The December Visitor

In the autumn of 1994, I was a junior at Aldergate University, a small campus nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I had a close-knit group of friends, but none closer than Marcus, a fellow art student with a laugh that seemed to light up the gray, overcast days we often had. We’d known each other since freshman year, and our friendship had slowly bloomed into something deeper that fall. He was everything I wasn’t: spontaneous, optimistic, and endlessly creative. I was the cautious one, the planner, always with a sketchbook in hand, capturing the world in pencil lines. He made me feel alive, and I was falling for him hard.

We’d been dating for two months when the dreams started. It was early December, the air thick with the promise of snow, and the campus was decked in fairy lights. One night, I dreamt we were at the annual winter carnival, held on the frozen lake near the old mill. The scene was hyper-real: the smell of roasted chestnuts, the crunch of snow underfoot, the cheerful calliope music from the carousel. Marcus was beside me, his arm around my waist, his breath a warm cloud. Then, without warning, the sky split open with a blinding light. An angel descended, not the gentle, benevolent kind from Renaissance paintings, but a colossal, terrifying figure with eyes like molten gold and wings that blotted out the stars. It reached down, its hand enveloping Marcus, and lifted him skyward. His face was a mask of terror as he mouthed my name, and then he was gone, vanishing into the light. I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart hammering. The dream felt like a premonition, a warning I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t shake the dread that clung to me for days.

I tried to rationalize it. It was just a nightmare, probably triggered by a late-night horror film we’d watched. But the feeling of wrongness persisted. Every time I looked at Marcus, I saw the image of him being torn away. I became distant, avoiding his calls, making excuses to skip our study sessions. He was confused and hurt, his usual bright smile replaced by a worried frown. We had a tearful confrontation in the campus coffee shop, where he begged to know what he’d done wrong. I couldn’t tell him about the dream; it sounded insane. I ended it, saying I needed space, that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. He left the shop looking like a lost puppy, and I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.

Christmas break came, and we both went home. A week later, I got the call. Marcus had been driving back to campus for an art exhibition when his car skidded on black ice and slammed into a guardrail. He died instantly. The phone slipped from my hand, and I sank to the floor, a scream clogging my throat. Guilt consumed me. If only I hadn’t broken up with him, he might have stayed in town, might have not been on that road that night. I couldn’t help but feel that my dream had somehow caused it, that the angel was a harbinger of death, and I had abandoned him to it.

The funeral was held in his hometown, a small, gray chapel on a hill. I went, though I didn’t know how I could face his family. I stayed at the back, my eyes glued to the casket, which seemed too small, too final. After the service, as I was leaving, a woman with kind eyes—his mother, I assumed—stopped me. ‘He talked about you all the time,’ she said softly. ‘He said you were his inspiration.’ I couldn’t speak, just nodded and fled.

Back in my dorm, I tried to resume some semblance of normalcy, but sleep was elusive. When I did drift off, I was plagued by fractured nightmares. Then, two weeks after the funeral, a new dream came. It was New Year’s Eve, a party at my rental house on the outskirts of town. The place was filled with friends, laughter, and the smell of champagne. I was in the kitchen, refilling a punch bowl, when the doorbell rang. It was a deep, resonant chime that seemed to cut through the noise. I moved to the door, expecting a late arrival. I opened it, and my blood ran cold. Marcus stood on the porch, but he was not the Marcus I remembered. His face was a ruin—one eye socket crushed, the cheekbone shattered, the jaw askew, revealing a glimpse of bloodied teeth. He wore the same clothes he’d been in the accident, torn and stained. His one intact eye locked onto mine, and his mouth moved, but instead of words, a low, guttural moan escaped.

I tried to slam the door, but my body was frozen. He stepped inside, and the party around us faded to silence, the guests turning to gray, translucent shapes. ‘Why did you leave me?’ he rasped, his voice like gravel scraping against bone. ‘You knew. You could have saved me.’ Tears streamed down my face, but I couldn’t speak. ‘You sent me away,’ he continued, his voice rising to a shriek. ‘You let the angel take me!’ He lunged at me, and I screamed—

I woke up in a cold sweat, my throat raw. The dream was so vivid, so terrifying, that I couldn’t move for minutes. The image of his disfigured face was burned into my mind. But something felt different. This dream felt more than a nightmare; it felt like a message, a curse. In the following nights, the dream returned, always the same: the party, the doorbell, his ruined face, his accusations. Each time, I would wake up shaking, convinced that he was out there, waiting for me.

I started to lose my grip. I stopped attending classes, stopped eating properly. My friends grew concerned, but I couldn’t explain. They thought I was grieving, but it was more than that. I was terrified. I began to see Marcus in mirrors, a fleeting reflection, or in the corner of my eye, a shadow with his shape. I knew it was my imagination, but that didn’t ease the fear.

Then, one night, I decided to confront it. I stayed awake, forcing myself to stay conscious, staring at my reflection in the dark. As the clock struck midnight, I whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Marcus. I’m so sorry.’ I didn’t know if I was apologizing to him or to his ghost. But in that moment, I felt a shift. The air around me grew cold, and I could swear I heard his voice, but this time, it was not accusatory. It was a sigh, almost peaceful. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ it seemed to say. And then, the presence was gone.

After that, the nightmares stopped. I slept, but I still felt a lingering guilt. I knew I would carry the ‘what ifs’ with me forever. But I also found a strange sense of peace, as if I had finally been given permission to move on. I still think of Marcus often, but now, instead of horror, I remember his laughter, his art, his zest for life. And I wonder if that angel in my dream was not a harbinger, but a guide, taking him to a better place. Perhaps my breaking up with him was not an abandonment, but a twist of fate that spared me from sharing his fate. I’ll never know for sure. But every December, when the air grows cold and the fairy lights go up, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. And sometimes, just for a moment, I think I see him in the crowd, at the corner of my vision, smiling softly, before he fades away, leaving me alone with my memories and the haunting echo of that doorbell.