Christmas in ashes

I have never trusted December.

People say that sounds dramatic, but those people never watched their parents’ house burn down on Christmas Eve while the rest of the town kept singing carols like nothing happened.

So yes,every time snow falls, my skin crawls.

And tonight, on December 1st, Hallowpine is drowning in it.

Snowflakes tumble from the sky like they’re drunk on holiday spirit, sticking to my eyelashes as I lock up my bakery. Sugar & Sin,the name sounds cute until you realize the only sugar inside is the kind I dump into coffee to survive this town.

The bells above the bakery door jingle behind me in that cheerful, irritating way that makes me want to kick them off their screws. But I don’t. Aunt Ruby would “exorcise” me with a vat of eggnog if she saw me abusing Christmas decorations again.

The street is quiet. Too quiet.

Hallowpine usually glows with warm lights and fake joy this time of year. Kids skating. Couples taking pictures. That unsettling animatronic Santa by the post office waving its plastic hand as if plotting something. Tonight? Nothing. Just me and the sound of snow crunching beneath my boots.

“Perfect,” I mutter. “Exactly how horror movies begin.”

I start walking.

My breath fogs in front of me.

The town looks like a postcard dipped in silence.

And then I hear it.

A voice—soft, off-key, almost a whisper.

Silent night… Holy night…

My stomach drops. My lungs freeze.

No. No, no, no.Not the song.

Not that voice.

My boots move before I can stop them, crunching faster across the frozen street, pulling me toward the old church. It stands perched on the hill like it’s guarding the town… or hiding from it.

Someone is there.

A figure hunched behind the building.

A faint orange glow flickering around him.

Smoke curling upward like ghost fingers.

I duck behind a pine tree, my heart slamming against my ribs so violently I think it might burst through my coat.

Whoever it is… is burning something.

Papers. Photos. I can’t see clearly. But he’s humming that distorted version of Silent Night I haven’t heard in ten years.

The night of the fire.

My throat dries out completely. My feet root into the ground. I try to swallow but my breath is too loud in my ears.

“Shouldn’t be spying this late, Elora.”

I spin so fast I nearly fall.

A man is standing behind me—no, not standing. Looming. A shadow carved out of the night, tall and broad-shouldered, with snow dusting his hair. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A smirk that looks like it was stitched onto his face by the devil himself.

My heart leaps into my throat.“Jesus Christ” I choke.

“Close.” His voice is smooth, low, and maddeningly calm. “But the wrong holiday.”

I stumble back a step, slipping slightly in the snow.

“Who….who are you?”

And why didn’t I hear him walk up behind me?

He tilts his head like he’s studying a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.

“Lucien.”

Just Lucien. The way he says it sounds like a secret. Or a warning.

“Great.” My voice comes out shakier than I want. “Well, Lucien, unless you enjoy heart attacks, maybe don’t sneak up on people who clearly don’t want company—”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” He glances toward the churchyard fire. “You were just too focused staring at him.”

My stomach twists.

The man behind the church is still burning whatever he’s burning, humming that haunting version of the song. Every instinct in me screams to run, but I can’t move.

Lucien’s voice slides through the cold air again.

“You shouldn’t watch him.” His eyes lock onto mine with unsettling precision. “He’s not who you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I whisper.

Lucien steps closer, his boots silent in the snow, and I hate,absolutely hate,how my breath catches. His presence feels like hot smoke curling around cold glass. Dangerous. Familiar. Wrong in a way that pulls me in.

“You shouldn’t stare at the dark,” he murmurs, eyes tracking the flames behind the church. “Especially not this month.”

My pulse spikes.

“What happens this month?” I demand.

Lucien pauses. There’s something in his expression,grief? Regret? Or maybe just the calm acceptance of someone who’s already made peace with hell.

“Bad things,” he finally says. “And usually to the wrong people.”

A chill crawls up my spine.

Suddenly, the humming stops.

The man behind the church freezes. His head lifts like he heard us. Or sensed us.

Lucien’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His fingers are warm even through my glove, but the grip is firm, grounding, alarming.

“Time to go.”

I should pull away. I should tell him to let go.

Instead, my voice dies in my throat as he guides me back down the hill, keeping me behind him like a shield. His movements are fluid, purposeful, like someone who expects danger at every turn.

Only when we reach the bottom of the hill does he release me.

I snapped my hand back like his touch burned me.

“I don’t need help,” I say sharply.

“I didn’t ask whether you needed it.” He looks at me with a softness that unnerves me even more. “I gave it anyway.”

The snow falls harder, swirling between us like a curtain of white. His hair glitters with frost. His eyes—dark and tired—study me like he knows me.

No. Like he remembers me.

But that’s impossible. I’ve never seen him in my life.

“Stay away from that church,” he says quietly. “And from him.”

Before I can ask who “him” is

Lucien steps back into the shadows.

Turns.

And walks away as if the night itself opens a path for him.

I stand frozen, breath trembling.

The church hum falls silent.

The fire behind the church goes out.

The snow keeps falling, heavy and suffocating.

When I finally gather enough courage to walk home, my nerves are shredded. My thoughts got tangled. My chest tightened 

I reach my doorstep, fumbling for my keys.

And there,lying on my welcome mat—is something small, wooden, and dusted with snow.

A Christmas ornament.

Hand-carved.

Shaped like a house.Burning.

A single number etched into its back:

24

The countdown has begun.