Frostbitten Christmas

The house strained under the weight of garish Christmas. Something felt… wrong. As though caught in a chilly loop of stifled memories.

Daniel ascended his front steps, wary of the banister strangled with garland. The cold bit at his skin, but it was the flood of holiday music that churned his stomach the moment he opened the door.

He plunged into a home not his own, the door smashing behind him. His soaring ceilings were smothered with evergreen garlands and glaring lights. A towering tree bulged with flowers and mismatched ornaments, overstuffed like some grotesque parody of the season. 

Lurid.

“Anne,” he called. Snow and mud dripped off him onto the freshly polished floor. He ignored it. “Anne?”

He heard excited whispers and soft laughter coming from the dining room, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

When he reached the dining room, the sight of his wife draped in a blood-red dress deepened the knot in his stomach. She moved with unsettling precision, flouncing the fine china, the silverware, and the pine garlands. Each motion was deliberate, foolish, and childish.

"Anne.”

She looked up at him, her smile tight, forced. “Hey, love. What do you think?"

He didn’t answer immediately. He’d just noticed wreaths tied with silk bows at the arch of every window, framing the snowy landscape beyond. His jaw tightened.

"Gaudy as anything," he muttered. "You’ve certainly outdone yourself."

She froze as if his words had physically struck her. Her lower lip trembled, but only for a moment. She swept past him, the silk of her dress brushing him with an unsettling finality.

“Change your shirt,” she said coolly. “We have guests already.”

Less than an hour later, the whole house hummed with thick, hollow laughter. Gathered in their ridiculous holiday attire, the guests poured into the kitchen, the living room, the parlor—and even the hallways. All eyes eager, all smiles wide, the house sweated under candlelight, festive music, and humid bodies. 

Daniel’s head soon swirled with a threatening headache and a few sips of scotch. Everyone attending wanted something from him. They all wanted what he had. They only came to clutch at his cocktail glasses and gorge on his food. He didn’t know why Anne insisted on these tortuous parties.

He adjusted the cuff of his tailored jacket, letting his eyes sweep the room full of chattering gossips. The floor was somehow polished clean of the mud he’d tracked in earlier.

Just as he was inching his way toward his escape… she arrived.

The front door opened without a knock. The wind howled behind her as though the house itself recoiled from her intrusion. She glided inside and slipped out of her jacket, her presence instantly altering the room’s energy and quieting the obnoxious laughter and prattle.

He froze as her face fell under the light, a jolt of recognition stilling him. Something about her felt unnervingly familiar. Her face was magnetic, stirring an uneasy longing in his chest. Dark hair cascaded in elegant waves over her bare shoulders, and her dress shimmered like liquid onyx.

And then her gaze met his and locked him in place.

For the briefest moment, the rest of the world faded. His headache subsided, and his lungs expanded as though allowing him a deep breath for the first time in at least three Christmases.

Her eyes sparkled with knowing amusement before dancing away, cascading across the rest of the room.

Daniel realized his fingers were clenched around his glass so tight they ached. He traded his glass to his other hand and took a sip, swallowing a lump forming in his throat as he watched the woman in gold move.

She waded through the crowd like on a cloud, her every step leaving a disturbing ripple in her wake. Every encounter with guests left them visibly shaken, their gaiety dimmed like candles snuffed by a cold wind. And yet… something about her called him closer.

It wasn’t until she disappeared down the hallway that Daniel lurched out of his frozen spell.

“Excuse me,” he said, abandoning a conversation he’d been ignoring with one of Anne’s friends. He followed the woman down the hallway toward the kitchen, brushing by other holiday guests in their tasteless dresses and sweaters.

The woman moved like liquid, unphased by anything or anyone, slipping through the congestion of guests without stopping. She glanced over her shoulder momentarily and smiled when she caught his eye. In the next moment, he lost her.

A maze of holiday bodies swelled around him, and his breath quickened. His heart struck against his ribcage, and his tongue turned to sandpaper. She was gone.

“Are you alright?”

He leaped at the feeling of a hand grabbing his arm, recoiling, and dropping his glass. In an instant, the glass shattered, spewing scotch across his shoes.

What happened next blurred a bit. He heard his voice, loud. Angry. He saw his wife, Anne, burst into shameless tears. Her lips were the same blood red as her dress, wording, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again as she knelt down to scoop up broken glass.

“I need some air,” he gasped, peeling away from the glares of holiday guests and leaving the mess behind.

Daniel staggered outside through the kitchen door, his breath visible in the air. The snow, white and indifferent, clung to his jacket. He took in several deep breaths and blew them out, walking out along his patio, aware of the cold first on his ears, then his nose, then his hands.

And then he saw her.

There, beneath the trees, stood the woman in gold. She was gazing at him, and instantly, Daniel felt pinned beneath her intensity. Locked in place, almost like before, only this time he forced himself forward.

He approached her, offering a practiced smile, but he was surprised and embarrassed when his voice trembled as he spoke. “I... I didn’t mean to... You slipped past me.”

She didn’t speak. She was so much more beautiful up close, in a way that overwhelmed him. He felt his headache intensify and soothe at once, shifting places around his brain.

“I… don’t believe we’ve met,” he added, stumbling to fill the gaps of her silence.

"We have met on occasion," she replied. Finally, her voice. It was velvet-soft, edged with something jagged that hooked him, deepening his curiosity. Her lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Her teeth were bewitching.

"Have we?” he asked in a breath, then cleared his throat. “I’m Daniel." He extended his hand.

She ignored it. "Your memory is... selective… Daniel."

They stood in charged silence. Daniel couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers—deep, endless like dark water pulling him under. He forced his hand into his jacket pocket, afraid he was about to stroke a loose curl over her shoulder and brush against her skin.

“You must be cold,” he whispered.

“I’m warm enough.” Her voice was like syrup.

"Are you here with someone?" he asked, voice low.

"No,” she said softly. “But you are." Her gaze flicked toward his hand in his pocket, and his wedding band burned against his finger.

He flushed, feeling exposed, like she could somehow peer through his clothes. "I wasn’t implying—"

"Weren’t you?" she interrupted, her tone almost pitying. There was the tug of a smile against her lips again. Her eyes glistened. “Don’t lie, Daniel,” she said. “Some things can't be undone, and those things pile up."

He found himself smiling back at her. She sent chills up his spine, and yet he felt her presence pulling at him, inviting him closer. 

“I do know you, I think,” he said, his gaze tracing her jawline, her lips, her eyelashes catching flecks of snow and brushing against her cheeks. He found himself having moved closer to her, pressing deeper into their conservation. “What’s your name?”

She leaned back, increasing the distance, yes, but also increasing his need to be closer. She flicked her hair off her shoulder and laughed under her breath.

“Try to remember my name.”

“No, I’m embarrassed. Please tell me,” he replied.

She giggled. He knew that giggle. The way it rippled along the air like a dance. The way her lips spread, showing her perfect teeth. The way her neck curved into an irresistible shoulder, a collarbone sharp and elegant. He knew her from somewhere.

He reached for her arm, but she pulled it away.

“I don’t think you’re ready,” she said. She was teasing him. 

“Ready for what?”

“For things to change.”

Her words struck like ice, though he couldn’t explain why. He felt himself standing on the edge of a precipice, at the point of decision. Perhaps… perhaps about to do something drastic.

A surge of music from inside hit him. Her gaze flittered to the house for just a moment, and it was enough to press him forward, off the ledge. A leap.

He reached for her wrist, desperate to snag her attention like she’d snagged his, to brace himself against the growing unease gnawing at his chest, to hold her closer to him. Her gaze snapped back to his, terrified… and then, her smiling sneer returned.

At first, her skin felt soft and luscious. Then, it turned cold in his hand. Impossibly, painfully cold.

Pins and needles pressed into his palm, throbbing and ache filling up his arm. He released her, looking down at his palm. It turned first white, then blackened and crusted, tingling like it was frostbitten.

A wave of nausea rolled through him—no, not nausea. Something deeper, more primal. Regret, suffocating and sharp. He felt his knees weaken immediately, memories clawing their way up from the dark corners of his mind: frantic whispers, pleading cries, silenced struggles.

He staggered back, gasping.

"What... what did you do to me?" he rasped.

Now she stepped closer, her dark eyes gleaming with something ancient and merciless.

“I didn’t do anything," she whispered. Her eyes were black pits. “But you did. I’m just here to make you see."

The snow-laden trees twisted and darkened, the lights strung around them swirling together. He was back there—back in that terrible moment, doing that terrible thing. The weight of it crushed his chest, a scream trapped in his throat.

Melody. That was her name. He remembered now.

Only Melody’s eyes were blue and bright, and her hair was a mousy brown, not this black swath of darkness swarming in front of him. This woman looked like Melody, but she wasn’t. She couldn’t possibly be.

Because Melody was dead.

It’d been an accident, but he’d killed Melody at least three Christmases ago.

Daniel fell to his knees, trembling, his mind unraveling under the relentless tide of guilt and horror. His hand ached, but that was nothing compared to the grief building inside him—guilt and regret and shame like he’d never felt before. More memories were playing through his mind, heavy and horrible. People he’d hurt. Ways he’d cheated. Corners he’d cut.

Suddenly, he saw Anne in his mind’s eye. His poor wife. He saw himself bullying her, belittling her, and making her cry because punishing her was easier than punishing himself. He felt as though his heart would rip out of his chest.

The woman in gold knelt before him, frozen fingers brushing his cheek—a mockery of tenderness. Cold spread throughout his cheek, coursing through his bloodstream, a disease stretching from her fingertips and filling him with regret over everything he’d done to hurt others.

“You’ve been running from yourself for a long time, Daniel,” she said.

He looked at her, and he realized he was crying, sobs wracking his body.

"Do you know who I am now?" she asked, her voice almost gentle. Her eyes were pools of ink.

His breath hitched as the truth crashed down with brutal clarity.

"Remorse," he whispered.

Her smile deepened—cold, beautiful, and final.

"At last, you know me.”