My therapist calls them "intrusive visual disturbances." I call them "glitches in the matrix."
Honestly, I’d prefer a blue screen of death at this point.
It was 6:00 AM in the armpit of nowhere—otherwise known as a rental cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains. The vibe was supposed to be "rustic healing retreat," but currently, it was giving "isolated murder scene." Outside, a blizzard was raging like it had a personal vendetta against the concept of visibility. The world was just white noise. Static.
I stood in the kitchen, gripping a mug of lukewarm coffee like it was a lifeline. My hands were shaking. That’s the withdrawal for you. Or maybe it was just the cold. The heating system in this place sounded like a dying lung, wheezing and rattling without actually doing much work.
"Okay, Elias," I muttered to the empty room. "Status report."
Pulse? Racing.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkVoOeff7ky
Meds? Taken.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7VKhZO4ytt
Daughter? Sleeping.
I glanced toward the hallway. Lily was passed out in the guest room, probably dreaming about unicorns or Minecraft or whatever six-year-olds doomscrolled in their heads these days. She was the only reason I was here. After Sarah… after the funeral… I needed to step up. I needed to be Dad of the Year, or at least Dad of the Week. Not the frantic, hollow-eyed artist who screamed at empty corners.
This trip was the reset button. No internet. No work. No ink. Just me, the kid, and enough snow to bury a sedan.
I took a sip of coffee. It tasted like battery acid and regret.
I walked over to the sliding glass door that led to the back deck. The glass was frosted over at the corners, creating a jagged frame around the storm outside. I rubbed a circle in the condensation with my sleeve, expecting to see the usual: trees, snowdrifts, the unending void of white.
Instead, I saw a face.
My heart did a kick-flip into my throat. I stumbled back, nearly dropping the mug. Coffee sloshed over my hand, burning my skin, but I didn't look down. I couldn't.
There was a snowman on the deck.
And when I say "on the deck," I don't mean out in the yard. I mean it was right there. Two inches from the glass. If the door hadn't been there, we would have been nose-to-carrot.
"It's not real," I whispered. My voice sounded thin, pathetic. "It’s a render error. Just a glitch."
I squeezed my eyes shut. This was standard procedure. Count to five. Reboot the system. When you open your eyes, the monster will be gone, replaced by a coat rack or a bush.
One.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCSWgND22QI
Two.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGXchzjgwcz
Three.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJUTeuQoZVf
Four.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiDnAB9FF4y
Five.
I opened my eyes.
The snowman was still there.
It was a hulking, ugly thing. Not the three-perfect-spheres kind you see in cartoons. This looked like it had been packed together with violence. The torso was lumpy and wide, like a linebacker in body armor. The head was slightly too large, tilting to the left like a confused dog.
But the face… that was the problem.
Whoever—or whatever—made this thing hadn't used coal for eyes. They had gouged deep, angry holes into the ice. And leaking from those holes, trailing down the pristine white cheeks like mascara on a crying prom queen, was black liquid.
It hit the snow at the base of the torso, staining it. Drip. Drip. Drip.
My stomach twisted. I knew that black. I spent fifteen years of my life with that exact shade of darkness under my fingernails. It was waterproof, archival-quality ink. The smell of it—formaldehyde and soot—ghosted through my memory.
"Okay," I said, my breath fogging in the cold room. "Okay, very funny. Some local kids are messing with the crazy artist."
I tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry choke.
I stepped closer, my survival instinct warring with my curiosity. That’s when I saw the arm. The right branch—no, it wasn't a branch. It was a thick limb of packed snow, hard as concrete. And stuck into the end of it wasn't a broomstick or a sign.
It was a knife. A chef's knife with a black handle and a stainless steel bolster.
A Global G-2.
A chill that had nothing to do with the blizzard shot down my spine. I knew that knife. I paid a hundred and twenty bucks for that knife. It was the only thing I cooked with.
I spun around, ignoring the vertigo that swirled in my head, and ran to the kitchen island. The knife block sat there, wooden and heavy.
I counted the handles.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfCG9Ob7wI9
Paring knife. Check.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5KbqN7JMgt
Bread knife. Check.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyFGRbs8oUt
Utility knife. Check.29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMMfbq2L9Fe
Chef's knife…
Empty. The slot was a dark, gaping mouth.
"No," I hissed. "No, no, no."
This wasn't a hallucination. Hallucinations don't steal kitchenware.
I grabbed the paring knife—a pathetic three-inch blade that wouldn't scare a squirrel, let alone a man-sized snow-beast—and whipped back around to the glass door.
The snowman hadn't moved. It was just standing there, holding my knife, crying my ink.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.