The Snowman’s Secret

The first snowfall of the year blanketed the town of Ravens hollow in a thick layer of pristine white. For ten-year-old Sophie and her younger brother Max, it was the perfect opportunity to build the biggest, most elaborate snowman they had ever created. Bundled up in scarves and mittens, they worked tirelessly in the backyard, rolling snow into enormous spheres.

“He’s going to be huge,” Max said, his breath misting in the icy air.

Sophie grinned. “He’ll be the best snowman in Ravens hollow.”

By late afternoon, the snowman stood tall, nearly seven feet high. They gave him coal for eyes, a carrot for a nose, and a long stick for a crooked smile. Max found an old scarf in the garage to wrap around its neck, and Sophie placed a tattered top hat on its head. For the finishing touch, they stuck two sturdy branches into its sides for arms.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the backyard, Sophie stepped back to admire their work. “Perfect,” she said.

Max squinted at the snowman. “Is it just me, or does it look like it’s smiling wider now?”

Sophie laughed. “You’ve got snow-brain. Let’s go inside. Mom’s making hot chocolate.”

But as they turned to leave, Sophie thought she saw the snowman’s head tilt ever so slightly, as if watching them.

That night, Sophie lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. A strange unease had settled over her, though she couldn’t explain why. She got up and peeked out her bedroom window, which overlooked the backyard.

The snowman stood exactly where they had left it, bathed in the pale light of the full moon. But something was different. Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. The snowman’s arm—the branch they had stuck in its side—was now pointing directly at her window.

She blinked, her breath fogging the glass. “It’s just the wind,” she whispered to herself. “Branches move in the wind.”

Still, she pulled the curtains shut and crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

The next morning, Sophie and Max rushed outside to check on their creation. The snowman was still there, but its smile seemed even more crooked, almost malicious. Sophie frowned.

“Did you mess with it?” she asked Max.

Max shook his head. “No way. Did you?”

“Of course not.”

They stared at the snowman in silence. Its coal eyes seemed darker than before, like deep, bottomless pits. Sophie shivered, though the air wasn’t much colder than it had been the day before.

“Let’s just… go sledding or something,” Sophie said, trying to shake the feeling of unease.

As they trudged toward the hill at the end of the street, Sophie glanced back. The snowman’s head was tilted again, as if watching them leave.

That evening, strange things began to happen. Their mother found wet, muddy footprints leading from the back door into the kitchen. “You two need to wipe your feet when you come in,” she scolded.

“It wasn’t us,” Sophie said, confused. “We’ve been in the living room.”

Her mother frowned but didn’t press the issue. Sophie glanced at Max, who looked equally puzzled.

Later, as they got ready for bed, Max whispered to Sophie, “Do you think the snowman… moved?”

Sophie rolled her eyes, though she felt a pang of fear. “Snowmen don’t move, Max. Don’t be silly.”

But when she looked out her window again that night, the snowman was no longer standing in the middle of the yard. It was closer to the house.

Sophie woke to a strange sound in the middle of the night—a soft, scraping noise, like something heavy being dragged across the ground. Her heart pounded as she sat up in bed, straining to hear. The noise stopped, replaced by an eerie silence.

She crept to the window and peeked out. The snowman was now directly beneath her window, its coal eyes staring up at her. Its smile had widened into a grotesque grin, and its branch arms were reaching upward, as if trying to climb.

Sophie let out a small gasp and stumbled backward. She ran to Max’s room and shook him awake.

“The snowman,” she whispered urgently. “It moved again.”

Max rubbed his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Come look.”

They tiptoed back to Sophie’s room, but when they looked out the window, the snowman was gone.

“See?” Max said, yawning. “You’re imagining things.”

But Sophie knew what she had seen.

The next morning, the snowman was back in the yard, standing in its original spot. Sophie and Max stared at it, their breath visible in the frosty air. There were muddy tracks in the snow, leading from the back door to where the snowman now stood.

“We should knock it down,” Sophie said finally.

Max hesitated. “What if it gets mad?”

Sophie glared at him. “It’s a snowman, Max. It can’t get mad.”

Armed with a broom and a shovel, they marched into the yard. Sophie swung the broom at the snowman’s head, knocking the top hat to the ground. Max jabbed at its body with the shovel, sending chunks of snow flying. Within minutes, the snowman was nothing more than a pile of scattered snow and broken coal.

“There,” Sophie said, panting. “It’s gone.”

But as they turned to go inside, the wind picked up, swirling the snow around them. A low, guttural laugh seemed to echo through the air. Sophie and Max froze, their eyes darting around the yard.

“Did you hear that?” Max whispered.

Sophie nodded, her stomach knotting with fear.

That night, the sound of dragging returned, louder this time. Sophie and Max huddled together in her room, too scared to sleep. When morning came, they found the snowman rebuilt, taller and more menacing than before. Its coal eyes burned like embers, and its crooked smile seemed to sneer at them.

“We have to tell Mom,” Max said, his voice trembling.

“She won’t believe us,” Sophie replied. “We have to figure out what’s going on.”

They searched the internet for anything that might explain the snowman’s behavior. Finally, they stumbled upon an old forum discussing local legends. One story caught Sophie’s eye:

The Snowman of Ravenshollow: A cursed creation said to house the spirit of a vengeful soul. Once built, it cannot be destroyed. It grows stronger with every attempt to dismantle it.

Sophie’s blood ran cold. “What have we done?”

As the day wore on, the snowman’s presence seemed to darken the entire house. The temperature inside dropped, and strange whispers filled the air. That night, Sophie and Max’s mother found them huddled together in Sophie’s bed.

“What’s going on?” she asked, concerned.

Before they could answer, a loud crash came from the living room. They all rushed downstairs to find the Christmas tree toppled over and the back door wide open. Snowy footprints led from the door to the center of the room, where the snowman now stood, its twisted smile wider than ever.

Their mother screamed, but Sophie grabbed her hand. “We have to get out of here!”

The three of them bolted out the front door into the freezing night. As they reached the street, Sophie turned back. The snowman was standing in the doorway, its coal eyes glowing like hot coals.

They spent the night at a neighbor’s house, but Sophie knew they couldn’t run forever. The snowman was tied to them, and it wouldn’t stop until it got what it wanted.

The next morning, Sophie made a decision. “We have to return it to where it came from.”

“What do you mean?” Max asked.

“We built it. We gave it life. Now we have to end it.”

Armed with salt and matches, they returned to the house. The snowman was waiting for them in the backyard, its grin stretching impossibly wide.

Sophie sprinkled the salt in a circle around it while Max doused it with lighter fluid. The snowman didn’t move, but its coal eyes seemed to burn with hatred.

“Do it,” Sophie said, her voice shaking.

Max lit a match and threw it onto the snowman. Flames erupted, consuming the snow and coal. The snowman let out an ear-piercing screech as it melted away, leaving nothing but a puddle of water and ash.

For weeks after, Sophie and Max refused to talk about what had happened. But every winter, when the first snow fell, they couldn’t help but glance nervously at the backyard, half-expecting to see a familiar crooked smile staring back at them.