Chris Tyler was not a religious man, yet Christmas was his favourite time of the year. It was the one time of year that could still stir a flicker of warmth inside him. He had plenty of reasons to love the season: the festivities, the laughter, the carols, and, of course, those precious days away from work. But above all, it was his daughter, Christie, who made Christmas worth waiting for. Born Christina Grace Tyler, she was the heartbeat of his world. He missed her dearly.

At 35, Chris is an efficient and well-respected police detective inspector, known for his dedication and accomplishments that go far beyond his seventeen years in the force. The only reason he stayed at the rank of detective inspector, instead of easily advancing, is his love for the thrill of the chase and getting his hands dirty. He preferred leading investigations to managing them. Plus, his salary was more than enough for a single man to live comfortably in a city like this.

When chasing criminals, Chris often left home for days without hesitation, dedicating all his time and energy to the pursuit. He frequently departed without informing anyone. His ex-wife often said that Chris spent more time at Sherrinford Police Headquarters or the morgue than he ever did at home. She wasn’t wrong. His passion for the job had a way of consuming him completely.

That same devotion became the quiet force that tore his marriage apart after four years. By the time he realized his shortcomings, it was too late. He packed his life into boxes and moved into a small flat, leaving behind his wife and his daughter.

Five years had passed since then, yet the ache of losing his little girl had never faded. He spoke to her whenever he could, but the chances to see her were rare. Christmas was the only time he truly got to be part of her life again. And so, each year, Chris found himself counting the days until Christmas.

It was late December, 2012. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and pine. A light snowfall earlier that afternoon had dusted the pavements with a thin layer of white, though now the skies had cleared. The streets of Sherrinford were alive. shoppers bustled past with bags in hand, families lingered to admire glittering window displays, and the soft hum of Christmas music floated through every corner.

Knowing the traffic would be hopeless, Chris pulled on his coat, grabbed his suitcase, and decided to walk to his old home. The town had never looked more enchanting. Strings of lights hung from lampposts and rooftops, casting a warm, golden glow over the streets. Even the trees lining the road were draped in ribbons and twinkling fairy lights. Outside stalls at a nearby Christmas market, vendors in Santa hats and elf costumes handed out sweets to eager children, whose laughter and chatter mingled with the carols drifting from a nearby café. It was a scene that could make anyone forget the fatigue of a long walk.

It was dark by the time Chris arrived at his old home on Pearson Street. He brushed the snow from his hat and shoulders, preparing to knock on the door. Suddenly, it swung open, and there she was. A seven-year-old girl stood on her toes, her smile stretching from ear to ear. It was clear she had been waiting for him.

“Daddy!” she shouted, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around his hips.

“Hey, cupcake!” Chris laughed, scooping her up with ease. “Whoa, slow down! Didn’t I tell you not to grow up so fast?”

She giggled, looking up at him with sparkling eyes.

“Aren’t you going to invite Daddy in?” a voice called from inside. Chris’s ex-wife, Rebecca, stepped out of the kitchen.

“You alright, Chris?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Good,” Rebecca smiled.

“Couldn’t complain,” said a man lying on the couch, in a tone that insinuated that, in fact, he could.

Chris carried Christie inside. On the couch, reading a newspaper, was Thomas White, the man Rebecca remarried two years ago. He was a journalist, and Chris never quite got along with him. Thomas, for his part, didn’t like Chris either. But Chris took comfort in one thing: Christie still called him ‘Dad,’ while referring to Thomas by his name alone.

Thomas gave Chris a slight nod before returning to his paper.

“Got a little gift for you,” Chris said, crouching and gently setting Christie on the floor. Her arms were still around his neck. Chris pulled a small parcel from his coat. Christie accepted it eagerly, carefully examining it.

“Open it,” Chris encouraged.

Christie tore away the wrapping paper to reveal a small, cotton-filled plush rabbit with long, floppy ears. Her smile widened, lighting up her face. She dashed to her mother, exclaiming, “Look, Mommy! Daddy got me a bunny!”

Chris smiled to himself.

Time seemed to slip away as Chris helped decorate the house, assemble the Christmas tree, and prepare various dishes. Thomas did his best to pretend Chris wasn’t there, yet he didn’t interfere with the quiet joy Chris and Christie shared. For that, Chris was thankful.

The dawn of December 24th arrived with an unprecedented enthusiasm among Chris, Christie, Rebecca, and even Thomas. They were having breakfast when Chris’s phone rang. The caller ID read ‘David’.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” Chris said, and stepped into the hallway.

“Hello, Dave. What’s up?”

“Where are you? I need to see you for a minute,” came David’s anxious voice.

“I’m on leave right now, Dave. You’ll need to reach out to Henry for anything work-related,” he said, lowering his voice.

“This isn’t about work!” David’s voice snapped on the other end. “Well… It sort of is. But this can’t wait. Chris, where are you?”

“I’m with Christie,” Chris replied, concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll be there soon.”

The call ended abruptly.

David Stiller, a thirty-year-old forensic analyst at Sherrinford Police, had been a great help to Chris in both his career and personal life. David was Chris’s closest friend, and Chris knew him well enough to sense that something serious was troubling him.

A few minutes later, Chris’s phone rang again.

“David. What’s going on?”

David’s voice was barely audible over the noise of the streets. “On second thought, this isn’t really a conversation to have at your house. Can we meet at the Bloomsbury?”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Chris grew more anxious. David was a seasoned officer with a strong personality, not easily rattled. His strange behaviour left Chris deeply concerned.

Chris arrived at the Bloomsbury Restaurant on Lewis Street, where they often met. David was already seated, looking like a man who hadn’t slept or eaten in days. His gaze was fixed on the crowded street outside the window, his eyes empty.

“Dave?” Chris sat down beside him.

David looked at Chris and sighed in relief.

“Thank God you came,” he said. “I dunno if you’ll believe what I’m about to say.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter,” David said, struggling to smile, “is that a friend, who we thought was dead, is still alive and well.”

“A friend?”

“An enemy, if you want to split hairs.”

“Oh? Which one?” Chris asked, still unconvinced.

David hesitated, his voice barely more than a whisper when he finally spoke.

“The Count.”

Chris blinked a few times, stunned. David watched him intently, waiting for a reaction. There was a tense silence between them. Richard Osborne, alias ‘The Count’, had been Chris’s so-called arch-nemesis, and David knew better than anyone that he was dead. So, what could this absurd statement mean?

“What?” Chris finally managed.

“You heard me.”

“It’s been five years. We positively ID’d his body.”

“Four,” David corrected. “And yes, it was his body. I ran a DNA test myself. You even checked it with your own eyes. But, surprise, surprise, that motherfucker wished me a ‘Merry Christmas’ yesterday. In broad daylight!”

Chris opened his mouth to laugh, but the seriousness on David’s face shut it down. He forced a tight smile. “David… you’re not making any sense. Nobody survives a beheading.”

“But we never found the head.” David jabbed a finger at the table with each syllable.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know, man… something about it still stinks.”

“He made a lot of enemies. One of them was bound to catch up with him eventually. It was his body. Do you think I’d let a headless corpse pass for the Count if I wasn’t sure? You saw the body. You saw the reports. Everything checked out.”

“Chris… don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you saw someone.”

“Do you really think I’d mistake that weasel’s face?” David’s voice was sharp, almost pained. “I’ll never forget his smile… his eyes… his voice.”

Chris could see the weight in David’s words.

“So… where did you see the Count?” Chris asked.

Relief flickered across David’s face, seeing Chris was finally ready to hear him out.

“I was heading home yesterday, around four in the evening. Had a pile of work to finish before Christmas. I left HQ, hoping to catch the bus, and stopped at the crosswalk.”

David paused, casting a sceptical glance at the crowded road outside.

“As I was crossing, someone bumped into me. I turned to give him a piece of my mind, but my mouth went dry when I saw his face. The Count was standing right in front of me! He said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, didn’t see you! Merry Christmas!’ with that damn grin of his. And then… he was gone.”

“Gone?” Chris asked.

“Not like a ghost,” David said quickly. “I just lost him in the crowd. But that’s not the worst part… I think he’s following me.”

“You’ve seen him since?”

“Not exactly. But last night, around midnight, I caught freakin’ Santa Claus peeking through my bedroom window.”

Chris blinked. “Santa Claus?”

“Yeah. Red suit, white beard, the full get-up. Scared the living hell out of me. I’m glad Nancy didn’t see him. My kids would’ve loved it, though, to catch Santa in the act.

“Anyway… somebody dressed like that, in the middle of the night, in an empty street? Creepy, right? And here’s the kicker—the freak sees me looking at him. Locks eyes. Gives me a cute little wave like he’s in a parade. Then he takes off. I was frozen for, like, three seconds, then I shot outside to see if he’s lurking around. But nothing. Guy’s vanished.”

David’s voice trailed off, and Chris could see him muttering to himself.

“But Dave, what’s that got to do with the Count?”

“Well, detective, maybe it was him in disguise!” David snapped, his voice climbing. “Someone who looks exactly like the worst bastard we ever went up against—who, by the way, we were sure was dead—just shows up out of thin air. And now I’ve got some creep hanging around my house. Watching me. So you tell me, Chris. How do you explain that? Don’t you dare tell me it’s a coincidence. I swear to God…”

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “Maybe that son of a bitch tricked us. Wouldn’t be the first time he pulled something like that. Maybe he faked his death.”

Chris gave David a moment to compose himself. And then he spoke.

“Well, David,” he said, “first off, we have no proof it’s the Count. Probably just someone who looks like him. Our minds can play tricks. One quick glimpse in a crowded street isn’t enough to be sure of anything.

“Second… I don’t see any reason to link it to last night. Could’ve been a drunk. Could’ve been a burglar. Who knows? And I doubt a burglar would be dumb enough to dress as Santa… Wait. Actually, that’s kind of clever. All sorts of shenanigans happen this time of year. Just keep an eye out, though. You can’t be too careful.

“And finally… dead people don’t come back. Not the ones we’ve checked.”

David said nothing.

“Dave,” Chris leaned forward, resting a hand on David’s shoulder, “take a break. Tomorrow’s Christmas. Forget about all this and enjoy the holiday with your family. You deserve it.”

David contemplated Chris’s words for a long while before nodding in agreement.

“You’re right. I’ve been a total idiot. Sorry, mate. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Come on, man. Don’t say that. You and I were in this together. You’ve got every right to call me out over something like this. And hey, being a forensic scientist can take a toll on you. So don’t beat yourself up over it, alright?”

After a while, Chris bid farewell to David and made his way back to the Pearson Street. Though he felt a fleeting warmth at being reunited with his daughter, an unshakable uneasiness gnawed at the edges of his mind, like a shadow lurking just out of sight.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: The Walls Have Ears