Unexpected Company

It's the evening of Christmas Day. I've made the rounds - visited family and friends. Now it's just my cat and I sitting in a lonely house in front of the lit Christmas tree.

Melancholy washes over me as I'm reminded again of my desolate existence. Tomorrow I will go to my mind-numbing job. Kitty will be waiting for fresh food and clean litter when I get home. If I'm lucky, I'll find something passably interesting on the TV, and perhaps I'll fall asleep on the couch.

There was a time - not too long ago - when I thought my future of happiness was set. I was engaged and planning to start a family. My stagnant career was fine because I had a wonderful life outside of work. Then Tom told me he didn't want to get married. And he didn't want children. That was that. And now I'm almost 30 years old. Living with my cat. At least he didn't leave me as well.

I find myself heading to the kitchen. There's half a bottle of red wine left over from the earlier celebrations. I find that alcohol helps alleviate these inevitable moods.

I sip my wine and slowly crack open a new book. It's beautiful. The Hobbit, collector's edition. A gift from said ex-fiance. I gulp some wine, rest my hand on Kitty, and delve into the land of hobbits, wizards, and dragons.

Soon my eyelids become heavy, and I'm unable to make sense of the words on the page. The story has come to life before my eyes. I find myself in the depths of the Misty Mountains. Gollum is reciting a riddle for me. Damn, I've never been good at those. If I lose, he gets to bite off my finger. Wait a minute. That's the wrong book. Well, it doesn't matter. I want to keep all my fingers. If I win, I get a dead fish. Hmmm... that doesn't seem fair. Well, I must do what I must.

Gollum is smiling maliciously in front of me. His breath reeks of rotten meat and whiskey. How would he get whiskey? No matter, on with the riddle.

"What should I do with the cat?"

What? That's not a riddle! That's not fair. He hisses at me and then reaches out and snatches my wrist. I don't want to lose my fingers! I'm pretty sure I can take the little deformed hobbit, but he's surprisingly strong. He has my wrist locked in his vice-like grip as I struggle against him.

"Oh! We've got a feisty one!"

Pain shoots up my arm and my eyes snap open. Kitty is standing on the arm of the couch hissing and spitting. My stomach lurches as I see who is holding my wrist. It's a man. At least, I think it's a man. He's wearing dark clothes. Is that a dress? And a mask. I can't see his face. My eyes dart around the room as I look for a weapon or some way of escape. There are more of them. They look like KKK members, but they're wearing black.

One of them makes to grab Kitty, but he slips easily away into one of the back rooms.

"Damn cat!" The man snarls as he pulls a wooden stick from his sleeve and heads further into the house. What the hell was that? It's too small to use as a club. Is he going to poke my cat with it? I must still be dreaming. This is completely demented.

My attention snaps back to the man holding my wrist. He's now leaning over me, and his mask is just inches from my face. I'm not dreaming. I can smell whiskey and... pumpkin? I can feel my wrist twisting. I can hear dishes being smashed and furniture being overturned. There's a muffled feline yowl, and then a man screaming. Good. You get that bastard, Kitty.

The man holding me finally releases my wrist only to slap me hard across the face with his now free hand. Pain blooms in my cheek and slowly spreads.

"What do you want?!" I manage to say through a mouthful of blood.

He looks up at another figure standing a little way away. I think it's a woman because I can see long blond hair coming out from under the hood. The next minute I find that I am wrong, because the voice that responds is very male. And surprisingly, it has an arrogant, haughty quality to it - as though he was raised in a very wealthy household. His parents must be so proud to see him now.

"Just you," he says very slowly and deliberately. Then he raises a black cane with a silver snake head for the handle. These people must have escaped from the loony bin. He lifts back the snake head and slides out another wooden stick.

Panic has fully set in now. It's obvious that all these men are crazy. But there are too many of them, and there's no telling what a crazy person will do.

"Macnair. Get her up," he says to the man who slapped me. Macnair twists his fingers into my hair and forces me to stand up. The others who've been ransacking the house are now flowing back into the room. So he wants an audience then. Insane freak.

Rage is quickly replacing my panic. If they want some entertainment, I'll give them some. The blond is pointing his stick at me. Is that supposed to scare me? This lunatic grabbed a tree branch and hid it in his hollowed out cane. He's probably a cripple if he needs a cane.

I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I decide to take a chance. It's not like I have anything left to lose after all. I kick back with my foot making contact with Macnair's knee. Good, but it could've been better. He moans and doubles over in pain, but doesn't release my hair. I try again, and this time I hit the sweet spot. Good. With a wail of agony, he drops to the floor. I dart forward and grab the empty wine bottle from the table. It's not the best weapon, but it's all I have at the moment.

Suddenly an incredible force throws me against the wall. I try to move, but I can't. The blond is still aiming his stick at me.

"What's going on? Why can't I move?" My voice trembles slightly as the panic starts to return.

"Leave us," he states simply. He's looking right at me, but the men apparently know he's talking to them. Macnair shakily hoists himself up and heads toward the door where the others have already exited. One, I noticed, had a rather ugly looking scratch across his neck which was still bleeding. If I ever make it out of this, I'll have to start giving Kitty more treats, and perhaps be better about cleaning his litter box.

The blond starts advancing toward me with the stick outstretched. I know I shouldn't be scared of a stupid tree branch, but I am. I'm very scared at this moment. I can see his eyes. They aren't hidden by the mask. Grey eyes. Colorless. Fathomless. Seemingly devoid of any emotion. This is an insane violent criminal who feels no remorse for his actions. Does he need to do awful things to people just to feel anything?

He waves his stick and says a word I don't quite catch. Was that crucify? OH GOD! PAIN! Like I've never felt it before. It's like a thousand knives stabbing me at once. It's like being burned alive. It's like suffocating while having acid poured down my throat! And then it stops. I crumple to the floor. From somewhere far away I hear that arrogant voice full of disdain.

"Now let us get one thing quite clear. You are nothing. You are lower than the dirt I tread upon. You are more inferior than an abandoned dog. And this is just for being a filthy Muggle. What makes it worse for you, if that is possible, is that you obviously have no one in the world who cares for you. Here you are alone - on Christmas of all days. Truly pathetic you are."

And then I weep because it is true. All of it. Well, all except the Muggle part. I wonder if that's slang for Old-Maid.

He lowers his wand as he watches me cry.

"You really are pathetic. Get up."

I don't get up. "What did you do to me?" I mumble.

"Isn't it obvious? I inflicted pain on you. Now get up. I'll not have you sniveling on the floor like a kicked dog."

But isn't that what I am? A kicked dog? Lower than dirt?

"Why are you doing this to me? I don't know you."

A haughty chuckle. Maybe he's smiling under that mask.

"You really are more incompetent than I thought. I've already explained, you miserable, Muggle filth. Now get up!"

With a flick of his wooden stick, I'm suddenly standing. An icy block forms in the pit of my stomach. He's a demon. He's an evil spirit sent from Hell to torture me and then bring me back with him. His next words confirm my suspicions.

"My Lord has sent me to complete this task for him. Not that it's any of your concern to know why."

"You're a demon. Your lord is Satan. You can't hurt me. You're not real. You're just a ghost."

"My, my... you Muggles always come up with such foolish ideas. I can assure you that the Dark Lord is not... Santa. I am very real, and I can... hurt you. Crucio!"

Before I realize what's happening, I'm on the floor writhing around in pain again. Although still excruciating, it's not quite as bad as the first time. Either my body is numbing the pain, or his heart isn't in it. I manage a glimpse of his eyes before mine roll back into my head. Was that amusement that I saw? The pain stops. He is laughing.

"You think I'm so pathetic being alone on a holiday," I spit. "What about you? Why aren't you with your loved ones? Or don't you have any? It wouldn't surprise me. Somehow I think you may be incapable of love."

And then he does surprise me. He takes off his mask. I gaze at his pale face with eyes of steel. His long platinum hair. Aristocratic nose. Strong jaw. He might be incapable of love, but I'm sure many have loved him.

He smirks and comes closer. "You poor, poor girl. I have a beautiful wife and a strong son. I have a family. I have loads of money. I have power. You, on the other hand, have nothing. It almost seems a waste of time to kill someone who has nothing to lose."