***
Twinkling cobweb lights, peppermint skulls and gingerbread coffins are stacked like gift boxes. Zilla is in full Creepmas mode, her orange apron is dusted with powderedsugar and bat-shaped sprinkles as she decorates orders like a sugar-fueled general.
"Licorice bones to aisle three! Someone find the marshmallow eyeballs, they go in the wreaths!" I stand near the counter, still faintly glowing from my ghost encounter, watching Zilla summon a tray of cursed candy canes with the flick of a spoon. Nox leans beside me, his arms crossed, eyeing the map that is carved into my skin.
"I still don’t understand why we need that map," he mutters.
Not every house in this city is made of brick or wood; some are spectral. Ghost houses shimmering just beyond the veil, they are tucked between alleyways that no longer exist, perched atop foundations that have vanished with time. They are invisible to the living, but for the ghosts, it’s their home. I know this because I’ve seen candlelight in nonexistent windows. I’ve heard laughter coming from empty lots, and I felt the chill of a doorknob that shouldn’t have been there. I know something else too… something that drove me to my knees in that circle to ask the dead for direction. I know that every child deserves a gift, no matter if they’re naughty or nice, living or lost. Whether they sleep in bunk beds or beneath spectral rafters, whether they write letters in crayon or whisper wishes into the wind—every child deserves to be remembered. That’s why I need the map and not the one printed on glossy paper, but the real one. I need the map that’s etched in ghost light and memories, the one that shows hidden paths and forgotten doors. The map showsthe houses that have been flickering in and out of existence.
Since Creepmas isn’t just about candy and cobwebs, it is about kindness. About reaching into the shadows and saying, “I see you; you matter.” With using this map, I can make sure no child—living or ghost-like—is left behind.
"Every child deserves a gift… even the naughty ones. Alive or not."
He reaches out, gently brushing my hair back from my face, letting his fingers linger against my cheek. "I love you." I blink and the room seems to hold its breath. "I’ve loved you since the first time you threatened me… or my cock... with your little knife," he says, voice low and steady. "I love you when you’re fearless. I love you when you’re reckless, and I love you when you’re loud or quiet. I also love you when you’re halfway to the underworld with a map on your arm."
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close to me. "I know," I whisper against his lips. "I love you too."
I see the elf moving in the corner of my eye; he’s furiously crossing items off a list, the scroll trailing across the floor like a haunted receipt. "Yes... love… I’d love to see a Christmas tree in the center of the city."
Nox rolls his eyes.
Chapter 22
NEO
The graveyard lies beneath a thick blanket of snow. The tips of the tombstones stick out from the white, looking like crooked teeth, their inscriptions softened by frost and time. The wrought-iron gate creaks in the wind, its hinges stiff with age, and the lanterns lining the path flicker with a pale, ghostly glow. Snowflakes drift lazily through the air, settling on statues of angels and forgotten saints, cloaking them in shimmering silence. The trees surrounding the cemetery are bare and brittle, their branches reaching skyward like skeletal arms. Every note made by our boots on the fresh snow sounds too loud, swallowed quickly by the hush of winter.
The veil between the living and the dead stretches taut, humming with remembrance. Names whisper from the tombstones, and shadows linger just beyond the lanterns.Nevertheless, there is peace—a strange, sacred stillness that wraps around the graveyard like a lullaby made of snow.
I move subtly, my black coat trailing behind me. Mybody is covered in clothes made of a matte fabric that absorbs light and are created to keep me warm. My coat flares slightly at the hem, brushing the tops of my boots as I walk, and the high collar of my sweater frames my face like a question no one dares ask. My gloves are finger-less and I carry an ax over my shoulder. I don’tflinch at the cold or the quiet. My eyes scan the rows of graves, as if I can read the stories buried beneath the snow.
Zilla’s bright colors are in contrast to the monochrome background. Her candy-striped scarf flaps in the wind. "Spooky," she mutters, eyeing a frost-covered angel statue. "Just how you like it."
We pause at a grave marked only by a cracked stone. I turn around. Zilla stands behind me, watching the trees, her breath fogging in the cold.
"Do you feel it?" I ask softly.
Zilla nods. "Someone’s waiting."
My eyes narrow, and the hairs on my arms prickle beneath my coat. Zilla steps closer to me and I curl my fingers tightly around the handle of the ax that’s resting on my shoulder. My movements are deliberate, precise; I feel no panic or hesitation, just focus. I slide the ax down in one smooth motion, the polished blade catching a glint of lantern light. I shift my grip, firm and ready, the weight settling in my hand like it belongs there. Then suddenly we hear a sound. It’s not loud, not close, just… wrong. There is a soft shuffle, a whisper of a movement and snow shifting in places where no one walks.
Zilla turns slowly, her voice low. "That wasn’t you, right?"
I shake my head.
A gravestone creaks behind us; the sound is like ice breaking underfoot. A lantern starts to flicker, a shadow stretches and then I see it. A figure. It’s half-formed and standing between graves. Tall, still and watching us. It doesn’t move or breathe, but it’s there.
My hand tightens on the ax. "We’re not alone."
"Neo, I’m scared!" The snow feels harder now, as if trying to bury us in this moment.
My eyes lock on the shadowed figure that is standing between the tombstones. It hasn’t moved, it hasn’t spoken, but its presence feels like a weight on my chest.
Zilla takes one slow step back. "Neo…" The wind shifts and the figure leans forward, just slightly, enough to break the silence.
"Run!" I tell Zilla, and we bolt. Our boots cut through the snow, kicking up clouds of frost as we sprint past crooked stones and frozen statues. The forest looms ahead, dark and tangled, branches like claws hanging down to greet us. We don’t hesitate. We plunge into the trees, breaths ragged, hearts pounding.
I hear Zilla scream. I turn, and I run to her, the blade of the ax rising in a clean arc towards... Zeke’s head?
