The Snowman

He knows, the moment his eyes open, something's different. A chilly edge to the light seeping through the curtains, magic on the edge of vision.

He rushes to the window. Yes! Snow! Lots!

Running through the house, he sloughs pyjamas, hopping foot to foot, pulling clothes from radiators. He's dressed by the time he reaches the kitchen door.

Mother fusses, "...breakfast!" but relents, tucking a woollen hat over his ears. Now he's off... out into the shining white, pausing to admire untouched smoothness brimming with potential.

He revels in that first footprint, then makes huge strides, as if a GIANT WOZ ERE. Mother stops him throwing snowballs, so he makes one huge one by rolling it round. Shovels more snow on top, crafts a smaller snowball for the head. Sculpts limbs and mouth. Gives it a hat, matching scarf, tangerine nose, and coal eyes.

Mother insists he come in to eat and thaw by the fire. He enjoys a satisfied glow every time he glimpses the Snowman's back from a window.

Long after bedtime, parents snoring, he steals another look. Starlight twinkles on the ice crystals.

It turns.

It's bigger, growing with each step that spiders out thick frost.

Massive now, ember eyes melting ghastly holes in its face, tears gouging tracks to its gaping mouth. Each stumpy arm grows a wicked icicle claw.

The front door splinters. The boy's frightened gasps are visible in the freezing air.