The Night the Snow Breathed

Written by Sara Feng from Bethpage High School, New York, USA

The Beast came with the crying wind, and that was the first sign the night wouldn’t survive till morning. 

The snow outside my grandmother’s house covered every street until the world felt quiet and scared. I was sitting by her fire when the cold sharpened, stinging my skin and curling frost across the inside of the windows. 

“Grandma, it’s way too cold for this,” I said. 

She froze. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she said, “No. This is the night it comes.” 

She took an iron nail from a wooden box. “Go get the cream.” 

When I hesitated, she snapped, “Now. We must show respect if we want to stay safe.”

I brought her the cream, and she set the bowl outside, murmuring old words that made my skin crawl. 

Then I heard it, a deep growl, low and distant, yet strong enough to shake the floor beneath my feet. 

The fire dimmed. Shadows stretched across the walls like they were trying to flee. “Grandma… what is out there?” 

Her eyes glistened, but her voice stayed steady. 

“The Christmas Beast. It knows who is truly kind and who only pretends.” 

Outside, something huge moved between the houses. First came the antlers, tall, draped with icicles that chimed like tiny glass bells. Its fur was black and heavy, and every breath it took turned the snow into sharp pieces of ice. 

“Don’t move,” Grandma whispered. “And don’t look into its eyes.” 

The Beast stopped at our neighbors’ home, the Wilkes family, who always bragged loudly about their “good deeds.” 

Their windows flashed bright… then shattered from the inside. 

A scream tore through the night. 

The Beast growled again, louder this time, shaking loose snow from the roofs. I wanted to run, but Grandma’s grip tightened.

“If you are honest and kind, it will pass,” she murmured. 

We sat frozen as its heavy footsteps moved closer, the chime of icicles echoing with each breath. When it reached our door, its massive shadow filled the frosted glass. The bowl of cream outside steamed and cracked, but slowly, the Beast turned away. 

By morning, the storm was gone. Every house in town bore long, claw-shaped frost marks, except ours. People whispered about missing neighbors and strange sounds in the night. 

Grandma only said, “It came because people forgot what real goodness is.” 

Years later, when I moved to a bright, crowded city, I tried to forget that night. But last December, as I walked home through falling snow, the streetlamps flickered blue. Frost curled up the inside of the bus stop glass in long, thin lines. 

Then, from a dark alley behind me, I heard the soft chime of icicles… and a growl I knew too well. 

I turned slowly, and something giant moved between the lights.