Fresh snow tells a story. And on a cold Bavarian morning in nineteen twenty-two, it told a terrifying one. Andreas Gruber stepped out from his remote farmhouse, Hinterkaifeck, and saw a confession written in the frost. A single set of footprints led from the dark edge of the forest straight to his door. But none led back.
This was the first hint of a presence that had already breached their wa...
