Dead of Winter by Kealan Patrick Burke Page A

bedroom, the cold
licking his wrists and ankles. He shuddered. His bed stood only a
few tantalizing feet away. The window was even closer.
    But he couldn’t move. Not
yet.
    It was as if those faceless men
playing statues in his back yard wouldn’t let him look away.
Wouldn’t let him call his parents.
    Not that that would do any good
anyway. Dad had come home drunk enough to fill the entire house
with the smell of sweat and whiskey. Mom was asleep on the couch,
exhausted after carrying his father up the stairs and roaring abuse
at him. They wouldn’t be in any mood to entertain Ryan now. Just
your imagination, they’d say.
    But it wasn’t his imagination. Nor a
dream. He had blinked his eyes once, twice, three times. He’d
pinched his arm hard enough to force him into stifling a yelp –
there would be an angry red welt there tomorrow. He’d gone to the
bathroom to pee and splashed cold water on his face…and when he’d
returned they were still there. Two of them. One large, one
small.
    Faces in shadow, staring at him. He
knew they were staring at him, could feel their eyes on
him.
    It was snowing again now but that
didn’t seem to bother them. They simply stood, unmoving, watching
him with fierce interest. Waiting for something maybe. But
what?
    Again he thought of rousing his
parents. So what if they didn’t believe him or were angry? At least
he wouldn’t be alone. At least then he could drag them in here and
let them see for themselves that he wasn’t lying, or imagining
things.
    But would the men still be
there?
    Courage bloomed in him like a warm
flower and he willed his legs to move.
    In a heartbeat he was padding across
the cold floor. He yanked the door open and the narrow hallway
beyond yawned into view. His father was closest, so he hurried down
the hall to his parent’s bedroom and tapped once on the door – a
matter of formality – then entered the room.
    And stalled on the threshold, halted
by memory. His eyes searched the dark, finally straining the shape
of a bed from the meager light spilling in from the hall. An
uncertain pale oblong held the crumpled shape of a wild-haired
shadow, open-mouthed. Gasping and gurgling. Gasping and
gurgling.
    Can’t wake
him , Ryan thought, fearful. On his cheek,
the latent print of an old wound rose like a submarine from the
deep and brought a flush to his skin. The sound it brought echoing
inside his skull was a mere whisper but the remembered threat was
enough.
    Wake me again you little bastard and
I’ll break y—
    No .
Suddenly afraid his presence would be enough to rouse the sleeping
man, Ryan eased stealthily back, wincing in time with the creak and
groan of the floorboards. He paused once more on the threshold,
listening.
    The shape on the bed shuddered, fell
silent. Ryan’s heart stopped.
    He waited, hair prickling,
for a sleep-muddled grumble. “ Whhhat’re you
doinginhere, punkkk? ”
    But it did not come. Waiting until the
awful gasping and gurgling resumed, Ryan moved out into the hall, a
heavy sigh momentarily drowning out the machinery of drunken
slumber. He slowly turned the knob as far as it would go so the
door would shut without a sound and was relieved when it did so
without betraying him.
    Safe. He was annoyed at himself for
even thinking his father could help him. He knew all too well from
past experience that Dad was a mean drunk. Worse when roused from
sleeping it off. And yet Ryan had intended on doing that very
thing.
    Dumb jerk.
    There was not a doubt in his mind that
his father loved him (even if he never said as much), and would
never intentionally lay a hand on his son. But when he was drunk,
he changed. Became possessed. He was a monster, who forgot the
people who shared his cave and lashed out at them as if they sought
to invade his territory. He hurt them, then wept in the morning
when he saw what he’d done. A broken finger, a bleeding nose…a cut
cheek. A broken heart.
    Ryan’s breath whistled through his
nose as he