Frost

Across the lawn and running in a precise line to the shadow of the trees was a set of footprints.

The land around the house was flat, and grass grew reluctantly. But with Baldwin Turner’s encouragement and ceaseless care, it grew thick and green.

His property ran along a small brackish branch of the Little Choptank River called Church Creek. Cattails and phragmites swayed in the slightest breeze. The natural boundary looked to be alive most days. On the three other sides, white pines and pin oaks stood like a wall and darkened the floor of the woods, daring the smaller trees to reach taller and fight for sunlight. The woods were mischievous, hiding the source of sounds and any wildlife sheltered in the gloom.

Baldwin, a middle-aged bachelor who grew up only a few miles away, liked the remoteness of his few acres. He found comfort in being alone with the trees and brackish creek.

The footprints stopped directly under his bedroom window. He looked for signs of forced entry—scratches in the paint, pry marks—but there were none.

When fall cooled into winter, his still thick lawn captured the frequent hoarfrosts and, with the cold clarity of morning, shimmered like cut diamonds. Baldwin would sit drinking black coffee while he watched the frost disappear in the rising sun.

At 7:00 am on a late winter morning, he sat his coffee on the kitchen table, stretched, and sat down. Looking out his window facing east, he saw the crystalline gleam that he enjoyed. The window to his left faced north. His glance caught a pattern that interrupted the blanket glistening around each side of the house. He walked over to the window, forgetting his coffee cup in his interest.

Across the lawn and running in a precise line to the shadow of the trees was a set of footprints.

He went to the front door and slipped on his muck boots that stood to the side of a worn wooden bench. Baldwin opened the door, met the wall of crisp air, walked out, and rounded the side of the house.

The footprints stopped directly under his bedroom window. He looked for signs of forced entry—scratches in the paint, pry marks—but there were none. He turned and followed the footprints across his property to where they ended in the shadow of the tree line. He turned and followed the prints back to his house. He reached the spot where both joined and stopped.

His surprise at seeing the marks in the grass hid the obvious. There was only one set of footprints, and they were leading away from his home, from under his bedroom window. He stood there looking for other details as the prints dissolved in the quickly strengthening sun.

When he went back into the house, Baldwin’s coffee was cold. He poured it into the sink and filled a new cup from the pot warming on the stove.

He was active throughout the day, but his questions could not be pushed aside. Instead, his curiosity and growing dread intensified.

Later, the sun lowered behind the trees and slanting shadows cut through the yard like knife blades. Baldwin sat at his kitchen table, picking at the dinner he had half-heartedly made. He had little appetite, and what was unfinished, he scraped into the trashcan.

He turned off the lights in the kitchen, walked into his spare bedroom, turned on the floor lamp near the door, and walked toward his gun cabinet. Baldwin took a well-cared-for 12-gauge shotgun from the cabinet, picked up a box of 00 buckshot shells, and loaded three into the magazine. After turning off the lamp, he grabbed the box and the loaded shotgun, walked into his bedroom, and sat in a rocking chair that faced the window. He took off the safety and rested the gun across the arms of the chair.

Since Baldwin kept to himself, no one missed him until early spring. His usually few pieces of mail clogged the mailbox at the edge of his rural road, and the always neat property looked shaggy.

A neighbor on friendly terms with Baldwin drove up the lane hemmed by cherry trees that led to the house at sunrise one morning. The uncut grass was bright spring green. The neighbor stopped his car, got out, and walked to Baldwin’s front door. He knocked. The knocks went unanswered.

The neighbor walked around the side of the house and saw a strange dotted line leading from under one of the windows to the woods across the property. He walked closer. They were footprints leading away from the house. The prints shimmered in the early morning sun. The neighbor bent down and tentatively touched the white with his finger. It was frost. He turned toward the side of the house and leaned against the window, cupping his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare.

An involuntary gasp exited his lungs. Baldwin was in the center of the room in the rocking chair, the shotgun still across its arms. His eyes were open in fear, and a white frost shrouded him and everything in the room.