Coal-Eyed Carols in a Burning Yard [Wraith]
Winter rolled in like a lazy murderer with perfect alibis, dragging clouds over the cul-de-sac and dumping snow on every cheap plastic reindeer in sight,
The kind of snow that looks innocent from the window, all muffled edges and quiet streets, while underneath it waits for ankles, tires, and backbones to lose their fight,
Kids erupted from every front door in layers of mismatched scarves and parental worry, shrieking war cries into the frosting air,
Armed with carrots, coal, and one stolen hat from a forgotten costume bin, they declared the annual religion of “build a snowman and make him stare.”
The yard had been flattened into a battlefield of bootprints, angel wings, and one suspicious yellow patch behind the hedge where the dog made his claim,
In the center of it all they rolled three heavy spheres of packed white misery, grunting, swearing under their breath in that half-whisper kids use when they think the snow forgives their name,
The bottom ball carved a trench through the lawn, the midsection landed lopsided with a dull thud, and the head perched on top with a wobble like it was trying to remember why it agreed to this,
They stepped back, proud and panting, cheeks red, fingers numb, grins wide, as if they hadn’t just sculpted a stranger they fully intended to leave alone with the house and all its bliss.
“Needs eyes,” one kid said, already digging in his pocket for the coal he’d snuck from the grill, pieces worn shiny from his grip on the walk,“Needs attitude,” another replied, jamming the carrot in crooked so the nose pointed down, giving the snowman a permanent judging look every time you dared to talk,
The hat came next, an old black top hat with a bent brim and a history of bad magic tricks and worse parties,
They jammed it on the snowman’s head and watched it settle like it remembered every drunk promise it had heard on bad carpets and dirty shanties.
The change happened quiet. It always does.
Coal eyes that had been dull and harmless a heartbeat before pulled in the porch light and didn’t let it go,
Tiny orange glows flickered deep behind the black, not bright, not obvious, more like the kind of ember you find under ash when you stir an old fire slow,
Steam rose from the snowman’s chest in a thin line, not from heat but from the difference between what wanted out and what had nowhere to go,
His lopsided carrot aimed at the front door as if he’d just spotted the weakest spot in the wall and was making a note, real low.
The kids didn’t see it. Kids rarely do when they’ve built the problem themselves.
They ran off when their mothers called, leaving behind a field of half-finished fortifications and one very complete mistake,
Lights clicked on inside houses, screens glowed, dinner smells crawled under doors, while the snowman stood alone in the yard, wide awake,
The wind picked up, dragging ice along the street in thin sheets, tugging at the scarf around his neck until it flapped like some ragged, hopeful flag that had picked the wrong soldier to crown,
Somewhere deep in that packed chest, something old and angry realized it had hands again, even if they were made of twigs, and a town full of beating hearts right down the street, all pinned down.
Midnight came and wrapped every house in that false security you get from locks and deadbolts and holiday sales,
Streetlights buzzed and flickered, halos smeared across the snow, turning every front yard into a cheap cathedral for small suburban tales,
In mine, the heat chugged along, pipes rattled, floorboards creaked their same old language of expanding wood and unresolved arguments,
I washed dishes, half-attentive, humming a song from somewhere back in childhood, while out the front window the snowman shifted, almost imperceptible, like someone testing restraints.
His coal eyes brightened, no longer hiding the glow, now two clear pinpricks of furnace light in a face carved from packed, dead cold,
The crooked smile cut deeper, snow buckling along the curve like it had been scored from the inside by something with patience and a love for watching stories unfold,
His stick arms raised a few inches, joints cracking as ice parted, hands spreading wide in a parody of welcome or threat, hard to say which from here,
If you squinted, it looked almost like he was stretching, waking up stiff from a long nap, ready to get back to a career he’d never put on his résumé but kept dear.
Footsteps crunched down the sidewalk, boots too light to be an adult, the rhythm a little skittish,
Neighborhood kid, hoodie up, headphones in, cutting across yards to shave thirty seconds from the walk between two places he didn’t really relish,
He saw the snowman only in passing, gave it the half-acknowledgment you give a holiday decoration, a nod that said “fine job, I guess,”Then his feet slipped, just for a moment, and as he flailed for balance, the yard light flickered out, drenching everything in sudden darkness, more or less.
When it flicked back, he was on his feet, breath fogging, heart banging,
He laughed, nervous, told himself he had just lost his footing, no big deal, stuff happens when the ground is slick and the universe is always hanging,
He resumed his walk, pretended not to notice the shallow trench in the snow beside him that had not been there before,
A trail of disturbed white leading from the snowman to the sidewalk and back again, like something had paced, thought better of it, and returned to its post at the front door.
Later, lying in bed, I swore I heard compacted snow grinding against the porch, slow and deliberate,
A faint tap tap of twig on wood, like fingers drumming a table while someone considers whether to order dessert or burn the menu and start a riot,
I told myself it was tree branches in the wind, the usual enemy,
Then remembered I had cut down the only tree in the yard two summers ago, root to crown, to stop it falling on the house, a mercy for both of us, in theory.
Sleep came mean and broken.
Dreams of white fields under black skies, a single figure standing in the middle, built from the same snow that swallowed my boots,
Eyes like lit coals burning without smoke, melting tunnels straight through my excuses and down my roots,
Every time I tried to walk away, the horizon bent, folding in on itself until I was back in front of him, the hat, the grin, the carrot aimed at my throat,
His voice came without mouth movement, just a sound vibrating in my bones, a wintery growl that sounded like every time I’d ever said “I’m fine” with frost in my note.
“You all made me,” it said, not angry, just factual, in that insultingly calm tone monsters use when they know they’re right,“Every year you roll your fear into shapes, dress it up with found junk, and leave it out here in the dark while you cling to indoor light,
You push your worst thoughts into the snow, send them out like little white bodyguards to watch the yard while you pretend the season still means what you say,
This time something answered. Guess who got stuck in the final product. Guess who’s tired of standing here all day.”
I woke up with ice in my lungs and the taste of ash at the back of my tongue,
Stumbled to the window, yanked the curtain back like I could catch guilt in the act while my nerves hung,
The snowman had shifted closer to the porch, just a foot, maybe two,
Hat tipped forward in a way that said it was done waiting for invitation and would soon let itself through.
Bright daylight made the wrongness look almost cute,
Parents in the neighborhood waved as they walked past, complimenting my “creative snow sculpture” while their kids kicked at chunks of ice with a boot,
A mail carrier left my packages a little farther from the door than usual, eyes sliding sideways as if they felt heat pushing back from the thing made of frozen water,
I signed for a delivery with shaking hands, listening to the faint hiss outside, like someone humming “Silent Night” through chipped and burning teeth, not quite in order.
That evening, tired of pretending I wasn’t rattled, I stepped out with a shovel and the kind of false courage that tastes like cheap bourbon and bad timing,
The snowman towered over me now, too tall for what the kids could have built, shoulders broader, hat sitting heavier, coal eyes shining,“I’m knocking you down,” I told it, because talking to your problem directly beats whispering about it in therapist-safe metaphors,“Go haunt an ice rink, I’m done starring in your little frozen horror.”
I swung the shovel hard enough to jar my wrists, metal edge slamming into its side in a spray of powder,
For a breath, it worked: a crater dug into that smug chest, flakes falling like broken plaster, a minor miracle in the midnight hour,
Then the cut steamed, edges darkening, snow fusing back together with a hiss I felt in my teeth,
The wound closed like a mouth deciding it had let too much honesty slip past its tongue and clenched shut underneath.
His grin widened one notch. The carrot shifted upward, like it had changed targets.
I backed up till my spine hit the front door, keys rattling in my fist, breath puffing in ragged bursts,
The porch light flickered, tried to die, then steadied, choosing survival at the worstPossible moment, highlighting every cruel detail of what stood less than ten steps away,
A snowman that wasn’t cute anymore, wasn’t festive, wasn’t a joke, just a vessel full of everything winter never got the chance to say.
“You keep feeding me,” it whispered without moving, voice crawling under my skin,“Every stress you swallow down, every fight you fake your way through, every bitter swallow when you say ‘happy holidays’ and hope no one notices you’re paper thin,
I feel it, all of it, packed into each new layer you pile up so the neighbors won’t see the cracks in your grin,
Keep going and I’ll walk right in, sit at your table, melt in your lap, burn the whole season down from within.”
The wind gusted, flinging ice against my face like spit.
My options were simple and stupid. Pretend this was all in my head. Leave him standing. Keep living with coal eyes at the edge of my vision, shoveling my dread into his chest, tightly planned,
Or drag a space heater, gasoline, every hot wire I could find onto the porch and risk taking myself down with him, yard, house, and all this carefully stacked snow-plastered brand,
In the end I chose a smaller arson. I went inside, dug through drawers for the old extension cord and that one busted hair dryer,
Cracked the front door just enough to shove the heater onto the mat, set it to high, pointed it straight at my frozen, infernal admirer.
It was slow murder, not glorious, not cinematic.
Snow sagged in lumps, hat slid forward, stick arms drooped like he was finally tired of holding up the weight of my nonsense every year,
Coal eyes dimmed from white-hot orange back to dull black stones that rolled off into the slush near my boot, little blind witnesses to the death of fear,
The carrot dropped, hit the step, bounced once, landed wrong, and lay there looking stupid, just a dirty vegetable where a weapon used to be,
In the yard, what was once my demon turned into a gray, pathetic mound that looked more like three bad decisions and a handful of leaves than anything supernatural or free.
Inside, the radiators clanked and hissed like they were judging me for using an electric heater outdoors,
I unplugged everything, shut the door, leaned my forehead against the wood, heart still running marathons over old floors,
In the glass I caught my own reflection, cheeks pale, eyes ringed, mouth a little too tight,
And understood in a way I didn’t like that I hadn’t killed the problem, just scraped it back down to size where it could wait till the next long, frozen night.