In the deep snow of late winter Bavaria, a single path led to the Hinterkaifeck farmhouse. But not one footprint led back. On the night between March thirty-first and April first, nineteen twenty-two, something walked out of the forest and into the Gruber family’s yard, leaving a trail the wind couldn't erase.
The days leading up to the slaughter were filled with a quiet, creeping dread. The G...
