Revenge of the Snowman

Blood everywhere. Man, woman, boy: all dead. The creature towered over bodies of the parents, she in her hairnet and face cream, he in his stripy pyjamas. The boy lay alone and broken in the next room.

The Snowman's ember eyes glowed. Steam curled off him. The icicle claw on each arm was dripping red, and retracting slowly into his arms.

He steamed lightly where the hot blood had splashed him, leaving scars. A puddle was growing around his feet. He was shrinking, and not just because he was melting. The magic was beginning to fade.

He retraced his steps back through the house. Furniture broken or overturned, everything smashed. When he went back out through the busted door, he fit easily. He stopped to pick up the door and fit it, as best as he could, in the busted frame. His eyes were turning coal-black.

Making his way back down the garden path, he scooped up his hat and adjusted it on his head. Knotted the matching scarf on his neck, and spent a couple of minutes hunting for the tangerine, which he tweaked back into place on his face.

He stood at last where he'd been built. Even smaller now than when the boy had made him. By the time the police arrived, there would be nothing left of him at all. They'd scratch their heads over the dead bodies. No DNA evidence, no motive, no suspect, no murder weapon, nothing stolen. Eventually, the case would go cold.