Red Icicles and Other Cold Terrors: The Other Collections, #3

By Jude Mire

Prisoners on an icy planet make a terrifying discovery. Wet bones scratch at the underside of a frozen pond. Youthful hope crawls into the Stygian darkness, and a widow searches for warmth in a blizzard. The dead come for a winter holiday, and a mountaineering trip takes a deadly turn. The snow falls and falls and never stops.

From the frigid wastes of imagination comes Red Icicles, a collection of ten cold-hearted horror stories. The temperature drops, and strange terrors emerge, in this dark collection of horrors stories that are sure to chill your soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jude Mire
• Release date: Apr 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215741627

Jude Mire

Jude Mire is a genre fiction author who writes new-weird fiction, sci-fi, horror, and fantasy. He originally hails from Chicago and now resides in a town by the ocean in beautiful Nova Scotia. He's a repeat finalist in the WildClaw Theater Deathscribe Radio Play competition, written issues of the afro-centric superhero book, The Horsemen, for Griot Enterprises, helped run the Twilight Tales genre reading series, and he created and ran the Cult Fiction writers group and organized their live performances. He's had several works published in anthologies, online magazines, and produces new fiction monthly for subscription at https://www.patreon.com/judemire. Across assorted genres, his work has an emphasis on exploring the atypical, expanding diversity, and creating innovative new visions.

Book preview

Red IciclesBlack and white lantern hanging in tree

RED ICICLES

AND OTHER COLD TERRORS

JUDE MIRE

Copyright © 2023 Jude Mire

All rights reserved.

Paperback ISBN:

978-1-9994601-4-3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover and Chapter Illustrations: Jude Mire

Author Photograph: Gracie Hagen

In Memory

of

Eric Mitchell

and all the

snow forts

we built

together.

CONTENTS

The Widow’s Tarot

Between the Sheets

The Christmas Journal of Benjamin Hill

Whitefall

Both Sides of the Ice

Rabbit

Brumal Night

Crack Shot

Santa’s Place

Red Icicles

About the Author

Also By Jude Mire

The widow’s tarot

Candice Jane sat on a wooden stool with a shotgun across her lap facing the front door. There was a rocking chair in the corner that was far more comfortable, but she didn't trust herself not to fall asleep in it. It had happened before. Most often it happened when she was quilting, and not when she was as high strung and alert as she was tonight. But still, the price of comfort was too high to risk it when added to the possibility of failure.

She pinched her cheeks and shook her head.

The cabin was nice, by wilderness standards. Davis had built it up against a stone embankment and mined out a shallow larder. There was a warm alcove for the bed and a fireplace built right into the rock. Low embers warmed the room, but the oil lamp on the table lit it. A well-stocked wood shed covered the western wall and was accessible from inside as well as out. Opposite, large windows let in the morning light. They were barred with metal and had shutters to seal them against both invader and cold. Candace had done so now, in the occurrence of one and anticipation of another. It was a good defensible home. The only way in, or out, was through the heavy front door.

Candice listened to the blowing wind, laden with approaching winter storm, and waited. Trouble was on its way. While she'd had no direct confirmation that they were coming tonight, she'd dealt the cards and read them, just like she did every night. The tarot said they would come with the snow and there were already flecks falling in the gusting night. They probably figured her for an easy target. A lone widow on a rich claim, a dead husband, and weather fierce enough to kill a deer. She could see their plan clearly enough: drag her into the cold and leave her. Let nature run its course. Later, they could return and discover the tragedy. The land would become available again.

Somebody'd get rich.

But she knew they were coming, had Davis' gun, and was ready. If she were lucky, she wouldn't die tonight. The snow started to fall in earnest, fat and thick. Soon now.

Everything in the tarot spread told her what she needed to know. Her grandmother had taught her the cards, and she was an able hand at deciphering them. It was easy to see some things, but tricky to spot it all. She'd known full well on the morning she sent Davis off to his dig that he'd strike it rich that day. But in the excitement of the good cards, she'd missed the full weight of the Five of Cups. They always carried gloom, but The Sun had shone too brightly on the reading. She'd missed the full implication. The very rocks that tumbled away to reveal a bright future crushed the life from Davis.

She knew she wasn't seeing everything clearly tonight either, and her mind kept studying the read, over and over, afraid that she was missing something. It was that Ten of Wands that kept giving her the most trouble. Why was that there? So much fire for a cold night. She stood and went to the table, looking over the spread again. Still, she could not determine the significance, especially where it was positioned in the past, near her lost husband. Did it mean that warmth was lost to the past? Her attackers would succeed?

She heard the squeal of an engine and white slivers of light slid around the room from approaching headlights. At least three cars. That was worse than she'd hoped. Two or three men, she could hold off with a shotgun. More was out of the question. She heard shouting outside, over the storm, and then a hammering knock on the door.

A voice shouted over the wind. Hello? We need help. Our autos can't move in this storm. We need shelter!

A predictable ruse. She had to decide, quick, what to do. She wanted to kill these murderous thieves. It made her angry that they thought she was weak and stupid and easy to be rid of. But, more than that, she was infuriated by the possibility that they were right. Now that they'd arrived, fighting them off seemed a lot less likely than it had appeared in her mind.

I've got nothing to help! Move on down to Hargrave's! He's got a barn for you and your autos! she yelled back.

Can't do it, widow! Now open up! The unseen voice punctuated his demand with a fist on the hardwood. She responded with a pair of blasts to the mantle above the door.

Get off my property!

She quickly reloaded, half expecting them to bust in. They didn't. She heard shouting, a few of them laughing, like it was a game to them. Something fun. Minutes ticked by. Nothing. She thought she heard them rummaging around in the wood shed, but the noise didn't last long. The headlights turned off on all but one of the vehicles. There was a thump as something struck the side of the house, then the sound of a man on the roof. There was another knock on the door.

Last chance, widow. Open up.

Why were they on the roof? They couldn't be so stupid as to think they could send a man down the chimney. But they could...

She dropped her shotgun and rushed for the flue lever. Even as she did, sticks, wrapped in hay, started to fall down into her fireplace. Ten of them landed onto the hot coals before she got it closed. She didn't miss the significance of that. She grabbed the hearth shovel to drag them out before they caught and smoked her out. But the entirety of their plan hadn't yet completed.

Gasoline poured down the chimney, around the flue, and ignited the hearth in an explosive splash.

Candice's sleeve caught on fire. She backed away from the blaze, patting out the flames on her arm. The room was washed in a wave of acrid smoke. There was a crash and her front door slammed open. The man who'd knocked it down fell forward onto the floor. She stumbled for her gun. A second man followed the first, barging in. She got to the weapon, raised it, and fired as he swung his arm at her, knocking the shot wide. He grabbed the barrel and shoved it upwards. She fired again, into the ceiling, and he hit her in the face.

She fell backwards and scurried toward the stone wall. Figure after figure, dark silhouettes in the smokey lantern haze, entered her home. She heard a gun cock.

No. Said a voice. No bullets, you idiot.

Dead is dead.

The shadowy man nearest her was pulled back and shoved toward the door. Hardly. Now put that away and go get the ropes. Bag her. And somebody open that damn flue!

They came for her. She punched, and kicked, to no avail. She counted eight of them and knew there were no more outside. She'd seen the Eight of Swords clear enough. They put a sack on her head and bound her hands. All around her she heard boots on the floor, stomping and creaking. She hadn't realized how big of a find Davis must have made, if the claim warranted this kind of attention.

You two know what to do. Make sure she's not too hard to find, maybe out by their dig. Then come back here. We'll spend the night and double check it's done in the morning.

Rough hands picked her up and carried her out into the bluster. Without her coat, in just her dress, the wind was brutal. They dragged her past the driveway and tool shed, up through the boulder strewn trail where there was a footbridge over the creek. One of the men stopped.

I'm freezing. Let's just put her here, under the bridge. People will think she slipped or somethin'.

We were supposed to go further, up to the gold. He gave her a rough tug, trying to get them moving again.

We were supposed to leave her in a good spot. This is a better spot. It makes more sense. Maybe she was coming down here for some water, tripped, fell down.

The second man wasn't a fan of the cold either. He didn't take much convincing. Fine, but you drag her down there.

She stumbled down the embankment, half dragged by the rope. Candace slipped on the smooth ice of the frozen stream and fell. The man didn't bother righting her, and just tied the extra line from her wrist bindings to one of the support legs of the bridge.

Just go to sleep, lady. Think of your husband. He patted her on the shoulder and scrambled back up the incline. They re-crossed the bridge and she heard the fresh snow crunching as they left her.

As she lay there, muscles twitching with cold, freezing to death, she found that she wasn't really afraid, she was angry. That patronizing touch at the end, like comforting an irrational child, kept playing in her head. Is that what she was to them? As small an obstacle as some weak, unintelligent, youngster? Evidently.

She thrashed against her bindings. She managed to wiggle free of the bag on her head and almost instantly regretted it. At very least, it had been keeping her face warm. Now the wind froze her frustrated tears on her cheeks.

She tried righting herself on the ice but kept slipping. She rolled onto her back and looked up at the dark sky, the underside of the bridge, and the falling snow. She'd be damned if she died this way. There had to be a way out of it. She just had to see it. Whatever she needed to do was in those cards she'd read earlier. She just had to remember them, to interpret the spread properly. She ignored the biting cold and tried to focus.

It was those wands. She had to comprehend their meaning. Now that she'd seen the ten kindling bundles that fell, their meaning changed. That fire, while it proved to be her undoing, wasn't enough for something positioned so prominently in the read. So near to her husband. It signified a bigger blaze, something more. There had to be a connection between her husband and the flames.

She brought Davis to mind, rolled their happy memories together, and looked for the clue. It didn't take her long to find it. Once she had the right memory, a plan formed in her head. She didn't know if she'd survive the night, but she certainly knew now that she had a chance at revenge, but only if she could unbind herself.

She raised her legs up and brought her boot heels down onto the ice. Over and over, she smashed them into the frozen stream. It was thick enough to bear her weight, but not a good pummeling. Her feet broke through to the freezing water. She submerged her hands and ran the rope that was binding her across the sharp edge of the ice. She kept her fingers balled up, trying to keep them warm, but they went numb anyway. After several minutes, she realized she was never going to get the leverage she needed from the angle she was at. She was going about it from the wrong direction. She didn't like it, but she knew what she had to do.

Candice turned around and, feet first, shimmied her body into the water. It was near unbearable, but once she was there, she could push with all her weight. She leaned against the edge, shoving the rope hard against the ice, and rocked back and forth, splashing wildly.

The cold water, flowing around her, made her heart race and her skin tingled painfully. Her legs went numb. Her breath caught in her chest. She began to worry that she was going to faint, and the fear drove her to struggle harder, working the rope with all her might.

There was a snap as the cord separated. She clambered out of the stream and chewed at the frayed thing, looping and untangling the line until her hands came free. Dripping, barely able to walk, she climbed back up the embankment and made her way into the woods.

Despite the dark and the snow, she had no trouble finding her husbands grave. She couldn't feel her hands anymore as she dug into the earth. She was freezing, and her fingers were blue, but the work, digging hunched over herself, warmed her some. Where once she'd felt ashamed that she hadn't been able to bury Davis very deep, now she felt gratitude. After a time, she struck his belt buckle. She didn't clear his body completely, just the area around his groin. She dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter.

Trembling, she flipped the lid up and clicked it. A warm yellow flame sprung to life.

For the first time that night she smiled. The read, the whole tarot read, finally made sense to her.

The Chariot sat before the Eight of Swords. She would put a car in neutral and barricade the door of her cabin with the eight men inside.

Below the Chariot was the Ace of Cups. She would do as they had, drain the gasoline. Only it wouldn't be just a bucket. She'd drain all three cars of every drop and douse the entire cabin.

The Tower, the card of destruction, violent change, and trouble, was the one that had warned her of their coming, that she was in danger. But now, she realized it was not for her.

They would all burn. Her home would burn. Her past would burn.

She would stay warm in the glow.

Between the sheets

Darren wished he had brought a better coat as he followed Whitney along the edge of the reservoir. She was out on the ice, paralleling him, but he didn't trust it enough to join her. She skated on flat feet, doing little running bits and then sliding along as far as the momentum would take her. She was faster than him, trudging along in the snow. Nobody had beaten a path along the edge. They'd probably all done what she was doing and kept to the bare ice.

As she circled back, again, on account of his lesser speed, he finally resigned

Reviews for Red Icicles and Other Cold Terrors

[Emily S Hurricane · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Frigid, chilling horror!

This collection gripped me from the first page! Mire's writing style is engaging, punchy, and intense, and kept me guessing with each story. Every one of these stories uses winter as a horrific theme, making me feel frozen from the inside out. With visceral descriptions and excellent character voice, I was completely enthralled while reading.

Highly recommend this chilling collection, make sure you curl up with a blanket!