The moon rose slowly above a silent world, a huge, yellow hole in a black sky. A rustle of overgrowth and the screech of an owl broke the silence.

Gwen shivered. It was the cold, nothing more. Her breath formed clouds of icy vapour as she crept forward. A step at a time she neared the old crypt, each footfall becoming more leaden, terror threatening her intention. Tonight was the end. Never again would a terrible morning follow this night.

She knew the dreadful task that lay ahead. She was prepared and would not fail. Urging herself not to look over her shoulder lest doubt would seep into her thoughts, the sound of the heavy door pierced the stillness. The dankness assaulted her nostrils and she tried not to inhale as the inner darkness embraced her. With a dull thud the door closed and she was enveloped. Her skin crawled as the evil of the undead penetrated her bones. Sound teeming with voices, screams and pitiful shrieks filled her mind. No! She closed her ears, denying the malevolence threatening to overwhelm her.

Her ancestors lay in this unwelcoming place and year after year an unsuspecting soul had been claimed. She never wanted to experience overwhelming sadness again.  Tonight her family’s curse would be broken.

Others celebrated Christmas Eve as a time of joy and precious birth but not her. Tomorrow she would be free. They would all be free. The house would know happiness forever and everyone within would no longer have anything to fear. All that remained was to reach the coffin and place the stake through his terrible heart until his vampire breath left his body. Just him. Gone, the others would leave this earthly union and go to their long awaited rest.

In darkness, the vault was larger than she remembered. She moved by touch, familiar with the aisles between tombs. During the day, with torchlight to guide her, she had traced the path. There were no windows to let in the sun’s rays. Light was uninvited in this place. Tonight, only memory guided her.

Her hand burned as it found the cold lead and with a strength borne of desperation she lifted the lid. It was not sealed. It never had been and she had found out why. The knowledge had both petrified and obsessed her. She had hungered to learn about her forbearer. She was a woman driven, brought here by an all consuming passion.

Turning her head in revulsion she felt for the fiend’s heart. The wooden shaft must find its mark. She lifted herself to her greatest height, ready to bring down the full force of her weight.

***

The myriad lights on the great tree in the hall flickered and dimmed. They remained lacklustre. The adults around the eve of nativity table looked to the chandeliers. The tinkling of the crystal sounded in the bitter breath of air passing through the room and the shining candlelights took on a strange hue. Surely, it must be the weather.

The children’s voices died away. They stopped playing. A silence descended on the house, not one of stillness but rent with unheard noise. The revellers were turned to stone. Not one moved but the dullness of their eyes held dread. They lived in lifeless bodies, trapped and tortured, their minds fighting to be free.

Powerless, they watched as the spectres floated through the manor, heads turning three hundred and sixty degrees, surveying everything. Fear gripped their minds, voices strangled in throats, hearts beat ferociously in motionless bodies.

A terrible moaning filled the terrible air as one after another ghostly vision swirled and spun an icy web in and out the petrified party.

***

Sad Gwen felt his embrace too late. So handsome, he was sitting bolt upright and smiling at her. His eyes lit the all-consuming blackness. She saw him clearly.

“I have waited for you.”

Strong arms pulled her closer. A finger caressed her cheek, a long nail moved to her throat. Slowly her scarf floated to the floor and he bared his fangs, sinking them into her neck. She started as she felt the first burn, piercing blades penetrating her flesh. She didn’t struggle – she was compliant with his will. She knew the stories and the dangers but she was mesmerised. He was incredible. His picture did not do him justice. How could he be evil with a face like this? Heat flowed through her, warmth, then nothing. Blood no longer coursed her veins. What need had she of the liquid of life?

“You are one with me now.”

She nodded.

He rose out of the tomb and his cold fingers curled around her inner wrist.

“So delicate.”

His glowing, red eyes never left her face as he lifted her hand to his mouth and sucked on the blue vein. She moaned lightly and smiled in pleasure, watching the blood rise to the surface.

“The year is long but these hours of darkness are mine. I take what I want. My pact with the devil was conceived long ago but you know that, don’t you, sweet child? My soul is his but my earthly body remains for one night of pleasure beyond compare. My father, the Prince of Darkness, has rewarded me with desecrating this hallowed eve, the time of the Christ child. A life, a body, a mind, one or all, gifts for the dark angel but tonight the prize is mine alone. A lover, beautiful Gwen.”

His endless past flashed before her eyes. She felt his emptiness. She heard the whispers of the books she had read. The embodiment of the phantom that haunted her life stood before her.

“I am yours. I have always been yours.”

His hollow laughter echoed through the chamber, his restless ancestors turned in their graves, the peace of death and eternal rest once more denied them.    

The Count of Shadows and Lord of Untold Horrors wrapped his wraithlike form around his captive virgin. Together they floated toward the sound of happy laughter.

If her daughter, clinging to her new husband didn’t want her, so be it.  Jilly drove from Sydney to the spa town of Moree, a favourite place for comfort.

Though exhausted from the six hundred kilometre drive, she wandered across from her unit to sink into the nearest bore water pool.  It was not wise to face the challenges of the hottest of the five pools too quickly.  The air was cool in the soft evening and the rising steam was more visible than in the daylight hours.

Relaxed and sleepy from the heat and long drive, she dropped into bed that Christmas Eve.

When Jilly woke, she had the feeling she was not alone.  It was still dark.  She felt nervous, though unafraid.  Figures began to emerge from the darkness and wander towards her.  Dawn was rising behind them, giving them a colour-tinged aura.

Who were these people?  For a brief moment, she imagined her daughter, full of regret, standing there.  No.  Jilly stared hard.  Finally, she realised that what she saw was herself through the years of her life.  Ghosts of herself from early childhood to yesterday’s tears.

It was not a pretty vision.  She watched as her weight ballooned and tapered off, only to balloon again.

She reached out a hand to touch her past self.  Her hand simply went through the shadowy figures.  Her past was dead.  Her present self was alive, ready to enjoy the solace of a hot spa.

Lucky he was a bachelor, Paul thought.  Otherwise a wife might have searched more diligently than did his relatives.  Once pickled in alcohol, they’d be no trouble.  For that reason, he had been stoking them up before Christmas lunch became a reality.

He glanced out of the attic window.  No problem.  Aunty Edna was asleep; Bruce was guzzling with a shaky but diligent hand for the nearest bottle.  Paul had made sure that many, many bottles were near at hand, for any hand that sought them out.

Paul didn’t see his mother often and wanted private time with her, without carousing relatives.  He had laid a festive table so there was little to do.  Their lunch was in the deep freeze.  He popped it into the microwave.  Neither ate much.

The meal was disintegrating a little each year and bore a grey-green tinge.  It wasn’t as though it mattered, as his mother, long dead now for thirty-five years, needed nothing to sustain her.  She did appear to enjoy her son’s company.  Paul was cheered by the signs of happiness on his mother’s face.  After briefly poking around at their plates, Paul returned the remains to the deep freeze.

The two sat and enjoyed a good chat before it was time to part.  As his mother faded into the world she now belonged to, Paul gently began the downwards journey towards the kitchen.  There, he made strong black coffees for his unknowing relatives.

‘‘The only thing the children had in common was they’d all disappeared on Christmas Eve. That, and the fact that each returned exactly one day later with no memory of what had occurred or where they’d been…’’

Montague downed a sherry before meeting the gaze of six pairs of eyes trained on him expectantly. Outside the window, snow whirled in the cold December air.

‘‘Do go on, sir,’’ said Hugo. ‘‘What happened next?’’

‘‘Ah, dear boy,’’ said Montague. ‘‘It’s more a case of what happened before, or rather during. But if you’re interested in my little story, I‘ll continue.’’

Heads nodded in unison. Montague’s telling of a chilly tale to a chosen few on the last evening of the Christmas term was a tradition greatly enjoyed by his pupils, and he never failed to thrill his audience to the marrow and, sometimes, beyond.

He resumed his place before the blazing fire that threw an eerie light onto the wood-panelling of his study walls and a distant look came into his eyes.

‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘Strange as it is, none of the children could remember anything of the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Nor did they recognize, or have any memory of, each other. Whatever had transpired, it was singular in the extreme, if you take my meaning.’’

The five boys smiled politely. Montague enjoyed puns and liked them to be acknowledged appropriately. They had found by experience that it was better that way, for it resulted in fewer beatings and more cake.

‘‘However,’’ he continued, ‘‘although the children had nothing in common before their disappearance, they certainly had after their return.’’

He paused, relishing the moment. The boys strained forwards in their seats.

‘‘Each of them,’’ Montague said, ‘‘vanished in different circumstances but, on their return, all of them……’’

He stopped to replenish the fire before pouring another drink with tantalising slowness.

‘‘Sir!’’ It was Hugo again. ‘‘Go on!’’

Montague smiled at his eagerness. He would go far that boy. Perhaps from one of the ancient universities to the Foreign Office, carrying secret messages through dangerous terrain, fighting off, single-handed, any dastardly forces that strove to topple this great nation….

A cough returned him to the moment.

‘‘Now where was I? Ah, yes. The point of similarity that extended to all the children was….’’

A single swallow and the sherry was gone. Montague hiccupped.

‘‘Forgive me, boys,’’ he said, ‘‘for the tardiness of my telling, but the truth is so shocking I fear to frighten you. I would, on no account, create terrors that might mar your innocent slumbers.’’

His fingers curled around the Bristol Dry, for the room had grown dim.

‘‘Please, Dr James, continue!’’ four voices chorused.

Montague nodded, as though to say, so be it. Something formless in the corner of the room shifted then settled. Outside, a crow cawed and the swoop of bats filled the dusk with a deeper darkness.

 ‘‘The point of similarity was….’’

Suddenly, a wailing howl cut off the continuance of the tale. Everyone exchanged nervous glances. What in heaven, earth or the infernal regions could produce such a cacophony?

‘‘Silence, Baskerville, you hell-hound,’’ yelled a harsh voice and they smiled at one another, relieved, for it was only Igor, the gardener, walking his gigantic mastiff in the school grounds.

At the sound, Montague’s face had paled. Barely breathing, the children waited until a silence fell on the room so complete that the tinkle of sherry splashing into the master’s glass came almost as a shock.

As one, the three boys tensed in expectation.

‘‘The point of similarity was this,’’ he continued, his voice low. ‘‘After their ordeal, each were able to conjugate Latin verbs without error, and even decline Greek nouns accurately, though none of them had received any teaching of either subject as they had not attended either a major, or even a minor, public school.’’

The two boys stared at each other, stunned by this revelation. Then the true significance of it became clear, and they gasped.

Again, brave Hugo took the lead, while young Wilkie Vincent-Price burst into tears at what the master had revealed.

‘‘Do you mean…,’’ Hugo said, his voice quivering with suppressed emotion and dauntless mettle. ‘’Do you mean…. they’d all been kidnapped by a Classics teacher and forced to cram Latin and Greek on Christmas Day itself?’’

Montague nodded.

‘‘That is my meaning exactly. It was none other than the Tutor of Terror who had taken them. And he strikes each year, within the Christmas period, preferring each time to change his modus operandi to escape detection. Where once there was no connection between his victims, this time he may strike at any group, even those armed with the twin spears of scholarly comradeship and the basics of more than one dead language.’’

‘‘Lummy,’’ gulped Hugo, collapsing into the vernacular. ‘‘I’d always thought the Tutor of Terror a mere superstition, not fit for superior minds such as ours to contemplate.’’

He glanced around but met no response from Wilkie, who was nowhere to be seen. Hugo and Montague were alone. All the boys had vanished, leaving only him and the master.

‘‘Oh sir, where are the others?’’ Hugo said, his brow creased with perplexity.

Montague gave a start.

‘‘Gone! They’ve gone!’’ he cried. ‘‘Snatched even as we spoke! And to what end, this time? To what fiendish end?’’

Breaking into a wild peal of laughter, filled with despair, he turned to Hugo.

‘‘So, it is only you and I…’’ he began, then stopped, sickened, for plucky Hugo Christopher-Lee, the last remaining boy, had also disappeared, leaving no trace of his abduction nor clue as to his return.

At that moment there was a knock on the study door and Matron entered, her dark hair like the captive wings of a raven.

‘‘All alone, Dr James?’’ she asked.

Montague raised the ravaged face of a man who had peered into the abyss, and beyond.

‘‘Indeed. You are a philosopher, matron, for in the end are we not all alone?’’

And with that, he refilled his glass and sat down to write to any of the parents who might realise, at some time during the hols, that their children had not returned home for Christmas. How horrified they would be that their offspring had fallen prey to the Tutor of Terror.

And yet…..

He paused, struck by the potential saving in extra tutorial fees that would be made by each of the afflicted parents. Swallowing an aspirin, he mused on, allowing his thoughts to return him to his natural optimism of temperament. The boys may suffer a little during their ordeal but was not suffering the most certain way to refine the soul?

Indeed, it could be argued that their abduction, in the light of their future return more fully versed in the use of the gerund, amongst other points of grammar, could be most satisfying for all involved. Dr Gove, the headmaster, set great store by such things, as he knew to his cost.

Smiling to himself, Montague set about his letter writing with renewed spirit.

‘Every cloud,’ he thought, airily, ‘every cloud….’

Then he vanished.

It was dark, and I was lying on the ground, I wondered how on earth did I get here?

Then I tried to remember what happened. Had something, someone, knocked me out. My head hurt like crazy, especially when I tried to move, I wondered where I was.

How long have I been here?

It was so still and dark.

I was cold and shivery, and I was freezing.

Until then Christmas Eve had been great, I met my friend Jenny at the White Hart, we’d had supper, been laughing and joking together. I’d felt normal again. This would be my first Christmas in five years I’d be on my own, but I’d get through it.

The pub was packed with people we both knew. At least Mark, my ex wasn‘t there.”

Until I had seen someone at the bar I hadn’t wanted to see, Jenny had followed my gaze.

“You alright?” she’d asked. I’d nodded.

“At closing, we’d headed outside and, just right for Christmas Eve, a light flurry of snow started to flake down.

At the village crossroads, Jenny and I exchanged Merry Christmas hugs and kisses.

As we parted, Jenny said,

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I‘ll be fine, it’s light enough to see the road, and I enjoy walking back anyway. I’m well wrapped up, and I’ll see you after Christmas!” I told her as we finally parted.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, “and you know it.”

I waved again and headed away from the village. I’ve grown to like my own company, doing my own thing. I had to.

I huffed out my breath, watching it cloud and disperse.”

I stopped, realising I was waffling.

The detective sitting opposite me, making notes looked up.

“Don’t stop,” he encouraged, “Let’s get everything we can, any little detail.”

“Well, the biting cold seeped into me, I realised I was cold, but my eyes were getting used to the darkness, and I realised I was in a building.”

I stopped again. What had happened next?

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I was trying to get myself together a bit, figure out where I was, but my head was hurting. I tried to remember how I’d been… well attacked I suppose, but I said that didn‘t I?”

“Don’t focus on that, just tell me your feelings, in the building, the cold biting into you…”

“Yes, I felt cold, damp but not wet. I could feel the floor, it was big flagstones, uneven though, not like the ones in my cottage. I thought I’d see if I could find a door, a way out. I got onto my hands and knees. I crawled forwards, then my head soon touched a wall, stone wall, not brick. I edged along it, but it didn’t have a doorway, not anywhere, I know I turned four corners.

I sat with my back against the stones, hugging my knees, thinking.

Then, I reckoned there must be either windows, or a staircase that I’d missed. I stood up, put my back to the wall, and moved, shuffled I suppose, forwards with my hands outstretched. After going backwards and forwards, I found a staircase, it was stone too, with no banisters, so I guessed I might be in a barn, perhaps in a cellar.

I made my way up the stairs, stopping, listening, to see if there was anyone up there, waiting for me.

At the top, it was lighter, I could see an outline of doors, and went towards them, there was a bit of wood, for a latch, and I opened it, it squeaked and I was terrified, but the door opened, and I went outside into the moonlight. The snow was clean, no footprints. It had snowed.

There was a track down to the road.

I knew where I was then, not far from my cottage.”

He nodded.

“I looked back before I headed away, listening to see if anyone was about, but I couldn’t hear anyone, and then I reached the lane, and I heard an engine, and I panicked, then the car was coming down the road, and the headlights were on me, and I remember falling down onto my knees, crying.”

The memory of those few moments, as the car stopped, the door opened and a man got out, and I remembered screaming and him helping me up, and wrapping two strong arms around me, and getting me into the car.

“The man, he didn’t hurt me. He brought me here.”

“I know, and you are safe, and he’s told us whereabouts he found you. We’ve gone to the barn. I should tell you what we found there.”

I shook my head, I realised I had to know but I was terrified of what he was going to say. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and I nodded.

“Go on.”

“The body of a young woman. It would appear she’d been stabbed.”

I felt sick, physically sick.

“You ok?” he asked, pushing the mug of tea towards me.

“Can I have some water please?” I asked.

He nodded to the WPC standing behind me, by the door. She left, came back a few moments later with a glass of water. I don’t know why, but I’d been expecting a plastic cup.

I sipped it, the nausea slid back down.

“Ok?” he asked. I nodded, he indicated I should continue.

“I remember finding a knife, I touched something cold and metallic, when I was crawling round the floor.” I realised I had to tell him.

“When you found it, what did you do with it?” he asked looking directly at me.

I thought hard.

What did I do with it?

What had I done with it?

Then I remembered. Inside the blanket, I put my hand into my pocket, and felt the knife. Warm now, the shiny metal warm and comforting against my skin as my hand curled around it.

I remembered now.

She’d stolen him, Mark my fiancé. She’d turned his head with her low-cut tops and her short skirts. He’d gone for glitz and glamour, rather than the cosy life we’d had. He’d left me lost and lonely. Then I’d seen her in the pub on Christmas Eve, no sign of Mark, just her flirting with some men at the bar.

I’d picked up the knife from the table, slid it into my pocket, and when she’d left at closing time, we’d followed a few minutes later.

I knew where she was going. He’d rented a cottage outside the village.

She’d moved in with him.

She was drunk, weaving across the lane, her footsteps zig-zagging in the snow, wearing a silly pair of high shoes, in this weather.

I followed her, turning the handle of the knife over and over in my pocket.

She turned down their lane.

I followed her.

She fell over, was sick in the hedge.

I caught up with her.

I grabbed that blonde hair, pulled her head back.

The knife was talking to me, it said she was offering herself. Like she’d done to Mark.

I felt bile come up into my throat.

I didn’t want to do it whilst I could see her face.

Dragging her upright, I pulled her down the track, to an old stone barn, the latch squeaked, and I pulled her inside. She was sobering now, moaning and begging.

As I pulled her up the stone stairs, up into the hayloft, she lost her silly shoes on the steps.

It was cold, but dry, and dark, and she was begging me again, she tried to pull away from me, I banged my head on the wall trying to keep hold of her, but the knife was warm, and my hand closed round it.

I pulled it out and my arm went towards her, then my hand was warm and wet, but this time it wasn’t.

This time a strong hand closed around my wrist, and the knife dropped to the floor.

“Jeanne Marie Blackchild, I am arresting you ….”

My eyes looked up at his.

His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, my eyes cast down and I could see her blood drying under my fingernails.

It was fast approaching Christmas and both the boy and I were feeling the loss of Cathy. To add to my troubles the coin in my pocket was as lean as a skinny pig.  James’ only present would be a rifle that I had carved from an old piece of timber from the woodpile, stained to look like the real thing and fitted it with a bayonet of blunted metal. I wrapped it in a cloth and hid it in the uppermost reaches of the barn until Christmas Eve. My plan was to creep out in the dead of night and retrieve it and place in James Christmas stocking.

I had cut enough wood for the burner to last us some time to come, so wrapped myself well against the new snow and tied my axe to my back with a piece of stout rope and walked out to get a tree from the that place where the road forks, where they sell firs and spruces at this time of year.  I figured one penny for a lean thing and two and a half pennies for a beauty, but when I shoved my hand in my pocket I discovered only a farthing and a piece of fluff.  So having no powerful coin, my boys Christmas would be in ruins. For the boy’s sake, I was determined I would have him a tree.

I arrived at the place where they sell the trees where a big fellow, with a scarf wrapped around his head like a man laid out greeted me with a jovial grin.

“What can I do for you today friend?” the big fellow said laughing.

“I’m after a tree to decorate this Christmas sir and I have but a farthing to spend?”

He laughed and pointed to the field.

“Nothing here for that amount sir. All before you are at least two and a half pennies. Come back when you have it. ”

“How much is that beauty at the top of the field?”

“Not for sale.”

“But sir…” I began and he cut me short.

“Come back when you have it” he repeated and moved me on with a firm shove from the flat of his hand.

“No need for that sir” I protested and walked away reluctantly, heading on down the road in the blizzard that had begun to rage.  I walked for a while thinking about the boy having no Christmas tree and no mother. How glum he would be. Without thinking and possessed by another power I did not recognise within me I was over the hedge and into the field among the young firs and spruces of which some were short and some were tall and some sparse and some full.  I walked for some time until I spied what I was looking for.

“I’ll teach the bugger to shun me at Christmas time with my wife being dead and my boy pining for her.”

It stood there at the top of the field, all of seven feet tall with just the right amount of branches in perfect symmetry.  I slipped the Axe from my back and started swinging at the trunk.  This was truly a beautiful tree and would do me and the boy proud this Christmas.  As my axe made the first cut, I swear I heard the bloody thing scream.  No matter! The tree was mine now so I continued to chop away fiercely until it finally fell.  I lashed the branches down tightly from top to bottom with twine from my pocket.  I picked up my axe and humped the tree upon my shoulder and made my way back across the field and onto the road and headed for home.

“That is a fine tree father.”  The boy said.

“It is indeed a fine tree. I replied, “And you shall have the pleasure of decorating it your mother’s absence.”

James spent many hours presenting the tree to its best advantage taking great care with detail and I could see the mother in the boy and that moved me almost to tears. The farthing I saved from the ill-gotten tree I managed to purchase a very small turkey from the village and we handpicked chestnuts from the trees and I hung the turkey in the cold for Christmas day.

When Christmas Eve arrived I sent James to his cot and told him to sleep sound for fear he would catch the old man with the great white beard at his Christmas stocking. I rapped his blanket tight and kissed his brow then I settled down to the bottle of best scotch whiskey I saved over from the previous year for a special occasion.  I drank, savouring every drop until I was three quarters through and I staggered to my feet and went out to the top of the barn and got the rifle and crept back into the house and into James room and placed it in is sock. Then I went back out to finish the whiskey.  I took another swig and began to think about the boy’s mother.  The warmth of the log fire mixed with the drink sent me to sleep for some time.

I awoke to the sound of chopping wood and the smell of burning timber.  I jumped to my feet and ran to the door flung it open and went outside.  The barn was ablaze. Flames leapt from the uppermost door shining bright red against the night sky. The sound of the chopping pounded inside my head.  It was coming from the back of the house, so I ran there.  I could not believe what my eyes beheld.  He was standing there grunting with a red and white hat upon his head, a St Nicholas escaped from hell.  He swung the axe like a man possessed. His aim at the supports of my house, just below the boy’s bedroom

“You there, I said, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

He turned toward and I saw his face clearly.  It was the big fellow from the tree farm. His jovial smile now diminished he showed pointed teeth and growled like a wolf.  Ignoring my rant he continued to chop. I ran toward him in an attempt to push him from his menacing task but he managed to wheel around and swing his axe at me.  It missed by a hairs breath as I rolled head over heels into the snow. He wound up the axe over his shoulder ready to strike another blow.

“Steal my trees would you?”

I knelt there in the snow, awaiting the dreadful blow that would end my life.  Then he swung the axe. It came down and I heard it whistle as it cut through the air but before it reached my neck it suddenly stopped and recoiled back away from me.  The axman remained motionless like some grotesque Santa Clause dropping the axe in the snow.  Then he went down like a felled tree. The white rifle I had made my James protruded like a grave marker from between his shoulders. James stood behind him, cold and shivering in the snow.

The frost made the most beautiful patterns on the cold windows of her bedroom.  She loved this time of year because it meant that it was nearly time for Christmas.  Megan sat on the ledge of the window, her fingers tracing the edges of the icicles with her cold fingers.  She lifted her hands to her face, needing the warmth of her breath to bring them back to life.

The chilling frost was the sign that Megan always waited for; Christmas was coming.  Of the seven Christmases that Megan has seen, last year had been the best.  She had asked for a scooter because all her friends were getting them too and it meant that they could all go scooting off to the park after school.  This year would be even better.

Megan could more fully appreciate spending time with her family.  Since her dad walked out on her mum earlier this year, she really understood the need to have both her parents in the same room.  This year, she knew would be perfect.  They may even realise that they still love each other and try again.  She heard her mum crying in the night, lamenting for her lost husband.  He would be back tonight, Christmas Eve, she heard him promise her sisters.

“I’ll be here when my beautiful girls wake up,” he said, as he kissed his daughters goodnight.

Megan has asked for so much this year she could hardly remember what she wanted.  It didn’t seem to matter anymore; she wanted her parents back together.

Megan couldn’t sleep.  She was restless.  She wandered into her sister’s room.  Jodie and Ruby were sound asleep.  Megan smiled at her five year old sisters and smiled.  Their stocking were stuffed already.  Santa must have already been to their room.  Megan wondered why hers was still empty, then she realised that Santa would not come while she was awake.  She giggled to herself and Jody stirred.

“Megan, Megan, is that you?” she whispered.  It was too dark to make out any shapes, and Megan stayed quiet, not wanting her to put the light on and see her presents too early.

She wanted to sneak downstairs to see what her mum and dad were doing, she could hear their voices and she was desperately trying to think of something that would help to get them back together.  She was trying to think of a plan when Ruby started to cry.  Megan dashed back into her bedroom, being the oldest she had her own room, decorated in her favourite colour, pink.

Megan tiptoed down to her mum’s bedroom, trying to listen behind closed doors.  She forgot to avoid the creaking floorboard, but then it didn’t creak and that stopped Megan in her tracks.  She put her weight back onto that floorboard but still nothing.  She nearly jumped for joy!  She remembered hearing an argument some times ago about that floorboard, dad promised to fix it, mum knew he never meant it.  Dad was rubbish at fixing things.  The kitchen cupboards still waited for new handles years after we’d moved in!

See!  Megan thought to herself, he does still love her, he’s fixed it as a surprise!  She almost ran to the twin’s bedroom to tell them but she didn’t want to disturb them.

Megan was up first.  She felt like she had not slept at all, that she had just been waiting in her bedroom for the light to appear in the window.  The frost was still dancing in the morning sunlight on the widow.  There was no stocking on the end of her bed.  Saddened but not really that shocked, she decided that it must be in the twin’s room, that Santa must have left it there because she’d been awake most of the night, waiting.

*******

Megan ran downstairs, thrilled that it was FINALLY Christmas Day.  It seemed like she had been waiting for a whole year for this day.  She looked around.  There was no tree, the decorations had not yet been put up.  She couldn’t understand it.  When she went to bed last night they were up.  Maybe it was a trick.  Maybe mum and dad were going to surprise them all with a decorating day.  Now, that would be fun.  She sat on the sofa for a moment, waiting for the house to stir.  After a while, Megan wasn’t sure how long, she decided to wake everyone up.  It was dawn, surely it would be ok.

Running upstairs, she called out, “Mum, Dad!  Get up you lazy bones!”  Nothing.  Not a sound.  She called louder.

“Jodie!  Ruby!!  Get up!”

Again, nothing.  Entering the twin’s bedroom, she saw them, awake, opening their stockings with glee on their faces.  They were showing each other their presents. Megan smiled, wondering if she had one.

Megan was about to go back downstairs when she heard Jodie stifle a sob.

“I’ll not be the same this year!” she cried.

She saw Ruby hugging her, and wondered why she was unable to move her feet.  She wanted to go and comfort her sister too, but she needed to check the front room again, were there really no decorations?  Surely she had imagined it.  She remembered distinctly putting the finishing touches onto the tree, being lifted up by her dad to put the angel at the top.  What had happened?

In the front room, she saw them on the sofa, mum and dad making a sandwich with the twins in the middle.  How had that happened?

“How did you get down here so fast!” Megan exclaimed!  She watched their faces but they showed no recognition of her voice.

“Hello!  Why are you all crying? It’s Christmas Day!” Megan said, twirling around in her new dress.  How had that happened?

Megan did not remember putting the dress on.  It was her Christmas Day dress that her mum had bought especially for her.  It had pink flowers and butterflies over it, the butterflies were resting on the flowers.  It as her all time favourite dress.  Yet when she looked a second time she noticed that it was covered in blood.  How had that happened?

She cried out in horror and looked to her mum for help, but she simply looked right through her.  She didn’t see her at all.

“Megan?” Jodie said softly.

“Sweety,” Mum said soothingly, “Megan isn’t here anymore.”

“Yes I am! Silly mummy, I’m here!” Megan said, getting closer to her mother and looking directly at her.

“Hello?  Mummy?  Daddy?”  They couldn’t hear her or see her.  They were playing a cruel trick and Megan did not like it one bit.  She began to cry.

“Mummy,” Jodie said, “I can hear her crying,”

“No darling, it’s just a memory.” Mum replied, a tear forming in her own eye.

Then Megan remembered.  The scooter.  The dress.  The blood.  The road.  The car.  She didn’t see it and now they didn’t see her.

Megan found herself sat back in her bedroom, on window sill, looking at the frost making patterns on the cold panes of glass.  She loved this time of year because it meant that it was nearly Christmas.