UK-based author Stephen Barnard has been writing and self-publishing both fiction and non-fiction for a number of years. He predominantly writes horror / suspense, and has a number of short story collections and novels available. He has also written the science fantasy trilogy, 'Portentous' and the sports biography 'Calamity Cricket'. His latest release is the novel 'No One Is Leaving' - a contemporary vampire tale in a snow-bound setting. When he's not writing he sometimes teaches, parents, reads and binge-watches horror films.
FROSTY
by
Stephen Barnard
Billy didn’t like the snowman. His father had built it after lunch while Billy watched from behind the patio doors. He’d started it with him, and did his best, but every time he pushed snow into the body of the icy figure, his hands burned, even with gloves on. His father said something about snow being so cold it feels hot, but Billy didn’t think that was right.
He believed the snow was trying to hurt him.
His father had grumbled but continued construction alone. Now he was in his study, giving Billy the freedom of the main living space. He was eight, and could look after himself, thank you very much.
He stared at the snowman, positioned on the edge of the lawn. It comprised of three irregular boulders, each one smaller than the last, the joins packed in with extra snow. It had twigs for arms, a scarf freezing around its neck, and pebbles as buttons. Its face was adorned in a similar fashion. Billy’s father had used a snipped strip of old cable for the smiling mouth and a carrot for the nose.
For the eyes, he’d taken a coal from the sack in the shed and smashed it with a hammer into shards. Two wicked-looking pieces had been jammed into the freezing face.
Billy didn’t like the eyes. They looked like black holes, an emptiness that might suck him in if he went too near. Safer here, behind the glass.
He went to the coffee table and his hot chocolate, with extra milk so as to not sting his lips. He might read a book while his father was working, or switch on the cartoons.
Cartoons. He could close the blinds and make the room dark like Saturday morning cinema. He returned to the windows.
The snowman had moved. It was no longer positioned on the lawn, but on the first cleared slabs of the patio.
Billy quickly pulled the cords that drew the blinds across, completely obscuring his view. He instantly didn’t know if that was better. He dashed back to the table to take another sip of his drink. Surely nothing could be wrong if you had hot chocolate?
That wasn’t the only thing he had. His father had also left the hammer, on top of a magazine, having not returned it to his tool box. Billy picked it up; it was heavy but reassuring. Might he scare the snowman back onto the grass? He was a brave boy and would try.
He shuffled back across the room towards the brightness behind the blinds. He reached for the cords and pulled them with his free hand.
The snowman was halfway across the patio. It was tilted to the side, so that one of its twig arms stretched out towards the door handle. It also meant that, with the change of angle, it was looking straight at him as he backed towards the wall.
The cord at its mouth had slipped on one side, so that it now held a crooked frown. The black eyes observed him coldly.
Billy felt funny in his lower tummy. He thought he might wet himself. He pushed his hammer hand out instinctively, then scared himself when it clattered into the glass.
You didn’t lock the door.
He thought about screaming for his father. But then what would he think? Billy knew that by the time he got here from his study, the snowman would be back in its position and he’d get shouted at for messing with the hammer.
Or by the time he gets here the snowman will have me.
He told himself to not be silly. He just had to play the snowman at its own game. It only moved when he didn’t look at it. He knew what he had to do. Eyes wide, fixed on the pebble buttons rather than the stern face, he sidled over to the handle. He just had to push down the lever.
He got fingers on it. It was stiff and wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to look at it but instead kept eyes on the bulging white middle of his foe. It’s going to need two hands.
He had to drop his weapon. But he couldn’t do it: not his father’s hammer. His eyes dipped instinctively as he crouched and placed it down.
There was a mighty thud against the glass. Billy tipped backwards and looked up. The entire height of the snowman was pushed against the patio doors; it had flattened and widened on contact. The carrot nose had gone. Both ends of the cable drooped into a sneer. The black eyes threatened to swallow him up.
It just fell, he told himself. A gust of wind blew it forward. But he knew that wasn’t right. And he knew he had to lock the door.
He jumped up, forcing himself closer to it. He wrapped both hands around the lever and pulled down.
When he looked back up he was eye to eye with the snowman, nothing between them but a frosty pane.
Swallowing me up!
Billy’s face hit the glass. He suddenly felt very cold – all over – and he couldn’t move. It was tricky to focus, his eye pushed up against the biting, transparent surface. When he did manage to see, he was confused. He was not looking at the snowman, or even outside into the garden.
He was looking into the house.
This is wrong. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and he was oh so cold. He felt… encased. Nor could he work his mouth. It was full of snow.
Inside the house, someone moved. Stepping across from the coffee table, an eight-year-old boy.
It’s… it’s me.
The boy came over and picked up the hammer. That’s when Billy saw the intruder’s eyes. Lumps of sharp coal, so black you could fall into them.
“Daddy!” yelled the new boy and turned towards the stairs, hammer held firmly in both hands.