Young Writers Society

It was a lonely Christmas for Maria, it was a lonely Christmas for Davidson, it was a lonely Christmas for America. Though no battles ever reached the small college town, the American Civil war had drained the Davidson, the college was empty of students, off to become soldiers or home with families. Fathers, sons, and husbands were taken from every home.

Maria's husband was one of them. She had been newly-wed when the fighting had started. Her husband had been whisked off and turned into a soldier. She was left alone to work as a maid at a college boarding house.

That lonely Christmas, she had decided to stay at the boarding house instead of going home for the holidays like the other servants. With no students to live in the rooms or eat the food, the family needed fewer servants, but since they were still living in the house, they wished to have one maid to help around the house during the holidays. Maria needed the money, so she stayed.

She had plenty of work that Christmas Eve. The family used the sizeable empty house for a Christmas get together. But eventually, the fire burned low, the festivities ended, the guests returned home, and the family went off to bed, leaving Maria to clean up after the party.

See, maids see things most people don't. They are awake when many of us are asleep, working in places when most of us are out. It was the same that night. She was the only waking soul in the house.

As she cleaned up the dishes thinking of her dear husband, wishing he could be closer, she heard the front door open.

She frowned and set down the dishes. Quite out of the ordinary, she glanced at the clock. It was nearly half-past eleven. Who could be visiting at that time of night? Her mind wandered to stories of burglary and house thieves, and she quickly grabbed a ladle.

She nervously peeked around the doorway, looking at this front entryway, but she found it empty. The door was just hanging open, a cold winter wind blowing into the room.

She thought it had to be the wind that had blown open the door but found it strange since she distinctly remembered locking the place up. She closed the door, locked it again, and got back to cleaning the dishes.

As she was drying the last cup though, she heard, and this time it was unmistakable, the sound of heavy footsteps up the creaky staircase. Not just anyone's footsteps, no, those were distinctly the heavy yet gay springing step of Steven. She could recognize the sound of her husband's gate from anywhere. Maria rushed to the door. Her steven must have come back early! Maybe they let him home for Christmas. Steven probably thought she was up in her room, and he was coming to greet her. She threw the door to the entryway open.

It was as empty, quiet, and dark as before. She peered up the staircase. Empty, and no sound of movement. It had stopped as soon as she opened the door. Maria pursed her lips in confusion. She couldn't have imagined the sound. It had been so solid! She climbed the steep staircase, walked down the thin hallway to her door. She pulled out her key and unlocked it. The door clicking and reverberating softly throughout the silent house. She did not believe Steven had a key, so he probably wasn't in the room. She tried to not get her hopes up but was secretly disappointed when she entered the room and found it empty and dark. The light from her candle reaching into the nothingness and coming back empty-handed.

She gloomy trudged back down the stairs, listening to her own now heavy footsteps in confusion. But then, for a moment, she thought she heard another pair of feet behind her, and she whirled but found no one. She turned back and returned to the first floor, trying to ignore the feeling that she could still hear footsteps behind her. It must be an echo, or maybe she had heard one of the family members moving about their rooms and mistaken it for someone on the stairs.

But it had sounded so much like her, Steven. She returned to her chores and finished putting away the last of her dishes. The feeling welling up in her was overwhelming. She missed him more now that she had felt the hope of having him. Almost here for Christmas. He sometimes had helped her with her duties as a maid if he had the time, but now she had to do them all on her own. Maria wiped tears off her face and walked over to the fireplace. As she took the broom to drew it across the ground sullenly, she noticed her sweeping was not gathering any dust. As she peered around, she saw that it was that way on the rest of the surface. Like someone had already swept. She discovered that the rest of her nightly chores were that way as well. The shoes had been put away, the stairs swept, the lanterns put out. She confused, but glad, wandered up to her room, candle in hand. Once again, she thought she heard someone behind her but found the space empty. She entered her small room quickly and nervously, locking it behind her, and sat down next to the cold hearth with a sigh. Her entire room was as warm as the stones which made the home. She shivered. If she wanted to at least have a warm Christmas, she would have to light the fire.

That had always been Steven's job. She had often come back to a warm room and a warm face. She began to gather up twigs and other kindling. She cursed the old house as she felt a draft, looking around for its source, and found the door open. Maria stood up and furrowed her brow. No, this time, she distinctly remembered locking the door. She walked over, glanced up and down the dark hall. Maria almost found it more disturbing that it was empty. She stepped back inside, closing the door as she did so. As she turned away from the door, she felt stunned.

The room was now lit by a small crackling fire. The kindling had been lit, and if she didn't know better, it looked like more wood had been added. She stared at the burning fire for a moment.

She told herself a lump of coal she hadn't seen must have lit it when she had her back turned, ignoring the fact the stones of the hearth had been as cold as the grave.

She collapsed back into her chair next to the fire and soaked in the warmth. She, so tired by the day's work and the confusion, began to doze off.

Distantly she heard music.

Curious, her half-asleep mind thought. It was Christmas music.

A carol.

It was being sung by a man with a deep comforting voice.

She smiled as the voice lulled her to deeper sleep. Her drowsy mind had forgotten that that voice had not been home for months.

Over the next couple of days, she thought back on that day's events with confusion. She thought about stories she had heard about fairies doing people's chores for them while they slept. She found sensical explanations for it all, as one does. The footsteps had been someone upstairs, the door had been the wind, the fire had been a noticed hot coal. But what she couldn't stop thinking about was that singing. Had she dreamed it? Steven was quite the singer, but she also knew he was off in South Carolina, and she doubted his singing could reach that far.

Her question was answered on New Years'. She was making the family's breakfast when someone came to the door. The owner of the boarding house answered the door and talked to the person outside. Marah didn't pay much attention. The family had many visitors.

But when the woman who owned the home called out that it was for her, she was confused but interested. She put down the spatula and hurried to the door.

The man was wearing medals and the uniform of a general.

Her entire body began to shake.

The man got to the point quickly, he had obviously done this countless times, but he obviously still took great pain from it.

"Your husband is dead," He said.

She became completely numb. She said other things next. He said other things, none of them she heard. But when The general began to explain the situation of the death, she was terribly dragged back to attention. She needed to know how it happened.

"It was last week. He died quickly, gunfire to the head,"

"When?"

"What?"

She grabbed his coat and dragged the man close, "When, when did my steven die?"

The general was not a man easily afraid, but one who was surprised by this line of questioning, but he spluttered out an answer. "Christmas Eve night, it couldn't have been 12, probably half past 11."

Her Steven had come.

The door had opened then.

Those had been his footsteps.

He had come back.

He had spent one last night with her.

He had helped her with her chores had done so many times.

He had lit the fire for her.

He had even sung her to sleep.

He would never leave her alone for Christmas. Even if America tore itself apart, he would never leave her alone for that the most sacred of holidays.