Frozenheart

Frozenheart

Denver played in the snow, scooping up great handfuls in his oversized mittens and tossing them in the cold winter air. He yelped in delight as the sharp particles bit his rosy cheeks and coated his long eyelashes.

“There you are, big guy!” A young woman with long brown hair pounced on him and grabbed her son to her powder blue jacket. The two hugged each other, and there seemed to grow a warmth which the cold could not break. She looked at him, adoring his reddish curls and his big brown eyes. Everyone in the family’s Colorado Springs neighborhood knew the bond there was between the two. Jennifer would tell complimenting strangers in the organic grocery that she had wanted to be a mother since she was five years old. She looked young enough to be Denver’s sister, until the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes were revealed when she laughed.

Jennifer brushed strands of hair out of her eyes. “Would you like to build a snowman?” she asked excitedly. The child’s smile tripled. The pair set to work rolling a ball for the base. The snow was perfect packing snow, not too wet or too dry, and they soon had a perfect bottom.

“Let’s smooth it out, honey, and then we can make the other two parts.” The sky had begun to get subtly grayer, but Jennifer and her son were too busy with their handiwork to notice. They had just completed the head, a perfect round white ball, when Denver said, “Mommy, I'm cold.” Jennifer looked up in surprise. Indeed, the snow had lost its sparkle. The lovely blue Colorado winter sky she always proudly wrote home about was lost in a mass of gray. Jennifer looked at the snowball she held. For a moment she felt as if she was lost in an ancient ice age, and the house behind them would not be there when she turned around - only wooly mammoths looming in the gray. She shivered.

“Baby, let’s go inside and have some hot cocoa and whipped cream, and we can finish later.”

“’Kay, Mommy.” Denver struggled to his feet in his bulky snowsuit. His cheeks were so red. Jennifer felt a stab of guilt for keeping him out so long. Her life as a mother and housewife let her stay home and work on her art and domestic goddess skills. But her lifestyle had allowed her to become a bit of a perfectionist, perhaps because she devoted herself as much to her domestic role as to any career. Her husband was a successful doctor with his own practice. Thorpe was fifteen years older than Jennifer. They had met at a medical convention when she was working for a medical supply company.

“Let’s go.” She stayed beside Denver as he navigated through the snow to the red cedar steps leading to the big standing porch. The wall-to-wall kitchen windows reflected the weather blackly. They stomped the snow off their boots and shucked them off, stepping into the warm kitchen with relief. She flipped the switch. Instantly, the gray chill was banished with golden light. As Denver dashed off to warm himself near the space heater, she broke off small chunks of dark chocolate to melt in the pan. The snowman, for now, was forgotten.

* * * * * * * * *

“Mommy! We hafta finish the ‘noman. He’s waiting.”

Jennifer was stirred from her sleep by the cherubic tousled hair and shining eyes peeping over the side of their king-size bed. Thorpe muttered something in his sleep. Jennifer slipped from the bed in a practiced seamless movement, not waking her slumbering husband. “Shhh . . . Daddy’s tired. He came home very late last night.”

“IS HE GOING TO HELP WITH THE ‘NOMAN?” whispered Denver excitedly. Jennifer scooped him up and dashed out of the room, holding the boy in one hand and quietly closing the bedroom door with the other.

“No, he is going to sleep as much as he needs to.”

At the kitchen table, with Denver munching a homemade raspberry muffin, she said “Let’s see . . . coal for the eyes and mouth, red cashmere scarf, plastic hat from New Year’s . . .” She frowned. Plastic hat. Too tacky . "Well, we’ll come back to that later. “The nose . . . everyone does carrot, it’s so overdone. I know!” She hopped up the steps to the landing and opened the closet where the holiday decorations were stored. She wrangled out the box labeled Thanksgiving Decorations, from a stack of identical boxes and opened it. She removed a dried maize.

Outside the air was more frigid than before. The sky was becoming an even deeper gray. She shucked the kernels off with a paring knife. They plopped into the snow.

“Okay, honey, you can come in the safety circle now. I’m done - look! That’s his nose! She rubbed Denver’s nose in an Eskimo kiss. He giggled. “Maybe some squirrels or birds will eat that corn,” she said. Jennifer prided herself on not wasting anything. She pushed and twisted the ear in the center of the face. Then she lifted Denver and guided him as he set the pieces of coal in a wide smile.

“There . . .” she breathed, “Finished - and not a moment too soon, looks like.” She had once again lost track of time outside. The sky was now the color of iron, seeming to reach down and touch the ground. With a final tug on the cashmere scarf, they dashed inside.

Thorpe was on the couch, mellowing out in his Notre Dame sweatpants and watching the news. “I was about to send a search party to look for you two. The weathergirl says it’s dropped ten degrees in the past hour. It’s going to get real cold out there tonight.”

“Daddy! Look at our 'nowman!” crowed Denver.

Thorpe hoisted his son and meandered over to the kitchen window. “Oho, he’s a fine figure of a snowman! Well done, son!” Denver beamed. Over lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, Thorpe and his wife discussed the situation of the homeless on a “night like this.” Jennifer noticed Denver staring listlessly out the window. The gray was so intense it was practically glowing.

“Honey, aren’t you hungry? Eat your soup, it’ll warm you up and make you big and strong.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Denver quietly, pushing his plate away.

Thorpe felt his son’s head. “He feels a little cold. Come on, kiddo, have some nice hot soup.” He lifted a spoon to Denver’s lips. Denver turned away.

“May I be ‘scused?”

“Sure, sweetie,” sighed Jennifer. “I probably had him out there a little too long,” she said sheepishly. “Come on, Denver, let’s watch your Littlefoot movie.” She crouched down to put the tape in the VCR. But Denver had slid out of his chair and walked over to the large picture window, watching the snowman.

That night, Jennifer was awakened by an uneasy feeling. She sat up in bed, listening for a sound. The only thing she heard was Thorpe’s deep breathing. But instead of being lulled back to sleep as she usually would be, she felt more alert, like a panther. Something’s wrong. The moonlight played ghostly shadows over the wall. Denver. In an instant, she was out of bed and moving fast to Denver’s room. The child’s bed was empty. “THORPE!” she screamed, but she moved downstairs without seeing if her husband had been wakened. She knew where her son was.

She burst through the door, in her bare feet and nightgown, leaping down the steps into the snow. Denver stood by the snowman, looking up raptly, as if it were speaking to him. In the baleful moonlight, the smooth head suddenly seemed like a skull. With a cry of rage, she ran to her son. "Denver!" He was in his space pajamas, his bare feet and lips a bluish cast. He was in a trance; unresponsive. Thorpe stumbled out of the door, his sneaker laces flapping.

"Oh my God. Don't worry; don't worry; he'll be fine. Let's get him inside." He lifted Denver, who began to moan softly.

"Oh God . . .oh Jesus," chanted Jennifer, trailing behind her husband. She looked back at the snowman, its black eyes those of a shark.

Inside, Thorpe had taken off the stiff pajamas and wrapped Denver in a blanket. The boy whimpered softly in pain. "Get some lukewarm water in the turkey pan," said Thorpe. "Hey buddy, what were you doing out there?" Jennifer returned, the pan sloshing on the living room carpet. Thorpe gently immersed Denver's small feet. He took his son's hands and pressed them under his own arms. "Okay, okay, are you warming up? Jennifer, get some liquid Tylenol." Lifting the spoon to Denver's lips, Jennifer's hand shook.

"Why was he out there?" she said breathlessly.

"I don't know, but he should be getting warmed up now." But Denver seemed as pale as the snowman. "Get a -" but Jennifer already was putting the thermometer under his tongue.

"It's too low . . . call an ambulance!!"

In the ambulance, the attendant spoke into an intercom. "Child, three. Received treatment for frostbite, but core temperature dropping. Attempting to stabilize en route." Next to the cot, Jennifer swayed back and forth numbly. Denver was cocooned in blankets. Jennifer pressed her cheek to his.

"Baby, baby, it's going to be all right; don't you worry," she murmurmed tearfully. Suddenly his eyes flew open. Jennfer started. Denver's lips moved, struggling to speak.

"H - His name is Frozenheart." Denver's eyes were as black as the winter sky.

Back home, Jennifer could not be consoled. "Honey, he's safe now. He was treated and stabilized. He is going to be fine."

"N-no, he's gone. My baby's gone !!" Indeed, even sleeping, Denver seemed older, like something had been planted deep inside him. With a cry, she ran outside and groped in the snow for an old rake handle. She smashed the grinning thing into blasts of white powder. The snowman disintegrated into the particles from where it was made, into the winter air. The coals seemed to hover like a Chesire cat's smile before they fell. The red scarf floated softly to the ground.

"You bastard!" she choked. "You took my son!"

But it was too late. The particles flew away, atomizing back into the ancient evil that had sent them. The evil that was all around, waiting for a chance to steal the hearts of the innocent. Jennifer felt helplessness wash over her. Frozenheart , she thought. He is known by many names, but that is the name a child would understand.

* * * * * * * * *

Twenty-five years later

"Honey, did you bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement yet?" Oh, good." Denver Collin's wife bustled into the living room, carrying a scented candle trimmed at the bottom with plastic holly. She placed it on the coffee table and prepared to strike a match. Her husband sat on the couch, watching the evening news.

"Some grim news during this time when people are ordinarily anticipating the joy of the holidays. The Colorado Serial Slasher appears to have struck again. Two victims were brutally tortured and stabbed to death in their home. Robbery did not seem to be a motive. Names have not been released pending investigation. Police urge anyone with any information to come forward immediately."

The young woman shuddered. "Oh, God. This is so horrible. So close to Christmas."

Denver rose and wrapped his arms around his wife. "Moira, there's nothing you can do about it. We can only pray that that lunatic ends this madness and turns himself in. Here, take your mind off it. I'll help you with the decorations."

Moira looked up lovingly at her husband and smiled. "Thanks. I see you already have the snowglobe out."

"Mmm-hmm." Denver shook the snowglobe gently, absent-mindedly watching the blizzard settle around the figure in the middle.

It was a snowman.