“This is no ordinary snow globe,” Sledge said, passing his hand a few inches over it, like a magician waving a wand over his magic hat. The globe darkened and then brightened again, like it was on a dimmer switch. The scene had changed. It now showed a brick building beside a playground. Clark recognized it as his middle school in Evergreen.
“What are you, some kind of winter warlock?” Clark asked, amazed and frightened at the same time. He could feel his blood thicken. “Is this your crystal ball?”
“Watch and see,” Sledge said, as if this was some parlor trick.
Clark’s eyes never left the globe as his vision seemed to zoom in on the schoolyard scene, on three young boys. He saw one boy throw a snowball at another, who ducked, causing the third boy to be hit with it. The third boy chased the snowball thrower around the schoolyard.
“What the hell is this?” Clark said, looking up at Sledge, knowing full well how the rest of the scene played out.
“Just taking a trip down memory lane,” Sledge said. He watched the scene in the globe.
“I know what you’re showing me, but I don’t know how, or more importantly, why. That’s Leroy Sledge. Your grandson, I presume?”
“Great-grandson,” Sledge answered, casting his eyes upon Clark.
“And what role does he play in this game? Is he here too?”
“Not exactly,” Sledge said, waving his hand over the globe again. It darkened.
All Clark could see was fluttering snowflakes, like falling stars in a night sky. Then the snowflakes grew dark, turning blood-red, floating around inside the globe.
“This is all that’s left of him,” Sledge said. “A little over a year ago, poor Leroy was run over by a train.”
Clark swallowed hard, staring at the swirling red flakes inside the snow globe. He thought about Graham again, worried about the Iceman looking for him, hoping to hell he didn’t find him. But whatever was going on outside, he had to deal with this madness inside first.
“I’m sorry about Leroy,” he said, “but I don’t see what this has to do with Graham and me. I haven’t seen him since high school. I’m sure Graham hasn’t either. It’s a shame what happened to him. I hope he’s resting in peace.” He wanted to sound genuine, but didn’t know if he had pulled it off. Clark truly was sorry, but felt so distant from it all he couldn’t muster up much emotion.
“The dead don’t rest. Sometimes the dead are angry.” Sledge raised an eyebrow. “They resent the living.”
“Is that how you feel? You resent me and Graham for being alive? And what about the others, back on the highway in the RV? You resent them too?”
Sledge started to laugh. “I don’t resent them.” He waved his hand over the snow globe and the scene changed, the red flakes turning back to snow, this time falling over a miniature replica of the RV Clark had left behind. In front of it were the three snowmen.
“They’re already dead,” Sledge said.
Chapter Eleven
“Don’t you get it?” Shelby cried, her voice hysterical, as they stared at the snowmen out in front of the RV. “Someone’s playing a sick game with us.”
Mason stood beside his wife, both hunched over Werner Volkmann, sitting in the vehicle’s driver’s seat as they stared outside. Someone was out there, he thought. Someone who built these snowmen. But why? He turned to look at Shelby over his right shoulder. Her eyes were wild. She’s losing it, he thought. She lost her kids and now she’s losing her mind.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, not really wanting an answer.
Shelby was pulling on her mittens. “There’s a sick fuck out there screwing with us.” She pulled a pink snow cap out of a pocket and pulled it over her head, tucking wisps of brown hair inside, out of her face. “They dressed up in some Crumpus costume—”
“Krampus,” Francine corrected from behind her.
Shelby spun around. “I don’t give a fuck what it’s called!” she screamed at the old woman, spittle flying from her mouth. “Whoever it is took my kids, and they think it’s such a big joke, that they build some stupid snowmen to mock us. They’re fucking mocking us!”
“And what do you plan to do about it?” Mason asked, wishing she would just shut the hell up.
“I’m going out there,” she said, grimacing through gritted teeth. “And I’m going to find these bastards and get my kids back.”
“You can’t go out there,” Felker said, the only one seated at the table now. “It isn’t safe.” He wasn’t looking at Shelby, nor was he looking out the windshield like the others. He just stared at the less than half-filled bottle on the table in front of him.
“Then maybe one of you brave men would like to go out there with me.” Her tone stung with sarcasm.
Mason resented her insinuation, but he didn’t want to go out there. There was something dangerous outside. “No one should rush out there just now,” he said.
“Then screw you all.” She pushed past Francine, heading to the side door. “The only real men have already left.”
Mason stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “Just wait,” he said, pulling her back.
Shelby spun around, trying to jerk her arm away. “Let go of me!”
What Mason did next he’d seen a hundred times in old movies, but it seemed warranted. He slapped her face. Wasn’t that what they always did to hysterical people in motion pictures?
Her face turned red, part from the impact of Mason’s open hand, part from rage seething inside her. He sensed she was about to explode and braced himself for it. Mason had dealt with a lot of angry parolees, but they were mostly men and he knew how to handle them. This was different.
Shelby raised a hand, ready to strike him back, but hesitated. Her eyes burned into his. He saw a conflict of emotions in those eyes: anger, confusion, helplessness, but mostly what he saw was fear. Yes, there was a lot of fear in those eyes.
“Let her go,” Joy said, coming to her husband’s side. “If she wants to go, so be it.”
Mason watched Shelby stare down his wife, and then turned to go.
At the same time, Felker rose slowly from the table. He picked up his Salvation Army cap and placed it on his head. For a second, Mason thought the man was going to go with Shelby, which he thought odd.
“Take a look,” Felker said, pointing out the windshield. “One of the snowmen is missing.”
Everyone turned to look outside. The headlights of the RV cast their dim beams on the snow-covered highway and the two snowmen before them. They were the two shorter ones, their branch arms outstretched, twitching in the wind in a taunting manner. The taller one with the top hat was missing.
“It can’t be,” Mason said, taking a step forward as he looked out over the top of Mr. Volkmann’s gray head.
“Where did it go?” Joy asked, clinging to her husband’s right arm. He could feel her nails digging in as she tensed.
“Now do you get it?” Shelby asked, her voice suddenly calm.
Mason removed his wife’s grip from his arm, as gently as possible, and moved toward Shelby. “I think you need to stay here right now,” he pleaded.
A knock came.
It appeared to come from the driver’s side door.
Werner looked back at Mason. “I think we have a visitor.” The old man was grinning.
“Don’t open it,” Felker said, his voice raised.
Werner paid no attention, reaching for the door handle.
“No!” Mason screamed, trying to lurch forward to stop him, but Joy was in his way.
Werner pushed the door open, and then swiveled his chair to look back at the others, still smiling a twisted grin. “Company’s here,” he said, and began laughing.
Mason stopped when he saw the snowman’s head appear in the doorway, ducking down as it entered to fit its top hat through the opening. The snowman extended one
of its branch arms toward Werner, who seemed surprised. Two fingers on its branch hand plunged into the eye sockets of the old man, who let out a roar.
Mason heard Francine screaming behind him as her husband was lifted out of his seat, the snowman gripping his head like a bowling ball, blood streaming out his punctured eyeballs. The snowman backed out, pulling Werner with him, and flung him out into the snow like a rag doll, the man’s screams muffled.
“Oh my God,” Joy said in front of him, as Mason backed up, not thinking to pull his wife back with him.
The snowman moved forward into the front seat, turning its head to look at them, its coal-black eyes boring through his. It sees us, he thought. This unearthly thing is looking at us, sorting through its prey. He couldn’t move. His mind went numb; his limbs felt detached. The temperature inside the RV dropped, the cold raising the hairs along his arms and legs.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Felker grab the whiskey bottle and thought the man was going to smash it on the edge of the table to use it as a weapon, but instead Felker bolted for the side door, past a stunned Shelby and a whimpering Francine. He flung open the side door and left.
After watching Felker’s escape with surprise, Mason turned to see the snowman lumber forward with surprising grace, pushing its wide round shape around the seats and toward Joy.
His wife turned to look at him, reaching a hand toward him, but before she could move, the branch arms of the snowman wrapped around her. Her eyes widened in horror.
“Mason!” she screamed.
He hesitated, looking at her outstretched hand, fingers grasping air, and he thought about reaching out to her, moving forward to try and save her.
Instead he backed up.
Her eyes turned from fear to puzzlement, her mouth agape in confusion.
Mason continued backing up, watching the snowman’s head lean forward, its black mouth opening, exposing jagged teeth inside. The jaws clamped down on his wife’s neck and her open mouth emitted a piercing scream above the sound of flesh, sinew and bone giving way with a tearing crunching noise as blood shot out from the wound.
Mason turned to flee, shoving aside a shell-shocked Francine and knocking a bewildered Shelby to the floor. He flung himself out the open side door and into the frigid night, the sound of his wife’s screams following him.
Chapter Twelve
Tucker Jenks leaned on his shovel, exhausted. He looked back toward the lights of the running snowplow. It had been an exhausting effort, but he had managed to clear about fifty feet of the roadway in front of the truck. That should give him a good running start for the plow to push through the thick snow in the roadway and clear a path to get the hell out of here.
The wind started picking up again, and he worried if it got strong enough it would blow the drifts back into the roadway he’d just cleared. There was no time to waste. At least it had stopped snowing.
He started back toward the truck when he heard something that made him stop.
Was the wind blowing hard? Or was the banshee howling again?
Not going to get me, he thought, hustling back to the truck. He opened the door and flung the shovel across the seat. As he began to climb up, he felt ice on the seat of the truck. In the illumination from the dome light, the ice looked red. That’s when he realized it was frozen blood. The plow driver’s blood.
He smashed the ice with his gloved right fist, breaking it up into chunks. Then he brushed the red pieces off the seat and into the snow outside. He climbed up into the seat and leaned out to grab hold of the door.
Time to leave, he told himself.
Before swinging the door shut, he heard the scream again.
Just the wind, he assured himself. There’s no banshee out here. It’s only the wind.
But he hesitated, listening. The wind wasn’t that strong to howl like this. That’s when he realized what he was hearing was a woman screaming.
Chapter Thirteen
Clark no longer thought of Graham. Nor did he think of the others. His only thought was of Shelby as he stared at the snow globe and watched the first snowman enter. After that, the globe became just a swirl of white snowflakes and the scene was gone. The snowflakes then turned red.
His stomach tightened.
He felt despair and helplessness, which soon turned to anger, his skin tingling as he looked up at the old man.
“What have you done?”
Sledge’s eyes held their composure. There was no emotion behind them, not a hint of excitement or even satisfaction. His lips were tight. “Just finishing what I started.” His eyes shifted to lock on to Clark’s.
“Why?” Clark asked. “Why are you doing all this?” He looked at the globe, wishing the scene hadn’t faded out, wanting to see more, trying to will the vision to return, even though he was afraid. And there was no doubt about that. Fear had boiled up inside him and his whole body felt like it was in a pressure cooker. More so than when he’d struggled out in the blizzard, and even more than when he’d been in the grips of that absurd maple tree’s branches. He wished this were all a nightmare, that he was still lying delirious in the snow in a state of hallucinatory hypothermia.
This can’t be real, he told himself. This house can’t be real, this man can’t be real. None of this can be happening. Am I mad?
But no. Thayer Sledge stood before him, a man long dead, who had somehow concocted this place and these circumstances.
“I did this for my great-grandson, despite the lowly miscreant life he made for himself.”
“I don’t understand,” Clark said.
Sledge held up a finger and walked over to the hutch, opened the glass door and retrieved an object. He brought it over to Clark and held it in his open palm. It was a wooden cube. Lines showed it was constructed of multiple pieces.
“This was one of our first games,” Sledge said. “A puzzle box. They were quite popular at the turn of the century. My century, I mean, not yours.”
Clark stared at the object, confused. This was no answer.
“When I started my game company, we sold lots of these. Bernard Ferrin designed it, as he did many of our early puzzle games. It’s fairly simple by today’s standards. The cube is made of several interlocking pieces, each of a different shape.” He reached up with his left hand and used two fingers to extract one of the pieces. He slid it partially out, pausing before removing it completely. “The pieces go together in a particular way. Once all the wooden pieces are connected, they form the solid wooden cube. But the pieces can only go together in one certain way; otherwise, the cube can’t be formed and the puzzle remains in pieces, unsolved.” He slid the wooden piece back inside and handed the cube to Clark. “I was never good at it. Bernard was the puzzle master.”
Clark looked at the cube in his hand, still not understanding. “I don’t get it.”
“Of course you don’t,” Sledge said. “You don’t know how to play games. Take that apart and put it together, and I’ll show you more.” He started to walk toward the door to the foyer, then stopped to turn back. “I believe it’s my move in the chess game. I shall return. And don’t think you can just pretend to solve the puzzle and give me back the solid cube.” He pointed at the snow globe. “I’ll be watching.”
With the old man gone, the sense of loneliness swarmed over Clark. He felt lost, helpless. He didn’t know where he was, or even when he was, for that matter. He took the puzzle box to the chair and sat down, placing the box on his lap. He wanted answers, but Sledge just played games with him. He thought about Shelby and her kids.
They can’t be dead, he thought. The old man was playing tricks with him. He shouldn’t trust what he said. The puzzle box on his lap beckoned. Solve this stupid thing, Clark thought, and maybe he’d get some answers. Maybe. He couldn’t even be sure of that.
He pulled the first wooden block out of the cube. As soon as h
e removed the second piece, the cube fell apart, all the pieces separating. There were only ten pieces; it shouldn’t be too hard. He tried to keep them together and remember the order they went. But as soon as he began sliding pieces together, he was already confused. He was unable to find a third piece that fit the other two. How could something with so few pieces be that difficult? It looked like a child’s toy, and here he was, an intelligent man.
It was hard to concentrate. His mind drifted all over the place, but mostly back on the highway, worrying about Shelby. If he could find his boots and coat, he’d bust out of this place and head back. As long as he could get by that damn tree. He’d need to be careful about that. Without the snowshoes it would be tough. He remembered the toboggan he saw leaning up against the front stoop. It was mostly downhill to the highway. He could use that to get over the snow. (Just like the one he used to drag his grandfather’s body to safety. Only he didn’t make it in time. Time ran out on him. Was it running out on him now too?)
If only he could solve this damn puzzle.
Clark wished the fireplace was lit, because he felt chilled again. Of course, if there was a fire, he’d probably have thrown the stupid wooden puzzle pieces in it. Solve that!
He looked at his two interlocked pieces and began trying different blocks that would connect. Finally he found one that fit and slid it into place. With three pieces done, it was much easier finding a fourth to fit. Clark got excited. Somehow the puzzle coming together pushed aside the despondent feelings of his predicament. Somehow, solving this was the only thing that mattered to him right now.
A fifth and a sixth piece went into place. He grinned, a mad grin of a lunatic happy to be putting wooden blocks together. He didn’t care. He wanted to one-up Thayer Sledge and right now this was the only way he could.
Finding a seventh piece to fit was tough. Come on, he yelled at himself. Only a few more pieces. It should be getting easier, not harder. Frustration was returning, along with tension. So close. Can’t fail now.
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