by R. L. Stine
Stepping out into the night, I silently closed the front door behind me. My eyes swept over the glittering snow of the small front yard.
I made my way to the road, my breath streaming up in wisps of fog. “Wow!” I murmured. “Wow!”
The cold, fresh air felt so good on my face.
The wind had stopped. The whole world seemed still and silent.
No cars, I realized. No horns honking. No buses roaring past. No people laughing and shouting on the street.
I’m all alone out here, I told myself. The whole world is mine.
A long, frightening howl brought me out of my crazy thoughts.
I shivered and raised my eyes to the mountaintop. Was the white wolf howling up there? Did it howl like that every night?
Why did the howls sound so human?
I took a deep breath of cold air and held it. Then I began walking slowly along the road. My boots crunched on the hard, crusty snow. I passed a few houses and kept walking.
I stopped as a shadow slid over my path.
11
I gasped. At first, I thought someone was following me.
But then I realized I was staring at a long shadow of a snowman. The shadow tilted over the road. The tree branch arms, one raised, one out to the side, appeared long and menacing.
I stepped over the shadow and crossed the street. But another shadow fell over me.
Another snowman. An identical snowman.
The shadows of the strange snowmen fell over each other. I suddenly felt as if I were walking in a black-and-white world of shadowy heads, fluttering scarves, and sticklike arms—all saluting, all waving.
Why were there so many of them?
Why did the people in this village build them all alike?
Another howl made me raise my eyes from the crisscrossing shadows over the snow. This howl sounded closer. And it definitely sounded human!
A chill ran down my back.
I turned. Time to head home, I decided.
My heart was pounding now. The howl—so near—had really frightened me.
I started to walk fast, swinging my arms as I walked, leaning into the gusting wind.
But I stopped when I saw the scarfaced snowman in the driveway up ahead.
And I gasped when it nodded its head at me.
“Noooo!” A low cry escaped my lips.
It nodded. The snowman nodded!
Then the head rolled to the ground. And cracked apart with a soft thud.
And I realized the wind had made its head nod. The wind had blown the scarred head off the body.
What am I doing out here? I asked myself. It’s late and it’s cold.
And it’s weird.
And some kind of creature nearby is howling its head off.
I gazed across the yard at the headless snowman. The head was a shattered clump of white at the snowman’s base. But the scarf had remained on top of the round body. It flapped in a gust of cold wind.
I felt another shiver. I turned and ran toward home.
Ran through the blue-black shadows of snowmen. My boots crunched over the shadows of their waving arms, their scarred heads.
A snowman in each yard. Snowmen lining the street like night watchmen.
This walk was a crazy idea, I thought, feeling panic tighten my chest. I want to be home now. I want to be back in the safety of my new home.
A snowman waved its three-fingered limb at me and sneered its coal-dark sneer as I ran past. And as I scrambled for home, the rhyme forced its way back into my mind….
“When the snows blow wild
And the day grows old,
Beware, the snowman, my child.
Beware, the snowman.
He brings the cold.”
My house came into view down the road. I sucked in a deep breath and ran harder.
The old rhyme had been haunting me ever since I arrived in the village. The old rhyme had followed me from my childhood, followed me to my strange, new home.
Why did I suddenly remember it today?
What was it trying to tell me? Why had the cold words returned after being forgotten for so many years?
I had to find the rest of it. I had to find the second verse of the poem.
An eerie howl, rising like an ambulance siren, sounded so close behind me I spun around.
I searched the road and the frozen yards. No one there. No wolf. No human.
Another howl sounded even closer.
Was someone following me?
I held my hands over my ears to keep out the frightening sounds—and I flew over the snow, flew the rest of the way home.
I reached the narrow front door as another long howl sent a chill down my body.
Closer. It’s so close, I realized.
Someone is following me!
I grabbed the doorknob. Twisted it. Pushed.
No!
The door didn’t budge.
I twisted again. This way. The other way.
Pushed the door. Pulled it.
Locked.
I had locked myself out!
12
Another frightening howl.
So close. From the side of my house!
My whole body trembled. Panic tightened my throat. I stumbled back from the front door.
And saw that the front window—the only window on this side of the house—was open a crack. Snow streaked the windowpanes and clumped on the narrow sill.
I stared at the tiny opening at the window bottom.
Then I sucked in a deep breath—and hurtled to the window.
I grabbed the snowy wooden frame. Uttering a loud groan, I pushed. Pushed up with all my strength.
To my surprise, the window slid up easily.
I pushed it all the way up. Then I grabbed the sill with both hands. I hoisted myself up, up—as another howl rang through the night air.
So close.
So close and frightening.
I tumbled headfirst into the house. Landed hard on my hands and knees on the wooden floor.
With a gasp, I scrambled to my feet. Grabbed the window and pulled it shut.
Then I stood, leaning against the wall, listening. Waiting to catch my breath.
Had I awakened Aunt Greta?
No. The house stood dark and silent. The only sound I could hear was my rapid, shallow breathing.
Another howl, distant this time.
Had I only imagined that I was being followed? Were the terrifying howls rolling down from the mountaintop, carried by the wind?
Still breathing hard, I stepped away from the front wall. Making my way slowly through the darkness, I headed to the little back room where we had piled all of the packing cartons.
My books were still stuffed in one of the cartons.
I was sure that I had packed the old poetry book Mom used to read to me.
White moonlight flooded in from the window against the back wall. I found the book carton on top of a stack and pulled it down to the floor.
My hands trembled as I struggled to pull off the heavy packing tape and open the box.
I have to find that poem, I told myself. I have to read the second verse of that rhyme.
I tugged open the carton and began pulling out books. I had packed a bunch of paperbacks on the top. Underneath them, I found some textbooks and anthologies I had used at school.
As I pulled them out and stacked them carefully on the floor, I heard a cough.
And then a footstep.
Someone else is in here! I realized.
“Aunt Greta? Is that you?” I cried.
But the voice that replied wasn’t Aunt Greta’s.
“What are you doing?” a strange voice demanded in a raspy whisper.
13
The ceiling light flashed on.
I blinked.
Swallowed hard.
And stared up at Aunt Greta.
“You frightened me, Jaclyn!” she croaked.
I jumped to my feet. “You frightened me, too!�
� I replied, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. “What happened to your voice?”
Aunt Greta rubbed her pale throat. “I’ve lost it,” she rasped. “Horrible sore throat. It must be the cold. I’m not used to the cold of this village yet.”
Her straight, white hair hung loose behind her. She tugged it off the collar of her flannel nightshirt, brushing out tangles with one hand. “What are you doing, Jaclyn? Why are you down here in the middle of the night?” she croaked.
“That old poem,” I replied. “I want to find it. I can’t remember the second verse. I—”
“We’ll unpack the books tomorrow,” she cut in.
She yawned. “I’m so tired. And my throat hurts so badly. Let’s try to get some sleep.”
She suddenly appeared so tiny and frail.
“I’m sorry,” I said, following her from the room. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I couldn’t sleep, so…”
Her eyes fell on my parka, which I had tossed onto a living room chair. “You went out?” she cried, spinning to face me. I could see alarm on her face.
“Well… yes,” I confessed. “I thought maybe a short walk…”
“You shouldn’t go out in the middle of the night,” she scolded. She rubbed her sore throat. Her eyes narrowed at me.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “What’s the big deal, anyway? What’s so terrible about going out at night?”
She hesitated, chewing her lower lip the way she always does when she’s thinking hard. “It’s just dangerous. That’s all,” she whispered finally. “What if you fell in the snow or something? What if you broke your leg? There is no one outside to help you.”
“I’d roll home!” I joked. I laughed but she didn’t join in.
I had the strong feeling she had something else on her mind. She wasn’t worried about me falling down. She was worried about something else.
But she didn’t want to say it.
Did it have anything to do with the animal howls?
Did it have something to do with the snowman on the mountain that Conrad had warned me about? The snowman that Aunt Greta said was just a village superstition?
I yawned. I finally felt sleepy. Too sleepy to think any more about these questions.
I put my arm around Aunt Greta’s slender shoulders and walked her across the hall to her room. “Sorry I woke you,” I whispered. Then I said good night and climbed the ladder to my attic bedroom.
Yawning, I pulled off my jeans and sweatshirt and tossed them on the floor. Then I jumped into bed and pulled the quilt up to my chin.
Pale moonlight washed in from the round window at the other end of the room. I shut my eyes. No howls outside. No sounds at all.
I snuggled my head into my soft pillow. My new bed still felt hard. But I was too tired to care.
I had just about drifted off to sleep when the whispered words floated into the room….
“Beware, the snowman, Jaclyn…. Beware, the snowman….”
14
I sat straight up with a gasp. “Huh? Who’s there?” I choked out.
I stared across the room at the window. The unfamiliar shapes of my furniture appeared silvery, ghostlike in the white moonlight.
“Beware, the snowman…” the whispered words were repeated. “Jaclyn, beware, the snowman.”
“Who are you?” I cried. “How do you know my name?”
Sitting up in the strange bed, I grabbed the end of the quilt, gripping it tightly in both hands, squeezing it.
And I listened.
Silence now.
“Who are you?” My cry so tiny and shrill.
Silence.
“Who are you?”
Silence…
I don’t know how long I sat there, waiting for a reply. But after a while, I somehow drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I told Aunt Greta about the whispered warning.
She sipped her coffee before replying. Then she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I had bad dreams, too, last night,” she said, still whispering because of her sore throat.
“Dream?” I replied. “Do you think it was a dream?”
Aunt Greta nodded and took another long sip of coffee. “Of course,” she croaked.
I spent the day helping my aunt unpack the cartons and arrange our new house. I searched every carton for the poetry book, but I couldn’t find it. I didn’t realize how much stuff we had brought from our apartment in Chicago. Such a small house. It was a real struggle to find a place for everything.
As we worked, I found myself thinking about Rolonda. She had promised to meet me at the little village church after dinner. She said she would tell me the truth about the snowman tonight.
The truth…
I pictured her brother Eli’s frightened expression as he stood in the snowy driveway, watching Rolonda and me. And I remembered how frightened they became when I told them I was walking to the mountaintop.
So much fear here in this village. Was it all because of silly superstitions?
After I washed and dried the dinner dishes, I pulled on my parka and my boots and prepared to meet Rolonda. I told Aunt Greta the truth. I told her I was meeting a village girl my age I’d met during my walk.
“It’s snowing really hard,” Aunt Greta said in her raspy whisper. “Don’t stay out late, Jaclyn.”
I promised I’d be home before nine. Then I pulled up my hood, tugged on my gloves, and stepped outside.
Does it snow here every day? I asked myself, shaking my head.
I’ve always liked snow. But enough already!
The snow came down hard, in sheets driven by a strong wind. I lowered my head and trudged down the road toward the church. Snowflakes blew into my face and stung my eyes. I could barely see.
What a blizzard!
I wondered if Rolonda would show up.
The little stone church stood across from the post office. It wasn’t far down the road from my house. But walking into the blowing snow, it seemed miles away.
Keeping my head down, I stepped into a deep drift. Cold snow dropped into my boot, soaking my sock. “Ohhh.” I let out a shuddering groan. “I’m going to freeze!” I cried out loud.
There was no one around to hear me. The road stood empty. Nothing moved. I passed a brightly-lit house, but I couldn’t see anyone inside.
The snow blew against my face, my coat, as if trying to push me back. As if trying to make me turn around.
“This is crazy,” I murmured. “Crazy. No way Rolonda will meet me tonight.”
Squinting into the gray evening light, I saw the steeple of the church, white against the falling snow. “I hope it’s open,” I said out loud.
Ducking my head, I ran across the road—and thudded into something hard. And very cold.
Evil black eyes glared into mine.
And I started to scream.
15
A second later, hands jerked me away.
And a voice cried, “Jaclyn—what’s wrong?”
My scream caught in my throat. I stumbled back, my boots slipping in the slick, wet snow.
I turned to see Rolonda, tugging on my coat sleeve. “I saw you run right into that snowman,” she said. “But why did you scream?”
“I—I—” I sputtered. I squinted through the falling snow at the snowman, at his dark eyes, at the scar down his round face. “I—I just freaked,” I stammered.
I scolded myself for acting so stupid. Now Rolonda must think I’m a real jerk, I thought unhappily.
What is wrong with me, anyway? Screaming because I bumped into a snowman!
“Why did someone build a snowman like that in front of the church?” I asked.
Rolonda didn’t reply. Her dark eyes peered into mine. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Fine. Let’s get out of this snow.”
I took one last glance at the sneering snowman. Then I followed Rolonda to a wooden door on the side of the small church. We stepped inside and stamped the snow off our
boots on a straw mat.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” I grumbled, pulling back my hood and unzipping my parka.
“Sure. It stopped once for ten minutes. We all took a summer vacation!” Rolonda joked. She shook out her long, black hair.
I glanced around. We were in some kind of waiting room. A long wooden bench stood against the back wall. Two lights shaped like old-fashioned gas lamps hung on the wall beside the bench, giving off a soft glow.
We dropped our coats beside the bench and sat down. I rubbed my hands, trying to warm them. My cheeks burned.
“It’s nice and warm in here,” Rolonda said, keeping her voice low. “The pastor keeps the heat up really high. He doesn’t like to be cold.”
“Who does?” I murmured, rubbing my ears, trying to return some feeling to them.
“It’s a nice, quiet place to talk,” Rolonda continued. “Especially to talk about things that are… kind of scary.”
“Scary?” I replied.
She glanced around the small, white-walled room. She suddenly seemed tense. Uncomfortable.
“Did your aunt tell you anything about the village?” Rolonda whispered. “Anything about the history of the village?”
I had to lean closer to hear her. She was whispering so softly.
Why is she so nervous? I wondered. We’re the only ones in the entire church.
“No,” I replied. “Not a thing. I really don’t think Aunt Greta knows much about this village at all.”
“Then why did you move here?” Rolonda demanded.
I shrugged. “Beats me. Aunt Greta never explained. She said it was time for us to leave Chicago.”
Rolonda leaned forward tensely and brought her face close to mine. “I’ll tell you the story,” she whispered. “The history of this village is very strange. People don’t talk about it much.”
“Why not?” I interrupted.
“Because it’s so frightening,” Rolonda replied. “My brother, Eli, is terrified all the time. That’s why I met you here at the church. He doesn’t like for me to talk about any of this. He doesn’t like for me to talk about the snowman.”