Winterwood by Shea Ernshaw
A boy went missing the night of the storm. The night snow sailed down from the mountains and howled against the eaves of the old house as if through gritted teeth—cruel and baleful and full of bad omens not to be ignored. The electricity flickered like Morse code. The temperature dropped so fast that trees cracked down their centers, sweetsmelling sap oozing to the surface like honey, before it too crystalized and froze. Snow spiraled down the chimney and gathered on the roof, until it was so deep it buried the mailbox at the end of the driveway, until I could no longer see Jackjaw Lake beyond my bedroom window. Winter arrived in a single night. By morning, Barrel Creek Road—the only road down the mountain—was snowed in. Blocked by an impassable wall of white.