Next bit, and thanks to those who have reviewed. I live off responses.

It was common knowledge throughout the neighbourhood, and beyond, that la Familie de Moreau was strange. M Moreau and his timid wife could rarely be seen in public, strolling the pleasant streets, shopping, playing with their young son, who must have been school age by now.

Celestin Moreau attended no school. He had no friends. Maman and Papa rarely allowed him outside "because of his condition", and even if he could go out, the boy well doubted whether he truly wanted to. No one would like him, God's curse on the family. Le fantôme.

He had met other children before. Two, to be exact, on a short excursion to Paris. They were twin brothers, and though Papa had warned him twins were spawned of the Devil himself, Celestin had watched the boys endlessly before finally being allowed to join them. They were on holiday from England – black hair and blue eyes with lovely freckles and rosy cheeks. They were six, he was four. He wanted desperately to look like them.

They stayed inside, la Familie de Moreau. They kept to themselves and emptied the post box at night, when no one else was out.

Les Moreaux did not celebrate Christmas, at least not in the usual way. They decorated the door with a simple crucifix, made of pinewood by M Moreau's late father. They fasted and prayed, and later, when the rest of the Christian world was busy unwrapping gifts and eating delicious food, Celestin was allowed a bit of chocolate. It was his own personal tradition, begun by Maman when he was but two, and he looked forward to it all year.

'Joyeux Noël, Celestin,' Maman would whisper, and slip him his sweet. He kept the chocolate with its bright foil wrapping securely in the wooden crucifix on his wall, which was hollow and ideal for stowing small treasures.

This Christmas, Maman had no chocolates. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured, rubbing a work-worn hand over her stomach. 'I've nothing for you this year, Celestin.'

He turned away, his small face twisted with rage. Maman always had chocolates on Christmas. Always. And if she hadn't any for him, it was her fault. Hands balled into tiny fists, he stalked away, but not without making his exit known. Behind him, Papa's fish soup crashed to the floor. He missed the flinch that followed, striding out the door with his head held high.

He knew he deserved the insults; the round the head slaps that left his ears ringing and eyes brimming. He knew he had earned every blow, but that never made it any easier. Perhaps spilling Papa's dinner on the floor, his Christmas dinner, had not been angelic. Perhaps he was not very well behaved. The boy inside Celestin was never curious. It sat quietly and accepted everything as it was. But, the Boy controlled not all of him. He called his uncontrollable side Seraphin. Seraphin came when Celestin was angry, and he never left without causing some sort of trouble for the boy. It was he who took a knife to the pillows two Aprils ago, he who scratched out the fourth commandment from Papa's bible, he who had spilled the dinner on the floor when Maman had no chocolate. Seraphin was responsible for white hair and red eyes, for spilt milk and crumbs, for debilitating anger that never seemed to fade.

'Inutile!' Papa roared. The windowless house shook, as if frightened. Maman stood by the wall with a rag in her hand. It was wrong to watch as well they all knew. 'My Christmas dinner! You would toss it on the floor? INUTILE! WORTHLESS!'

And with each word Celestin shook. He counted in his head, one slap, two, three, four. He imagined himself as the English twins. Two of him – Celestin and Seraphin. If only Seraphin could find some other body to torment. If only Seraphin gave warning before he came and broke things.

'Papa is worthless,' Seraphin said. He glanced up; Papa had stopped dead, frozen, mouth hanging open. He raised his voice, gaining in confidence. 'PAPA IS WORTHLESS.' Papa made no move. 'INUTILE! PAPA, PAPA, PAPA! STUPIDE! WORTHLESS! PAPA DU FANTÔME!'

He pranced about the kitchen, circling the table and shouting as loudly as his tiny voice would allow. Papa watched impassively, Maman clutched at her rag.

'Papa du fantôme! Il m'haine, mais je s'haine!'

The house itself had stilled entirely. Not a creak of old wood could be heard. The crumbs on the table, the spilt milk, the yet-to-be-cleaned dinner on the floor – they all watched. Celestin, no, Seraphin, skipped as though he was on a playground. He shook his bum a bit, and jiggled his foot. He even stuck out his tongue, for a moment or two. The dam was broken. M Moreau was certain his son had gone quite mad.

'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE,' announced Seraphin. The house was silent, so he said it again. 'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE.'

He stood with his hands on his hips, feet spread apart, and the horrible silver hair gleaming in a very self-satisfied sort of way. He was Peter Pan now. Skinny body, white skin, crooked teeth. He would never grow old or die. Feet spread, trembling fists, mouth moving silently.

'WHAT?' the boy shouted. He liked the way it sounded. 'QUOI! POURQUOI! JE NE SAIS PAS! JE NE SUIS RIEN!' Red eyes glittered as they met chocolate brown. 'MAMAN HAS NO CHOCOLATE.'

Papa nodded. 'Je sais, Celestin. I know.'

'Maman has no chocolate.' The first tear came without warning. 'Maman has no chocolate.' It was followed by another. 'She always has chocolate.' He was whining. The tears came without any sign of stopping, but Celestin made no move to wipe them. He let them fall down his cheeks where they left tiny tracks of glistening water. 'It's all her fault,' he whimpered. Papa nodded, gazing steadily after the wispy little boy. The ghost of Christmas past.

'I know.'

'Not mine.'

'I know.'

'Maman has no chocolate.'

Papa watched, Maman watched. Celestin sat on the floor with his legs crossed. He felt his energy leave. His voice was soft.

'I am a ghost.'

Papa came over slowly, his feet making a crunching sound as brown boots thudded over broken plate. He lifted the boy into his arms, and then set him by the looking glass.

'You are a ghost.'

It was a sad face that stared back at Celestin Moreau. He could feel his papa leave. He never knew how long he sat and stared at himself, but in a bit the sounds of cutlery on china plates and hushed conversation floated over to the glass. The smells of Christmas chicken and soup filled his nostrils, but he couldn't smell them. He never knew how long he sat, but soon the noises faded. His parents padded off to bed. The reflection glared back at him, but he felt nothing, not even a twinge of remorse for his monstrous appearance. It was difficult to see now. He always had difficult seeing in the dark. Red eyes were blind, pale lips mute.

'Je suis un fantôme.'

The house was silent.