The Winter Experiment by William Todd Rose

My dead uncle’s mountain top cabin, day eight of my seventeenth experiment, one hundred and seventy hours that my subject has been shackled to the wall. All of the ancient rites have been performed, the proper incense burned, the instruments calibrated, and now I sit, watching and waiting. I have modified the cabin, divided the single large room into two smaller ones: the one I am in has the comfort of a wood burning stove, an overstuffed office chair, and a large two-way mirror installed in the dividing wall; the other room, the test chamber, where my subject has given up screaming for help and is now pulling at her chains as if she could somehow muster the strength to rip them from the wall is as cold and barren as the tundra outside.

The subject is unaware of the sensors surrounding her, unaware of the place she is taking in the annals of metaphysical science. She probably feels alone, afraid, only aware that she has been taken away from everything she has ever known or loved, held captive and questioned for reasons she can not begin to comprehend . . . how could she even begin to understand how important I have made her, the impact her sacrifice will have upon the world if my hypothesis proves correct? I have taken this simple shop girl and elevated her into greatness, into the immortality that comes with the making of history.

Everything is in order. The door to the cabin faces the northeast, the direction the elders used to call the kimon, the Demon Gate, the bridge between the human world and that of the oni, the yokai, the yurei . . . .

My electronics begin to flux wildly between extremes, room temperature dipping lower, lower still, then rapidly rising almost to freezing point before plummeting back down into subzero readings, electromagnetic fields wavering far above and below normal, the stylus scratching out a jagged scribble like the EKG reading of a seizure patient.

The door flies open and bangs against the wall with such force that the pane of glass in the two-way mirror rattles. Snow swirls in the air and scatters into the cabin like tiny creatures fleeing the approach of some ravenous predator and then I see her, the fruition of all my research and experimentation, the end result of countless hours huddled over the pages of forgotten tomes, of melding enduring mythology with empirical method, manifesting in the doorway and stirring forbidden emotion from this stoic scientist.

Horror and lust, wanting so badly to reach out and touch but fearing the searing cold that would surely shatter my fingers into a thousand crystalline pieces with even the slightest brush. So beautiful and deadly like a silver-eyed serpent weaving before me, begging me to drown in those mercury like pools, to see my reflection, to see the images playing out of me taking her, out there in the snow dunes: all primal passion, grunts and moans as she writhes beneath me, leaning closer, ever closer, her lips glistening and parted for that one final kiss, her mouth oh so inviting and ready to wrap my soul in her soft, secret places.

Those luscious lips move, as if speaking, but the voice seems to originate somewhere within my head, as if the bones of my skull are vibrating like the surface of a speaker and projecting the soft, lilting voice directly into my brain:

Come to me, lover, come to my palace of ice, come to my frozen caverns of inequity, come to me . . . .

Look away, look at anything, at the instrumentation, the needles and gauges charting every environmental variable of the room, the camera recording each frame of this once-in-a-lifetime encounter. Stare at the clipboard, at your notes, at the smudge of dirt on the tip of your shoe. Watch the subject instead, how she has ceased to struggle against her restraints, limp and subservient now like a flesh doll cast off into the corner of the cabin: discarded and forgotten by the world of mortals, but a perfect plaything for the woman who came out of the cold.

Yuki-onna, the snow woman, yokai, myth, legend, the subject of a thousand nightmares and fantasies finally here before me. Her naked flesh as white and pure as the snow from which she emerged, her silken black hair cascading to the small of her back, lips as soft and red as rose petals blown by the breeze onto a snow drift. I want to run my hand along the smooth curves of her hips, to trace patterns onto her belly with the tip of my tongue, to go to her on bent knees and allow her to cup my face between her hands as she leans ever closer.

Yes, lover, come. Come to me, see what delights I have in store for you . . . .

The subject gasps from her corner, really nothing more than a soft sigh but enough to sever the spell. I find that I have crossed half the room, that I am now just on the other side of the two-way mirror with my hand poised on the door knob and ready to turn. Ready to join her. Prepared to become a part of my own experiment.

Jerking my hand away as if the knob were a spider and I a fat, juicy bug. Look instead at the cabin’s front door: see how Yuki-onna left no tracks in the snow, listen to the wind howling like a wounded beast, and notice that it does not seem to cause her hair to whip around in its frenzy. So cold outside, but not a dimple on her bare, porcelain-like skin, not a shiver or even the slightest indication that she feels the freezing temperatures of the storm.

She moves to the subject now, almost seeming to glide across the wooden floor. I try to look at her feet, to see if steps are actually being taken, but can not focus. I see the vaguest suggestion of toes and heel but it’s almost as if I were looking through a mist, as if they are struggling to take form in this world of flesh and sinew, wavering in the borderlands between shadow and substance. I feel the stain of madness seeping around the edges of my mind, want to cry and scream and laugh and touch . . . oh god how I want to touch, what would it be like to slide my finger into that fuzzy patch of reality, to have it span the gap between worlds? Would I feel feet or perhaps the strange sensation of existing simultaneously in two separate planes of existence, one of which was never meant to know the presence of the human form?

Touch me, lover, take me in your hands, embrace me with your curiosity, come with me, come now . . . .

No, ignore her words, focus on the subject, remember your purpose, observe, record, remain objective: Subject 17 is a twenty-four year old female, healthy, no history of mental illness, no professed beliefs in the supernatural, more resilient to environmental extremes than previous subjects. Slight bruising on the upper right shoulder, two pinpoint burns on the left side of the neck at taser contact point, now appears to be in a catatonic or hypnagogic state, has not reacted to the presence of the yokai Yuki-onna since shortly after manifestation at 0200 hours. The yokai herself is like something from a fevered dream, alluring and beautiful, seeming to radiate an aura of sensuality in every graceful move of her arm, every slight turn of the head, the rhythmic rise and fall of her perfect breasts is like . . . .

So strong, her seduction of the mind: who is manacled more, Subject 17? Or I to the allure of her temptations?

Yuki-onna leans over the subject, so close that surely the girl must sense on some level the presence of such a powerful force. If so, she gives no indication as the yokai pinches the girls cheeks, forming the mouth into a slight oval. Time seems to slow to a near standstill as Yuki-onna’s lips touch those of the subjects, the slight hint of pink tongue entering the mouth. Crystals start to spread across the surface of the subject’s eyes, like time-lapse footage of a puddle icing over, and Yuki-onna clutches the subject’s hair in her fists, pushing the girl’s head forward, kissing more deeply.

What looks like a plume of breath made visible by cold curls around the corners of the subject’s mouth before being sucked into the hungry lips of the spectral seductress. Skin tinged blue now, ice forming on eyelashes, suddenly the subject is struggling again, kicking her heels against the floor, thrashing, the manacles clinking as loud as bells in the silence of the scene playing out. But there is no escape. She is captive within Yuki-onna’s embrace, held so tightly against the naked flesh that surely the two will merge into a single entity if those alabaster arms increase their pressure even slightly.

I could know the taste of those lips, know the feeling of those breasts pressed against my chest, the tickle of her hair brushing against my nipples, the cold, cold comfort of her arms.

Come, Lover . . . .

The subject no longer struggles, her limbs are locked in their final positions, a single frozen tear half trickled out of the corner of her eye, and her body covered in a layer of frost like a sculptor’s interpretation of fear on a cold winter’s morn. Yuki-onna pulls away from her, stands fully upright, turns, and looks at the mirror, looks through the mirror, looks into the deepest recesses of my psyche.

Come . . .

I am her servant, her toy, her willing slave, no longer having the strength to resist her summons. My body, my spirit, my life all offered up upon the altar of carnal hunger. I raise my arms to welcome her approach.

From behind Yuki-onna I hear a sharp popping like the sound of a frozen lake shattering into spider web cracks underfoot. I see chains that were once securely fastened to the wall, now seeming as if they had been dipped into liquid nitrogen and tapped with a hammer, fractured and laying in slivers on the floor.

The subject stands, her movements rigid and jerky, the film of ice across her body breaking where joints coax movement from stiffened muscle. She moves in front of the yokai, obscuring the object of my wanton desire from view. Something forms in the subject’s hands, something long and slender and glistening, something like a cross between an icicle and a metallic spike, looking so much sharper and deadlier than any weapon ever crafted by human hands and gaining solidity with each passing second.

I see Yuki-onna’s hand appear on the subject’s shoulder, the touch light, familiar, intimate.

Lover.

The subject steps toward the door to the room I am in, slashing at the air in front of her with Yuki-onna’s deadly gift as if testing it. Her frosted lips part ever so slightly and her voice is a hoarse whisper.

“You will never have her.”

The door creaks open.

Funny, how snowdrifts dampen the sound of screams in the night.