Cold Snap E-Book

Lindy Ryan

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 136

Beschreibung

A grieving mother and son hope to survive Christmas in a remote mountain cabin, in this chilling novella of dread, isolation and sinister spirits lurking in the frozen woods. Perfect for fans of The Only Good Indians, The Shining and The Babadook. Two weeks ago, Christine Sinclaire's husband slipped off the roof while hanging Christmas lights and fell to his death on the front lawn. Desperate to escape her guilt and her grief, Christine packs up her fifteen-year-old son and the family cat and flees to the cabin they'd reserved deep in the remote Pennsylvania Wilds to wait out the holidays. It isn't long before Christine begins to hear strange noises coming from the forest. When she spots a horned figure watching from between frozen branches, Christine assumes it's just a forest animal—a moose, maybe, since the property manager warned her about them, said they'd stomp a body so deep into the snow nobody'd find it 'til spring. But moose don't walk upright like the shadowy figure does. They don't call Christine's name with her dead husband's voice. A haunting examination of the horrors of grief and the hunger of guilt, perfect for readers of Stephen King, Christina Henry, and Chuck Wendig.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Acknowledgements

About the Author

“Lindy Ryan weaponizes the dread of grief suffered in isolation. Horrific and heartbreaking.”

JAMIE FLANAGAN, screenwriter, The Haunting of Bly Manor, The Fall of the House of Usher

“Cold Snap is an intrusive thought, an open wound. It will consume you.”

STEPHANIE M. WYTOVICH, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Brothel

“Cold Snap reads like a whiteout of blinding grief. Th e deeper you plunge into this haunting novella, the more you lose sight of your surroundings. Before long, you won’t be able to tell where the pages end and reality begins. It’s that immersive.”

CLAY MCLEOD CHAPMAN, author of What Kind of Mother and Ghost Eaters

“A powerfully affecting study of bereavement, illuminated by a sense of the uncanny and mysterious that builds to vivid scenes of breathless nightmare terror.”

RAMSEY CAMPBELL, World Fantasy Award-winning author

“Steals through your soul like a winter chill—a heart-rending, darkly humorous hymn to grief, guilt and love. Th is is a perfect Christmas horror story that’s so crisp and cool, it’ll leave your fingers frostbitten.”

JOSH WINNING, author of Heads Will Roll

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Cold SnapHardback edition ISBN: 9781835410080E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410097

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 202410 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Lindy Ryan 2024.

Lindy Ryan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

“A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins.”

—Shakespeare’sThe Winter’s Tale

1

The Toyota’s trunk slams shut.

The sound reverberates up the length of Christine’s spine, shudders against each vertebra, crawls under her scarf. It forces a puff of breath from her that freezes her hands to the steering wheel. She peels them free, furling and unfurling gloveless fingers to get the blood moving before she presses the button to start the engine, then cranks the defroster. The speakers crackle with static. Even in her own driveway, she can’t get a signal. Her thumb taps on the steering wheel to turn the volume down, and she pulls her scarf tight around her throat.

Twin chartreuse ovals glare at her from inside the open pet carrier in the co-pilot seat, but Christine knows better than to try and coax the cat out. The family pet, like her son, always favored Derek.

The rear passenger door jerks open, hinges screaming in the early morning quiet. Frigid December air floods the interior—she hadn’t thought the SUV had warmed up at all, but it’s even more frigid outside. The little hairs at the base of Christine’s skull shiver to attention as the Toyota rocks with the weight that jostles into the back seat.

Cold rips the air from her lungs when the rear door slams shut. Tiny crystals paint the air before her face, and she jams her chin down into her scarf. A flash of yellow catches her eye, as the wind outside whips the ribbon strung between the four sawhorses that block the concrete steps to the basement.

Another shiver races down Christine’s spine and she cranks the heat as far as it can go. “They design the doors and trunk to close without slamming, Billy.” Her snide tone slices through her lips before she can think better of it. “No one here to impress.”

The cat glares at Christine from the carrier. She could have said something nice to her son. Something patient. Something motherly. To offer something other than a thoughtless reminder that it’s just the three of them now—her and Billy and Haiku. No husband, no father, no favorite human. Her words hang heavy between them.

The angry crinkle of his parka swallows Billy’s grunt as he shrugs into his seat, the hiss of his sleeve reaching for the seat belt. He pulls the belt across his chest and the polyester growls. The buckle bites down hard as he slides in the metal latch. One knee pokes between the front seats. She cannot believe the length of her son’s legs in his torn jeans.

Christine closes her eyes. There’s a snap, and—

Derek’s foot slips. His features go wide, one eyebrow arching high enough you’d think it would touch the hook-shaped scar that’s marked his forehead since he was six. The whites of his eyes grow bright, brighter, blinding. Christine lunges for her husband’s hand. Grips nothing but air.

Fur brushes the back of her fingers. Christine’s hand flies up from her cold thigh and she jumps in her seat before her eyes snap open. The cat recoils onto the co-pilot seat but doesn’t retreat into the carrier. The chartreuse eyes are unsurprised, maybe just embarrassed for her. Billy scowls and looks away from the mirror. Buttoned up to his chin, the parka doesn’t turn with him. Christine lifts the carrier, and the messenger bag she’d put between the cage and the seatback almost falls on the cat. She wedges the carrier in the footwell and leans her bag against the seat to make room for Hai. As she closes her eyes again, her fingertips trace the feline’s back.

Haiku rolls under her touch and Christine presses her palm into the soft ginger. The cat’s purr rumbles, and she counts the short spaces of quiet between each heartbeat.

Milliseconds.

That’s all it was.

One thousandth of a second between the time when Derek was there, with her, on the roof of their two-story suburban home, and when he wasn’t.

“Chris—” He’d only had time to say half her name. The last time she would ever hear it.

She had not seen him hit, saw only the empty space where he’d knelt that millisecond before. Christine heard her husband’s spine snap. The rush of breath as life left his lungs.

Then Derek was gone.

Gone days now, probably. She doesn’t know how many. Still, she wants to say that it feels like longer. A month, maybe. A year. Time moves different when your world stops turning.

“But he’s not gone.” Christine’s eyes flicker open, and she looks in the mirror, but Billy didn’t say anything. “Derek’s right here,” the voice says.

The crackled fog ices the outside of her driver’s side window, but she can make out the red rectangle of her front door, framed by gray sconces. No figure stands at the door. Derek should be checking the locks, peeking in through the window to make sure they’d left no lights on. Her light. The table lamp at her end of the couch that she never remembers to turn off.

A dark blot marks the bottom of the door. “See,” says the voice. “His boots.”

A pair of wet-weather stompers stand on the front porch mat, tall and black and caked with snow. Derek must have set them there to dry went he went inside the house. Any second now and he’ll burst through the front door, head to the car, slide in the co-pilot seat beside her. Christine strokes Haiku’s shoulders and gets ready to take hold and get the cat back into the carrier.

She blinks and looks back to the porch. Billy left his own dark green boots there, they’re not Derek’s black pair. She meant to throw them in the trunk.

She blinks again. That goddamned lamp burns through the window, from the end of the couch. And her husband is dead. He’s gone and their son shuffles around in the back seat, wondering why the hell she isn’t getting a move on.

“Sorry,” she whispers. Sorry this happened, she wants to say. Sorry you’re in pain. Sorry he’s gone.

“I’m sorry I snapped.” Christine clears her throat and speaks to the steering wheel. “The noise startled me. That’s all.” She tugs the scarf up over the bottom of her chin.

I’m sorry it was your dad that died, instead of me.

In the back seat, Billy clears his throat, trying to make the sound take up the whole interior of the Toyota. The chill seeps back through Christine’s fingers and she bristles. Once, she’d fuss at him for acting like that. Once, it would hurt her feelings. But she deserves her son’s derision now, doesn’t she? After all, she had wanted to put the Christmas lights up before Thanksgiving instead of waiting. It was Christine who’d insisted she help Derek string bulbs around the eaves instead of Billy this time. Christine who reached for Derek’s hand and caught air instead.

“Your fault.”

Christine’s breath fogs the air in front of her face, wraps around her brain.

She meets Billy’s gaze by accident in the rearview.

“Your fault,” the voice, not Billy, says.

Her lips form another apology, but Billy’s phone chimes first. His eyes tear away, ripping the knife free of Christine’s body. He thumbs open his phone, works his fingers over the screen. She looks away from the mirror when he reaches for the metal buttons on his parka. She grits her teeth when he snap, snap, snaps them open.

Derek’s foot slips…

Christine clenches both fists until her skin threatens to break under her nails. “You got everything?” she asks.

Billy snorts.

“Toothbrush, face wash?” The way her voice rises, she sounds like the kid. “Underwear?”

“Mom.” The word comes out half-exhale, half-growl. “Face wash? I know how to pack a bag.”

She bites her lips into a line and nods. Of course he does. Her son is fifteen, not five.

The layer of ice across the bottom of the windshield cracks, then slides away in streaks that turn the house liquid on the other side of the glass. Snow blankets the roof, and there’s no one to turn the Christmas lights on, but Christine can make out the empty spaces where Derek hadn’t finished stringing them up. Tears bank behind Christine’s eyelids as she studies the strings that he did finish.

She holds the tears there. Lets them sting.

The twin sconces spark on at either side of the front door, followed by a row of sharp white incisors that bite into the frost hanging over the rain gutters. Christine gasps and Haiku vaults into the back seat. The messenger bag falls onto the seat again, and Christine flips it against the seatback too hard.

She’s surprised that the lights could have scared the cat as much as they did her—but it must have been the way Christine herself jumped that sent the cat flying.

Three red bulbs for every five whites. Derek had wanted the pattern to suggest holly berries tucked among frost.

“I turned the timer on.” Billy’s dry words scratch at Christine’s throat. “Dad always turned it on when we left home.”

She blinks away dark spots the lights have burned in her vision.

“That a problem?” her son asks.

Christine can’t stop blinking. “Why would it be?”

Billy’s parka crinkles as his phone chimes again. “Whatever.”

The tired muscles around Christine’s mouth force her lips into a smile so tight her jaw aches. “It’s not a problem,” she says. She pulls the scarf loose around her neck.

The engine purrs and her eyes finally relax. Icy fingertips reach up and she finds the tears have wetted her eyelids, without creating the waterfall she’d imagined.

“I’m glad you remembered,” she says.

She dries her eyes with the edge of her thumb, little movements so her son won’t notice. She does not tell him that his father would be proud.

In the back seat, he grunts.

Christine sighs as she rummages in the pockets of her down jacket, extracts a square wad of paper. The listing for her destination used the word scenic twice, which she’s come to understand means her navigation app will get her close, but no cigar. Derek had scribbled directions onto the back of an old envelope, and Christine has folded and unfolded the paper so many times the familiar strokes of his handwriting have all but faded. Is this the last piece of his handwriting? How much longer will his words last? How long before he disappears completely?

The yellow tape on the sawhorses catches her eye again, and she vows to replace the railing herself, once they get back.

Warm air blows in off the engine and Christine shifts the Toyota into reverse. Asphalt crunches as the small SUV inches down the driveway, backs out onto the street. She shifts, spins the wheel, and accelerates too fast. The hours—weeks?—since Derek’s death have taught her not to look at the neighbors as she winds her way out of the cul-de-sac. Not looking reduces the chances someone will phone later, to say they’d seen her drive past, which was such a coincidence because they’d just been thinking about her.

Did she need anything? Whatever she said, they’d bring over a casserole.

Everything would get better after the holidays.

Christine grips the gearshift and keeps her gaze trained straight until she passes the last stop sign out of her subdivision, makes the left turn toward the turnpike, and falls in behind the monolithic back of a semitrailer.

In the rearview, Billy’s attention doesn’t leave his phone.

Christine follows the truck around the on-ramp to I-95. She pulls at the scarf so it lays across her shoulders.

“It’s been a long time since we went up into the mountains,” she says when the silence squeezes her lungs. “Remember that camping trip a couple of summers ago?”

He makes a sound that could go either way.

She pulls onto the interstate headed north and pushes the gas all the way down to get out from behind the semi.

“Right after you finished fifth grade.” They took the trip to Allegheny as a treat before Billy started middle school. They’d been stationed in Ohio then. Billy had to remember, because they’d spent the whole weekend mispronouncing words just to make the National Forest’s name rhyme.

Billy-Goat finished ele-menny.

Now we’re campin’ in Allegheny.

“Remember?” she asks.

Christine glances in the rearview. Her son’s Adam’s apple bobs, but his eyes never stray from his phone.

“Well, I hope you put that thing down for at least some of the drive,” she says. “We could sing carols? Like when you were little? Do you remember any?”

Billy-Goat finished ele-menny.

A deeper grunt this time. More dangerous. The distance between them widens a bit more.

She bites her lip. The distance isn’t new. But Derek had been the rock beneath their family, solid ground to Christine and Billy. Without him they float free, drifting like the fog outside the Toyota’s windows as the sun inches higher into the sky.

Christine thumbs the steering wheel stereo buttons. She taps the volume until the low buzz becomes a hum, revealing a voice, then a song. She clicks through the pre-programmed stations, waits out a few notes before recognizing a classic rock song, then a holiday tune, and so on. When she makes it through the dial and Billy hasn’t so much as twitched, she shuttles the radio back to NPR. British-accented voices drone on about Iranian music, and she lowers the volume until it’s an indistinct murmur again.