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Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not one creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.
Twas similarly the night following the day in which a twelve year-old Hunter Clark learned of his parents’ following, and the rituals in which they performed, using teenagers from outside of town. For the most part, this didn’t bother the boy. His pride, and wish to make his parents happy overshadowed most of the already flimsy morals he had been taught. Nevertheless, some deep part of him seemed to squirm at the notion, no matter how hard Hunter tried to stomp it out.
It was that small, squirming part that Hunter would later blame for the-what he could only assume were-dreams he had that night.
The affair began as he awoke, sometime around 10 at night, to the squeak of feet against the floorboards.
Fear in his voice, Hunter asked. “Is anyone there?”
And, at the sudden spark of a large, enveloping kind of light, there she stood.
With pale skin, dark clothing, and hair that could’ve been Snow White’s if it weren’t for the bright blue ombre at the bottom, the woman was surprising, to say the least.
“Who are you!?” Hunter questioned, growing rapidly more concerned.
“Call me Birdie, Ghost of Christmas Past. I already know who you are, Hunter Clark.” She spoke with grace, and moved in a similar manner.
“How?”
“Because it’s you that I’m here for.”
“Why?”
This time, Birdie laughed. “You have a lot of questions, don’t you? Just come with me.”
Not seeing another option, and knowing that his parents would not wake up in time to save him from anything, Hunter stood up, took the woman’s hand, and followed when she began to walk.
The pair went down the stairs and out of the house, sheltered from the cold and elements by the warmth of the light that surrounded Birdie. The young boy watched in awe as the glimmer of dozens of seasons rolled back in time around him, rewinding again and again until finally it reached a winter quite similar to the one at hand, and the two finally reached a cabin on the property.
“This,” Birdie began, “is what your parents’ cabin looked like twenty-five years ago.”
Inside, lights of all colors glimmered and shone, with voices just as bright following not far behind. Music played, people danced, and all was merry and bright.
“If you look close, you can even see your father. He was around your age, then. And much happier.”
It felt a little bit like staring down an old family album. “Why are you showing me this?”
Birdie smiled sadly. “So you can see what could’ve been. The joy that could’ve taken root here. Everything that is gone now.”
As she spoke the final word, however, the warm glow vanished, as did the Ghost of Christmas past. The window went dark, and the cold finally bit at Hunter. In the reflection of the dimmed glass, a man stood.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?”
Hunter whipped around to stare at the stranger, who clicked his tongue.
“You could hardly even tell whether or not there's a person in there, could you?”
Teeth already beginning to chatter, the boy mustered a question. “Who are you?”
“Dyce, Ghost of Christmas Present. Why don’t we go inside?”
“Please.”
The door to the cabin swung open, and the pair stepped within, but it offered no reprieve from the iciness outside.
“This isn’t any- better.” Hunter got out, trying not to let himself freeze.
“No, I guess not. But then, how do you think she feels?” Dyce asked, pointing abruptly towards the corner of the wooded building.
There layed a teenage girl, a brunette. Her lips were turning bluer and bluer, and no matter how hard she curled into herself, she got no warmer.
The Ghost continued. “Her name is Anna. Anna Tyler, from Magnolia. She has a brother, a dog, and two loving parents. Rather than spending Christmas Eve with her family, she’s spending it here.”
Hunter rushed over to the girl, already beginning to try and shake her awake.
“No use. She can’t feel it. If your parents can still wake her by morning, it would be a miracle.”
“What’s gonna happen to her?” The boy asked.
“Only time will tell. Why don’t we get you back to sleep, for now?”
Dyce scooped Hunter up, and carried the child back to his house, depositing him in his bed.
Before Dyce went, he whispered one more thing. “You can change what comes next.”
It was then that Hunter shot up awake, as warm as he had been when he fell asleep. The ordeal was over.
And yet, something seemed to skirt in the corners of the room, where the shadows dripped over themselves the thickest, like built up gauze.
This time, Hunter skipped the formalities. “Who are you?”
A figure came forth, wrapped in shadows yet still distinctively humanoid. It was feminine, and around the same age as the other two, it seemed. “I am the Reporter. Ghost of Christmas Future. I have something to show you.”
Already, the twelve year-old untangled himself from his blankets, planting his feet on the hard floor.
Two vines, speckled with thorns, wrapped around his ankles, biting into his skin and tugging him down. Onto his chest, then below his bed, and to a new place.
It was a gymnasium, Hunter realized as he got up. The Witherburn High School’s gymnasium, if he remembered it right from election day. Tables were scattered about around the room, and people passed by them with a kind of sadness in their eyes, in spite of the flowers that piled.
“What is this?” The boy asked, a certain morbid curiosity overtaking him.
When the Reporter responded, her tone was as cold as the ice that coated the pavement outside. “This is what you will cause.”
Hunter froze. “What?”
“For every table in this room, there is a girl or boy that you helped a family lose. Some of which you will personally kill. This is what you will cause.”
Flashes of families crossed Hunter’s vision, families weeping, all dressed in black, surrounding empty coffins. Finally, the visual settled on a prison cell, housing only one person. One very familiar person.
“And this is what you will become.”
The cell was no warmer than the weather outside, and a not-so-much-older Hunter sat alone in it, staring off out the window with nothing short of resentment in his eyes.
Just as tears threatened to spill down Hunter’s cheeks, the Reporter spoke again, her tone melting slightly.
“There is still time to fix it.”
“How?”
“Go to the Magnolia police tonight. Tell them. Let them save you, and let them bring your parents what they deserve.”
The Ghost turned away, and the scenery melted into a warm living room, the TV on in the background as a version of Hunter just as old as the last sat on the couch. Someone, face indiscernible, walked past, ruffling his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. This Hunter smiled, and he meant it.
“The future can be just as bright as the past, kiddo.” The Reporter spoke.
Determination set in the twelve year-old’s eyes as the scenery melted into a snowy, present-day night, in front of the Clark household. In his left hand, Hunter clutched his mother’s journal. In his right, he held the hand of the now-warm Ghost of Christmas Future.
-
People would later wonder, when all was said and done, how someone so young, clad in only pajamas, had made such a long, cold walk to Magnolia without sustaining any damage. They would wonder how he had removed the journal from his parent’s vault. They would look at the accounts of a boy next to a glowing spirit and wonder just what exactly happened that night.
But Hunter did not wonder.
With every report of Anna Tyler’s recovery, every damning piece of evidence uncovered for his parent’s trial, every step he took forward, he knew that it was all working toward a better future. A brighter one. And one that not only could be, but would be.
He knew it.
Because that night, when he turned his parents in and gave up the life he had assured, somewhere deep in Hunter’s mind, something stopped squirming.
For good.