The freak June blizzard shrouded the scarecrow in white mist, but Jem Gregson wasn’t trudging out of the farmhouse with his rifle on Old Rusty’s account. He was out here for the snowmen.
They were in a row, slender columns of tightly packed, brilliant crystals, glittering until his eyes ached. Each had a perfectly round ball placed on top of its tapered trunk. They had just appeared through the curtains of flakes before there was even enough snow on the ground to have made them. The spherical heads were blank, without coal eyes or carrot noses, no studded black smile to mark out the face. Each one was exactly the same, and he huddled by Old Rusty and counted five – no, six – of them altogether.
Jem didn’t like this one bit.
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A sleepy English village mourns its war dead, but from their grieving wishes comes something new… A freak blizzard in June brings with it strange, Otherworldly children, who appear to the grieving villagers wearing the faces of those they have lost. What do they want? And what will happen if the villagers follow their Snow Child?
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