That included her friends, too.
At one point during the past few years, they had stopped coming over altogether. Too many cases of frostbite and broken limbs from sliding on ice, but what did he care? They had it coming to them every time they even suggested changing locations. They were thieves, all of them, hiding their true intentions behind masks of smiles and goodwill.
He would show them.
Built facing the house, he watched, furious, as the door closed behind Leah.
“I wanted to play with Sam a little longer.”
“I know, sweetie, but dad’s not home so you need to come to the store with me. Now go and put new clothes on, okay?”
Ignoring Leah’s groans, Sarah waited until her daughter was clear out of sight to release a long sigh. In truth, they had no shopping to do of any sort, but she couldn’t stand it any longer—watching Leah play with that thing when she was the only parent home. She was a fine mother, by no means the best but good nonetheless, yet she always felt so powerless around Sam.
Around a snowman.
It had not always been that way. The first few years with Sam had been typical, but something had changed recently. Things that could have been brushed off as coincidences became too frequent to be ignored. Her daughter’s friends stopped coming by. A whirlwind of snow always seemed to rampage at them when they opened the door. The snowman did something, and it terrified her.
But Leah had no idea.
Sarah would watch in pure torment as her child ran outside and hugged that creature, as she adjusted its scarf and sat there talking to it. She could spend hours with Sam and never tire; meanwhile, he just stood there, stone smile on his face, seemingly mocking Sarah as she cautiously watched from the window. She dreaded allowing her daughter outside—who was she to tell her child that her favorite winter character was evil in nature?—just as much as she dreaded calling Leah back inside.
The sudden pick up in wind was unbearable. Over her own muffled cries, she was convinced she could hear the screams of another person.
Of Sam.
Except his screams were not filled with agony like her own. His were vicious snarls and ominous promises of much worse to come each time she interrupted the two of them.
She had tried to tell her husband about it, but he assured her it was nothing more than her own imagination. He was so convincing, too, if not for the few times she’d heard him praying in the bathroom. He was not a religious man—they married on a beach because he was not confirmed. She had only needed to hear his pleas to God a few times to know he, too, was terrified and that he had chosen to appease whatever monster was within Sam. The snowman must have noticed, for her husband’s car stopped having frost and ice issues.
Sarah’s own car, on the other hand, was dangerous. If it wasn’t for the fact that Leah was in the car with her most of the time, she was sure the ice on her windows would never have defrosted. When she was on her own, though, it was a completely different story. She had gone from a clean record to two accidents. The first she had brushed off as her own fault as it had occurred back in the earlier years, but the second one—when she had returned home, she was sure the smile on Sam’s face seemed just slightly wider.
Slightly pleased.
Slightly demonic.
Shivering at her own memories, Sarah took a breath. Once Leah came downstairs, they just had to walk outside, pass Sam, and get into the car.
That was it.
Plus, she had Leah with her, and the snowman seemed to worship her—she was safe.
She had to be.
“Mom, can we get ice cream?”
Jumping out of her thoughts, it surprised Sarah to find Leah standing next to her. She would surely die young of fright with the way things were going lately.
“Sure. Do you have your jacket?”
Eyes trailing after her daughter’s figure as she went to fetch her “stupid” jacket, Sarah sighed. In reality, she could have just grabbed another from the closet, but she was stalling.
She didn’t want to go outside.
Cautiously turning to look out the window, her breath hitched as she found Sam smiling back at her, like usual. Nothing seemed out of place, like usual. They looked like an average house in the neighborhood with the average snowman decorating the front lawn.
But looks were deceiving.
The longer she stared at the snow face, the more twisted it seemed to become. Rubbing her eyes to assure herself she wasn’t just seeing things, Sarah blinked a few times only to find the same, warped smirk of stone. Sam watched
Sam waited.
Before the urge to cry could overcome her, she heard Leah’s footsteps descending the stairs. At least her daughter was safe—yes, that was what she had to focus on. Her husband had been looking into different realtors to list the house this year—maybe she could just push him to do it a little sooner?
Yes, that was what she would do.
“Ready!” her daughter announced.
Forcing a smile on her face, she handed Leah the keys. “Great, lead the way!”
Leah opened the door and, as if knowing it would be her on the other side of it, only the typical wind greeted them outside. Even as the door opened further so she could see Sam waiting, nothing happened.
Taking a step onto the porch, Sarah turned behind her to close the door. She heard Leah making her way to the driveway, and Sarah fumbled to quicken her pace. Just before she could take another step, a cracking sound caught her attention. Looking up, she found herself staring at the jagged points of hundreds of small icicles.
Sarah screamed.
Bursting with glee when her tortured cries stopped, Sam watched as Leah, unaware of what was happening, played with the radio.
Outside, the snow danced madly with his victory, the wind singing a wild incantation.
He would show them all.
Leah was his.
One down.
One to go.
About Kaylee Kosakowski
Kaylee Kosakowski is an eternally frazzled college student studying Television and Film. When she is not writing, editing, animating, or working on other assignments, she indulges herself in reading and slowly demolishing her to-watch list on Netflix. Writing was something that always interested her, but it was not until the past few years that she truly began to pursue it. She is currently working on a book of her own as well as a few collaboration works. She has been published with the Collaborative Writing Challenge and always anticipates new projects.
The Hitchhiker’s Christmas Gift
By Robert Padan
“But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep”
Robert Frost
The rocky, pot-holed road was dark and lonely. In the wee hours of morning, on the longest night of the year, just a few days before Christmas: southwest of Miami, northwest of Homestead, and east of the Everglades. From out of the Redlands the truck driver slowly, carefully drove his refrigerated tractor-trailer full of produce that had been ripening in the Florida sunshine just hours earlier. The load of vegetables would be on grocers’ shelves up north the next afternoon, ready to be purchased for Christmas dinners if all went well. Hundreds of green bean casseroles and tomato salads, as well as a generous bonus for delivery before Christmas Eve, depended on his load.
Even in the dark, the truck driver could see for miles over the flat agricultural land. In the distance, he knew the road was paved and would improve. He knew about the traffic light ahead in the East where this road crossed Krome Avenue on its way to the Florida Turnpike, from which he would head for points north. As he looked ahead for the crossroads, he not only saw the traffic light as it cycled from green to yellow and red, but also the flashing blue and red lights from emergency vehicles. Long before he reached the intersection, the lights pulled away to the east and disappeared.
Minutes passed, and when he reached the intersection he saw a hitchhiker holding a cardboard placard with a dollar sign on it. The truck driv
er was unaccustomed to picking up hitchhikers in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, but the dollar sign got his attention. In the truck’s lights the guy looked decent enough—work boots, clean blue jeans, white shirt, haircut, clean-shaven, young-looking, and all that. He rolled down his window and asked the hitchhiker, “What’s up?”
“I’m headed north. I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you stop in Fort Pierce, and I’ve got a Commercial License if you need help driving.”
The truck driver was eager and could always use some extra money as well as someone to help drive on the long run. That way he wouldn’t have to cheat on his logbooks. He cautiously asked, “How far you going?”
“As far as you can take me. I can’t pay you now, but when we make it to a truck stop in Fort Pierce, I’ll make sure you get your cash. Is that okay with you?”
When on this run, the driver usually took the turnpike to Fort Pierce and topped off his fuel tanks at one of the truck stops; there were at least half a dozen of them. Then he usually switched to I-95 for the rest of the run north, so he wouldn’t have to go out of his way. If this kid stiffed him on the money, the driver wouldn’t lose anything. “Any particular truck stop?”
“First one after the turnpike exit.”
“Okay, get in. Fort Pierce is only a bit more than two hours from here. This load of veggies is going to New York, but if you hang around and help me unload, I’m going up to Vermont to get a load of ice cream.” Then he unlocked and opened the passenger door.
“Okay.” The hitchhiker grabbed his backpack and climbed inside.
They drove quietly for several minutes, passing neighborhoods decorated with cheerful Christmas lights; some were still on at this late hour. They reached the turnpike, entered the ramp, and headed north. Traffic was very light, and the truck driver easily maintained a steady seventy-five miles an hour—not so fast as to draw unwanted attention from the state police, but fast enough to make good time. The hitchhiker stared straight ahead, quiet and respectful, so the truck driver opened a conversation. “If you’ve got a commercial license, are you a driver?”
“Yeah, well, y’know, I was. But that’s all over now,” the hitchhiker replied soberly.
“Sorry to hear that.” The truck driver wondered how this kid got himself fired.
“Well, shit happens. My own fault, really. Made some bad decisions, went for the fast and easy money, got connected with the wrong people, and everything went downhill fast.”
“It’s bad enough to lose your job, but at least you’re not in jail.”
“Oh, trust me, there’s a whole lot worse things than going to jail. At least there, you get your three hots and a cot.” The hitchhiker tried to make light of his situation, but the humor fell flat. “All I really want to do now is make sure my family is taken care of, but I don’t think it’ll be a very Merry Christmas at my house. I’m hopin’ to meet a friend in Fort Pierce who’ll do me a small favor. Then maybe I can make things a little better. Maybe I can get her a decent used car.”
The truck driver was keen to change the subject and asked, “So, you’ve got a family?”
The hitchhiker brightened. “Yeah, wife and kid. She works at a daycare. Not much money, but at least she gets to bring the boy along for free. They really seem to like it, but they have to take a bus to get there.”
“Little boy? How old?”
“Just out of diapers, but he talks really well.”
The truck driver reflected, “They’re still cute at that age, but watch out. He’ll turn into a teenager before you know it. I should know. My youngest is a teenager. Just started driving, and scares the daylights out of me. The others are all grown up.”
“I guess so,” the hitchhiker replied quietly.
The truck driver tried to continue the conversation, but although the hitchhiker was polite, he seemed to withdraw into himself, becoming quieter and shrinking away from the world. The truck driver tried talking about his own family but was unable to draw the young man out.
They drove north, passing neighborhoods, shopping malls, and golf courses. The properties seemed to get wealthier the further north they went. Then north of Palm Beach, development got thinner and lights and traffic almost disappeared. After a long, uncomfortable silence, they approached the exit for Fort Pierce and exited the turnpike. The truck driver pulled into the first truck stop after the toll gate and pulled up to the fuel pumps. As he got out, he asked, “You gonna check out your friend?”
“Yeah, I hope he comes through for me.” The hitchhiker got out of the truck and walked toward the truck stop, disappearing around a corner.
The truck driver topped off his fuel tanks for the tractor and the cooling unit on the trailer. He figured he would never see the hitchhiker or his promised hundred dollars again, but the ride hadn’t cost anything, so he figured no harm no foul. He pulled away from the pumps, parked, and went into the truck stop to pay for the fuel and secure his points for showers and perks. He entered the truck stop, paid, got his credits, and headed to get some snacks.
As he passed the bulletin board, he was shocked to see a flyer tacked to it with a picture of the hitchhiker. It must have been his DOT license picture. The man in the photo wore the same white shirt, probably the same blue jeans, and had the same young, clean-cut look. Written in bold across the top was ‘WANTED FOR QUESTIONING’, and the bottom had the state police contact information. As he stared open-mouthed at the flyer, a state cop walked up to the bulletin board and yanked the flyer off the board.
“Hey I think I saw that guy,” the driver protested.
“Well, it’s too late now,” the state cop replied.
“What happened?”
“It will be all over the morning news in a few hours, so I might as well tell you. The Homestead Police found his body just off Krome Avenue a few hours ago. He was beaten to death, real messy. Poor kid got messed up in some gang business. We had been trying to get to him first, but obviously we didn’t make it.”
“Was it over drugs?”
“No, probably money laundering. This gang recruits young truck drivers to do their dirty work then disposes of them as soon as something goes wrong. This kid was probably skimming, so they made an example of him.” The cop paused then asked, “Did you know this kid?”
“I thought I did, but obviously not.”
“You ever see any funny business on the road?” the cop asked, getting serious.
“Not much. I mostly just haul veggies from the Redlands up north then ice cream from Vermont back down south. There sometimes seems to be hookers or druggies hanging around these truck stops, but they look at me and figure I’m not their type, so they move on. Look, I’m not stupid. I’m just never in the market for what they’re selling.”
The cop pointed to another poster with a picture of a truck driver looking serious and the words ‘I am the eyes of anti-terrorism’ printed beneath. “If you ever see something suspicious, call us. You know we take your observations seriously. We don’t want any more drivers ending up like this poor kid.”
“Right,” the truck driver answered quickly.
“Don’t do anything stupid, just observe and report.”
“Okay. I’ve got to get back on the road.” The truck driver turned and went back to his truck, forgetting his snacks.
The driver got back into the cab of his truck without seeing any more of the mysterious hitchhiker he thought he’d picked up. Then he noticed something on the passenger seat. It was the hitchhiker’s backpack. He opened it and was stunned to find it stuffed with cash. A small piece of paper, decorated like a homemade Christmas card, lay on top of the money. It read,
Dearest Wife,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. I was a fool, and have paid the price for my foolishness. I have asked a friend to bring this money to you. It looks like a lot, but won’t last long. So be careful and don’t call attention to yourself. I love you and our son. Say a prayer for my foolish soul.
On the back of the paper was another note.
Dear friend,
I beg a favor of you. Please take this backpack to my family. Take whatever money you think fair for your trouble.
A local address followed, and that was it.
The truck driver knew the neighborhood of the address on the note; it was hardly out of his way. So he decided to make an extra stop.
He drove to the address; his was not the only truck on the street. The yards were big and nearly all of them had work trucks or equipment on trailers—mostly older stuff but well-maintained. Modest homes and a few doublewide trailers lined the street, but nearly all of them had some kind of Christmas decorations. He got out of his truck, grabbed the backpack, and took out five twenty-dollar bills. Then he approached the house, which had a string of colored lights still turned on.
The door opened just as he began to knock, and a slim, pretty young woman appeared. Silent tears streamed down her face as she took the offered backpack. The voice of a sleepy child asked from inside the modest home, “Is Daddy home?”
The truck driver wiped the moistness from his eyes as he drove north on I-95; on his right in the east, the sun’s rays showed just a hint of pink. It was a new day.
About Robert Padan
Robert Padan is a bit of a contrary. My conservative friends think I am too liberal and my liberal friends think I am too conservative. I love my wife and three kids, parents, siblings, inlaws and outlaws. I love the foster kids we helped, I love my clients, friends, acquaintances, and everyone I have ever met, alive or dead, even the ones who did me wrong. Sometimes people drive me crazy and I just want to crawl into my cave and be alone so I can concentrate on getting work done by myself. I am a sinner, I go to church. I am a Midwestern Yankee, I live in the South. I am a math person, I make my living as an anal-retentive bean-counter, so what makes me think I can write?
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