Maureen went slowly and carefully, working against an endless ocean of white (and it was still coming down). She knew it wasn’t a good idea to do this herself at her age, but there was no one else at home. Through the blizzard, a form emerged – white on white; an impossibly beautiful young man. “Here, let me help you,” he whispered, taking the shovel from her hands; his eyes were blood red, his teeth sharp. “Do you have a name?” she asked softly, the increase in deaths with every major snowfall suddenly making perfect sense. “Do I need one?” he asked gently. “You may give me one if you like.” Maureen swallowed. It wasn’t the worst way to die, really – in the arms of a kind of angel. “Frosty?” she offered, then shook her head; that was just plain stupid. The snow vampire laughed loudly at that one, clearly amused, and nodded warmly. The end was tender and elegant.