Beware, the Snowman (4 page)

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.

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….”

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.

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.”

“Snowman?” I demanded. I stared at her eagerly. “What
about
the
snowman?”

Rolonda shifted her weight. The wooden bench creaked beneath us. She took a
deep breath and began her story.

“Years ago, two sorcerers lived in this village. A man and a woman. Everyone
knew they were sorcerers. But everyone left them alone.”

“Were they
evil
sorcerers?” I interrupted.

Rolonda shook her head. “No. I don’t think they were evil. At least, I don’t
think they meant to be.”

She glanced around the room again. I settled back against the bench and
waited impatiently for her to continue.

“One day, the two sorcerers were fooling around, having fun. They cast a
spell on a snowman. And the snowman came to life.”

I gasped. “Really?”

Rolonda narrowed her eyes at me. “Please, don’t interrupt, Jaclyn. Please let
me tell the whole story first.”

I apologized.

Leaning close to me, she continued her story in a whisper.

“The sorcerers used their magic to bring the snowman to life. But then they
lost control of it.

“The snowman was powerful. And it was evil. The sorcerers had given it life.
But they didn’t really know what they were doing. And they didn’t know that the
snowman would try to destroy the village and everyone in it.