A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts!

Happy 2022! Well, the holidays are officially behind us now. I'd wanted to finish this up before they were all done, but…I think in 2022, I'm just going to accept the fact that, at least for me, all sorts of schedules are non-existent. Lol. Anyway.

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 6 – Edward ElectricHands

There was a time when I would've laid a palm atop any holy book presented before me and sworn that I could listen to that all-time Christmas classic, 'All I Want for Christmas is You,' all holiday season long, on repeat, and never tire of it.

Think about it. Its tinkling, bell-like opening is reminiscent of the magical intro of a fairy tale, but one whose best feature is sliced off before it can be corrupted by what's destined to be a nonsensical storyline. It's kind of like a tasty cake minus the cloyingly sweet frosting because if the cake is good, why overpower it with saccharine overload? The same general principle applies to stories. Give me the thrilling promise of impending magic, but keep the stupidly naïve princess, the pompously self-aggrandizing hero-prince, and the wronged character turned villain to yourself.

That's what made this particular fairy-tale-in-the-form-of-song, which I once loved oh so much, so perfect. It lacked all superfluousness, with only chiming peals alerting you that some real damn magic was about to transpire. Of course, the enchantment in question took the form of Mimi's soulful voice. And, okay, yes, the song's lyrics were mainly about trading in all your Christmas presents in exchange for some guy's presence. When you really stopped to think about it, that kind of bought into the whole fairy tale business after all. But whatever.

The problem was that, now that an asshole ghost had locked me in my bedroom and replayed his piano rendition of the classic about five thousand times, I'd had time to consider this material truth about a song I'd once loved, and I couldn't just say whatever. I mean, in what kind of messed up world were you required to give up your Christmas presents to have the guy you wanted? And how was this a happy Christmas tune?

Some may have thought that, right then, I had heftier concerns than the lyrics to a Christmas song, such as the fact that I'd been locked in my bedroom by a ghost. But as I sat on my bed, indignantly swinging my legs, I couldn't help pondering that ridiculous premise. Especially since said asshole ghost sat downstairs at his- at my piano, circling back to the part of the song where he'd taken to gracefully yet annoyingly banging on the keys in preparation for the refrain.

Du-dum-du-dum-du-dum!

So, it was torture he was going for.

I clamped my hands over my ears. "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

So far, yelling my own refrain at the top of my lungs while alternating with banging on the door had earned me strong lungs and sore palms. That's it. I therefore decided to call up my karate skills.

"HA-YAH!"

Unfortunately, I had no karate skills to call up.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I stomped to my closet, where I pulled out an unpacked cardboard moving box I'd labeled Summer Shoes. Setting the box down in the middle of the room, I swung sandals, flip-flops, ballet flats, etc., in an arc, aiming for the door like a bowler at a tournament. Yet shoe strike after shoe strike, the wannabe Chopin kept right on playing.

"Oh, yeah?" I gritted once the box was empty. "Looks like it's time to pull out the big guns."

Plucking another box of shoes out of my closet – this one marked 'Heavy-ass Shoes' – I groaned as I set it next to the first box, rummaging until I found a good one.

"A-ha!"

Now, I spun around like an Olympic Disc Thrower, twisting my upper torso to gain momentum. I stumbled when I released the wooden clog and landed on top of the bed as the clog thwacked against the six-panel door.

Here, the piano playing ceased.

"Yes! Woo-hoo!"

Spread out on my bed, I fist-pumped the air, a grin hiking up one corner of my mouth. Unfortunately, before either the grin or the victory celebration could really take off, Mr. Masen resumed his piano-playing, picking up right where he left off.

Du-dum-du-dum-du-dum!

"That's it!" I shouted. "That is it!"

Bouncing off of the mattress, I returned to the box, where I now eased out a pair of bright, Christmas-wagon-red, patent leather Doc Martens. Initially, I'd planned to keep these out of the melee. They were my favorite, the type with the extra high platform heels and with shiny black shoelaces that I'd purchased separately to spiff them up all the more.

I smiled to myself, gazing lovingly at the shoes. "The Pièce de resistance."

I'd favored my Docs for their versatility, pairing them according to mood – with a pair of cargos if I was feeling emo or with a knit dress if I was feeling cute. Right then, I was feeling somewhat murder-y. All that mattered was that they weighed about a hundred pounds and were bound to break down a door, or at the very least, catch an asshole ghost's attention.

Hefting them as high above my head as I could manage, I planted my bare feet shoulder-width apart, bent my legs slightly at the knees, and sucked in my gut. Then, with an eye-bulging war cry to rival that of Mel Gibson ala Braveheart, I catapulted them toward the door.

"GAAHHH!"

Just then, the door swung wide open.

The well-dressed ghost of Mr. Ed Masen stood on the other side. His arms were crossed against his chest, an action which pulled his shirtsleeves taught against his biceps and highlighted their not-insignificantly muscular proportions. Despite his brutish actions and stance, instead of some form of glaring or glowering expression meant to be frightening – as one would expect from a gangster ghost – he wore a lopsided smirk. It humanized him for a moment. Perhaps because I assumed it was a response to the here and now, and not a facial expression frozen in time, one that hadn't changed in ages and reflected some grievance from long ago. It wasn't an 'I was once wronged and murdered, and therefore, I'll spend eternity scowling' expression. No. Then there were his bright green eyes, making him look all the more…alive.

His entire frame radiated strength and tangibility.

And some stupid part of my brain chose to note all this in the fraction of a second before the Doc Martens sailed right through him. My unfortunate combat boots then cruised, unhindered, another foot in the air before banging against a wall and dropping like lead weights. Down the staircase, they tumbled, landing with an uneven thud; first one, then the other, while I cringed at each thump.

Mr. Masen didn't so much as blink, and between that and my Doc Martens' failure to connect with him, I was once again reminded of his wraith-ness. Nevertheless, there was way more fury than fright in my response.

"Asshole, you owe me a new pair of Doc Martens!"

"Pardon me for asking, but what in the world are Doc-"

"I've been locked in here for ages!"

The asshole ghost chuckled, thereby confirming he felt no fear of me either.

"Ages, Miss Swan? It's been sixteen-and-a-half minutes, and by the look of things," – his gaze, marked now by disapproval, swept around the room – "it doesn't appear as if you've been using the time wisely."

"Wisely?" I echoed.

"As in, packing."

I visibly bristled, my tone conveying disbelief at the estimate in tandem with bewilderment at his exactness.

"Where'd you pull that number out of? Your ghostly ass?"

Here, his mirth subsided, and he rolled those bright green eyes that shouldn't have been so familiar-looking to me.

"It's an approximation. Your favored holiday tune is four minutes long, and I played it four times."

"There's no way that was only four times!"

"That was four times," he reiterated with maddening calm as he took a step forward, though not threateningly. The wood floorboards creaked under the weight of his shiny black patent leather Oxfords, reflecting actual weight rather than floating ether. "Add to that time the pause your antics forced me to take, and time to…ahem," he cleared his throat, "climb down and up the stairs, and sixteen-and-a-half minutes is how long you've been in here. That hardly qualifies as ages, nor does it justify your language and this tantrum."

I'd just been scolded – by a ghost, a great looking ghost, but a ghost, nonetheless. Breathing fast and hard and fueled by equal parts indignation and the insuppressible exhilaration of arguing with an actual ghost, I retorted heatedly, hands on hips.

"That's easy for you to say because you weren't the one locked in! How dare you? I mean, seriously! Who do you think you are?" He opened his mouth, but I forestalled his reply with a short palm up. "That was rhetorical! I don't care who or what you are! Although I know you were a gangster!"

He shut his mouth, his jaw audibly locking as each successive word ground out from between clenched teeth.

"I. was not. a gangster."

"As I said, I don't care! In fact, Mr. Masen, if I had another pair of Doc Martens handy, spectral or non-spectral being, I'd find a way to shove them right up your-"

Before I could deliver the obvious crux of my threat, Mr. Masen dropped to his well-tailored knees. Right away, I knew this prone position had nothing to do with begging for my forgiveness, which he rightly should've been prepping to do so. But he was no longer paying me any mind. Instead, he faced the door, flattening one palm against it and tracing the wood paneling with two fingers from his other hand. His brow furrowed. Then he sucked his teeth.

"For the love. Look what you did."

"Me? What I did?" I pointed at myself.

"No. What the neighbor did," he muttered, still smoothing his fingers firmly yet gently across the door's panels, like a man caressing his lover's skin. "Yes, what you did. Come here."

Intrigued, I chose to ignore the commanding tone, and though my own hackles were still up, I stomped over to him. Kneeling beside him, I moved in to examine whatever the hell was going on with the door.

"Now what the hell is the problem here? Even though I don't care what you…" I trailed off because a peculiar pull suddenly assaulted me.

Ed Masen must've felt it too. He jerked as if something had startled him, and then he pulled his gaze away from the door. When our eyes met, my breath hitched.

Only a couple of inches separated Ed Masen and me. Yet even this close, I had to actively remind myself that he was, in fact, and incredibly so, a ghost. And the need for a reminder didn't arise from his being one of…if not the most ridiculously good-looking individual I'd ever laid eyes on.

I'd met Jake, my last boyfriend, soon after graduating college. He was a copy editor at my first job at a public relations firm where my small desk sported a plaque that read 'Isabella Swan, Media Coordinator,' but really, I was an errand runner with a nice title. Jake was a handful of years older and thereby more established in his career. He was my lover and my quasi-mentor, and we spent many long hours in bed, alternating between lovemaking and strategizing my climb up that proverbial ladder. At first, I'd been grateful for his guidance in navigating the real world, exhilarated by what I assumed was a grown-up relationship, and eager to share my dreams.

That is, until little by little, my dreams became more of a punchline to Jake.

'You want to be independently wealthy? Hah!'

'You want to write a bestselling novel? Hah!'

And it hit me that allowing a man to tamp down my dreams, to tell me that my goals were the fantasy of every Millennial as opposed to, well, my goals, was not a grown-up relationship. It was the opposite of exhilarating. It was one of the reasons why I'd gotten so pissed off when Aunt Gigi asked me at Thanksgiving dinner what Jake thought of my novel - never mind that the old hag had already known the answer.

In short, Jake turned out to be a sapper of dreams, a drainer of lifeforce, and…to this day, the remnants of that relationship had left me questioning lots of things about myself, including my ability to feel.

Ed Masen's proximity radiated a lifeforce more substantial than any I'd ever known. Coupled with his gaze, it felt like I'd stumbled directly into that first moment of Chaos, the big bang that created the universe. It felt as if I'd been struck by the spark of fire discovered by cavepeople, by the tip of a lit stick of dynamite. I felt as if I'd stuck a finger in an electric socket, the supernatural heat rolling off of him making me dizzy. It was heady and exhilarating and…strangely magnetic.

When I realized that the strange pull was literally drawing me toward Mr. Masen, I gasped and reeled back. Unfortunately, I overcompensated and tipped backward, losing my balance. Instinctively, I reached out, hoping to grab onto some part of Mr. Masen – a hand, his shirt, a bicep, anything I could grasp and hold tightly to – for safety purposes, of course.

Instead, my hand went right through Ed Masen.

The corporeal form I'd begrudgingly yet undeniably admired just a minute earlier for its apparent physical strength was now as vaporous as a bay fog. It was like sticking a hand across a projector image. I flailed, and my bent knees unfurled themselves, ready to kick upward in another moment when my head would hit the wood floors, and I'd end up with a cracked skull and legs up in the air. The whole thing was not an attractive mental image. But with apparently no other option, I squeezed my eyes shut...

And my backward topple ceased. When I reopened my eyes, I caught Ed Masen slowly drawing me up, his hands gripping mine as he eased me back into a seated position. The contact was…pleasantly warm, his grip solid yet yielding. If it weren't for his eyes, rounded in surprise and glowing brighter than I'd ever seen a pair of eyes burn, I'd again forget he was a ghost.

"Your eyes…" he breathed.

"My eyes?" I snorted. "What about my eyes?"

"It's…it's you. How is that…how is that possible?"

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything further. But then Ed Masen blinked. Clearing his throat, he released my hands, pushing away to create a couple of feet of space between us. Lifting himself into a squat, he rested his elbows on his knees, one long leg casually bent lower than the other. He looked like a male model mid fashion shoot, though there was an edge of tension in his voice when he spoke.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Thank you for keeping me from cracking my skull."

He nodded. "No problem. Cleaning your blood off of these wood floors would've been a hassle."

"I thought men from your generation, whether gangsters or not, were supposed to be chivalrous?"

"I'm not…was not," he emphasized, "a gangster," he repeated through clenched teeth.

I chuckled quietly, too grateful to him at the moment at having had my skull spared to refute him, despite his reason. I was even more grateful when he didn't play stupid or force me to elaborate on my next question.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"Did you feel it?"

"Yes."

"It felt…I mean, you must've felt it before."

"I haven't."

"But how about when you've been this close to another…well, another living person?"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other yet maintained his crouch. There was a beat of silence before he replied.

"Miss Swan, I haven't been this close to another living human in…in a long time."

"How is that possible?" I breathed.

He quirked a brow, his eyes still glowing.

"What I mean is, what about everyone else who's been in here and had the bejesus scared out of them? I've heard the stories about you, Mr. Masen," I smirked. "You're a local Christmas legend. Or perhaps a local horror story is more apt." This made him scoff. "Either way, you've given this house quite the reputation, chasing away everyone who comes near it."

"Almost everyone," he smirked in return.

"Almost everyone," I concurred. "And I saw you attack Mike, the HVAC guy."

Here, another hint of a grin appeared on his handsome face, the mischief in it making him all the more attractive.

"That fucker deserved it. That was the third time in his miserable life that he's been in this house and attempted to find my…well," he said. "He's lucky he didn't receive worse. And pardon my language. Oh, that's right," he added when I rolled my eyes. "Your language is no better. In fact, it's shockingly worse. Still, I was taught not to speak that way in front of a female."

"Ugh, can you just get on with it?" I cut him off, gesturing around with a hand.

"You are a…peculiar woman, Miss Swan," he said, weaving his hands together over his bent knees. "Usually, a few parlor tricks do the job."

"Such as hanging out at windows until someone looks up or making yourself invisible and whispering 'Get out,' I faux-whispered.

"Those are all pretty common tactics, yes," he said flippantly, wiping imaginary dust off his pants.

"Or appearing in someone's periphery."

"A variation on the previous ones." He wiped his shirtsleeves now.

"Attacking someone with snowballs," I smiled, raising both brows.

"As I said, that fucker deserved it."

"Or stealing someone's Christmas wreaths!"

"Relax," he said dryly. "They're in the basement."

"Oh, why thank you, Mr. Gas lighter, for calming me down. Meanwhile, you've been blasting the volume on my personal assistant, burning my grilled cheese and my pans, messing with my electricity, etc., etc., and I've been here for less than forty-eight hours!"

"I could've been hurling random objects at you, slamming doors in your face or against your backside, or if I would've caught you doing something horrible, lighting you on fire. So count your blessings."

"You really are a fucking gas lighter!" I exclaimed.

"Well, yes," he confirmed with what looked like a confused nod. "As I just said, I've lit gasoline on one or two individuals."

I burst out laughing, wrapping my arms around my midsection, and consumed so forcefully that I ended up rolling back and forth like a roly-poly. And all the while, I knew that it was more than simple amusement. It was the shock of it all catching up to me.

"What? What's so humorous, Miss Swan?"

I mean, I was sitting in my new house, talking to the ghost who, for whatever reason, had haunted it for a century. When I finally stopped laughing long enough to look at Mr. Masen again, instead of the deep scowl I expected to find, I was once again surprised by his twitching lips, by his blatant attempt to keep himself from surrendering to laughter as well. And now I noticed something else. In the black and white picture of him that rested on his gentleman's chest- my gentleman's chest, it'd been hard to tell his hair color. It was darker than I thought, closer to brown than copper.

"We speak the same language, yet we don't," I smiled.

He sighed. "I suppose that's true. Tell me, what year is it, Miss Swan?"

The question brought reality crashing and tinged it with a hint of sadness I hadn't yet felt for Mr. Masen, that such a simple question would be a mystery to him.

"It's almost Twenty-twenty-two," I said.

He only nodded, his features impassive. "The point is, Miss Swan, I've never attempted to...touch," – he pinched together three fingers in illustration – "any of the intruders into my house. It hasn't been necessary when I can easily manipulate physical objects to carry my point."

"So, how did you touch me?"

"Mind over matter."

"What does that…what does that even mean?"

He sighed and took a seat on the floor so that we now faced one another like two people relaxing over a blanket at the park, shooting the breeze.

"It's part of what you felt before. That…charge, that force. I manipulate it."

"How?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's not something I can explain. It just is. And I apologize. I didn't mean to draw you into it earlier. I…wasn't even aware that was possible."

I nodded, not really understanding but absorbing all he said to examine it later when I was alone – or semi-alone?

"And what is the point you're trying to carry, Mr. Masen?"

"That I don't want anyone here, Miss Swan. This is my house."

"Well, I hate to have to be the one to tell you," I sighed, "but it's not. Not anymore."

He shook his head, looked away from me, and when his gaze panned back to mine, his eyes had darkened, and the curve of a grin around his mouth held no mirth.

"How is that even possible? Who sold this house to you when I never sold it?"

"I bought it through my realtor and with a lawyer, from a trust. I believe it was called-"

But he kept shaking his head. "There's no way you bought what I never sold."

"Mr. Masen…maybe we can work something out. You see, I'm a writer, and this house and your story have given me loads of inspiration."

"You know nothing of my story," he scoffed.

"I know some. You can tell me the rest. We can…cohabitate, so to speak-"

"I could never do that, live with a woman? Can you imagine the damage to your reputation if someone were to find out?"

I laughed even harder than before. But this time, Mr. Masen wasn't even slightly amused.

"Let's be honest. We both know what you're really doing here." Now, he did scowl.

"What am I really doing here?" I grinned teasingly

He made no reply, though he kept right on scowling at me.

"I hope you don't think I have any interest in your stash of cash."

When he struggled to maintain a bland expression, I chuckled heartily.

"Oh, come on. We both know that's what you're referring to."

He said nothing.

"Listen, if I'd wanted your money from your gangster days-"

"I was not a gangster-"

"-do you think I would've paid to have all the damn holes fixed around here? Holes that everyone else has made throughout the years in search of your money?" I waved an arm wildly about. "I would've made my own holes!"

"And I would've really chased you out," he hissed. "Never mind playing around with that strange, speaking contraption of yours in the kitchen or burning your sad excuse for dinner.

"Exactly! Do you think I would've paid for all the other repairs I've had done around here over the past couple of weeks?"

He pursed his lips.

"Mr. Masen, I've sunk quite a bit of my own money into this place because…it's mine now. And because I do appreciate what a great house it is. And because every hour that passes, it feels less like a house and more like my home."

"Your home?" he echoed, and though he was now looking right at me, for a few moments, he almost appeared to be looking through me, as if I were a being as changeably tangible and intangible as he, as if some sort of movie reel played inside my head, one only he could see. When he blinked, it was as if the movie had ended, and again, I was all that was left.

He pointed at the door, keeping his gaze on me. "Did you see what you did?"

Carefully edging closer so that I wouldn't once again become trapped in that strange web, that force field he seemed to exert, I edged closer to the door. Then, I sucked my teeth much as he'd done earlier.

"Ugh, that must've been the clog," I muttered as I traced the scuff mark, again as he'd done earlier.

"Yeah, the clog," he retorted. "Miss Swan, for someone who claims to appreciate this house more and more with each passing second, you certainly did your best to destroy my handiwork here.

"You locked me up," I spat back, my indignation rearing once again.

"Because you refused to leave."

"I'm not leaving," I reiterated.

"I can always make you leave."

"Try me," I gritted.

In the next moment, the few objects I had lying around the room rose in midair and hovered there. I saw it all in my periphery because all the while, Mr. Masen and I remained locked in one another's heated gazes. After about a minute, he slowly lowered the items back to the floor.

"Careful you don't scuff my floors," I grinned. "I've got a woman coming in, and I'm sure she's already going to cost me an arm and a leg without further damage."

He offered me a slow smirk. "Times sure have changed."

"Yes, they have, Mr. Masen."

He drew in a long breath, releasing it in a long gust of air that I felt to where I sat on the floor.

"I'm sorry I scuffed the door. I'll have the woman take a look at that as well."

"And I'm sorry I burned your grilled cheese."

I chuckled, while a hint of a smile ghosted over Mr. Masen's features.

"Look, I'm not sure why you're here as opposed to in heaven or hell or wherever gangsters go-"

"I'm not a-"

"-but can we try to make this work? I do appreciate this house, and I think it, along with you, has a great story to tell, and I'd like to tell it. I swear I have no interest in your money-"

"A female with no interest in my money?" He snorted. "Now, that's a novel-"

"Dude, I'm going to cut you off right there before this partnership does end in a death and/or a ghostly maiming."

"Partnership?" he crooked a brow. But then he sighed again. "I suppose…if I'm to avoid stooping to a level where I now physically expel a woman from my home who claims not to want my money-"

"The first thing we're working on is your sexist-"

"-we can attempt to co-exist-"

"-outdated attitudes."

"-under one roof."

"Well, technically, this house has a few roofs. But deal!" I exclaimed, so thrilled that I momentarily forgot the strange pull he gave off, and I crawled over to him on my behind, with a hand outstretched to shake on it.

Mr. Masen crawled as well, but in the opposite direction.

"Uhm, perhaps until we figure out how to handle the…" he waved a finger back and forth between us, "we'll agree without a handshake."

"Ahh. Thanks for the timely reminder. I wouldn't want to feel that confusing riot again," I lied.

"No. No, me neither."

We studied one another.

"Well, then, Mr. Masen, if we're to attempt to co-exist, and if you're going to help me write my novel, maybe we should go by first names? Please call me Bella," I smiled.

Slowly, his mouth lifted at one corner and eventually spread to the other.

"Bella," he repeated in a…tone I hadn't heard him use until then. "In that case, please call me Ed."

"Ed, it is! Oh, and Ed? I want my wreaths back."

That night, after Ed had easily hung all my Christmas wreaths, we sat around a fireplace while the glow of ivory snow outside filtered through the windows. And the ghost of a prohibition-era bootlegger-and-not-a-gangster began to tell me his story.

A/N: Thoughts?

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I hope everyone's new year is starting well. Let's hope (like innocent young children) that 2022 is the year we return to some semblance of normal. :)

"See" you soon!