I grew up in a small, sleepy town where the winters were long and harsh. As kids, we loved the snow—it meant snowball fights, sledding down the hill near Old Man Crawford’s farm, and building forts that would last until the sun softened them into slush. We played together every chance we got, laughing and shouting until our noses turned red and our fingers felt numb.
That was before the day it started snowing.
It wasn’t like any snowstorm we’d seen before. The flakes fell in eerie silence, thick and slow, as if the sky itself was trying to smother the town. The first night, it piled up a few inches higher than usual. By the second night, it had swallowed fences, buried cars, and made the world look like a blank, featureless canvas.
We didn’t think much of it at first—it was just snow, after all. But then strange things started to happen.
I was outside with the other kids, bundled up in layers, our breath puffing out in clouds. We were in the middle of a snowball fight when I noticed something odd. The shadows in the snow weren’t right. They didn’t move with the trees or the setting sun. Instead, they seemed alive, creeping closer when no one was looking.
I told my best friend, Jenny, but she just laughed and said I was imagining things. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows were watching us.
The next day, one of the kids, Robbie, didn’t show up. His parents said he was probably off playing somewhere, but we all knew Robbie—he was scared of missing out and never went anywhere alone. Then Jenny disappeared. Her footprints led out into the snow but didn’t come back.
Panic set in. The adults searched, but the snow kept falling, covering every trace. People started whispering about the snow itself being cursed, but no one dared say it out loud.
The last time I went outside, I saw something moving just beyond the tree line. It was tall and thin, its limbs too long and crooked to be human. It left no footprints in the snow.
That was when I realized the snow wasn’t natural. It wasn’t just weather; it was something alive, something hungry.
Now, I stay inside and watch the flakes fall through the frosted window. The other kids’ laughter is gone, replaced by the muffled groans of the wind. Sometimes, late at night, I hear scratching at the door, followed by soft, whispering voices that sound like my friends.
But I know better than to answer.
The snow wants me, but it won’t have me. Not yet.
The scratching at the door grew louder each night, the whispers more insistent. They weren’t just sounds anymore—they carried a strange, melodic rhythm, almost like a lullaby, lulling me toward the door. It was as though the snow had learned my weaknesses, tempting me with familiarity and warmth where there was none.
One night, I couldn’t resist anymore. The whispers turned into voices I recognized—Jenny’s, Robbie’s, even my mom’s. They were calling my name, pleading for help. I clutched the doorknob with trembling hands and opened it just a crack.
Cold air rushed in, sharp as knives. The snow outside glowed faintly under the moonlight, and the shadows danced as if alive. My heart sank as I saw them—figures moving within the snowdrifts, their faces pale and hollow-eyed. They weren’t kids anymore. They weren’t even human.
They were part of the snow.
Jenny stepped forward. Her mouth twisted into a sad, almost apologetic smile. “We didn’t mean to leave you,” she said, her voice layered with a strange, echoing quality. “Come with us. It’s better here. No pain. No fear. Just…peace.”
Something behind her moved—a towering shape, formless and dark, its body shifting like the blizzard itself. It was the thing I’d seen in the forest. The thing that controlled the snow. Its eyes, if you could call them that, burned like cold fire.
I slammed the door and locked it. The whispers turned to wails, a chorus of voices screaming my name. The wind howled against the house, and the walls creaked under the pressure of the storm. I thought it would tear the place apart.
But then, just as suddenly as it started, everything stopped.
Silence.
I stayed awake until dawn, clutching a flashlight and a fireplace poker. When the first light of morning spilled through the windows, I peered outside. The snow had melted overnight, leaving behind nothing but muddy earth and broken branches.
The town was empty. Everyone—parents, neighbors, kids—was gone. The only sign of life was a set of footprints leading away from my house, fading into the distance. They weren’t mine.
I packed a bag and left that same day, walking until I reached the next town. I told the authorities what happened, but no one believed me. They said it was hysteria, a coping mechanism for trauma. The town was buried in an avalanche, they said, and I was lucky to survive.
But I know the truth. The snow wasn’t natural, and it didn’t just disappear. It’s out there, somewhere, waiting for the next storm.
And when the first snowflakes fall, I’ll be ready.