Christmas Eve and heat’s left the house. Cold climbs the steps, creeping and clawing into Wilson’s bed. He clutches his covers, dreading the draft that drowns out warmth.
Wilson wants to be warm.
Absence of warmth becomes presence of heat. Wilson throws off blistering blankets. It feels like August. He sits up, sees the burning black thing looming before him.
Wilson panics, reaches for the pistol in his nightstand. He fires, no more than six times, and the thing falls, shrinks, draws away summer heat through bullet holes.
The bloodied body of a black boy speaks.
“My name was Michael.”
___________
I wrote this drabble to participate in I Saw Lightning Fall‘s annual Advent Ghosts event. Here’s a link to the roundup, which will be updated throughout the day as new stories get posted.
Catchy Title Goes Here 
Oh my. I can honestly say I didn’t see that one coming. Ghost story meets current events.
Good job.
Well, damn, Jason.