Can evil truly be as pure and as silent as snowfall? In the quaint town of Cullpepper, where each winter dresses the streets in a pristine cloak of white, something far more sinister than a snowdrift lurks in the shadows. Frostbitten whispers tell of a man whose heart seems as cold as the icicles he wields, a family man who smiles at neighbors and tucks his children in at night. Winter's chill brings more than just rosy cheeks and hearth fires—it brings death, silent, swift, and as temporary as the melting ice. An icicle, a tool of convenience for the Icicle Killer, whose ephemeral weapons leave the police grasping at puddles for clues. Who could suspect the kindly face seen at town meetings, the hands that pass you change at the local store, the jovial companion at the bar, of harboring a heart so frigid? And now, as another winter descends, the town holds its breath, frost clinging to windowpanes and fear to hearts. Who will be next to shiver under the Icicle Killer's chilling embrace? A scream shatters the silence of a snow-blanketed night. Only the moon bears witness to the crimson stain blooming across the white; the sound is muffled quickly, swallowed by the vast, indifferent expanse of winter's first heavy snow. Why, when the world is at its most silent, does death's whisper carry so far?
