Two seasoned hunters were moving quietly through the frozen forest. Their boots crunched softly in the snow as the pale winter sun hung low on the horizon. It had been a wasted day — no tracks, no prey, nothing but silence. Frustrated and tired, they were ready to turn back when a flash of red darted between the trees.
— “A fox!” one shouted, raising his rifle.
The shot echoed through the forest but missed. The animal bolted, and without thinking, both men gave chase.

They followed the tracks deeper and deeper into the whiteness until the trees suddenly ended. Before them stretched a massive snow-covered plain, silent and endless.
And in the center — a black wound in the earth. A pit, wide and perfectly round.

The fox stopped right at the edge and turned its head. Its eyes glowed amber against the snow. It wasn’t afraid. It was… waiting.
— “What the hell is that?” muttered one of the hunters.
They stepped closer. One knelt and peered into the pit.

He froze.
— “Dear God…” he whispered. “There are bodies down there.”

At the bottom lay dozens — no, hundreds — of foxes. Frozen stiff, twisted, mouths open in silent screams. Red, white, gray — piled together in an unholy mass. The snow around them was stained with something dark.

The wind howled over the field. The air smelled of death and old blood.
The hunters stepped back, their breath coming in clouds of white steam.
The fox at the edge didn’t move. It just watched them, unblinking.

Then it made a sound — a low, guttural cry that wasn’t quite animal. It was almost human.
Long, mournful, and filled with pain.

The ground shuddered.
A cold gust rose from the pit, so strong it felt like it came from beneath the earth itself.
And then… something moved down there.

At first, they thought it was the wind shifting the bodies. But no — the bodies were moving on their own.
One lifted its head. Then another. Then another.
Empty eyes stared upward.

— “This can’t be real…” whispered one hunter.
He fired blindly into the pit. The gunshot echoed, then vanished as if swallowed by the darkness.

The fox still stood there. Its tail whipped in the wind like a flame. It looked at the men with something that wasn’t anger — but judgment.
And then, from the pit, came a whisper. Soft but distinct. Dozens of voices speaking as one:
“For all of us…”

The wind screamed. Snow spun into a furious spiral, a white storm swirling around them.
The hunters stumbled back, but one slipped. The other reached out to pull him up — and then he screamed. Something icy grabbed his leg.

A paw. A dead, stiff fox paw breaking through the snow.

The man kicked and fired, but it was too late. He was yanked toward the edge, dragged into the darkness.
The field fell silent.

The last hunter turned — the fox was still there, standing at the rim. She looked straight at him, her eyes blazing. Then she leapt into the pit.

And everything went quiet.
No wind. No sound. Just snow… and that gaping black hole in the earth.

By morning, rescue teams found only footprints — two sets of human tracks and one of a fox, all ending at the edge of the pit.
No bodies. No weapons. Nothing.
Except a single tuft of red fur frozen into the ice.

Since that day, no one dares cross that field.
Villagers say that on silent winter nights, when the moon is high, you can hear the wind cry — not like an animal, not like a person… something in between.
And if you listen closely, you might hear a whisper carried on the cold air:
“For all of us…”

Sometimes, fox tracks appear in the fresh snow, leading straight into the empty field — and ending abruptly at the pit that no longer exists.
Those who follow them… never come back