Child of Winter
A mysterious weather phenomena strikes a rural town coincidentally as a nameless girl arrives.
It was July when I found her.
I was just making my rounds, gathering church gossip, being nosey. There was a rumor floating about something strange skulking the local wheat fields. It was just some poor kid, a stranger, wandering alone.
A surprise cold front struck the night before. The girl, maybe ten, must’ve been outside all night. She was burning up. I carried her to my truck.
Not long after, snow came. It started slowly, tiny crystals immediately melting. But then the temperature dropped, and the flurries stuck. Martha fretted over the crop. I told her wheat could take a little cold spell or two. In truth, I wasn’t sure.
The girl didn’t speak much, but she told us she felt hot.
The snow picked up, and that night the power died. Martha and I got our warmest clothes, fired up the propane furnace, and huddled for warmth. As we looked out over the shimmering whiteness, it was strangely beautiful.
The girl pushed us away, refusing any blankets. Her fever wouldn’t let up.
Martha began to ask fearful questions. “How is she warm?”
I was scared too. Propane was running out, and Martha and I would freeze.
Would the girl?
We needed supplies, but the truck wouldn’t start. When I looked underneath, pink icicles dripped with slushy antifreeze. Antifreeze doesn’t do that until 35 below.
Shivering under four layers and my thickest boots, I had to push Martha away to trudge into the snowstorm. We were a small community, the store only about 3 miles out. “I’ll be back,” I promised.
But with every mile, the snowstorm faded. As if it were centered around my farm.
I ran back into the storm.
When I reached home, my heart sank. Snow buried the doors. Through the barn windows I saw our cattle: black, necrotic, frozen standing in their pens. I used my hatchet to break into our house.
I was too late. My Martha was frozen solid, fingers cracked off her hands. But she wasn’t alone.
“So hot.” The girl whimpered.
She was sweating. I had my hatchet. She was skinny, emaciated. Thin. One swing would do it.
But when she looked at me, I froze.
“You too?” She sounded betrayed.
The wind howled, and wood beams cracked under icy weight. Snow broke through, burying me as she scrambled away.
I crawled next to Martha, and the cold took us.
Words From the Author
Were you spooked? I hope so, as that was the goal for this Halloween Writing Contest by NYC Midnight. The spookiest part about this story was the 400 word limit, which meant that we had to be rather sparse on details, characters, and flowery language.
I have mixed feelings on this piece. Frankly, the version before word cuts was much better, enough so that I might workshop it later just to prove a point. We were forced to cut a character I felt was central to the feeling of the story, and rather than the slow build-up I prefer, we felt that we needed suspense from the story’s onset.
400 words is pushing it story-wise, but this contest does parallel some real life realities. Even established authors, who have earned the trust of their readers already, are forced to contend with reader interest. A slower progression gives more time to steep your characters, weave complex narratives, add meat to your story, but you often have to earn your reader’s attention first by punching them in the face.