresh crunchy snow. He listened to the sound of howling intently, and his fear was evolving into curiosity. Mark chose, for the safety of the chickens, to find the origin of the howling, as he knew his father would be angry if there was a chicken massacre. The boy began his journey, tracking the sounds of howling. With every call he heard, Mark got shivers down his spine. He shone his flashlight on the trees and bushes of the forest, allowing the shadows to dance with every move he made. With every step he took, he began getting deeper and deeper into the forest, with the howling not so far ahead. He weaved his way through the thick forest, curiosity fueling his sleep-ridden body. Fear crept upon Mark slowly, piling on him like the snowflakes on his knit toque. All he could hear was his heartbeat in his ears and the upcoming, occasional animal noises. The trees shadows looked like hands ready to grab him as the wolves would. The howling was very near, it bagan ringing in Marks ear, sounding the exact same with every abrupt howl. Mark turned off his flashlight, knowing the moonlight would be enough to expose his enemy. He tightened his grip on the axe. Mark stood behind a tree, knowing the howling was only ten feet away from him, he took a deep inhale. Held it in. Exhaled. He turned around promptly to expose a stuffed teddy bear with a tape recorder fastened to it’s back.