Beware, the Snowman by R. L. Stine Page A

road caught my eye. Curious, I turned and stared at it.
    I gasped as it came into focus.
    What is that?
    A snowman?
    A snowman with a scar ?
    As I squinted across the road at it, the snowman started to move.

 
 
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    I blinked.
    No. The snowman wasn’t moving.
    Its red scarf was fluttering in the swirling breeze.
    My boots crunched loudly as I stepped up to the snowman and examined it
carefully.
    What a weird snowman. It had slender tree limbs for arms. One arm
poked out to the side. The other arm stood straight up, as if waving to me. Each
tree limb had three twig fingers poking out from it.
    The snowman had two dark, round stones for eyes. A crooked carrot nose. And a
down-turned, sneering mouth of smaller pebbles.
    Why did they make it so mean looking? I wondered.
    I couldn’t take my eyes off the scar. It was long and deep, cut down the
right side of the snowman’s face.
    “Weird,” I muttered out loud. My favorite word. Aunt Greta is always saying I need a bigger vocabulary.
    But how else would you describe a nasty-looking, sneering snowman with a scar
on its face?
    “Jaclyn—come help!” Aunt Greta’s call made me turn away from the snowman. I
hurried back across the road to my new house.
    It took a long while to unpack the van. When we lugged the final carton into
the cabin, Aunt Greta found a pot. Then she made us hot chocolate on the little,
old-fashioned stove in the kitchen.
    “Cozy,” she repeated. She smiled. But her dark eyes studied my face. I think
she was trying to see if I was unhappy.
    “At least it’s warm in here,” she said, wrapping her bony fingers around the
white hot-chocolate mug. Her cheeks were still red from the cold.
    I nodded sullenly. I wanted to cheer up. But I just couldn’t. I kept thinking
about my friends back home. I wondered if they were going to a Bulls game
tonight. My friends were all into basketball.
    I won’t be playing much basketball here, I thought unhappily. Even if they
play basketball, there probably aren’t enough kids in the village for a team!
    “You’ll be warm up there,” Aunt Greta said, cutting into my thoughts. She
pointed up to the low ceiling.
    The house had only one bedroom. That was my aunt’s room. My room was the low
attic beneath the roof.
    “I’m going to check it out,” I said, pushing back my chair. It scraped on the
hardwood floor.
    The only way to reach my room was a metal ladder that stood against the wall.
I climbed the ladder, then pushed away the flat board in the ceiling and pulled
myself into the low attic.
    It was cozy, all right. My aunt had picked the right word.
    The ceiling was so low, I couldn’t stand up. Pale, white light streamed in
through the one small, round window at the far end of the room.
    Crouching, I made my way to the window and peered out. Snow speckled the
windowpane. But I could see the road and the two rows of little houses curving
up the mountainside.
    I didn’t see anyone out there. Not a soul.
    I’ll bet they’ve all gone to Florida, I thought glumly.
    It was midwinter break. The school here was closed. Aunt Greta and I had
passed it on our way through the village. A small, gray stone building, not much
bigger than a two-car garage.
    How many kids will be in my class? I wondered. Three or four? Just me? And
will they all speak English?
    I swallowed hard. And scolded myself for being so down.
    Cheer up, Jaclyn, I thought. Sherpia is a beautiful little village. You might
meet some really neat kids here.
    Ducking my head, I made my way back to the ladder. I’m going to cover the
ceiling with posters, I decided. That will brighten this attic a lot.
    And maybe help cheer me up, too.
    “Can I help unpack?” I asked Aunt Greta as I climbed down the ladder.
    She pushed her long, white braid off her shoulder. “No. I want to work in the
kitchen first. Why don’t you take a walk or something? Do a little exploring.”
    A few minutes later, I found myself outside, pulling the