by Andrew Lyall
Granny and I sat by the fire while Ma hovered at the window with her hot chocolate, surveying the darkness outside. This was our first Christmas since Oliver died and Dad left, leaving every room feeling empty. We’d driven through the night, far up into the Highlands, to reach Granny before the snow came and cut her village off as it did every Christmas. Gran lanced more marshmallows and passed them to me to hold over the flames, but my mother’s strange vigil kept snagging my attention.
“I don’t see anything yet,” Ma muttered without turning. I could see her ghostly reflection in the dark glass, though. She looked worried. I wanted her to be okay.
“What’s she looking for?” I whispered. Gran tutted and shook her head. The lenses of her thick glasses were full of flames.
That morning we’d woken to a muffling blanket of white which seemed to deaden the air of the small valley. We’d gone outside and joined the rest of the villagers who were making snowmen, one for each of the twenty-three men, women and children who lived there. Even Granny. We had to wheel her out but she insisted on patting out a crooked, cold body and head as best she could with her bent, arthritic hands.
“Don’t forget your token,” Granny said sagely. Ma had explained the tradition on the way up, something she’d done each midwinter as a little girl: you roll something personal into the body of your snowman, near the heart. Everyone did it.
Now Ma kept watch over our effigies while Granny and I sat in the crackling orange circle of heat. Granny let me have a sip of her mulled wine while Ma was distracted. I pulled a face, but quickly nodded when the mug was proffered again.
When Ma inhaled sharply I snapped my head around. I was up and at her side before Granny could stop me. There were three shadowy figures on the lawn by our snowmen.
“Who are they?” I asked, but no one answered. The fire popped.
As my eyes became accustomed to the night outside I saw that there were other silhouettes outside every house, and each one was standing beside a snowman.
“Ma, what’s going on?”
“I thought I’d imagined it,” she murmured to herself, “all those years ago.”
“Don’t worry, petal,” Granny said, “the shades don’t bother us if we leave our tokens in our stead.”
“You did leave a token didn’t you?” Ma asked. Her expression frightened me.
“I thought,” I didn’t understand what was happening; “I thought Ollie should be here with us. I put his toy truck in my snowman.”
There was a light, dull knock at the door.
“Don’t answer it!” Granny shouted.
A cry came from the other side, plaintive and hollow.
“Ollie!” my mother cried out and rushed to the door.
“Don’t!”
Ma opened the door but her smile froze to something rictus as the cold charged in and filled the room.
ANDREW LYALL lives in the south of England where he hosts the YouTube channel ‘Grumpy Andrew’s Horror House’. He has had stories published in ‘Tales To Survive The Stars’; ‘Local Haunts: A Horrortube Anthology’ and ‘We’re Not Home: A Horror Anthology’.