Frosty's Revenge (youngsters:fairy tales, 2347 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 16 2002	Views/Reads: 6209/2959	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Can the snowman really talk to little Tommy?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“No, I want to build one here.” 

Mel put her hands on her hips and looked sternly at her tiny brother,
the fine snow covering his spectacles. “Remember what mum and dad said. 
We have to stay away from old Pringle.” 

The protest fell upon deaf ears. Tommy was scooping up the snow with his
small-gloved hands. The snowman was being conceived. 

Thirty minutes later, the children were joined by Peter Hall and his
sister, Gemma. Peter was even smaller than Tommy, but he wasted no time 
in aiding with the construction of the snowman. Gemma and Mel chatted 
in the background, keeping a wary eye on Pringle's house. 

Frosty the snowman was born that morning. The boys stepped back to
admire their handiwork, like an artist who had just painted a 
masterpiece. 

“He needs a face,” said Mel, twirling one of her pigtails. “Come on
Gemma, I know where we can find a face for him.” 

The girls ran off into the white wilderness, Peter loping behind them,
his small legs struggling through the deepening snow. 

Tommy saw old Pringle's curtains move. The rebellious child stood firm.
He picked up a stick and marched up and down, military like. Nobody was 
going to take his snowman. 

The children returned with their treasure; an assortment of buttons,
cotton reels and a long carrot. As they approached the snowman, they 
could hear little Tommy talking. 

“Tommy, why are you talking to yourself?” asked Mel. 

“I'm not. I've been talking to Frosty.” 

“Frosty?” 

“Yes, that's his name.” 

“We should vote on his name,” complained the gangly Gemma, who was
jumping up and down to try to keep warm. 

Tommy protested. “But Frosty is his name. He told me.” 

Mel pushed her tiny brother. “Tommy, sometimes I worry about you. He
hasn't even got a mouth, so how can he talk to you?” 

Peter giggled in his high-pitched voice. “Snowmen cannot talk, Tommy.” 

“He did talk to me; I'm not lying.” 

“Oh yeah, so what'd he say then?” 

“He asked my name, and told me his.” 

The other three children laughed and mocked him, before settling down
and creating the face of Frosty. His eyes were blue cotton reels, which 
were embedded deeply into his head, and the carrot was his nose. A red 
woolly hat was stretched across his head, and a red scarf was tied 
around his massive neck. 

“Oh no, we've forgotten his mouth,” complained Gemma. 

They heard the door open and saw the ominous figure of old Pringle
marching towards them, waving that walking stick of his. 

“Come on, run for it!” yelled Mel. 

All the children fled, except the defiant Tommy. He was standing in
front of Frosty, his stick resting across his slender shoulder. 

Pringle faced him, his receding hair in dire need of a comb, his
unflattering attire hanging loosely from his wafer-thin body. His false 
teeth were too large for his wrinkled mouth, and as he moved them 
about, an irritating sound grated on Tommy. Pringle's green cardigan 
was missing a button; his ragged, food-stained shirt visible beneath. 
His soiled trousers were held together with string. Pringle was not a 
poor man; he just did not like to spend money. 

“Out of my way, you young rascal. You know this is my green.” 

Tommy looked at the miserly man's long, thin, pointed nose. The usual
droplet was hanging from it, like an icicle waiting to thaw. “This is 
my snowman, Mr Pringle. His name is Frosty.” 

“Piffle!” The old man pushed Tommy to the ground, his face numbing as it
made contact with the snow. 

Pringle brought his walking stick above his head swung it wildly,
knocking Frosty's head off his shoulders. He stabbed at the decapitated 
snowman, like a swordsman fighting a duel. Tommy pulled at old Pringle, 
but he was no match for the older man. He continued his onslaught, 
swiping out, until a mound of snow lay at his feet. 

“Let that be a lesson to you, boy. This is my green.” Pringle marched
off, a thin layer of snow covering his sodden body. 

Tommy cried out loudly, falling to his knees and caressing the snow.
“Frosty, I'm sorry,” he sobbed. 

His sister and her friends, who had been watching from a distance,
consoled the distraught boy. Mel put a caring arm around Tommy and 
escorted him back home. 

Tommy lay on his bed the rest of the day; his delicate little heart had
been broken. His mother had tried without success to lure Tommy 
downstairs. Even his favourite jam roly-poly could not persuade him to 
leave the luxury of his bedroom. He just lay there crying. He had lost 
a friend. 

Pringle was huddled over his one bar electric fire, blowing on his thin
watery vegetable soup. The banging on his door interrupted his supper. 
He peered through his dirty net curtains. “Piffle!” 

He opened the door to be confronted by an irate Barry Whittle. “You old
scrote! What have you done to my son? He was only building a bloody 
snowman for God's sake.” 

“Building an effigy on my land. My land do you hear?” 

“He was doing you no harm. A small boy playing in the snow. Haven't you
any heart?” 

“If you've finished, my supper's getting cold.” 

“Listen, if you ever lay a finger on my son, I'll...” 

“You'll what? I know my rights. He was on my land.” 

The door was slammed shut. Barry Whittle returned to the blizzard, his
only thoughts were for his son. 

Mel opened her eyes. It took but a few seconds for her eyes to focus.
Her younger brother was standing over her, fully dressed, a smile 
covering his cherub-like features. 

“Tommy, you're smiling.” 

“Come on, Mel, we have to see Frosty.” 

“Frosty is not there, Tommy. Don't you remember what happened
yesterday?” 

“Come take a look over here.” he insisted. 

The weary girl approached the window. She cupped her hands over her eyes
and the brilliant snow dazzled her. The white smattering of snow was 
dispensing its light flakes, and cleansing the landscape of its corrupt 
surroundings. Mel peered into the distance to see the unmistakeable 
figure of the snowman. “That's impossible. Someone has rebuilt him.” 

“Get dressed, Mel. I'll meet you over there.” 

“No wait, Tommy!” 

He never heard her. He was out of the door, running towards Frosty,
racing as fast as his little legs would allow him. Tommy threw his arms 
around Frosty and cried tears of joy. “Frosty, Frosty, you've come 
back.” 

Mel ran through the snow, having to pick herself up as the deep powder
made her progress slow. She stopped about twenty metres from Tommy. He 
was talking to the snowman. There was no mistaking, as she could hear 
him clearly. 

“Tommy, you must stop talking to the snowman. He's only make believe.” 

“Frosty was asking me about the nasty man who knocked his head off.” 

“I wonder who rebuilt him,” mumbled Mel, suspecting her parents to be
responsible. She looked at Frosty. Something had changed. He had an 
opening for a mouth. “I‘ve brought mum‘s lipstick, Tommy. I thought he 
needed a mouth.” 

She approached the snowman and traced his mouth with the red lipstick,
before stepping back to admire her work. 

They played in the snow, until their mother called them for lunch. 

“I don't want to go for lunch, Mel.” 

“You must, Tommy. You have all day to play with Frosty.” 

Tommy conceded and gave Frosty another hug before setting off home. He
wolfed down his lunch and his mother complained that he would get 
indigestion. Tommy did not care; he just wanted to be reunited with 
Frosty. 

“You've built another snowman, I see, Tommy?” asked his mother. 

“No Mum, he built himself.” 

“He built himself?” 

“Yes, he told me.” 

His mother frowned, watching Tommy wrapping himself up. 

Mel spoke up. “He thinks the snowman talks to him, Mother.” 

“He does. Frosty talks to me.” 

“Well, why doesn't he talk to me?” moaned Mel. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. Maybe he doesn't like sissy
girls.” 

His mother chuckled, as she watched him exit the front door. 

Tommy scampered through the snow, skipping and whistling. He stopped,
frozen to the spot. A large pile of snow lay where Frosty had been 
standing, just minutes before. 

“Nooo!” He screamed; “Please don't let it be true.” He ran frantically
towards the pile of snow. Frosty's head lay on the ground. He cradled 
the head and sobbed, as he looked to see Pringle's door closing. 

Old Pringle cuddled up to his hot water bottle. His false teeth lay in a
glass of water, besides his rickety bed.  He heard the howling wind and 
the branches of the tree tapping against his window, reflecting their 
shadows on his yellow bare walls. He cocked his ear. Again, he heard a 
rapping downstairs. He sat up in bed and lit his half candle. He was 
not imagining it. Someone was tapping quietly on his door. 

“Piffle!” He moaned, pressing his wrinkled nose against the cold,
steamed up window. He made a circle on the glass, but nobody appeared 
to be on his doorstep. He squinted at his clock on his rotten bedside 
table to see that it was two-fifteen. Who could be knocking at his door 
at this hour? 

The tapping continued and Pringle angrily threw off his bedclothes, and
proceeded down his creaky staircase. He carried his candle on a saucer, 
and a nightcap was resting on his head. His blue striped pyjamas had 
seen better days. 

The tapping continued, even though he was now standing behind the door. 

“Who is it?” 

There was no response. 

“I said who is calling at this unearthly hour?” 

Again, there was no answer. 

“Bloody kids, if this is their idea of a joke, I'll tan their hides.” 

He unlatched his chain and turned the key. He opened the creaky old door
slowly and stepped back, his trembling hands dropping the candle. His 
lips quivered uncontrollably, as he continued his retreat. “This is a 
dream! This cannot be happening.” 

His progress was halted by his grubby wall. The shadow of the intruder
cast a large black shadow across him, and he let out a blood-curdling 
scream. 

The next morning, the sun had made an unexpected appearance, intruding
into the white landscape, like an unwanted guest. Tommy was standing, 
talking to Frosty, as he watched the police car and ambulance outside 
old Pringle's house. Tommy, his two front teeth missing, looked to 
Frosty and laughed. 

The official enquiry concluded that Pringle had died of a heart attack.
Why was his front door open? Had he admitted an unwanted guest that 
morning? The detective, DC Rogers had called at Pringle's that morning, 
He, along with the coroner was baffled. Pringles face was a mask of 
fear. If the detective did not know better, he would have sworn that 
the old man had died of fright. Perhaps, he had surprised a burglar, 
but no fingerprints were ever found. 

The most puzzling factor was why was there a large pool of water on
Pringle's carpet with a candle lying in it?  Tommy knows!” 


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