The Hungering Peak
They say the mountain remembers every ascent that scratches its skin. On the trail to The Hungering Peak, the air grows thinner, and the sky wears a slate grin as if it knows you’ll fail before you begin. I came for the dare, for the old map that promised a shortcut through wind and stone, and for a rumor that the summit devours memories as easily as it consumes oxygen.
The first day was quiet enough: boots biting into scree, ice clinging to the ropes like frost-mouthed spiders. By dusk, a low murmur rose from the rock—not wind, not water, something older, slower, hungry. I pressed on, each step a vote against the mountain’s appetite. The campfire hissed and spit shadows, and the peak loomed with a patient, terrible hunger that seemed to leer rather than look.
Signs of the Pact
Ascent reveals a language spoken by rock and weather. The following signs arrived as I climbed, like a list etched in frost that refused to melt:
- The rope grows heavier with every shift of the wind, as if it has swallowed a breath and kept it.
- Whispers travel faster than footsteps, curling around my ears and naming people I’ve never met—then erasing them.
- Footprints appear where there were none, marching in a circle that always ends at a hollow beneath a ledge.
- Names carved in ice seem to rearrange themselves when I’m not looking, nudging memory toward a doorway I dare not open.
“The peak remembers what you forget, and it will remind you—one way or another.”
On the third day, a chasm opened above my head like a mouth waiting for a story to spill out. The peak’s hunger tasted not of meat but of memory: childhood promises, old betrayals, lost confidences—eaten in the same slow, deliberate way a glacier gnaws a boulder. I tried to build resolve from the things I carried: a photo, a ribbon, a half-remembered lullaby. Each item felt lighter as the mountain pressed closer, and lighter still when I imagined leaving them behind for good.
When the world narrowed to a knife-edged ridge, I learned the hard truth: the peak does not force you to surrender; it invites you to give. It offers a memory back in exchange for something you never intended to lose—a fear you cannot outgrow, a kindness you forget you offered, a name you once whispered to a friend. The weather turned, not with gusts but with a sigh, and the summit finally spoke in a language only the desperate understand.
At the last faltering step, I found a pale, perfect shard of ice containing a reflection of myself I had forgotten. It offered a choice, and I chose to walk away, leaving behind the memory the peak demanded. The mountain’s hunger did not vanish, but it quieted, as if satisfied with the minimal tribute: a memory intact, and a name left on the wind rather than carved in stone.
The peak receded into a mere silhouette against the dawn, and I descended among rocks that seemed to blink awake with every footfall. The hunger lingered in the corners of my vision, a patient companion that would remember me if I ever failed again. Somewhere in the valley, the rumor continues—that every climber who dares to listen leaves a story in exchange for a breath of safety, and that the Hungering Peak keeps score in ice and time.