She was young, beautiful, and damned. Her name was Vanessa. And she was dead.

Vanessa was thin, tan, and graceful, with perfect boobs, a broad muscular back, and wire-straight blond hair cut in bangs that grazed her eyebrows. When she walked into the Crazy Horse Too for her first day of work, she instantly attracted customer and stripper alike. Some people are beautiful, others are sexy, but Vanessa was both. Add to this intelligence and a wicked sense of humor, and she was a goddess, at least to my seventeen-year-old mind. No man could resist emptying his wallet for her.

A born hustler with a love of the game, she taught me everything I needed to know about working guys. She had to: she was my only friend.

What was most striking about Vanessa were her eyes: big saucers of blue that sparkled with life. But beneath the surface was a deep reservoir of sadness. I knew that terrible things must have happened —and it made me feel close to her, because we had that in common.

I never asked Vanessa about her personal life, though. I knew better. But as Vanessa and I danced together, month after month, cracks began to appear in her perfect facade. She started to drink more heavily and would burst into fits of sobbing or curse out customers for no reason. On Christmas Eve, I decided to take Vanessa out to forget about her problems.

I took the night off work, picked up her friend Sharon, and we drank until Vanessa called and said she was ready. We drove to her house in Sharon’s Corvette. As we pulled up outside, we could hear Christmas music blaring from inside. Usually Vanessa listened to Guns N’ Roses.

Deck the halls with boughs of holly

Fa la la la la, la la la la

’Tis the season to be jolly

Fa la la la la, la la la la

“Great,” I thought. “Vanessa’s in a good mood tonight.”

As we stepped out of the car, Vanessa’s terrier, Frou Frou, ran toward us, barking. I knocked on the chipped yellow front door. There was no answer. The music was way too loud. We tried to push open the door, but it was locked. We went around to the back, with Frou Frou bounding after us, her barking loud and urgent. That door was locked too. Fortunately the kitchen window next to it was open a few inches. I reached around, turned the door handle from the inside, and pushed it open. As we climbed the stairs to Vanessa’s bedroom, the music became almost deafening. I couldn’t understand why she had it on so loud.

See the blazing Yule before us

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Strike the harp and join the chorus

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Light streamed out of Vanessa’s room, but there was no one there. Her clothes for the night were laid out on the bed, and I could hear water running in the bathroom. I followed the sound, and there she was: topless, with those perfect breasts, and her face made up like a goddess. She was always gorgeous, and her makeup accentuated her natural beauty without ever seeming too caked on.

Follow me in merry measure

Fa la la la la, la la la la

But everything was wrong. White foam dripped from her lower lip, covering her chin in lather. Her skin was discolored by heart-shaped bruises, which ran up her arms to her shoulders. I couldn’t see her neck, because there was a rope around it. She was hanging from the door of her shower.

While I tell of Yuletide treasure

Fa la la la la, la la la la

As Sharon screamed and ran out of the bathroom, I grabbed Vanessa around the hips and hoisted her up a few inches to take the pressure off her neck. I hoped that somehow we had arrived in time and could save her. As her head lifted off the rope, I heard one last puff of air escape from her lungs.

“Get a knife from the kitchen!” I yelled to Sharon. We needed to cut her down.

“What?” she screamed over the music.

“Get me a fucking knife!”

As I waited for Sharon, I noticed something strange: Vanessa’s feet. When I let go, they still touched the ground. There was no way she could have done this to herself. My father was a cop, and he always told me about suicides: girls rarely hang themselves. And when they do, they aren’t half-naked. And then there was that full face of makeup, just staring at me, mouth open, tongue out. Why would a girl ever want to be found like this? The Vanessa I know would have taken pills. In fact, she had pills.

Though the police deemed the matter a suicide, something wasn’t right. This had to be the work of a man. And I knew just who that man was. He was probably the most vile human being I had ever encountered.

They called him Preacher.

Fast away the old year passes

Fa la la la la, la la la la