SNOWMAN SHIVERS
Scary Snowman Tales
Mark Leslie
*****
Stark Publishing
Dec 2011
eISBN: 978-1-4659-5468-8
The characters and events portrayed in this collection are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
Copyright © 2011 Mark Leslie Lefebvre
Cover photo “Blue Sky White Earth” © 2011 by Gregory Roberts
One Hand Screaming
Active Reader
Spirits
“That Old Silk Hat They Found” first appeared in Strange Wonderland
“Ides of March” first appeared in ONE HAND SCREAMING
Visit Mark Leslie on the web at www.markleslie.ca
*****
DEDICATION
For Alexander, my son
who brings back the joy, wonder and
thrill of having fun in the snow
*****
TABLE OF CONTENTS
It Snowed Last Night: A note from the author
That Old Silk Hat They Found
Ides of March
Dusting Off The Snow: Behind the shivers
IT SNOWED LAST NIGHT
A Note From The Author
I’ll be entirely honest here; When I was little I had never been particularly frightened of snowmen.
I’m not sure why. Because my whole life I’ve been afraid of the monster under my bed, the one hiding in my closet and all the ghosts and ghouls that I know lurk within the shadows where ever I roam around after dark
But snowman never really gave me the creeps.
But I’ve written about them – and seem to have been fascinated with the basic idea of a snowman actually coming to life, like in the classic Christmas Carol that children joyfully sing each year; but in my imagination it’s not always quite as joyful and magical an experience as in the song.
Perhaps my fascinating with snowmen comes from growing up in Northern Ontario (I grew up in Levack, a small town about an hour’s drive north of Sudbury – and we had REAL winters there, not the pseudo winters that I now experience in Hamilton. Winters up north were long; the snow was plentiful. I truly enjoyed cavorting in the snow for afternoons and evenings after school that seemed to last forever.
When I was young, snowmen were just a part of the natural winter wonderland snowscape I cherished.
Now, though, I tend to throw a cautious glance over my shoulder whenever I pass once, particular when walking down a dark, deserted street . . .
- Mark Leslie, December 2011
*****
THAT OLD SILK HAT THEY FOUND
A cool wind kisses me.
Little by little the sensation rises, becomes more real. The soft light breeze becomes an intense, encompassing cold. But the cold doesn't hurt me — it soothes me. It feels good, comfortable.
Relaxed in the darkness, I realize that my eyes are closed. What am I saying? I realize, for the first time, that I have eyes.
I open my eyes to see the world through some sort of charcoal grey lens. But despite the blurry grey haze I can make out a white landscape and figures moving in the distance. Running and cavorting, their shouts are muffled. I can barely hear them.
I can barely see, I can barely hear.
But I do have life.
It's an incredible feeling — almost overwhelming.
I don't really understand who or what I am, but having life feels good. Knowing that I exist and that I can sense and feel is wonderful.
I try to move, but I can't. I look down.
No!
I don't have legs — just this big round mass.
I look to my sides. My arms are mere sticks. They flail uselessly in the wind.
Who created me? Who gave me this cruel life? Was it those kids who frolic so joyfully in the snow? It must have been. They are the only other ones here. Can't they see what a horrid creature they have conjured? Can't they tell what a torture this life is that they have given me?
"Hey!"
A deep voice calls to me. Who is it that addresses me? Certainly not the children, for they are still ignoring me. The voice sounds much different, much clearer and closer than the voices of the children. My eyes scan the landscape.
"Hey, you! Newcomer!"
Finally, my eyes spot the owner of the voice. He is one like me, off to my left. I can tell he is like me because instead of legs and feet, his bottom is a large white mass of snow. He is built like three large balls stacked upon one another. There is a scarf wrapped around his neck. He has dark lumps for eyes, a carrot nose, two sticks like mine, bobbing in the wind, and several tiny stones in a line which form a horridly ironic grin.
I try to respond, but I cannot make a sound.
"Don't even try to speak. You can't. They didn't give you a mouth," the other one says.
They didn't give me a mouth? Feeble arms, no legs, no mouth. What evil creatures they must be! Why even bother to give me life, then?
"Welcome to the world, Frosty."
Frosty? Is that my name? Did they at least give me a name? I wonder, what is the name of my companion?
"In case you're wondering, my name's Frosty too. For the most part, even if they do name us, we're all called Frosty at one time or another. I guess it's supposed to be a funny name for a snowman. But for the sake of personality, you can call me Oldtimer. I've been alive for ages now. Can you believe that I'm four weeks old? Geez, where does the time go?
"Well, since you're new, I'll give you the low-down. God, it's so good to be able to talk to someone again. Do you know that I've been alone now for almost two weeks?"
Just then, a child runs up to Oldtimer. "Hey now!" Oldtimer says. "Get your paws off of me!" But the child laughs and grabs at the nose.
"YAAAAAAAAARGHHHH!" Oldtimer's scream cuts through my head. I can almost feel his pain as the child wrenches the nose free and runs, laughing, through the snow. Another child, upset, chases after him, determined to get the carrot back.
Oldtimer is quiet for a moment. I wonder if he's okay. I wonder if he's still alive.
I wonder if they create us just to torture us.
"Stupid little brat!" Oldtimer says in a low moan. The anguish is clear in his voice. "I'm okay, now. It hurts, but not so bad as I imagine it was for Sammy."
Sammy? Who is Sammy?
"Sammy was my last companion. He stood not four feet from where you now are. And if you think I'm old, he'd been around from the beginning of time. He was the one who explained to me all about what being a snowman means. Do you want to hear it?
"Well, since you can't speak, then you can't object and you're going to have to hear it.
"If you haven't already guessed, humans created us. We are created merely for their pleasure. From what little I have learned of humans, they do this quite often. They create all kinds of creatures merely to use them as they see fit — and to dispose of in a likewise manner. Sammy told me stories of them breeding creatures merely to eat or to keep as what are called pets. I guess that we're like pets. Except, of course, we can't do much more than stand here. At least their other pets have the freedom to roam around. See this yellow stain at the bottom of my right side? It's a little gift from one of their pets called Spike.
"But what nerve, eh? What gall. To automatically assume ownership of another species — to create another being and then to destroy it for their own pleasure."
Oldtimer is silent again. And it is then that the child who took off after the one with the carrot returns, triumphantly holding the carrot up high. She returns
to Oldtimer and sinks the carrot into his face.
He grunts as she does this.
Then the girl turns and looks across at me. She frowns, turning her head to the side. She mutters something and walks forward.
I've never known such fear, such dread. She's coming at me and I can't do anything about it. Trying desperately to cringe and shrink back, I close my eyes and wish I could at least scream.
Her finger sinks into the front of my face. I can feel a painful warmth tearing into me. It becomes a burning sensation — incredibly intense. I feel as if my head is going to explore in a bright burst of white light.
A scream, louder than the one Oldtimer made a few minutes ago, rings in my head. It goes on and on, then Oldtimer yells. "For Pete's sake, cut it out, will you?"
The screaming is coming from me?
I try to stop the noise and sure enough, it stops. I open my eyes to find the little girl smiling up at me. She wasn't hurting me intentionally — she was melting me a mouth.
"Thank you," I say to her, but she is oblivious. She begins dancing around me and singing, but it makes no sense. She sings about a jolly, happy snowman. Her song confuses me. How the hell can a snowman be jolly?
"Hey," I say to Oldtimer.
"So now you have a mouth. I know it must have hurt like a bugger, but it's good you can talk. Sammy said that it was important for us to be able to talk."
"Why is that? I ask.
"Because we have a legacy to pass along. We are created and then can do nothing about our existence. But if we can speak, then at least we can pass along stories to each other. So we have an oral tradition to uphold. We pass along speculative tales of what's to come."
Of what's to come? What is he talking about?
I have to ask: "What happened to Sammy?"
"He was torn apart. Tortured. Smashed to pieces by a gang of kids. It was horrible, watching them do it, listening to his screams. It was, so far, the worst experience I've ever faced — except, of course, for being completely alone these past two weeks."
A muffled yell cuts through Oldtimer's speech. I look to see a group of kids approaching. The girl dancing around me runs in the opposite direction and as the gang nears, I recognize the leader as the one who pulled Oldtimer's nose off.
"Here it comes," Oldtimer says. "Finally, our salvation."
"Our salvation? What are you talking about?"
The first of the kids arrives, kicking a large chunk of snow from Oldtimer. A second kid starts throwing punches. A third kid tears into him, ripping away huge chunks. All along, Oldtimer wails and screams.
It's more terrible than he described.
There is nothing I can do. I look about and see, in the direction the girl ran, a large group of kids coming.
"Hey Oldtimer!" I yell. "Hang in there. It looks like help is on the way."
He moans. "Help? No. No. I'm almost . . . free."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Punches and kicks send snow flying in all directions. Oldtimer speaks between screams, moans and grunts. "If . . . you think . . . this . . . is a bad way . . . to die," he cuts off for a moment, his voice drowned in an anguished wallow.
"What? What could be worse?"
I can barely see him now through the flailing arms and legs. The little girl and her gang are getting closer, yelling something. Will they arrive in time to save my friend?
"Before he died . . . Sammy told me . . . about, " another wail, "the apocalypse."
"The apocalypse?"
"Yes. The slowest . . . most painful death . . . you can imagine . . . when everything . . . melts. They call it . . . spring. Just pray . . .that you're not around," there is a long pause as he fights to summon up his last words, "when . . . spring comes."
The second gang of kids arrive and quickly chase the others off with a barrage of snowballs and yells. But it is too late. When they clear the area I can see Oldtimer. He is nothing now but a pile of snow with a few broken sticks, some stones and a scarf.
He has found his salvation.
The kids fuss over the pile of snow and then turn their attention to me, long enough to add Oldtimer's scarf to my neck. They chat for a bit and then leave me to solitude.
Time passes. I can't even cry.
My eyes cast fervently across the fields of snow. My fear is that I'll spot some children off in the distance beginning the ritual of building another snowman. I don't think I could even bear to watch.
I yearn for the mean kids to return. To smash me down the way they destroyed Oldtimer. At least it was quick. I'm remembering when the little girl melted me a mouth and how the burning sensation was the worst I had ever felt. I don't think I can even imagine what it will be like when spring comes and I slowly melt down to nothing.
Now, all I can do is sit here and wait.
And wonder if the torture of melting will be much worse than the agony of knowing now that spring in inevitable.
*****
IDES OF MARCH
A cruel, unavoidable empathy has overcome me today.
It had been an otherwise typical day in the middle of March. Spring was coming in like a lamb, and I had the radio deejay repeatedly reminding me of it all morning. Repetitive as his ramblings were, the fact that I was sitting at my desk in the front window and was thus witness to the weather made it all the more redundant.
But I needed the deejay’s company; to keep me sane.
I’d been there at the desk near the window all morning on self-appointed sick leave. No, I wasn’t ill, but I did have to fill out the tax forms for my wife and I, and if neither of us got on the ball, they’d never get done. On second thought, maybe I was sick. Why else would I volunteer for such a task?
So I sat there, playing with numbers, feeling the warm sun on my face with the easy listening radio station filtering old top 40 tunes to my mind. The temperature outside was just above zero, I could tell, for the previously icy sidewalks were now infested with puddles.
The warm temperature left the remaining snow wet and sticky. The neighbor’s eight year old boy, Charlie Fung, was putting the finishing touches on what would probably be his last snowman of the year.
Everything was normal. Everything was fine. And except for the grueling hours and triplicate form headaches that lay ahead of me, it was a pleasant day.
Then this black truck, a Range Rover, I believe, appeared from around the corner of our street and Fifth Avenue and swerved dramatically, taking a long wide turn into the double driveway that we shared with the Fungs.
Two figures sat in the cab, but it was hard to see them through the glare of the sun on the windshield. I was certain that they were drunk, or at least the driver was, the way he’d maneuvered the vehicle. That upset me. I mean, it was barely noon, and already drunk drivers were on the road, endangering lives. I’d never seen this truck before and wondered what connection these yahoos might have with the Fungs, who were very conservative, peaceful and quiet neighbors.
Both figures stumbled out of the truck and confirmed my suspicions about their drunkenness. Their fashion sense wasn’t much better. They were large, overweight, and dressed in similar beige full length overcoats, blue baggy ski pants and wool hats with long, floppy brims that kept their faces in shadow.
Together, they lurched toward Charlie, who was looking up at them from his recently created masterpiece. The driver was the first to reach the boy and as he approached, he grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and threw him to the snow.
I sprang from my desk and ran back through the living room, into the kitchen and down the steps to the front door. When I burst into the front yard, Charlie was sitting in the snow, crying silently, and the two men were carrying away the snowman.
When Charlie saw me he started to wail out loud, and I rushed over to see if he was all right.
“The pushed me!” He bawled. “They pushed me! They pushed me!” He continually repeate
d this phrase, louder and louder. For an obscure moment I wondered if he held any relation to the deejay who’d been keeping me company all morning with his repetitive and redundant words.
Assured that Charlie wasn’t hurt, just scared, I looked up to see that the two strangers were putting Charlie’s snowman into the back of the truck where five other snowman sat.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my jaw hit the snow as I stood there watching.
Stealing snowmen from children? What kind of mentally unbalanced people was I dealing with here? Our world was getting more and more stupid each passing day.
I walked over to the strangers. “Hey buddy,” I said, putting my hand on the driver’s shoulder from behind. “What’s the big ide . . .”
I stopped.
His shoulder was cold and soft, and my hand mashed down into it easily.
He turned to face me, staring at me with big black eyes. Chunks of coal. And his flesh was pale white, nothing more than snow. He was sweating profusely. No, not sweating. Melting. His face was melting, and it continued to change its shape before me, the melting water running down his slushy face, the carrot nose beginning to sag.
He said something to me. Or at least he tried to, for his melting face seemed without a mouth. It came out as a mumbled warning of some kind.
Then he pushed me — hard. In the face. His hand was wet and slushy. There was an immediate bitter-cold sensation in my mouth and on my tongue — not unlike a shot of Novocain from the dentist — and I realized I must have eaten a couple of his fingers. The numbing sensation immediately dribbled down the back of my throat.
I stumbled, back, numb, dumbfounded, and fell on my ass.
I sat there in the snow, quiet and wide eyed the way Charlie had been when I first came out of the house, and watched them clamber into the cab again. The truck pulled out of the driveway, backed into a telephone post across the street and then went forward, down to the end of the street, and disappeared around the corner.
I’m not sure where these twisted snowmen came from.
But I certainly know where they’re heading.