December 1986
Winter solstice was coming 'round again. Great, the season to expect trouble.
Determinedly pushing the thought away, John leaned over the desk and peered stubbornly at the manuscript in front of him. He needed to concentrate. But the smell was back: blood thick in the air. Blood, sweat and holly.
He closed his eyes and cursed quietly. It had been a year ago and he'd gotten the bastard good. This room smelled like paper, scotch and gun oil. No blood anywhere. Funny how his senses just didn't seem to agree.
He sighed and turned another page. Merry friggin' winter solstice.