The front door was heavy oak, solid and windowless. I checked the deadbolt. Locked. I engaged the chain lock just to be sure.
Then I went to the window in the dining area that overlooked the driveway. I pulled the heavy curtain back just an inch.
The blizzard was still throwing a tantrum outside. White flakes swirled in chaotic vortexes, erasing the horizon. But I could see the shape of my Jeep Wrangler parked about twenty feet away.
"Come on, start," I muttered, fishing my keys out of my pocket. I hit the remote start button on the fob.
The Jeep’s lights flashed. The engine turned over once. Twice. Then it sputtered and died with a wet cough.
"No, no, no." I hit the button again.
Nothing. Not even a click.
I squinted, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. The snow around the Jeep looked wrong. It wasn't white. It was stained. Great dark splotches marred the ground around the tires.
I focused on the front driver-side tire. It looked… deflated. Sagging against the rim. And there was something sticking out of the sidewall.
I couldn't see it clearly through the storm, but the shape was familiar. It looked like a paintbrush handle. Or maybe a chisel.
Whatever it was, my tires were slashed. And the black stains in the snow? That wasn’t oil. That was ink.
Someone had bled my tires dry and filled them with the same black sludge crying down the snowman’s face.
"Okay," I said, my voice rising an octave. "Okay, we are not leaving."
I dropped the curtain and backed away from the window. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn't a prank. Pranks don't disable vehicles. Pranks don't strand you in a blizzard miles from civilization.
This was a siege.
I ran to the kitchen wall where the landline hung—a retro yellow rotary phone that was supposed to be "charming." I snatched the receiver off the cradle and pressed it to my ear.
Silence.
No dial tone. No static. Just the heavy, dead weight of nothingness.
"Check the cell," I ordered myself.
I pulled my smartphone from my pocket. 'No Service' stared back at me from the top left corner. I knew the reception was spotty up here—that was the point of the trip—but usually, I could get one bar if I stood on the couch and held my breath.
I climbed onto a dining chair, holding the phone up like Simba on Pride Rock.
Nothing.
I climbed down, my legs feeling like jelly. We were cut off. No car. No phone. No internet.
And outside, the artist of this nightmare was waiting.
I walked back into the living room. Lily was still drawing, her crayon moving in aggressive, looping circles.
"Daddy?" she asked.
"Yeah, bug?"
"Why is the snowman writing on the window?"
I froze.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.