Snowball

by Gregory Bastianelli

  Drinking had also put his job in jeopardy, with the ongoing investigation into the train accident that had killed a homeless man. Nelson was driving the train that night, and of course tests showed alcohol in his system. If he lost his job, which seemed highly likely, there went her child support. His stupidity and recklessness continued to make her life miserable.

  And now he was probably happily sleeping off his drunken stupor with his new wife, while Shelby’s night of suffering seemed to have no end. So Clark had to find help. She needed him to get to that house, call for help, and rescue them from this nightmare.

  Please Clark, she said to herself. Please be all right.

  Mrs. Volkmann glanced up at her from the bench seat, a smile on her face. Shelby looked away. How could anyone smile with all this going on? How could this old couple be so calm in the face of utter desperation?

  Joy continued peering out the window, her husband beside her. But Shelby didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to see that the light in the woods was gone. She wanted to believe that Clark had found its source. It was the only thing she could hold on to right now, with her nerves on such an edge.

  A crash of shattering glass made her jump. It came from the rear of the RV. It was followed by screams.

  The children!

  Shelby ran to the door and pushed it open.

  Both kids were looking behind them at the shattered window and the hairy beast that stood outside it. She thought it was an animal, considering its hairy body, long pointed ears and pair of horns that sprouted from the top of its head. But its face looked human. Red eyes glared out at her and the mouth beneath its hooked nose opened, a long red tongue slithering out between its pointed teeth.

  “Mom!” Macey screamed, frightened eyes locking with hers.

  Shelby was too stunned by this bestial image to move, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.

  In its right hand the beast had a birch switch, which it swept about, clearing the broken shards of glass from the rear window. Its left hand reached in and grabbed Luke, lifting him off the bed.

  “No!” Shelby screamed. She lunged into the room and climbed on the end of the bed, as the beast shoved Luke into a wicker basket strapped onto its back.

  “Help!” Luke’s terrified voice echoed out of the container.

  Shelby felt as if her body wouldn’t co-operate, her muscles failing her as she tried to clamber across the bed, reaching out for Macey’s outstretched hand. Her daughter was snatched away, just as their hands were about to connect.

  Macey’s eyes were wide with terror as the beast clutched the child to its hairy chest. Shelby reached toward the girl, but the beast swiped the switch across her face, the branches scraping her cheek and knocking her backward on the bed.

  The beast’s tongue protruded again, at least a foot out of its horrid mouth.

  Shelby didn’t know if the creature could talk, but it did seem to be laughing. It turned and ran off through the snow. Shelby leaped forward toward the open window, grabbing onto its bottom edge, not even feeling the shards of glass digging into her palms.

  “Bring back my babies!” she screamed into the night, attempting to climb out the window before realizing something was holding her back. There were hands grabbing her shoulders. She turned to see it was Mason Drake.

  “Let me go!” she said, seething, her heart pounding.

  “You can’t go out there,” Mason said, a firm grip on her.

  “It’s got my children!”

  “You’ll die if you go out there,” he said, as if it mattered. She’d rather be dead than abandon her kids.

  “I need to go after them,” she pleaded, realizing she was crying hysterically.

  “Not like this,” he said. “You don’t even have a coat on.”

  She almost laughed. It seemed a silly thing to say. Something her mother would say: Don’t go out without a coat, you’ll catch a death of a cold.

  Shelby did laugh, which quickly turned to wracking sobs. Mason pulled her forward and her face sank onto his shoulder. She closed her eyes, sobbing, feeling like everything had fallen apart in her world. When she opened her eyes, she glanced over Mason’s shoulder at the others who stared back at her. They all seemed horrified or uncomfortable.

  No, not all.

  She pushed Mason aside and crawled off the bed. The others backed out of the bedroom into the living area of the RV as she came forward. She looked past Joy and Felker, to the Volkmanns.

  “You!” she said, pointing at Werner. “You told that story about that creature.”

  “The Krampus,” Lewis Felker acknowledged in agreement, coming along beside Shelby in support. “He knew all about it.”

  Werner opened his mouth, uttering an ‘Uh’, and then shut it, looking perplexed.

  “It was just a story,” Francine said in defense of her husband. “A European folktale. Who knew it really existed?”

  Shelby turned to her. “You offered to put the children in the bedroom.”

  “We need answers,” Mason said from behind her. He had shut the door to the bedroom, sealing off the cold air pouring in through the broken window. “We want to know what’s really going on here.” His face held a hint of disbelief.

  Shelby turned to him. “You saw. We all saw.”

  “I’m not sure what I saw.”

  “Whatever it was took my kids.” Shelby’s fear had turned to rage. “And I need to go after them.” She went to the closet where Francine had hung all their coats, grabbed hers and put it on.

  “You can’t go rushing off into the night, God knows where,” Mason said. “You’ll get lost out there.”

  “It’ll be dawn soon,” Joy said. “You need to at least wait till sunrise.”

  “If the sun ever comes up,” Felker said.

  This quieted everyone. Joy walked past the others to the front of the RV, but then stopped short.

  The quiet was broken by the sound of a zipper as Shelby did up her coat. “I’m going. You can come with me to help,” she said to Mason, “or get out of my way.”

  “Before anyone goes anywhere,” Joy said. “I think you should look out the front windshield.”

  Everyone turned to look toward the front of the RV.

  Beyond the windshield, in the beams from the headlights cast out onto the road, were three snowmen.

  Chapter Ten

  Clark was shaken by the old man’s words as he looked deep into Sledge’s steel-gray eyes.

  “You’re not alive?”

  “Oh goodness no,” he said. “Haven’t been for quite some time.”

  Clark thought about the tree outside, the skeletal couple in the hatchback. Nothing made sense here. Had he wandered through the storm into some wintry version of hell? His head throbbed from trying to comprehend.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Sledge’s servant, who entered the room carrying two drinks on a tray. Clark stood to get a look at him. It was the man Clark saw when he’d collapsed outside the house, the man with the straw-like hair and craggy face. He wore a black jacket over a red shirt, and dark pants.

  “Thank you, Everett,” Sledge said, taking the drinks off the tray. “That will be all for now.”

  The man didn’t speak, only nodding before turning and walking away.

  Sledge handed Clark one of the glasses. “Hot buttered rum,” he said. “Should warm your insides while the fire warms your outsides.”

  Clark took the glass with a shaking hand, careful not to spill a drop. He brought it to his lips, taking a gentle sip. It did feel warm, burning smoothly down his throat. “Your business partner, Mr. Ferrin, is he dead too?”

  “Oh quite,” Sledge said, after taking a sip of his own drink. “That of course was my fault.”

  “Your fault?”

  “Yes.” The old man grinned. “Only because I killed hi
m.”

  Once again Clark was stunned by the man’s words, maybe even more so because of his callous way of expressing them. “You murdered him?”

  Sledge shrugged, taking Clark’s arm and guiding him closer to the warm fire. “Killed, murdered, it’s all how you look at it. You see, more than fifty years ago, when we were both alive of course, we had a chance to sell our gaming company to one of the larger corporations. A buyout that would have brought even greater financial rewards to the two of us than we already had. There was just one problem.”

  “And what was that?” Clark asked after another sip of his drink.

  “Bernard didn’t want to sell. Oh, he was a stubborn fool. He wanted the autonomy of our own company, without having to answer to a board of directors. Truth was, he just wanted the freedom to continue inventing games, and he felt that wouldn’t happen with the buyout from a parent company.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Not exactly.” The man stroked his goatee. “I took him on a hike that winter, up Mt. Washington. Just a chance for the two of us to be alone and hash things out, try to get him to see reason.”

  “Up Mt. Washington? In the winter?”

  “I was pretty fit even at my age,” Sledge said with pride. “Couldn’t say the same for Bernard.”

  “But he went anyway.”

  Sledge nodded. “It took some convincing, but I assured him I knew what I was doing.” He winked at Clark. “And I did. Up the trail we went, beyond the tree line. The whole way up I explained the benefit of selling our company. He refused to listen. So, as a storm approached, which I was quite aware was coming, I abandoned him on the mountain, knowing full well he would not make it down.” He didn’t show any hesitation telling the story. “It took two days to find his body.”

  “And you sold the company?”

  “The very next year.” He polished off his drink and set it down on a table beside the couch. “Of course I sat on the board of directors for a while, a token assignment, more as a figurehead than anything. No real decision-making powers. And when it was time to step down from that and retire, I left with riches beyond my desires and lived to a ripe old age before passing from natural causes, in my sleep.” He smiled. “Wonderful way to go.”

  “And no one ever suspected what you did?”

  He smirked. “There were whispers of course. But my story of two nature lovers who bit off more than they could chew was believable. Mt. Washington has claimed many a hiker both experienced and amateur.”

  “And you got away with murder.”

  At that he laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t quite say ‘got away’. I ended up here.”

  “And where exactly is here?”

  Thayer Sledge’s expression shifted; his eyes seemed to withdraw as if searching inside himself for an explanation. He frowned, and then gazed around the room.

  “I’m not sure you’d be able to comprehend,” he finally said.

  “Well, if you’re dead, then is this the afterlife?” Clark pondered the meaning of what he was asking, thinking of his own mortality.

  “There is no afterlife,” Sledge said. “There is only after death.”

  “Then….” Clark hesitated, afraid to ask. His palms sweated, and not just because he was near the heat from the fireplace. But inside, around his heart and lungs, he felt chilled. “Am I dead?” He blurted it out, not sure he was prepared for the answer.

  “Oh heavens no,” the old man said. “You are very much alive, Mr. Brooks. That storm out there might have tried to kill you, but it hasn’t. Yet.”

  Clark felt relief, his body almost shaking. He had so many questions. “Then what is this place? What are you doing in this house? Did you live here? Are you haunting it?” He couldn’t imagine a man as rich as Thayer Sledge living in this home.

  “What you see here,” Sledge said, waving his hand around the room, “is not really a house.”

  More confusion. “It’s not?”

  “Sit down,” Sledge said, gesturing to the couch. Clark sat and the old man took a seat in one of the chairs beside it. “I’ll try to explain.”

  “Please do.” Clark finished the rest of his hot buttered rum.

  “On this side of death, there exist realms, places inhabited by those like myself. There are many realms, mostly of our own making. Think of it like a landscape, like one of my game boards.” He pointed to the shelves beside the fireplace.

  “So it’s not really here, by the highway?”

  Sledge chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, but neither is the highway.”

  Clark sat up straight. “The highway isn’t here?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “So those people I left are not trapped on the highway?”

  He smiled. “They are trapped in a way, much like yourself.”

  Clark thought about the skeletal remains in the hatchback on the turnpike.

  “And how long have we been trapped?” He was frightened at the thought of the answer. Maybe it would be best not to know, but he felt compelled to ask.

  “Oh, time has no meaning on this side of the realm.”

  Clark felt faint. Maybe because of his exhausting trek, or the beating from the tree outside, or quite possibly the alcohol from the drink was intensified because of his weakened state. Or it could be that the unbelievable things this man was telling him made his head spin. He almost wanted to lie down again, but was afraid of what would happen if he fell back asleep. Maybe he would wake up from this nightmare. Or maybe he would not wake up at all.

  “I know this is a lot to absorb,” Sledge said. “Even by a man of your intelligence.”

  “How did you get here?” Clark asked. “To this – realm – or whatever it is?”

  “There are entrances and exits to the realms. I sort of became stuck here, banished, I guess you could say.”

  “Because of what you did?”

  He nodded. “My own fault I suppose. I reached too far.”

  At that point, the manservant entered the room. He was silent as he collected the empty liquor glasses.

  “Everett,” Sledge said, “can you take a look outside and see if you can’t locate Mr. Brooks’ friend, Mr. Sawyer?”

  “My pleasure,” the man said, his voice low and flat. He left the room.

  “And what’s his story?” Clark asked.

  “I needed some help, and he was available.”

  “Who is he?”

  The smile that came over the old man’s face left Clark unsettled. “His name is Everett Wick.”

  Sledge offered no more, as if he expected Clark to comprehend. There was something very familiar about the name. He had heard it, fairly recently in fact. Then an image appeared in his head, of a little girl watching a man in black walking down a snow-filled street, a pair of bloody ice tongs in one hand. Clark’s eyes widened.

  “The story Francine Volkmann told.”

  Sledge nodded. “Everett Wick, known a long time ago as the Iceman.”

  Clark’s stomach knotted. “What is he helping you with?”

  “It’s all part of the game,” Sledge said, grinning.

  “I’m thinking I’m not going to like this game.” Clark could still feel the bumps and bruises from the thrashing the tree gave him and the sting from the scratch across his cheek.

  “It’s all a matter of perspective.” Sledge rose from his chair.

  Clark glanced up, wondering what the man’s next move was. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Let me show you something,” Sledge said, extending a hand toward the hallway.

  Clark looked down at his sock-covered feet, thinking even if he wanted to run, and could in fact get out of the house, he wouldn’t get far like this. He needed something on his feet. With not much choice, he rose and followed Sledge. The old man exited the room, moving gracefully for
a man over a century old, while Clark shuffled behind him, his body aching, his limbs stiff, his feet chilled. He followed Sledge to the room across the hallway.

  The only light in the room was just a brief bit of moonlight coming in through the frosty windows looking out the front. The sun had to rise soon, Clark thought. The night had seemed to go on forever. But then Sledge’s words about time came back to him. What if morning never came? Clark remained still, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, which was soon broken by the strike of a match.

  Sledge lit an oil lamp, much like the one in the other room, and placed it on a mantle over an empty fireplace. Clark wished this hearth was lit, as the room was numbingly cold. He looked around, now that the lamp cast its light, stopping short of the shadowed corners of the room. There was a hutch on the back wall, a dusty glass door revealing an assortment of small wooden boxes. A length of knotted rope lay coiled on one shelf. There was a wooden rocker in a corner, but no other furniture.

  But there was something in the center of the room.

  Sledge stood on one side of it and Clark approached the other. It was a narrow wooden three-legged pedestal of dark pine about three feet tall that resembled a plant stand. On top of it, nestled in a black wrought-iron base, sat a glass globe about the size of a bowling ball. As Clark peered at it in the light from the oil lamp, he could see it was a large snow globe.

  Inside the globe was a winter scene, with three snowmen standing before a group of evergreen trees. The middle snowman was taller than the other two and wore a black top hat and a red-and-white striped scarf. His carrot nose beneath his coal eyes was bent.

  Clark stared in silence, watching the snow falling in the scene even though the globe hadn’t been shaken. He stared at the snowmen as an awful feeling crept up inside him.

  “I had this exact snow globe when I was a kid,” he said, the words forced out through a dry throat. “My grandfather gave it to me the day he died.” He stared into the globe. “I used to call it a snowball. Mine wasn’t this big though.”