Snowmen aren’t supposed to bleed. That’s, like, biology 101 for inanimate objects.

But the thing standing on my deck, pressed uncomfortably close to the sliding glass door, didn't get the memo. It was staring at me with hollowed-out sockets, and thick, viscous black sludge was weeping from its eyes. It wasn't oil. It wasn't dirt. I knew that texture. I knew that sheen.

It was India ink. The expensive kind. The kind I used to draw nightmares with until the nightmares started drawing themselves.

I blinked, waiting for the glitch to reset, waiting for my broken brain to buffer and delete the image. But when I opened my eyes, the thing was still there. And it wasn't just crying anymore.

It was raising its hand. And in that hand, gripped tight in a fist of packed ice, was a six-inch chef’s knife.