Page 6 of Snowman

Mom's voice cut into my thoughts as she reentered the room, a folded blanket draped over her arm. "We can hang up curtains," she offered, soft.

"Thanks," I said, forcing a smile. "That would be great."

Blocking the view was a relief. As much as I loved the sight of the snow-covered woods, the idea of being watched made my skin crawl. I could leave one side open for Mel, let her watch the snowflakes drift peacefully, and close the other for myself, shutting out whatever lurked beyond.

"Great," she said with a slight smile, her tone light but rushed as if wanting to flee the tension. "It's a deal."

Then she turned and left the room, the door softly creaking shut. I stood there a moment longer, glancing between Mel and the snowman outside. I wanted to look away, but my eyes kept drifting back to the snowman in the yard.

Late afternoon brought with it a creeping chill that slithered into the bedroom, seeping through the walls and settling in the corners. The sun was slipping behind the mountains, castinglong shadows that stretched across the room like ghostly fingers. I sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, body taut, eyes not blinking. Every time I attempted to close them, even for a second, his mask would appear, an animal skull with sockets, and twisted horns. It was not the sight of him that froze my blood, but this question, gnawing inside of me;Who was the man behind the mask?

I looked over to Mel. Laying in her bed on the left side of the room, her small form was cocooned in blankets. She had closed her eyes, and her face relaxed softly, as if she floated far away, folded in some quiet dreamland. She lay so quiet, unaware of the horrors that racked my brain. She made me ache. I'd lost the ability to dream anymore.

Dreams were turning into nightmares fractured echoes of fear clawing even at daylight.

I stood, my legs unsteady, and walked to the window.

Beyond the pane of glass, the woods had changed in ways so dramatic that the fading light made an unfamiliar world. It seemed much deeper, darker. The shifting shadows here lived as trees breathed and changed with shifting shades of dark on their own. I misted the glass as I looked without taking any notice of anything;Could he be out there somewhere watching me?

The woods seemed to be calling to me, daring me to find him or to let him find me. I turned finally, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor as I padded back to the bed.

Lying down, I pulled the covers over me, the weight of them doing little to still the pounding in my chest. Closing my eyes felt like a risk, but exhaustion tugged at my mind. I tried counting. Numbers came slowly at first, my mind resisting the monotony. By the time I reached ten, I could feel my body begin to relax. At twenty-three, the weight of being awake began to lift, pulling me deeper into the stillness, and I was falling asleep.

THREE

SNOWMAN

Midnight had struck, andthe faintest tick of the second hand echoed within the kitchen's silence. I watched the cigarette pinched between my fingers, its smoke tail curling lazily. Its glowing pulsed with every jolty breath I took, while, hunched against the table rim, felt its corners dig deep into my palms.

I almost got caught.I almost fucking got caught.

The thought clawed at my mind, refusing to let go. My teeth sank into the inside of my cheek, the sharp sting grounding me momentarily. Years—years—of discipline, of keeping everything contained, nearly undone because of a single glance. Because ofher.

Fuck.

The image of her was seared into my brain. Those eyes, so limpid, so knowing, stripped me bare in an instant. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of beautiful that could see through a person entirely.

I inhaled again, the smoke heavy, hot, and acrid in my lungs. It coated my tongue with a bitter film, but it wasn't enough to drown her out; wasn't enough to push the thoughts away.

"Fuck!"

The word exploded from me, loud and raw, into the fragile silence.

I slammed the cigarette into the ashtray, grinding it out with unnecessary anger. The filter crumbled under my thumb, and I watched as the ember died, its light turning out. Just like I had to turn every reckless thought about her. But I couldn't turn away. Her face haunts me, like a ghost that I didn't want to let go of. She saw me, not the surface, not the mask.

I could tell by the way she looked at me. She saw the cracks. She saw what I worked so hard to bury. And that terrified me more than anything else.

I paced to the center of the living room, the hollow creak of the floorboards cutting through the suffocating silence. The room was scant, just as it always would be. A couch sagged in the middle. Scratched coffee table that could tell a thousand stories of careless use. A single lamp that seemed to cast shadows against the peeling paper on the wall. Never had much, and never asked for more than I needed. And yet with so little, I carried so much. This was my curse, my birthright.

My mind filled with the picture of my father, a man whose sins had been passed on to me like heirlooms, polished and sharpened through years of handling. I was eleven years old when it all came to light.

I was eleven when he showed me what lived in the blood that coursed through my veins. He hadn't taught me to fight it—no, he'd nurtured it, made it a part of me, made it—me.

And my mother? She hadn't saved me. She hadn't even tried. She'd turned a blind eye, her silence complicit, her inaction deafening. And now, here I was, a living, breathingmanifestation of everything they'd left behind. A monster dressed in their sins.

I hated it. Hatedme.

By day, I played the part. Just another person, blending into the crowd, invisible. But by night, as soon as dark fell, the truth surged to the surface. The memories. The urges. The visions of blood. They swallowed me. I couldn't escape them, no matter how hard I tried.

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