Here’s a little piece inspired by the deathcicles in my hometown. Seriously, though, I’ve never seen icicles this big before. It’s crazy.
Everyone swears that the house on Stafford Road is cursed. Nobody has lived there for as long as I can remember. Any of the windows that weren’t cracked were held together with dust, cobwebs, and pity.
Everybody in Old Easton knew when the snow would come. From the old crones wilting under the weight of their own skin, to the glassy eyed teens tweeting about the fifty shades of clouds rolling over the mountains. Every pantry was fully stocked, every water jug filled, and every generator waited for the blackout that was sure to hit as soon as night fell. But as everyone settled into their strongholds to wait out the storm, nothing so much as twitched at the house on Stafford Road. Nor’easters prey on the solitary and unprepared.
Snowflakes small as grains of sand whipped in sheets across every roof while freight trains of wind bathed the landscape in white. This was the kind of blinding massacre of ice that some said could shred through flesh. The house on Stafford Road was stronger than flesh, but not by much. The tempest stripped the siding and the corners from the walls. Chunks flew off the door and disintegrated into dust. The bloated cracks in the windows shuddered and caved until they shattered under the pressure.
By the time the plows packed the snow into an thin, deadly strip of white asphault, the snowbanks stood like glacial gates at the edge of each lawn. The lawn on Stafford Road became the house’s deathbed. What shingles remained on the roof creaked and the beams below sagged beneath the snow. As the house lay dying, spears of ice ascended from the ground and descended from the roof, encasing the facade in a frozen cell. The house wept within its prison as the demons of the Nor’easter devoured what was left of it.