The Dark Yuletide

The north wind blew the snowfall into a slanted fury. It was intermittent and strong. The grand houses along Chestnut Avenue were cloaked in white, a warmth seeping from the windows adorned with fluttering candles. Amaryllis focused on the stream of Christmas lights finely hung in empty maples, burgeoning magnolias, and along the eaves of stately homes, a careful display of cheer. 

To be invited to the Abernathey holiday party was a rite of passage, an entry to high society, a culmination that you were received and respected. Amaryllis had been gleeful when her invitation arrived, a stuttering of her heart when she realized that she would be tasked with finding the perfect crimson gown and that there existed the real possibility of seeing and possibly even speaking with Beau, the town’s most newly minted and admired bachelor.

The taxi moved softly through the wintry streets, a building of anticipation as they neared the circular drive that ran in front of the sweeping estate. Vehicles were lined up as the staid party-goers alighted, their laughter translating into puffs of cold air, a shiver of thrilling charm. Her driver pulled in behind the sleek Range Rover owned by Dr. Martin. Amaryllis peered upward taking in the enormity of the residence. Her gaze was stalled by a silhouetted gentleman watching from an upstairs window. She braced herself for the briskness of night, but she could not shake the icy grip of his watchful eyes. A gust of wind and scattered snow spurred her up the stairs and into the foyer where she was greeted by her preeminent host.

“We are delighted that you could make it to our quaint gathering,” Rose Abernathey stated, holding out her hand, as the butler skirted coats to a farther room. 

Mr. Abernathey joined his wife at the entryway, “Ahhh, Ms. Cox, please do enjoy yourself this evening, dear. It portends to be a Christmas to remember,” he winked, a slight movement to convey congeniality.

“Thank you for the lovely invitation. I am honored to be in attendance this evening. Your holiday party is the most noteworthy event in town,” she smiled the words with an unbounded gratefulness.

The Abernatheys looked at each other, pleased with the reputation they had inspired.

From across the room, through the stifled murmurings of conversation, could be heard, “Amaryllis, is that you?”

She turned to find that Poppy McLemore, secret nemesis and sometimes friend, was wildly motioning, her middle-aged bosom near full exposure and her perfectly straight teeth gritted into an insincere smile. She gave a slight nod of courtesy to the Abernatheys and begrudgingly went to where she had been beckoned.

“Here, take this drink,” Poppy shoved a lemon-drop martini in the direction of her hand, the contents swaying a dangerous path to the brim. “You look divine.”

Amaryllis sipped on the stout cocktail, throwing off the ill-mannered compliment. “Have you seen anyone of interest yet?”

Poppy laughed, a chuckle that held a reproving note, “If you’re asking if I’ve seen Beau, then that would be a negative. Everyone here is a who’s who of the county. Angling her head, she recited off the particulars, “The Munsons, Drakes, oh there’s that wretched spinster, Marjorie, and the Blakes are over by the fireplace. I heard he has a fling going with that Murphy girl who works in his law office.”

Amaryllis choked on the dryness of the gin and the unseemly revelation, “But Mrs. Blake is a saint.”

“Exactly, no one wants a saint in the bedroom,” Poppy declared matter-of-factly.

“Oh, see that old guy over by the piano, the one with the red lapel,” leaning in closer to Amaryllis, “rumor has it that he knocked off his wife, because she was anything but a saint.” Her head bobbed up and down, eyebrow raised for affirmation. “Of course, the Wilsons are here. They gave Mr. Abernathey a wild sum of money for the hospital renovation. And the Clarkes, look at them wearing those horrid outfits. Don't forget the Rushings, soon to be divorced. No one really knows why, but I’m sure with the gossip bantering around, the gist of their sainthood will be uncovered,” she laughed, an alcohol-laden, breathy chortle.

“Is there anyone here you don’t know?” Amaryllis inquired. 

“Absolutely not, and before the night’s over, you’ll know them too.”

“What about that gentleman, the one coming down the stairs?”

Poppy turned for a better view and stared, startled at the possibility that there was a stranger, someone unknown to her in this tight circle.

“He was watching me from an upstairs window, when I got out of the taxi. Curious, it must be him,” Amaryllis surmised.

“He doesn’t look familiar,” Poppy squinted into a long pause, “strange, I must find out. Enjoy your carousing. I’ll meet up with you later.” With those departing words, Poppy ventured off into the gathering crowd, a sway to her hips that invited allurement.

Amaryllis let herself be pulled along from one group to another, indulging in riotous conversations and a few whispered confessions. The evening was punctuated with gaiety and rueful nostalgia, as Amaryllis weighed the shortcomings of her life against the accomplishments and whims of the assorted guests. Her loneliness was compounded by being part of, if only temporary, the larger whole. She sighed with a mirthful sadness.

While partaking in her third drink, the mystery guest found her in a dark corner of solitude. 

“May I?” he asked, his long, slender fingers reaching for her cheek.

He touched her delicate skin, brushing away something unsavory. She flinched. The cold roughness of his graze moved through her like the wind.

“Did I give you a start?”

He could smell her fright. 

“No, no, not really. I’m just a little tipsy. And confused, I don’t think we’ve met,” she looked at him with suspicious longing.

“Forgive me. I have been quite rude. Mors Griffin. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Ms. Cox.”

His lips parted, not in a grin, but a grimace full of wretched dread.

“How did you know my name?” She took a slight step backward.

“Oh, I know everyone at this party. Unbeknownst to you, I am more familiar than imagined. I might even be your best friend.” The grimace flashed again, an undercurrent of terror.

Pretending a giggle, Amaryllis looked past him. She wanted an interruption, even the annoying banter of Poppy would be welcomed.

“Why don’t you let me escort you through the darkness, to ensure that you get home.” His eyes burned with a red glow, reminiscent not of heat, but frozen ache.

Her heart-racing, Amaryllis stammered, “I'm...I'm not leaving. No, I’m fine, that won’t be necessary. I’ll call for another taxi when I'm ready.”  

“It’s not up to you.” 

The sheer force of his words caused an involuntary gasp. A server, balancing a teetering tray of full champagne flutes, innocently floated his offerings between them. Amaryllis, wide-eyed and speechless, traded out her empty glass, and the server scurried away from the mounting discomfort.

“If you could wish for anything this merry Christmas, what does your heart desire the most?”

He leaned in closer, and she could smell a stench, a hot decay, an incomplete rot.

“I mean, I’m not sure - I don’t know, really…”

“Ahhh, there must be something,” he implored.

“Well, time, yes, that’s what I would ask for. More time.”

“Interesting. Time, the most elusive of elements, always within our grasp, laid out distinctly behind us, but rarest in the moment. I’ve never been tempted to do this,” he exhibited a weakness while pondering the simplicity of her impulsive request. 

A renewed reassurance, he settled the situation with grim benevolence, “Why not? Just this once. I’m in a giving sort of mood. Lucky for you, my sweetest, I have just the gift.”

He reached into the hollow of his coat, pulling out a gold pocket watch. It dangled on its chain, swaying back and forth, lulling her further into uneasiness.

“I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift,” she looked down and to her side, completely aghast by the putrid scent and the indiscreet overture.

“Now, now, don’t be reticent. It’s a lovely watch indeed. I couldn’t think of a more deserving person to be its benefactor, especially since you are desirous of more time. It suits you.”

His words were not accompanied with the foreboding sneer but a prolonged silence. The heaviness was wilting. He placed the timepiece in the small of her hand. She could feel the eternal ticking.

“Thank you, Mr. Griffin. I’m at a loss for words,” flushed, she moved her fingertips across her dampened brow.

Glancing toward the front doorway, Mr. Griffin proffered, “I must be on my way. My ride is leaving.”

Amaryllis saw Beau retreating, the tapering of goodbyes as he left the Abernathey festivities. Under her breath, a low murmur escaped, “I didn’t get a chance to talk with him.”

“No fretting on this spirited day. You’ll have all the time in the world,” he growled the words into merriment.

Amaryllis turned toward the window, a muffled view of Beau walking hurriedly through the falling snow. Her heart leapt at the earliness of his departure without realizing time had advanced. There were words unsaid that she had rehearsed. She had been ready. Yes, she had finally been ready. Her emotions performed somersaults, arching and twisting, landing with a thud in the middle of her throat. Gripped by an unnatural fear, she watched as Beau slid into the driver’s seat, and Mr. Griffin crashed his way into the passenger side. She loathed him without an understanding; his gift felt unnatural in her palm. 

After watching the red taillights trail into the dark midnight, she fumbled with the watch, slowly opening the gold-plated cover to see its hidden face. A coldness flowed from her neck downward. Her hand started to shake. The second hand executed its perfunctory movement in reverse, a counterclockwise flow of time, a harbinger of ill. She wanted nothing more than to throw it across the room, but clamped it shut as Poppy approached from behind.  

Poppy placed her gloved hand on Amayllis’s shoulder, leaning in close to her ear, “My goodness, that guy seemed enamored with you.” It was an accusatory statement.

“No, no, I’m not certain of his intentions. He must have been lost, stumbled onto this party somehow…”

“Not a soul here knows of him. I’ve asked everyone.”

Uproarious laughter swelled from the adjacent room.  

“C’mon, Amaryllis, let’s go see what fun can be had.”

***

The next morning, the snow continued its light fall, a pristine accumulation of airy flakes. The lawns, sidewalks, and streets comprised one whole of an untampered beauty, an endless whitescape that held promise for the magic of Christmas. Amaryllis tousled in the bed, cringing at the creasing pain along her forehead. It was the telltale sign of drinking past her limit. The ringing of her cellphone broke her resolve to get up, and she lunged for it on her nightstand.

“Poppy, don’t you know what time it is?”

“Brace yourself. I can hardly get the words out.”

There was a muted sob as if she had dropped the phone.

“Are you okay, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just horrible. There was a one car accident last night. He must have hit a patch of ice,” the sobbing blighted the possibility of things being right, “He hit a tree head on…”

Before she could finish, Amaryllis shrieked, “Beau is dead. And what about his passenger? Did he survive?” 

“What? No, he was alone. Beau was completely alone.”

The events of the night before passed along her conscience like a blur of watercolors, a crispness diluted into a wash of faint understanding. She jumped out of bed with an urgency to run, to rewind the moment, but she was stuck. She was a prisoner to her ill-fated choice.

Sucking in air, on the verge of hyperventilation, she collapsed to the floor. 

“It was supposed to be me…” she forced the words to life, tears streaming.

The voice of Poppy morphed into a guttural cry from the underworld, the same sneering voice that held her captive at the party, “Funny thing that ol’ adage. Well, you know the saying my sweetest, 'Be careful what you wish for.'”