The wind howled through the brittle trees, scraping against the glass like frozen claws.
The farmhouse stood alone, buried deep in shadow, its rooftop heavy with snow—too quiet, too still.
Then came the crunch of footsteps in the yard, slow, deliberate, heavier than ice.
The kind that didn't belong to anyone, at least, not anyone alive.
Grandpa used to warn us—"He moves when the clock strikes twelve, his coal-black eyes never blink, his frozen heart never melts."
And when the grandfather clock chimed in the hall, we saw it—looming at the window, a crooked grin carved into ice, stick arms raised, frozen in motion—but moving still.
Its jagged mouth cracked wider as it lurched forward, snow twisting beneath its feet, leaving no footprints, only silence.
Then scraping, scratching, a whisper of breathless frost.
the door handle turned— and we ran.
The Snowman really walks at midnight.
Its crunching steps, its crawling presence, its twisted laugh echoed in the wind.
It was closing in, just beyond the back door.
Then—BANG! The door slammed open.
Grandpa stormed in from the moonlit yard, eyes sharp as steel.
Without hesitation, he fired—once, twice, seven times.
We ducked under the table, hearts hammering as the final shot rang out. A heavy silence followed.
When we dared to look, all that remained was a mound of snow, its crooked grin melted into nothing.
Grandpa took a slow sip of his drink, wiped his mouth, and turned to us.
"I told you so."
Poet of the Winter · page 31 · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
This poem is an eerie and suspenseful story that captures the essence of classic horror. Through vivid imagery and atmospheric tension, it crafts a chilling narrative where folklore turns into terrifying reality.
The poem begins by establishing an unsettling winter night. The wind shrieks against the farmhouse, an isolated place weighed down by snow and silence. Suddenly, crunching footsteps disturb the stillness—slow, deliberate, unnerving. The presence isn’t human.
Grandpa’s old warnings haunt the narrator’s mind: a snowman that walks when the clock strikes twelve, its black eyes forever unblinking, its frozen heart unyielding. And as the clock chimes, the nightmare manifests—it appears at the window, an eerie grin carved into ice, frozen yet moving. Its approach is soundless except for scraping frost, twisting snow, and a spectral whisper. As the door handle turns, the narrator and companions flee in terror. The creature is relentless, creeping closer, its laugh carried by the wind.
Then—BANG! Grandpa bursts onto the scene, gun in hand. He fires seven times, shattering the snowman’s form. Silence follows. The only trace of the creature is a mound of lifeless snow, its grin melted away.
With cool finality, Grandpa sips his drink, confirming what they now know to be true: "I told you so."