The Craftsman's Cabin

The blizzard raged outside, burying the mountain pass, but inside the cabin, the fireplace roared with an intensity that made the air stifling and hot. Detective Miller lowered his weapon, confused by the domestic scene before him. A father carved a steaming roast at the head of the table. A mother hummed softly, stirring a pot of thick stew. On the rug, twin boys played silently with wooden blocks. At the sound of the latch clicking, the boys turned their heads in perfect, jerky unison. They flashed identical, rigid smiles. "Won't you stay for dinner?" the father asked, his voice rasping. Miller glanced at the framed photo above the mantle—a candid shot of a smiling couple holding their *only* child. He looked back at the four people, inhaling the scent of heavy spices trying to mask a copper tang. His eyes widened in horror. He didn't ask questions. He turned and fled back into the storm.