CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of Christmas Horror Stories to warm your coal heart

Episode Date: December 25, 2020

Here's a compilation of all the Christmas horror stories this year. A great way for you to leave something on to relax to, and gives me a cheeky day off. I hope you all have a great holiday season! CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 Every Year Santa Left Me a Strange List of Rules Creepypasta►18:38 Every Christmas my grandma warned me of the Yule Cat Creepypasta►36:25 My Sister and I Stayed Up Late to See Santa. Something Else Came Instead Creepypasta►50:39 I'm an Arctic Explorer and I've Found an Abandoned Toy Workshop Creepypasta►1:30:58 I Call My Father Every Christmas, This Year He Finally Called Me Back Creepypasta►2:05:46 Every year my family is visited by Frau Perchta Creepypasta►2:31:45 The History of the Gunnerson Family Holiday Tradition Creepypasta►3:01:03The Northern Fortress, Once Thought Impregnable, of the Snow-Cleric Santa Claus CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Edvige Faini: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/YP8wVSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

As a kid, the one thing I always look forward to each year was writing to Santa. I'm sure many people follow this same tradition, and it's probably still done today. The only difference with me is that he used to write back. My parents encouraged me to write my first letter when I was eight. In hindsight, I figured my parents just didn't know what to buy me and would use this as an excuse to know what I wanted. How would they know that I wanted a specific Ugo doodil disc to match my friends and Zach, so we could pretend to be like the characters in the show, unbeknownst to the fact

that those things are an absolute finger trap, catching skin every time you snapped it open, and that they absolutely wrecked your cards. If they were to just ask, it would give away the surprise. So instead, they would give me a Christmassy piece of paper, and a week to think of a nice message, along with some ideas of what I wanted. My mom and dad would let me sign it, write the address, and put it in the postbox. A week later I get a letter back in just as nice paper with a list of things for me to do

This is where the fun would begin When I was eight I asked for the aforementioned Yu-Gi-Dil disc And that year the instructions were pretty simple The letter was filled with metaphors of locks and keys The key to happiness and locks of the heart Fluffy things like that If I were older

I'd have probably been able to figure out what the instructions were from the riddle alone, but luckily from my eight-year-old brain, there was a clear set list at the bottom. It was simple. I had to turn Mrs Harris's desk key and take it. I also had to adhere to the following stipulations. I was to not get caught, and I had to get rid of the letter afterwards. Burn after reading, just like a spy. I loved it.

I was filled with excitement, like any kid that's given a covert mission. It was mid-December, so I didn't have much time left until school was out, so I planned carefully. Our class took a rotation on two students for cleaning duty. The easy route would have been to wait until I was on duty, and that way I only had to worry about one person catching me. However, I was already thinking big, because if it were to go missing then, then there'd also be only two suspects. So instead, I waited until PE and volunteered to get to be. get equipment. Because the task was simple, it wasn't hard for me to slip in class on the way to the shed, turn it, and yank the key out to rush back to tasks. No one suspected a thing, and I had to

struggle to keep in the inner smugness of having pulled off such a heist. I was even more happy when school ended early after that. The day after, all the parents got a call that school was out and that Christmas break was extended. You can imagine how much I exploded at the news. That year, As promised, I received my gift, among many others, and I remember it as one of the best Christmases ever. The next year, the tradition continued. My parents sat me down with more paper, and this time I really tried to take advantage of the list.

Having remembered how easy last year's challenge was, I wanted to see how much I could get for these meaningless tasks. I listed out a bunch of things my nine-year-old brain could muster and happily posted the letter with my parents. It wasn't long until I got a reply, but when I did, it was heftier than before. It seemed that the effort of the tasks reflected the amount asked. The first paragraph of the letter was again poetic fluff that I paid no mind to, things about fair exchange and consequences of action.

I impatiently skipped straight to the numbered list, which was much easier for me to understand. Number one, swap meals with your best friend. Number two, spray another's perfume around the house. Number three, hide all the coffee. This was again followed by the stipulations, don't get caught, and destroy the letter. The tasks were again quite random, but they didn't seem too difficult. And because I didn't have long, I got to it right away. I started with the top and kept trying to convince my best friend to trade lunchboxes.

However, this proved to be more difficult than I'd anticipated. At first he hesitantly denied. However, the more I asked, the more fervent he became. When I pride, he explained that his mom didn't allow it to eat anyone else's food. The way his mom put it, his mother put extra love in his food, so he was the only eat what she provided. I was in a rut about this, so I moved on to task two. It took my mind a hot minute to figure out what it fully meant.

At first I was tended to just pick up my mum's perfume and spritz the house with it, but I figured, another's meant someone else's bottle. After school, I left the house and walked around the neighbourhood for inspiration, trying to think of where it'd find such a thing. At that age, I couldn't just buy some from a shop, nor could I ask an adult since I had no good reason to. I thought about asking a girl in my class, but I'd never seen them use any, and if they did, would they part with it if I just asked? More had a lost than before, I simply dumped the coffee I'd smuggled from the house and returned home. The next morning, I ate breakfast whilst my parents were perplexed, trying to find their morning drink. I didn't pay attention to their theatrics, though, because my mind was racing on how I was going to complete all the tasks before Christmas. My mum made my usual meal and dumped me at school, her mood a bit more sour than usual.

At school I almost got in trouble for how in my head I was. I no longer had the patient Mrs Harris as my teacher and her replacement was much more strict. The teacher accused me of daydreaming and, after more insubordination, I was told to stay injured in break. This made my already crashing mental dip further as I was now stuck inside on one of the last days in school. But divine timing was on my side. Whilst sat in the classroom, the sounds of kids joyously living it up on the yard, my teacher was sat doing bits and pieces of work. I watched, curious, and what fabled things teachers do when the class isn't around,

when I saw her reach into a drawer, discreetly spritz itself with something, and put it away. It was fast, and, as I stared, trying to figure out what happened, a wave of floral scent wafted over me. It was perfume. Very quickly, I formulated a plan to take it, and the rest of the day I behaved as normal. That evening, I planned things through in my head, while I poured out the dark bitter grains into a nearby ditch,

the smell making me wonder why adults revered this morning drink so much. The next day, I immediately put my plan into action. I ignored the perplexed faces of my parents as they searched fruitlessly for their coffee. Even when they looked at me, ruling over whether I'd taken it, but also, if so, why? When I arrived at school,

they announced the annual Christmas dinner, something I'd forgotten about since the previous year it didn't happen due to school ending early. This... Inspired me. Usually, it was our job to let our parents know, though they were expected to already know

in the first place. so all I had to do was fail to mention that my mom didn't have to pack my lunch the next day and my plan would be in motion. The rest of the day was more precarious. I had one shot, but my goal was the bottle. Luckily, I was experienced and simply recreated what I did the previous year, but instead of stealing the key, I swip the perfume. Something I didn't think about, though, was how I was going to spray the house.

See, if I just went around and did it while my parents are home, They'd know something was up and confront me about it. I had to be more cautious. The next morning I didn't say a word, and in my mom's tired state, she didn't think twice about making my lunchbox. She was seemingly stuck on autopilot, so I didn't need to persuade her otherwise. She moved like a zombie, getting me to school, and my next phase kicked in. Before lunch, I snuck into the cloakroom and very quickly swapped out all of the cars.

swapped out all of the content of my lunchbox into Zaks. You see, I knew he'd have a packed lunch as well, because it always stood out to me that he was the only kid who didn't eat Christmas dinner like the rest of us. Once lunchtime hit, this was my one chance. Instead of heading to the canteen, I quickly slipped away from the other kids and ran home as fast as I could.

Usually, we were called in a class at a time, and they'd register who entered. But when Christmas dinner was served, we were split in half and led in at the same time to fill the hall. It took about a 20-minute casual walk to get home, but with a dash of energy, I made it in about 15. I quickly opened the door with the emergency key that was hidden in the yard and went about my business.

I scooped up the bottle and made sure to fire a spritz off in each room and extra few in the bedroom to overpower mum's lingering scent. I quickly hid the bottle and hastily made my way back to school. If my calculations were correct, I would make it there fast enough to join the second group. But when I arrived, the first group were being led out early, and we were all sent to class. Those of us that hadn't eaten were given pre-arranged Christmas meals, called off at this point to eating class, much to the confusion of many. The rest of school was in an odd, somber mood, but there was little to no work to do,

so many of us accepted it. When I got home, the turbulent mood continued. When I was dropped off, I was sent to my room. I could tell my parents were whisper shouting at each other in the distance, working its way up until they were almost arguing in a heated tone. When I eventually came down, they quieted down, but the tense mood lingered in the air. Early on Christmas, I poured the lass of the coffee out before my parents woke.

When they came down and saw me awake, I just told them I was excited for Christmas. To say that Christmas was divine is an understatement. It couldn't have gone any better. Even though I could tell my parents' mood was still sour to each other, they seemed to put things aside for my sake. After a wondrous dinner, my pile of presents were stacked, much more than I was used to.

It was a hallmark day. Sadly, that was the last year of our little tradition, as my parents divorced a few months later. Though I still saw them both at Christmas, the magic of making the list was lost. Something I associated doing together as a family. Besides, by ten, I had that false provido of wanting to seem older, so I tried to cast aside such a tradition as being too childish for me,

despite deep down wanting to do it. School was no better. After losing Mrs. Harris, my favourite teacher at 8, Then, just as I was getting accustomed to her replacement, a new teacher left, I no longer got attached to adult figures at school. Sadly, it was the same for friends. Once I came back from Christmas, Zach, my best friend, no longer came to school. He'd moved away during Christmas break. This led to a lot of social anxieties and abandonment issues growing up that I'm still tackling to this day.

It has been exciting, though, when recently. I managed to reconcile my parents enough to spend Christmas together. In my twenties, it's hard for me to bounce between two households, with my job always lingering in the back of my mind. At first, I was worried they would be spiteful. They never split in the nicest of terms, but the past time seemed to have levelled things off on a friendlier foundation. We reminisced about the funny things I'd do as a kid,

the strange stories I had of school, and my parents' individual adventures, into dating. It was warming. Though a lot of truths also came out. I was told that my friend, Zach, that left after Christmas when I was nine, didn't actually move. He sadly passed away. Apparently, he was hypersensitive to a whole variety of foods, and somehow his mother packed him the wrong lunch. He quickly passed away after having a severe allergic reaction. I was mortified to hear this. So I pride for more things they kept from me over the years. It turned into a huge opening up.

Apparently the reason Christmas came early when I was eight was because my favourite teacher, Mrs. Harris, had a serious asthma attack. When she went for her inhaler, the drawer she kept it in was locked. Luckily, she was found by staff before any student saw. This sparked memories of my own. The meal, the drawer. These were linked to the strange tasks I was given as a kid. I peaked a question about perfume,

if anything came from any outside smells when I was nine. And both my parents looked at each other, and their faces dropped. The first to change was my mother's, which grew dark. I don't think we should keep this from you anymore. That was how I found out your father was having an affair. He often returned home whilst I was at work. He started acting strange for a while.

and the coffee was being used up much more quickly than usual, and then I started to smell the smell of another woman. Dad chimed in straight after. No, I keep telling you that's not what happened. I must have picked up a floral smell from the shops. I was not unfaithful. No matter how much my dad protested his innocence, my mother wasn't having any of it.

Whilst their exchange continued, the pieces of my head were falling about, but nothing was lining up. Only one question lingered, which I blurted out. Then, why did you make me do those weird things? They both stopped and looked at me. What things, my dad asked. I explained our fun tradition.

Every Christmas, they'd make me write a list. We'd send it, and in return, I get given a chance to prove how good I was with little scavenger hunt-starred tasks. Their public's face is never dropped. until my dad caved in first, when he realized what I was talking about. Oh, your Christmas letters! You must have misheard us. Those were supposed to be wishing letters, notes that wish people you love good fortune and well-being, is an old tradition from my home country. What, were you using them to ask for presents? I squinted at this.

It does make sense that I could easily misinterpret something, like asking what I want, as a sort of Christmas wish list, but this only piled more questions. Then how did you know exactly what to buy me when I was eight and nine? You got everything in the list spot on, I asked. We never read them. Traditionally, it's bad luck to see someone's letter. You must have told us at some point. My dad reasoned.

I wanted this to satisfy me, but too much was left and answered. I had to push more. I had to find out the truth. Then what about the list? the weird things you guys got me to do. Things got tense when they tried to figure out what I was talking about. I wanted to specify, but to do so would mean admitting to the things I did. And if they weren't evolved, then I would implicate myself in some serious stuff.

After an awkward amount of silence, a spark flickered in my dad's eye. I know, why don't you just read the letters for yourself? He went on to explain that it was custom to keep them some. where, now obvious that they weren't posted like I believed. After a while of rummaging, my dad found the dusty old envelopes in a box of memorabilia he kept of mine, and since it was bad karma for others to see them, they left me in solitude to read them. I was immediately barraged by the sheer amount of spelling mistakes. In my childhood head, I imagined I was writing sonatas, eloquently bartering the exchange of gifts

to the once St. Nick. but what I saw was a doodle of grammar and punctuation mistakes I guess my nostalgia glasses were heavily tinted when remembering writing these they did follow roughly what I remembered though me asking for health for my family for myself to do well in school

then a bunch of toys I wanted there was no indication that anyone else could have read these and replied back both letters looked completely normal for a child to write It wasn't until I was putting them away that I turned them over and saw what was on the other side. Written in bold black marker was who I was trying to address these letters to. Santa.

However, I'd butcher the spelling completely. Written plainly on the back was one name. Satan. They say it's a legend. Just the story we tell to scare children. But I'm here to tell you not to believe a word of it. You would do well to beware the Yule Cat, no matter what they say. My cousins and I grew up on the Icelandic countryside and spent most of our lives within a stone's throw of our birthplace.

For two weeks in December, my saintly grandmother would welcome us into her home so my parents could go Christmas shopping or have some time to themselves. She invited all my cousins as well, a brood of eight when we were all assembled, and, many nights after Granddad had made excuses for going off to the pub, Grandma would gather us around the fire and tell us stories. Stories about fairies, Queen Mab and her ilk, and of the elves and darker things that had once been a part of this landscape. She told her stories of Icelandic heroes and filled our dreams with monsters that beg to be slain

as we took on our favourite champion's roles. But, especially around the Christmas season, her favourite story was of the Yule Cat. He is a giant creature, capable of stepping over palisades and creeping into tall buildings. He punishes the lazy and rewards those who work hard and do their work year round. If you neglect your duties, the yule cat will find your children. Never doubt. His favourite meal is children without new clothes in winter.

Their parents having spent their summers at leisure. Thankless children he hates as well. Those who scorn their parents' work in favour of frivolous things. So be thankful, my children. that your parents work hard to keep such dark things away. Most of the stories about the eulcat involve naughty children who went into the woods at night, spoiled children whose parents found that the eulcat

had dragged them out through their window and gobbled them up, and good children who went rushing home on Christmas Eve to get their clothing gifts before the eul cat could get them. My little brother, Sven, always held a deep fear of the eulcat, but I can honestly never remember a time when I was afraid of it. It always seemed goofy to me, and in my head I just imagine a cat with giant legs that looked like big noodles. Its body was way high in the air, and its legs just wiggled around beneath it. I had drawn a picture of it from my grandmother once, and she had only smiled and ruffled my hair.

Let us hope that if the ewe cat finds you, he is as silly as you think he is. I'd smiled about the idea of meeting the eau cat then, thinking of all the monsters and beasts my cousins and I. slain in our dreams. I'm not smiling as I write this. I came to live with my grandparents when I was 15. My father and mother had been killed in a car accident when a semi-truck slid on ice and hit them head on. They say they died instantly,

but all I knew was that Sven and I were suddenly without parents. There was never any question where we would go, of course. My grandmother opened her home to us without a second thought, and, with Grandpa three years in his grave, she said it would be nice to have some company. I lived with her until I was 23, attending university and getting my degree, so I could begin a career in architecture, and then taking up residence in my parents' old home so I could maintain the family homestead. The house was on my grandparents' land, so it wasn't as though we had never been back.

Sven didn't like to go back to her old home, claiming there were too many memories there, and my grandmother sheltered him quite a bit. When I moved back, I invited him to come live with me, but he declined. He was 17 and showed none of my drive. I was worried that if he stayed, my grandmother would coddle him forever, but that was his decision. I decorated my old home like it was my first Christmas, the lights and decorations still in the cross space, as they had always been,

and my house had shone out against the darkness like a beacon. My tree stood in full view of the window, and I bought presents for everyone. I spent much of my life without much money, and now that I have a lucrative job, I decided to take advantage of the holiday season and spoil my relatives a bit. I was sitting snug by the fire, a cup of spiced hot chocolate in my hand, and a slight buzz when my phone rang. My grandma's smiling picture showed from the home screen, and I picked it up as I tried to compose my voice.

Grandma was used to people being a little drunk My granddad had always been pickled more than sober during his life But I was at that age where I was self-conscious about her seeing me like that I entered the phone and she immediately started without a greeting Keren, you have not come by to get your your your clothes you'll need to come back now I wasn't used to my grandmother being so forceful She was usually very mild but she seemed upset about this to an irrational level Tomorrow was Christmas Day

When all of my cousins and their families gathered for presents And Grandma's usual Christmas feast What Grandma was referring to Was a tradition of giving us clothes to Quote, keep the Yule Cat away This was my first Christmas away from home I usually got them from Grandma When I woke up on the 23rd

But I guess I'd missed it since I'd moved out Oh, that's okay, Gran I'll get them tomorrow I'll be there with the others and you can give them to me. No, you must come get them now and hurry. I need you here before the sun goes down, or the yule cat will get you.

I roared my eyes. Gran, I think the yule cat will understand if I don't want to go out in the snow to get clothes. Can't I just come by tomorrow? Her voice went from a severe matriarch to a pleading older woman in the blink of an eye. Karen, please. It is your first time away from home,

and I want you to be safe. I can leave them on the porch if you don't have time to come in, but please come and get them, please. She sounded so scared that I couldn't disagree. I told her I would get dressed and come over before sunset, and she sighed in relief and thanked me. I dressed warmly in my snow pants and a heavy coat. My muffler and gloves came on next,

along with a pair of snow boots and a flashlight just in case. All of this went on over what I was already wearing, jeans and a t-shirt and thick socks and stepped out into the ankle-deep snow. I put a hand on my old Jeep and decided against it. My head was a little sloshy and I knew it would only take a few minutes

with a heat blasting before I'd be asleep and sliding on the icy road. Instead, I decided to walk. My grandmother's house was only about two miles from mine and the bracing cold would sobe me up a little. I set off towards the woods

that separated her house from mine. Every time I walk those familiar trails, I always feel like I should be scattering breadcrumbs behind me. My grandmother's house lies sheltered in the woods, and they always feel so dense and foreboding whenever I have to walk through them. The snow and the cold made them quiet, birds having all left, and many of the animals asleep for the winter. But the tracks told me that there were, indeed, things out here. My leg started to get tired, almost at once. If you've never had to slog through deep snow Then I can tell you that it isn't much fun

The sun was going down And I began to regret not taking the truck I could hear the snow making the trees crack and sag And now and again There was a scurry of movement of some small creatures Other than the occasional noise It was as though I had the forest to myself And my loud footsteps made me feel like the last person on earth

When I heard the snow crunched nearby I swung to see what was there. The sound had startled me. My own feet were the only thing making much noise out there, but I found nothing out there that could have made the noise. By the sound of the crunch, I would have thought it was a reindeer, or maybe a clumsy squirrel who'd fallen from a tree.

In the dim light, I couldn't even see if there were prints, and I started the slog a little faster, worried it might be a wolf or something. The crunching came again, but I shrugged it off as my mind, playing tricks. When it crunched again, closer this time, I started moving even faster. Going too fast would be a great way to break an ankle or fall and impale myself in a tree

limb, but the crunching and lack of a source was starting to freak me out. The snowing sky was already overcast and the sun was setting behind them. The thoughts of being out here after dark made my skin crawl and the thoughts of getting lost in a stretch of woods that would become nearly unnavigatable one. the sun went down made me quick in my pace again. My footsteps were loud, cutting through the silence like a fog horn, but somehow I could still hear the steps behind me, as I nearly jogged through the ankle-deep snow. What I had thought might be a reindeer or a wolf now sounded like something much larger. It was very rare, but polar bears sometimes got stuck on ice floes

and found their way here. I'd seen something about it online, I thought, and I could just see a big hungry polar bear lopping along behind me as he prepared to make a quick meal out of me. I didn't dare look back as I heard the crunches come down, not eight feet behind me. It hit the ground large enough to dislodge snow from the trees, and I started bucking it as best I could. What the hell was it? Iceland didn't have a lot of large predators, none that came this close to settled areas, and my mind began to travel to a time when I was young and sitting warm around my grandmother's

fire. My cousins and I had always loved the stories of trolls and elves, great heroes who slew the former, and were aided by the latter, and we always took up sticks when we played and pretending to swing mighty swords at the knees of ugly, hulking trolls. The idea of being devoured by a large and slavering troll. My mind showing me the one from Harry Potter seemed less fun now that I was being chased by one in a fairy tale forest. I glanced behind me in a blind panic, not wanting to see, but wanting to know nonetheless, and fell my boots sink into a hole. I went down, face first in the snow, and nearly head first into a tree, and rolled over to face whatever was now surely going to get me.

My ancestors had been the men who settled this land, men who rode onto these shores in boats with axes and tamed this wildness, and I would be damned if I would die with my head in the snow like a blubbering baby. What I saw looming over me was no troll. What I saw looming over me It was much worse But when I had drawn him I had made his legs long and wavy like noodles

I'd drawn him with a tabby cat coat And a pair of big friendly yellow eyes He'd been given the Cheshire cat's grin And a pair of pointy ears That made him look a little like Batman He looked friendly, goofy Something a child couldn't possibly be afraid of The Yule Cat for that

Was the only thing it could be was none of those things. His coat was black as twice-baked charcoal and its bones and muscles seemed to shift beneath it like there might be something living just under its skin. Its legs were long and powerful, like a panther or a jaguar, and its paws left tracks as big as hubcaps

with claws like stilettos. His mouth was filled with big teeth, and the tips seemed to poke his lips painfully as its slather ran pink. Its ears had been mostly chewed off, sitting on its head like rounded nubs that barely seemed big enough to be ears at all its eyes though

were the worst its yellow eyes blazed like torches the centre's crackling red and when it loosed a long loud yowl I felt my snow pants fill I was saved by dumb luck its yow had loosened

some snow from the tree over my head and when it fell it coated the yorkat's face in a cold blanket of surprise. I rolled away, and when I did, the beast lunged with me and ran smack into the tree I'd nearly fallen into. It yelled again, angrily, and its claws sounded as if they were shredding the tree to pieces. I couldn't tell you if they did or didn't. I was running through the snow like a reindeer, churning it up as my fear gave me a new purpose. I could see the smoke from grandma's chimney, but I knew I had to be another quarter mile from the house. The shadows were gathering,

and I knew that I was dead as soon as the thing got its bearings. When it came after me, I realized it had been playing with me before. Its crunching steps sounded dinosauric, and it cleared the distance between us easily. It swiped to me as I ran, and the claw slid easily through my jacket. My back suddenly felt cold as the goose down spilled out of it, and I began to realize I was running on borrowed time. I had to find some way to lose it. I had to find some way to use its size against it.

I needed a place to hide and catch my breath, my lungs burning and my head swimming with exertion. That's when I passed the Himal Tree and realised where I was. When we were children, there was this tall tree that we used as a landmark. We called it the Himal Tree, the Sky Tree, because it always seemed like it soared up into the clouds. My older cousins and I hiked the tree once, nearly a quarter mile into the woods, and found that the tree lived up to its name. It was massive, 60 feet of wood like iron, and beneath it was a series of roots that looked like a cage.

The soil had pulled away from them, and as kids we would crawl beneath a tree and camp in relative comfort. The spot was large for a child, but would be snug for me. I was hoping that it would be too snug for this hellcat as well. I booked it running flat out as the tree sought up to greet me. I jumped over a sprawl of fallen trees, something I remembered from childhood, and prayed that maybe the cat wouldn't be so lucky. When I heard him hiss and stumble a moment later, I knew that luck was with me. I didn't look to see how badly he had spilled.

I fell on my belly and prayed I had the angle right as I slid between the roots of the huge tree. I thought my shoulder, the tough roots hurting as I hit them, but I made it mostly under as the cat scrambled after me. I winced as his claws caught my leg, ripping through snow pants and jeans to sink its meat. But I shook him off before he could pull me out, and was soon snug beneath the wooden canopy of the huge old tree. The underside was just as I remembered it. It was damp from snow run, but the frozen snow had mostly covered it, so I was left in a crystalline world domed by white. The cat screamed in agony, shooting a paw between the roots and searching for me in frustration.

I huddled against the side of the tree, not wanting to be found by those furtive claws, and stayed as still and quiet as I could. The scrambling went on for what seemed like hours, until finally the cat removed its suttie paw, and I heard it crunching off into the forest. I stayed still, fearing some trick, but it went right on moving until its heavy footsteps were only slight crunches in the distance. I stayed put, though, blowing in my hands as my wet pants and bleeding,

leg began to make me shiver. I would freeze the death out here if I stayed too long, but I was afraid that the eulcat might double back and wait for me to leave. I shivered for as long as I could, feeling the temperature drop as the sun crept closer down. And finally, I decided I'd rather be eaten than freeze the death. I crawled out, and when I wasn't immediately set upon, I started stumbling towards my grandmother's house. She was waiting in the doorway for me, a mug of spice cider in her hand, and a concern grimace for my many injuries. He found you, didn't he? It wasn't a question,

but I nodded anyway. I've been sitting by the fire and letting her feed me and nurse me for the last few hours. She bandaged my leg and took my shredded clothes away. She set a plate of food in front of me, and when I finished the spice cider, she put her. She put her in the same brought me tea and told me to rest. Before she went back to her room to sleep, she dropped a package in my lap, and it was a new sheepskin coat, lovely to see and softer touch.

I couldn't imagine what it had cost her, though I knew what it had almost cost me. You won't bother you now, she said, and made her way to bed as I sat convulsing by the fire. So, heed your elders when they tell you, you the old stories. I was lucky, but you can't always count on luck. The yule cat still lurks in the hills and woods, searching for those he deems ungrateful and underdressed. Don't take

the clothes you get for Christmas so lightly because they could save your life if you find yourself in the sights of the yule cat. For most people, Christmas is a time of joy. A long-awaited reprieve from the daily grind of life, is where families huddle around crackling log fires in the most gleefully tacky sweaters and tearing open the bright presents hoarded away under the blinking lights of the Christmas tree. It used to be like that for us, but for the last decade, it's brought nothing but fear. My sister still refuses to talk about it. Every time I tried to bring it up, her jaw tightens and she retreats out of the room. I don't blame her at all

But that night has weighed on my mind for years Like a ball on the end of a dragging chain I need to tell someone about it It was Christmas Eve and I was already lost the dreams Exhausted by my own ardent anticipation Throughout the day for the morning after Fueled by copious amounts of sugar and cartoons Through the mental veil

A faint voice chimed through At first I took it to be part of my dream landscape but it repeated itself, becoming clearer until I realized it was my own name. Anthony! A tiny figure hovered in the distance, flickering within my vision mirage-like. It was followed by a sudden-grown tightness in the center of my chest, compressing my breath. I was compelled to stagger towards the shadowed stranger, a hand clutched my wheezing chest. Anthony!

My blissful dreams of unwrapping my brand-jointed. game boy dissolved into the pitch black reality of my room, the same weight pressing down in my lower rope cage. As I squinted up, I saw my sister, perched on my chest, still dressed in a dotted pajamas. Her face was devoid of exhaustion, eyes wide, a familiar manic grin plastered across a face, one that caused me both excitement and trepidation. I heard him, she exhaled. He's on the roof, him and his reindeer, his hearing. He's here. He's here, Anthony, at our house. I barely paid attention to her words,

instead trying to shift the throbbing migraine from being woken up. What are you talking about? I grumbled, rubbing at my tired eyes. Annie pouted. She diverted her fist into my elbow in a playful punch. I jolted up in bed, now fully awake.

Santa, idiot, she exclaimed. At 11, bordering 12, I had already a healthy skeptic. towards the subject, but Annie remained a devout in a childhood belief. She was already a ball of energy, but the season just seemed to amplify it. She watched Miracle on 34th Street and how the Grinch stole Christmas religiously through the holidays. Neither my parents nor I couldn't bear to remove that joy, instead allowing her to retain her innocence for a little longer.

I still find myself pining for those distant days when she still loved Christmas. Annie, I began. A heavy thump above us interrupted my groggy rebuttal. Annie practically vibrated with excitement, hushed me. We listened as the sounds treaked across the expanse of the ceiling, as if someone was moving about up there. She grinned at me, arms folded, a smugness lacing her excitement.

My heartbeat had been as rapid as hers as we began our dismount down the stairs, her hand gripping mine, but not from exhilaration. My first thought wasn't Santa Claus on his supersonic rounds throughout the world, but a burglar intent on finding a way into our home. The only thing I wanted to do was bury myself under my blankets. However, Annie had always had the final word, ever since we had been in the womb. I didn't discard the possibility of it being an elaborate prank.

But if the goosebumps prickling Annie's forearms and a hyperventilation was acting, then it was an Oscar-worthy performance. After pushing open the living room door, we tiptoed in. The silver and gold wrapping paper glimmered under the dim lights. The dark, bristling outline of the Christmas tree perched over it like a slumbering dragon protecting its hoard. We both squeezed behind the sofa, peeking our heads out at the extinguished fireplace. By then, the sounds had reached such a volume that I was surprised our parents weren't already awake. The grate that covered the fireplace exploded off.

sawing into the air. It slammed into the ground and skidded to a halt just several inches away from our hiding place, the sound of the impact swallowing Annie's resultant shriek. As the dark cloud dissipated, instead of a pair of polished black boots, crowned by the white trim of a pair of red velvet trousers,

stood a pair of sud-dusted, cloven hooves, a forked tail swaying between two powerful, furred legs. The figure's bruce presence filled the room, taller than any adult either of us had ever seen. A tattered black cape was draped over its massive stature, obscuring the rest of its features from us, aside from its bestial lower half. Two horns curved outwards from under its hood, scraping the underside of the ceiling.

With a snort, it hurled down the heavy burloped sack it had been dragging onto the rug in the centre of the living room, before thundering over to the side of the room. It paused by the tree And raised a bobble up with its clawed hand Before my twinkered scream I slapped a hand over her mouth Her lips quivered beneath my trembling fingers Teetering on the verge of a complete panic attack

Please, I mouthed, hot tears soaked into my knuckles Her overworked lungs swelled With smothered hyperventilating I was choking the life from her But I refused to let go knowing that the slightest sound would seal both our fates. The heavy burlap sack that had been sitting motionless in the centre of the room on top of the soot blackened rug collapsed onto its side.

A strangled gasp escaped Annie's mouth between my enclosed fingers. We tensed up, certain that any second we would be dragged out from the safety of the shadows and into the light to face the terrible thing that had invaded our home. But the thunder of its cloven hooves never came. Instead, it dragged a gnarled talon over the soft fabric of the white fur trimmed stockings that Mom had lovingly pinned to the mantelpiece just above the fireplace. Over the frantic pounding of my own heartbeat came the crinkle of fabric. It was loud enough to peep my curiosity, craning my head over the edge of the sofa.

The sack shifted around like a deflated balloon being refilled with air. I watched, teeth clenched to the point of my jaw break. as it slowly dragged itself across the floor like some grotesque oversized maggot. As the mass showed it closer, we were both able to make out a low whimpering, like a wounded dog. There was no doubting it anymore. There was something inside of it, something alive. It was then I did something that I still regret.

Well into adulthood. I edged my foot in the direction of the lurching object. while careful to keep it out of the periphery of the inhuman intruder, prepared to push it back in case it got too close. Although I ache to help it, my biggest priority of that moment was keeping my sister and I unnoticed and alive. The trailing rope that knotted the bag shut came undone with the laborous efforts of whatever was restrained within to escape its confinement.

A hand shot out of the opening, just inches away from where we were crouched, the pale flesh swollen by dark purple-blueish, bruises, one that was unmistakably. A child's hand. It blindly groped around the floor, trying to pull the rest of the body had belonged to out of its abrasive cocoon. But, before he could touch us,

the creature's huge, third hand descended downward and jerked it back. The chipped fingernails raked to the floorboards hard enough to leave trailing scratches in the wood. The horn figure held the wriggling, screaming mass aloft with a single hand, as if it were nothing more than

air. With an annoyed huff, it resealed the bag, silencing the sobbing pleas before stomping away. The bag was still screaming and struggling, as the horn being yanked it along the ground back towards the fireplace. Its body seemed to dissolve into a black, vaporous mist that ghosted up the stack, his captive shrieks echoing up with him. The removed grate levitated up and slotted back into place behind him. It's leaving broadest. us no relief. After half an hour, after we were sure it was safe to breathe, Annie choked out a sobbing laugh, somewhere between relief and terror. I sat there, numbed by what we had just experienced. We staggered up the stairs. My sister's ragged old limp arm slung over my shoulders.

I let her sleep in my room that night. The first time we had done so since we were toddlers. She clung to me like a life depended and direct contact with my skin. When our parents found us the next morning, they cooed, oblivious to our trauma. The two of us sat shell-shocked on the living room carpet, presided over by our video camera wielding parents, filming us as we unwrapped our presents and tried to look happy. But the experience of the previous night had sat the joy out of what should have been the highlight of our year. Any physical trace of the creature's presence seemed to have evaporated along with it.

No blackened hoof prints, no items left in disarray from its curious probing, but the knowing looks we exchanged over our gifts confirmed the reality of what we had witnessed. It had been Annie who had noticed the small package shoved under the shade of the tree, buried under the mountain of wrapping paper. It had been a stark contrast to the bright adornments that our other gifts had been packaged with, instead wrapped in drab brown paper, which had been sealed with the black silken ribbon. Her throat swelled as she swallowed, undoing the black ribbon that it had been tied with to the loud encouragement of our mother and father who fell to notice her trembling, as if she was

being forced to one rapid at gunpoint. As she did, something fluttered off it to the ground, which I was quick to snatch up. It was a blood-red Christmas card. My stomach lurched as I saw the front design. A goat-like man with a forked tongue. lolling down to his hairy mid-chest, leading to a procession of dower-faced and chained children in one hand with a bristling broomstick in the other. The image of the trapped child in the sack wriggling itself back into my mind. The arching topography above it gave no relief from the scene.

Grus von Krampas Despite having no idea what it meant, a chill ran down my spine as I read it. However, the inside was written in Ellie. jointed English handwriting, bearing both our names at the top. To Annie and Anthony. My eyes followed every word that came after, unable to stop reading, despite my growing sense of dread. Since you've both been good this year,

I'll let you have your day of cheer, but I'll leave this to remind you not to go peeping, especially when you should be sleeping. A sharp gasp from Annie next to me Almost made me drop the card Gripped in a trembling hand Was a grotesque doll The exact image of the creature we had seen

But in miniature It was the ugliest thing we had ever received in our lives His brown body scored with stitch marks As if it had been torn apart And sewn together at least a dozen times Before it had been gifted to us Its oversized yellow glass eyes bulged out of its socket her pink velvet tongue hanging out of its mouth.

Her bottom lip quivered. We both knew who had sent it to us, but neither of us had the courage to say. However, the message was clear. I'm watching you. Every holiday season, the doll still sits on our mantelpiece. No matter how many times we tried to destroy or abandon it, we always found it hiding among the holiday decorations

whenever Christmas rolled around, miraculously undamaged. A gleeful malice on its face is enough to make the smiles of guests falter whenever they see it, even though they try to laugh it off. I can see them wince with discomfort and how lifelike it is. Annie can't even look at it whenever she's in the same room. I've never been able to shake off the feeling of being watched around the winter since that night. I feel eyes burned into my back and turn around, expecting to seem there. ready to stuff me into his sack,

but instead I find myself faced with nothing. It's that fear that he left behind that was his cruelest gift of all. The shifting northern winds don't just bring the chill of winter, but something far more ancient that prays on the wayward and unwary, and if you're unlucky enough for it to catch you,

it will never let you go. When did they ever? arrive. Maggie appeared through the blizzard like a ghost, her footsteps and profile, having been hidden by the sheet of snow and ice falling all around us. I didn't jump, and once I realized she was looking at the cigarette in my hand, I merely nodded and offered a one. She surprised me by taking it, and we stood silently, eyes fixed on the spot on the horizon where we knew the ship was lying perfectly preserved. I had HQ send a drone over with more appropriate supplies, I said.

So we're definitely staying then. Sebastian must be beside himself. Maggie replied, following it up with a quiet chuckle. He's certainly looking itchy, I replied. But personally, I'd be fine, never looking at another piece of suet in my life. That's a torture, she groaned, shaking her head. I've been jogging ten miles every morning since I was 17. These last few days have been something else.

He just thrives off of it, doesn't he? It's his schick. I replied. What he does. He only agreed because he thought we'd never find the damn thing, and it'd be two weeks of solid trekking through Arctic winter. But he has his own fundraising to do, and it needs to work up interest with littler tricks like this one.

5,000 calories a day, Maggie said. I don't know how anyone could do it for fun. Well, at least the new supplies are better suited to camp life. Plus, I gestured with a cigarette in my hand as it burned down to the final few embers. We can slip in a few little amenities. Now we don't have to haul every last pound behind us. Maggie took the final drawer and handed me the buck when she was done.

I had an empty can of Coke I was using to keep them in, personally unwilling to throw them willy-nilly onto the ground. The ice is safe, she told me, dropping a bomb like it was nothing. In fact, it's a few miles thick. We've just got the full satellite data through and, well, it's quite intriguing. Why is that? I asked. It's not alone. There's something else a day's hike north, hard, hollow and big.

I wanted to double check before I told you. It's certainly a very odd finding. Well, we've got the ship to explore for now, I said. If Sebastian feels like it, he can burn off some calories checking out the second signal. I watched Maggie disappear back into the grey wind before returning to my own tent. Sitting down on my cot, I contemplated the news she just delivered. My eyes drifted to the horizon again and again as I turned the words over in my head. The ship I'd spent years writing about, publishing papers on, researching.

Hell, there was a scale model of the damn thing in my living room I had made by hand as a young postdoc. The pinafore was lost with all hands during a barely discussed attempt at finding the Northwest Passage. Standing at 80 feet long, it was a caraville. and thus one of the first European ships capable of oceanic crossings. I had spent years postulating that it was still frozen in the ice, just like the infamous ghost ship, the HMS Terror. A comparison, I happily played up after the success of the fictional novel and TV show based on the lost frangling expedition.

One wealthy benefactor later, and I was equipped with more money than my whole department had seen in years, along with the testy but experienced guide, Sebastian. And somehow, against all odds, we found it after a brutal seven-day hike. Ever since I'd first spotted the mast from miles away, I'd been vibrating with barely-contained excitement, knowing it was out there just waiting. Well, I had no hope of getting to sleep. I stood up from my cot and grabbed a torch, but kept it off,

letting my eyes adjust to the dark as I checked camp for any signs of life, certain that I was alone and I began my walk we'd camped a few hundred meters away to keep clear in case the ship was at risk of cracking the ice unlikely as that was still it was dark and I got turned pretty bad after a few minutes

even with my torch I started to feel the first twinges of panic but I kept at it until after 20 minutes of nervous fumbling I finally saw the mast once more It was a barely glimped shape in the dark, a patch of white overhead that caught my torch and made me jump. Lowering the light brought the rest of the ship into view, and for a split second I was dumbstruck with awe.

The ship was close enough to nearly touch, and while I've seen bigger ships before and since, something about it made me feel breathtakingly small. It was as if the groaning of the ice beneath my feet belonged to the ship and not the weather, like it was some great nautical beast crying out to me. The ship had been left shore in 1543 and never returned. And yet, the word pinafore was still written along its side, engraved in gorgeous detail on a plinth as long as I am tall. And right there, just a few feet away was a ladder that enabled entry.

I tried the wood, and I could have cried when I found it held my weight. I got two rungs up before I fell back down and blooded my lip on the hull. I didn't let it stop me. Even as the weather threatened to freeze me to the spot, I clumsily forced my way overboard and collapsed onto the deck, shouting my laughter into the blizzard. No one would be able to hear me anyway. A ship was like black volcanic rock encased in glittering ice.

Here and there bits of rigging and wood jutted out, so cold I'd imagined it would tear the skin right out of my hand if I touched it. I marvelled at the sight of it all, and made a slow and deliberate circle of the deck, letting out a tremendous laugh of joy when I saw the helm was still intact, wheel and all. I thought I would stop there, but as the minutes ticked on, it wasn't enough. And when my foot caught the trapdoor that led to the below deck, I found my hand moving towards the latch before I had had a single conscious thought.

It wasn't easy to open, taking maybe an hour or two, but all things considered, it wasn't as hard as it ought to have been. And when the door finally slammed open, landing on the deck with a terrible thunder clap, it revealed a set of steps descending into total darkness. At the sight of it, I felt a small catch form at the back of my throat. The rigging of the ship had been snapped, the beams and masts broken and gouged, the wood splintered. I was walking into a tomb. The Arctic is an alien place.

The geography profoundly different to what we're used to. Great obelisks of glistening white rock rise meters into the air. Walls of snow lie ready to collapse and the landscape rendered in pure blank white appears to the human high as faintly abstract, almost surreal. The ground is not solid rock, but floating ice, and below it lies one of the most hostile and unknown oceans in the world, an ocean that is forever cut off from sunlight. I took one last look around at the stylet deck and descended into the ship, the roaring wind fading to a whistle as I ducked below.

The stairs led to a small hold with a single corridor that carried onto the fore of the ship, where I knew I'd find the captain's quarters. My intention was the head right there and ignore the little things along the way, except what lain wait for me in the hold was no little thing. I screamed when I first saw the head. It was a gaunt, eyeless, leathery thing, twisted into a frozen grin of pain. An aldehan reached out towards me and I let out another shriek and fell backwards, sending the torch spinning out where it finally settled on the monstrosity before me.

The screen died as I realized slowly that the thing was not moving, and it was not a single thing. A dozen heads lay crowned together, arms and fingler's hands shoved out in awkward angles, as if they were desperately groping for something that lay just out of reach. It was a pile of bodies. Their limbs and torsosos interwoven

in a bone-breaking display of torture and mutilation. I let the mortal terror drain away, but lost all desire to stay for a moment longer. I grabbed the torch with quivering hands, and turned back towards the way I came. That was when the hatch slammed shut, and I found another scream of terror rising in my throat. Couldn't have called me, Craig said, as I sat shivering under a foreblanket.

I was clutching a small cup of hot coffee, which Craig is supplemented with a shot of brandy when no one else was looking. I thanked him with an appreciative nod. You know I would have given anything to be there with you, he added. "'Then you're not as stupid as he is,' Maggie said, "'stepping down onto the ice as Sebastian started to follow her. "'If I hadn't wanted another cigarette, "'I would have never realized it were missing.

"'You'd have been trapped in there all night with that thing.' "'Craig looked at Maggie, and she nodded. "'Oh, my God,' he said, "'I've got to go look. "'Let him,' I said, just as Maggie went to stop him.' "'She rolled her eyes, but let him go, and Craig rushed off, catching Sebastian just as he took the final step down from the ship. This could have gone so much worse, she said, expecting no reply.

I imagined that would be the end of the matter, and I looked up eagerly when Sebastian saddled up to join the conversation. I, uh, I owe you a bit of an apology there, David, he said, looking a little too pale around the edges. When I heard you screaming, I thought it had been the hatch slamming shut. and you were just scared. But Jesus, that is... No one wants to be locked in the dark with that thing.

What the hell is it? The crew, I suggested. Shame we didn't bring any biologists with us. Your toys can help with that, right? Sebastian said. You've got drones coming and growing soft and we could set up a department store. We can take samples in return,

maybe set up a video feed. Maggie replied, as a meteorologist, I definitely feel a little out of my wisdom. little house, and what about you? She asked me the last part, and I tried to think of whether anything I've ever encountered came close to what I saw in the hold of that ship. When nothing came to mind, I shook my head. One screwed up Christmas tree, Sebastian said with a dark laugh,

and I felt a shiver come down my back at his words. It really had resembled some kind of tree, and I filed the thought away in my head, hoping it wouldn't pop back up the next time I put my own tree up in my living room. Hey, he cried, maybe you can hug the drones up to it and just fly the whole thing back to town. Sebastian really didn't like the drones.

If he'd had his own way, he'd have had us doing the expedition with dogs and seal fur boots, just like his ancestors. That reminds me, I said. Maggie has something to show you. I think you might like it. We were told the worst thing to do was touch or move it, so we didn't.

The mountain of frozen flesh and withered bone was obscured from view with some makeshift curtains Craig threw together, and we carried on working like it wasn't there. Craig and Maggie took photos and made an inventory of every object we could find, carefully labelling and categorizing each tongue and blade for later expeditions. I tried to pour through these items to find something that might give a clue to the ship's final fate. A dozen or so men crewed the ship in its prime, including a surgeon, a cook, a smith and a cartographer. We found faded broken letters that spoke of mothers and wives, small figures sculpted from wellbone, and ancient bottles of home-brewed spirits stashed away under pillows.

The ship's surgeon and resident scholar even had quite the collection of shells that he'd carefully label. Here and there, we also found a patch of floor stained suspiciously in the dark, or a blade embedded on a door or wall. but we tried to ignore the implication of violence. The captain's quarters were, well, they were odd. I concluded that the ship had disappeared close to Christmas given the sprig of holly fixed to the ceiling, a small concession the captain had made to the season.

But the deck was smashed in two, rope and twine lay all around the floor and drag marks were visible along the wood, along with a few scattered fingernails. There was also a discharged musket, under the desk, along with a solitary half-nought human finger that lay close by. In the doctor's quarters, I saw that the cabinets were bare of the usual oils and tinctures employed at the time, useless as they would have been, though this diary spoke of nothing spreading amongst

the crew. There was a lifetime of work, and the details we captured guaranteed more funding than I could have ever imagined. We had our ghost ship, and we had our thrilling, creepy details. and we had one great big, inexplicable pile of corpses that would boggle some of the greatest researchers in the university. It was a little scary, but otherwise it was good news. Sebastian had departed the day before and checked in regularly for the first 12 hours or so.

After that he went silent, which he put down to the poor weather or his general single-mindedness. At the 24-hour mark, Maggie became a little itchy, and when she pointed out the silence to Craig and I, we found herself sharing her concern. We decided to try calling him on the radio and waited silently for his reply. What came was a discordant series of clicks and heavy breathing.

Sebastian? Maggie asked. Are you okay? But there was only the strange hiss of the radio broken by the occasional breath or scrape. Sebastian! she cried. Please respond. We tried for hours until eventually his radio stopped returning any signal.

Craig figured it might have died, or maybe Sebastian had turned it off and started ignoring us. But something about the strange noises had left us all feeling a little nervous. Maggie suggested that he'd just activated the radio by accident and we were hearing the sounds of his walking. But the breathing felt close and ragged, almost animalistic, like a man at prehistive. approaching death. Still, it was the best theory we had, and we agreed to wait a little longer. The following 12 hours were tense. Eventually, we stopped working and returned to camp, where we tried to contact Sebastian with a more powerful radio and updated HQ to let them know. The ship that trailed us along the coast sent a few drones over the area Sebastian was meant to be

and reported no visible sign of the man. No big surprise there. We figured, given just how harder it be to find anything in the tundra. But the pit of my stomach grew heavier with each hour that passed without us hearing back from our guide. After 48 hours, it was decided we'd have to go look for Sebastian ourselves. We were moderately experienced in hiking, and the spot shouldn't have been more than a six-hour ride away. It was Sebastian who had insisted on making the journey by foot, always eager to push himself to the limit, and chances were it had led him to some kind of misfortune. Is that a door? Craig asked.

I think it is, I answered. Maggie was on her hands and knees, staring at the door there was no taller than my waist and embedded in a snowy bank. I reached out and rubbed away the ice and snow around the doorframe, revealing a wall made of cruelly stacked slabs of wood as thick as my torso. Who the hell put a door here? He asked.

It goes deeper, Maggie replied. Hands copped around her face, and she peered through a small window set into the door. I think I can see stairs going down. Are we sure Sebastian was here? I asked. Almost definitely, Maggie answered, holding up a small shred of blue fabric

that had been jammed into the doorframe. It was the same unmistakable baby blue of Sebastian's windbreaker. He's not the only one. one, Craig said, reaching into the snow to blow out a wooden knife bearing the pinaforese seal. It looks like our ancient explorers came this way as well, and I don't think it ended well. I took the knife and noticed the faint trim of rust-brown red splattered along the edge. We'll have to mark our path for the future, I said, and GPS tag this whole area for full excavation at a later date.

Maggie nodded and took the knife to add it to our inventory, or Craig. and I worked on opening the door. It took a little effort, but quickly popped open and swung inwards with a spine-tingling squeal. The building had a roof so low that we had the dock. The beams above us were rough-hewn trunks, with still visible bark preserved by God-know-nosed how long spend in the Arctic tundra. It was like a makeshift cabin, the kind of thing you'd find in the Canadian or Nordic wilderness. It had the sturdy appearance of Viking construction, and man. Maggie noted a few strange ruins stitched across the inner doorway that I couldn't translate or properly recognise, but they seemed faintly familiar nonetheless.

The room itself was a good 20 by 20 metres with a worktop that ran along three of the walls. Maggie shuffled over and picked up one of the stalls that was tucked neatly under the countertop, and, holding it up, she showed it to be no bigger than my forearm. What the hell? she muttered. "'Is this a joke?' "'Cray cried, calling our attention to a small wooden object he held in his hands. "'It was a hedgehog, or a carving of one, "'with little wheels instead of legs, so it could be rolled along the ground. "'Could be some kind of fetish,' I mumbled,

"'swallowing a knot of anxiety in my throat. "'It's a bloody toy!' "'Cray cried, laughing at the ridiculousness. "'Is this some kind of prank, Dave? "'Is this some messed-up PR stump at the university? "'Because if it is, I'm not going to. be happy. I don't know what it is, I said, but I'm not in on it, and if any of you are, I'd appreciate you saying now. Sebastian, maybe, Maggie said, a quiver entering a voice.

She was holding up one of his shoes, the fabric half torn, and the inside splashed with still wet blood. Maybe this is all his doing. He was assigned to us by the university. I knocked a fist against the wall, and I realised, I could shatter my hands against that wood and not put so much as a dent in it. Seems elaborate for a prank, I said. We should work on the assumption that Sebastian needs our help, and if this is a joke, we can kick his ass afterwards. Amen, Maggie replied, and together we walked towards the nearby stairs.

Footprints were visible in the thin layer of snow that had drifted into the building over the years, and we knew that if Sebastian was near, then he must be able to be. be somewhere below. I haven't seen this before, Craig said. This kind of material. He was holding a toy horse crudely put together out of basic cylinders and squares. The material that covered it was a velvety sort of leather that was strangely soft, despite the ice-cold temperature. He turned it over in his hand and we both noticed the faded blue patch.

I watched them squinted it for a few moments. When I reached out and gestured for him to put it down. "'What is it?' he asked, ignoring my suggestion. "'It's Erasmus,' I said, "'my voice, a little horse, the patron saint of sailors. "'You should put that thing down. "'Why would someone paint that onto a toy?' "'They wouldn't,' I replied.

"'But they would almost certainly have tattooed it onto the arm "'of a 16th century sailor. "'His eyes went wide and he dropped the toy with a disgusted cry. "'Bloady hell!' he cried. That's not all, Maggie said. I think this is bone. She held up a small carving of baby Jesus, no larger than my thumb, made out of a yellowing ivory. Any guessing as to where it may have come from?

Many arctic cultures make carvings out of seal bones, I suggested. How many of them make bloody toys in a workshop built for hobbits? Craig cried. Am I the only one who wants to pin the tail on the donkey and make the connection here? Do you have any ideas? Maggie asked, looking over towards me. I shook my head. Maybe an old European colony, I said.

Someone came out here to try and, I don't know, some religious fanatics maybe. Someone who wanted to recreate the myth. Out of human skin? Craig asked. And where the hell is Sebastian? The thought we ran was busier than the last, crammed full of desks and tools and woodworking and carving, many of which lay strewn about the floor. Somewhere below us the walls must have collapsed, and that was where the ice was coming from,

and the snow that covered the floor was noticeably thicker here than above. We found no signs of Sebastian, except for some signs of disturbance amongst the snow that led, once again, to another set of stairs descending into darkness. That bodes poorly, Craig muttered. Sebastian's ice pick was embedded in the floor up to the, the hilt. A few strands of hair were still threaded around the blade, along with some coils of rope identical to the kind in the pinafore. As does that, Maggie said, gesturing to the Christmas tree. Not only had the toys in this part of the building grow more demented, depicting men with

huge fallacies and women tearing their breasts open to reveal ribs and lungs and hearts, but an ancient with a tree stood dominating in the center of the room. Its limbs were decorated withered black prunes and charcoal rope that would have been familiar to anyone who seen what centuries of decay can do to frozen human remains. The baubles were organs, the tintel, intestines, left out of freeze-dry over centuries of exposure. One of the baubles, however, was fresh, making red velvet slush of the ice below. What is it? Craig asked. I think it's a kidney. I said.

Steam was rising from the still-dipping piece of waffle that sagged from the tree branch. It's still warm, too. The eyes and that dull, Craig said, saw long nervously in the cold. Do they look familiar to you? I turned to the toy he was staring at. His haunted face lit up by the intense beam of his torch. Its expression was remarkably well carved, seeming almost lifelike were it not for the obvious colouration of hardwood.

The eyes, however, were far too human, and the irises a crystal blue that was, indeed, quite familiar. Unable to ignore his curiosity, Craig reached out and gently poked the glassy orbs. Only, they weren't glassy. They were soft, and Craig's finger came away with a faint trickle of viscous fluid that lingered on his skin. They're still warm too, he gagged. Oh God, they're his, they have to be. We did, eventually, find Sebastian. He was alive in a sense, although on his very last breath.

He'd been cracked open like a turkey and left away in the freezing cold. His skin and bones would pull the part with expert precision, his face, a pallid mask of terror. He was conscious, but could only wail and cry. blinded and terrified. He initially tore his hand away when Maggie reached out and took it. He was nude, seconds away from freezing to death, and Craig almost draped his coat over him instinctively, but stopped at the realization it would be resting directly

on top of his exposed chest cavity. He was alive for no more than a minute as we crouched there. He did not speak, no matter how often we asked our desperate and frightened questions. The only sense we got of what he was going through was the relief that passed over his face when he finally died as if he had awoken at last from a terrible nightmare and was free of the terror. I thought old Nick was a saint, Craig said,

wiping the snot and tears from his face after he'd all had a good cry. If this is his workshop, it's a pretty screwed up place. Could be some lunatic who's settled up here, Maggie said. some serial killer with a demented Christmas fixation? Doesn't explain the sailors, I replied. The knife by the door, the tree, the toy is so clearly made out of the remains. How could that be a serial killer?

So, what are we saying exactly? Craig asked. Sanders elves went off the straight and narrow. Is that it? What the hell does any of this even mean? Does it matter? Maggie replied. We need to get Sebastian back to the base camp, and we need to get the hell out of here. ASAP.

Sebastian might not be an option. I said, looking over the still steaming remains of his corpse. I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend another second long in this place. And, as awful as this might seem, we have to weigh up our responsibilities to the dead, against our responsibilities to the still living. You mean us, Maggie said. Yes, I nodded. I mean us.

We won't help him by hauling him up four floors and across 15 miles of open Arctic tundra, but we can at least make our lives a little easier by getting on with it and calling in help as soon as possible. What are we going to tell them? Craig asked. We'll figure it out, I replied. We returned to camp a few hours later, taking a few of the less terrifying artifacts for testing. The ride back was a silent and eerie affair, and Craig mentioned more than once that he was thankful it was still light. We managed with some effort to get back just as the sun was setting. Watching the approaching night cast a cleary dream across the magnificent tundra, I found myself agreeing with them.

All of us wanted to be somewhere safe, somewhere secure, and the thin tents of our camp offered little protection against the elements, let alone whatever else may lie beyond. But they were the best that we had. As if to emphasize this point, when I arrived, I know as then flapping in the wind and dreaded the night I'd spend in there. How long until the secondary team arrive? Maggie asked. A few days, Craig replied.

We could ride out ourselves using the snowmobiles, but I don't fancy my chances without Sebastian, not to mention. He left his words hanging in the air. I knew what he wanted to say, not to mention whatever else may be out there. It's going to be a long wait, Maggie said. It is, I replied. We all spent the night in the same tent, listening to the storm pick-up, until we felt like we were on an island alone in the endless dark.

At one point we were awoken to the sound of something outside, and we waited carefully until it stopped. I don't remember when I fell asleep, but it must have been late. I couldn't have slept more than a few hours before Maggie was shaking me awake to the blinding light of morning. David, she cried, Craig's gone, he's gone, I can't find him anywhere. I threw myself out of my sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent. In one swift movement, I took in the destroyed equipment and torn open tents.

Something had come sniffing through our camp, and it hadn't stopped looking until it found what it wanted. Do you think it was a bear? Maggie cried. With the ice shelf melting, they're coming farther and farther inland every year, and there have been more than a few... She stopped when she saw me bend over and pick something up. I held it up for us both to see.

A piece of rope made of rough-hewn twine, unlike anything we brought with us. It was an exact copy of the kind I'd found lying around the pinafore and the floor of the workshop, except this one was stained with a bright red patch of blood. Damn, she whispered, Where do you think he went? The storm had cleared up, and the morning air was so crisp we could see the mast of the pinafore all the way from camp.

You don't think. I do, I said. Look, the snow is disturbed along the path. Maybe if he was lost or confused and got lost, he might have relied on the markers we left to find his way to the ship. You know what Craig would say right now, don't you? Maggie asked. He'd say that's BS. Let's hope.

he'd be wrong, I replied. We were halfway there when we found the box. It had been gift-wrapped and left alone in the middle of our path, its top, clear of snow. Small footprints, the size of a child, led away from it and back towards the pinnephyore. This is too weird, Maggie said. I bent down and noticed the name tag etched with meticulous cursive. Wilcuma Gionas, it read. Welcome, old friends.

I said, do my best to translate. It's old English. I pulled on the twine that bound the plain brown paper around the box, and the whole package unwrapped with elaborate ease. Each face of the box fell down one by one, and Maggie led out a terrible cry. Oh, God, she shrieked. What the hell?

It was Sebastian's head. His mouth stuffed with blood-sogged straw, while his hollow eyes glared at us with terrible pain. Craig, Maggie cried, her hands clipped around her mouth as she yelled into the open door of the Pinafore's deck. Craig! There were no more gifts lying in wait for us aboard the ship and no sign of our friend on the deck. At one point I nearly told Maggie that he was probably in the hold where it'd be safe and warm. But the words died in my throat.

I couldn't keep clinging to such a hopeless idea. Come on, I said weekly. Let's head down. The hold was unchanged since we were last aboard. A pile of corpses entwined in a desperate orgy of violence still stood over everything else in the room. Something about the eyeless faces burned its way into my skull, and once again I wondered how exactly they'd suffered such a horrible fate.

Maggie and I was silent in our search for Craig. I couldn't bring myself to cry out for him, and neither could Maggie. It felt useless, and some part of me kept telling myself to stay small and quiet, hidden from view. Don't call attention to yourself, it said, don't cry out. We checked each one of the ship's rooms, every quarter, every hold, every cupboard and closet, until, at last, we both converged on the captain's quarters, and our breath caught in our chests as we noticed the door wide open. Craig's clothes were in a pile, a few metres past the threshold.

Craig! Maggie cried, rushing forward. I nearly joined her, but at the last second, some flicker of motion stopped me. Before I could warn her, she was on the other side, reaching down. The door slammed shut, and by the time I reached the door, a distance that was barely two metres, she was screaming in unmistakable pain. It was a gibbering howl of terror and agon. that filled me with such horror I could feel the corners of my vision blur and turned black. My muscles became weak and my stomach damn near fell out of my ass.

As it was, I could feel a warm stream of urine trickled down my thigh and calf. I wanted to push on. I wanted to slam into the door with all my rage and strength and rescue my friends. But my legs betrayed me. They screeched to a halt and before I even realized what I was doing, I turned on my heels and was fleeing the other way. The strangest plan formed in my head. I can't say how or why it came to me,

except that in the end, it was probably the only thing that saved me. The pile of corpses, as horrifying as it was, was large enough to allow entry in some places. One place in particular came to mind. A small nook, barely large enough for a person.

But I went for it, sprinting into the room and crawling in my stomach backwards, so as to slide underneath the mountain of rotten bodies. The feel of ice-coved fingers sliding along my trouser leg, hooking on pockets and poking my chest and back, was enough to nearly make me cry out. And when one of those fingers broke off

and lay resting on the back of my neck, turning moist and clammy from the warmth, I had to fight to keep myself from vomiting. I managed to wrench a few arms free of their place and cover myself as best as I could. And then I lay there, suddenly aware of the terrible, deafening silence of the ship. The weight of my decision to flee settled in during the long seconds,

and I was forced to reflect on the pee that was still soaked into my underwear. I could have been there hours, or maybe just minutes. In the scheme of things, it was but a moment, although it didn't feel like it. Eventually, something sounded out from the corridor, and I heard the terrible squeal of a door swing open. awful voices spoke in an ancient Germanic form of old English turning my stomach with a sound of phlegm and inhuman cadence whatever I saw moved past

was not a human I can say that for sure but neither was it in my field of view for long enough for me to say what it was I think there may have been too I'm not sure I may have blacked out because the next thing I remember was Maggi's face glaring at me

with terror. She was gagged with straw, just like Sebastian had been, and her eyes had been brutally carved out. Except, unlike Sebastian, she was sweating and shivering, occasionally letting out a small, trembling cry of confused pain. I know it's impossible, but I swear she was looking at me. I swear she knew I was there. She started to thrash and had amused the captors. one of them approached a seizing body and, still laughing, bent down to stick a small red bow to her forehead. It muttered something to its friend, and together they hauled her towards the ladder. I couldn't see what happened next, but I never saw her again. There was no sign of her in the ship or anywhere else.

There was some rope lying on the deck, and I imagine she was bound and hauled up to be taken back to the workshop. I was there for two days, and eventually hypothermia got the better of me. By the time the second expedition arrived and pulled me out, screaming in terror when I first cried out at the sounds of their voices, the bodies around me had started to freeze to my skin. It tore away like duct tape, leaving long stretches of black, necrotic flesh lying beneath. Two fingers on my left hand were gone, two on my right. I still have respiratory problems,

and my remaining fingers have lost all, the most basic coordination. Rich, at the very least, has but an end to my smoking habit. My story wasn't exactly met with the warmest reception. The official story is that Sebastian became lost hiking to the second signal, which was determined to be nothing more than a fluke, according to later scans. And, without a guide, the rest of us succumbed to hypothermia and suffered severe delusions. Blood soaked snow along the base of the pinafore raised some suspicion,

all of which was aimed at me and in the end I had to leave my post at the university after rumours that I killed Craig and Maggie in a deranged moment of cabin fever refused to die down I don't think it helped that when I first awoken

and pulled my face free from the frozen wood beneath me I left chunks of my right cheek behind I still look ghoulish scaring even myself when I look in the mirror I don't celebrate Christmas anymore That's for sure. Not that it matters to some people.

As we approach yet another jolly season, I'm forced to revisit this terrible adventure again and again. And now, as if to make it worse, someone has been having fun at my expense. I received a gift. A plain wrapped box with a familiar twine wrapped around it in a neat bow. It was small, far smaller than the last one that contained Sebastian's head.

and it opened to reveal one of my missing fingers quite likely left behind when they tore me out of my frozen tomb I thought it would stay there a little piece of me locked forever in that nightmare hole frozen stiff to the side of some medieval sailor there was even a little tag yeah winster deskyoen the words sent shivers down my spine

you left this old friend it read Christmas would come and go every year and he never called back I don't know what it was that made me call him around Christmas perhaps it was all the fuzzy memories I had of us around the holidays how me him and mom would decorate the tree together and he would dress up as Santa with a really bad beard that I used to pull away from his chin

that always made me laugh he would let me open just one of my presents on Christmas Eve without mom knowing it was our little secret. I can't say my childhood was broken because of him. It was always full of happiness, even when he left us. Christmas was what I always came back to whenever I thought of my father. Everything else, including when he left, was just white noise. I never even saw any pictures of him because my mom got rid of them.

All I had was this grainy image in my head. For years I would pest my mom about him, asked questions she didn't want to answer, and most of the time she wouldn't. She wanted to forget him, and I think in the long run she thought I would too. He left us, Garrett, she said once, impatiently, tired of me asking. I was tired of never getting an answer. He doesn't even have the right to call you Dad. I remember the hoarse conviction in a voice that day.

It was years of anger, built up from my father's moonlight flit. when I was in bed that night I heard a cry herself to sleep if you've ever heard your mother do that you'll know how heartbreaking it is to listen to it stuck with me ever since I never wondered to see her that upset or angry ever again

so I never brought him up after that someone I've always been able to confide in is my uncle Alan my mom's brother Uncle Alan never had children of his own who something he said wasn't for him but he was treated me like I was his child and in return he was like a father to me

when I was 14 I talked to him about my dad and asked if he knew what happened between him and mom relationships are hard kiddo he said shrugging that's why I'm still single really I thought he was just because you're an old fart he flashed me a cheeky smile and a wink I remember your mom and dad being very happy but something below the surface just

just didn't work anymore. I don't know for sure, but I think there was someone else. After he left, I gave him a call. Before I could finish, I jumped up from my seat. Wait, you have his number? No, he said a little too abruptly. You're a really crap liar.

Uncle Alan sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, making the skin stretched down under his eyes. Your mom is going to kill me. Uncle Alan gave me his number after a lot of emotional blackmail and made me promise not to tell my mom as soon as he did I couldn't help it

I grinned ear to ear I was happy to just have his number and his name in my phone it's really pathetic I know thank you I said he gave me a half-ass smirk and ruffled my hair I have no idea if he'll answer

or if the number is even still in use Please, Garrett, just don't get your hopes up, okay? That night I was upstairs with the covers over my head the first time I called the number. I never put the covers over my head in my entire life, but it made me feel protected. It was like a fortress that kept my blend of excitement and anxiety at bay. For a while, I just stared at the numbers on the screen

and his name above it. Dad. What would I even say? What do you? say to someone you don't really know or really remember. Eventually, I counted back from five and pressed the dial button. I waited in anticipation.

Even though it was only seconds, it felt like hours before it started to ring. He didn't pick up the call. After a couple of rings, it went to a default voicemail message, much to my disappointment. I wanted to hear his voice at least, see if it matched the voice in my memories.

When the tone bleeped, after the voicemail. I began to sweat. Hey, Dad, it's me. It's Garrett. I... I don't really know what to say. I started to laugh nervously. I got your number and I just thought I would... I've been thinking about you.

I hope you get this message. I quickly hung up. I didn't receive a phone call back. Year after year, it was the same situation. I would leave voicemails, but never get a response. The voicemails got less awkward as time went on, but they started to get shorter too. As I got older, I just wished him a Merry Christmas and that was it. After the first time, I waited weeks for him to call me, until I faced reality.

It was never going to happen. I knew I would never get a response, but I still continued to call him every year anyway. Yeah, I guess I was probably torturing myself. unable to accept that I was unwanted by him, that he didn't want me in his life. If he did have another family, I wondered if they knew about me. I doubted it.

Even Uncle Alan didn't understand why I kept calling him. You know I love you, kiddo, your mom too. You don't need someone in your life like that. I wrote my eyes at him, always one for cheesy speeches. You have to say that because you're my uncle. He shook his head. No, I'm saying it because I mean it.

Forget him, Garrett. He's clearly forgotten about you. Uncle Alan saw the comment hurt me. No matter how much I tried to hide it. He put his arm around me and said, I should never have given you that number. When I was 19, my mom found out she had cancer. It was too late and there was nothing the doctors could do.

She got sick pretty quickly and started to deteriorate just as fast. I dropped out of college to come home and help take care of her Uncle Alan helped too When she died All I had left was Uncle Alan The house was left to me Along with a substantial inheritance I hated being alone in the house without her

It felt so empty and hollow without a presence So I asked Uncle Alan if he'd move in with me Which he happily did I call my dad early November after a death It's Garrett, I began. My eyes started as well. I just thought you should know that mum died. This is the last time I'm ever going to call you.

I get the point. You're dead to me too. After I hung up, I finally let myself cry. I moved around the house the next day, bedging out in front of the couch, eating dry cornflakes from the box. Uncle Alan came into the living room and jumped over the couch to sit next to me.

I didn't even take my. my eyes off the TV to indicate that I'd noticed. Okay, he said, clapping his hands together. First things first, you need to get a shower because I can smile you from the other side of the house. Second, you're going back to school after Christmas because I'm sick of the sight of you. And thirdly, we're going to cook dinner together tonight.

I continue to munch on the flakes. You can't even cook. He nodded. Yep, but you're going to show me because you can. So go and wash that stink away and put something other than sweatpants on, because we're going shopping. Before I could object, he snatched the cornflates box out of my hand and started eating them himself. Go on, he said with a mouthful, scoot. God, you're so annoying, I said as I dragged myself out to the room.

When I was out of sight, I smiled for what felt like the first time in months. Uncle Alan was chopping vegetables up terribly, when it finally happened. My phone vibrated in my pocket. When I took it out, his name was on the screen. Dad, my face dropped and I didn't know what to do. I debated just leaving it, but I thought this might be my only chance, despite what I said in my voicemail the night before. Uncle Alan pulled me out of my trance.

Everything okay, kiddo. Mind if I take this? I said, holding my phone up so he couldn't see the screen. Of course, go ahead. I'm nailing this on my own anyway. I gave him a quick smile before stepping out onto the patio. The cold air hit my face straight away.

The colder night started to dry in early. I remember how bitter the temperature was that particular night. I took one last deep breath before I finally entered the call. Hello? Hello, Garrett. It's me, Dad. I didn't know what to say.

I swale of a moment. emotions clouded over me. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to tell him it was good to finally hear his voice. I wanted to hang up. For a moment, all I could hear was my heavy breath amongst the silence between us. I, I managed. Look, I know in your last message you said you didn't want to speak to me again, but, ah, well, let's just say, it's been complicated. Complicated? That wasn't even an excuse. he was a cop out. No, I said defiantly.

I hung up before he could say anything else. When I went back inside, Uncle Alan had completely butchered the vegetables. All good? he asked, glancing over me. I felt numb all over. I couldn't even tell if I was hot or cold anymore. When I saw the concern on Uncle Alan's face, I braved a smile. Yeah, fine, I said, raised a smile. an eyebrow at the chopping board.

Tell you what, why don't you just bore the pastor? Later that night, I lay in bed. It was past 1 a.m. when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from him. Garrett, I know tonight was a shock to you. I apologize again for my silence over the years. Please don't think I didn't think about you or your mom. I've been a terrible parent, and I realize that.

I want to make it up to you. I'll let you call off, but please call me back. As soon as you're ready. Love, Dad. I caved in and called him back the next morning. The conversations over the next few weeks started off with a few home truths and exaggerations. I told him he was a poor excuse of a man. He ruined my mother's life.

He ruined my life. I couldn't even remember him properly and so on. I let him have it because he was what he deserved. What surprised me was his accountability. He was so calm about it. He was never defensive. He let me get it all like. my chest. I made a huge mistake. I realised that, he said. So you keep saying, I muttered.

I know how much making up I have to do. I listen to your voicemails all the time, all of them, over the years. You sound so grown up now. Despite everything, he did at least listen to the messages. It was something, minuscule, but it was a start. Dad and I ended up talking every day. I would usually go for a walk around the neighbourhood so I could talk to him in private. I didn't let Uncle Alan know we were in contact. I didn't know why, considering it was him who originally gave me his number. But for a while, I just wanted my dad to myself. I wanted to get to know him.

The week before Christmas, things took a turn, went out to the blue, he said. How would you like to come and spend Christmas with me? It seems so sudden and so casual, a part of me felt it was too soon. even though we'd been talking for over a month, I still felt like I didn't really know him. All I knew was that he lived alone in a farmhouse. I wanted to say no, but my impulses got the better of me.

I said enthusiastically, but as soon as I agreed, I cringed. I can't wait to meet you, son. A few days later, I tried to run the conversation over in my head. How would I approach Uncle Allen about it? How would he react to it? Would he understand, or would he put his foot down? I thought I could go in with the calm approach of,

This means so much to me. You know I've wanted this since I was a kid. Or I could go with the attitude of, I'm a grown man now, I make my own decisions. In the end, I decided to do neither. Call me a chicken, but I didn't want him to sway me or get involved. As great as Uncle Allen had been, this was something I had to do.

So, I decided to write him a letter. I booked a flight out to Creekwood because Dad said it was the nearest airport to where he lived. In the middle of the night, I packed my bag, grabbed my passport and left the letter on the side in the kitchen. I waited a little further down the street for my cab. I didn't want to wake up Uncle Alan. When it arrived, I quickly hopped in. The nerves finally caught up with me. As the cab drove past my house and out of my street, I hoped I wasn't making a mistake.

I landed in Creekwood around 6 a.m. I somehow managed to sleep for a bit on a short flight and woke up feeling like I was in a dream. I couldn't believe I'd gone through with it, and now that I was near him, it felt real. I couldn't believe this was it. I grabbed a quick coffee, which did nothing for my nerves, before I stepped outside. There was patches of snow on the ground, and the airport wasn't as busy as I expected. I looked out for the silver car he said he'd be in, but I couldn't see one. He didn't actually say where he would meet me.

I waited for a while and tried to call him, but he didn't pick up. I suspected he may have changed his mind and stood me up. There was a tap on my shoulder. Gary? I turned around and saw an older man. Distinctive lines creased his forehead, short, salt and pepper hair, tall. He was dressed in an expensive looking coat, far too light for the bitter weather. He wasn't, as I remember.

him. Even in those fuzzy memories that were coated in white noise, I still didn't see the man before me. I smiled at the man politely. No. No, sorry, I said, turning my back away from him. Sorry, I meant to say Garrett. I turned back around and nodded. I tightened my hands in the pockets of my coat. I didn't know what else to do with them. I wondered if I should hug him. No, too soon, I thought. I considered offering my hand to shake, but before I knew it, he was walking ahead. Come on, he said, you must be freezing.

The drive took a couple hours. I couldn't believe how far out of Creek what he lived. In that time, the conversation between us was light, small talk, the weather, my journey, mundane crap that we were both disinterested in. Luckily, the sound of the radio kept it from feeling more awkward than it was. It began to snow when we passed the sign for silver oaks, and I stared out the window like a curious child, taking in the sight of the massive oak trees. The surroundings made me feel slightly claustrophobic, like it was an endless tunnel of greenery that only seemed to get more narrow as we drove into it. Beautiful, isn't it?

Dad said, without taking his eyes off the road. I nodded. You really have been tucked away from the world all these years, haven't you? I didn't mean for it to sound sarcastic as a gist. came out, but it didn't seem to phase him. It's quiet around here. I like the quiet. Once we were past the endless road of trees,

I must admit that the whole place looked picturesque, especially because it was covered in snow. The trees extended up the hill that looked down on the town, and at the top there was an old radio tower. Nearly there, Dad said. The farmhouse looked like something from the front cover of a paperback you'd find at a gift store. It was bigger than I imagined.

The driveway wasn't that far from the road, but it seemed like it was completely cut off from civilization. The woods behind the house only heightened my thoughts about it. It made the house look completely isolated. Before getting out of the car, my phone vibrated.

When I looked at the screen, it was Uncle Alan attempting to call me. Do you need to get that? Dad said. I smiled at him. Uh, no, you can wait. Inside, the house was lived in, and very old.

It wasn't the type of place I imagined Dad to live at all. Even though I was there to spend Christmas with him, there was no decorations anywhere, which only added to the grim atmosphere of the inside. The whole place smelled pretty musty. I noticed some of the lining in the faded wallpaper was stained and peeling away from the wall. I walked over to the living room and spotted some photos of a baby on the dusty mantle. Photos of me, I assumed.

I've never seen these ones before, I said. Dad came up behind me. I took them with me when I left. It struck a nerve with me, and I couldn't keep my tongue still. If you've had these up all this time, then why did you never call me back? I put them up after they left. Who? My other family.

It was the first I heard of another family. I couldn't believe he didn't mention them before when he had ample opportunity to do so. The rage bubbled inside me, but I didn't let it get the better of me. I'd only just got there and I didn't want to start an argument before I barely stepped through the front door. And even though my face clearly told him I wasn't impressed at this news, Dad's face was completely neutral. I'll show you to your room, he said, grabbing my bag for me. The upstairs were exposed beams in the ceiling that made the house look bigger than it.

actually was. There was also quite a few rooms upstairs. All of their doors closed. The one he took me to was very basic. Just a single bed and a bedside table. It seemed comfortable enough. I suppose you'll want to rest for a while, recuperate from your flight.

I felt fine, but I grabbed the opportunity to be alone and gather the thoughts flying around in my head. That'll be great, thanks. Dad left the room abruptly without saying anything else. He kept the door open, so I gently closed it

as I heard his footsteps trotting down the stairs. It had been awkward since the moment I stepped off the plane. It was all too much. The whole atmosphere in the house was very cold and static, just like him. And to learn he had another family only made me feel worse. I finally looked at my phone to see a text from Uncle Alan.

I understand, kiddo. You should have just told me. But please, Let me know you're all right. I texting back, letting him know everything was great. A complete lie. I crashed down in the bed and tensed as the cold sheets touched my skin. When I woke up, it was dark outside.

I looked at my phone and it had just gone past 6pm. The bedroom was like a nice box. I stumbled in the dark to locate the door. I went to use the wall to guide me and instantly flinched away. They were damp. There were no lights on in the house at all, and I couldn't hear a sound. I made my way downstairs, searching the damp walls for a light switch, but I couldn't detect one.

It was worse outside the bedroom. It was that cold that I saw my breath in front of me. I looked over to the living room, vacant. I wondered if perhaps Dad had gone outside while I slept. Still, I found it unusual to leave someone who was. essentially a stranger in their house, even if I was his son. I saw the lamp next to the couch and went to turn it on. You're awake.

His deep voice came from the kitchen. When I turned around, he was sitting perfectly still at the table. I could just make out his silhouette in the dark, and I noticed both his hands rested, palms flat on the top of the table. You scared me, I said, approaching him cautiously. something was off, really off. Why are you sitting in the dark? I get migraines easily, he muttered.

Bright light doesn't help. I'm feeling better now. When I was in the kitchen, I stood across from the table, not knowing what to do with myself. Okay, well, can I put a light on then? Dad was silent for a moment. He cocked his head to one side. The whole scenario, darkness, just sitting there, slow responses.

He made me feel very out of ease. If you like, he finally said. I found the switch to the side of the door. The light hung down just above the table. It reflected off his skin, which looked slimy and grey, completely drained of any colour. He didn't look well at all. Are you all right, Dad? His pink grimed eyes peered up at me

Yes, as I said, I feel much better now He said Are you hungry Seeing him like that made me lose any appetite I had completely I think you should go to bed and rest He flashed me a sickly grin His teeth were covered in thick film Like they hadn't been brushed in days

I'm perfectly fine Gary My face hardened. Garrett. Oh, he said, moving his hands across the table like he'd lost something. Didn't I used to call you Gary when you were a child? I shrugged. You tell me. Even if he did, he didn't mention it in any of our conversations over the phone.

Dad got up from the table, squinting his eyes. He began pacing the kitchen. His posture was stiff. like he was hanging from a string. Well, I don't... Don't quite remember if... He trailed off to the worktop and turned so his back-faced me. He stared out the window, and then nothing outside.

All I could see from where I stood was our reflections in the glass. I found myself backing away to the door when he started rocking his head from side to side. What do you mean, you don't remember? I asked. No. No, I do. I called you Gary. I'm sure of it. Well, Mom never mentioned it, I said. I couldn't tell if I was shivering because of the cold anymore, or if it was because of the way he was acting.

Dad suddenly relaxed his back and leaned over the worktop. Do you like macaroni cheese? He said, in the tone I was more familiar with from my phone calls. even the look in his eyes had changed. It was like the last few minutes didn't even happen. He noticed my confused glare. Are you all right, Garrett? Fine, I lied. So, macaroni cheese.

I huddled my arms together. Do you have any heat? He nodded. Of course, I'll go turn it on. When he walked past me, I flinched away from him. Uncle Alan takes the gain to see if I was all right I wanted to tell him that I made a huge mistake that there was something really off about Dad

but I didn't want to worry him I decided I would book a flight home tomorrow and make my excuses to leave Dad cooked the meal while I sat on the living room on the musty smelling sofa even with the heat on the house was still ice cold dinner's ready he called over great

When I sat at the table, I picked my food. Dad didn't touch any of his. Aren't you going to eat? I asked. I'll eat later, he said. I pushed the plate away. I'm not hungry either. This is nice, isn't it, son? He twitched. His eyes had changed again.

I started to wonder what was wrong with him. He looked worse than he did half an hour ago. Dad, I think, I think we rushed into this. He rested his chin under his grasped hands. Rushed? I couldn't meet his stare. I don't think I'm ready for this. I think this is just too much.

But you're my son. I love you. His voice had no empathy or emotion. He was almost like he was rehearsing for a bad TV show. You don't even know me. Yes, I do. You're my little Gary. I slammed my hand on the table. Can you stop calling me that? Nobody has ever called me that. He didn't respond, just gazed at me curiously.

I looked at the clock behind him. How little time we had actually seen each other in person, and the whole time it felt like I'd been in the company of a stranger, which he was really. I thought the conversations on the phone were a start, but this person in front of me, he didn't know. know who I was, or at least, he confused me with someone else. It was clear enough to me. He seemed so collected and put together whenever we spoke before, but as we sat opposite one another, he seemed as isolated from me as he'd been for nearly 15 years. I should never have got in the car with him. Who is Gary? I finally said. He's upstairs. Dad said abruptly. What? Dad stared down at his plate.

Gary and Moira. I got up from the table, every hair in my body erect. Who are Gary and Moira? Dad slowly raised his head back up from the plate. Blood trickled out of his eye sockets, falling over the uneven meal in front of him. My eyes widened as he jumped up on the seat of his chair, like he was on hind legs. I stepped back as he climbed the table, pressing his hands into the plate of bloody food, knocking the glasses and cutlery to the floor.

he was ready to pounce. Dad? Whatever was before me, it wasn't my dad anymore, and I started to think he never actually was. I tried to push past the block in my memories. I still couldn't see his face underneath Santa's beard. I never saw those pictures on the mantle before, because they weren't pictures of me.

It was someone else, Gary. Dad, or whoever the hell he was, let out a shrill laugh. As he did, His smiles stretched out, tearing the skin at the sides of his mouth, until he was grinning ear to ear. The blood poured over his exposed gums. I think I'm hungry now, he growled. I didn't think twice about it. I sprinted from the kitchen towards the front door.

Behind me, I hadn't jumped down from the table. When I reached the door, it wouldn't open. It was locked. My only option was to run upstairs. Dad leaped from the floor and stuck to the ceiling. he crawled along the beams like a spider, his blood stemming the artex as he dragged himself across it. I ran straight for the room directly opposite the stairs

and slammed the door shut behind me. There was an almighty bang on the floor from the other side. When I turned the light on in the room, I saw a shadow under the crack in the door. Dad started to rattle the door furiously. Garrett, he said calmly, open the door. I backed away, panting breathlessly.

then the smell hit me. I covered my arm over the end of my nose. Jesus Christ, I uttered. Dad continued the bang against the door. I looked on the bed behind me, looked at the massacre in the room. Dry blood stained the walls and on the bed lay three skeletal corpses. They were skinless. I guess two of them were Gary and Moira, his other family.

I tried to look away, but I couldn't believe what was before me. Even as I ran over to the window, I kept looking back over my shoulder the corpses. Below, the drop didn't look that far down. I figured I didn't have much choice if I was to make it out of there alive. I opened it up, bracing myself for the jump into the snowy ground when Dad burst to the door, eyes wild, shattering the wooden frame. I was about to jump when he leapt onto me. Before I knew it, my face was being smothered into his bloody bib. I pushed him, struggled, it was no use.

He was budging off me. I came face to face with his menacing grin. His teeth started to fall from his gums, hitting me in the face one by one. Below them, canine vangs formed. I screamed as one of his remaining teeth

fell into my mouth. I instantly spat it out and managed to wriggle my arms out from under him. I grabbed his arms and the skin came away like carved meat. Underneath there was nothing but muscle. The more I pushed,

the more he laughed and his skin continued to tear away from his face. The wet, bloody pieces of flesh fell over me until there was no longer any flesh on his face. Human flesh, at least. Whatever looked back at me was not human. No longer my dad, but a grinning crimson monster. Garrett, it growled.

I looked the monster dead in the eyes. My breath stopped as it opened up his jaws, ready to snap his fangs into my skull. I managed to use my knee and arms to push it away from me. When I stood up, he was ready to pounce at me once again. When it did, I jumped out the way and it went flying out the window, smashing the glass. I instantly ran over and looked down below. It wasn't there.

It was gone. All I could see was its blood scattered over the snow, making a track to the woods. I ran downstairs and searched Dad's coat pocket. The keys were in there. Thank God, I whispered. I ran straight for the car. As I started the ignition, the headlights reveal the scarlet creature running on its hind legs directly towards the car like a hound.

I pushed my foot in the pedal and crashed right into it. It screeched as it went under the car and crushed underneath it. I drove back towards the drive and sped away from the farmhouse. I was a shaking, bloody mess. I couldn't stop anywhere to get cleaned up, not unless I wanted to end up being questioned by the police. The only thing that kept me going was my determination to get us far away from that place as possible.

On the way home, I called Uncle Alan trying to explain what had happened, but he couldn't make sense of what I was saying. I couldn't even make sense of it. It took me hours, but I drove all the way back home. There was barely any gas left in the tank when I made it to the house. When I pulled up, everything ached.

Uncle Alan ran out, and when he saw the stay to me, he quickly ushered me inside. Garrett, what the hell happened? Uncle Alan got rid of the car. I didn't ask how. And even though he didn't leave the story I told him, he told me to never tell anyone.

I didn't have to ask him what he thought happened if I wasn't telling the truth, or just in shock, as he put it. I saw it in the way he looked at me as soon as I came in. To put my mind at rest, Uncle Alan found a picture of my father in an old photo album he had.

There was a photo of my parents on their wedding day. It was him Younger And still Not how I remembered him as a child But definitely my father I still didn't understand How he became that thing

Until I remembered the third corpse on that bed And the way my dad's skin Came away from the crimson monster The only question I had in my mind Was if any of it The phone calls were ever really him And if it wasn't Why did that thing

target me. On Christmas Day, I threw the photo of my dad into the fire and watched the edges curl until the flames broke through his face. Then, he disappeared. I can still remember my mother's look when I told her I wanted to invite Lucy to spend the holidays with us. She throwed her brow in that way she did when she thinks something is a bad idea.

Are you sure you want to invite Lucy, dear? Of course I'm sure. She's my best friend, Mom. She let the water run over her hands for a few seconds, washing the potatoes she'd be making for dinner. I know she's your best friend, but Lucy can be a little... She seemed to contemplate her words.

Much sometimes. How long will she be staying? This was an odd question for my mother, usually charitable, but I knew that it was the time of year that had her nervous. It was the 29th of December. Christmas now in the rearview mirror and New Year's looming on the horizon and my family was four days into celebrating the 12 nights of Christmas

My family is Christian but the sect we belong to believes in the significance of the 12th night The 12th night was marked by the feast of Epiphany We spent most of the day at service singing songs and praising God But at night we hold a large meal and mother always makes a total to celebrate the occasion That's also the night that Frau Pekter visits us, and that can be a tumultuous time all its own. Not a lot of people celebrate the 12th night. Christmas is usually the highlight of the season,

but is a religious tradition my mother and father brought from France when they moved here, and it's been a part of my life for so long that it just seems normal to me. To my knowledge, Lucy's family was not religious at all, so Lucy was looking forward to seeing what our holidays were like. her family will be back in the tenth, just in time for the end of Christmas break, I said, almost pleading with her not to reconsider. My mother looked at her potatoes as she worked. She knows that it's not all fun in games, right?

We go to church a lot on those days, and the celebration is mostly religious. I nodded. Yes, I assured her, she knows it's not all fun in games. That was a complete lie. Lisa had been interested in my family's quaint holiday customs and I tried to tell her how this time of year was important to my family There had been a lot of questions in my class about the 12th night of Christmas I had told them how it had to do with the nativity play

And less to do with a song How we had the traditional tortal A pastry with a pea in it And how if you found the pea You got to be the queen for the evening I usually found it And my parents made a game of me being queen for the night and parading me around the house.

Lastly, I told them about Frau Pertter, the old woman who would visit on the 12th night and give out presents to good children. I believe this was the reason that Lucy wanted to stay with me instead of Chelsea or Maggie. Lucy saw an opportunity to get a kind of second Christmas and wanted to use my holiday to get more presents. I wasn't too offended by this idea.

I liked extra gifts too, but the idea of using Frau Pekter to get to the them made me feel a little funny. Not guilty, but not good either. Lucy was used to dealing with a kind and generous gift giver, but Frau Poked her was not a

benevolent jolly being. The Frau was a little scary, and I'd only just gotten comfortable around her myself. She was a gift-giving entity, which was nice, but she was also a stick that my parents would use to correct me when I was bad.

Unlike Santa, the Frau was not just a Christmas entity either. The frow was always watching, always judging, and they would use her year round when I stepped out of line. Better behave, Frau Perkter will see.

But I can be back, you wouldn't want me to tell the frau. Better get to sleep before Frauperkter knows you're naughty. I'd never incur the wrath of the frow, but Mum had said she would switch me if I were naughty, and she told stories of a sister that had gone missing

after being especially willful one year. Frau perked her was a coin with two faces, and one of those faces, her teeth. Mom nodded stiffly. Far be it from me to turn away guests during the holidays, just make sure she's on her best behaviour. You know how the frow feels about willful children. I shuddered as she said the word,

remembering the sister she had never seen again. Lucy arrived two days later, and her parents thanked me. mine for agreeing to let her stay. They were going to see friends out of town, places where Lucy would be relegated to a backroom of strange children or their parents gathered. They offered my parents money for her food and board, but they waved it away. Lucy was our guest, and they were glad to have her.

Her parents smiled at that, kissed their daughter goodbye, and they were off to the airport to catch their flight. My parents and I helped Lucy up to my room. Lucy, having brought enough luggage for a month, and I showed her the cot we had set up for her, and the spot in my closet I had emptied for her. She made appreciative noises, right up until my parents left,

and then scoffed at the idea of sleeping on a saggy old cot. I saw her eyeballing my canopy bed before she made her intentions known. As a guest, it would be only generous for you to let me use your bed. But then, where would I sleep? I asked, not quite, quite understanding the trade-off. There was no way we could share the bed.

The mattress felt too small for me sometimes. I looked at the floor, but wrinkle my nose at the idea of sleeping there. I wasn't a messy child, but sleeping on the floor seemed like a great way to roll over on a Lego or a Barbie shoe. Well, why didn't you sleep on the cot? It'll be like being on a holiday, she said, sitting a bag on the foot of the bed and telling me about the barbies she'd brought to play with and DVDs she had for us to watch, as I took my princess blanket and pillow and set it on the cot. This was going to be a long few weeks.

My mother thought it was very sweet of me to let Lucy use the bed. I smiled and told her who's the right thing to do for a guest. But the cot was lumpy and I slept poorly. I thought mean things at Lucy every time I saw her snug in my bed. But I was careful to cut those kinds of thoughts off pretty quickly. Such things might be willful. and I wasn't sure if Frau Pogter could read minds. And I wasn't in a big hurry to find out either.

The first week went by pretty quickly. Lucy and I played with dolls, watched cartoons in our PJs, helped mum around the house, and spent our nights giggling or telling secrets. Lucy was always polite and well-behaved around my parents, but she was a bit of a brat in private. Lucy complained that our food was too bland, our house too cold,

and that the services we dragged her to every night were too dull. I had seen my father shoot her some dark looks as she sat in the pew beside me and sighed or fidgeted, but he was too kind to ever say much. She seemed to find our services quaint but boring, and was always ready to go when it was time to leave. On New Year's, Mom and Dad let us stay up with them till midnight and toast the New Year with sparkling cider.

We sat in front of the TV, watching the New Year special and waiting for the ball to drop. Lucy told me about how last year she and her parents had been in Paris for the new year and her mother had let her drink some of her champagne when the clock struck midnight. I asked her what it tasted like and she said, lo, so my parents didn't hear her.

It tasted better than this gross juice and stuck her tongue out as she laughed. She went to set a glass down and I saw it tip over and spill onto the carpet. She picked it up quickly and my mother saw the stain before she saw the glass. Oh no, who spoke grape juice on my carpet? Lucy pointed the finger at me.

It was an accident, ma'am. She didn't mean to. I started to become indignant, but Lucy gave me a pitiful look that communicated clearly that she didn't want to get in trouble. I didn't say anything, and Mom made me get a towel to help clean it up. When they yelled,

Happy New Year! I looked at quickly, having missed the ball drop as I dabbed at the spot. I didn't whisper to her that night, and I think she knew I wasn't happy with her. The second week was the worst. Lucy began to complain about the daily trips to the church, and even my father's good mood was starting to stretch thin.

We had a neighbour who agreed to watch her while we went to church. I was honestly a little glad for the time away from Lucy. Her outbursts and snarky attitude were funny at school, usually making teachers grind their teeth and other students laugh. At home, she just came off as a brat and kind of mean to boot. After that, she mostly laid around in her pajamas and did what she wanted. Her complaints about her food, it being too bland, or being the same thing every day, was starting to wear on my mother as well,

and I could see her counting the days until Lucy's parents came to get her. My mom became a little weird when Lucy was concerned. I heard her calling her parents a few times telling them how Lucy missed them and had asked when they were coming back Lucy had made no such claims she was clearly enjoying being our guest and her parents coming back

was the farthest thing from her mind despite Mom's best efforts it appeared that Lucy would be with us through the weekend Mom didn't seem happy about this and I wondered if she was worried about what the frow would make of Lucy I wasn't happy with Lucy

but I didn't want her to disappear. The day of the 12th night arrived, and the house was filled with low excitement. Mom and dad were cleaning wildly, mom taking breaks to cook the meal for tonight, and Lucy and I were relegated to my bedroom so the house would stay clean. Lucy complained about this, of course,

and kept asking me questions about the feast. What kind of food would we have? When would the princess cake be served? Which is what she had started calling the total. Would the frowel be here to be here to go? give presents before or after the meal, would we have to go to church to get the gifts? She went on and on

until I finally told her I didn't know, or it would depend. I was tired of her being here, and I kind of wanted her to leave. Before service that night, Mom had the food ready for our return and lay the turtle out under a bowl

to cool. The sitter made a way over, giving Lucy a look like she regretted promising to watch her, and we left her church. The Christmas service was always beautiful. The choir sang hymns and mom had made me a beautiful white dress for the service. The pastor read a beautiful service about the birth of Christ and his representation to the temple. He talked about how on the day of Epiphany the 12th day, it was revealed that Jesus was the incarnation of God, the Father, and how this was a momentous occasion

for the people, so they could have a personal relationship and not one dependent on the temple or the priests. I listen intently, having heard the story before, but always enjoying the past the stories about the life of Christ. I was a little sad when it ended, knowing that I would have to go back to Lucy and a meanness. I closed my eyes before leaving and asked Jesus to help me. I asked him to take his burden away from me, which was something I had heard people asked for before. Maybe I should have been more careful with that prayer. Lucy was dressed. in a similar white dress when we got home, a gift from my family to her

for the feast. The sitter left, waving and thanking my mother for the ten dollars she had handed her, but going in a hurry without a backward glance. Lucy complained about the dress almost at once, saying it didn't fit right, and it was too baggy for her. She said the hem was too long,

and that she kept tripping over it, but my mother mostly ignored her as I helped to get the food on the table. Then we prayed over the meal and sat down to enjoy our feast. Mum had made Red Wossail for the occasion and the warm apple cider tasted great after being out in the cold.

There were mashed potatoes, ham, fruits and vegetables, both stewed and raw, pies, roast, and, of course, the torto, which sat as the centrepiece. We all dug in, and it was the first time I'd heard Lucy stop talking in days. She ate a little of everything, her eyes sliding again and again to the toilet.

and who could blame her. The pastry glistened with sugar and looked delicious. When we had all eaten as much as we could, Mom cut the turtle and served us all apiece. Now remember, if you find the pea, you get to be royalty for the evening, she reminded us. We all dug in, savoring the tasty tart, and I expected to find the pea with every bite.

I think, even then, I believe that my parents let me have the pea, every year so I could be the princess of the feast, and as I saw my tart become smaller and smaller, I began to wonder if they had moved it this year. Lucy was eating as well, but I saw her hand slip into a pocket as she ate, clenching something. Suddenly she sat up, bringing her hand out of her pocket and proclaiming how she had found the pea. I could only gape as my parents congratulated her. Had she just cheated to get to be the princess of the feast?

I didn't have long to gape, however, since, as she turned to me, grinning, it was a light tap at her door. Mom stiffened, looking at Lucy and me, saying, Frau Pergter has arrived. She and Dad left the table, heading for the door. But I stopped Lucy as she started to get up. You cheated. Why would you do that? I was less mad than hurt, honestly.

Lucy was our guest. We had treated her far back. better than she had treated us, and this was just needless. I would have let us share the title with me if I'd won, but for her to cheat to win was just... My young mind didn't have words to describe it then. I simply couldn't make sense of why she would do it. Duh, your parents would have probably just given you the piece with a P in it. While you're at church, I lifted the corner and saw it in the corner of the piece she gave you,

so I took it and put in my pocket for later. It wasn't fair that you just got to win. So I cheated, just like your parents were going to. Now step aside, peasant. Your princess is off to get a present. And with that, she skipped off towards the living room. I had little choice but to follow after her. The frau was seated in the living room when I arrived.

Frau perked her, as I've said, had always scared me a little. She was dressed in a habit, a long white shawl covering her face and framing the ghastly-looking mask that she wore. The mask was made of dark wood, looking ancient, and resembling a smiling ogre. She was hunched, using a cane to get around, and she leaned forward in the chair as she beckoned me forward with a gnarled hand. Come forward, child.

I took a step, her voice standing like dry leaves and a hollow log. Lucy stepped forward instead, standing before the frow, and jutting a chin out. Hey, I was here first I should get my gifts before her My mother sucked in a breath And my father's eyes got very wide As his skin seemed to pale The mask bent to look at Lucy

And the wooden thing did not like what it saw Run along, child You are not of my ilk And I would not judge you by my rules Lucy huffed out an angry breath Hey, I was promised presents from you What? I don't get presents because I'm not a part of this place. The wearer of that mask sucked in a long-suffering breath

and looked at Lucy, icily. Clearly, you are not of this place, child. If you were, you would know that it is wise to treat me with respect when I honour a household with my presence. Oh, so I'm just supposed to accept that you didn't bring me anything? She brought the pee out of a pocket and waved it in front of the masked face. I'm the princess of the feast and I want my gifts I'm royalty today and you can't tell a princess no

she said heartily Her bluster melted away When the old woman's hand wrapped around a slender neck Even if you were the grandest princess in the land I answer to a higher power And will not be spoken to in such a way by you You wish to have my gifts Prepare to receive them

She stood stooped no longer and carried Luce's struggling body over to the coffee table. She shoved the magazines and knick-knacks off the table and slammed a struggling girl onto the surface. I looked at my parents, but frozen in horror and surprise, before screaming for them to do something. My father looked at mum, nudging her and whispering something to her that brought her out of her trance.

She moved in front of me, blocking the scene from view, and whispering soothing words to me as my friend gagged and screamed. Through the crook of my mother's arms, I could see the old woman taken knife from beneath a robe and lifted over the struggling girl. Her reddening face was terrified, seeing the knife preparing to gutter, and she struggled all the harder. The old woman's grip was like iron, though, and as she tried to line up the blade, she seemed to be having trouble seeing through a mask. The tip hooked beneath the lip of a mask and swung it to sit on her head, and it was then that she seemed to notice me. She looked at my mother, and a dry voice cracked out, bringing her back around to face her. Do not shelter that child.

Let us see what before those who cross the white. My mum looked down at me, clearly not wanting me to see what was about to happen, but moved aside obediently. When I caught sight of the flower's face, I put my hands to my mouth to stifler's scream. The ogre mask was an improvement compared to what lay beneath. Her gaunt face was skeletal, her nose little more than a flap of skin, and that skin was ice blue and stretched over a skull like a piece of wax paper. Her teeth were sharp like little stones in her mouth, and she held my eyes with a pair of crystalline blues that nearly gave me frostbite. She released me a moment later, bending to the struggling girl she had pinned against my mom's coffee table and lifted the knife to get to her work.

Lucy struggled frantically. She was aware, it seemed, that this was no joke, and that neither her parents nor my parents were going to swoop in and save her. Lucy had found someone who would not give her a pass because she was young and pretty. She had found a creature to which things did not matter. Lucy had learned too late, and sometimes it's best not to keep poking a bear when it's given you a chance to run. When the knife came down, it seemed to surprise her all over again. Her white dress began to soak with blood, the blade cutting through her abdomen and slitting her belly open. The old woman cut into her guts, sticking the knife blade first into the table and dragging out handfuls of rope-ean trails.

She threw them on the ground, Lucy twitching and convulsing as a life bled away. Her face had come from red to purple, and her eyes bugged out as the lack of air caught up with her. It seemed the blood loss won out, though, because I saw her bulging eyes roll up to the wall. whites as a purple face slackened in a death mask. She went limp, head lolling to the side, and the frau reached behind her to grab a scratchy sack I hadn't noticed before. She opened the sack, spilling sticks and pine cones, old wrappers and vegetable peals, into the opening before taking out a long bone needle and stitching Lucy closed.

She did this with amazing speed, years of practice, I suppose, sewing up Lucy, as a dead eye stared at the frow's habit which was unstained by blood or gore. When she finished, Frau poked her sat in a chair once more and motioned me over. I didn't want to go. I had just seen this woman kill one of my best friends,

but my mother pushed me towards her and gave me a nervous look that said all it needed to. I broached the chair on a rubbery legs, trying not to look at Luce's bloated form as I passed her. The frow held out her hand, the blue finger streaked with gore, and I heard the clink of coins. I held out my hand, not wanting her to touch me, and she let four large gold coins fall into my hand. They too were blooded, my gift holding its own little warning, and she offered it to me.

You are a good child. Know that I am pleased by your charity and your pure heart. Fear not, I will take care of that one, she said, indicating Lucy. But you will need to make the proper excuses, she said to my mother and father. They both nodded and shunted me up to my bed, my numb fingers still gripping the coins. I didn't know how I would sleep after all that, but as the adrenaline wore off, I found my eyes growing heavy, and it was morning before I knew it. I expected to find Lucy in my room, asleep under her blankets, but she and her things were all gone. Her bags had been taken away, her bedding and clothes missing, and when I went downstairs, the living room was spotless.

My parents were in the kitchen, their guard from the night before nowhere to be seen, and my mother was on the phone with the police filing a missing person report. Her voice held nothing but honest emotion, and that's likely why nothing was ever said about the incident other than regret. She left in the night, officer. We work up to find her things gone, and the front door open. Well, she had been feeling a homesick, but we didn't think she would just up and disappear. We've searched for her since dawn, when my husband noticed she was missing. No, not a sign of her.

Yes, I called her mother and let her know, and they are on the way back now. Yes, yes, yes, please, officer. If you find anything, let us know. Thank you. She hung up the phone and sat with my father at the table. both of them looking at me Sweetie We need to talk about what happened last night

They told me everything She told me the old stories About how frauptu Would reward good children And punish those who were willful My mom told her she had seen her sister punished In just such a way as Lucy The body and the mess gone by morning

But not forgotten And certainly not forever They found a body a few months later buried in the snowdrift. It was one of the reasons that I left the community when I was old enough. The police might not know what happened to her, but I did, and the community suddenly did. When the coroner found sticks and rocks sewn inside her,

the community knew that my mother had raised one of the willful ones. I hoped that by leaving, I would be able to flee the traditions of my people, but when the frow arrived at my door and my first feast away from home, I knew there would be no escaping her. She looked at me, her eyes full of pity and resolve. You will have to do the same. This is your life now, and it won't just end because you leave it. The frau is our burden, the gift given by my family generations ago,

and she can not be escaped. When you have children of your own, you must remember this night and raise them to respect the white. You know the consequences of failure now. If the police ask you what happened to Lucy, just tell them the truth, tell them you haven't seen her since last night, and leave it at that. And so I did. So I have been doing for years now. I'm a married woman now. I have children of my own, and I have raised them to both revere and fear the yearly visits of Frau Purgter.

My children are good kids, but I will never make the same mistake my mother made on that day when I was young. I will never allow outsiders to stay at my home for the holidays And I will never let my children know The dark secrets I keep inside Sweetbreads derived from the 16th century The thymus or pancreas usually taken from a calf or lamb But sometimes procured from the ovaries or testicles First soaked in cold water to remove all traces of blood

Then poached in milk until tender As a kid my father told me it had been a holiday tradition that dated back generations in his family. I would later find out just how far back that was when I turned 16, when I learned the history of the Gunnison family holiday tradition. Our families have continually been amongst the upper echelon of society for over some centuries, as leaders, politicians, tycoons, icons, you name it.

Every member of every family knew nothing but success and happiness from birth up until their last dying breaths. And the sweetbreads, my parents told me, were the key to their success. Centuries ago, our ancestors were on the brink of destruction. They had no food, no resources, no home. They had nothing. And they prayed to anything that would grant them release.

Something answered, and they made a deal. They were given a choice, an annual tradition that must be kept, and for as long as it was, the family and all their descent, would never know a day of sorrow again. My father told me that he had learned the same age I did, and so had my brothers,

and eventually my baby sister would too. My father had told me that it had been his own grandfather that had established the tradition on a holiday, in his own words, as the ultimate sign of mockery towards God and the Holy Spirit. That year, on Christmas Eve, after dinner, my parents dismissed my brothers from the table, telling them to prepare. Prepare for what?

I didn't know. After they left, my parents told me the complete history of the Gunnison Holiday tradition. And after they finished, my father said it was time for me to join my brothers, my mother and himself in the tradition. I would only have to watch this year, he said. But next year, I would have to do everything.

Alone. My brothers by then had returned to the kitchen and my parents rose. beckoning me to follow them. I did, as I was told, following my family through the back doors and outside into the cold December night and down the path to our garage.

Our enormous compound was located some ways outside the town my father was the mayor of, within an isolated patch of dense forest. I had always complained as a kid that my friends could never visit that we were never allowed to give out our address. Now, I know why. I entered the garage behind the garage

behind the family and saw that half the space had been blocked off by some white sheets. The overhead lights were off, with only the glow of a dozen candles providing any illumination. My mother, who had been a highly respected specialist within the medical field, wheeled out a metal cart. On top lay a collection of surgical knives, masks and gloves. She passed out gloves and masks for everyone, and once we all had them on, my father finally pulled back the curtain. There was a woman, someone I'd never seen before, strapped to a table. She looked to be sleeping, and I could see her bare chest moving slowly up and down. My father, wordlessly, picked up the longest of knives off the table and handed it to my eldest brother.

My brother just took it and stepped up to the woman. I looked back and studied her. She looked to be around my mother's age, with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair that was placed directly on top of her breast. maybe in some vain attempt to retain a dignity. An IV ran from her arm to a pole next to the table, which I assumed was some sort of drug to keep her unconscious. She was slender, her body pure of any deformities or blemishes. I looked at the woman, and then at the knife my brother was holding,

and then back at my father. This entire time, nobody had uttered a word. The air was stifled with an uncomfortable silence, My father then finally spoke up, he said only one word. Begin, then. I remembered the sweetbreads. I almost threw my entire dinner up right then and there. I'd never seen a knife cut through human flesh before.

My head began to swirl and I wanted to look away, but I knew I couldn't. It was like watching the flaming wreckage of a car accident on the side of the road. I didn't want to see, but I couldn't look away. So, I stood in silence as my brother collected our sweetbreads. After it was done, my family began flying out of the garage one at a time. I stood, frozen in place, looking at the white curtain that father had thankfully pulled back. Mother was the last to leave. She did her best to console me, telling me it had been hard for her to adjust in the beginning,

but that this one sacrifice was well worth the treasures it brought. I just looked at her, dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. But then what? I asked, numbly. What do you mean? she inquired back. What happens to us afterwards? After all this, I asked, dreading the answer. My mother, taken aback, thought for a moment, then smiled. We join the rest of the family, ruling together, forever, she said with an icy chill that clung to her words.

Together, forever. But where? I already knew before I had even asked. Somewhere, deep inside, knew from the start. The never-ending flow of cash, the isolated mansion, our status within the town. I had gotten every single thing I had ever wanted my whole life. And this was the cost. Only one day a year.

Just one. I followed my mother back inside, masking my shame and a cloud of indifference. Everything had changed. The way I viewed the world, my family, our name, my life, even my very soul. I didn't sleep a wink that night. I tried, but every time I would close my eyes, I saw the woman still strapped to the table. And then I saw the blood pour from her throat. and then the sweetbreads.

My father warned me once the tradition has started, if it is not kept, the punishment will be swift and severe. He reminded me of my cousins, who had passed away very suddenly of leukemia a few years back, right after he turned 16. Leukemia. He suffered every day until he died, according to my father, and the same would go for me if I didn't continue through tradition.

The next morning my family woke as usual and gathered downstairs. We exchanged presents, jokes, laughter. Everyone acted as if everything was normal. I put on a convincing show. I laughed back, opened my gifts, smiled for photos. I pulled it all off, masterfully so I should say. They never saw what was boiling right under the surface, not even when it came for the time for sweetbreads.

I choked back my tears and urged to vomit, though it was hard and I almost gave in, but I kept my smile wide and my eyes open. After our plates were cleared, my father stood up and toasted to his family and our success, and hoped for many more generations to come, and for the day when his first daughter would join the rest of the family. My dad then looked at me, proudly, not a worry in his eyes. As far as he knew, I had been another successful convert. I can say confidently, without any hint of exaggeration, that I dreaded each and every single day of the next 364 days. I finally started sleeping again after three, only for my sleep to be continually interrupted by the woman on the table, who would wake up suddenly and began screaming every time I cut into a neck. I would go days

One time even a week Without sleep I would lay awake in bed Pondering over how I was going to do it Could I do it Was there any way out There had to be a way out My father and mother

Told me in private A few days after Christmas That I would pick Who I would use to carry on the tradition It could be anyone Even a complete stranger All I had to do was give them a name And they would take care of the rest

But they warned me, if I didn't pick someone myself, they would do it for me, and they promised me it would be someone I would miss dearly. My skin ran cold at the thought of someone, a friend, a teacher, some random stranger, tied up to that table, the knife in my hand, their internal organs on our dining room table. I knew then there was no way out. I kept up my facade, pretending the long, sleepless nights away as caffeine-fueled studies. sessions and formulated my plan. I would have to pick someone who trusted me. Someone I could get alone. Someone

who could disappear. There was a friend, a dear friend. Once upon a time she had been a neighbour, but even after my family had moved, she remained my closest friend and one true confidant. She would trust me. She would

do anything for me. I loved her. And now she would disappear. for me Christmas Eve It finally came Like any other important day

That you wait for and dread Then suddenly one day It's tomorrow My parents had kept their end of the bargain They expressed no surprise No remorse They simply nodded their heads And told me he'll be taken care of

The rest was up to me That evening As I was walking down the hall To join my family in the dining room I passed by my baby sister's room. She had been only two months old last Christmas, far too young to partake in the family tradition, but not anymore.

I pushed the thought from my head and continued on downstairs. The family was busy chatting around the table as I sat in my seat. Mother had prepared a lovely dinner of homemade mashed potatoes, turkey with gravy, roasted peanuts and an orange cream cake, my absolute favourite. The sweetbreads wouldn't be able to.

be until tomorrow. Mother placed a fully loaded plate in front of me. On any other Christmas Eve, my mouth would already be filled with potatoes. This Christmas Eve, I was resisting a powerful urge to vomit all over the table. But I kept my call, as I had done for the past 364 days. Only one more left. I grabbed my fork as my father concluded his annual prayer of thanks and reluctantly began forcing food into my mouth. Just eating in front of them had become a chore, an act I was eager to finally drop.

Everything tasted like paper, wet and moist without any real flavour. I must have lost £15 since last Christmas, but nobody seemed to notice. They were already too far gone. Once dinner was over, my brother went to play video games

while my mother began clearing the table. Nobody said anything at first. Then I did. Is she ready? I asked plainly. My parents both looked at me, slightly puzzled. Probably not what they were expecting. I then looked directly at my mother.

She had stopped clearing the table. I was now hovering behind my father. She caught my gaze and for a moment almost looked scared. But then smirked. Yes, she is, baby. And it serves a right for breaking my little boy's heart. Don't you worry about it? a thing, sweetie. Nobody will even know she's gone. We'll make sure of that. She bragged,

turning attention back to the table. My father looked at me, still puzzled, not sure what to make of my newfound bravado. I hoped it was working. He smirked, the same way my mother had, and I knew then that I had him, hook-line and sinker. Don't be too tough on meet, son. We like it nice and plump, remember. My father spoke, sending waves of nausea down into my stomach. I held back, thankfully, and got up from the table. I won't take too long. Santa's coming early this year, I said, and left without saying a word. My father chuckled briefly, but I caught my mother's shocked reflection on the glass doors on the way out. Too much, perhaps, not that it didn't matter now.

The walk to the garage was probably the longest walk in my life. My entire life swirled around me, all array of emotions, everything that had led to this moment, the moment I would carry on the Gunnison holiday tradition. I counted each step I took as I slowly made my way to the garage. The lights were off and there was no noise. She must be heavily sedated by now. The single side door was already open and the familiar glow of candlelight cast long shadows all around me.

I turned a set of lights on, unimpressed and annoyed with my parents' theatrics at this point. Then I saw the same white curtain as before, with the same set of knives on the same table. My heart skipped a beat. I needed to leave. I bought the mission, find another way. No, there was no other way.

It was now or never. I took one last breath, and remembered what my father had told. me. The pact our family had made, a deal forged in blood all those years ago. Without hesitation, I walked towards the curtain and with one

swift motion drew them back. There she lay, fully clothed as I had requested. I would not allow this to be the first time I saw her naked. I wouldn't allow it. Sure enough though, a lone needle pierced the skin and ran up an identical IV pole.

The bag looked to be practically empty. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had precious few minutes left. I turned to the instruments of death next to me, the low light from the candles accending the chilly sting in the air. I picked up a knife randomly, swung back around to take one last look at the girl. But then I froze. My gaze had met a pair of open eyes. She was awake. She was struggling to regain consciousness, but she was definitely awake. As her eyes widened, they focused on me. She didn't look scared or confused.

She just looked at me, face blank and mouth a cape. The knife in my hand felt like solid gold. Everything had finally come together. My turn. For the first night in over a year, I slept like a stone. No nightly terrors, no ghostly visions of the woman on the table, no macabre family celebrations, just a deep, soundless sleep. I was almost sad when I woke up.

It felt so good. Hopefully the first of many nights to come. Today was a very special day. It was Christmas after all. More importantly, the day of our blessed family tradition. The sweetbreads had been repaired by myself. It was tradition, and I could smile them from even upstairs. Just moments later, father came in,

wishing me a merry Christmas and inviting me to join the family downstairs. It was time. I slipped on my housecoat, slippers, and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, back arched and head held with the confidence I hadn't known in some time. My mother, ever watchful hawk, took notice immediately. Well, don't you look as bright as the morning sunrise? Merry Christmas, baby. She nearly squealed and she put the finishing touches on her immaculate table. I smirked as I sat down next to my brother.

Then I noticed my baby sister was missing. "'Where's Sissy?' I was a little concerned for a well-being at this point, knowing full well what this family was capable of. "'Oh, she's got a fever right now. We'll have to save her some for later,' my mother responded.

"'Oh, how perfect.' I remained quiet as my mother finished the sweetbreads and brought them over to the table. One by one, she placed a fine scoop on a small, delicate plate in front of each of us. The plate had been in the family for dead, decades, and were used for only one purpose. After mother joined us at the table, my father rose. I don't know why my father insisted on making the same speech every year. It was cringe on so many levels,

even more so now than before, though I held my tongue as he spoke. When I look at this table, I see the pillar of success. Our family, our blood and our sacrifice, our family tradition has kept our family strong and alive. and we continue that legacy now and forever, and I am so proud to welcome my third son into the tradition. Son, you have made me, our family and our ancestors incredibly proud. His words made my stomach churn. My father sat back in his seat and almost on instinct the family joined hands, my mother and brother on either side of me.

Closing her eyes, my family led us in a prayer. Lord, bless these sweetbreads as you have. have blessed our family. Reign riches, treasures and power on us as you have done so for generations before. Ascend us above all others as we carry on this most sacred of tradition. Today, tomorrow and forever. My brothers, always too eager for their own good, drop their hands first and immediately began eating. I watched as my parents smiled in admiration, then turn their attention to their own plates. My father was the first of them to take a bite. He smiled at first, but I watched as his expression changed quickly.

He was puzzled. He stopped chewing for a moment before swallowing. He hesitated, then took another bite. I looked at my mother, who had also started eating, but as she went in for a second bite, I nose wrinkled and she stopped. She began looking around her, now confused like my father. What's the matter, father?

don't they taste good? I asked, blantly. My father looked at me, even more confused now. Of course, there's just something off, he said,

shebishly, though I could hear fear growing inside him. I had felt that same fear for the past 365 days. Do you guys smell that? My mother asked, worry, now thick in her voice.

I looked back at my brothers who had already finished their entire plates, my eldest even looking his clean with his tongue. My other brother had noticed the exchange between our parents and I, and spoke up. Smell what? I don't smell anything. Yeah, I don't smell anything either, I said dishonestly. My father, though, had also denied smelling anything out of the ordinary. So, it was just my mother and I. How can you guys not smell that? It smells almost like something's burning, or, She trailed off.

Or what mother? Perhaps something bitter? I said as I stared directly into her eyes. In that moment, I saw a flash of clarity across her face. Then I watched all the colour completely drain away from every part of a body. What have you done? My mother spotted out. What the hell is going on?

My father screamed. But before anyone could answer, he was interrupted by an agonising scream. My eldest brother had been the first. He fell to the floor, halting like a wounded lion. I looked down to see his eyes turning blood red. His central nervous system was starting to shut down, and bloody vomit and saliva were now pouring out of his mouth. My other brother sat frozen, staring as our sibling died in front of us,

mother screaming incoherently in the background. Father had stood up to get a better look, but was knocked back into his chair almost immediately, bringing one of his hands to his head. I thought my father would be next, but only a second later, my other brother bent over in agony and began throwing up as well. What did you do to us? My mother shrieked, as his second child, died violently in front of her, still too shocked to move from her seat. My father was fading fast.

His face was covered in sweat, his gaze now locked onto mine. I stared into his eyes, trying with all my might to bore the hatred and fear I had felt this entire year into his soul. You make me sick, every single one of you. I spat out, now free to finally unleash the wrath that had been building up for so long. Did you really think I was going to carry on this tradition? Do you know how sick to my stomach I've been every day this past year? Our family, our tradition, it's an abomination. And when I thought of spending every Christmas side by side with you,

sealed in this deal for all eternity, I wanted to strap myself on that table. It felt like pure bliss. The best part was that they would know in the last moments that it had been me that killed them. So, I made a deal of my own. They had made it too easy for me really. I already had almost everything I needed, thanks to mother.

The only thing missing was a decoy. And being a gunnison meant I could get my hands on practically anything in this town. My father collapsed out of his chair and onto the floor. I could feel the convulsions through the table, and floor as he breathed his last painful breaths. My mother was the last to succumb. She grasped her chest, heaving in pain. I could hear the blood clotting with each gasp of air she took.

She got up to reach for me, but fell onto the floor as I stood up and hovered beside her. Kneeling down, my face now inches from hers. I searched for any trace of the mother I used to know. But there was nothing. Because the mother I knew had been a lie. everything had been a lie. Was it worth it, mother? I whispered to her.

Tears filled her bloodshot eyes as she let out one final death rattle. And then, all was silent. I paused, unsure of what to do next. I stood up straight to survey the carnage around me. Then I looked back at the table and saw my mother's untouched glass of wine. Without hesitation, I grabbed it

and held it up high. Toast to the Gunners and Family Tradition I boasted, drinking the entire glass in a single cup Sitting the glass down, I spoke aloud You can come in now My voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings Seconds later I caught movement to my right But didn't take my gaze off the floor

She had played her part perfectly She didn't believe me at first Not even when I offered to pay a ten thousand dollars to play the victim She thought it was a joke I'm sure she got quite the scare though when my mother had ducked her But it would be worth it I told her That this small amount would be but a fraction

Of what she and I would have Once the tradition was over So she agreed And thankfully she had awoken last night When she did She had proven to be invaluable Whoa that was fast She said in awe

Studying the scene in front of her Yeah well we put enough in there to kill a whole full ball team, and retorted, still locked into a death stare with my mother. Her eyes were pointed upwards, an expression of horror and pain, now permanently etched into her face. Is everything ready? I questioned as I turned to face her for the first time. Yes, it's all out in the garage, she replied as she walked up to me. My hands ran across her face and then threw her open hair. Go bring it in. We don't have a lot of time, and there's a lot to do, I told her. I told her. leaning in for a kiss.

Her mouth was wet and her lips were plumb. Finally, he was beginning to feel like Christmas. She left without another word, leaving me alone in the dining room once again. We would sanitise the kitchen, then bury the bodies in the woods in a six-foot grave alongside the cadaver I had procured from the university.

It would take all night, but after it was done, they would never be found. The only business left would be my little sister. I turned on my heel and began walking into the living room. As I started to go up the stairs to tend to my sister, something caught my attention, something on our Christmas tree. My parents were never one to go overboard with Christmas decorations, seeing them as a waste of money and time. Our Christmas trees, therefore, had consisted of a golden garland and classic silver glass ball ornament.

Nothing more, nothing less. Except now, there was something. else. Nessled almost completely within the tree was a dark red envelope. It had not been there last night, nor this morning. My curiosity peaked. I walked over and grabbed the card out of the tree. It wasn't sealed, and when I opened it, an identically coloured card slid out. I ran my fingers over the card and envelope looking for an inscription, barcode, something to identify where the card came from. Nothing. Cautiously, I opened the card.

There was no signature, no seasonal greeting. Nothing but a single phrase. Sweet to the sweet. Almost instantly, my back ran cold. I could feel the little hairs of my legs begins to stand up one by one. From some dark corner of the house, I could feel something stirring.

Then, I felt it. Just a single, cold breath down my neck. I could feel my heart flutter. I counted a three in my head, then jerked my head around, but there was nothing. In an instant,

the house settled and everything was as it had been before. I looked back to the card, but it had vanished. I searched around me, but could find no evidence that it had ever been there. A cry from upstairs

brought me back to reality. My baby sister, Mother had said she was running a fever. Fearing the worst, I darted up the stairs and down the hall to my sister's nursery. My mother fancied herself a designer and insisted on the gaudiest Victorian-era nursery for my sister. My sister's crib was adorned with sheets of silk and sheer fabric. I pulled them aside and looked down at my beautiful baby sister. I smiled at her and she seemed to smile back.

She would never know the horror of the family tradition. I would miss her dearly, but I knew she would be better off with another family, somewhere out of state, far away from our family's legacy of death and decay. Her rosy cheeks felt warm under my finger. As they moved across her face, a weird sensation came over me. It was something I'd never felt around my sister before. I couldn't quite figure it out at first. I looked at her, puzzled. Then my eyes ran over a throat

Soon my mouth began to water Pools of saliva now collecting inside Then I knew I felt Hungry My team had gathered upon a cliff's edge Which overlooked the far-spanning glacial plain And which stood the fog and shrouded fortress

Of the famed snow cleric Santa Claus We had gone through enough reconnaissance of the frosted land And had identified several snow-drawn draped emplacements wherein hid elven lookouts and ambushes. Stealthily, with their own southern breed of guile, we had neutralised these creatures who would have either warned their brethren of her encroachment upon their land, or spilled our blood upon the bare snow. The many snow-capped towers of the fortress rose to the sky, and no part of any structure

was adorned by a semi-translucent coating of frost, as if armoured by the settled ice, every brick of the fortress glimmered in the little light that the sun dared to cast down onto it. Along the ramparts which encircled the inner castle strode Elven Watchmen equipped to their unfamiliar yet assuredly deadly weaponry. Rafflemen in ice-wrought armour stood atop turrets, nearly indistinguishable from the fortifications they warded. Their eyes, which could see through the dentist accumulation of the ever-present mist, scanned the areas around the castle for intruders. Knowing beforehand of the far-seeing centuries, we had come dressed in our appropriate camouflage, which not only allowed us to blend in with our environment, but conceal

our vital functions from detection as well. Special-made contacts allowed us to see each other clearly, as if we hadn't been wearing the cloaking material. There were three of us, myself, my brother, and a person who will only refer to as B. My brother had brought me the job, suggested to him by B for reasons that will be revealed later. As anyone might have done, I laughed in his face. the mere suggestion of Santa Claus being real a ridiculous absurdity

but he was patient and when my laughter had died down he showed me photographs of the jolly bugger himself and schematics of the fortress which he said had endured against time and the thieving curiosities of men impregnable through countless cycles the evidence for Santa's existence was excessive and undeniable I stared first with wonder at the images of his reindeer-carried sleigh and his troops of certifiably inhuman and dwarfish elves marching along his border and other images of the nigh supernatural.

And then a chill came over my heart, just as it had come over and settled in the hearts of anyone who dared venture that land. Because in one of the images, Santa was not presented as the overly joyful gift-bearer of legend, but as a sinister, blue-eyed sorcerer casting dark magic over a camp of foolish trespassers. but to assuage my naturally arisen fear my brother inform me of the loot kept within the vaults of that northernmost hold loot not just of elf forged items and invaluable gems

but of raw materials and resources alone worth more than the riches kept in any bank across the world he said that if we could plunder even a fraction of the total keep we could live fabulously for centuries financially unrivaled sovereignly incontestable while he had no pictures of the fable lute for none had ever made it inside to capture them. He had compiled stories, reports, and reputable conjectures

as to the general store within those virgin vaults, all mutually attesting to the immeasurable worth of the contents they're in. B, his extremely secretive source, even for our dubious line of profession, had provided us with the necessary equipment and transportation. Really, she had funded the entire venture, and hadn't even so much as bought at any of the more expensive and admittedly unnecessary requests

we made for the job. Everything requested had been procured without hesitation. This, more than the knowledge of our skill, had assured us that we would be successful in our heist of Santa's fortress. We were, of course, disastrously wrong, and nomads of planning or high-tech equipment would have allowed us to escape the fortress, with even a single coin of that nightmarish Castellan's treasury. The team, hidden by our camouflage, approached the walls.

Blind to our advances, the elven watchman only saw that. throes of mist upon the flat, icy expanse as we crept across the main bridge. The bathamans loomed over, ordinarily indomitable, flames flickered in the small walls. Santa, it seemed, relied on torches, rather than modern electricity, at least for the outer fortifications. B observed the watchmen as they appeared at intervals through the crenellated tops of the wall, while my brother and I stood silently in front of the port-collis before the main door. Above, the barbequin appeared unmanned. The soldiers upon the wall apparently deemed sufficient enough.

We'd brought breaching equipment and waited for B-signaled to proceed. When she was satisfied we hadn't been detected, she signalled for us to begin. My brother affixed the thermal charges to the gate, and we huddled to the stony sides while the devices did their work. Quickly, noiselessly, they ate away the metal until a small hole was made in the frost-blasted gate. We crawled on her bellies through this, and performed the same action against the heavy wooden door. Santa, according to Bees' intel, had gone away for the day on Samarand,

leaving Mrs. Claus, the warden of his keep, and she, busy with their own business, had allegedly confined herself to the dungeon within the topmost tower. In his absence, he had naturally increased security within the walls, with Christmas not far away. The Bailey, a massive courtyard in which several smaller buildings were housed, was a swarm with ice-hammer elves who patrols, who patrolled through the space while sparing their strange weaponry.

In and out they went, entering through the various thresholds and supplemental gates of the wall. The main door, however, was never entered. The strict rule being that it would remain closed whenever Santa was not of the castle. Due to the silence with which we had breached the door, the two guards stationed directly beyond it hadn't noticed our entry, and we quickly dealt with them before they could raise the alarm. While these elven warriors are formidable in battle, they're still diminutive compared to humans

and we managed to neutralise them more through our sheer size advantage than combative prowess. Once the bodies, just rendered unconscious were buried in the snow, we armed ourselves with their peculiar weapons. We left them with her armour, even though by the looks of it, it was far

superior to our own. We hadn't planned on outright killing anyone and knew that even these cold-blooded winter-tempered creatures could eventually succumb to the fatal effects of the harrowing cold if left unprotected. My brother and I took the strange blue steel carbines which had some sort of self-replenishing

or never exhaustive crystals as its ammunition while B took a short crystal sabre the hilt of which showing curling ruins of some ancient European language Once our adaptive camouflage had extended itself over the weapons We set out towards the main keep Wherein lied the treasure we sought

The main keep sat up a small elevation of the land With two massive towers at its sides On each tower, aimed beyond the outer wall, a massive watcher, although, from what I could see from below, the artillery which these deadly machines fired was a crystallized composition rather than the woodwork's standard arrows. Several rows of ice-wrought javelins reposed in their banks, their tips leetally sharp, their bodies the size of small trees. Within the javelins pulls the dark blue liquid,

which I suspected transformed the poles into proper explosive artillery upon the impact of the target. operators of the watcher two each stood behind their machines and seemed to endure the open air and blasting winds with superhuman resilience as they awaited a call to action B regarded these interior fortifications with little interest these guards appeared no different

from those on the outer wall and those had already proven themselves incapable of detecting our camouflage's presences we continued on until we had reached the main door of the inner keep we couldn't use our charges here This door saw frequent use And any kind of damage would be reported

Immediately and the alarm would be raised Instead we went around the structure Passing by the leftward tower Behind which sat the stables We paused and clung to the keep's wall As we cited several reindeer stabled within The stablemaster A stucke elf encumbered by armour

But nonetheless insulated against the cold by his bulk Tended to the massive crimsonide beast B cast a look towards us that said she wasn't sure if we could avoid being scented by those creatures, who, judging by their great size and body-length antlers, were clearly of a more refined breed compared to their slightly southern counterparts. It was impossible to tell if their almost-nightmarish giganticism was owed to some pituitary abnormality or some dark breed of northern magic.

My brother raised the carbine he'd been cradling, but B quickly shook ahead. We had known that the elves would be armed prior to beginning the mission, but we hadn't any intel as to the weapons themselves. We couldn't risk being detected by the sounds of our gunfire, even though the wind echoed loudly throughout the castle's interior. Also, we had only minimal data regarding elven anatomy,

and none of us truly trusted ourselves enough to land what could be described as a non-mortal shot. The thief can be forgotten, if not forgiven. Murderers, regardless of the landing question, are almost always hunted, even across the world.

B. Crouchlow, something my Mother told me she did when she was in deep thought. A few moments passed, the cold seemed to deepen, and the patrolling elves continued their rounds oblivious to our intrusion. Finally, B rose to her feet, snatching my carbine from my hands, and aimed the rich sights. She scanned the ground below for a few seconds, then handed the weapon back,

and pointed at a spot just beside the keep her few meters ahead. Quietly, I crept to the spot, now in full view of the stables, which sat about 30 metres off to my left. One reindeer stirred, but this seemed to be a response to a powerful gust of wind rather than my movement. The spot to the naked eye was completely unremarkable. I stood on a snow-dusted sheet of ice, stonework had been reserved for buildings without any markings or indications. But, doing his beard done, I peered through the scope of the carbine and saw through its thermal imaging a substructure beneath the ice,

a lower floor or basement of the keep to my right. I motioned for my brother to take a look through his weapon and upon doing so he nodded his head understanding bees train of thought we retrieved two thermal charges from our pack and waited for the next surge of wind which had always carried along a visually obscuring flurry of snow thankfully the charges were scentless in addition to the silence

we burned a hole through the ice just small enough for us to slip inside one by one the gigantic reindeer neither scented nor sensed our breach of the icy floor and we quickly entered. Once Beard landed, she again took my weapon from her hands. Despite having not wielded one for more than a few moments, she had apparently arrived at the comfortable understanding of its construction.

She removed the crystal core from its chamber, grimacing as the fragility of the stone was felt through her gloves. She held the crystal up to the hole we made, squeezed it, and miraculously sealed the aperture. From within, the icy ceiling was incongruous with the stonework of the low ceiling, but outside it would have looked nearly indistinguishable from the ice floor. The room into which we had descended was fairly ordinary

and housed various crates and barrels, obviously provisions for the castle. Sconsors lined the walls with torches flaring in each, illuminating the interior and warming us. The urge to hover by these welcome sources of heat was strong, but the desire to quickly escape the battlements with our riches was stronger. We progressed down the corridor, passing by vacant rooms until we eventually reached a set of dark stone steps. Up these we climbed silently, invisibly,

until we reached a hall at the far end of which sat a throne, seemingly wrought of crystals, and set upon a similarly forged dais. Tapestries hung from the walls, the scenes of northern expanses, images of Santa's territory, and other boreal scenery was stitched into their fabrics. Massive pillars lined the halls,

three on each side, and despite the stonework of the building, these were made of crystal. Inside each rested a dark blue liquid similar to the substance I'd spotted within the javelins of the watcher. This worried me, but I did not bring it up to my companions.

Behind the throne sat a large oaken door, taller than even the great chair upon its platform. With our carbines leveled waist-high, my brother and I strode through the threshold after B had pushed the door open before us. Our barrels swept through the interior, but our sights found nobody in which the rest. Immediately ahead was a great hearth,

an inviting fire blazing therein, and tall bookcases sat against the left and right walls. A table, sized to accommodate an ordinary person rather than an elf, stood to the side, with one chair pulled out before it. Atop the table's surface sat several thick volumes, each with spines titled by some language I only dimly recognized as being some flavor of Germanic. To the right, near the front right,

corner the room, and was another door. This one much smaller than the one through which we had passed. Wasting no time for further examination of the fire-warm study, we approached this door, and silently breached it as we had done the last. We had now entered into a torch-lit corridor, and, at the end of this, sat yet another door. Be halted halfway through the corridor and crouched low, although this was not the contemplative rest she exhibited before. My brother and I mimic the to posture and we listened intently for signs of activity. We heard nothing from either wall, but from my head, softly, came the sounds of machinery of some sort.

Rising up only slightly from a crouch position, B crept forward, and my brother and I followed suit. We reached the door, and rather than open it, as we had done to the previous two, we raised their weapons closely to the wood. The thermal imaging of the scopes penetrated the door and showed us a massive room, filled with towering mounds over which crawled large spider-like figures. I handed my weapon to be, and she scanned the room, then handed my weapon back to me. She nodded at our guns, indicating that we were free to fire upon the animate things within. She then gripped the brass handle, loose the saber in her belt, and pushed open the door.

Guns raised, my brother and I entered the room, but neither of us fired a shot. Within the room, stacked in great heaps that nearly touched the sea, were piles and piles of glimmering gems, shining coins, and strange, yet no less beautiful artifacts. The sheer collective luster of the loot was almost blinding, and the flames of the torches across the walls seemed dim and innocuous in comparison. Crawling upon the treasured heaps, polishing coins, and dusting gems were aachnoid automator, constructed of ice and metal, roughly the size of small dogs. Delicately, effortlessly, they mounted and dismounted every mound and precipice, going about their custodial work with finally programmed efficiency.

Despite having been clear to engage by B, neither of us wanted the fire upon these mechanical creatures, not due to any recognition of innocence, for they were quite abhorrent, but out of worry for the gems. To mar the surface of even a single one was tantam out of blasphemy in our avaricious mind. The batteries that powered our camouflage suit had a projected lifespan of six hours before needing to be recharged, and we'd been on the castle. of grounds for only an hour. I intimated this to be, gesturing the suits and our weapons, and she nodded. We could gather our loot and make a camouflage escape without needlessly engaging

hostiles. The mechanical custodials paid no attention to us as we approached, assuring us of our invisible shielding. We set our bags before the central mound and began piling gems, trophies and coins indiscriminately into the bag, as each object passed from its nestling in that mount into our bags, he was incorporated into the cloaking and seemed to blink out of existence. Our fingers snatched dexterously, our heart beat with barely contained elation, our eyes flickered with fire-heated and frost and salt stones. When our bags had been filled at the point of bulging, we hoist them over our shoulders and turned to leave. We had prided ourselves on our undetected intrusion upon Santa's Castle, and with a plundered treasure weighing each of us down, our pride

flourished. Even B, who was at all other times solid, had a wide grin upon her face as she strode towards the door, leaving those brainless, ever-dutiful arachnids behind. We back traced through the corridor, crossed the study, past the tapestry-draped wall of the throne room, and re-entered that storage area, into which we descended only an hour before. Not wanting to risk unforeseen structural collapse, we made yet another hole in the same spot as the last one, and climbed up through the ceiling. It took a bit longer, as the same. as we now had to push our heavy bags up to the surface, but we escaped the interior without drawing attention to ourselves. Before Beak could disarm me, I dislodged the crystal from my weapon

and applied the ice ceiling to the floor, closing the hole we'd made. She smiled and nodded, and I returned the expression. My brother rolled his eyes and gestured for us to come on. We then made our way back around the keep, planning to return to the main gate just as we'd entered it. But we suddenly stopped short, in the open courtyard before it, as we'd suddenly stopped short in the open courtyard before it, as we saw a patrol of elves suddenly divert from their path and march towards the gate. There, emerging from their snowy burial, were the two elves we had subdued and disarmed. They shook themselves off and were immediately interrogated by the patrol's leader. Only a moment later, the leader called out in his unintelligible elven tongue, and an alarm was

raised, issuing from seemingly everywhere at once, blared, and the battlements came alive. Before even B could come up with a plan of action A burst of some blue-tinged energy shot through the castle grounds It hit us and I expected the wave to singe my flesh Or at least rattle my bones But the impact against my body was physically imperceptible The impact however was not without effect Immediately blue sparks flared across my body

And the cloaking effect of our gear was disengaged We were left standing completely exposed Surrounded by a veritable army of elves B, prior to the mission, had informed us that these elves defenders took no prisoners, Santa's grim orders in regards to the treatment of trespasses. When we flicked into visibility and their blue eyes turned towards us, we knew there would be no quarter given. B withdrew a sabre, and, without any announcement or diplomatic preamble,

she charged towards the nearby group of elves. I heard a blade sing a song of icy lethality as it sought through the air and saw it shear through the arm of an elf that had defensively thrown out the limb. She then danced through her opponents, slicing and thrusting with the salarity and dexterity of a practiced swordsman. Her movements were mesmerising when they could be seen, and I might have stood there all day and watched without regards for my own peril, if my brother hadn't turned me around. Upon the towers that bordered the keep, the watcher had turned to face the bailey.

The crystalline spears were aimed directly at us, and the operators stood behind the artillery, igniting the child. The higher thoughts of my forebrain receded, and, in their place, arose the autonomous and practiced functions of survival. My carbine was raised towards the front-wide tower, and my finger depressed the trigger. Finally honed shards of ice shot out of the barrel, just as the first volley of javelins were launched. My brother had also fired his weapon, and through some nigh telepathic intuition of siblinghood,

he had fired upon the other harcher. We both had considerable practice in the firearm of mankind, and the usage of the elven weaponry required no adjustments on our part. Our aims were true, and all of the watcher operators were felled by the crystalline shards that spat forth from our weapons. But at least a dozen javelins had already fired, and, in the next instant, after arching majestically through the air, they crashed upon the ground with cataclysmic effect. It felt as if the entire world had been shaken, as its great poles of ice detonated upon

impact, causing the land to heave and turning shrapnel of ice shouts through the air and throwing up a frosty mist that blanketed the grounds. I was violently thrown to the ground in the terrestrial quake. I heard voices cry out in pain, elven and human, and, after a few moments, my own voice joined that chorus of agony as I struggled to dislodge a large chunk of eyes from my side. No longer needing to worry about detection, I called out to my brother. Thankfully, he answered, albeit with a voice steeped in pain.

I then called out to B, who didn't immediately answer? I heard further moans of pain, and these seemed to be in response to some newer harm, rather than crystalline bombardment. A moment later, hand seized my shoulder, and I was pulled away from where I laid. After a few minutes, I was left alone in an open space bereft of that obfuscating mist. B stood over me, covered in splotches of steam and blue slime that I knew to be elven blood. Her saber dripped with the same stuff. Nearby, kneeling with her hands pressed to their stomachs, with several elven warriors.

They cried out in agony, and I realized that these had been the fresh noises I'd heard earlier. B, unimpeded by the crashing of the spears, had gone on to disembal and disorientate the warriors. She was truly a warrior in her own right, much more skilled than her companions. B knelt over me and began tending to my wounds, but I waved her off and pointed towards the diminishing mist, where my brother still remained. She immediately darted into the haze, her sabre streaking blue-plud as she went. I opened the pouch of my belt and removed the field medical supplies and tended to my wound as best I could. By the time I'd patched it, B and my brother had stumbled through the mist

and were rejoining me. My brother had a few small shards embedded throughout his body, but none looked fatal. B held to me stand and before the Elven Army could regroup, we hobbled towards the front gate. We passed several stumbling soldiers

and B expertly cut down any who got in our way. My weapon had been damaged during the bombardment and could no longer fire. I carried it with me anyway, thinking it worthwhile to hold onto the undamaged crystal source. My brother had either lost his carbine or thrown it away at some point. We reached the front gate, crawled through the blasted hole, and, having recovered a bit of

stamina, jogged across the bridge towards the icy pane. We heard shouting atop the rampant, but none of us turned back to see what doom was being prepared for us. Atop the hill in the distance set our snowmobiles. Despite the weight of our invaluable burdens, we ran on tirelessly, filled with renewed resolve and having survived the direct-enged. with the castle's defenses. Halfway across the ice field, we heard a sharp, whistle-like noise. B, hold it in place, and motioned for us to do the same. My brother and I turned around, expecting to see a volley of javelins

arcing through the sky towards us. But B, for the first time since the start of the heist spoke. No, we're all out of range of the watcher, and this isn't coming from the castle anyway. It's coming from directly above us. All three of us looked up, and at first, nothing was visible through the gloom of the cloud coverage. But then, second by second, something took form

until we discerned a large shape barreling down towards us. Galvanized by a sudden panic, sensing the approaches on greater doom, I sprinted towards the hill ahead, with my companions close behind. Before we could reach its base, the hill's crown was suddenly set ablaze as some kind of ordnance struck it.

The snowmobiles were instantly and utterly destroyed. I slid to my knees and my brother stumbled to was stopped beside me, but he stopped with slightly more grace, but defeat had quickly entered the hearts of all of us at the destruction of our only means of escape. Behind us, the vehicle that had launched the missile landed heavily upon the ice. Slowly, dreading this newly arrived terror, I turned to face the enemy. From a great crimson sleigh disembarked a veritable giant. He stepped upon the ice with thick leather boots and stood towering over the man-high vehicle in a posture of sovereignty and contempt.

A black-mitted hand patted the heads of a few monstrous reindeer who snorted out plumes of vaporous ice from their barrel-like nostrils. Their eyes, reddened by sheer malice, if not by some innate power, glared at us as the master caressed his scalps. The giants wore a red coat

with fluffs of white around the collar on the cuffs, and trousers similarly colored and fluffed. The great white beard draped from the chin to the breast, but the uncovered head was bald. Fierce blue eyes. almost black, stared hatefully towards us, and the pale skin that bordered them seemed to glow with some tightened vitality.

The white-rimmed mouth scald, the red and cheeks puffed, the bulbous nose irritably twitched. You dare trespass among Castle Warden, home of Clan Claus. The voice boomed across the expanse, and the clouds above seemed to briefly recoil in response to the thunderously bellowed accusation.

Utterly stunned by the arrival and fearsome appearance of Santa, none of us answered. The legendary gift-bearer's mitts curled into massive, block-like fists, and an icy aura of blue began to swirl around his gargantuan figure. B, for the first time that day, looked truly afraid, and my brother, clinging to my arm, started to audibly whimper. A terror unthought of filled my heart, and I could do nothing but stare at the enraged Castellan as he mustered his power in preparation for some horrible attack. The reindeer neighed, callously, mocking as if knowing what dark fate awaited us at that hands of their sorceress master. I closed my eyes then, not wanting to look upon the means of my

destruction. A sudden impact against my chest simply sprawling onto my back, and I initially thought that I had been painlessly struck by some hyper-lethal projectile. But upon opening my eyes, I saw bees standing above me, her back to the fuming giant. My brother lay on his back beside me, having also been pushed. Before either of us could question her, she said in a grave, and questionable tone. Go. While I admired her skills in combat and her ability to adapt

to truly unusual scenarios, I hadn't any real sense of camaraderie toward her. Still, I send her a gaze that said, You sure? And she nodded somberly in response. My brother and I then scrambled up the hill

towards the blazing wreckage, leaving Bita fend for herself against the dreaded claws. My brother and I summited the hill, still bearing our portions of the treasure, and navigated around the conflagration. We ran as men had never run before.

Our feet crunched upon the snow, slid across the ice, and trampled rocky admixtures of the two. We never stopped, never looked back, but continued on until we reached the hut we'd used as a way station in our travels towards the castle, five kilometres away.

Once inside, we threw ourselves upon the floor, not bothering to unfasten our gear or our packs. I passed out and awoke with a start almost three hours later. I shook my brother awake, and he emerged from sleep grogly, drooled, trailing from his mouth. Together we open our packs to behold the bounty we'd plundered. Our thoughts hadn't yet turned to the woman we'd left behind. But our eyes did not come to rest on glimmering gems and sparkling coins.

Inside both packs sat great heaps of coal. Neither of us looked up from our packs for a while, perhaps thinking that maybe our eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the same. the lighting of the hut, or that some sort of illusionary magic was at play. But when I plunged my hands into the pile and soot fell between my fingers, and my hands were blackened, I accept the grim, soul-chilling reality of the situation. Virtually penniless, we left the North Pole and returned to our Midwestern home. We had waited six hours for the arrival of B before departing from the hut.

We didn't dare wait any longer, unless Santa or his outriders come for us. Going back hadn't been something even considered. What became of B is presently unknowable. And yet it wasn't until after a flight had landed back in the States that I remember the absence of an item. The small crystalline engine of the elven weaponry which I had salvaged from my broken carbine was missing from my belongings.

I traced it back through my memory and didn't recall having it at the hut either. A colonel of hope emerged in my mind as I consider the possibility of B snatching that small, yet a surely volatile trinket from my possession before sending us away. I sense the great power within the confines

of its small structure and are now confident that if its raw power could be harnessed by a human in battle, B would have been able to do it.