"Unfortunately, only her most recent Christmas falls within my purview," the Ghost says. He waves his hand and a misty gateway appears to the same living room as they're standing in, but lit by lamps and lights and bustling with activity. It's very different than the dim and quiet June night between mother and daughter, who haven't exchanged a word since Stacia made her assurances.

"...I'm going to bed," Stacia says. "Don't stay up too late. Like I said, no one's going to come." She smirks, and it's a grim expression trimmed in satisfaction. "They wouldn't dare."

"Sleep well," her mother says and Stacia and her bag dart up the stairs, quickly and quietly as though she's glad for the escape. Her mother waits like she's counting the seconds, then wraps her robe more tightly around herself and moves to the darkest and most secure corner of the living room, as though she's trying to hide.

The muffled sound of a woman's laughter winds its way through the portal to the most recent Christmas.