Snowball

by Gregory Bastianelli

  Then it dawned on him.

  The keys!

  They were in his coat pocket back in the RV. Dammit! Need a new plan.

  Mason looked around. On the opposite side of the highway were the woods where Clark and Graham had gone to find the house they had seen. He searched through the trees, trying to spot the light, but there was no sign of it.

  He turned to look on the northbound side of the highway, also bordered by snow-covered trees. But there was something else. Mason climbed through a snowdrift until he bumped into the guardrail buried beneath. He looked down below where the ground sloped to a gap in the trees. It was a frozen river under the highway, cutting a path through the woods. He tried to recall what river it was, trying to remember where on the highway they had been. Driving in the storm it had been hard to decipher at what spot they had ground to a halt. He remembered passing an exit, but wasn’t sure what number, only focusing on the road ahead.

  But wherever he was, rivers usually flowed through towns, so if he could just follow this one, maybe it would lead him to safety. Mason scrambled over the snowbank at the edge of the road, lost his footing and pitched forward. He cried out as he tumbled down the embankment, rolling like a snowball. He came to a stop when he slammed into the base of a small tree, banging his hip.

  “Damn!” he yelled, pain searing up his side. He lay still, puffing out white breaths of air. At least he was still breathing, he thought as he got to his feet, brushing snow off his clothes as best he could.

  He walked to the edge of the river, his left side aching. Light was beginning to break and it allowed him to see the frozen river winding through the woods. He should be able to keep fairly close to its edge, he thought, and follow it. He hoped it wasn’t too far to a town or maybe some homes where he might seek help. He prayed he would last that long. He was already shivering.

  But he also felt a shot of adrenaline that produced a burst of energy to help keep his mind off the cold. He was taking action at least, instead of sitting around in that RV feeling helpless. Maybe he should have offered to go with Clark and Graham, or even with Shelby to find her kids. But he hadn’t wanted to leave Joy’s side.

  Ironic how that’d turned out, he thought, and erupted with a mad chuckle. He chalked it up to the stress of what he’d just endured. But as he followed the river’s edge, weaving around the trees, the echoes of Joy’s screams in his head grew fainter.

  Push on, he told himself, or it’s the end for you. His path was serpentine as he dodged each tree keeping his eyes to the left, making sure not to stray too far from the river. It was important to keep close to it. It was his lifeline. Otherwise he would get lost out here. He turned the corner around a tree and stopped in his tracks.

  A snowman stood a few yards in front of him.

  Or at least a part of a snowman. It had the round base and a middle ball, but its head was missing. Out of its midsection, two branches extended, hanging limply by its side.

  Mason stared at it for a moment, thinking of the snowman in the RV and wondering if this one was like that. It was smaller than the one that had attacked Joy, and without a head it had no teeth.

  It can’t see you, he thought. It has no head, no face, no eyes. Just walk around it.

  But what was it doing out here?

  Maybe it wasn’t like that other diabolical creature. It could be that someone had started to build it but never finished. That might mean there was a house nearby. He looked beyond the snowman, scanning the woods for some sign of a dwelling.

  There was nothing.

  But he might be close, he thought. Excitement spurred him on, and he walked around the snowman. Something gripped his arm, pulling at his sleeve. He thought he had gotten it snagged on a branch and turned. He was right, but the branch belonged to the arm of the headless snowman. It had reached out and grabbed him with its twiggy claw.

  Mason reeled back, heart jumping into his throat, the sleeve tearing. Once free, he turned and ran, not looking back to see if it was following. He ducked under the branch of a tree in front of him, but not quick enough and it lashed across his eyes. He screamed, putting his hand up to his face and feeling blood on the bridge of his nose. His eyes watered, blurring his vision.

  He stumbled through the woods, pulse pounding at the thought of that thing behind him. Through his blurred sight he spied a clearing ahead and staggered between two trees toward it.

  Mason looked back to see if the thing was following. His feet slid out from under him and he went crashing to the ground. A thud sounded as he landed and pain shot through his whole body. He had landed on something hard.

  It was ice. He had inadvertently run out onto the middle of the frozen river.

  Slowly, he got to his feet, steadying himself. He looked to the edge of the shore closest to him.

  Two snowmen stood on the shoreline. One was the snowman in the top hat and scarf that had killed Joy. The other was a shorter one with a Santa hat on. That one raised one of its branch arms and waved, the twigs of its fingers flapping, its mouth opening in a silent giggle.

  Mason turned to look at the opposite shoreline. It was farther away, but he began taking slow strides toward it. It’s not that far, he told himself.

  A crack sounded and he stopped.

  He glanced down at his feet, keeping still. Behind him, he saw the snowmen weren’t approaching. They were standing on the riverbank watching him. The ice groaned beneath his weight. Holding his breath, he took another step. More groans from beneath, and he even thought the surface of the ice moved.

  The shoreline was no closer. I can make it, he thought. I can get there.

  Mason took one more step and the ice opened up beneath his feet, plunging him down into frigid water, the pain from the cold sucking the breath out of him. He gripped the edge of the hole, holding himself up. The water was up to his chest. He had never experienced such pain in his life. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by a burning vise. Everything below that point was numb. He tried kicking his legs, to keep himself up, but he couldn’t even tell if they were moving.

  A glow emanated from the icy water below him and he looked down.

  A body floated below him, drifting up toward his feet. As it turned in the clear water, its head tipped back, face coming into view. He recognized him, Selden Crockett, his friend from high school, who had drowned when they’d crashed their car into the lake.

  This can’t be.

  He looked just like he had that day the police divers pulled his body from the frozen lake – hair iced back, face white, eyes closed (thank God), arms raised and fists clenched. He hadn’t been able to pound his way through the ice, Mason thought. It was too thick.

  Up here, Mason’s mind called out. There’s a way out up here. Here’s a hole!

  Selden’s eyes opened.

  Mason felt his fingers slipping on the edge of the ice, losing their grip.

  Selden’s lips spread in a grin and his arms pushed his body up toward Mason’s. When he reached Mason’s feet, his fists unclenched, and he grabbed onto his ankles.

  Mason felt himself being pulled under and he frantically clawed at the ice, digging his fingernails in, trying to reestablish his grip. The force below was strong, and Mason didn’t think he could hold on much longer.

  I tried, he thought, thinking of his children. It just wasn’t enough.

  His grip released and he sank down into the frigid water.

  Before the numbing cold overtook him completely, he looked up at the hole in the ice in time to see the heads of the two snowmen peering down at him. The one in the Santa hat raised its branch hand and waved goodbye.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What are you talking about?” Clark asked, coming around to stand before Graham.

  His friend sat in the chair with his frosty head bowed. He held his hands clasped, rubbing his white fingers slowl
y.

  “When I was in the snow well, I couldn’t breathe.” His head stayed down. He wouldn’t look up at Clark. “The snow was heavy and…I suffocated.” He looked up, and Clark could see all the color had drained from his irises and his eyes were pure white.

  Clark took a shuddered step back, banging up against the bookcase beside the fireplace. He reached his left hand out to grab the edge of a shelf to brace himself, looking at the games stacked on it. He saw the one titled Haunted Mansion, with the picture of a creepy old house on the cover, a game he remembered having as a child. The object was to move your token through the mansion, being wary of spooks and goblins that would thwart the player’s attempt to escape. There was something familiar about the house on the cover with its lone circular window looking out from a gabled third-floor dormer. It dawned on him after picturing it with a layer of snow. It was the house they were in.

  “You’re delirious,” Clark said, ignoring the sight of the frozen man before him.

  “I saw him,” Graham said through bluish lips.

  “Saw who?” Clark wondered if he was talking about Thayer Sledge, or maybe Everett Wick.

  “My brother,” he answered. “I could only see his boots, but I knew they were his.”

  Clark stayed silent.

  “And you know what?” Graham continued. “I couldn’t reach him. I still wasn’t able to save him.”

  “Don’t think about that.” They had to get out of this house, or whatever this place was. It wasn’t real. None of this was real. He had to help his friend up, and he needed to find Shelby’s kids and get the hell out of here, back to the highway, back to some kind of reality.

  If it was still there.

  “You shouldn’t have ducked,” Graham said.

  “What?” Clark looked around the room, wondering where the hell his boots could be. He certainly couldn’t go running around in the snow in his stocking feet. He’d never make it, not without losing a few toes along the way.

  “That day on the playground, when I threw the snowball at you. You should have taken the hit and not been such a wimp.”

  “You’re talking gibberish.”

  Clark looked out the window. It was light out, dawn breaking. That would make it easier to find their way back.

  “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t ducked, none of this would be happening.”

  Had Sledge gotten to him, brainwashed him? The old man had been in here recently to make his chess move. Where the hell had he gone to now?

  “I have something for you,” Graham said, his voice ominous. He reached his hand into his jacket pocket. “I found it out in the snow and brought it for you.”

  Clark looked at him.

  Graham pulled his hand out of his pocket. In it he held a snowball. Jagged shards of ice stuck out of it. Graham compacted it with his palms, compressing it, the sharp points of the ice cutting into the flesh of his hands, drawing blood that oozed onto the snowball, the red soaking into the ball like flavored syrup onto a snow cone.

  Clark didn’t like the look on Graham’s face, or the madness he saw in those damned eyes.

  “You’re going to take this one,” Graham said, rising up out of the chair. “And we’re going to end this now.”

  Clark shot a glance toward the foyer and the front door. Could he reach it in time? He sprinted toward it, knowing he had to get away from whatever his friend had become. He grabbed the knob, turned it, pulled on the door frantically, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s no use,” Graham said, gripping the snowball in a bloody hand and lurching toward him like some ghoul. “There’s no way out of here.” He had reached the entryway to the foyer.

  Clark eyed the staircase and the dark landing above. He ran for it and leaped up the stairs two or three at a time, his heart racing as fast as his feet, but still feeling slow.

  “You killed us all!” Graham yelled as he began mounting the staircase. “Now it’s time for you.”

  At the top of the stairs, a hallway stretched in both directions. Clark turned right, but he guessed it didn’t matter which way he went. He tried remembering where the back staircase he had seen in the kitchen was in relation to this part of the house. If only he could get to that and out the back door before Graham caught up to him.

  Closed doors lined both sides of the hall as he ran by. He wondered if the kids were locked up behind one of them. He couldn’t leave without trying to find them. And some boots.

  He stopped, hearing something. It was the rattling of chains. It came from behind one of the doors. Maybe the kids were chained up in one of the rooms.

  “Stop!” Graham yelled.

  Clark looked back down the hall where the ghastly image of his friend stood, still clutching the snowball.

  “You can’t escape this,” Graham said. “There’s no use running.”

  Clark backed up against a window at the end of the hall. Maybe the staircase was behind one of these doors. He opened one as Graham moved down the hall toward him. There was a staircase behind the door, but it went up to the third floor.

  This house felt like a maze.

  “Hey, Clarkie boy!” Graham yelled, winding up his right arm like a baseball pitcher. “Catch this, pretty boy!” He hurled the snowball.

  Even in the dim lighting of the hallway, Clark could see the object hurtling toward him, jagged ice poking out of the red-stained ball.

  Clark ducked.

  Like all those many years ago on that school playground, the snowball sailed over his head and broke through one of the panes of the window behind him.

  “You fucker!” Graham screamed, his frozen mouth spitting saliva.

  Clark straightened up just as Graham reached him.

  “Why did you do that again?” Graham asked, his face pained. “Now look what you’ve made me do.” He looked behind Clark at the broken window, cold air and flakes of snow blowing in. “Mr. Sledge is going to be furious with us.” His eyes fell on Clark. “This is all your fault.” He reached out and grabbed Clark by the throat, squeezing icy fingers into his neck.

  “Graham!” Clark yelled hoarsely as his throat tightened. “This isn’t you.” He tried reasoning with his friend as the breath was being squeezed out of him. The dead white eyes bored into his with wrath. He remembered something Sledge had said. The dead resent the living.

  But this was his childhood friend, his best friend.

  “Please,” Clark said, trying to pull the stiff arms off him with no luck. “You don’t want this.”

  Graham’s eyes softened and his grip relaxed. He looked down at his gashed bloody white hands. “Oh my God,” he said, amazement on his face. “What am I?”

  “You’re Graham Sawyer,” Clark said. “You’re my friend. You’re a husband and a father.”

  Graham’s eyes met Clark’s, full of sadness. “I’m dead.” It was as if it had just occurred to him. “And I’m very cold.”

  Clark didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’m so tired of being cold,” Graham said, taking a step back. A trickle of water ran from his temple down his right cheek. The frost on his skin and hair was thawing out. “What’s happening to me?” His eyes looked confused. Steamy mist dissipated from his flesh, as if his whole body was vaporizing. “Say goodbye to Natalie and the girls for me,” he said with pleading eyes.

  “I will,” Clark said. He tried to reach out and grab hold of his friend, but it was too late.

  With one last look from those white eyes, Graham’s flesh turned to mist and his whole body collapsed, the vapor sucked out through the opening in the broken window, leaving behind only a jumbled bundle of clothes and boots.

  Clark knelt down, wanting to scream. Instead, he composed himself and grabbed Graham’s coat and boots and put them on, finally glad to have something on his feet. They were a little tight in the toes, but they’d
do in a pinch. He glanced at the broken window. That might be the only way out, he thought, striding over to it. After removing some big shards of glass, he peered out.

  There was no ground below, only a white void. He thought about what Sledge said about this place, what it represented. Maybe there was no way out.

  The clinking of metal drew his attention back to the hallway. Chains, he remembered. Someone was behind one of these doors.

  But which?

  Clark ignored the one that led to the stairs to the third floor and tried the one just past it down the hall when he noticed a dim light from under the bottom of the door. It opened when he turned the knob and he peeked in warily.

  Bernard Ferrin sat in a heap in a wooden chair before a rolltop desk. He was trying a key in one of the padlocks on his chains, but stopped when he noticed Clark.

  “Lost?” he sighed.

  Clark entered, closing the door gently behind him. The only other furniture in the room was a four-poster bed covered in rumpled sheets. An oil lamp on the desk illuminated Ferrin’s face, but little else in the room. Was there no electricity here? Clark wondered. Did a place like this even need electricity?

  “You could say I’m lost,” Clark said.

  “Join the club.” Ferrin continued trying the key in a lock.

  “My best friend is dead.” Clark sighed. “And he just tried to kill me.” Saying it out loud sounded ludicrous.

  “We’re all dead here.” Ferrin did not look up, concentrating on his keys, sorting through the choices and selecting another one.

  “I’m not,” Clark emphasized, still afraid to raise his voice. He didn’t know where Sledge or his henchman, Wick, was.

  “Some fates are much worse than death.” Ferrin tried a key unsuccessfully.

  Clark walked over to the desk. “Why are you here?”

  Ferrin looked up. “Do you see these chains? It’s not me that’s fettered. It’s him. I’m bound to him.”

  “I don’t understand this place, or what it is.”

  Ferrin looked cross. “You haven’t figured that out?”