Revenants and Redemption, or a Twilight Christmas Carol

Chapter 1: Whitlock's ghost

Good day to you, gentle people of the Twilight fandom. I am here today to tell you a story. And tell a story I shall, but there is one thing that I must make clear before I begin.

Jasper Whitlock is dead.

Now, I realise that it might shock some of you to read those words. You may find my statement unduly blunt. You may be on Team Jasper, in which case the news of his demise may be especially horrific to you. Well, I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. Jasper Whitlock is dead and his being dead is essential to the story. All right?

All right, then. Let's begin.

For the last 4 years of his life, Jasper owned and operated a money-landing business with his partner, Edward Masen. Edward was more than Jasper's business partner. He was the executor of his will, his only heir, his only friend, and the one person in the world to mourn for him. And he didn't mourn so much that he didn't get a good deal on the funeral. It was what Jazz would have wanted, he rationalized, and he was right. Jasper Whitlock was a businessman, first and last, and so is Edward Masen.

Edward has a bad reputation. He doesn't care. In fact, he deserves every bad name and every slur, and more. He is not simply avaricious, he is mercenary. He is not simply a loner, he is a misanthrope. He is so cold and hard, even the weather has no effect upon him. The hottest day does not warm him; the coldest day does not chill him. He has a heart of stone, and ice water pumps in his veins.

He might look beautiful, with his tousled bronze hair, piercing green eyes and perfectly chiselled features, but he has a dark aura, and no-one ever approaches him. No man would befriend him, no woman would proposition him, and the beggars have better sense then ask him for spare change. Even animals steer clear of him. At 26 years old, it appears he is fated to live his life alone, and that is just the way he wants it.

He is curt, even brutal, to everyone who would dare talk to him, for any reason. And on this day, Christmas Eve, he is at his very worst.

When some poor generous soul, working for one of the many charitable organisations operating in the city, bravely walks to his office to solicit a contribution.

"No, I don't want to give anything. I want to be left alone. I don't celebrate Christmas, and I see no reason why I should help others celebrate. Besides, my taxes pay for prisons and hospitals, let the poor go there. They have beds; they serve food, what more could anybody want?"

"Well, sir, hospitals and prisons have limited place. They like to keep those places for those who belong there; the sick in the hospital and the criminals in prison."

"The poor either end up as one or as the other, so what's the difference?"

"That is a gross oversimplification, and a bigoted one. Besides, who wants to go to the hospital, or to prison? It's difficult enough to accept charity. The more you need it, the worse it is. Having to go get it in such distasteful establishments, especially during the holidays ... well, it's... Just because one is poor doesn't mean one doesn't have pride."

"So the poor have their pride. What do I care? Let them have it. Let them choke on it. It'll reduce the population surplus."

The shocked solicitor leaves without another word.

When his uncle, Carlisle Cullen, his only living relative, calls to invite him to his Christmas dinner.

"No. Forget it. No way."

"Edward ..."

"You just go on and celebrate Christmas your way, and let me do the same."

"But you don't celebrate."

"Then let me leave it alone. Why do you invite me every year? You must know my answer by now."

"I'm hoping you'll change your mind. I want you to meet Esme."

"I'm not interested in meeting your new wife. Why did you marry her anyway?"

"I love her."

"What does that have to do with marriage?"

"I could explain, but I don't think you would understand. Edward, I don't think you should be spending tomorrow alone."

"Carlisle ..."

"Christmas is a time for family, and you are my family. I have no reason to be angry at you, or to reject you. I don't know why you reject me, but I won't let it stop me. I want you to understand that my door is always open to you. I'll come back next year and I'll ask again, and again. I'll keep the hope that someday you change your mind. Until then, Merry Christmas."

Edward hangs up before the customary "Happy New Year", as he always did. He grumbles and swears under his breath. "Merry Christmas. If I had my way, those holidays cretins would be stuffed with their holly and their mistletoes, cooked with their turkeys, and their bodies dumped in the North Pole where they wouldn't offend anybody."

When he closes the office at the end of business day with Charlie Swan, the clerk he hired after Jasper's death.

"So you'll be taking all day off tomorrow. And if I don't give you a full day's salary for it, then I'll be robbing you, is that right?"

"I wouldn't say that, Mr Masen."

"But you would think it. This is absurd. Clearly, I'm the one who's being robbed here. Having to pay a full day's salary for no work at all!"

"Sir ..."

"Oh, wipe that miserable look from your face, Charlie. I'll do it. It's not like I have a choice. Go ahead, then. Leave. I want you here at the earliest hour, the day after tomorrow, or else!"

And Edward walks out on Charlie as he promised that he would be there. The streets are decorated for the holidays, cheerful lights on the houses and in the trees, windows dressed up in style, hymns and carols piping down the streets from various stores. Those careful touches created to make us smile during the holidays only make Edward angrier. He ignores them as best he can while he rushes back to his house.

As he walks in front of his house, toward the front door, he passes in front of his living room bay window and catches sight of a figure. It was not the first time this happened: one of the street light was hitting the glass pane just right, so when the sun has set and the light inside the house were off, this window became essentially a mirror. Normally, he would have ignored the figure, assuming it was his own reflection, and moved on into the house.

But this night is no ordinary night, and something about the figure makes Edward stop and stare. The figure is not the right shape; it is just a bit too tall. The hair color is also wrong; it is too yellow, blond instead of bronze.

Edward nervously takes a step closer, then another, then one more. The figure matches his movements. He can now make out its features. The figure bears the face of someone he knew, someone he had not seen in four years.

"Jazz?"

Jasper Withlock's reflection says nothing, merely staring into the eyes of his former associate.

A loud popping noise makes Edward jump and turn around. He identifies the source of the noise, a truck backfiring down the street, and turns around to see his own face staring back at him.

Edward shakes violently, trying to dislodge the sudden feeling of dread which has overtaken him, and walks into his house. Being a rational man, he believes that there must have been an explanation to what he saw, or thought he saw. Just because he can't think of one, doesn't mean that one doesn't exist.

Edward makes himself a simple dinner, if you call heating up a frozen Hungry Man 'making dinner'. He eats in silence, his mind twirling around the event of earlier this evening in a futile attempt to find a logical explanation.

After his dinner and the obligatory clean-up, he paces around in his house, with no way to turn off his mind or sooth his nerves. He tries watching television, but nothing holds his interest. He tries reading, but he finds himself reading the same paragraph over and over again. He tries listening to music, but rather then sooth the savage beast, it only grates his nerves. He is growing more anxious by the minute.

When he realises he has actual tremors, he finds himself doing something he never did, something he hates to do: he takes a hot shower. The waste of hot water usually disgusted him, but tonight it helps him relax ever so slightly. Unfortunately, the effort was wasted, as he steps out of the master bath to see Jasper Whitlock sitting in a chair, looking at him.

"What the ... Who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want?"

The questions elicit a sigh from his visitor. "Seriously? You've already forgot about me? Or do you enjoy asking questions you already know the answer to?"

Edward stands for a moment, speechless. "The food," he finally says. He paces around, muttering to himself. "It was the food, it had to be. It was bad, past the expiration date, and now I've got food poisoning. Or maybe ... what else could cause hallucinations? Mental illness? I don't have time for mental illness. Brain damage? Or a concussion. Yeah, that could be it. I knocked myself out in the shower. I'm not even here now. I'm out cold in the tub, probably drowning too and ..."

"Edward!" He nearly jumps out of his skin as Jasper materialises in front of him. "I don't have time for your bullshit! Four year. Four years I've been yelling at you, begging you to listen to me, but you never heard. And now that you can hear me, you will listen! I'm trying to save you."

"Save me from what?"

"Damnation."

Edward stares at his friend, his slowly shifting from shock to incredulity. "Damnation. As in Hell. Really. You're saying that you came back from the dead to save me from Hell." Jasper doesn't answer, only stares. "I don't believe in Hell," Edward finally says.

"Neither did I, until I found myself there."

"And what? You made some daring escape to save me? I'm flattered."

Edward's sarcasm does not faze Jasper. "I didn't escape," he says, simply and earnestly. "I'm still in Hell."

"Oh, now you're just being stupid. How can you be in Hell and here at the same time?"

"Hell is a state of mind. It's a state of being. I've been forced to endure it for four years. I've been suffering the damage I've inflicted upon others with my callous, selfish attitude. I've caused so much pain, Edward. I never knew, not until it was too late. Now there's nothing I can do; I must endure it."

Edward isn't incredulous and sarcastic anymore; he looks worried. "Jasper, come on. You were only 23. How much pain could you have caused in the world?"

As soon as the words have escaped his lips, Edward feels it. The pure, the abject misery hits him in the chest like a battering ram. The weight of it brings him down to his knees. He can hardly breathe.

"No." It's with great effort that he manages to choke out his protest. "No, I can't believe that. You can't have brought that much pain in the world. You weren't a bad man, Jazz. You weren't."

"Evidence suggests otherwise. Besides, the pain you're feeling right now wasn't caused by me. It was caused by you. At only 26. Age has nothing to do with it."

The pain ebbs away leaving behind a paralysis terror. He looks to see Jasper crouched in front of him.

"Listen to me; I can see you're heading down the same path I took. I was given a chance to change my way, and I didn't take it. Don't make my mistake."

Jasper suddenly gasps, as if, all of a sudden, he couldn't breathe either.

"Jazz?"

"Time, running out," the ghost manages to choke out. "You have to listen, Edward."

"I am, I promise."

"No ... The ghosts. You have ... to listen ... to the ghosts."

"Ghosts? You mean more?"

"The first at one o'clock. The second at two o'clock. The third at midnight. Listen to them, Edward. Save yourself."

And on those final words, the ghost of Jasper Whitlock disappears from Edward's sight.