Death Comes For Christmas

Chapter 1 ~ December 24-25 The EndThe dark stain of night spread over the city as lights winked on. Any lingering twilight was snuffed out by an Alberta Clipper, a rolling wave of cloud and snow pushed along at 50 miles an hour ahead of the jet stream. The barometer dropped. Windows whistled and moaned. Doors whined and thumped. Animals burrowed and huddled. The flatlands from eastern Alberta to Manitoba were in thrall to the storm, a tsunami of ice crystals blasting everything in its path. This was no winter wonderland. Freda Swenson had lived through eighty-five Saskatchewan winters. Some small part of her could tell by the keening wind it was going to be a wicked blizzard, but she had more serious worries. Death was coming, riding hard on a frost-rimed steed, setting a course for Freda, hungry for what was left of her life. Through a foggy shimmer of consciousness, Freda looked up into a face so like her own. Mama? She felt a warm breath against her cheek as a voice softly murmured, “I’m here, just like I promised. Are you ready to go home?” Freda realized she was ready. Despite Arthur, because of Arthur. She couldn’t put him through this. She blinked slowly, twice, tears blurring her vision. Death’s cool fingers had been grasping at her ankles for years, or so she imagined, but tonight his chill crept into her bed. His cold breath wrapped around her, growing inside her like frost covering a window. Death lay next to her in the dark, a palpable entity, whispering a sweet invitation. This time, Freda didn’t pull away. There came a cold grip on her yet-beating heart. Then, a little gasp of surprise and a deep sigh of instant knowing as Freda’s last breath rushed out, chasing her spirit into the night. As the bitterly cold, gray dawn of Christmas approached, Freda lay lifeless, her wavy hair radiating on the pillow like a frosty silver halo. Her skin was a macabre hue of purplish-blue—her lips and fingernails an even deeper shade—making her appear frozen. * * * Dr. James Frederick Fitzgerald shook his head and clicked his pen open and closed, repeatedly, for what seemed like an eternity. Strains of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite filtered in from the hallway. She looks like the queen of the sugar plum fairies. He made a simple entry on the death certificate in his best scrawl. Natural Causes. What else could he do? It was Freda Swenson for god’s sake.