Page 12 of A Christmas to Die For
"Do you want to die before we even get to the top? Maybe we should turn around."
Mara and I both turn to look behind us, peering out the back window. All I can see is a swirling, white wonderland of who-knows-what, the road lost in a haze of snow. Oh, and Phoebe, still snoring in the backseat, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding around her.
"I don't think I can pull over," I admit with caution. "I can barely even see the lines, what if a car comes behind us and hits us? Can you keep an eye out for any houses? The last thing I want is turning around and letting gravity and the wet snow bypass my brakes and send us skidding all the way down. We should be hitting civilization soon. A house? Barn? Maybe they can help us."
My Range Rover inches forward, and it feels like we're not making any progress at all. Mara scans the dense blizzard for any sign of help.
It's been an agonizing ten minutes before she points to a cluster of colorful lights cutting through the storm, standing out like a beacon calling us home.
"There!"
"Hallelujah, a Christmas miracle." I steer toward a narrow entryway, like it's a one-way street, but even the road doesn't feel paved with asphalt. It's probably dirt underneath all this snow.
A string of half-burnt-out Christmas lights glimmer weakly. A truck dusted with fresh snow sits parked out front, as if it's returned from an errand, not abandoned for days.
"Should I honk?" I ask, realizing how rude that might be to whoever is inside.
"No, maybe I'll… get out and knock on the door?" Mara looks apprehensive, and there's no way in hell I'm volunteering to do that.
Before we can decide who's leaving the warmth and safety of my car, a dark figure emerges from the storm, jolting us both. Mara and I jump in our seats, the scream on the tip of my tongue silenced due to pure shock and terror.
I look out my window right as a face materializes in the frame, one that is the poster of childhood nightmares. An elderly man with sagging cheeks and a wrinkled forehead speaks up. "You broads lost?" he hisses, sucking air through his rotting teeth. His jacket hangs off him, barely clinging to his thin frame. Thewind releases a quick burst against his body, and the odor seeps into my car.
"Not lost, but stuck. Do you have any extra snow chains?" I ask, keeping my seatbelt fastened like it'll protect me from this creep. I want to roll up the window, leaving only an inch to lessen the likelihood of him sticking his face inside, but I hesitate. The last thing I need is to offend the one man standing between us and help. I'm sure plenty of women have had this exact thought—right before they were killed.
He leans in anyway, his eyes scanning the backseat and landing on a sleeping Phoebe. My stomach twists. Hopefully he's realizing three women against one frail grandpa is no fair match. I wish I could read his mind, because something about this whole interaction doesn't sit right.
Is he planning to attack us? Sexually assault us? Worse?
Calm down, Sabrina. Just because he looks like an extra forThe Walking Deaddoesn't mean he's guilty of anything other than smelling like death.
"Where yous headed?" he inquires.
"Just up the mountain for some ice-skating—I mean skiing!" I'm such a bad liar, always have been. "But we really need some help getting there."
He takes another peek inside the car and examines the top. "I don't see no skis."
"We're renting them." I really am the worst. "But sir, some chains would really help. I don't think we'll make it in this weather."
"It'll cost ya," he drawls, his tone slightly threatening.
Of course it will. So much for goodwill in a time of crisis and Christmas.
"Look, sir, we don't have—"
"I'll have to take the chains off my old car out back to see if they'll fit. That'll take quite a lot o' work."
"I have a hundred dollars in cash. Take it or leave it," Mara interrupts, her voice steady, like she's negotiating with someone who knows how to count that high. We're cornered in his driveway, but somehow, it feels like we've got the upper hand since we outnumber him.
He gives Mara a hard look, like he's studying her face so he can sketch it later. It's bizarre as hell, and I don't know what to do or say next. And like he snapped out of a fever dream, he says, "Fine. Be right back. Gimme ten minutes."
Without warning, he vanishes into his garage, which appears to be hanging on for dear life in this weather. Mara and I exchange a glance, one that says everything we're both thinking.
Is he coming back with a weapon? Can he be trusted? Is he planning to cut our brakes or pop a tire?
I keep the engine on just in case we need a quick escape. But to where? Without the aid of these chains, we can't make any headway up this mountain.
He returns, chains draped over his shoulders like they're about to be used for torture instead of assistance. The image fits his unsettling vibe perfectly. But instead of attacking us or locking us up with those chains, he drops to his knees and starts laying them out.
