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Description
No, this isn’t the same story as last year, just the same exposition
Billy and Zoë were always said to be good kids, not getting in fights, making the sports team, honor roll, debate team, cheer squad, chorus and band. Both moderately popular jacks-of-all-trades, they managed to make prom king and queen even though they were just friends, and got scholarships to the same college. Billy played sports year round, but managed to talk about other things, mainly debating, singing or playing clarinet. Well, not when he was doing those things, as they involved his mouth. He had a tall, muscular build, his features seemingly mismatched. He had soccer legs and basketball feet, baseball arms on a football torso, which his head was thankfully not too small for, his white blond hair contrasting with his frequently red face. Zoë’s body, however, seemed more perfectly constructed. She had toasted mocha skin and shiny black hair, large brown eyes, long willowy arms and legs rippling with muscles and small, athletic breasts that did not get in the way when she cheered, played the flute, lacrosse, tennis or cricket. Both frequently smiled, especially when the life-long friends found out they were going to college together.

Opinions on carolers vary immensely depending on where you live. More precisely, they vary immensely depending on if where you live is liable to get any. And of course the class of caroler that comes around. There are families who think it’s cute, and it gets less cute by each stop and each time their children get more tired and less interested in singing. There are church groups who have practiced singing together, if only for a few weeks, and practiced rattling their donation cans for longer. Sometimes, rarely, you find people who just like singing, and so they sing. They would probably be singing if it weren’t the holidays, just walking down the street singing to themselves. They weren’t always very good, but it was so much harder to begrudge them the time of a song than children screaming to go home or someone constantly glancing at another member of the party, only along to impress them. If you were rural, you were lucky to get any at all. If you were a college student coming home to the suburbs for your first winter break, then you had a good chance of hearing more carols than you wanted to before you even left your dorm. But, if you a good kid, or even if people just said you were, you would stand outside and listen for at least one carol.
That was the place where Zoë and Billy found themselves in at forty-six minutes after eight on December the fifteenth.

It was Zoë who opened the door, partially because it was her house, partially because her mother had shouted, “Can you get the door? I’m in the middle of baking!” and partially because Billy had been half-covered by a blanket and eating fresh cookies with both hands when the doorbell rang. She smiled at the carolers, or at least tried to.
It was a large group, there were about twenty of them all decked out in what were no doubt the finest novelty ski hats and red scarves they could find in the Target discount baskets. But clearly, this was a group that took themselves at least a little seriously because each of them was holding a red folder, presumably full of music because whoever had the best handwriting had drawn a large G-clef on the front in a broad-tip magic marker.

Billy joined her, and for a moment the college students and the carolers stared at each other like one was prey and the other a predator ready to pounce, but hadn’t decided which was which yet. It seemed to be the carolers, because they made the first move. About five of them, in the front, took a large breath nearly in unison and started belting “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Also nearly in unison. The rest of the group quickly followed suit, flipping through the folders as if they had suddenly forgotten how many “wishes” came before “Happy New Year.”

It wasn’t bad singing, but there was something awkward about standing in the frost that promised that the paltry half-inch of snow would turn to ice under their feet. Terrified, polite smiles immediately formed on their faces. With a loud, sustained creeeeak, the door swung closed behind them. Zoë couldn’t be entirely sure that it wasn’t her mother shutting the cold and the noise outside.
Or possibly one of her sisters, but Trisha was still young enough to enjoy the novelty of carolers, even if they turned out far less impressive than they did in Christmas specials. So Billy and Zoë squared their shoulders against the cold, reassured themselves that they only had to stand out for a song or two and that the carolers themselves were probably a lot colder than them, and
“Good Tidings for Christmas and a happy new Year!” they sang with scattered emphasis. It was a little bizarre in itself, but it didn’t sound entirely intentional. Zoë wrapped her arms around her, and shot a glance at Billy, which she hoped communicated “if you touch me, they will think that we are dating and I will poison your cocoa.”

Her coffee-black eyes scanned the group, at first only envying their coats, then checking to see how well each of them had cobbled a vaguely matching outfit out of what they owned. Halfway through the first row, however, she started and grabbed Billy’s arm.

“Isn’t that Dave?” Zoë whispered, leaning towards Billy. Billy looked at her like she had gone insane.
“Dave? Dave Mitchell? He died in junior year, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do!” Zoë exclaimed, trying to shout and whisper at the same time and not doing a very good job of either. “That’s why I’m freaking out!”
“Maybe he had a brother?” he asked.
“You know he didn’t!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! That’s Dave!” With that, Zoë grabbed Billy by the neck of his sweater and adjusted his line of vision so that he couldn’t possibly miss the caroler. Billy’s jaw dropped. The carolers didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about this behavior and carried on singing.

“Now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some figgy pudding, and bring it right here…”

Billy blinked and looked again. That was Dave Mitchell, not a day older than he was when he died. He smiled at Billy, his eyes filled with recognition. That was Dave, all right. It wasn’t just that Billy recognized Dave’s smile or bright red hair, but he could see in his eyes that Dave recognized Billy, too. He tore his eyes away, half to make sure that the other carolers were still there.

They were. In the front was little Mary Richardson, who had been diagnosed with leukemia in third grade didn’t look a day older than the last day she appeared in school. Her big brown curls were intact under her knitted cap, her cheeks were rosy-brown and her eyes clear of that weariness, that mask of age that she had worn in her last months.
Mrs. Stills, their eighth grade music teacher who encouraged both of them to join band. A sweet old man who died in his sleep at age seventy-eight. Zoë found her eyes drawing back to her grandfather, no matter how many times she found another person who she recognized. And every time, papa Marnell wiggled his mustache and touched his hat, as he always had in life.
They didn’t know everyone in the crowd, but everyone they knew, they knew were dead.

“We won’t go until we get some, we won’t go until we get some…”

The students stared mutely for some time, speechless and understandably unsettled by this visitation. But it wasn’t until they recognized the figures in the far back that they were properly terrified.
It was Zoë who saw them first. She grabbed Billy’s hand so sharply that her nails dug into his flesh. He whimpered slightly, finally able to look at Zoë and long enough to see where she was looking. She stared, unblinking, mouth open and on the verge of screaming, towards the back of the group. Billy followed her gaze, when he saw what she was looking at, he thought he was going to swallow his tongue.

There were two figures standing in the back, in the same red sweaters and looking down into the same folders as the rest of the group. About eighteen, no, exactly eighteen. A girl and a boy, the girl with long black hair, and warm medium-dark skin. The boy with pale blonde hair and cheeks red from the cold, singing along with the others. Billy and Zoë stared, as Billy and Zoë sang, standing in the back of the group of the dead.
She wasn’t sure how she knew, and she wasn’t sure how it was going to happen, but as Zoë stared at herself, she became aware that she was going to die. There was no real reason to suspect death, academically, for she was a healthy girl of eighteen, not involved in any dangerous activities that were likely to kill her off anytime soon.

“Good tidings for Christmas, and a happy New Year.” the ghosts sang, with the fetches standing still in the back, not looking forward. Somehow, that was worse.

Description
No, this isn’t the same story as last year, just the same exposition
Billy and Zoë were always said to be good kids, not getting in fights, making the sports team, honor roll, debate team, cheer squad, chorus and band. Both moderately popular jacks-of-all-trades, they managed to make prom king and queen even though they were just friends, and got scholarships to the same college. Billy played sports year round, but managed to talk about other things, mainly debating, singing or playing clarinet. Well, not when he was doing those things, as they involved his mouth. He had a tall, muscular build, his features seemingly mismatched. He had soccer legs and basketball feet, baseball arms on a football torso, which his head was thankfully not too small for, his white blond hair contrasting with his frequently red face. Zoë’s body, however, seemed more perfectly constructed. She had toasted mocha skin and shiny black hair, large brown eyes, long willowy arms and legs rippling with muscles and small, athletic breasts that did not get in the way when she cheered, played the flute, lacrosse, tennis or cricket. Both frequently smiled, especially when the life-long friends found out they were going to college together.

Opinions on carolers vary immensely depending on where you live. More precisely, they vary immensely depending on if where you live is liable to get any. And of course the class of caroler that comes around. There are families who think it’s cute, and it gets less cute by each stop and each time their children get more tired and less interested in singing. There are church groups who have practiced singing together, if only for a few weeks, and practiced rattling their donation cans for longer. Sometimes, rarely, you find people who just like singing, and so they sing. They would probably be singing if it weren’t the holidays, just walking down the street singing to themselves. They weren’t always very good, but it was so much harder to begrudge them the time of a song than children screaming to go home or someone constantly glancing at another member of the party, only along to impress them. If you were rural, you were lucky to get any at all. If you were a college student coming home to the suburbs for your first winter break, then you had a good chance of hearing more carols than you wanted to before you even left your dorm. But, if you a good kid, or even if people just said you were, you would stand outside and listen for at least one carol.
That was the place where Zoë and Billy found themselves in at forty-six minutes after eight on December the fifteenth.

It was Zoë who opened the door, partially because it was her house, partially because her mother had shouted, “Can you get the door? I’m in the middle of baking!” and partially because Billy had been half-covered by a blanket and eating fresh cookies with both hands when the doorbell rang. She smiled at the carolers, or at least tried to.
It was a large group, there were about twenty of them all decked out in what were no doubt the finest novelty ski hats and red scarves they could find in the Target discount baskets. But clearly, this was a group that took themselves at least a little seriously because each of them was holding a red folder, presumably full of music because whoever had the best handwriting had drawn a large G-clef on the front in a broad-tip magic marker.

Billy joined her, and for a moment the college students and the carolers stared at each other like one was prey and the other a predator ready to pounce, but hadn’t decided which was which yet. It seemed to be the carolers, because they made the first move. About five of them, in the front, took a large breath nearly in unison and started belting “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Also nearly in unison. The rest of the group quickly followed suit, flipping through the folders as if they had suddenly forgotten how many “wishes” came before “Happy New Year.”

It wasn’t bad singing, but there was something awkward about standing in the frost that promised that the paltry half-inch of snow would turn to ice under their feet. Terrified, polite smiles immediately formed on their faces. With a loud, sustained creeeeak, the door swung closed behind them. Zoë couldn’t be entirely sure that it wasn’t her mother shutting the cold and the noise outside.
Or possibly one of her sisters, but Trisha was still young enough to enjoy the novelty of carolers, even if they turned out far less impressive than they did in Christmas specials. So Billy and Zoë squared their shoulders against the cold, reassured themselves that they only had to stand out for a song or two and that the carolers themselves were probably a lot colder than them, and
“Good Tidings for Christmas and a happy new Year!” they sang with scattered emphasis. It was a little bizarre in itself, but it didn’t sound entirely intentional. Zoë wrapped her arms around her, and shot a glance at Billy, which she hoped communicated “if you touch me, they will think that we are dating and I will poison your cocoa.”

Her coffee-black eyes scanned the group, at first only envying their coats, then checking to see how well each of them had cobbled a vaguely matching outfit out of what they owned. Halfway through the first row, however, she started and grabbed Billy’s arm.

“Isn’t that Dave?” Zoë whispered, leaning towards Billy. Billy looked at her like she had gone insane.
“Dave? Dave Mitchell? He died in junior year, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do!” Zoë exclaimed, trying to shout and whisper at the same time and not doing a very good job of either. “That’s why I’m freaking out!”
“Maybe he had a brother?” he asked.
“You know he didn’t!” she exclaimed. “Look at him! That’s Dave!” With that, Zoë grabbed Billy by the neck of his sweater and adjusted his line of vision so that he couldn’t possibly miss the caroler. Billy’s jaw dropped. The carolers didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about this behavior and carried on singing.

“Now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some figgy pudding, and bring it right here…”

Billy blinked and looked again. That was Dave Mitchell, not a day older than he was when he died. He smiled at Billy, his eyes filled with recognition. That was Dave, all right. It wasn’t just that Billy recognized Dave’s smile or bright red hair, but he could see in his eyes that Dave recognized Billy, too. He tore his eyes away, half to make sure that the other carolers were still there.

They were. In the front was little Mary Richardson, who had been diagnosed with leukemia in third grade didn’t look a day older than the last day she appeared in school. Her big brown curls were intact under her knitted cap, her cheeks were rosy-brown and her eyes clear of that weariness, that mask of age that she had worn in her last months.
Mrs. Stills, their eighth grade music teacher who encouraged both of them to join band. A sweet old man who died in his sleep at age seventy-eight. Zoë found her eyes drawing back to her grandfather, no matter how many times she found another person who she recognized. And every time, papa Marnell wiggled his mustache and touched his hat, as he always had in life.
They didn’t know everyone in the crowd, but everyone they knew, they knew were dead.

“We won’t go until we get some, we won’t go until we get some…”

The students stared mutely for some time, speechless and understandably unsettled by this visitation. But it wasn’t until they recognized the figures in the far back that they were properly terrified.
It was Zoë who saw them first. She grabbed Billy’s hand so sharply that her nails dug into his flesh. He whimpered slightly, finally able to look at Zoë and long enough to see where she was looking. She stared, unblinking, mouth open and on the verge of screaming, towards the back of the group. Billy followed her gaze, when he saw what she was looking at, he thought he was going to swallow his tongue.

There were two figures standing in the back, in the same red sweaters and looking down into the same folders as the rest of the group. About eighteen, no, exactly eighteen. A girl and a boy, the girl with long black hair, and warm medium-dark skin. The boy with pale blonde hair and cheeks red from the cold, singing along with the others. Billy and Zoë stared, as Billy and Zoë sang, standing in the back of the group of the dead.
She wasn’t sure how she knew, and she wasn’t sure how it was going to happen, but as Zoë stared at herself, she became aware that she was going to die. There was no real reason to suspect death, academically, for she was a healthy girl of eighteen, not involved in any dangerous activities that were likely to kill her off anytime soon.

“Good tidings for Christmas, and a happy New Year.” the ghosts sang, with the fetches standing still in the back, not looking forward. Somehow, that was worse.