December’s Frostbite Follies

The town of Frost Hollow was cursed—or at least, that’s what old Ms. Butterworth claimed every time she wobbled down the frozen streets in her mismatched snow boots. But to the rest of the town, it was just an ordinary December: freezing temperatures, waist-high snow, and an overwhelming sense that life was nothing more than an extended cosmic joke.

This year, however, the snow seemed…off. It wasn’t the usual fluffy white powder children could frolic in. No, this snow clung to everything it touched like a clingy ex, seeping into cracks, weighing down roofs, and trapping cars in its icy grasp. Folks joked about “revenge snow,” but deep down, everyone felt uneasy.

Take Danny, for example. Danny was Frost Hollow’s most optimistic mailman, known for delivering letters no matter the weather. “Neither snow nor sleet nor existential dread!” he’d cheerfully quip. But on this particular December morning, Danny found himself facing an unholy wall of snow that had barricaded the main street overnight.

“Not today, you frosty bastard,” Danny muttered, pulling out a snow shovel from his bag like a knight drawing a sword.

The snow, however, had other plans. As Danny shoveled, the snow seemed to grow back faster than he could clear it. It wasn’t just refreezing—it was alive. His shovel struck something hard, and when he bent down to investigate, he found a frozen squirrel glaring up at him with an icicle for a tail.

“What the hell?” Danny whispered. Before he could process, the squirrel twitched. Then it blinked. Then it screamed.

Danny screamed back and ran, leaving the undead squirrel to claw its way out of the icy tomb.

Back in town, Mayor Dandridge held an emergency meeting in the only place still warm: Jerry’s Sausage Emporium. The air smelled of burnt hot dogs and desperation.

“The snow’s getting worse!” one man yelled, his breath fogging in the unheated room. “It’s freezing our generators and turning pets into popsicles!”

“And squirrels into monsters,” Danny added, still trembling.

The mayor raised his hand. “Enough! We just need to band together. Let’s get all the snowplows running and—”

“Plows?” Ms. Butterworth interrupted, cackling. “Plows won’t save you from him.”

The room went silent.

“Him who?” Jerry asked, nervously fiddling with a sausage link.

“The Frost King,” Ms. Butterworth said, her voice low and theatrical. “He’s come to collect on our debt.”

“Debt for what?” someone asked.

Ms. Butterworth grinned, her yellowed teeth gleaming. “The deal Frost Hollow made a hundred years ago! Mild winters in exchange for…well, let’s just say the Frost King doesn’t accept late payments kindly.”

Before anyone could protest, the lights flickered, then died. A bone-chilling gust of wind howled through the cracks in the walls, and suddenly the windows frosted over with an unnatural blue glow.

“Debt collection time,” Ms. Butterworth whispered, clearly delighted.

The townsfolk barely had time to panic before the door burst open. A towering figure stepped inside, cloaked in snow and ice. His eyes glowed like twin icicles, and his breath turned the floorboards to frost.

“WHO DARES DEFY ME?” the Frost King bellowed, his voice shaking the sausage racks.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” the mayor stammered. “We, uh, didn’t know there was a debt?”

The Frost King tilted his head, considering. “Ignorance of the contract does not excuse nonpayment.” He raised an icy hand, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

“Wait!” Danny blurted out. “What if we negotiate? Like, maybe an installment plan?”

The Frost King paused. “What do you offer in return?”

Ms. Butterworth raised her hand eagerly. “Take Jerry! His sausages have been giving people food poisoning for years.”

“Hey!” Jerry protested, but the Frost King seemed intrigued.

“Very well,” he rumbled. With a snap of his fingers, Jerry was encased in a block of ice, a frozen scream on his face.

The Frost King turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. “I’ll be back next year for the rest of what’s owed.”

“What’s the rest?” the mayor dared to ask.

The Frost King grinned. “I’ll let you decide. You have 365 days.”

And with that, he vanished, leaving the townsfolk shivering in silence.

“Well,” Ms. Butterworth said, sipping her hot chocolate. “I guess we’d better start drafting a list.”

The town agreed, and from then on, Frost Hollow had a new December tradition: debating who to sacrifice to the Frost King next year. It was oddly unifying, in a darkly festive way.

As for Danny? He quit his mail route and moved to Florida, where the only snow was the kind that came in a cone.