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A short Christmas ghost story, written in response to a challenge at Just_Writing
*****
It was bitter cold this year. The snow that brought the city to a halt earlier in the week, which made the solstice celebrations glitter and shine in the darkness, has gone. The iron grey that was left had Col cold to the bone, and it wasn't surprising that everyone else who had a warm cosy place to be chose to be there instead. It left the Christmas woods deserted. Just him, and the drip of water slowly rolling together on a leaf, the sharp rustle as a bird took wing. Col thrust his hands deeper into his poachers pockets, and hunched his shoulders, trying to shield his heart from the cutting wind.
Behind him, the sun was sliding away as the day drained. Its water-washed scarlet and gold cast long shadows made Col a twenty foot streak, one lone man amidst the stripes and bars of the trees, charcoal on sodden grey soil.
He stood, curled in on himself, and waited for the dark to claim him, seeping up his legs along with the chill, until there was nothing left but the icy light of the fattening moon, and the slow drip of damp leaves.
Col waited.
Behind him there was a single footfall, the snap of a twig fracturing under foot, but Col fixed his eyes on the darkness ahead and did not turn his head. He held his breath, listening intently, praying that the sounds might continue.
Another footstep.
The brittle holly leaves on the bush beside Col rustled.
Col bit his lip.
A feather light touch on his shoulder made Col startle, and the urge to turn, to try and see was almost overwhelming.
Instead, he started to speak, a bare whisper in the darkness.
"I was worried you wouldn't come this year."
The pressure on his shoulder became firmer - Col could imagine a hand, resting there.
"I wondered if you might think that I wouldn't be here."
Something brushed his bare neck. A thumb, stroking that exposed junction between throat and jaw, where Col's blood was thundering in the stillness.
He'd been here every year. Seven years since a Christmas drunk had destroyed them.
"I'm glad," he said, his throat tightening around that most improbable of words, and it felt as though someone was standing behind him, pressed close, one arm across his chest, the other hand still stroking his face. "I miss you."
Col screwed his eyes shut against his tears and concentrated on every point of contact, on remembering the touch, the impossible sense of warmth, even as it began to fade.
"Happy Christmas, my love," Col whispered to the absence, and he stood there, patient and silent.
Eventually, the night's cold slowed the drip of water, dulled the feeling in Col's feet, numbed his stiffened hands. Eventually he gathered himself to turn and walk, stone footed, back towards the warmth and light and business and brightness of the rest of his life.
*****
It was bitter cold this year. The snow that brought the city to a halt earlier in the week, which made the solstice celebrations glitter and shine in the darkness, has gone. The iron grey that was left had Col cold to the bone, and it wasn't surprising that everyone else who had a warm cosy place to be chose to be there instead. It left the Christmas woods deserted. Just him, and the drip of water slowly rolling together on a leaf, the sharp rustle as a bird took wing. Col thrust his hands deeper into his poachers pockets, and hunched his shoulders, trying to shield his heart from the cutting wind.
Behind him, the sun was sliding away as the day drained. Its water-washed scarlet and gold cast long shadows made Col a twenty foot streak, one lone man amidst the stripes and bars of the trees, charcoal on sodden grey soil.
He stood, curled in on himself, and waited for the dark to claim him, seeping up his legs along with the chill, until there was nothing left but the icy light of the fattening moon, and the slow drip of damp leaves.
Col waited.
Behind him there was a single footfall, the snap of a twig fracturing under foot, but Col fixed his eyes on the darkness ahead and did not turn his head. He held his breath, listening intently, praying that the sounds might continue.
Another footstep.
The brittle holly leaves on the bush beside Col rustled.
Col bit his lip.
A feather light touch on his shoulder made Col startle, and the urge to turn, to try and see was almost overwhelming.
Instead, he started to speak, a bare whisper in the darkness.
"I was worried you wouldn't come this year."
The pressure on his shoulder became firmer - Col could imagine a hand, resting there.
"I wondered if you might think that I wouldn't be here."
Something brushed his bare neck. A thumb, stroking that exposed junction between throat and jaw, where Col's blood was thundering in the stillness.
He'd been here every year. Seven years since a Christmas drunk had destroyed them.
"I'm glad," he said, his throat tightening around that most improbable of words, and it felt as though someone was standing behind him, pressed close, one arm across his chest, the other hand still stroking his face. "I miss you."
Col screwed his eyes shut against his tears and concentrated on every point of contact, on remembering the touch, the impossible sense of warmth, even as it began to fade.
"Happy Christmas, my love," Col whispered to the absence, and he stood there, patient and silent.
Eventually, the night's cold slowed the drip of water, dulled the feeling in Col's feet, numbed his stiffened hands. Eventually he gathered himself to turn and walk, stone footed, back towards the warmth and light and business and brightness of the rest of his life.
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