Harry’s Nike Air Jordans branded the snow as he sprinted across the lawn. This time last year, when his only worry was whether he’d find said trainers under the tree, he’d wished for a white Christmas. Now, the weight of the world on his shoulders, he had bigger things to wish for. Like a Dad who wasn’t in prison, and an end to the creeping dread that something evil lurked inside him, too.
“Exciting, huh?” came a shaky voice. He turned to see old Mr. Morris from next door leaning against the gate, a silvery puff of breath escaping from behind his scarf.
“Yeah. You look smart, Mr. Morris,” he said, noting the long coat and shiny shoes. “Going to a Christmas party?”
Mr. Morris chuckled, setting off a cough. “No,” he wheezed. “My party days are over. I’m off for tea with the vicar, then midnight mass. Just dropping a spare key to your Mum, in case I lock myself out. I don’t get out much!”
He shuffled down the path, and Harry began scooping handfuls of snow. Mr. Morris wasn’t the only one who didn’t go out. Since moving here, he’d made exactly zero friends. And now, aged eleven, he was the man of the house, responsible for protecting Mum.
It wasn’t until the snowman was fully formed that he realised what he’d been building. Maybe if he wished hard enough, it’d spring to life. Except this one wouldn’t melt. This one would be solid and stick around.
If Mum noticed that the snowman was wearing Dad’s coat and scarf – the ones Harry had secretly kept so that he could wrap himself up in them – she didn’t say. Now he could almost smell Dad again. Almost hear his voice. And it sent a shiver down his spine.
That night, when shadows and sounds morphed into monsters, Harry opened his curtains. “Now, Snowman,” he whispered into the moonlight.
But the hope dancing in his chest hardened and fell like a stone. In lurching steps, coat swinging, the snowman stumbled towards the house.
Harry leapt under the covers.
Tap, tap, tap…
What’d he done? This was terrifying. “Go away,” he repeated under his breath.
Mum didn’t stir. Her room was at the back of the house, and besides, she’d had a few Baileys.
Tap, tap, tap…
The tap, tap, tap the next morning was more insistent. And as Harry descended the staircase, the dark silhouette of a policeman was unmistakable. He could tell from Mum’s posture that this wasn’t good news. A policeman at the door was never good news.
Then he saw it. A foot, jutting out behind the policeman. A twisted foot encased in a shiny shoe.
Mr. Morris.
“The vicar thinks he was calling round for a key…” the policeman was saying.
Harry’s stomach lurched. He pushed past the policeman and crouched beside Mr. Morris’s crumpled body.
“I’m sorry!”
The snowman stared accusingly. And then, the flicker of a smile. “That’s my boy,” it winked.
