Darkness prevailed in our community. No lights, no music. It was as though the year would not have a Christmas. Ours was the brightest, the place for carols and the inspiration for everyone's festivities. Not anymore.

My husband had always gone all out for Christmas and put up the most lights, inflatable snowmen, an arbor of candy canes and a life-sized Santa on our roof. We even had a nativity scene, although we were atheists. We just loved Christmas and it was always the time when our family was at its best. Year after year, after our son had grown, he had brought his family home for Christmas.

They had always made a card together, a homemade Christmas card in a gold envelope. Each was a treasure to me. I loved the drawings from the kids and the handwritten greetings from my daughter-in-law and my son.

They wouldn't be coming home this year. Not after the horrific accident. The temperature had plummeted suddenly after nightfall, and the light rain from earlier had made conditions just a little bit icy. Sometimes a little danger is more dangerous than a lot of danger.

I wasn't sure anymore. The pain was too great. In the morning I wouldn't get out of bed, because I was holding onto the dreams of my son and his family. I wanted to live in the dreams, forget the world. I couldn't speak or take care of my home. I just wasn't able to move on.

My husband had kept working, and it angered me that he seemed to be handling it. I knew he was hurt by the loss, but he had healed, and continued with his life. I was never going to heal, for me, life felt like a punishment, like I had somehow done something wrong and deserved the agony of losing him.

The next year, at Christmas, it only got worse. Nobody put up lights. The community we lived in had followed us into the holidays, and we had stopped celebrating. They still had their Christmas parties, but we weren't expected to come, and nobody decorated. Part of me felt that too, but I asked myself if I wanted something different, and although I would have accepted it, I wasn't going to ask for it.

"I am going to put up the tree and leave their gifts under it." My husband told me. I just nodded and said nothing. There was some part of me, a little girl who had believed in Santa, that thought their ghosts might come at midnight and have Christmas one last time.

I fell asleep watching a Christmas movie where they said that anyone can make a wish and it will come true on Christmas. I wanted to believe in that, I wanted to believe I could wish it all away. Then my eyes opened up and I beheld them gathered, just as I had wanted. I should have left it alone, should have accepted the visit and begun to heal, but I wanted more. I couldn't accept that was the last time I would see them.

I wish my story was about how I had spent those sleepy moments on Christmas Eve with them, enjoying their ghostly visit and then saying goodbye. It is what I should have done, it would have ended the tragedy and allowed me to heal and move on. I simply couldn't let them go, and they even told me to let them go, but I couldn't.

I loved them too much, and the pain was too great.

A dark quest began, searching for a way to bring them back. If they could come to me once, they could come again. I did my research, my energy slowly coming back. After almost a whole year of searching, I found out about a relic that could grant one wish. Occultists online agreed that it was real, and all of them also stated they would never touch the thing, for it would grant a wish, but only at a terrible price. I became a believer in the Lazarus Touch, a mummified hand that had reputedly already raised the dead on many occasions for thousands of years. I left the house and drove to the city, finding the bookstore that had last held the object of my obsession.

"I am looking for the relic you sold." I told the owner of the bookstore. "You advertised it a few years ago. Who'd you sell it to?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"This." I showed him a printed-out screenshot of a dried-up hand. "You called it the 'genuine' Lazarus Touch. Here's the final bid. You sold it."

"I'm not going to tell you who I sold it to." he smirked.

"Then tell me, is it real?"

"It's real. I never used it, but it came from the Peabody Estate. Do some research and find out what happened there. You tell me if it is real or not."

I felt a chill, some instinct warning me to stop myself and let it go. I should have listened to my instincts. I pushed past the mild trepidation and said:

"You seem like a man who will make a bargain. I'd do anything to know where it is."

He smiled evilly, and I was right about him. He was willing to make a bargain with me. I only had to sell my soul, it seemed, but I felt driven and alone, and I wouldn't let anything stop me.

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With the secrets of the relic's location in my hand, I left him there, wondering if I had paid too much. I made myself forget the bookstore owner and focused on my quest. I took his advice and researched the Peabody Estate, hoping I could learn something new. What I read shocked and horrified me.

I should have stopped myself. I should have turned back. I felt the first pangs of fear and regret, seeing the rumors of what had happened. I knew they were true, something about the man's reference to it had convinced me he knew it was all true, and I could feel it. There was an evil presence already watching me.

The decision to drive halfway across the land to get to the relic seemed irreversible, even before I left. I had paid a heavy price for the information, and I wasn't going to back down without at least seeing it, to know I could possess it and make a wish. One wish that would come true.

When I arrived at the home of the relic's new owner I sat outside in my car. I felt nervous, unsure how to proceed. The malevolent presence that was haunting me seemed to be feeding on me, and I felt afraid of it, afraid to let it in. If I just turned back, I could let it go, but I thought about Christmas Eve a year before. I remembered seeing them, smiling and with me, ghostly but intact. My fears were overwhelmed by my desire.

When the lights in the house were out and I felt like everyone was asleep, I crept up. I found the back door unlocked and I entered. I'd never done anything like that before, but I was desperate. There was no way they would sell it to me, not when they had paid more money for it than my home was worth. I had no choice but to steal it.

I was shaking with fear when I found it. My instincts were telling me to stop and go back, to leave it secure under the glass they had it under. As I stared at it, I knew its power, I knew it was real. It occurred to me I did not have to steal it. All I had to do was hold it and make my wish.

Lifting the glass felt like a bad idea, not because I could get caught, but because I knew it would exact a terrible price. I was afraid, knowing the danger I was in, but I did not care. I had to see my son again, no matter what.

"I wish my son would come home for Christmas." I said. I felt its power, I knew my wish was granted. Dizzy, I dropped it and staggered and fell over. The noise I made alerted them of my intrusion. I clambered to my feet, my heart racing, and fled.

As I sped away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the old man who owned it. He had come outside and was watching me drive away. The look on his face was of great concern, rather than anger or fear at the burglary. He looked like he was afraid for me, not of me.

At home, I couldn't relax. My heart was still racing. Would he call the cops? Would they find me somehow? Those material fears presided. I tried everything to relax, I made myself some tea, took a hot shower, watched infomercials and pretended I would buy something. I fell asleep on the couch and my husband found me there in the morning.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

I wondered if he could somehow sense the things I had done. He was looking at me like he knew my sins. I just shrugged.

"I went out." I said. "I'm home now. I just needed to go do some things."

He eyed me with suspicion, and I felt guilty. I went to him while he was quietly making some coffee and I kissed him and loved him. He forgot his suspicions, leaving for work feeling happy, thinking his marriage was going well. It was the least I could do for him.

Christmas Eve was just a day away. Years had gone by, and a few of our neighbors were hanging their lights. I walked around the neighborhood, greeting them and encouraging them. I knew my son was coming home for Christmas.

On the night before Christmas, I sat awake, waiting for his arrival. My husband came downstairs and found me there and finally asked:

"Alright, what is going on?" sounding worried, like he thought I had lost my mind.

"He's coming home for Christmas. He'll be here soon. He's on his way." I said.

"Who?"

"Our son. He is on his way, right now."

"From his grave." my husband nodded. "I dreamed he was walking here, from his grave. And now you are sitting there, telling me it is happening." he looked pale.

Coldness washed over me, a deep feeling of horrified dread at the fruit of my efforts. He was right, our son was walking through the night, from his grave. I felt sick, I felt terrified. I thought of the smiling visitants I had met last year that had lingered and then said goodbye.

What had I done?

"What have you done?" he asked me, a look of unrecognition on his face.

"I - I don't know." I claimed. I knew what I had done, but it was too late. We both just stared at horror as the clock chimed midnight. Just then there was a singular thump on the first step of our front porch.

We both slowly turned and looked at the front door, our eyes widening in realization and terror. What was out there was not our son, although it was him. Dead for three years. There was another thump, something shuffling slowly with difficulty up the steps.

"My god." my husband was backing away. "He's here."

"No - no!" I whimpered in fright. "This isn't what I meant!"

There was a final thump as the last step was taken by the shuffling corpse. Then it began to walk from the steps, across the porch to the front door. I wasn't breathing, sweat beaded on my face and I was holding up the couch's blanket, covering my mouth. My husband fled upstairs, unable to bear the horror of his son's remains knocking upon the door.

Each knock on the door sent chills down my spine. I was frozen in terror, unable to respond. I just sat there shaking. It seemed to go on and on forever. I felt like I was in Hell, being punished for my sins. I'd never believed in such things, but I no longer had that luxury. I knew what it was like, to feel that torment and terror, without end.

Finally, after the longest and most horrifying night of my life, the sun began to rise. The knocking ceased, and the corpse reversed its steps, descending the stairs and leaving me to wail in anguish and trauma.

When I had wept and shaken, I forced myself up to go to that door. With nauseating trepidation, I unlocked it and began to open it slowly. There was a coldness outside, and a stench of moldy old rot. There on the porch, I saw grave dirt and dried maggot casings. The muddy footprints of the corpse showed its path through the night.

I looked down and saw what he had left for me, a little dirt was smudged on the golden envelope. I fell to my knees and picked it up. I held it to my heart, and somehow, as I stared out at the Christmas sunrise, I was finally able to say goodbye.