"Excuse me!" Joseph MacRae shouted for the third time.

Once again, his voice didn't pierce through the noise. The shirtless monstrosity still stood before him and didn't budge from the doorway.

Joe looked around for an alternate route. There was another passage behind the bar, but the bar was next to the DJ, and the promise of free drinks and music had attracted a sea of bouncing bodies. With five cocktails in hand, Joe decided to press onward rather than backtrack.

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He elbowed past the people who had seeped into the cracks of free space during his moment of hesitation. When the man in his way swayed to the side with deep, hyena-like laughter, Joe capitalized on the opportunity to sneak by. As soon as he had, the man swayed back into his original position and crashed into Joe's drinks.

Joe fumbled to hold on to the glasses while the cosmopolitan, the Midori sour, the rum and Coke, and the Bloody Mary sloshed onto the man's white silk boxers. Then his clear gin and tonic shifted forward and splashed too. It mixed everything into a mire of brown, red, and green.

Joe's eyes had a long way to travel before they reached the man's face. Despite the pom-pom of a Santa hat bouncing against his temple, he did not look cheerful.

"Watch it, Four-Eyes."

Joe hadn't heard an insult that pathetic since elementary school. A few snarky comebacks came to mind, as always, but he didn't have a death wish. He kept even his smirk internal. "Uh, sorry." Joe averted his face and tried to edge through the doorway.

When the man put his arm down, it made for an impressive barrier. "Where do you think you're going?"

The room was warm and the situation made it seem warmer. Joe could feel his glasses sliding off the bump of his nose. With his hands still full, he couldn't even correct their position. And perhaps it didn't matter; they would probably be broken in a few seconds anyway. Sure enough, a sloppy swing rose for his face in double—one image hazy, one crisp and clear. He ducked, turned, and watched in awe as the punch hit the girl behind him. While her hands lifted to her nose, the man next to her sent another swing floating through space.

Joe may have started the fight, but he wasn't going to stick around and wait for its conclusion. He scurried off before the brawlers realized he was gone. And he couldn't help but wonder how his life had come to this.

He had come to L.A. to write screenplays. Unfortunately, he hadn't been writing much lately, not anything he wanted to write, that is. He had a few touch-ups to complete on the horror movie script he'd co-written, but otherwise, he had become the errand boy for the project. And since the project had run out of money, he was essentially working for free—something he could not afford to do much longer.

So money was the reason the film crew was mixing business with pleasure at Walter Burbank's Christmas party. Walt was a notorious Hollywood socialite who, while his parents were Christmassing at their Italian villa, had decided to throw the party of the year. Eddie, the horror movie's charming and eye-catching male lead, had secured the invitation, and Annie, their production manager, saw Walt's party as a business endeavor. She'd insisted that some essential members of the cast and crew attend to generate buzz while she secured a future meeting with Walt's "people."

It was a good thing Annie was capable of taking the reins on the business end of things, because everyone else just wanted to have a good time. Working on Christmas resulted in a feeling of distaste, even among those whose dysfunctional families left them free of holiday commitments. Joe included himself in this group; his mother was dead, his father apparently vanished off the face of the earth, and he and his only brother were not on speaking terms.

Joe returned to the couch where his crew had been and set what remained of the drinks on the art-deco coffee table. Ten minutes before, everyone had been thirsty, but Eddie had disappeared to God only knew where, Annie must have been tracking down important people, and the rest of the group had scattered to the wind.

And Joe did not feel particularly jolly when left to his own devices. He was outgoing enough to make friends easily, a trait he inherited from his mother. But he closed himself off before those friends could scratch the surface. Because of his New England upbringing, some Californians might have said he had too much snow and not enough sunshine in his blood.

Joe needed a break from the party anyway, so he sat down and took out his phone. There were no new messages. That's easy enough to remedy, he thought. Everyone I know is just expecting to hear from me first.

About a dozen text messages later, the lights in a connecting room flickered for a second. The disturbance drew his attention to a baby grand piano, and his mood brightened.

He looked over his final message.

To: Rebecca

I miss you. Call me if you're ever in town.

"This will probably be my biggest regret in the morning," Joe mumbled. Then he gulped down the last of his weak gin and tonic. "Eh, screw it."

He hit send and went into the ballroom. The lights had a dimmer switch; he increased the brightness and sat down on the piano bench. It was the most spectacular piano he had ever seen. The black keys were so polished that he could see his reflection. Even though it had been a while since he'd played, he had an excellent memory for some of his favorites and enough knowledge of music theory to make anything sound good. He played some jazzy Christmas carols, and within a few minutes, he had gathered a small crowd.

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His eyes briefly lifted to a girl with candy-cane stockings and too many facial piercings. She pranced like an elf toward another girl, who was leaning against the far end of the piano. The second girl looked like a naughty Mrs. Claus. Her outfit didn't leave much to the imagination. She was attractive, so Joe didn't mind, but it made him wonder when Christmas had become an excuse to wear little more than lingerie in public. This was no turtleneck-and-trousers New England Christmas party. But for the time of night and location on the globe, Joe didn't see anything out of place.

Except for the man against the far wall whose gray pants and matching lace-up vest made him look like a member of the North Pole Secret Police. Joe may have accepted the man's strange attire as just another costume, but there was something odd about his stance. He kept himself alone in a room full of clusters, stood stone-faced silent while others were mingling, and was staring at Joe as if Joe mattered, something no one ever did.

Joe's left pinkie slipped past his octave spread. He quickly corrected his mistake and carried on as if he hadn't noticed his observer. But Joe couldn't remain calm. His chords became louder and more dissonant, the tempo faster. Empowered by his music, he looked back up. He was tired of being pushed around, so he stared back, hard.

The room's low-hanging light fixture flickered again, and then the bulb burst. Everyone gasped. By the time Joe's eyes adjusted to the dimness, the strange man was gone, but he left behind a thick unease.

Joe resolved the phrase he was playing and then slipped back out of the room. It took him a second to figure out where he was in relation to the mansion's front entrance. He turned down a hallway and recognized the gigantic portrait of Audrey Hepburn. When he rounded the corner at the end of the hall, he caught a glimpse of a man in gray. Joe turned around and found the stairs.

The second floor was a maze of ostentatious halls and places he wanted to avoid, like the bar and the dance floor. He took a few unfamiliar turns and saw another stairway at the end of a long hall. Doors were closed, lights were dim. Moans of pleasure and the smell of an illegal substance were an unnerving presence along the way.

He sped down the stairs and almost lost his footing in the process. At the bottom, he followed the reassuring sound of voices. He entered the well-lit kitchen and headed toward a door leading outside.

"Where do you think you're off to, Joey Mac?"

Joe turned around. He would know that husky female voice in his sleep. It was Annie, his production manager.

He released an anxious breath. For the first time ever, he found her presence comforting. And she had a sarcastic half smile on her typically humorless face, so her meeting with Walt Burbank must have been a success. Plus, she'd called him Joey Mac, which was always a good sign. She gave him all sorts of nicknames depending on her whims and frame of mind—Joey, Mac, Joey Mac, Brainiac, Blue Eyes, Dimples. The list went on and on. And if something had her riled up it would be "MacRae, Goddammit!"

Joe crossed his arms and casually glanced over his shoulder. "Just getting some air." His voice cracked when he spoke. He shifted his weight and fiddled with his glasses, hoping she wouldn't detect his anxiety, or the lie. He was getting the hell out of there no matter what she said.

"Am I safe to assume you'll be rejoining us momentarily?"

"Without a doubt," he said, winking at her. Joe had been on good terms with her lately. She seemed to like his quick wit and his way of deflecting her wrath through obedience and fear. He also had more common sense and intelligence than most of the celebutants and D-listers she dealt with on a regular basis.

"I'm just messing with you, Joey Mac. For our purposes, this party's over."

"I'll probably take off, then."

He gave her a Hollywood-style hug and kiss goodnight—a noncommittal grasp and lips that never made contact—and turned to go.

"Get that script cleaned up," she called after him.

He waved once but didn't turn back. "Yep. I'm on it."

Outside, he made his way past the crowd by the pool. From a distance, he recognized the crew's new special effects nerd accepting his car keys from the valet. Joe didn't have his own car, so he didn't hesitate to flag down a potentially free ride.

The young man agreed to take Joe to Venice, even though it was a few neighborhoods out of his way. Joe couldn't even remember his name, but he listened to the crewman babble on about tech stuff. As they drove, Joe shielded his face with his hand and checked the side view mirror. He wasn't even sure why he was worried—the man in gray had done nothing, really—but that feeling of unease wouldn't subside.

His coworker lingered in the right lane for most of the ride and rarely broke the speed limit in his energy-efficient car. Joe watched all the Porsches and Ferraris zoom by; he was grateful for the ride but even more grateful he wasn't being chased.

The kid eventually dropped Joe off in front of his building, a turn-of-the-century hotel converted into hundreds of cramped, poorly maintained studio apartments that housed struggling artists, street performers, jaded musicians, and theater junkies. Joe wove past their tattooed bodies and clouds of smoke. On Christmas night at this late hour, a crowd would have been odd anywhere else, but it was just life as usual in Joe's neighborhood.

The entrance hall was just as packed. Elevator or stairs? he wondered. The old-fashioned elevator seemed too enclosed, but it was busy going up and down with people, none of them overtly suspicious. He then craned his neck to see the end of the hall. The eerie glow of the exit sign by the stairwell helped him make his choice: the elevator.

He just missed a full load and was first in line for the next round. He squeezed in the back corner while a festive crowd loaded in. Most of them exited on the third floor where a party was in full swing. Two people left on the fourth floor, and by the time Joe reached his own level, the sixth, he was the only person remaining.

The hall was empty, his door a long way down. Only one flickering fluorescent light in a caged shell guided his steps.

He reached his door, out of breath, and then he felt ridiculous for being so paranoid. He couldn't think of a good reason why anyone would be stalking him.

When he opened the door, everything appeared to be in its normal state of disarray. After fastening the deadbolt and chain, Joe turned on his bedside lamp and emptied his pockets onto his nightstand. He stripped to his boxers and T-shirt, set his glasses down, and got ready for bed.

Before turning in, he checked his phone one last time. There were still no messages. He set the phone down and turned off the light.

His eyes drooped shut. Sleep wasn't far. He'd had a long night, and all of life's stresses, real or imaginary, had sapped him of energy.

His mind soon raced with pre-dream thoughts. But then he forced himself to full consciousness. He felt empty for some reason, like something was missing. It was the first Christmas he'd ever spent alone, he decided after a few moments of reflection. He tossed to his side, convinced he had found the reason for his temporary insanity. He was about to close his eyes again when a light from the building next door reflected off something by his bathroom. The shine disappeared before his foggy vision could narrow in on the source.

A creak in the floor had him bolting upright and reaching for his lamp. He switched it on and strained both his ears and eyes.

Everything was still and silent. He soon convinced himself that the reflection he'd seen must have been from his bathroom mirror and that the creak was just a creak.

Joe was about to shut off the light and bury his head under his pillow when he realized what he'd been missing. There should have been a framed picture on his nightstand, one that he liked. He looked uncharacteristically photogenic in it and, more importantly, he was with both his parents. It was the last time the three of them had been together, on film anyway.

His alarm clock, his books and magazines, and the usual coat of dust were all in place. But the picture was gone.

Joe got out of bed, crouched, and felt around. He came across shattered glass underneath the nightstand. On the floor by the wall, he spotted the back of the wooden frame. He pulled it out and flipped it over, ready to see his mother's smiling face.

The frame shook out of his hands when he saw the jagged remains of glass, black cardboard . . . and nothing else.

He tried to get his feet underneath him while grabbing for his pants and his essentials—keys, phone, wallet, glasses. The lamplight glinted off a long, shiny blade emerging waist-high from the bathroom. He abandoned his struggle to get his pants on and stumbled to the door.

Joe regretted locking up so tightly now that he was on the inside trying to get out. Just as he felt a presence sneaking up from behind, the door flew open and he fled.

Mid-sprint down the hall, he tripped to a stop. A man in gray with a spiked gladiator helmet blocked his only route of escape. Joe took a hesitant step backward and crashed against something as hard as a brick wall. A hand flew over his mouth before he could fill his lungs with enough air to make even a pitiful squeal.

He struggled, desperate for air, and was brought to the ground from behind. The man in front of him, now on top of him, forced a vial of liquid into Joe's mouth. He panicked for life and breath and had to swallow. As the liquid scorched his insides, the only working fluorescent light in the hall flickered and then popped.

Joe watched the red glow of the exit sign at the end of the hall fade to black as his eyelids fell.

He never had any hope of making it there.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Black Eyed Peas. Boom Boom Pow.

~

"I like that boom boom pow.

Them chickens jackin' my style.

They try to copy my swagger.

I'm on that next shi+ now. . ."

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Beegie Adair. Deck the Halls.

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