"For almost the entire history of Western civilization this month
has been a holy time. The Druids, winter solstice, Hannakah, the
Romans converted Saturnalia into Christmas. Imagine that, Christ
wasn't even born on this day. So no one knows for sure when
the millennium really begins. And how much time is left."
~Peter Watts, Millennium

Prologue

Snow was falling in heavy, wet flakes, clinging to everything and blanketing the countryside with deep, white silence. The roads and walkways were still visible where lingering heat and traffic kept the winter at bay, but by dawn there would be nothing to distinguish concrete from grass

Pastor Jim walked through the kitchen with a frown. He had been given the charge of two boys, but only one was sitting at the table slurping soup.

"Dean, I thought I asked you to tell Sam to come in?"

The twelve-year-old looked up and shrugged. "I did, but he doesn't want to. I made sure he had all his heavy clothes on and gave him my jacket to wear over his while he's outside freezing his butt off."

"Is he in the yard?"

Dean nodded. "By the old gate, with the tombstones."

"On the cemetery side? What is he doing out there?"

The boy crumbled another handful of crackers into his soup. "He says he's watching people."

"By the old gate? That gate has opened to an empty field for the last century. No one comes in that way anymore; the old stone sidewalk was even torn out when we did the renovations to the plumbing."

"I didn't see anyone. Sam likes to play weird games sometimes," Dean announced in a tone clearly demonstrating the long-suffering nature of the older sibling. "Dad tells him to knock it off, but it makes him happy." He shrugged again.

"Well, it's too cold to play this game this evening, he needs to eat something. And don't just eat all the crackers, drink your milk too."

The Pastor went to find his own boots and jacket. John would never forgive him if his youngest caught pneumonia because no one bothered to drag him in out of the snow.

Jim crunched through the frozen grass and deepening ice towards the old iron gate at what was now the rear of the church property.

Over a century earlier, when the church had been center of town life, a wide stone avenue had led through the gate to the chapel. But now the public road ran on the other side of the church, and the chapel that had once been the entirety of the church building was just a very small part of the structure. The tombstones in the yard behind the church dated back to the earliest Christian settlements in the region, and most were no longer even legible.

He found Sam sitting on the ancient stone steps that led up to the old chapel doors. The boy was indeed huddled in his brother's jacket, watching the gate with wide hazel eyes. His lips were almost blue and a heavy dusting of snow covered his shoulders. He was clearly focused on something, but Jim didn't see anything unusual in the stillness of the yard. The deep shadows of evening were gathering and, Christmas Eve or not, the churchyard was not a friendly place for the living.

The boy didn't seem to realize he had company, but Jim noticed that his eyes were flickering back and forth as though watching something with movement.

"Sam?"

The boy blinked and turned his head towards the Pastor.

"What are you looking at?"

Sam frowned. "The people, where are all the people coming from? Where are they going?"

Jim felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle and all the hair stand up.

"What people, Sam?" he asked carefully.

Sam waved a small gloved hand at the snow covered pathway through the closed ancient gate.

"There! All of those people. They keep coming, but they won't talk to me. Then they go away."

Jim looked again, but the cemetery was still deserted. "Are they people you recognize?"

The boy looked thoughtful. "No, well ...maybe. I thought I saw Ms. Lizzie, but I wasn't sure and she didn't hear me when I talked to her."

Jim nodded. A shiver ran up his spine at Sam's mention of the church choir director.

"Okay, Sam. Well, it's time to come in now. It's much too cold out here for you."

Sam looked at him, eyes wide. "Dean didn't believe me. He said I was making it up. Why can't he see them? They're right there!"

"Maybe he was teasing you," Jim offered gently. "Do you see a lot of things that Dean says he can't see?"

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Sometimes. When I tell him about weird things I see, Dean makes fun of me and tells Dad, and Dad tells me I'm too old for little kid games. But I'm not lying," he added hotly.

"Weird like how?"

Sam shrugged and pointed out into the empty yard.

"Do you ever tell your Dad?"

"No. Dad's always busy."

Jim nodded and reached down to pick Sam up. At eight he was getting big, but not too big to be carried around just yet. The boy clung to him and rested his head on Jim's shoulder.

"'M not lying," he mumbled again.

"Don't worry about it, Sam. Let's get some hot soup in you and get you to bed."

"Is Dad coming back tonight? He said he would be back for Christmas."

"I'm sure your Dad will do everything he can to be here for tomorrow. And if he doesn't make it, we will just have to start without him and tell him about everything he missed."

Jim carried his friend's son back into the church and settled him in the kitchen with his brother, where the two promptly engaged in yet another one of the sibling spats their age made them prone to.

Sam seemed okay, and so Jim was inclined to not make a big deal of anything, but as soon as John showed up they needed to have a long talk about his youngest son.