Entry for The Nightmare Before Christmas Contest

Disclaimer: Twilight is owned by Stephenie Meyer, I'm just expanding on what she gave us to play with.

Thank you to Octoberland for betaing and goldenhair for pre-reading and encouraging this madness.

Ghosts in the Snow

ROSALIE

Soft tendrils of snow fall around me. The ones that land on my skin stay in their perfect crystalline formation, rather than melting as they would have done in the past, since my skin is as cold as the air. Children have run into the street, despite the late hour, to play in the fresh snow, shrieking and laughing, wrapped in whatever winter garments their parents could afford. These are the youngest victims of the Depression, little more than skin and bones – it's easier for me to see this now than it was – but they are easily pleased by Mother Nature's gift.

Instincts war within me – to nurture, and to destroy. These are the weak ones, easy to spirit away, and the only people that would care if they disappeared would be their grieving parents. Even then, there would be one less mouth to feed, a little more food to go around this winter.

Of course the children would follow the beautiful lady with the blonde hair, even into the darkness. Death has only strengthened my beauty, even when that was what had led to it in the first place. I could coax them with radiant smiles and the promise of candy, cuddling their warm flesh to my cold skin before tearing into it.

But I don't lure them away. Despite the changes that have been wrought upon my body, despite the monster lurking within that sees them as prey, I want them to live. I want their mothers, even the ones that neglect or resent their broods, to have the chance to watch them grow.

Besides, I promised Carlisle when I walked away from him that I wouldn't be feeding from people, and I have every intention of sticking to that vow.

I am not lurking in an alley in Rochester because I want to hunt. I am here to see the people who made sure I would never be a mother myself.

I am not here for blood, although I expect it will coat my hands before I am through.

I'm not sure which one I'll start with, although I know which one I'm saving for last. That's Royce, of course, the man I once thought would be my husband and the father of my children. I've got his end all planned out. The others, I've got the opportunity to be a little more…creative with.

"And we're gonna have a goose, Momma says, Dadda's been saving up for it all year," one little boy said to another, as they work together to build the base of a snowman.

"I told my Dad that I want a toy train, but he says Santa might not be able to bring me one."

I slip away, the only sign that I'd ever been there are the footprints I leave, and the snow will swallow those soon enough. No one will ever know I was here.

From that, my first idea is born.

It's easier to begin with the one that lives closest to here, only a few streets away, although the difference in wealth over a few blocks is startling. It makes sense that this friend of Royce's lives where the houses are bigger, where the lights are brighter and the sidewalks are well cared for. Royce wouldn't be mixing with poor people, not unless they could keep him in drink.

I can't even remember the man's name. I don't really care. I danced him at the Christmas Ball the Kings threw last year. Royce and I were already engaged by then, and out of the few people I waltzed with, this man was one of them. I wore a dress bought just for the occasion, blue silk to match the way the Kings' ballroom was decorated.

The snow keeps falling, and I tip my face up to the sky, letting it collect on my skin, dusting my eyelashes. The windows I pass by are steamed with condensation, caused by the difference in temperatures between the inside and the outside. I've learned a lot since my death. Carlisle's books have been my only distraction from the incessant thirst.

The house is all shut up, the lights out, smoke curling up from the chimney. I have to guess which windows belong to bedrooms, since the closed curtains prevent me from peering inside. It's not so different from my parent's old house, though, and I know this man still lives with his own parents. He wouldn't be in the master bedroom, but around the back, so I creep around, leaving my coat draped over a fire hydrant.

I am reflected in one of the windows and between the ice crystals collected on my pale skin, my white dress and the way my hair shines under the moonlight, I couldn't look more ghostly if I tried.

It's easy to scale the wall using nothing but my hands and feet, my grip sure on the brick. It's not like I have anything to fear if I fall. On the second level I listen at each of the windows – this room is empty, so is this one, but this one has someone in it. I can hear them breathing, and below that there is the wet, inviting pulse of a heartbeat.

I rap on the window pane and wait. There's a thin layer of frost on the outside and I resist the urge trace a random pattern with my finger.

The breathing continues unhalted until I rap again, when it hitches and I can hear the shifting of limbs in sheets, the confused murmuring of someone disturbed from their sleep.

I tap again, and this time I am rewarded with the creak of feet on floorboards.

"What the -?"

He draws one of the curtains back, and the frost is thick enough and the sleep still heavy in his eyes, that at first he doesn't see me. After a couple of sleepy blinks, he freezes, mouth falling open in terror as he calls for his mother.

I want to laugh but instead contain myself and keep the Mona Lisa smile in place.

When he turns his head to fumble for the light, I move swiftly, away from the window and out of sight. I can hear every soul in the house stirring, woken by his pathetic screams.

"What is it?"

"There was – at the window -"

And of course there is nothing at the window now, nor are there tracks in the snow below. His fear is dismissed as a bad dream and every one returns to bed, though he is restless for the rest of the night.

In the morning, before he rises, I return to the window and write in the frost, backwards so he will be able to read it from the inside.

I am the ghost of Christmas past.

I don't wait around for his reaction to that. I have preparations to make now that I have a solid plan in place. My first stop is the dressmaker's three towns over, where no one will recognize me. I have no money with me, but I can hardly pretend to be a normal customer anyway, not with my eyes the color they are – still bright with my own blood - so I sneak in before the owner arrives and browse the racks of half-sewn dresses, searching for what I need.

With that task completed, I return to Rochester, my hair covered by a hat so I am less recognizable. I don't have to get close to anyone though, my hearing strong enough to hear words when I am on one street and my quarry is on another.

"I think I saw Rosalie last night."

"Don't be ridiculous," comes the reply, and the bloodlust flares at the sound of Royce's voice and derisory cackle. That laugh is too tied up with my last memory of him. "She's dead."

"I know. Look, I thought it was just a bad dream until I woke up this morning and there's a message on my window. 'I am the ghost of Christmas past'. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Royce laughs again. "You want to lay off the snuff, Larry. Rose wouldn't know that; it's from a book. She was pretty but she didn't have a lot going on upstairs, did she?"

"That's how you like them, though, Royce, isn't it?" chimes in another man, and they laugh together. I recognize this other laugh, too, and it stirs the same memory. "That describes Mina to a T."

Who the hell is Mina?

"Yeah, but Mina has something going for her that Rose never did – she's got money." Again, they laugh, and the world around me is tinted red as my anger flares, venom bitter on my tongue.

"Seriously, have you never thought about ghosts?" the first man interrupts. "Because I didn't write that message myself and I swear she was there outside my window, right before Mother came in."

"What exactly did you say?" Royce asks sharply. "Did you say you thought you saw Rose's ghost? Because she isn't supposed to be dead, idiot, she's supposed to have run away with a carnie."

"Hey, I didn't say I thought it was Rose. I just told them that I thought I saw someone."

"I mean it, Larry," Royce says. "You don't mention her to anyone. She's dead, she's not our problem anymore."

I'll make them eat those words.

'***'

I've come to the conclusion that I need to be careful not to spill actual blood. I don't yet have the control not to feed when I smell it, and I want no part of these men inside me.

Despite his fears about me, about the ghost he saw, Larry still walks home alone from their card game. It's easy to silence him without ripping out his windpipe or tongue – a rough pinch to his voice box renders him eternally mute. He can't scream when sees me, frostless this time but in blue silk, just like when we danced.

I don't say a word to him. He knows why I'm here.

Everyone in the King household is asleep when I reach there with Larry in my arms, the ballroom a vast, dark space. They are holding another ball, in just a few days time, and the decorations are already up. In one corner, a majestic spruce is wrapped in garlands and dripping with baubles. The theme this year is red, not blue.

In the centre of the ceiling is suspended Mrs. King's pride and joy, the crystal chandelier. I hang Larry from it.

On the polished parquet, eight feet below his twitching feet, I spell out 'I am the ghost of Christmas past' in mistletoe berries.

Then I return the still-spotless gown to the shop I took it from.

The next morning is one of those crisp winter days where the sky is completely cloudless, so I am unable to witness the reaction in the King household and the Rochester community. I spend the time planning instead. I thought I would have to go further afield for at least one of the men, John from Georgia, who'd been visiting Royce when I died.

But I don't. Because the man who joked with Royce about 'Mina' yesterday bore the same soft, Southern accent that had been present when they violated me. Which means he's here, in Rochester, for Christmas.

He's not my next target, though. That would be another nameless, spineless friend of Royce's who was too much of a coward even to dance with me. He always stumbled over his words when any woman spoke to him, staring at his feet and shying away.

It turned out he preferred it when the woman was pinned beneath him and struggling to escape. He was infinitely less shy then.

My inspiration comes in the form of carol singers moving from door to door as dusk settles. "Holy Night", "Away in a Manger" and then a song I don't know about chestnuts roasting above a fire.

I steal him straight from his bed, carrying him down to his own kitchen, where I've got a fire burning in the stone hearth. There isn't another living soul in the house, as the staff have all gone home. It's an old hearth, tall enough for someone to stand in if they stoop, with a spit and a crank to hang a pot over the flames. It's the spit I'm interested in.

He's too tall to fit onto it, but breaking his legs so I can fold them back solves that problem. I have to crush his larynx to shut up his screams, since not only might they alert the neighbors, but they're echoing around the stone and annoying me.

It's a long, slow process. He isn't really burning because he's too high above the flames. He's just…cooking.

The smell isn't appetizing.

I shove a sprig of mistletoe into his mouth when he's gone and douse the fire. When I leave the house I can still smell him on me, acrid and cloying, and I have to hunt in the pre-dawn light, settling for foxes that are too close to town. Then I sneak into an empty house to bathe and steal a new set of clothes.

Esme is waiting for me not too far from the Kings' house when I approach it.

"I won't be dissuaded," I tell her, and she nods to show she understands, but she persists anyway.

"You're attracting a lot of attention," she says, but it's not really an admonishment. Carlisle chose well in sending her rather than Edward. Edward is a judgmental prick.

"I'm not interested in that. I just want them scared. They need to know that I'm coming for them, and they'll suffer for what they did to me."

She sighs quietly and walks with me, talking about the 'family', trying to lure me back to their pretense of humanity. I know I'll be returning to them when this is over, but I'm going to finish it. We'll be leaving the area when I'm through, moving onto pastures new.

Eventually, she leaves me, a gentle hug the last gift before her departure, and she asks me to come spend Christmas Day with them. I tell her I'll consider it.

Royce isn't at home, so I track him down at a bar he used to frequent. The men are jittery or confused, depending on whether they are in on the secret or not.

"I don't get it," John from Georgia is muttering. "How could anyone do that to someone? It's inhuman."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Royce declares firmly, although from my hiding place in the shadows I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow. "It was done by a person, okay, a madman."

"You heard Larry," the other nameless one says, the last of the five from that night. "He thought he saw her and then they found him strung up. He couldn't have got himself up there. She's back from the dead, and she's after revenge."

"I'm going back to Georgia tomorrow," John says. "I don't care how much I have to pay to get there."

I could smell his fear across the room. It was deliciously sweet.

"Stop talking nonsense," Royce spat, downing the last of his scotch. "We've all got guns, if some lunatic is after us, we just shoot them. That'll prove how human they are."

I don't like how defiant he's being. I want him scared. I want him to know it's me.

When they leave the bar, I'm in the alley across the street, the hat gone so my hair is bright under the streetlamp. Royce is the first one through the door and he recoils when he sees me. As he stumbles back into his companions, I shift back into the shadows, out of sight.

"I saw her. Oh God, I saw her!"

The alcohol he's consumed makes him close to incoherent. The only ones who understand what's causing his breakdown are John and the one who was afraid of me.

"Get him home," John tells their friends. "He never could handle his whiskey." He whispers in Royce's ear before they depart. "Don't say her name."

I stalk John back to his lodgings, my steps utterly silent on the paving, and seize him before he can enter the hotel, keeping my hand over his mouth to silence him. He's the first one to struggle, and the first one I speak to.

"You were right," I whisper. "It is inhuman."

He pulls away and I let him go, anticipating what he's going to attempt. He's slow to pull his pistol out, take aim and fire; even a human could have avoided his bullet. I make no attempt to, letting it strike me in the leg and ricochet, burying itself in a wall instead.

He waits for blood. He waits for me to show him pain.

I grab him by the throat instead. He drops the gun and I crush it beneath my foot.

A sour smell assaults me; he's soiled himself. I cut off my breathing, which makes it easier to resist the pulse pounding in his neck inches from my teeth.

I walk him through the streets, keeping out of the light and away from other people, but if anyone had looked at us, they'd have thought we looked like a couple out for a moonlight stroll. My arm is around his waist, but he's felt my strength already and doesn't try to break free. I think some of his ribs may have cracked, but it doesn't matter. They won't be of any use to him for much longer.

This time we return to the King's again, the perfect place for this to happen. What I need is outside, fixed to the front wall of the house on the street. It's a horse trough, one they keep for visitors even though they have a car themselves, the ice crystals in the water shimmering as it moves. Next to it sits a hay-filled manger.

I shove John's head beneath the water, keeping his arms pinned to his sides so he can't flail and cause noise. It would be more dramatic, perhaps, to repeatedly lift his head out of the water, to punctuate what is happening by spelling it out to him in words while he gasps and chokes.

But I have nothing to say to him, so I just hold him under while he twitches and writhes and eventually goes still.

This time I've brought my own decorations: I tie a red velvet ribbon around the manger and then heave John's body over to it, laying him in the frost-crisped hay, arranging sprigs of mistletoe around him.

'***'

While eavesdropping the next day, I discover that Royce woke from his drunken stupor in a state of panic and set about hiring guards to protect himself. It amuses me that he thinks he can avoid this. Surely they know by now that what's coming from him won't be stopped by mere mortals.

Snow falls thick and fast in the late afternoon, and I know exactly how I'm going to use it.

The third nameless one tries to shoot me from his own bed, where he's evidently been sleeping with his gun under the pillow. I find the vertebrae that paralyses, but doesn't kill, and give it a sharp tug, cracking it. Then I carry him out into the snow, packing the snow around his body until he is completely encased in it up to the neck. He's not quite a snowman this way but I can't risk him going undiscovered until the snow thaws. It would lose impact that way.

I think by the time I finish he has frozen to death. I make a garland out of mistletoe, like I'd learned to do with daisies as a child, and hang it around his neck.

It is only at dawn that I realize today is Christmas Eve. I can remember, as clearly as if the memory is happening now, my last Christmas with my family: gathered around the fire, eating, singing, sharing presents. I went to see Vera and played with baby Henry too. I'd thought at the time that by now I'd be married and I'd be spending my first Christmas with Royce, in our own house, with our own tree, and maybe a baby on the way.

Royce's house is empty. There is money in the safe, though, which is easy to get into when you have vampire strength. The decorations in the ballroom have been taken down – the ball has been cancelled. The people of Rochester are staying indoors where they can, although some from the poorer streets are finding a grim satisfaction in the spoilt sons of wealthy men being the ones who are dying.

I don't go looking for Royce that night. He knows I'm coming; I'll let him hide for a while.

After the streets are empty, and everyone has laid their heads down to thoughts of goose and chestnuts and gifts, I go looking for the street where I watched the children playing in the snow. I remember that the little boy, the one who wanted a toy train but wouldn't be getting one, came out of the house with the black door.

I don't go down the chimney, but I do leave the train under the tree.

I'm lost on Christmas Day. I could go watch my family, lurking outside the window like the wraith that I am, but that would hurt too much, to see them celebrating without me. Do they miss me? Grieve for me? Did they believe Royce's story about me running away with a carnival worker?

I can't go back to Carlisle and his family either. I can't bear to see Carlisle's disappointment, or Edward's disgust, or suffer Esme's gentle comfort.

In the end, I find a copse outside the city and make a cocoon for myself in the snow, close my eyes, and pretend that I can sleep.

The snow takes three days to melt. I let it.

Tracking Royce down takes some time, and would be easier if I could ask for Edward's assistance. That way, he could pick the answer out of someone's mind. This way, I have to do a lot of eavesdropping, and a lot of wandering, but I find him. The building is empty apart from Royce and his guards, and he is in the basement, so there are no windows I can go through to reach him.

I feel sorry that I have to kill the guards, snapping their necks, but I have to do it to get to him.

The door is heavy, thick steel and would require machinery to get through. Except my hands are just as good for that, so I rip into the metal, gouging a hole large enough for me to step through.

He starts screaming before I even touch him.

"What's the matter, Royce? Am I not beautiful? Am I not everything you could wish for in a bride?"

The dress I was going to marry Royce in cost a month's worth of my father's salary and was an exquisite creation in ivory silk and lace. It seemed a shame that I never wore it, and it was left at the dressmaker's after I disappeared, never collected.

I left some of Royce's money to cover the cost of it when I retrieved it. It may raise questions, but that's part of my mission. Better that I've come back from the dead than be the floozy that ran off with the circus.

I take my time with Royce. I'm perhaps not as creative as I have been, but I want him to die slowly. I crush his genitalia first, then work on breaking other bones in his body, pulling back when he is close to passing out and starting again when he has recovered. There are other things I want to do, and I imagine them as I work – stripping his skin away, ripping limbs apart at the joints – but they would involve blood and I will never drink from him.

His voice is so hoarse he can no longer scream by the time I decide to crush his skull. I hold my breath as I carve the word 'murderer' into the skin of his forehead with my fingernail in perfect cursive, but even when I slip and inhale the fragrance of his blood, I realize I don't want it. Its scent is sweet, but it repulses me, the memory of Royce's last touches fresh and raw as I mark him.

When I leave the vault, I return to the copse. Fireworks scatter in the sky as people celebrate the start of a new year. I strip off my bridal gown and start a bonfire with it, standing there in the only thing I have left: me.

I hear him approach, but I don't turn to acknowledge him.

"Did it help?" Edward asks. "Killing all of them?"

I watch the white of the silk brown and blacken, not unlike my second victim's skin.

"No, it didn't," I reply. "But I don't regret a second of it."

Thank you for reading this slice of madness (which was originally entitled 'Rosalie goes batshit'...I changed the title against my pre-reader's wishes).