Page 9 of Snowman

And then, as always, the flashes struck.

I was six years old when my father took me into the woods. He said we were going hunting. I didn't know any better. I thought it was a game, another one of his weird lessons. The hike seemedendless, the trees growing thicker, their shadows darker, until we reached a place where the sunlight no longer broke through.

He spoke coldly,"This is where you will stay. Survive the night. Prove to me you are not weak."

I stared at him, unsure if he was playing, but as he turned and walked away, leaving me in the freezing winter, it became clear this wasn't a game. My breath hung in the air like smoke, my body shaking as I went to find some cave to stay in. I gathered sticks with trembling fingers, scraping stones together until sparks finally caught.

But it was hunger, not the cold, that made me like an animal. And when I saw the deer, I didn't think. I only lunged forward in a wild, desperate lunge and sank my teeth into its flesh. Raw. Bloody. My stomach churned, but hunger won out over disgust.

When my father came back the next morning, all he said was,"I'm glad you're not dead."That's all. No congratulations, no affection, just apathy. He was pleased I had lived—not because I was his son, but because I had proved useful. That night I knew what he wanted me to be.

I tore my gaze from the photo, my chest tight with the anger I hadn't felt in years. Snow had always been a cruel reminder of him, of the life he forced me into. But it also reminded me of my brother.

Only one happy memory...

The snowmen we built together, how we snuck coals and carrots from the kitchen and argued over who could do the better face, and how we laughed, our gloves soaked through, making lumps of snow into something we'd call perfect.

But perfection was not a word for it, not yet. I came to understand that too late. Snowmen don't come alive when buttons are stolen and sticks have been carefully carved, theyonly begin to breathe when made of human flesh.Human parts.For then, and only then does it fully come into the aspect of chaos that's buried inside.

I stood, walked toward the plastic curtains, and glanced back at the bucket beneath her. Nearly full. The sight didn't bother me. It was just part of the process.

"Call me a monster if you want," I muttered, softer, staring at her lifeless body. "But the monster is just an image I want you to see."

FOUR

BREE

The loud thud gotme up from bed, my heart sprinting, as I swiftly sat up. The room was dark except for the thin slice of moonlight that spilled across the other bed. Mel's bed. But it was empty.

"Mel?" I called out softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Mel?"

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet slapped against the cold wooden floor. The wheelchair was kept alongside her bed, but she was gone. My stomach twisted. Mel hadn't been able to walk for two years… how could she have disappeared? Where would she go?

Another thud beyond the door cut into my thoughts like a knife. I moved as quietly as I could to the door which was slightly ajar. My fingers brushed the edge, and I peeked out. The living room stretched before me, empty and only dimly lit by moonlight that seeped from the window.

I pushed the door open and stepped out, my toes barely making a sound as they hit the floor. I breathed shallowly, every muscle in my body was strung taut as I moved toward the center of the living room. The fireplace still flickered softly, dancing shadows upon the walls. Something was wrong and it felt thick in the air, something I just couldn't put into words.

Then I saw her.

Mel stood at the top of the staircase, her white dress aglow in the soft shine of the fire. My breath caught. She was pale, her lips all but colorless, her face drained of its usual warmth. Her eyes were fixed on the front door, unblinking as if she were waiting for something.

"Mel?" I whispered, my voice shaking.

She didn't answer, didn't make a move. Slowly her hand rose, her sparrow-like fingers extended pointing towards the window.

My eyes followed her motion. There, just beyond the glass, stood the snowman I saw earlier. Its carrot nose glimmered weakly in the moonlight, but something about it made my skin crawl. The snowman was… finished now. It hadn't been before. I didn't know how I knew that, but I just knew it.

I returned to the stairwell, but Mel was no longer there.

"Mel?" I whispered louder, "Where did you go?"

Above, the creak of measured, light footfalls sounded. I made my way up the steps slowly and felt my heart racing strongly inside my body. A door that was slightly open at the far end of the corridor led toward the darkness of the attic.

"Mel?" My voice shook the word out, barely audible.

I pushed the door open, and the narrow staircase leading upwards appeared in the opening. The wood groaned under my steps and seemed deafening while I walked up. Dark from above grew closer and closer, and then, suddenly without a warning, the door banged shut behind me.

Panic surged through me. I turned, ready to scream, but a large hand clamped over my mouth before I could make a sound. Another hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me with ease off the floor. I thrashed, my arms and legs flailing, but the grip was so strong.

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