“Everyone knows that they’re there all the time,” Ada said, a ribbon of steam escaping her mouth. “You just can’t see them until the snow falls on ‘em.”
I followed closely behind her, our boots crunching into the fresh-fallen snow. My toes were going numb.
“All the time?” I asked. “Even summer?”
“Oh yes,” she said, pushing a gnarled branch out of the way. “My dad once told me that you could sometimes spot a Snow Demon if a falling leaf changed direction suddenly. He told me that if you ever see that happen, the leaf has been pushed out of the way by a Snow Demon’s body. He told me about this one time when he saw a leaf just floating in midair, suspended. He couldn’t know for sure, but he thinks the leaf had been resting on a Snow Demon’s shoulder.”
“Do they hide in leaf piles?” I asked.
“Don’t see why not.”
“You ever seen one?”
“Not yet,” said Ada, and smiled.
We came to the Tall Tree and Ada gave me a boost up to the lowest branch, then she climbed up on her own. We’re the same age, but she’s taller than I am.
We climbed up most of the way, huffing and puffing in the chilly air, and sat on branches next to each other. The height made me dizzy. I didn’t want Ada to know I was scared of heights, so I grabbed my branch firmly and tried my best to smile.
“I really hope it snows again tonight,” Ada said.
“It’s supposed to.”
“Yeah, but we need like a lot of snow. Big flakes. Wet, snowman-making snow.”
“I’m sure it’ll be a good snow,” I said, content to look at Ada and wherever else wasn’t down. I held onto the branch and tried to think of something to talk about. School, teachers, other students, it had all been rehashed a thousand times and Ada wasn’t the type of girl to want to talk about such things. Too dull. Too normal. I looked over and saw her staring blankly out at the treetops. Her eyes weren’t moving, so I knew she was thinking something profound.
“Hey,” she said, her eyes still locked on somewhere else, “if you could have one superpower, what would it be?”
This was a question I’d discussed to some great length with my guy friends, and despite my fear of heights, I told her with utmost confidence: “I’d want to fly.”
She smiled. “Cliché, but classic. But what if you could only fly as fast as you can walk?”
I laughed. “What? That’s stupid.”
She looked at me. “Would you still pick it?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Time manipulation could be cool. What about you?”
“Invisibility,” she said, and then she looked away towards the slate sky.
•
Ada pointed toward the Frozen River. “He told me they’d come splashing through the water. Sometimes they’d leap across.”
“How big are they?”
“He never told me,” said Ada. “Big enough to leap across a river anyway.”
•
The sun was setting; a warm glow of oranges and purples low in the sky.
“My parents are getting divorced,” Ada said suddenly.
The cold got colder. “What?”
She shrugged. “My dad’s moving away.”
“Where?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
“Ada…” The sun dipped below the horizon, taking the colors with it. What do I say? Her parents had always seemed happy. Even as I thought that, I recognized the ignorance of it. How did I really know what went on in their home? “I’m sorry,” I said at last, which wasn’t enough, but it was the only thing I could say and it was the truth. I reached over and covered her mitten-covered hand with my own.
•
Over our heads, behind the clouds, was a canopy of black construction paper sky poked all over with shimmering blue-white dots. A clear, full moon made silhouettes of the twisted trees surrounding us.
It started to snow. Big, fat snowflakes came down, clumped together and wet. Ada nodded. “Soon. Soon we’ll go down. We just need time to make sure they’re asleep first.”
Curtains of snow fell. They caught the bright moon’s rays and each flake appeared as if it were a fallen star, tumbling to earth not violently, but gently.
“Let’s go,” she said after several minutes. “Remember to be quiet.”
We climbed down the tree as stealthily as possible, our boots sending no more than muffled scrapes into the night air.
I could see them on the way down.
I saw the snow beginning to collect in midair, abruptly settling on something I couldn’t see. As we slowly descended, I looked around. I started to count them, but within moments lost count, for there were too many. There were at least a dozen that I could make out, and even more beyond my vision, standing amongst the tree trunks. The patches of floating, collecting snow shined a soft robin’s egg blue under the moon.
“When the storm comes, you see them for who they really are,” whispered Ada. She and I eased ourselves onto the ground and then made our way to a small clearing between the trees.
There was a Snow Demon standing in the clearing. The snow had begun to cover his head. As more fell, Ada and I could make out more of his finer features. He stood eight feet tall and his face was sharp with a long, pointed chin that curled out like a crescent moon off the front of his face. Nubby bumps dotted a line down the center of his face, and long, sharp spikes ran the length of his spine. Terrible horns curved out of either side of his head: each thick, twisting, and sloped towards the stars. His shoulders were broad, but his overall frame was narrow. There was a spot beneath his chin where no snow could lay, so I could see through to the other side where the snow was collecting on his crooked back.
He was still, no signs of respiration. I was so transfixed by the sight, I didn’t notice Ada’s hand held aloft, slowly reaching to touch the demon’s face.
I lashed out and grabbed her fingers, nearly crying out but catching myself before I did. Eyes wide, I shook my head at her. She lowered her hand, not looking away from the creature. Her eyes looked sad. Hurt even. It was almost as if she wished to soothe the creature, or comfort it.
The Snow Demon terrified me. The snow continued falling, coming heavier now, and the fine features of the creature rounded off, becoming smooth all around. Ada and I walked around the clearing and in between the trees, separating from one another. I walked around several of them, and like the first, they all stood perfectly still. Each, I perceived, was slightly different. All were about the same size, some were hunched, some in mid-stride, but the most recognizable difference to be found was their horns. No two pairs were alike. I rounded a particularly big tree and my blood ran cold as I nearly bumped into a Snow Demon that stood just before me, just at the base. My heart beat furiously, but I knew he was asleep, so I leaned in and scrutinized him closer, then surveyed the land around me.
There were so many. Under the blue moon, they appeared as white chess pieces, immobile and stalwart, waiting for someone’s command to move at any moment. I knew Ada must be loving the experience, she being fearless, but my very sporadic quest for a thrill had been satisfied when we had climbed the tree.
As I backed away from the solitary figure that had startled me, Ada came up behind me and jumped when she saw the Snow Demon on the other side. “Oh my—” she blurted, rather loudly.
She pushed her gloved hands over her mouth and looked at me wide-eyed. My heartbeat doubled, throbbing in my neck. I looked up at the Snow Demon, his long chin motionless, his horns standing vertical and then curving out to either side. I studied his face for any indication of movement. Would he wake? Would he wake?
I felt Ada pull the underside of my jacket, eager to leave. A fine thought. I breathed as shallowly as I could, and lifted up my foot to take a step backward. I was conscious of every sound, every squeak of snow from below.
I took one step.
Another.
After my third, he was nearly beyond my vision; I could see only half his body from around the tree. I lifted my foot again and then…
The Snow Demon exhaled. Twin plumes of snow burst from his nostrils.
My spine turned to ice. I turned and grabbed Ada’s hand. “Run,” I urged.
She locked her fingers in mine and we ran together. We dashed between the slumbering creatures, careless now of the noise we would make, just wishing to flee. My imagination, overpowered even on a mundane day, presently imagined each of the tall, lithe figures shedding their snowy cocoons and chasing after us with a vast and swift invisible stride.
We ran until our lungs ached from breathing on the frosted air, but we didn’t stop. We couldn’t. Any moment a hand with long, invisible fingers tipped in hideous claws would clamp down on my shoulder, ripping into it. Images of horror came into my mind — a mouth full of long, crooked teeth, pointed like needles, the tips of them covered in freshly drawn blood. The teeth hover in the forest, for the rest of the creature is invisible, the red running down to outline the throat: it being the first painted with my and Ada’s life liquid.
We reached the Gray Trunk unscathed and I helped Ada up onto it.
I will always remember that moment — captured forever as if imprinted on the backs of my eyes; an image set to film in my mind: her pale oval face, red cheeks, the steam slipping from her pink, parted lips, her hazel eyes cast downward to take my hand, her brown braids pulled behind her head and tied with a coarse twine. Ada, who I had come to know as the girl without fear, proved herself capable of it, and I felt my heart pulled towards her because of that unexpected glimpse of vulnerability.
The Gray Trunk, which spanned the creek, had a layer of fresh snow atop it. Ada, moving first, slid forward, scooting one foot in front and quickly following it with the other. I was at her heels, constantly looking behind to check for a pursuant. I saw none, but what did that matter with creatures such as these?
We were more than halfway across the trunk when, looking back, I heard a scream and a splash. Whirling around, nearly losing my footing, I saw Ada bobbing in the freezing water. She thrashed and threw her arms out of the stream and I knelt on the slippery log and caught her hands, pulling her toward the opposite bank.
“H-hurry,” she said, the freezing cold making her breathing shallow. “Hurry.”
I grabbed her beneath the arms and pulled her out. She was soaked through her coat and underclothes to her skin, and her jaw and limbs were already trembling.
“H-h-h-h-help,” she whispered. She leaned into me. I lifted her. With one hand, I held her back, the other reaching down to hold her beneath the crook in her knees. I secured her in my arms and carried her.
She pointed a shaky finger. “Th-th-there,” she muttered. Ada had led the way into the forest, so it was she who would lead us out. I shuffled my feet, moving as fast as I was able.
I remember that as I ran, her hair froze; I could feel its solidness against my cheek. She pressed her face into my neck as I trotted through the snow.
Panic grew within me every moment. The Snow Demons were a mere afterthought compared to the terror that filled me as I considered Ada freezing to death in my arms.
“I’ve got you,” I said to her. “Everything will be fine. You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”
The snow kept falling, coming down heavier as the evening waned. The effect was dizzying, blinding — all those white particles dancing across my vision. Ada gestured with her arm, and I followed her orders, and together we weaved through the trees towards home.
•
The back door to her house was open. I had to push the lever down with my elbow. Ada had shut her eyes and had stopped moving. I thought I could see her breathing though: small white plumes had been glowing under the moonlight.
I stepped through the doorway and into a darkened kitchen, my boots squeaking on the tile, echoing in the empty space. I could see a flickering light ahead, a fire in the far room at the end of the hall. “Just hold on,” I told Ada. I walked through the dark kitchen toward the promise of warmth.
It wasn’t until I had gotten Ada safely home that I began to feel the ache in my shoulders, arms, and back. As soon as that awareness of pain found me, I nearly collapsed as I carried her through the hall. No, I thought, a few more feet. A few more feet and then rest.
Before I rounded the corner into the living room where the fire was, a tall figure came rushing into the hallway, nearly running into Ada and me. He was backlit by the orange-flickering walls, a great black silhouette that seemed to stand taller than a mere man.
It was Ada’s father. I was relieved.
“Ada,” he said.
“She fell into the creek,” I said.
He grabbed her from my arms and peeled off her jacket (it was frozen to her sweater) and took off her mittens and boots and threw them across the room. He left her hat on because it was completely frozen to her hair. He knelt down next to the fireplace and placed Ada in front of it.
She didn’t move.
Ada’s father crossed the room and began pacing, his hands on his waist. He didn’t look at me.
“Mr.—” I began.
“Stupid girl,” he spat, cutting me off.
My sense of relief evaporated.
His face twisted into a heinous snarl. “Stupid girl,” he growled, staring at Ada’s small form. “Chasing fantasy. Chasing nothing.”
Who was this man? I asked myself. Never had I seen Ada’s father like this.
“Don’t you know what I’ve been going thr—” he began, speaking toward Ada, but he choked on his words. It might have been a sob.
He paced, painted orange by the flames. He moved toward the far wall and threw his fist at it. Where it landed, a hole crunched inward and a bang shot through my ears.
It startled me. I took a step back, and my breath stopped.
Ada’s dad pulled at his hair. When he rent his hands free, his hair stuck up at obtuse angles. He looked at me, half his face a glowing orange, the other half a shadow.
“She needs to get out of these clothes,” he said. “I’ll get…” he said, and his face fell. He suddenly looked empty. “Her mother,” he said.
“Mr.—” I said.
“You should go,” he said, a whisper.
I looked at Ada. She faced the flames. I thought I could see her chest rising and falling gently.
“GO,” her father shouted.
I jumped, then turned and fled out the way I’d come, closing the door behind me.
The snow fell. I stuffed my numb hands in my pockets and felt the resounding ache in my arms and back. It was a short walk to my house. I crossed the street, a triangle of snow illuminated by a streetlamp.
I worried about Ada. Her father, how changed. He’d always been happy; so clever, telling stories. Where had this side of him come from? Had it always been there — lurking just beneath the surface?
I plodded along, glancing over my shoulder every now and again. With every step toward home, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being pursued by something. Something I couldn’t see. Something I couldn’t understand.
John Funderburg is a graduate of Elmhurst College and is currently working as a Project Manager at a marketing company in the suburbs of Chicago. He’s had two short stories published in MiddleWestern Voice, one of which garnered 2nd place for Elmhurst College’s Carlson Contest. When not being pursued by invisible monsters, he can be found writing and consuming short stories.