“I can’t do that,” Sledge said. “Games have rules.”
“Were you this mad before you died?”
He scowled. “You’d be surprised what this place will do to you. But you’ll find out soon enough.” He snapped his fingers.
Wick stepped forward, bringing his hands out from behind his back. In one hand he held a large pair of black ice tongs, their pointed tips stained red. The Iceman descended the steps toward him.
Clark stepped back, unsure what to do.
Wick grinned a sadistic smile, grasping the handle of the ice tongs with both hands and raising the tool up.
Was this the last thing all his victims saw, Clark wondered, this madman coming at them with his instrument of death? He looked around for something to defend himself with, and taking his eyes off the Iceman for just that brief second was all it took for the maniac to spring on him with sudden swiftness.
Clark raised his hands in defense, and grasped the tongs in both hands as they lunged toward his throat. Wick gritted his teeth and pushed the tool toward Clark’s neck. Clark strained to keep the tool at bay, digging his boots into the snow to maintain his leverage.
Wick was taller and bore the strength of his arms down on him. The pointed tips inched closer. Clark could smell the coppery scent of blood on them and wondered whose it was. Wick’s eyes were wide and mad.
Clark pulled the tongs to the side, knocking Wick off balance, but not off his feet. Clark lost his own footing in the process and slipped in the snow, relinquishing his grip on the tongs, and fell to the ground. He looked up in time to see Wick looming over him, once again lifting the tongs above him.
Clark saw the broken icicles that had fallen from the roof. He scrambled through the snow toward them, plucked one up from where it lay in the snow and jumped to his feet, holding it waist-high like a spear, its sharpened tip pointing at Wick.
The Iceman’s grin shrank, and he looked confused.
Can you kill a man who’s already dead? Clark wondered. He thought about Graham and what had happened to him upstairs in the house. What did he have to lose?
Clark charged forward with the icicle, surprising Wick, who stumbled backward up against the newel post of the front stoop. Clark thrust forward with the icicle aiming for where Wick’s heart would be, if a monster like him was even capable of having one.
The pointed icicle plunged through the material of Wick’s shirt and whatever flesh was beneath it, and continued through till it hit the wood of the post behind Wick’s back with a hollow thud.
Wick made no sound. No cry of pain (can the dead feel?), no shout of anger. His eyes drained of any color, his pale skin became even more pallid, and his hands trembled, dropping the ice tongs into the snow at his feet. His body grew motionless.
But his grin remained.
The Iceman looked like a frozen corpse, like the one the authorities never found at the bottom of Jericho Lake, preserved in his winter grave.
Thayer Sledge began clapping, slow and drawn-out. “Score one for your side,” he said.
Clark looked up at him, seething. But he knew he was far from finished. And hopefully, Shelby and the kids were in the plow with Tucker and heading down the highway.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shelby felt herself being dragged down into the deep snow, the cold arms of a long-dead corpse gripping tight around her waist. She wanted to scream, but maybe it was the hold squeezing the air out of her, or maybe it was just the mind-numbing shock of seeing the ghastly thing her former boyfriend had become, but the only thing that she was able to get out was a strained squeal.
She struggled in the thing’s grasp as it pulled her farther into the snow, almost up to her chest.
It’s going to drown me, she thought, panicking. She knew it was a mistake to get on that toboggan. The last ride had been the worst winter memory of her life, until now that was. She couldn’t believe she had almost reached the highway, almost made it out.
Though she felt helpless, like a swimmer caught in a riptide, she hoped Tucker and Clark would at least get her kids out. That was the only thing she wished for now.
Shelby stopped squirming and craned her neck around to look Kirby in his dead white eyes.
Why are you doing this?
She studied his face, visualizing the happy man he had been when he was alive and how much she’d adored him, thinking of the life they could have had together had they not taken one last ride down Tobin Hill. It was so unfair. Everything about this was unfair.
I don’t want to die.
She could breathe better. The pressure was eased now that Kirby’s arms loosened a bit. His face moved toward hers and she kept her eyes open as dead lips pressed onto hers, cold and lifeless. He ended the kiss, and she saw a smile spread across his face, and color even came back into his eyes.
And then Kirby’s corpse released her and sank under the snow and was gone.
Shelby sat there, half-buried in the snow, reflecting on the passion she had once felt for the man Kirby used to be. Warmth filled her body.
Someone was calling her.
She looked up to see Tucker sprinting up the hill toward her. Down at the bottom she could see her kids standing by the toboggan.
“Christ!” Tucker cried out. “What the hell happened?” he asked when he reached her, huffing and puffing, bending over with his hands on his knees. “I turned around and noticed you’d fallen off.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “Just lost my grip.”
Tucker extended a hand and pulled her out of the snow. They made their way back down the hill. Macey and Luke embraced her when she reached them.
“Let’s get to the plow,” Tucker said, “and get everyone warm.”
“And then wait for Clark,” Shelby said, nodding to make sure he understood. “Because we’re not leaving without him.”
“Right,” he said.
Tucker scooped up one kid in each arm and climbed through the deep snow along the side of the highway till they reached the plow. He helped them into its cab.
“I’m waiting out here,” Shelby said, standing beside the vehicle. “I want to watch for him.”
Tucker was about to argue with her, but just nodded. “I’m just going to get this thing started, so the heater can warm up.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.
Shelby noticed the cleared path of roadway in front of the plow. She had a queasy feeling that the vehicle wouldn’t start after all their effort to rescue the kids and get here, but with a rumble the engine roared to life and she hoped they would finally emerge from this nightmare.
She looked back to the woods, scanning the spaces between the trees for any movement, some sign that Clark was on his way. There was nothing. What could be keeping him, she wondered? He’d said he needed to do something to help them escape, but she didn’t understand. They had the plow and a cleared path, all they needed now was him.
Please, she cried. Please get here.
The driver’s side door of the plow’s cab opened, and she turned. Tucker climbed out.
“The kids are hungry,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got some snacks in my truck. I’ll just be a second.”
She watched him go off through the snow toward his rig. He disappeared after he passed the buried SUV that had belonged to the Drakes. Her gaze returned to the woods as she hugged herself to keep warm.
What was taking Clark so long?
Her stomach was knotted. Maybe she was hungry too, but more likely it was the frantic state of her nerves. She wanted this to be over.
Shelby looked over toward the eighteen-wheeler. She glanced at the cab of the plow. From her vantage point she couldn’t even see the kids. She was glad at least they had a chance to get warm.
She kept shifting her gaze from the plow to the woods to the tractor-trailer truck. She realized why her stomach was in knots. She f
elt all alone right now, standing in the middle of the snowbound highway, unable to see her kids or Tucker and with no sign of Clark. The warmth of the morning had passed and she hugged herself tighter, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.
Or was that fear creeping back in?
This isn’t over yet, she felt.
The rumble of the plow engine was the only sound.
Crunching steps in the snow joined it and she looked down the highway.
Tucker emerged from around the SUV, his arms cradling bags of chips and crackers, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness,” she said as the smiling man approached. “I was getting worried.”
“Just tried the CB one more time,” he said. “Still nothing.” He looked at her. “No sense waiting out here in the cold. Come sit in the truck, keep warm while we wait.”
She nodded. “Ok. I could use some warmth. I’m sure he won’t be much longer.” (Please.)
She took some of the snacks from him, and he helped her into the truck, where she sat in the middle, next to Macey. Tucker climbed in and sat behind the wheel. It was cramped with the four of them. It already felt warmer, the hot air pouring out of the truck’s vents filling the cab. She handed the snacks to Luke and Macey, who ripped them open with glee.
It was harder to watch the woods from the truck’s cab, but she did, Tucker also keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of Clark.
“Mom?” Luke said.
“Yes, honey?” she asked, turning to look at him, noticing the trembling sound in his voice. “What’s the matter?”
Luke didn’t say another word. His eyes were wide. Macey sat still beside him. Her mouth hung open. Luke pointed toward the windshield.
“Oh no,” she heard Tucker say before she looked up.
Three snowmen stood in the clearing in front of the plow. The tall one in the front wore a black top hat, a red-and-white striped scarf draped around its neck. Behind it stood two shorter ones; the fatter one wore a Santa cap. The other one had no head.
The tall snowman’s black mouth opened, revealing sharp teeth.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Clark approached the stoop, not taking his eyes off the figure of Everett Wick pinned to the porch post by the icicle, not sure if the twisted killer was dead (but he’s already dead) or just frozen (frozen in time?). Still, he didn’t want to get too close as he ascended the steps to where Sledge stood, a deep scowl on his face.
“Now what’s your next move, Mr. Brooks?”
“This is where I go to the head of the class,” he replied, brushing past the toy tycoon and entering the house. Sledge made no attempt to prevent him, but followed close behind. Clark hoped he knew what had to be done.
Once inside, Clark entered the study to the right of the hall, to where the snow globe rested on its pedestal. He paced around the object, keeping one eye on it as well as a close eye on Sledge in case the old man tried to stop him.
Clark stopped and stared down at the globe. Inside it he saw the orange plow in the midst of the snowdrifts on the highway. They had to be there by now, he thought, they had enough time. But what was time to this place, this realm?
It didn’t matter. He had run out of it.
“I wouldn’t do anything rash,” Sledge said, stepping into the room.
He looked up at the sinister eyes of the old man. “Just making my final move,” he said.
Clark picked up the snow globe, hefting its weight, before glancing once more at Sledge. He could feel a warmth and vibration in the orb, as if it was a compacted energy cell.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Sledge said, his face cross.
“Don’t I?” Clark spun and with all his might heaved the snow globe into the empty fireplace. The glass shattered against the cold bricks.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?”
Clark turned to look at Sledge with a smile. “Game over.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“We can’t wait,” Tucker said, gazing out the windshield at the ominous snowmen in the road before them. “We’ve got to go.” He revved the engine.
“But we can’t leave without him,” Shelby cried frantically, looking helplessly toward the woods.
Macey was tugging on her sleeve. “Mommy, let’s just go.”
Shelby looked down at the panicked expression on her daughter’s face. She glanced over at Luke staring outside, terror in his eyes. She followed his frightened gaze out the windshield to the snowmen.
“But he said he’d be here,” Shelby said, not directing it to anyone but herself.
“He’s going to have to find his own way out,” Tucker said, putting the truck into gear and lowering the blades of the plow.
Shelby felt hopeless as she put her arm around Macey and looked forlornly at the woods in the distance.
“Go,” she finally said, tears in her eyes.
Tucker released the clutch and pressed down on the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward and then picked up speed, Tucker raising the plow blade slightly just before they slammed into the trio of snowmen, sending chunks of snow flying.
Shelby could have sworn she saw the tall snowman’s sharp-toothed grin turn into a frown just before the plow hit it. The black top hat spun in the air and landed on the hood of the truck, danced around and then bounced off the side. The red-and-white striped scarf got caught on the driver’s side mirror, clinging to it.
Tucker kept the gas pedal pressed down and lowered the plow blade to the road as they reached the end of the cleared path. The plow hit the pile of snow covering the road beyond it with a lurch that almost threw Shelby into the dashboard. She grabbed onto Macey with one hand, reaching over to clutch Luke’s shirt with the other.
“Hang on!” Tucker yelled, firming his grip on the steering wheel as the truck’s tires spun in the snow. Then they dug in, making the back of the truck sway. The plow blades pushed the snow to the side, clearing a path. The truck slowed under the burden before it, but Tucker kept his foot heavy on the pedal and struggled to keep the wheels straight.
Soon the truck cut a path through the snow with less effort.
Up ahead was a snow-covered road sign before what looked like an exit ramp. Tucker veered the truck toward it, bursting through the snowbank built up across it. Shelby thought she heard the sound of breaking glass.
“Where does this exit go?” she asked Tucker.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Anywhere but here.”
Chapter Thirty
“Now you’ve done it,” Sledge said, staring down at the broken glass in the fireplace. He turned and walked out of the room, crossing the foyer into the living room opposite it, where Clark had awoken what seemed like ages ago. Clark followed him. A fire still roared in the fireplace, warming the room.
“Is that it?” Clark asked, wondering why the man seemed to be giving up so easily.
Sledge walked over to the chairs by the chessboard, sat down and silently rearranged the pieces on the board.
“No more games?” Clark asked.
Sledge chuckled. “There are always more games.” He motioned to the chair opposite the chessboard. “Please, come sit.”
Anger seethed up inside Clark as he approached the table. After everything this man had put them through, it enraged him that he could calmly sit down to play a game. The deaths this man had caused. He thought of Graham and his girls, who were now fatherless. He thought of the nameless young couple in the back of the hatchback.
“I’m not sticking around,” Clark said. “I’ve had enough.”
“I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere anytime soon,” Sledge said with a smirk. “For me, it’s of no concern. For you, that’s an entirely different matter.” He motioned to the seat opposite him.
A sinking feeling overcame Clark, a sense of despa
ir as his insides knotted up. He thought about the smashed snow globe and the realm they were in. He thought about how breaking it had given Shelby and the others a chance to get out, but he knew it meant a different consequence for himself.
He collapsed in the chair on the other side of the chessboard, looking down at the white pieces on his side.
“I believe it’s your move,” Sledge said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s going to be a long winter.”
Acknowledgments
I owe a lot of appreciation to those who helped make this winter nightmare possible. I especially want to thank Flame Tree Press and my editor, Don D’Auria, who saw the potential in this story, and for his guidance, and that of copy editor Imogene Howson, for seeing it to its finished form. I am grateful for artist Nik Keevil and Mike Spender for the terrific cover art.
I have a special thanks to Karen Hendricks for introducing me to the legend of Krampus, and Tamara Vachon for giving me a tour of her RV. I also appreciate JetPack Comics owner Ralph DiBernardo and Water Street Bookstore owner Daniel Chartrand for their overwhelming support of a local author.
I thank my parents for keeping the spirit of St. Nicholas alive as long as possible in a young boy’s imagination. I have so many joyous memories of Christmas past with Jenna and Casey, and look forward to Christmas future with them and Brett, Bailey, Jacoby, Brady, Brooks, Erica and Jace. And Rhonda fills my Christmas present with so much love.
What’s my worst winter memory? That I will share at a time when the heavy snow falls and the cold wind howls on a lonely dark night.
About this book
This is a FLAME TREE PRESS BOOK
Text copyright © 2020 Gregory Bastianelli
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
FLAME TREE PRESS, 6 Melbray Mews, London, SW6 3NS, UK, flametreepress.com
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