The Snowman Hunter

You’ve heard the songs by now, the ones about snowmen. How they have a jolly happy soul, a corn-cob pipe and a button nose, two eyes made out of coal. Well, the song was right about one thing, they have eyes made out of coal. Charred, shouldering embers from hell. Or stones, plucked from mucky gutters by naïve children with no idea what they’re in the process of creating. Those beady little eyes – ceaselessly peering at passerby through the falling snow – haunt me in my sleep. Their murderous gaze is sharp enough to pierce even the darkness of my dreams. Even during the sparkling hours of daylight, the sight of an eye-shaped pebble is enough to send shivers down my spine.

I used to believe the stories too, just like you. But now I know better. I know the truth. Some people think I’m crazy, but I don’t care. After what happened that night three years ago, nothing can change my mind about this.

It was almost midnight, and I was driving home from a friend’s house. It was a weeknight, and the streets were quiet as I rolled through the suburbs. It was nearing Christmas and most houses gleamed with strings of lights. Colourful little orbs to brighten the cold despondency of winter. The roads were not particularly icy, and I was only a few blocks away from my house when it happened. I swear, the road was empty one second, then in a blink, there it was. A tall, lumpy white shape appeared in front of my car, seemingly out of nowhere. I let out a scream as my instincts jerked my steering wheel sideways to avoid hitting whatever it was. The car slid and I heard a crunch before my face hit the steering wheel.

It all happened so fast, and next thing I knew, I was squinting through a crack in my windshield and wiping blood from my nose with the back of my sleeve. After exiting my car, I surveyed the damage. The car had slid sideways onto the curb, the front folding neatly around a fire hydrant.

I step back to the road, eager to lay eyes on the thing that caused this mess. When I arrived, I had to laugh. It was so ridiculous, how could I not? There, in the middle of the road, was a perfectly erected snowman. He stood there, proud as can be, staring me down with those damned charcoal eyes. The longer I gazed into their inky depths, the more it seemed like his artificial smile shifted into a mischievous grin.

How could I have missed this? I was so sure he wasn’t there before, or I would have seen him from the end of the street. I headed back to my car to call someone for help, and when I came back to the road to try moving the snowman, he was gone. Like, gone gone. Nowhere to be found. Nothing left but an eerie, unnatural silence, and the faint smell of carrots.

I tried to brush it off. Maybe I was tired, or maybe I was concussed from hitting my head on the steering wheel. Any excuse to justify what I saw. Until later that night, before I went to bed, I peeked out my bedroom window and laid eyes on him. There he was, rising from the milky dunes of snow in the middle of my front yard, illuminated by a single hazy street lamp. And he was staring at me. That was when I knew, it wasn’t in my head.

Since that night, it’s like a veil has been lifted. I feel their eyes on me when I walk down the street to pick up my mail. I sense their presence before I even see them. They’re impossible to avoid, and their blood lust is impossible to ignore. I know they have everyone else fooled, but I’ve seen what they can do, the horrible things they’re capable of. I no longer drive in the winter time, it’s too dangerous. Instilled in their frozen hearts is a blood lust like no other, brought into being by a cruelty that only children are capable of manifesting. They maintain their statuesque facade by day, and roll around wreaking havoc once the sun sets and their creators are lulled into a greedy, sugar-induced stupor.

That is why, to this day, I have vowed to destroy every last snowman in existence. It is a ceaseless job, one that comes back to me every winter when children feel the overwhelming urge to manifest evil into existence. Whatever they do, they somehow manage to imbue mere snow with the essence of malevolence.

And now, at the height of winter solstice, I face my greatest foe yet. I noticed him yesterday, looming taller than any man of ice I’ve destroyed thus far. 7 feet tall at least. He has a crooked, shit-eating grin and long spindly arms, perfect for clawing at the necks of unsuspecting passerby. He occupies the local schoolyard, lords over the territory as though he owns the place. I’m sure he guards it ferociously, for he is alone here, no other snowmen dare present themselves before him. He dons a deceptively cheerful knitted cap, most likely stolen from the corpse of his latest victim. The over-confident expression on his face almost obscures his true desire: murder. But I see through his facade. No, he’s not fooling me.

Tonight, he’s going down.

As darkness falls, I crouch behind a large boulder decorated with colourful spray painted words like “Pubes”, “Jenny loves Derek”, and “Mr. Jones has man-boobs”. Though I cannot confirm nor deny that any of these assumptions are true, man-boobs or not, Mr. Jones will not be able to save these students from their imminent demise without my help. Jenny and Derek have no idea what kind of monster lurks just outside the safety of their school walls.

I steady my grip on my XL18 flamethrower, my weapon of choice. Nothing stands a chance against these beasts except for flame. It is my greatest pleasure to return them to the pits of hell from which they came. A quick check over my shoulder, and I am off, sprinting across the frozen schoolyard. My boots crunch over the ice crystals that coat the dirt, echoing through the night. I skid along the dirty snow and duck behind a nearby bush. I try to steady my ragged breathing as I zero in on my target.

He is even larger up close, and he pulses with an aura of hatred. From this angle, I can just make out his crooked carrot nose, shrivelled with cold and tinged brown with rot. His wicked grin taunts me. Come closer puny human, it says, I dare you. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I brace myself for battle before I lunge.

He’s quick, but I am quicker. I sprint at him, dodging his sharp and lengthy fingers as they grasp for me. I hit the ground and slide. My flame thrower is an extension of my arm. I engage the trigger and a bright, all-encompassing light bursts from the end of the nozzle.

I squint at the brightness, at the heat searing my cheeks. Fire surges from my weapon in great yawning plumes. The ice monster roars, fire connecting with the tender snow in his middle segment. I typically go for the head first, but this one is too large, too tall for me to reach. As my weapon melts a hole in his gut, he swipes at me. His arms reach for my neck, my face, my eyes. I let out a yelp as one of his twiggy claws scrapes against my cheek, slashing the tender flesh and no doubt leaving a bloody gash in its wake.

The beast is enraged, his deafening scream melds with the crackle of flame and the pop of his sizzling flesh. He grows desperate, lobbing chunks of ice and snow at me. I dodge – but just barely – and a large chunk of his midsection narrowly misses my head. The ground beneath my feet grows slippery and I go down, my weapon crashing to the ground and skittering out of my grasp.

The charcoal pebbles of his smile are distorted now, morphing into a god-awful scowl. His eyes are molten with the hatred of a thousand hells, and he leans his bulk over me. As he descends, I use the last of my strength to lunge for the handle of my flamethrower. His body grows closer and closer, larger and larger. His head is so close now that his hulking form blocks out the ambient streetlights from my vision. I manage to grab the handle and thrust it at him, with only seconds to spare before I am crushed.

My frozen fingers clench the trigger, blasting a wall of flame right at his face. The monster roars one last time before descending on me, crushing me with the weight of his entire body. I gasp for breath before my vision blackens and my body goes numb.

I awaken to voices. My head is pounding, and I pry my eyes open to face the searing sunlight. It takes me a few moments to orient myself. I’m on my back, covered in a layer of white carnage from the battle. I push myself up and look around, searching for any remnants that my monster survived. But my sight-line is blocked by a cluster of people looking down on me.

“Miss, are you alright?” A large man looms over me, arms perched on his hips, man-boobs akimbo.

I rub at my eye with the heel of my palm, trying to sort out my thoughts. “Mister Jones?”

His expression is puzzled. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” He reaches a gloved hand down to help me up. I allow the help and heave myself to my feet, swaying once I’m upright.

“You have a scratch on your cheek!” a tiny girl thrusts a finger at me from the sidelines, drowning in the puff of her gaudy pink coat.

“What happened here?” Mr Jones gestures to the muddy circle around me. “Is that a weapon?” His eyes widen as he comprehends the extent of my heroism.

Before I get a chance to speak, he holds up his hands, pushing away the crowd of children gathered around him. “No, you need to leave. This is school property; you can’t have a weapon here.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I protest. “You’re safe now.”

He moves further back, voice growing louder and more frantic as he gestures wildly. “Leave immediately, or I’m calling the police.”

I nod solemnly, and collect my weapon. Of course, he doesn’t get it. They never do. Danger lurks in the shadows and they prefer to remain blissfully ignorant. It must be nice.

On my way out of the schoolyard, I cast one last look over my shoulder. “Watch your back.” I stoically bestow my kernel of wisdom onto the naïve teacher. “Those children are capable of great evil.”

I manage to catch his confused grimace before turning away for good. I depart the mucky schoolyard, content to leave this battleground behind me. Once I reach the sidewalk, I happen to glance down. Trickles of melted snow and dirt surge toward the drain, slinking away to the depths of the sewers underground. I think nothing of it, until I notice the coal. A handful of little charred chunks, pulled along by a stream of water. My first instinct is to brush it off as a trick of the light, or perhaps I hit my head again when I went down last night, but I know better by now.

The coal pieces rearrange themselves into a face. A winking, grinning face of a snowman, casting me one last smug look before being sucked into the drain.