The blond man stood at the gates, watching. On the cold wintry day, so close to Christmas, he was back to the only home he ever knew.

In his black winter coat, he was a blight on the virgin snow. The "For Sale" sign was taken down; his bank account was wiped out. But it was all right. He had all he ever wanted for years- the obsession hammering at his soul was pacified.

With the key, he unlocked the massive gates. Creaking open, they were reluctantly awakened but as soon as they knew it was him, they hurriedly made way for his return.

He walked pass the driveway to the long path leading up to the house, knowing for acres of land in all directions, he was alone. The mansion, with its gargoyles and angel statues, stood in solitude on top of a small hill, on the outskirts of the peaceful town of Bayport.

Under his feet, the snow melted with anger disseminating from the soles of his feet.

The impassive man followed the cobblestone pathway, feeling the crunch of snow- those dying frosted flowers. Skeletal trees lined both sides- the eternal sentinels keeping watch. They hunched, bowing to him in remorseful salutation. For all the tragedies they heard years ago while they stood rigid and indifferent, the boy survived. The man returned.

He clenched his fists.

A fountain stood in his way. A long, dead fountain. The cherub was missing half his face and he was no longer spewing streams of clear, refreshing water to quench the thirst on hot, summer afternoons. No water to douse the dragon’s fiery breath in his stomach.

He touched the broken clay bowl, filled with snow and soggy dead leaves. As an experiment, or just a sudden thought, he took out his black gloves and dunked his bare hands through the ice.

The cold numbed him for what was to come next. And it would come. The house would quiver, as the boy had quivered before.

When he removed his hands from the bowl of frozen crystals, they were red and in numbing pain. It did not matter. The fingers would not fall off yet.

He continued walking up to the portico, then to the deceiving friendliness of the weathered white French door.

Turning the key in the lock, he threw the door open.