Ghost in the Snow

By Lincoln Reed

Donner. Where’s Donner?

Nicholas shielded his face from the blizzard’s gale, lifted his kerosene lamp, and counted the antlered heads of his reindeer. Dasher. Dancer.

A January gust smacked his red coat. Snow stung rosy cheeks.

Prancer… Vixen. The old man’s teeth gritted. Comet… Cupid… Blitzen… 

Donner?

Yukon peaks loomed in silent observance, indifferent to Nicholas’s growing concern. He trudged toward the crashed sleigh, dove into the emergency food stores, and fed his team of reindeer a ration of carrots. Each received their treat with a grateful grunt while Father Christmas scratched behind their ears and patted their necks. As the antlered deer dug individual holes in the tall snow, curling to preserve warmth, Nicholas peered into the storm.

Donner. Where’d you go?

No tracks. No sign.

He returned to the sleigh, removed a hatchet from his emergency pack, and started hacking pieces of wood from the carriage. After sparking a fire, he fed the blaze with perfect planks crafted by the North Pole’s finest. He squatted by the flames, warmed his mittens, defrosted his beard.

Memories of the crash returned in snippets—the magic meter flashing empty on the dashboard, his sled zipping past solemn mountains, losing altitude, aiming for snowbanks in the valleys between. He had blacked out after impact, awakening to the reality of a blizzard in uncharted Northland. Communication gear was dead. No magic in reserve. All Nicholas had remaining was his resourcefulness and his team of faithful reindeer, one of whom had gone missing in the violence of the unexpected landing.

His thoughts returned to Donner as smoke dissipated into the vast wilderness of evergreens decorated with frost like icing on Christmas cookies. All these Christmases and never lost a one. Not going home without him.

Convinced he would do Donner no favors by getting himself lost, Nicholas decided to wait for morning light. From his emergency gear, he assembled a humble tent next to the fire. A restless evening followed, filled with shivering nightmares underneath the ambience of wailing wind and the ever-present—

A shrill howl snapped Nicholas awake. He peered at the tent’s ceiling where a hulking mass hunched, silhouetted against the campfire’s fading glow. Its red, unblinking eyes pierced the canvas. A threatening growl rattled Nicholas’s bones.

He reached for the hatchet, threw open the tent flap, and prepared to strike.

The storm had subsided into a tranquil serenity of glistening snow underneath a full moon. The visitor had vanished, leaving behind tracks as long as the hatchet and a foot wide. Nicholas studied a print and counted its six toes.

Nicholas took stock of his team. All remained burrowed in the snow except one.

Vixen.

Nicholas didn’t curse. It wasn’t in his nature. Instead, he returned to his sled and, with the hatchet, cut away a pole. He spent the morning whittling the wood into a makeshift spear. When finished, he weighed the weapon in his hands and nodded.

He secured the hatchet and lantern to his belt, tightened his coat, and said goodbye to his team. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be back with Vix and Don. Stay vigilant.”

Blitzen’s ears twitched. Comet grunted. Nicholas gave a farewell salute and commenced following the giant tracks in the snow, ten feet apart, heading north.

After a mile into the timber, Nicholas’s aged knees screamed and his lungs burned. Only thing that could carry reindeer this far…

He pursued deeper into the evergreen forest until its tracks disappeared into the wide mouth of a cave. So far, no blood stained the snow.

Nicholas gathered his courage, then entered the grotto with the kerosene lamp in his left hand and the spear in his right. Light danced against the cave’s smooth interior, black as the coal he often left in the Christmas stockings of ornery children.

The scraping of Nicholas’s boots against the stone floor echoed down the cavern until something crunched beneath his feet. He lowered the lamplight…

Skulls.

Deer. Bear. Human.

Bones littered the floor like ghoulish trinkets scattered across an unkempt playroom. At the far end of the hollow, a rudimentary cage made of twine and branches acted as a prison for two familiar forms—Donner and Vixen.

Nicholas set the lamp on the ground and cut the pen open. He gave a hearty chuckle at seeing his two reindeer unscathed. “Don! Vix, my girl, you—”

A low roar reverberated from behind.

Nicholas turned clockwise.

The beast’s fanged jaws spread in a snarl. The brute itself stood eight feet tall. Arms hung down below its knees. White fur blanketed taut muscles. A square head sat upon wide shoulders. Red eyes dominated its human-like face.

Sasquatch. Yeti. Abominable Snowman. Nicholas knew the creature by many names, but had not, until that moment, believed it to be real.

He stepped between the creature and his reindeer, spear raised.

The beast lunged, left claw whooshing above Nicholas’s head.

The spear stabbed. Missed.

The Yeti’s right hand collided with Nicholas like a battering ram. Nicholas dropped the spear and crumpled on his back, wind knocked from his lungs.

As Nicholas gasped for air, Donner sprang into action, antlers jabbing the beast while Vixen joined in the attack. The Yeti groaned, giving Nicholas enough time to catch his breath, snatch his hatchet, and rise to his knees.

With righteous anger surging through his chest, Nicholas drove the weapon into the beast’s spine until blood spurted and it collapsed into a pile of bones.

They marched east until meeting the glint of candlelight in an outpost window. With his cache of handcrafted presents already distributed to deserving children across the globe, Nicholas had little to trade.

“Tarnation!” The station owner pointed to the white fur strapped across the back of Vixen. “That what I think it is?”

Nicholas nodded.

“Ghost in the Snow’s what we call it. Steals animals. Scares children. With it gone, I reckon that’s the best gift… What you want for it?”

Nicholas’s breath plumed. “How about a sled?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 50 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. The short film adaptation of his Havok story Tritanopia is currently in its film festival run.

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