The thought behind this story really began way back when I was little and trying to colour in a snowy picture. We had some of those colouring pencils that changed colour in the middle. You sharpened both ends. There was a very light blue and a very light mauve, pale pink and even white -- because we used to sometimes draw on grey paper. I don't know whether I ever said it, but I remember having the thought that for a Winter scene I needed colder pencils. I was too young to know about highlighting and I'm not a very good artist anyway. As my mother used to point out -- a bad workman always blames his tools. But there you go -- I just needed to put down the pencils and use Words.
T h e F r o s t L a d y
Celia stood with the key in her hand, beaming in front of, literally, her dream home. “Ian, it’s exact!” She crouched down. “Emma, do you like our new house?” But she could tell by the look of excitement on her daughter’s face that it was time to use that key.
As a child, Celia had done a dozen pictures of her dream house but never got it quite perfect. She’d kept them all. Maybe she'd get them framed now. Always mixed woodland to the left, tall conifers marching down to meet it, to the right a five bar gate and dry stone wall, the countryside falling away towards a sleepy river valley. She’d shown Ian the sketches – shared the dream but how he’d found this place, a sheer fluke, a wrong turning that led him miles out of his way. The cottage itself with its leaded windowpanes, roof criss-crossed with grey slate, white-washed stonework and fir-green door looked so much like her drawings, it was unnerving, but not quite the same, not quite. Of course it was still autumn and all of her pictures were snowy.
By winter they’d settled in. Emma liked drawing too. She used to draw Mummy, Daddy and Emma. Then she’d started putting a bump where David was – Celia was sure it was a boy this time. Recently Emma had become obsessed with drawing the house. But Celia could understand that.
“I need colder pencils, Mummy,” she said one day.
“Colder pencils?”
“Yes. The Frost Lady said.”
“Well, if the Frost Lady says so…” Celia played along.
All shades of blue, lavender, mauve, cream, grey were deployed, sparkle was added, Emma was never quite satisfied with the result. “I want to draw it like the Frost Lady,” she said.
“Who's this Frost Lady?” asked Ian.
“Every child has an imaginary friend–or a dream house. She’ll grow out of it.”
Christmas Eve the first snow was lying thick. Emma had been so excited about Santa coming but in the morning she was not in her bed. She wasn’t in the house or garden. There was no sign of her – no footprints in the vicinity, no tire tracks, nothing. Celia felt cold grip her heart. Rescuers joined the search. Day after day it continued and so did the cold spell.
Celia was due and she wanted Ian to stay with her. Why had she gone out? Where? “I know she’s out there, Ian kept saying,” as if the affirmation could work a miracle. He kept going into her room to check – looking out the window. That was what he was doing when he saw the finger draw, in frost, a perfect picture of the cottage. Suddenly Emma was outside. He'd seen her through the window, as if she was part of the picture, holding the hand of a tall woman dressed in white.
“Please, Ian.”
“I swear, Celia! Would I make up a thing like that?”
“Nobody’s saying you made it up, Ian. We’re both under a lot of strain. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”
“I know what I bloody saw, Cecelia!”
He stormed out to search the woods one more time. He didn't return.
Celia had no idea how long she’d been lying there. There was an icy pain inside of her, cold where the baby’s warmth should be. She’d tried to call for help but there was no signal and the lines were down too. The snow lay ever thicker outside. The fire had long extinguished. The place was freezing.
Night turned to day. In the thin dawn light, she thought she saw – no, she was sure of it, her picture of the house – or Emma’s picture of it, as if through a misted mirror -- a reflection of the house. That was it! That was why it had never been quite right. It was a reflection of the house, etched in frost. And now she saw there were three figures in the picture. One was Ian. The second was Emma. And the third – it must surely be the Frost Lady. Celia saw she was holding something -- a baby.
“No!” Celia screamed. She gathered all her strength and as she ran straight through the window, an icicle pierced her heart.
Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin: Published in MicroHorror
