Trembling With Fear 7-28-24

The Cold One’s Heart, by Steven Patchett

He shivered in the shelter of the fallen tree, trying to find warmth in the rot of the wood. He was hiding, but not too hard. He had to be seen and had to be found.

The Cold One was nearby. The swirl of the icy wind was plastering snow onto its gray flesh where it crouched. Frozen eyes staring straight into the night. It raised its shaggy matted head and long nose to the heavens and drew in the air, tasting the scent of winter death.

The boy blinked, his eyes watering from the wind, and the creature vanished. He held his breath, feeling its glacial presence; a frigid wall against his back. Frozen fingers touched his hair and gently stroked his face.

“You a lost soul, boy?” it whispered, as the ice gathered around the edges of its jaw popped and cracked apart. Its tongue ran over ragged teeth. “Are you a morsel, come to me?”

The boy shook; his teeth rattled. “I’m looking for my Uncle’s cabin, sir,” he said, careful not to turn, careful not to stare, just like he had been told. “He’s sick and my sister is looking after him. I’ve been sent to help her.”

The Cold One sniffed the boy and its stomach gurgled like a fishing hole cut in the ice. It turned the boy to face it, but the boy kept his eyes downcast. “And how old is your sister, how many—summers—is she?”

“She’s three more than me, sir. Sixteen years.”

The gurgling grew in ferocity. “Where would I find her? Tell me or I’ll eat you now.”

 “At the old cabin by the lake, with two pines by the door. Do you know it?”

The Cold One ceased its pawing and sat back on its haunches, thinking. “Yes, I do.” It reached a frozen, withered hand for the boy’s neck, intent to make it quick.

“The door will be barred, she’ll only open at my call,” the child hurriedly said.

It hesitated, then grabbed the boy’s wrist in a grip as strong as death, and dragged him behind its long, lolloping gait, leaving a trail in the deep white snow. 

The boy caught his balance and hurried as best he could. He was blinded by the wind and the creature was not gentle. The Cold One ignored the winding game trails, so intent was it for its prize. It didn’t seem to feel the sting of brambles and thorns hidden beneath the snow. The boy instead cried out as he was whipped by the same branches, and he feared that his arm would be broken in the dreadful hold the monster had on him. They traveled quickly, as though the ice and snow were no impediment, but the boy would often fall and be dragged a way, before it noticed and stopped for him to stand again.

After a time, they reached a clearing, and the Cold One threw its captive to the hard frozen ground. “I’m tired of dragging you, boy. Catch your breath.” It leapt onto a stump and watched the child with its frosty glare.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy replied, keeping his eyes downcast.

“This man, your Uncle, what is his sickness that needs the help of children?”

“He has no illness, he is sick with grief.” 

The creature’s brow became more furrowed still. “What is this grief?”

“His wife, my Aunt, died in childbirth, and he grew distant and cold,” said the boy. “He went to his bed, took no food and drink and allowed the winter to seize his heart.”

The Cold One brushed its chin. “This man sounds weak, he shouldn’t bar me from my prize.” Drool ran from its mouth as it spoke, freezing into icicles that dropped and were buried in the snow. “I will make your sister as cold as me, boy.”

“Please, have mercy,” the boy pleaded. 

It shook its head and glared at the child, wrapping its frigid hand, tipped with talons, around his warm neck and began to walk with the boy.

Soon they left the treeline and below them lay the lake, a pale sheen against the moonlight. The cabin was there, half-buried in blue edged snow, flickering light playing at the windows. The monster whimpered then, and shied away, pawing at its face. Its scowl crumbled and the boy, stealing a glance, saw the look of yearning, like a memory of summer’s sun.

“Is this place familiar, sir?” the boy asked. “Do you know who lives here?”

It growled at him, hunger spilling across its ravaged features—a shadow of an ocean beast prowling under thin ice. “Call for your sister,” it muttered. “Make her open the door.”

It released the child and wiped its dead eyes. The boy waded through the deep drifts and hammered on the wood, which opened to admit him. 

It pounced, as fast as the northern wind, claws extended, knocking the boy aside. It landed within the cabin, ready to rend and maul its prize. Something heavy fell from above, and it was borne to the ground. It kicked and bit, catching one of the attackers with its claws who fell back with a cry, but strong gloved hands seized it and ropes bound its limbs.

There was the flare of a match and the whoomph of a flame, and it howled as the heat rushed over and scalded its skin. The door slammed behind it, shutting out the night.

It screamed and cursed them, the cold boiling away as it struggled weakly against its bonds. Men and women stood around, their faces pale. Some turned away at the sight of the creature. Others held weapons close, ready to end its grim existence if they could not hold it. 

They prayed over their fallen kin, the sound of frozen flesh snapping, a cracking coming from deep inside its chest as it howled with unearthly pain. It shrieked and there was a movement, and then another, as blood-ice began to pump and the Cold One’s heart beat once again. A girl’s voice shouted, “Uncle!”

The frost melted from its eyes and ran down its thawing face, to drip like tears on the wooden floor.