The Harlequin’s Glare through the Flurry

An old man battles encroaching madness and a chilling, painted threat amidst a relentless winter storm, where reality unravels with each grotesque smile.

"It doesn't make a lick of sense, Patsy. Not a lick." Desmond’s voice, raspy from disuse and the dry air, snagged on the last word. His hand, mottled with age spots, trembled slightly as he set the chipped mug down on the Formica counter. Patsy, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, kept scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain near the ancient register, not looking up. A faint, acrid smell of burnt toast clung to the air from the kitchen door. The old man cleared his throat, the sound like gravel shifting.

"Lot of things don't make sense, Desmond," Patsy murmured, her voice flat, tired. She finally glanced at him, her eyes, rheumy and distant, holding no trace of curiosity, only a practiced weariness. "Especially when the snow comes down like this. People see things. Heard old Farmer McGregor swore he saw a polar bear last Tuesday. Turned out to be a washing machine. You been sleeping, Desmond? Truly?"

Desmond swallowed, his tongue feeling like sandpaper. He hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not since… well, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment the fabric of his world started to fray. "Not a washing machine, Patsy. This… it wasn't a trick of the light. Or the snow. It was… precise. Deliberate."

Patsy sighed, a puff of resignation. She wiped her hands on a grease-stained apron. "Look, the highway's closed, has been since yesterday. Nobody's getting in or out. And you’re the only guest. You and that old pickup of yours, buried under a metre of fresh powder. Whatever you think you saw, it’s probably cabin fever playing tricks. Happens to the best of us in this weather. Go get some rest. I’ll bring you some hot soup later."

He wanted to argue. To shout. To drag her to the grimy window and point, insist, *force* her to see the impossible. But what would she see? He doubted it would be the grotesque, ballooning form that had momentarily solidified against the swirling white backdrop, its painted grin a crimson slash in the grey light, its single, elongated glove waving with an almost obscene slowness before dissolving into the furious dance of snow and wind. He had blinked, rubbed his eyes, pressed his face against the cold glass until his breath fogged it, but it was gone. Only the blizzard remained, a deafening white roar.

He pushed himself up, his knees creaking a protest that echoed in the quiet lobby. The silence of the place, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the frantic scratching of snow against the window, felt heavier than the snow outside. He felt a deep, chilling doubt gnawing at him, a doubt that Patsy’s dismissal had nurtured. Was he… losing it? Had the isolation, the relentless, suffocating winter, finally chipped away at his mind? He stumbled slightly, a hand instinctively going to his hip, where an ache had been persistent for weeks.

### A Frozen Tableau

Back in his room, the recycled air felt stifling. He peeled off his jacket, the worn fabric clinging to his back, and let it drop onto the single armchair. He paced the small space, the thin carpet crunching under his boots. The television, its screen smeared with dust, offered no distraction. He stared out the window again, the blizzard still raging, a relentless, churning white. He felt a frantic urge to escape, a primal need to put distance between himself and… what? A figment? A hallucination? Or something far, far worse.

The idea of leaving, however, was ludicrous. The truck was indeed buried. The roads were impassable. Even if he could dig it out, he wouldn't get a kilometre before hitting a drift taller than his cabin. Yet, the thought persisted, a frantic whisper in his mind. *Get out. Get out now.*

His gaze snagged on a small object on the windowsill, half-hidden by the condensation. It hadn't been there a minute ago. He hadn't noticed it. It was a tiny wooden carving, no bigger than his thumb, roughly shaped like a crude, smiling face. The wood was dark, almost black, and felt strangely warm to the touch, despite the freezing pane of glass it rested against. He turned it over and over, his thumb tracing the uneven lines of the carved grin. It was too childish, too deliberately simplistic, to be anything but unsettling. It was a clown’s face.

His breath hitched. He dropped the carving as if it had burned him, the small, hard wood clattering against the sill. It spun once, the grinning face seeming to watch him, then settled. He backed away, bumping into the flimsy table, sending the remote control skittering to the floor. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. It was no trick of the light. Patsy couldn't explain this. This was real. Or whatever the opposite of real was, this was it.

He needed to think. Needed to understand. He pressed his palms against his temples, a dull throb already starting behind his eyes. The blizzard outside intensified, the wind howling now, a mournful, hungry sound. The glass rattled violently in its frame. He looked at the carving again, then back out into the swirling white chaos. Was it a message? A taunt? He didn't know which was worse. His mind felt like a tangled skein of yarn, impossible to unpick.

---

A sharp crack, like a rifle shot, brought him back. A branch, he thought, or ice. But then a faint, high-pitched giggle seemed to pierce through the thick glass, through the roar of the wind. It was childlike, innocent, yet utterly devoid of joy. It was the sound of something playing a cruel game. Desmond stumbled towards the window, pressing his face to the cold pane once more. Nothing but white. The endless, unforgiving white.

He clutched the curtains, his knuckles white against the faded floral pattern. That giggle… it had been so close. Too close. It was as if it had been right outside his door, not metres away across a frozen, hostile landscape. A shiver, colder than the deepest winter night, ran down his spine. He couldn’t stay here. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a trap, its thin walls offering no protection against the encroaching insanity. He grabbed his parka, the heavy wool feeling like a lead blanket.

He needed to see. Needed to know. The absurdity of it all, an old man heading out into a whiteout in search of a laughing, painted monster, almost made him laugh himself. But it was a humourless thought, bitter and cold. He was Desmond, not some hero from a picture show. He was seventy-two, with a bad hip and worse memories, but this… this was new. This was different. He couldn’t ignore it.

He yanked open the door, the sudden blast of freezing air stealing his breath, an icy fist slamming into his chest. The lobby was deserted. Patsy was nowhere to be seen, presumably in the kitchen, oblivious, or perhaps just choosing to be. The front door, a heavy wooden slab, seemed to mock him, a dark maw leading to an unthinkable terror.

He paused, one hand on the door handle, feeling the raw, sharp cold on his exposed skin. He could turn back. He could retreat to his room, pull the covers over his head, and pretend. Pretend it was the flu, a dream, a senile delusion. He could, but he wouldn’t. Something deep inside him, a stubborn, terrified spark, refused to let go. He had to know. He had to understand. If not for himself, then for whatever fragile hold he still had on what was real.

He pushed the door open, the heavy wood groaning in protest, revealing a churning, blinding wall of white. The cold ripped through him, seizing his lungs. He could barely see his hand in front of his face, the snow driving horizontally, stinging his cheeks like a thousand tiny needles. But then, for a split second, a flash of red and white, a distant bobbing head through the blizzard’s fury, pulling away, beckoning. A glimpse, just enough to confirm. He squinted, trying to pierce the white veil, his eyes watering instantly from the biting wind.

"Wait!" he croaked, the sound swallowed by the gale. He didn't know why he said it. He didn't know what he would do if it waited. But the red and white speck, impossibly clear for a moment, then gone, had set something in motion. A dreadful certainty settled in his gut. This wasn’t an end. It was a beginning.

He pulled his scarf tighter, cinching it around his mouth and nose, the rough wool scratching at his skin. His breath plumed white, instantly snatched by the wind. The cold bit at his exposed skin, promising frostbite, but a different kind of chill, far deeper, spurred him onward. He stepped out into the unforgiving white expanse, a grim resolve hardening his features, knowing the real chase was only just beginning, and the path ahead was carved by painted smiles, each one leading him further into the heart of an impossible, frozen nightmare.