Beware the Winter Man

By Lincoln Reed

We stole his nose at midnight.

Amidst a sea of snowy mountain pinewood, my cousin Cory and I waded into a clearing where we discovered a man of winter standing upright like a statue. We crept toward the plump figure with caution, hunting rifles ready. Nothing stirred, not even the wind.

My stomach growled as I considered telling Cory to stop, but his hand was already outstretched. He plucked the orange snout from the snowman’s face—a long carrot with a pointed tip—and told me to eat. I shook my head, but Cory insisted. With hunger pangs shooting through my ribs, I relented and tried biting down on the thick vegetable. My gums ached like torn muscles, shocked by the deep chill of the carrot.

Beneath a neon-colored sock hat, the snowman’s lifeless coal eyes observed Cory’s repeated attempts at a successful bite. Its mouth of pebbled lips remained sealed in a mischievous grin.

Cory gave up and hid the vegetable within his coat. “It’ll thaw. Stay close.”

By the time we passed the tree line again, the wind had returned, harmonizing with the distant howl of a wolf. When I looked back into the clearing, the snowman was gone. I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Where did it go?

We trekked with slogging feet and weary shoulders. The squall pounded us mile after mile until we reached the cabin. Our late grandfather’s single room lodge stood like a frosted gingerbread house within the dense forest. We bolted the door shut as the wind continued its screeching barrage.

“Start… fire,” Cory said. “Hurry.”

I set my rifle atop the wooden table and edged past the bunkbeds toward the hearth at the far side of the room. Numb fingertips slowed the process, but I managed to strike a match. Orange flames leapt from the kindling and consumed the wood.

I searched the shelves and plundered the cabinets, finding our remaining can of chicken broth, strips of jerky, and four bottles of icy water. Cory tore off his gloves with his teeth and rubbed his hands next to the growing blaze. “How about it, chef?”

“Should’ve shot that deer.”

“Make do tonight. We’ll get one tomorrow.”

I stirred the broth. “If we don’t?”

Cory massaged circulation into his limbs. “The storm will pass. We’ll bag enough deer, elk, and moose to feed us for a year. Think happy thoughts.”

While I finished preparing our humble meal, Cory remained by the crackling fireplace with the carrot in his hands. “Funny. It’s still cold.”

“It was wrong, us taking that.”

His eyebrows scrunched. “You bit into it same as I did.”

“Grandpa always said… Beware the Winter Man.”

Cory scoffed and tossed me the carrot. “Stupid campfire story.”

“This nose… We should put it back.”

“You aiming to starve?”

I turned the vegetable in my hands, wondering if I had somehow imagined the earlier encounter. “You don’t think it’s strange, a snowman out here, miles away from anyone? I mean, there were no tracks. Who made him? That thing was the Winter Man. We can’t eat that.”

Cory’s stomach gurgled. He snatched the carrot back, sliced it with his knife, and plopped the remains into the cauldron. Within the hour he had slurped the soup clean. I abstained, settling instead for bites of spare jerky and a bottle of water. My abdomen ached in twisted knots. Cory licked his lips and burped.

That night he slept on the top bunk, tossing and turning while I lay awake below. Hours passed as the wind continued battering the cabin walls. When the bed above me squeaked, I rolled over in my cot and jumped. “Cory!”

My cousin was huddled next to the hearth, bundled tight, teeth chattering. I sprang from my bed and wrapped my blanket around his quivering shoulders. He must have added a few more logs to the fire because the flames were stronger than before. The room glowed like an auburn stove. Still, he shivered.

Cory shook off the blanket. His ears and nose were purple from frostbite.

Within minutes, his clothes were drenched with sweat. I helped him strip until he stood in just his gray boxers, glistening like a man in a sauna. When I gave him our last water bottle, Cory swiftly wasted it on the fire.

“What’s wrong with you?” I shook him. “You trying to kill us?”

Sweat dripped from his eyes. His voice quivered. “Too hot.”

I didn’t know what to do. Cory had to be sick or crazed. I slapped him. Cory stumbled against the table and glared at me with black eyes. He grabbed his rifle and clicked off the safety. “Move.”

I blocked the doorway, visions of the Winter Man flashing through my mind. “Cory, you need to vomit. It’s the only way. That carrot’s cursed.”

He raised the butt of the gun and swung the stock. It cuffed my skull and dropped me like a sack of rocks. Cory stepped over me as all went dark.

I awoke starved and freezing. Slowly, I grabbed my gun and shuffled into the glistening morning where trees sparkled. The storm had covered Cory’s tracks, but I didn’t need a map.

Miles later, in the clearing between the pinewoods, I found a snowman with coal eyes and copper-tinted bullets for teeth. A wooden rifle was pegged through his torso, appearing as arms parallel to the ground. Around his waist, boxer shorts were stretched to full capacity. The snowman’s carrot nose was the color of tangerines in summertime, jutting from his face like a horn.

My lungs burned. Legs wobbled. Stomach snarled.

I dropped the gun.

Ignoring every warning bell in my mind, my starving hands propelled toward the orange snout as a deer pranced through the evergreens, paused, and stared at me. I sprang for the rifle and aimed, but the deer vanished.

Only the Winter Man remained, his bottomless eyes sinking into mine.

Once more I cast the gun aside, clasped the vegetable, and tugged.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than a dozen of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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