The small voice cut through the tension like a razor. I jumped, spinning around to put my back to the glass door, trying to hide the horror show behind me.
Lily stood in the hallway entrance. She was wearing her yellow puffer jacket over her pajamas, clutching a sketchbook to her chest. Her hair was a bird's nest of static. She looked so small, so breakable.
"Lily," I said, forcing a smile that felt like I was baring my teeth. "Hey, bug. Why are you up? It's super early."
"It's cold," she said. She walked past me, completely ignoring my attempt to block the view, and went straight to the glass door.
"Lily, wait—" I reached for her, but I was too slow.
She pressed her nose against the glass, right where the snowman's stomach would be. She didn't scream. She didn't recoil. She just tilted her head, mirroring the monster outside.
"He's sad," she said matter-of-factly.
My blood ran cold. "You… you see him?"
She looked at me like I was the slow kid in class. "Yeah, Daddy. He's right there. He’s crying black tears. Like in your old pictures."
Validation washed over me, followed immediately by a tidal wave of terror. If Lily saw it, it was real. Physical. A solid object existing in 3D space.
And it had a weapon.
"Lily, get away from the door," I said, my voice dropping into that serious-dad register that usually meant stop hitting your brother or don't eat the glue. "Now."
"Why?" she asked, tracing the path of the ink on the glass with her finger. "Is he playing?"
"He's not playing," I snapped. I grabbed her arm—maybe a little too hard—and pulled her behind me. "Go to the couch. Wrap yourself in the blanket. Do not move."
Lily frowned, rubbing her arm, but she sensed the shift in the air. The vibe in the room had gone from 'awkward morning' to 'imminent threat.' She shuffled to the couch, clutching her sketchbook like a shield.
I turned back to the door.
The wind howled outside, slapping a fresh sheet of snow against the glass, momentarily obscuring the figure. But when the gust cleared, the snowman was still there.
I had to check the lock. I knew I locked it last night. I was obsessive about locks. It was part of the anxiety package. But the knife was gone, which meant someone had been inside.
I stepped up to the glass. My reflection ghosted over the snowman’s face—my gaunt cheeks superimposed over its icy, bleeding eyes.
My hand hovered over the latch. It was flipped down. Locked.
"Okay," I whispered. "It's locked. We're safe. We're cool."
I looked at the snowman’s face, searching for... I don't know. A sign that this was a prank? A hidden camera?
And then, it happened.
The snowman didn't melt. It didn't crumble.
The head snapped.
It wasn't a smooth rotation. It was a sharp, mechanical jerk. Crack. The head turned two inches to the right. The black, bleeding eye sockets were no longer staring into the house in general.
They were looking directly at me.
It wasn't gravity. It wasn't the wind. That was a controlled movement.
"Nope," I said.
I slammed the secondary deadbolt home with a clang that echoed through the silent cabin.
Behind me, Lily whispered, "Daddy? Why is the snowman angry?"
I stared at the black ink pooling on the white snow, defying the laws of freezing temperatures. I tightened my grip on the tiny paring knife until my knuckles turned white.
"He's not angry, baby," I lied, watching the black tears thicken. "He's just... lost."
But I knew the truth. That thing wasn't lost. It knew exactly where it was.
And it wanted in.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.