(Author's note: The dialogues in telepathy are italicized.) 

Christmas Eve

The wind slices across the empty suburban road like a whispered threat. Snow blankets the fields on either side, glittering faintly under a thin crescent moon. There are no lights beyond the occasional flicker from distant windows, no sounds except the crunch of boots on packed snow—and the distant howl of something that might be the wind... or not.

A grandmother and her granddaughter walk along the narrow roadside path, bundled in coats and scarves. Their breaths steam in the cold.

"Tell me a story," the girl asks, her gloved hand nestled in the older woman's. Her voice is small, hopeful.

The grandmother glances at her, a smile tugging briefly at her lips. "You want a story, do you? Then listen closely. But don't blame me if it keeps you up tonight."

The girl nods eagerly.

"They call them Executioners," the grandmother begins, her mental voice lowering to a whisper. "Monsters dressed in human skin. They can't use telepathy like us, so make sure you use it when you talk about them. You won't know what they are until it's too late. Because unlike the rest of us, they weren't born with a killing barrier inside. No hesitation. No guilt. No mercy."

The girl's eyes widen.

"They don't feel pain when they kill. Not even a little. And they're always watching—waiting for someone to step out of line. If you misbehave, they'll come for you. And when they do..." She pauses for effect. "There's no escape."

The child stops walking, her face pale beneath her knitted cap. "I hate them," she thinks, her mental voice trembling. "They sound evil. I never want to be like them."

"Good," her grandmother replies, squeezing her hand. "You remember that. Killing is always wrong. No matter the reason. Executioners are no better than the people they condemn."

But the girl isn't listening anymore. Her foot slips on a patch of ice near the roadside, and with a startled cry, she tumbles down the slope of the snow-covered ditch, landing with a thud near the edge of the frozen riverbank.

"Ellie!" the grandmother cries, scrambling after her, knees crunching into the snow as she reaches the girl. "Are you hurt?"

Ellie shakes her head, her breath shallow. "I'm okay..."

Then she gasps—and points.

Beneath the ice, under a thin veil of snow and frost, a woman's corpse stares back at them. Her eyes, wide and glassy, are frozen in permanent terror. Her lips slightly parted, as though her final scream had been swallowed by the cold.

A laminated tag drifts just beneath the ice, snagged on her coat collar:

Zoe Wilson.

The grandmother's hand flies to her mouth.

They both scream.

Somewhere far away, in a place colder than the snow around them, something unseen begins to stir.