The Snow Maiden

“... the worst snowstorm in thirty years…”

Matt shut off the radio, squinting in the headlights’ glow. Clear morning skies became whiteout conditions on the drive home. The wipers flicked away snow, lulling him into a stupor.

The downtown streets, usually buzzing with activity, were deserted. Thick sheets of ice covered the sidewalks. Tree branches bowed under the weight of heavy snow. Neon signs of shops closed early gave the snowy white landscape a colorful tinge.

He found her huddled in a ball, shivering. Icicles dangled like frozen daggers from an awning above. Matt hit the brakes, exiting his truck. “Need a lift?”

Icy blue eyes peeked out from a curtain of lank silvery hair. Her pale pale lips parted, saying nothing. She reached out a trembling hand so white, it made the snow look gray. Her touch, colder than the night air, sent a chill down his spine. “Let’s get you inside.”

He sat her in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket. He offered soup and hot tea. She stared at the fire, refusing to eat or drink. Hours later, her face remained pale and her touch frigid.

Matt dreamed of a silvery figure, staring at him with icy blue eyes. Lured by those eyes, he followed her down the stairs, out the door, and into the blinding snowstorm until he lost her.

They found him huddled in a ball, motionless, fallen victim to the Snow Maiden on the thirtieth anniversary of her death.