Whatever Happened To Wilson

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Wilson Scott, his shoes slipping on the frosted pavements and his scarf blowing out behind him in the wind like a banner, made his way downtown on that cold winter evening. He had on an overcoat, thick as felt, and a cigar sitting dead between his lips. The wind had sucked out the smoke, sucked out the flame on his lighter too so that when he struck the wheel not even a spark flashed in the gloom, and now it pulled on his scarf and stung the bare skin of his nose and cheeks. But he made his way downtown all the same, head down, hands in pockets, ciger rolling between his lips. In the cold grey evening he might have been a ghost walking down those deserted streets.

The wind blew a steady wail among the empty trees. Some of the Christmas decorations hadn't been taken down yet, and with the evening snowfall they'd come dislodged, pulled away into the streets by the wind, or up into the topmost tree branches. Wilson thought the town folk wouldn't notice they were gone till the next day, just as they didn't notice him sneaking up their lawns and peering into their windows and stealing off with such small items as he could carry concealed in his overcoat. But that was then, way before the snow started up in earnest. Now, as the evening shadows lengthened and the grey faded slowly to black he felt something like fear: a cold hand of unease along his spine. And it wasn't ill founded too: the past few seasons had been bad ones, and there were dark omens on the land.

He had to get home soon.

His shoes cracked ice on the pavements. The few lit streetlamps shone long and pale in the falling snow. Wilson pulled his coat tighter around him against the wind. He could feel the chain round his neck, the metal warm against his skin, a reassuring weight in the gloom. He could feel other things too: the sharp sting of the wind on his cheeks, the cold air in his nose and lungs, the unease building slowly inside him like a ticking bomb ready to go off at any moment. He paused a moment to look around, back down the empty street, and then up at the sky through the curtain of falling snow. The moon hadn't come up yet, of that he was certain, but evening was drawing to a fast close, and if there was one unspoken rule everyone in town knew and abided to it was to never be caught out in the open when night fell.

Bad things happened when night fell. Wilson knew the legends as well as any other.

He continued on his pace with his head down and his scarf flopping out behind him. If anyone had happened to look out their window they would have seen him, a lone figure wrapped tight in an overcoat a size too big, and they would have drawn the curtains closed and turned away in fear, maybe even made the sign of the cross too. But no one saw him. The town slept on under its blanket of falling snow.

Twilight glow deepened, faded. The greys became black, the evening shadows fled, and still snow continued to fall. House lights began to go off, one by one by one as the townsfolk closed up for the night with prayers trembling on their lips and curtains drawing close and locks clicking into quiet places. Even the dogs were silent. Soon all the lights were gone, save a few lit streetlamps, and Wilson quickened his pace at once, passing from one patch of light to another, his shoes crackling tunelessly on the frozen ground. He let the cigar fall to the pavement and crushed it under his heel and quickened his pace again, moving now at a fast jog, his breath puffing up white and cold before his face.

The wind was rising. Now it howled among the treetops and rattled the skeletal branches and blew clouds of snow in all directions. Wilson feared a snowstorm was approaching, feared getting lost in it, feared what he might find, or what might find him. He broke into a sudden run then, moving into the teeth of the wind with one hand raised to shield his eyes from the blowing snow. His coat blew out around him as he ran, the pockets full and jangling with stolen items, and he realized he'd stayed out far too long this time. There would be consequences.

Never again, he thought as he ran. And as he ran he kept glancing nervously back over his shoulder, though he couldn't quite see anything anymore through all the blowing snow but blurry swirls of pale yellow light.

A sound in the distance.

Wilson jerked to a sudden, tearing stop and almost went sprawling face down in the snow. His shoes squeaked on the pavement. His breath came fast and hard. For a brief moment he stood doubled over with his hands on his knees, sucking in the cold winter air, his breath clouding before him. Then he righted himself and glanced round and slowed his ragged breathing enough to listen.

Wind blowing drifts of snow down the empty streets.

He took another deep breath.

The blowing snow had reduced visibility to about a quarter of a yard, piled up in drifts against the sides of houses, and on cars in darkened driveways. Some of it had melted in his hair and was beginning to freeze again. Wilson shook his head and peered down the street a second time. He'd heard a sound alright, something in the wind perhaps, something that sounded vaguely like a human voice, and it'd chilled him down to the bone.

But there was nothing there he could see.

Wilson turned back to continue on his way and stopped dead in his tracks like he'd been knifed in the back. Something was moving up the street ahead of him, some faint, black shape in the distance. He heard the sound again—a human voice no doubt—and for a brief moment he stood rooted to the spot in horror as the distant figure in front of him grew steadily larger and larger.

Something was coming his way. And it was running.

A cold hand of fear gripped his heart then, and abruptly all the old stories came rushing back. Wilson screamed, turned round wildly to run too, and discovered another equally chilling fact: if he hadn't stopped when he did he'd have run headfirst into it. But now he ran, away from it, while the weird mocking voice chased him on and the snowstorm hit finally with a force like a hurricane. He ran with all the strength of his body, ran till he was out of breath and his shoes slipped on the slick pavement and he went crashing headlong into a pile of freshly-fallen snow. He got gasping to his feet, fending off an unseen assailant with violent blows, and the wind shrieked at him in anger and blew snow in his face till he couldn't see anything anymore beyond his nose. Wilson started to panic, then realized something new, something that brought his terror down a heartbeat:

The sound was gone.

He stopped to listen again, his chest heaving, and he figured somehow it must had gotten lost in the storm too. Wilson imagined it groping about in the blowing snow for him, long arms outstretched and claws grabbing empty air, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in fear. He glanced back, saw nothing but snow and the faint dark outlines of buildings. He couldn't make it back home again in these conditions, but he thought if he could find shelter, some place to lay up for the night, he'd be safe.

He turned.

It stood in front of him, tall and hunchbacked and flashing a manic grin full of jagged little shark-teeth. The voice was a human voice, mocking, obscene.

"Fooound you," it said.