Snowball

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “What’s up?” Tucker yelled down.

  “How you holding up?” the taller man asked.

  “I’m good,” Tucker replied, not sure why they felt they needed to check on him.

  The tall man pointed south, toward the back of the truck. “There’s an RV a little ways back. We’re gathering everyone there to hole up till help comes. It’s warm and roomy, and there’s food and hot drinks.”

  Tucker had to chuckle, thinking how his large body would make the RV seem not that roomy. Besides, he had all the comfort he needed right here in his truck cab.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he replied. “But I’m all set here. Got everything I need.”

  “Are you sure?” the other man asked, the shorter one who hadn’t said anything up to this point.

  “I’m doing fine.” Sure, it was maybe a bit lonely, but that was all right with him. “But there’s a couple in that SUV up ahead you can check with. They may think different.”

  “Okay,” the taller man shouted back. “We’ll be back there if you change your mind.”

  Tucker waved them off and watched them walk on ahead.

  He wondered if they could hear the banshee too.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mason Drake saw something out the side window of his SUV, which, since it was parked cockeyed on the highway, looked south behind him, toward where the tractor-trailer’s hulk still loomed beneath the white mist. Shadowy figures were coming his way.

  Rescue? he pondered.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said to Joy.

  “What? Help?” his wife queried, craning her neck.

  Mason stared at the lurching figures.

  “I’m not sure.” He grabbed his gloves and hat and put them on.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to see who it is.”

  She reached out and grabbed his arm. “And leave me here? Alone?” He saw fright in her eyes and something else…maybe a little anger.

  “I’m just going a few feet outside. You’ll be fine.” He didn’t comprehend her concern. She had no reason to feel that way. He, however, still had thoughts of the missing plowman in his head, and whatever the trucker and that other guy saw in the man’s cab. They hadn’t said anything, but he had seen glances exchanged. Their faces held a similar expression to Joy’s right now. “Keep the doors locked.”

  “What—”

  He exited the vehicle before she finished what she was saying. He didn’t want an argument. The cold snapped him alert, and he already regretted coming outside. The figures didn’t seem to have gotten much closer. The snow was piled thick in the road. It looked like two men approaching, the shapes thick and bulky. Mason wanted to move toward them, intercept them before they reached his vehicle. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was some way of protecting Joy.

  Mason swallowed hard and rubbed his gloved hands together.

  The figures reached him. One of the snowy faces looked familiar.

  “Hello,” the man said. It was the one who had checked out the plow.

  Mason just nodded.

  “We’re gathering everybody in an RV back a ways.” The man pointed back the way he came. “Food, heat and light. All the comforts of home.”

  The man tried to smile, but in the frigid cold and wind, it looked to Mason more like a grimace.

  It wasn’t help, but it offered something. Misery loves company, right?

  “That sounds great,” he yelled back, also trying to smile. “Let me get my wife.” He turned back to his vehicle, opening the door and leaning in.

  “Is it rescue?” Joy asked, her face hopeful.

  “Not exactly.” He explained the situation to her, not sure she felt it was any better.

  “How far back is this RV?” she asked.

  Mason shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  She looked down at the clothes she was wearing, and her suede skirt and boots. “I’m not exactly dressed for walking through the snow.”

  He gazed at her, exasperated. “Would you rather just sit in here?”

  That did it. He saw the look on her face change.

  “No,” she said. “I feel like if I sit here any longer I’ll scream. At least I can move around in an RV.”

  Mason wasn’t sure how many people were gathering in the RV, so he didn’t know how much moving she’d be able to do, but he didn’t want to broach that topic. He watched her zip up her coat and pull on leather gloves. He backed away from the door as she started to clamber over the center console. She was almost at the door when she stopped suddenly.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, turning and reaching into the back seat, grabbing the bag of Christmas presents they had gotten at Higgins Department Store.

  “We don’t need those,” he exclaimed.

  She glared at him. “We went through a lot of trouble to get these gifts tonight. I’m not taking any chances if we can’t get back to our vehicle right away after getting rescued. I don’t want to disappoint our kids any more than we probably already have tonight.”

  “Fine,” he relented, not wanting to waste any more breath on the subject. It was hard enough to breathe out there with the wind sucking the air out of him.

  Joy stumbled out of the vehicle, nearly falling to the ground, but he caught her and steadied her. The snow was up over the top of her suede boots, and he could tell as she looked down that she was pissed.

  “Let’s go,” he said, letting her move ahead of him as they fell in behind the two men.

  He prayed that they were making the right decision.

  Mason brought up the rear in their little parade, marching through the thick snow as they made their way around the jackknifed tractor-trailer, its running lights still on, casting a glow on the snow. Up ahead, one of the two guys had taken a hold of Joy’s arm, assisting her through the snow.

  I should be up there, helping her, Mason thought. He didn’t need anyone else taking care of her. He was fully capable. But he was having a hard time himself, wearing only dress shoes. He was no more equipped for this than she was.

  Mason hadn’t gotten far when a screech stopped him in his tracks. It could have been the wind ripping through the night, transforming from a howl to a higher pitched wailing, but it sounded much more ominous. He turned and looked behind him.

  A figure stood in the snow just before the tractor-trailer. Its rotund shape, especially around the middle, made him think it was the truck driver. The other guys must have forgotten to check on him. The figure was covered in snow. How long had he been standing outside the truck? It was like he was painted in white. Even the hat he wore was frosted with snow.

  Mason waved, trying to signal him to come over.

  The figure didn’t move.

  What the hell’s wrong with him?

  Mason started to move back the way he had come, to see if the man needed help. Something grabbed his shoulder. He whirled around.

  The man he spoke to earlier was beside him, face leaning in.

  “What are you doing?” the man yelled.

  “The guy over there,” Mason yelled back, pointing toward the truck. “I think he needs help.”

  The guy peered over Mason’s shoulder, rubbing snow off his face.

  “What guy?”

  Mason looked back. There was nobody standing in the snow.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ten of them now gathered in the warmth of the recreation vehicle.

  “What was your worst winter memory?” Mr. Volkmann asked while his inquisitive eyes surveyed the weary faces of the travelers. The old man had gray hair slicked back over the top of his head, revealing a widow’s peak so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. He looked from face to face, both young and old, waiting for a response. None was forthcoming, so the old man licked his dry lips and smiled.

&nb
sp; “Let me tell you mine.”

  As a young boy, began his tale, he had grown up in a mountain village in Germany. Christmas was always a time of great anticipation, awaiting a visit from St. Nikolaus. But of course, every girl and boy in the village knew they had to be on their very best behavior, or else they would get a different kind of visit. For St. Nikolaus was not the only entity paying children a visit that time of year. Bad children, the very worst of them, got a visit from an entirely different kind of otherworldly being. Those children were warned that if they did not behave, they would be visited by Krampus.

  Krampus was the dark servant of St. Nikolaus, part beast, part human, with horns, a black face, long slithery tongue and a hairy wolflike body upon two cloven hoofs. He carried a birch switch with which he would spank unruly children to discipline them for their naughty behavior. The really bad children, the old man said, would be thrown into a wooden basket strapped to Krampus’s back and taken away to his lair, often never to be seen again.

  The old man looked around at the audience crammed into his RV as the wind screeched outside with the fury of a locomotive and the icy snow pelted against the windshield sounding like the scratching of the claws of the mythical creature of which he spoke. The huddled group looked on, some with feigned interest, others only putting up with the distraction. But the two children in the group were mesmerized, eyes wide with wonder as the old man spun his tale.

  “We would put our shoes by the front door,” he continued, “and in the morning they would be filled with treats and gifts.” He looked at the young boy and girl. “If we were good.”

  One St. Nikolaus night, as a young boy, he was walking home after suppertime, returning from an errand to bring a loaf of home-baked bread to his oma. His parents had sent him on the errand and, because he wanted to be a good boy, he obliged. On the way home, after the sun dipped beneath tall evergreen trees on the horizon, he followed the snowy path as thick flakes fell from the darkened clouds above. His hands thrust deep in his pockets for warmth, he quickened his pace, anxious to get home and huddle before the fire to warm his bones until it was time to retire to his bedroom.

  He stopped in his tracks, looking behind him where a sound had disturbed the silent night. Footsteps? Maybe. Something crunched the snow. Was there someone following him home? It was certainly too early for St. Nikolaus. He wouldn’t come till he was fast asleep. Behind him, the wooded path was empty as far as the moonlit night would let him see. There was nothing there, he told himself, but when he turned back to continue his trek, he quickened his pace.

  The next sound he heard came from the trees on his left. Was the sound he heard before now flanking him? Maybe a wild animal descended on the village that night, down from the forest to forage for food? He scanned the trees but saw no movement in the darkness between the thick trunks. He looked ahead, to the lights from his neighborhood. He hadn’t long to go, but it still seemed far away. He started to run.

  Something struck his face, knocking him to the ground. His nose throbbed and he removed a mitten from his right hand and felt it. Wetness came away in his fingers and he saw red. In the moonlight he saw drops of blood drip onto the white snow. He heard laughter.

  From behind a tree on the ridge above the path stepped a figure. He recognized the older boy from the neighborhood, Gustov. The laughing boy scooped up more snow, molding it before hurling another snowball at him, striking him in his chest with a thud.

  He tried not to cry, wanting to be brave.

  “Krampus will get you for this!” he yelled, tears spilling out between words despite his effort to suppress them.

  Gustov laughed harder. “There’s no such thing as Krampus, you big baby.”

  The laughter rang in his ears, and he got to his feet and began to run toward his house and away from the laughter that echoed in the cold night. Once inside the safety of his home, he said nothing to his parents about his encounter in the woods, not wanting them to know he had disobeyed their instructions not to take the wooded shortcut home. He told them he had tripped, which resulted in his bloody nose. His mother cleaned him up and gave him some hot cocoa before sending him to bed.

  Not until he was under the covers did it occur to him that lying to his parents might be enough to warrant a visit from Krampus. With that thought on his mind, he was unable to sleep, instead lying on his back in his bunk and listening to every movement in the house. Most he recognized as his parents, performing whatever functions they needed before finally retiring to their bedroom for the night.

  Then the house became quiet, and that was when he listened with more intensity to every creak and groan of the wooden structure. At some point he must have finally drifted off to sleep, because when he did notice a sound, it was because it had awakened him.

  Footsteps.

  At first he thought they were on the stairs leading to his bedroom. He gripped the covers and pulled them up to his chin. But as his ears followed the sound, his eyes rolled up to look at the rafters above. It was coming from the roof.

  St. Nikolaus? he thought. Or something else?

  Each soft step marched a cadence across the roof, and he imagined a shadowy figure creeping along the peak. I’ve been mostly good, he kept telling himself. I haven’t been bad. When the sound got to the edge of the roof above his bedroom window, it stopped.

  The boy was frozen. This was supposed to be an exciting night, not one draped in fear. Snow slid off the roof with a scraping sound, followed by silence. He waited, listening. The next sound he heard came from a distance; a creaking sound, like the opening of a door, or a window. He dared to glance at his own window, shut and secure.

  But he still didn’t feel safe, so he pushed the covers off and swung his legs over to the floor. The wooden boards were cold on his bare feet, sending a shiver up his legs and spine. Maybe it wasn’t just the cold floor. Maybe it was also the fear that coursed through his body. He went to the window. The frosted glass obscured any view, so he unlatched the window and pushed it open. Flakes of snow drifted down onto the street below. He leaned out the window, turning to look up toward the edge of the roof. Snow fell onto his face. Above the empty peak of the house was the white of the snowflakes fluttering from the sky.

  A sound drew his gaze to a house across the way. It was Gustov’s house. His stomach tightened as he watched a shadowy figure crawling out a second-floor window and dropping to the ground. It stepped into the moonlight, and he saw the horns on its long head, between pointy ears. A basket clung to the thing’s back. Something moved in the basket, a head pushing up on its cover that was lashed shut. Eyes peered out from beneath that cover – Gustov’s eyes filled with terror.

  He gasped, and the beast turned toward the sound. From across the way, he could see red glowing eyes staring back at him, before the beast took off into the snowy night.

  Everyone seemed captivated by the old man’s far-fetched fable, but maybe that was because most of them were finally somewhat comfortable for the first time during their ordeal on the highway.

  Shelby Wallace saw completely opposite reactions to the story from her kids. Her younger, Luke, was grinning madly, utterly enthralled by the horrifying image of Krampus carting off the misbehaving boy to whatever punishment the mythical creature would dole out. On the other hand, Macey looked downright frightened, glancing back at her mother with wide eyes, looking for some assurance that it was only a story. Even though she was two years older, she appeared more gullible, believing in the existence of such a creature as Krampus.

  Shelby reached out a reassuring hand to caress her daughter’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s just a fairy tale.” She glanced up at Mr. Volkmann, not wanting to be ungracious, but concerned that they had been through enough tonight without having to worry about the children being scared on Christmas Eve.

  “Of course you don’t have to worry,” the old man s
aid with a hearty laugh and a slap of his knee. “You two children look much too well-behaved to have any reason to fear the arrival of Krampus. He’s only looking for the bad ones.” He grinned, looking around the vehicle at the others.

  “And the rest of us aren’t children anymore,” his wife, Francine, said, as if to keep the adults at ease. “But speaking of children, I bet I know a pair who’d like a special treat.” She stood up and approached one of the cupboards and retrieved a small paper bag from it. “I have some homemade gingerbread cookies.” She held out the open bag before the kids, and Luke and Macey each took one of the treats and began munching on them. She set the bag on the table, but none of the adults indulged.

  It was cramped in the RV, but Shelby still felt better, comforted by the presence of the others. She sat on the cushioned bench seat, her kids on either side of her. Clark Brooks sat on the bench with them. She thought he was very handsome, with nice dark hair, even though it was matted and unkempt from the winter cap he had been wearing earlier. The Volkmanns had taken everyone’s winter coats, hats and gloves, and put them in the bathroom to dry out. All except Louis Felker of course, who refused to part with his coat.

  Felker sat on one side of the small dining table, beside Graham Sawyer, while Mr. and Mrs. Drake sat on the other side. Graham was handsome too, she thought, but the lighter haired man wore a wedding band, and Clark did not. She felt like a silly schoolgirl, thrown into this situation with handsome men to rescue her. Felker’s beady eyes glanced over at her, and the odd man’s brutish face unsettled her, and she put her arms around both children’s shoulders to draw them closer for comfort.

  Mrs. Volkmann returned to the front passenger seat beside her husband. Their seats swiveled around to face the interior of the cabin.

  As Shelby looked around, something occurred to her.

  “Is everyone here?” she asked no one in particular. Silence greeted her question.

  Mason Drake finally broke it. “They said the truck driver didn’t want to come. He’d rather stay in his rig.”