Chapter III

In the wee hours of the morning, a man sought the Icebound Temple. He sought it slowly, his shoeless feet dragging behind him, each one wrapped in toilet paper so ragged it could have been mistaken for the ancient garb of a mummy. His feet, long exposed to the dirty ground and cold air, had turned black. He could barely feel anything under them, not even when he stepped across the broken glass that littered the ground.

The Icebound Temple was an abandoned synagogue -- an earthquake had caused damage, too expensive to repair, much cheaper to just move on to another area. It had been home to squatters until the Brat showed up. That's when it became the Temple.

The night had been cold, but the area around the Temple was colder. The ground became slick with frost, the broken fence covered in rime.

Nobody went to the Temple anymore. Nobody slept there except for those who couldn't find anyplace else. Those who had no other choice but to give themselves to the Brat.

The man looked upon the Temple and lowered his eyes. He spent the past night wandering from place to place, trying to find just one spot to stay, but there was nowhere. Each place he found occupied, none willing to share with him. Not even the Lost Children wanted to share with him -- he was old and they were young. The lines of his face showed all the years of his life, like a tree that had been cut open. He was too old to be out here in the City of the Dead.

His choices now were among the Lonely Hunters. He could have searched for the Preacher Man, but he had heard tales of his...proclivities. He could have tried finding the Mary, but he had never heard of her taking anyone except girls. And he had never heard of the Cur taking anyone in -- it always left behind something, even if it was hardly recognizable.

So it was the Brat. As he transversed the area around the Temple, he could hear the singing. Night and day, anyone who stepped near the Temple could hear the singing. Sometimes it was just a gentle humming. Now it was something else:

"I'm Mister White Christmas, I'm Mister Snow. I'm Mister Icicle, I'm Mister Ten Below."

The man put his hands to his ears, but then slowly lowered them. It was no use to block out the song. He was going to the Temple. He was giving himself to the Brat.

It was either that or let the cold world kill him.