Flurry

Cory winced when the soft tissue of his lips was ripped by the mocking smirk. After the initial sting he was not bothered because the fresh blood warmed his mouth. What did bother him were the strands of blonde hair escaping from beneath his sock cap and tickle-whipping the fresh cuts.

The boy slowed to a stop a few feet away from the treeline to readjust his cap and unruly curls, and to take a moment to gather his wits before he emerged into the rugged woodland.

This was not the first time he traveled down the path that narrowly cut a way through the dense clusters of trees and underbrush. What made him hesitate was the thought of being alone, swallowed up in an unnatural darkness caused by layers of snow resting upon the branches of the surrounding evergreens. There was just enough light for the eye to see, but not enough to decipher woodland creatures from statuesque stumps. There were more than a few times he was sure something was stalking him, staying  just outside of his peripheral, but when he turned to face it, all he saw was tangled branches or fallen logs.

Visions of a monstrous thing crossing his path outweighed Cory’s desire to go into the woods alone. Before he turned back home he looked over his shoulder to see if Christian was watching, and of course he was.

The brothers got into a spat the day before when Christian wanted to have a snowball war in the clearing at the end of the path. He wanted to go all out and shovel trenches for cover, and then use the piles of dug up snow to make bunkers. Cory turned down the idea because he did not think getting cold, wet hands from molding all that snow was worth getting pelted by his older brother and losing the game anyway. Christian never liked it when his little brother refused him and vowed that they would never play in the woods together again unless Cory complied. When that did not change Cory’s mind, Christian attempted to persuade him one last time. He clarified that he would have to navigate the trail by himself, play by himself, and fend off the imaginary monsters by himself if he wanted to play out there again. Cory responded with a shrug, but his brother’s taunting words festered his mind until it was late into the night. He was able able to sleep once he decided to spite his older brother and venture out into the woods without him.

So, Cory did not want to give Christian the satisfaction of watching him sulk back to the safety of their house, solidifying the assumption that he was too scared of the things that were not there. His desire to prove Christian wrong was reignited as he stared at the slightly taller reflection of himself leaning against the tailgate of their dad’s truck. One arm balanced the shovel laid across his shoulder, and the other imitated the flapping wing of a chicken.

After a few taunting flaps, Christian used the free arm to shoo his baby brother away as if to say good riddance, and then he turned heel and walked up the porch steps.

Cory tossed one of the dangling ends of his scarf across the opposite shoulder and turned away from the safety of home. The young boy marched towards the mouth of the trail, not giving himself any more time to contemplate and envision things that he knew were not even there.

Once he was in the mouth of the beast, and the warm glow of the sun was snuffed out, Cory’s mind was yet again terrorized by his own imagination. Behind his eyes, he saw a rotted branch strangled by vines shoot out from beneath the snow like the arm of a hungry zombie. Cory shook off the ghostly feeling of the splintery hand grasping his ankle, and forced himself to not look down or slow his pace.

Despite his best efforts, the young boy was not able to ignore the malicious creatures that crowded his mind and attempted to force themselves into hallucinations, so he decided to unleash the monsters and imagine himself defeating them.

Overcoming his fears by indulging in them, Cory unknowingly picked up his pace to an excited jog. The original plan was to go steady and replicate the way his brother maneuvered the path in certain areas where the direction was easily lost, but now Cory was beyond distracted. He was dodging side to side along the trail while swinging his arms around, grunting the sound effects of war. At this point, he was solely relying on muscle memory and luck to guide him.

Cory realized he was nearing the end of the trail when he was no longer brushing against the mixture of evergreen trees that mother nature planted so closely together. The trees opened even wider, allowing him to feel the sun’s warm touch softly caress his face.

The boy gleefully frolicked into the clearing where the snow was almost up to his knees, because of the lack of lush trees to catch it. His boots dug deep into the fluff, and it packed around his feet before he could pull them out without struggling. With just a couple steps, Cory was feeling the exhaustion of jogging down the path and then having to trudge his way through the thick layer of untouched snow.

Cory stopped to catch his breath. When he looked down, he saw the snow was not so undisturbed. Right before gusts of wind whipped up the already fallen snowflakes into flurry, he saw boot impressions ahead of him.

His eyes followed the direction of the boot prints until he was looking near the far corner of the clearing. The stirred up snow made it difficult to see, but Cory thought he saw the outline of a snowman.

The boy approached it cautiously. Neither his brother nor father mentioned making a snowman, and this area was only accessible from their backyard, unless someone took a chilly hike through rough terrain from off the road.

As he got closer, Cory noticed the branches serving as the snowman’s arms were not quite pointed in the same direction. Both arms jutted out from what seemed close to forty five degree angles, but the one on the right seemed to have dropped slightly.

He got on his tiptoes and tried to push the lowered branch up so it was even with the other, but he was not tall or strong enough to make it budge. Cory moved to the other side and hung on the branch until he heard a loud cracking sound that vibrated the wood and sent a tremor through his gloved hand.

The tree branch was still intact, but there was now a deep red goo oozing out from beneath it. It reminded the six-year-old boy of a time when he intensely watched the ice cream man, as he drizzled tiger’s blood over the ball of shaved ice. The dark red syrup melted the ice as it spread across the surface, just like the way this syrup-like goo stained and melted the snow as it descended down the side of the snowman.

The fond memory relieved the terror that had began to swell in his stomach and push against his bladder, but Cory still was not completely at ease. He felt the only way to achieve that was to satisfy his curiosity.

He took a step closer and flipped up the fabric covering the index finger of his mittens. He touched the oozing substance. It was warm and thick, like hot strawberry filling. Cory brought the finger to his nose in hopes of smelling something sweet, but it did not smell like anything. He drew back his hand and smeared the substance between his thumb and forefinger.

The stain it left in the swirly groves of his fingerprints was all too familiar.

The little boy was frightened, but did not accept that he was touching actual blood. It made no sense for it to be blood, so he rationalized it as some sort of strange tree sap. He wiped it off on his pants.

Cory took a step back, and for the first time he noticed the life-sized snowman did not have eyes or a mouth. He thought about picking up some pine cones to use for the face. Then it occurred it him that the stranger may have had the same idea.

The boy snapped his head side to side and behind him to ensure there nobody was in sight.

Content with his solo adventure into the wild, and frightened by the things he saw, Cory decided to headed back towards the trail that would take him home. He only took a couple steps before he was turned around, looking at the faceless snowman. It was disturbingly humanoid without a wacky facial expression. Even though it had no eyes, Cory could feel a chilling glare pierce his heart. He could not make himself turn his back on it.

He mushed back to the snowman, unwrapping the hand knitted scarf from his neck. Cory held both ends and jumped so he could throw the loop over the top of its head. The loop of the scarf hooked in the crease behind the snowman’s head and the ends loosely dangled in front. It was not much of an addition, but it made the snowman look friendly enough to walk away from.

The boy stood still, his eyes fixated on the red goop. He could not stop thinking about its warmth. The way it stained his fingers. He did not understand how fresh tree sap could come out warm or leave a stain. The only things he could think of that could have left such a stain was berries and blood. He thought it could have been possible for some frozen berries got molded into the makings of the snowman, but he had no explanation as to why the berry juice was warm to the touch.

Tree sap and berries all seemed like logical explanations, and yet Cory could just as easily convince himself it was blood. At the same time, he was becoming increasingly aware of the danger of standing in the clearing. He was surrounded by the white walls of the evergreens that easily provided cover for predators or the owner of the boot tracks. The boy once again looked around. He saw nothing but nature covered in white, but he still could not see past the treeline. It was starting to feel like someone really could be watching him. Maybe he just could not see them.

Cory decided the only way to put an end to his internal conflict was to taste the red goop. It was obvious he could not figure it out by touch, but he was sure he could recognize the distinct taste difference between tree sap, berries, and blood.

Even with all the uncertainty swirling his mind, the goop seemed more likely to be a dessert topping. Like thick strawberry syrup dripping over two scoops of ice cream.

The boy extended his arm and scooped up a large amount of the mystery substance into nook of his finger. Without taking a moment to second guess, he shoved his finger into his mouth.

It was blood.

Cory screamed and pivoted on his heels and ran away, while he shook the hand with the bloody finger.

The wind picked up, whistling an ancient melody through the trees and freezing the child’s tears and snot to his face, as he tried to sprint back to the pathway. He pumped his legs as hard as he could, but the snow seemed to have deepened by another foot. When he looked down he saw it was not any deeper, the fault was his legs were barely moving.

He stumbled, tripped over himself, and faltered some more before toppling over. It was too late to break the fall, or maybe it came sooner than he anticipated, but either way his arms crumbled like paper beneath his weight.

Like sharpened icicles, snow filled Cory’s mouth and throat as his face slid in the powdery mush. The boy tried to let out a scream, but the sound was muffled by the snow packed in his airway. All he heard was the echo of his heart pounding in his ears.

As suddenly as it quickened, the beat of his heart abruptly stopped.

A panic that Cory never felt before set in. He desperately tried to flip over or do anything to catch his breath. His arms only twitched, and then his small body violently shook before it ceased and sank deeper into the snow.

 

*

 

The paramedics came much too late, responding to a call made by Ryan Baden, a single father of two boys. The middle aged farmer explained to emergency dispatch that he had discovered his youngest son, Cory Baden, frozen and partially submerged in fallen snow.

The first responders did not even attempt to revive the dead boy’s body, but a few did work carefully to save what was left from the freezing elements. The other paramedics broke off and followed the path until they were standing in the clearing, staring at the blank faced snowman.

Gusts of wind had altered its shape, making it sort of lopsided, and thinning one side of the head. One of them joked that it looked like there were strands of hair twirling around in the chilly breeze. Despite there being the frozen body of a child behind them, most of the group laughed about how the snowman was the monstrous creature that killed the kid and was now disguising itself as innocent pile of white fluff. The rookie suggested they go help the others and not make light of a tragedy, so the ring ringleader made a rebuttal that someone should at least check and make sure. He smugly pressed his gloved index finger to the his nose and the rest of the entourage swiftly followed. Except for the rookie, who had already scoffed and walked away from the gang of laughter.

He swiped at the snowman’s expressionless face with aggravation, expecting his fingers to easily slice through the head. Instead, his hand hit something hard enough to bend his wrist back.

The weakened snow fell to the rookie’s feet and revealed an obstruction within the snowman’s head.

He whispered to his God and stumbled backwards. The group continued to chuckle behind him, assuring the young buck that he was not pulling any wool over their eyes.When he stepped aside, everything went silent as they all gawked at the haunting open mouthed face of death that stared back at them.

The ringleader called someone in the homicide department after the initial shock wore off. Then detective showed up immediately and carefully brushed away all the snow to expose a woman’s naked body.

They discovered that the arms of what appeared to be an innocent snowman were actually two sharpened tree limbs pushed through a young woman’s rib cage. Both limbs were stabbed in her side under her armpits and exited from her hips, forming an “X” shape that firmly staked her to the ground. Detectives guessed it was an elaborate gang related execution because their Jane Doe boasted more than a few affiliated tattoos.

A toxicology report showed an excessive amount of snake venom in her bloodstream. A local zoologist with a special interest in reptiles was able to confirm the toxins were extracted from a Blue Coral snake, a vibrantly colored reptile that dines on King Cobras and other poisonous creatures. They all agreed the suspect must have chosen the venom for its incredible paralyzing and lethal effect.

In light of the evidence, they tested the blood of the second victim, Cory Baden, but the amount of toxins in his system was not enough for a conclusive result. So, knowing even less information than they could admit to, detectives theorized that Cory was spotted by the assailant and was forcibly smothered in the snow.

Law enforcement pacified reporters with a singular comment about case sensitivity and privacy for the families. They assured Mr. Baden that whoever did it was long gone by now and sure not to return.

Confidential from the public and the families of the victims, there was a theory that the killings were the result of a serial killer popping his cherry. A couple veteran detectives thought the manner of death was just too unique for a mob murder.

If that, presumably uneducated, guess would have been released, maybe Cory’s father would have paid more attention to his living son, Christian.

When the grieving father was sober he never let Christian out of his sight, but every afternoon he would drink until he was unconscious before nightfall. Just like clockwork his father would be sprawled out on the recliner, or halfway on the couch, and Christian would sneak out the backdoor at the first sign of drool.

He always went back to the woods. Most would expect a grieving teenager to run off with a bad group of friends and cause some local mayhem, but Christian was not the type. His little brother was the closest thing he had to a friend. Their farm is deep in the sticks, so the closest neighbor was about thirty miles away and they are a longtime family enemy. His father never said so, but Christian thought the family up the way could be responsible for his little brother’s death.

His father also never told Christian the same story when he asked what happened to Cory. The first story was somebody hurt him, and then it was nobody laid hands on him but set a trap too close to their property. Christian stopped asking when his father laid the blame upon a snowman for falling over and trapping Cory beneath the snow.

There was one consistency in his father’s stories, and that was that the police demanded they stay out of the woods until their investigation was complete. Christian stayed away until he saw his father stepping out of the trees with a bundle of caution tape cradled in his arms. He assumed that meant the policemen were finished with their job and that his father was too grief-stricken to mention it.

Christian was not a reckless child. He would have never went back into the woods had he known of the true danger, a danger that not even his father knew about. The surviving son always used caution when he sulked down the path to the clearing, but he was still not aware of the predator lurking within the rugged woodlands, watching him each evening as he sat in silence or talked to his dead baby brother.

Maybe if the authorities revealed everything, and their father was sober enough to be honest about Cory’s murder, Christian would not have been found packed inside a snowman.