Part 3

Raphael face-planted into the ravine before he realized it was there, mistaking the expanse of snow for flat ground and instead discovering a five foot deep drift. Shaking snow from his mask, he growled as he climbed back out, scraping his hands on exposed tree roots that were more ice than bark.

"You okay?"

He paused, refusing to answer Michelangelo's tinny voice for a moment. His little brother had the damndest timing. More importantly, he was not about to admit he fell right into the ravine just after Leonardo's warning.

"Fine," he said, spitting out a stone. "Just coming to the lake now."

"Is it frozen over?" Michelangelo asked, sounding like an excited child. "Can you see it? Could we like ice skate on it?"

Raphael came to rest at the edge of the lake, crouching on a fallen log so he didn't sink into the snow surrounding the half-moon stretch of water. A vicious flurry of ice and snow cut across him, and he huddled closer into his shell, hissing in pain.

"No one's sk-skating there," he shuddered, stammering as he felt the cold sinking into his bones. "S-snow's really biting. Don't think I c-can check everything tonight."

"Get back here," Michelangelo said, suddenly serious. "You've been out there too long."

"Y-yeah."

Feeling as though he were admitting defeat, Raphael nodded even though his brother couldn't see him. He stood, sheltering in the small wind break of the trees, and peered through the blowing snow. The lake was modest, easy to swim across during the summer, and the trees extended in all directions for miles around.

He paused. Cold as he was, he didn't move for several seconds, scanning the tree line. The farm had once been part of an apple orchard, but the land had been left to grow wild. Bare of leaves, the black twigs bent with the wind, clacking together, and beyond them lay the thick bushes and brambles that had sprung up without anyone to trim them back. They looked as dead and brown as everything else, covered in a heavy layer of ice, but just past them, a little further back behind the tall lines of sleeping apple trees, branches swayed in the wind like bones...

"Do you need me to get you?"

Raphael startled at his brother's voice, then grunted a reply and turned, running for the farm house. Cold leeched the heat from his body, and he felt like he was running on thorns the whole way back. The snow stung like hot brands, and he leaned into the wind, dodging dark trees as he plodded through deep drifts.

By the time Raphael saw the glow of the farm house, he couldn't feel his hands. He came up the steps and tried once, twice for the doorknob, each time unsuccessfully. His fingers slipped off the round handle until finally a shadow passed in front of the door.

The golden light poured from the kitchen as Michelangelo opened the door and swept him in, already stripping off the soaked red mask. A towel landed around Raphael's shoulders as Michelangelo pulled him to the fireplace, dropping him on the futons he'd unrolled earlier.

"Should've made the fire sooner," Michelangelo muttered to himself. "Go on, towel off."

Raphael wiped the melted snow from his arms and legs, sweeping along the top of his shell as Donatello called back from the kitchen, saying something about bringing hot stew.

Michelangelo busily took a log from the small woodpile and tossed it into the fireplace. He had to get up once to rifle through one of their bags, digging out a newspaper that had been crumpled and stuffed in by accident, and he tore the large sheet strips that he then put a match to. In a moment, the log caught and warmth flooded toward them.

Raphael edged so close to the fireplace that his skin hurt from the heat, but he grit his teeth and made himself stay near. Little by little, his muscles stopped trembling and began to relax. His shoulders fell, and his hands steadied just as Donatello returned with a bowl of hot soup.

"Oh good, now you don't look like an icicle," Donatello said. "Here."

With a cloth around the bowl to protect their hands, Michelangelo passed the soup to Raphael, making sure he wasn't going to drop it or shake too hard to eat. The towel was on the floor, so he grabbed it and finished drying Raphael's shell, glancing over his shoulder as he did.

Raphael followed his look. Leonardo lay sideways on the sofa, head dropped on his shoulder, legs dangling over the side. A book lay under his hand, something old that Raphael doubted could be all that interesting.

"So," Raphael murmured, "he's out again."

"Yeah. But he's getting better?" Michelangelo said. "Right?"

"Sure," Raphael said, bolting down a mouthful before he could feel it burn his tongue. As his body's core began to heat up, he drew his legs underneath himself more comfortably. "He's up to a few minutes at a time now."

"Raph..."

Michelangelo rarely whined. His brothers had beaten the habit out of him during their childhood, willing to put up with many of his eccentricities but not that one. But on rare occasion Michelangelo could sound like the little kid they treated him as, and Raphael didn't have the heart to punch him for it. Not when he felt the same helpless vulnerability.

Setting aside the now empty bowl, Raphael turned on his hands and knees and crept across the third futon toward their sibling. Just about to touch Leonardo's arm, he glanced back at his little brother. They both shared a look, and Michelangelo nodded once. For any number of reasons, big brother didn't need to know that Raphael had stayed out too long.

Raphael gently eased the book out of Leonardo's hand and set it on the floor, then squeezed his brother's arm.

"I'm awake," Leonardo said roughly, letting his head fall back on the sofa arm. "Now, at least."

"Riding in a car ain't the best sleep," Raphael said with a relieved smile. "But dinner's ready. You can crash again after."

"That sounds good." Leonardo blindly felt for the book and, when he couldn't find it, opened his eyes and looked down. "Did you—?"

"Grab your book?" Raphael said. "Yeah, I put it on the floor. It looked old so I didn't want it crumbling apart when you dropped it."

"It's not that old," Leonardo said, fully waking up as he fell into familiar arguments. "I just didn't expect it to knock me out that fast."

"Yeah, who would've expected—" Raphael picked it up and turned it over to see the first page "—Notes on a most bitter cold campaign in our War of Independence...holy crap, that's the title? You're right, Leo, that's some riveting literature there. Move over, Dean Koontz."

"Whatever." Leonardo snatched it back, sitting up as their siblings came in. "It's not like we brought that much to read with us. Once I can finally keep my eyes open for a few minutes..."

"Speaking of which," Donatello asked as he sat down on his futon, soup bowl in hand. "You didn't have any odd dreams, did you? Either of you?" he asked, looking at Michelangelo.

With a groan, Michelangelo avoided the question by taking a long drink from the edge of the soup bowl, glaring at his brother over the rim. Blindly fumbling with one hand, he found the edge of his blanket and pulled it closer like a shield.

"Don..." Raphael huffed. "We just got here. Why you gotta start being weird?"

"Excuse you," Donatello said. "I have had the existence of ghosts violently proven to me, and I'd like to keep gathering information. As a control baseline. For the future. In case we have to do that again."

His voice grew smaller and smaller as he spoke, until the last bit was said softly and with eyes askance. All of them paused, staring at the wall or at the floor. The house around them creaked, and in the quiet, they listened to the wind knocking the tips of tree branches against the roof, heard snowflakes flurry across the windows. More and more, they grew aware of the empty space above them, the second floor with its several windows and cramped bathroom and the attic.

"We are never doing that again," Leonardo said, startling them. "If we suspect something's wrong, if one of us even thinks he sees something, then we leave."

They stared at him, questions and demands at their lips—leave and go where? What if was just nightmares? What if it was just paranoia? Were they going to jump at shadows for their rest of their lives?

At his steady look, they let their questions slide, unasked. Though he had never enjoyed another growth spurt like they had, now nearly a full head shorter than Raphael, and though he lay there exhausted and anxious, there remained something ungraspable, still able to keep all three of them in check. If Leonardo said that leaving was the first option, then that was the plan. Better than nightmares every night or being attacked because they ignored their instincts and told themselves that they were being paranoid.

"So..." Donatello murmured, loathe to bring it up again and feeling that he had to. "No bad dreams?"

A little surprised that he'd pushed, Leonardo smiled despite the question. "No. Nothing bad. Anyway, Mikey's the one who—"

"I didn't dream anything," Michelangelo said quick, running over his brother. "Nothing. Just a big, dark nothing."

Nerves, they thought to themselves. They didn't want to be the one who dreamed of bad things in the house. But it left an awkward silence that stretched, and none of them wanted to be the one to start talking, either. Comforting as it was, talking meant remembering that they weren't in their lair anymore, and that the farmhouse, though smaller than the water treatment plant, actually felt larger and thinner, like an eggshell.

"We should all get some sleep," Leonardo said. "Who wants first watch?"

Watch. Though it revealed his nervousness, it also reassured them. They could fall asleep without feeling like they were dropping their guard. A second problem occurred to them. Leonardo likely couldn't yet keep watch on his own, and Michelangelo was just as tired. Raphael had driven all night and partly frozen, which left...

"I will," Donatello volunteered. "But not for long, okay? I can rig up my laptop to chime if I don't touch it every few minutes, but I'm not gonna last much longer, either."

"Go ahead and sleep first," Raphael assured him. "A couple hours. Then I can switch with you. I'm too wired after that run to sleep anyway."

"You sure?" Donatello asked, smiling when Raphael nodded. "Great. I'll be good after a long nap, promise."

"Well," Michelangelo said, collecting their dishes into a pile. "Then Raph, you can clean up in here. I think we're all gonna sleep, right—?"

Michelangelo paused, then laughed lowly when he saw Leonardo had already fallen asleep again. Pulling one of the blankets, he tossed it over his brother, making sure he was completely covered.

"Looks like he beat you to it," Raphael said. He took the dishes to the kitchen and decided to leave them there for his little brother to clean in the morning.

When he came back, he found Donatello and Michelangelo fast asleep, the latter already stretched across two futons. Raphael tugged the blankets a few inches to make sure they were both warm, then stood up and looked around the room.

The problem with watching over everyone was that he needed to stay alert even though the job was mindlessly boring. He had nothing to listen to except the wind and snow and his siblings' light breathing, so—even knowing that Leonardo had examined the house—Raphael did his own circuit through the rooms, turning every doorknob to make sure they locked, testing every window to make sure they didn't slide up. The weak window upstairs he secured by jamming it shut by brute force. It may never open again, but that meant nothing would come in quietly. It would have to break the glass first.

It? He hadn't seen a hint of anything scary. He cursed himself for cowardice and went back downstairs.

Satisfied that the house was secure, Raphael took up a lonely post by the kitchen window. From there, he could turn his head and see his brothers safely asleep, but he could keep a fitful watch on the forest that stood only twenty feet from the door. His hand hovered over the kitchen light switch, and he considered leaving it on for the whole night.

Grumbling at himself, he turned it off. The house grew almost completely dark, lit only by the fire burning in the hearth. Now Raphael could better see the trees, the swirling snow. He told himself that he had been suffering from cold and sleep deprivation before. He hadn't seen anything in the forest. It was just a trick of the light and all the slender trees so close together.

If his brothers had asked him right then what he was looking for, he would have laughed and said a movie slasher villain coming out of the woods. But it would have been an anxious laugh. The longer he looked, the more inevitable it felt. If there was anything in the forest, though, it would have been impossible to spot. The moon lit only the white flurries and icicles on branches and the roof, as well as the vast expanse of virgin snow, completely untouched.

TBC...