5. FIVE
FIVE
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The wooden table was rough beneath my fingers, its surface scarred. Plates of golden pancakes sat between us, syrup pooling in sticky puddles around their edges. Strawberries sat piled high in a bowl, ruby-red skin glistening under the morning light next to a jar of honey that glittered like amber. I inched the plate across the table, the porcelain scratching softly against the wood and breaking the quiet. My stomach churned.
"Eat." My father's voice shattered the quiet as though it were a command rather than an invitation.
"I can't." My voice was thin, barely scraping above a whisper. "I'm allergic."
I dared meet his gaze. His eyes were hard, daring me to defy him.
His lips twitched, amusement curling in the corner of his mouth. "Allergic? That's bullshit."
I swallowed hard. "I am."
My hands shook as I grasped the edge of the table.
"Prove it," he barked, shoving the bowl of strawberries toward me.
Strawberries tumbled, one of them rolled out and bruised against the table. His laughter bubbled up, jagged, cutting through the still air.
I flinched as the sound rippled through me. Across the room, Mom stood as still as a shadow. The bruise under her eye had flowered into a deep plum, proving words she couldn't say. Her lips were pressed thin, her expression blank, but her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the counter.
"No!" I sprang up from my chair, which scraped along the floor with a screech.
Dad slammed his palms onto the table, rattling the plates and sending silverware clattering.
"Sit the fuck down!"
The force of his voice struck me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, and I fell back into the chair. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a desperate plea to be free.
"If I eat this," I whispered, my voice quivering as I reached for the bowl, "I could die."
"Good." The word was low, his eyes seemed to narrow into blackened slits.
My throat tightened, and the words I'd been swallowing finally burst free. "Why do you hate me so much?"
For an instant, his lips parted, the sharp edge of his response poised to cut me down. Then came the knock—loud, insistent, like a hammer striking the front door.
The sudden sound snapped the tension in the room, and his head flinched to the door, his eyes darting to Mom. He dropped the napkin he'd been twisting in his fists and growled out, "This isn't over," as he stormed past me.
Another knock echoed before he reached the door. Two men stood on the threshold when he pulled it open.
The tall one was imposing, a big, burly man clad in a black overcoat strained on his shoulders. His chestnut brown hair flowed behind his head in a loose bun, resting at the nape of his neck, while a short beard, dark with the merest hint of silver shadowing a strong jaw reached the underside of his chin. Beneath his coat, a dark brown turtleneck stretched over a chest that looked as solid as granite.
The man beside him was shorter and leaner, his light brown hair cropped neatly above a face that was all sharp angles and tension. He wore a crisp suit, one of those that spoke 'I might be an important person' , with a paper folder tucked under his arm.
The tall man flashed his badge in the air, his deep voice carrying over the threshold.
"May we come in?" His eyes swept around the room, lingering on the table and faces around it.
Dad hesitated, hand stiffening on the doorframe. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and as he stepped aside, a hesitation seemed to quiver into his voice.
"Of course."
I sat paralyzed as they entered.
For that one, swift second, the tall man's eyes caught my gaze, furrowed in some kind of recognition. My chest tightened, the air was now too thick to breathe.
Behind me, I heard Mom shift, and when I glanced back, she was smiling faintly. The bruising on her face stood in vivid contrast to the pale pink flush of her cheeks.
I wanted to scream, to rip that smile off, it wasn't real. It was survival.
Dad's throat was clear in that tight, stiff voice. "What's this about?"
The short man glanced at me and then back to Dad.
"This may not be appropriate for the children."
"They're not children," Dad snapped, though his voice betrayed a quiver. His hand fidgeted at the back of his neck, fingers scratching at the skin there. "One… well, one can't talk. Or hear. Or walk, for that matter. And the other—"
"We understand," the taller man interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward the sofa. His presence seemed to fill the room, his tone both firm and disarming. "Perhaps we should sit down."
The white sofa facing the fireplace almost looked too innocent for what was about to weigh upon it. Their feet whispered on the rug as they moved across it towards the sofa, before, with a smooth swoop, the taller of the two settled onto it.
The shorter man followed, placing the folder on his lap. "I am Detective Erik Skarsgard," he said, his Scandinavian accent sharp and precise. He inclined his head toward his partner. "This is Detective Thor Karlsson."
Karlsson nodded. "We’re here to investigate the disappearance of your neighbor, Sigrid Halvorsen. She lived about two miles from here."
Skarsgard’s voice was grave. "We have reason to believe that whoever took her may target this house next."
The words landed like a bomb. Dad paled, his voice stumbling. "What? That’s ridiculous. We just moved in—why would anybody—"
Skarsgard raised a hand, silencing him. "Did you notice the snowman in your yard?"
Dad’s head whipped toward the window. The snowman stood silently outside, its crooked grin twisting in the dim winter light.
Skarsgard opened the folder, revealing a series of photographs. The first showed a snowman—eerily similar to the one outside. "This was found at Halvorsen’s house," he said, sliding the photo across the table.
Dad’s hand shook as he turned to the next picture. His breath hitched. Beneath the snowman’s photo lay an image of a pale, bruised body sprawled lifeless on the frozen ground.
"My God," he muttered, recoiling as though the photograph had burned him.
"We’ve seen this before," Karlsson said, leaning forward. "Whoever is behind this leaves the same calling card: a snowman in the yard."
The room seemed to grow colder despite the crackling fire. Mom’s fingers dug into the back of my chair. "Dear Lord," she whispered.
"Word of advice," Karlsson said, his tone softer now. "Lock your doors tonight."
Dad shot to his feet. "Is there anything else we can do? Cameras, perhaps? We can install more—"
"We noticed two cameras out front," Skarsgard said. "You might want to check with the property owner for access. They may have caught something."
Mom’s voice trembled. "And the backyard? Couldn’t you see who built the snowman?"
Skarsgard shook his head. "Unfortunately, the cameras don’t cover the backyard. The woods block the view."
Dad rubbed his forehead, sweat glistening under the firelight. "You checked the camera footage? Did it show anything?"
"Nothing suspicious," Karlsson said tightly. "We reviewed it twice."
Silence pressed down on the room like a heavy blanket.
At last, Karlsson snapped the folder shut and stood. "Thank you for your time."
Dad followed them to the door, his movements stiff, his mind elsewhere. "Thank you," he mumbled.
As Karlsson opened the door, the winter wind whistled through the gap. Before stepping out, he turned back, his eyes narrowing.
"One last thing," he said, his voice quieter now. "What happened to your wife’s eye?"
Mom straightened beside me. Her answer came too fast, too quick.
"I fell," she said, her voice too bright. "Slipped, actually."
Karlsson didn't say a word at first. He was clenching his teeth and the tendons of his neck stood out.
"Accidents would seem to occur quite a lot here," he finally said, his tone dripping with unsaid meaning.
"Yes, yes," Dad cut in, waving it off. "Thank you again. Good luck with the investigation."
Karlsson's eyes lingered a beat longer before he nodded and stepped out into the cold. His partner followed him and tucked the file back under his arm.
Dad shut the door, the latch clicked, and then it was the perfect silence . A moment he had stood there, still, his back to us, his shoulders rising and falling with the heavy sigh. When he turned, his face calmer than it was.
"Bree," he said, his voice even. "Take Mel to the bedroom. Breakfast is over."
A small, shaky breath escaped my chest as I rose to my feet, moving toward Mel. My fingers wrapped around the cold, metallic handles of her wheelchair. And without a word, I pushed her down the living room floor, my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to glance back—couldn't. The weight in my chest pressed heavier with each step.
We were finally at the room, I shut the door behind us, making sure it clicked softly in the still, quiet air. Mel sat sideways in her wheelchair, her frame seeming even smaller in dim light, her eyes set only on one spot on the wall. I couldn't hold it anymore, it was too much inside.
Kneeling beside her, I closed my eyes. Tears fell in cascades, soaking her jeans as I buried my face in her lap. My shoulders shook hard, the only sound in that room was my cry. Mel's hand slowly moved to rest on the crown of my head. But she didn't speak. Her head didn't turn, her expression was empty, as though she were lost in some place far away from here.
I closed my eyes, and darkness behind my eyelids swallowed me in. Shapes danced in the dark; white, circular flashes, like distant stars.
I was six years old again. My birthday. I could see Mom in the kitchen, smiling as she set a strawberry cake in front of me. Its pink glaze sparkled under the warm kitchen lights. I reached for it in a hurry, pushing a bit into my mouth before Mom could reach me.
Then, everything changed.
My throat constricted while the world seemed to spin into panic, and the muffled sounds of Mom's voice trying to be frantic. The memory suddenly blurred into the fading rush of sirens. And just as I opened my eyes I was already in a car with an unknown world passed by my window. "We're moving," Dad had said simply, his hands clutched to the steering wheel.
He said later that was because Mom was afraid of losing me, but in this bedroom, back with Mel, that sounded wrong.
What was she afraid of?
My eyes flickered open, drawing me back into the here and now . I straightened up in my chair, blinking through welling tears. The sight of Mel's empty stare was right on the edge of my vision, yet my mind would not settle. It gnawed on some strange and hollow feeling inside. I looked down at my hands and then at Mel.
I couldn't remember her birth, not the day, not the moment Mom and Dad brought her home, not even a single hazy image. We were three years apart, but it was like the memory didn't exist at all.
What was wrong with me? Was I starting to forget or was I beginning to remember things I was never supposed to remember?
I couldn't breathe. I needed air, space, clarity.
"I'll be back," I muttered, jumping up and out of the room.
My feet took me into the living room to Mom and Dad on that worn, faded sofa. Whatever conversation they were having stopped mid-sentence as I appeared.
"Can I go out?" My voice was softer than I meant. "I just... need to go out."
Mom's eyes flickered, but she nodded. "Don't go far, okay?"
"Okay," I said, already heading on my way.
When I returned to the bedroom, I tore off my red coat that was hanging over one of the hooks in the wardrobe. Before, it carried a faint, humble smell of fresh rain and wet leaves, gently mixing with the sharp taste of detergent. Now, as I slid its weight over my hunched shoulders, the mass settled heavily around me, smelling of the sweet escape outside.
I caught myself hesitating for just a moment as I passed by Mel. I repeated, "I'm coming back," not particularly sure if she heard me.
In the living room, they barely looked up as I crossed toward the door. Again, their low murmurs resumed, muffled only by the thudding of my heart. None of them asked where and why. It was just like I was invisible, some sort of passing shadow that flickered for a brief moment.
The front door groaned as I opened it; a wave of cold air entered, so sharp, so crisp. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to fill my lungs with that clean, biting chill. As I exhaled, the tension in me seemed a fraction lighter, as some weight lifted from my chest.
I stepped into the yard, boots crunching on the snow path. The house shrank behind me as I followed the narrow trail leading into the woods. Bare branches stretched overhead, clawing at the gray sky like skeletal fingers. As it was, with every step taken, that tightness inside my chest started to soften.
Breathing had also started to become easy now. Here, with the quiet and the trees around me, I finally felt free. Free to breathe. Free to think.
Thirty minutes must have passed, and the sun was now brighter, its rays bouncing off the snow. Ahead, there was this thick gnarled branch lying on the ground half-submerged in the ice. I walked to it and sat down, feeling the cold right through my coat as I let my breath out in a long sigh.
The woods stretched around me, almost endless, their silence pushing against my ears. I was alone, just a girl in a red coat in a vast expanse of white.
It seeped into me—the stillness. No pretending here, no mask to wear, no lying to myself. Just the void, the loneliness. For a moment, it felt like peace.
But then something moved.
It was subtle, just a flicker in the corner of my eye. My chest tightened and I stood abruptly, my boots crunching the snow. I spun in place, scanning the shadows in between the trees.
"Who's there?" I called, my voice sharper than I expected. The sound echoed into the woods, swallowed quickly by the thick silence.
No one answered but I was not alone—I could sense it. My breathing grew quicker as a wild thought entered my mind.
"Snowman?" I called, half-expecting, half-fearing a response.
And then, laughter. Low and mocking, it rolled from behind me, shearing the air like a knife.
"Guess again," a voice said.
I spun around, the pulse pounding in my ears. The endless woods stretched out in every direction, yet I couldn't pinpoint which direction it came from.
"Who's there?" I called, picking up the branch I'd been sitting on and clenching it above me like a weapon. My hands shook as hard as I clutched it. It was silly, I knew, but that was the best I had.
Another voice joined in, this one more teasing, almost playful. "Are you lost?"
"Show yourself!" I shouted, my throat tightening.
There was a rustling, and then two of them came from behind a sturdy tree trunk. One threw the other a shove for good measure before stepping forward. He seemed tall, about my age, actually, with ginger hair that picked up the sun and wearing a smirk that stretched too wide across his freckled face. His confidence unnerved me.
"You must be the new girl," he said, then put a hand to his chest in mock chivalry and gave a shallow bow. "I'm Vic."
The other figure came closer, shorter and stockier, the beanie yanked low over his head. The jacket was hanging loose over his frame, and the zipper was open despite this cold. He grinned, you could see his breath in the crisp air.
"And I'm Josh, my lady, " he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm as he parodied Vic's dramatic gesture.
Vic laughed, but Josh pulled something from his pocket, holding it out to me. A hand-rolled cigarette, crumpled and stained at the tip. "Want a smoke?"
I instinctively stepped back, wrinkling my nose in distaste. "No," I said more firmly than was maybe required. "Thanks."
I turned my back to them, my feet crunching in the snow as I began to walk away. But their laughter followed me, low and insistent, working its way under my skin. I quickened my pace, but so did they.
"Where are you going?" one of them called out. Their footsteps crunched louder, closer.
The knot in my stomach twisted tighter. I didn't need to look back to know they were following me. My pulse thundered in my ears as their chuckles turned to whispers, their tones no longer playful but darker.
I broke into a run.
The snow clung to my boots, slowing me, but I pushed forward, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The trees blurred around me as my legs pumped harder, my focus narrowing to one thing: escape.
"Hey! Slow down!" one of them said, carrying the tone of his voice laughing. "We're only trying to talk."
My chest was burning, my vision swimming as the cold air sliced into my lungs. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
Then it happened.
I was jogging along when my foot caught on some unseen branch buried in the snow. The world slewed violently as I went tumbling forward, arms flapping. I hit hard, the shock of impact rocking every bone in my body.
The snow was like ice against my cheek, and for a moment, the only sound was my breathing. Behind me, their steps crunched closer. My gut skidded with panic, paralyzing. I tried to push myself up, but my legs just felt heavy, useless. The branch I'd carried lay inches away, but it might as well have been miles.
"Where do you think you're going?" one of them said, mocking, laughing.
But then, the laughter was gone, replaced only by the sound of their feet as they closed the space between us. They lunged after me, then came to a sudden stop. They stood fixed, faces slack with surprise as if the very air around them had crystallized with cold.
Something was wrong.
I heaved myself up, using my shaking arms, to brush away stray tufts of blonde hair from my face. My breaths huffed out in short, panicked hitches, misting the chilled air. Slowly, I peeled my gaze upward and froze.
A few meters in front, something was standing—a snowman, so out of place against the silent woods. But it was different, wrong. Vic reached forward and yanked on my arm, pulling me to my feet. His face was white, his hands hard.
"Let me go!" I shouted, pushing him away. The force sent him stumbling back, but I couldn't stop staring at the snowman.
Because on top of its round, snow-packed body wasn't snowman's head of ice and buttons.
It was a human head.
I screamed, the sound tearing out of me before I could even think. My legs buckled, and I fell backward into the snow, scrambling to get away from it. Vic tripped when I pushed him, landing hard beside me. Both of us crawled away, our hands sinking into the icy ground as we retreated in shared fear.
Behind the snowman, the woods were silent and oppressive. But I could only see two great balls of snow stacked on top of one another, and atop those, the head of a woman, severed from her body. Her hair was braided and neatly combed, although strands were stuck with snow. Her eyes were wide open and glassy, staring at nothing. Her lips were pursed in deep purple, and an eerie stillness was frozen on her face.
The second ball of snow was streaked with the jarring red against the white, like some sort of bloody scarf. The snowman's stick arms reached out, jagged branches that seemed to claw at the air. Coal buttons were arranged on its body with chilling precision, as though someone had made it with sick care.
I squeezed my palms over my eyes, willing the horrific image to disappear. My heartbeat roared in my ears, drowning out everything but the sharp inhale of my breaths.
Josh finally broke the silence, his hand shaking as he dialed the numbers on his phone. With every click, the phone seemed to echo through the stillness. "D-d-dad," he stuttered, voice shaking. "We... we found Sigrid."
Sigrid Halvorsen , the missing woman. I felt the bile rise in my throat as reality crystallized around me. She wasn't only missing. She was here. And she was dead.
Her frozen, lifeless eyes stood silent, guarding the woods, hauntingly empty. It felt as though she was watching us, mocking us, daring us to look away. But I couldn't.