CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 SCARY r nosleep Reddit Horror Stories to roll up to 2021

Episode Date: December 28, 2020

2021 is coming...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Every year my family is visited by Frau Perchta" Creepypasta►25:56 "If you find a VHS tape titled Professor Egghead's Adventures don't watch it" Creepypasta►51:10 "There's Something "Stuffed" in the Walls" Creepypasta►1:07:02 "Every Year Santa Left Me a Strange List of Rules" Creepypasta►1:25:30 "My Sister and I Stayed Up Late to See Santa. Something Else Came Instead" Creepypasta►1:39:41 "I'm an Arctic Explorer and I've Found an Abandoned Toy Workshop" Creepypasta►2:18:58 "The Elevator People" Creepypasta►2:41:02 "The Reign Deer" 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►by Pablo Munoz Gomez: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/XB...SUGGESTED 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-

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Sign up for your one-year-o per month trial at Shopify.e.u. I can still remember my mother's luck 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 been 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 a 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 12th 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 spend 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 Pekta 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 10th, 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 and 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 Nards of Christmas. I had told them how it had to do with the Nativity play, and less to do with the song, how we had the traditional torrentices. 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 Purchter, 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 Pöchter to get to 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 Froupporter was not a benevolent jolly being. The frou 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 Frau was always watching, always judging, and they would use her year-round when I stepped out of line. Better behave, Frau Pergter will see. But they 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 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 while 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. 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 eyeball in 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 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 wrinkled my nose at the idea of sleeping there I wasn't a messy child but sleeping in 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 cut it'll be like being a a holiday, she said, sitting her 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 it was 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 Pugter 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 Mom 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 a 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 luck 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 a 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 our 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 flower 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 her. about the feast, what kind of food would we have? When would the princess cake be served?

Which is what she started calling the total. Would the frowl be here to 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 a church. The Christmas service was always beautiful.

The choir sang hymns, and mum 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 pastor's 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 close 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 wasail 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 tortle. 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 a piece. 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 pee 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 pee. 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 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 peace with a pee 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 presents. 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 sounding 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 mouth. 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 answered 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 a 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 a 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 a 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 stifle a scream. The oga 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 giving 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-ion 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 last. of air caught up with her. It seemed the blood loss won out, though, because I saw her bulging eyes roll up to the white as a purple face slackened in a death mask. She went limp, head lolling to the side, and the frow 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 Frau'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 fingers 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 as 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. They 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 thing's gone, and the front door open. Well, she had been feeling 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 Frau Pugter would reward good children and punish those who were willful. My mum 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, people, but when the frau 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 frow is our burden, the gift given by my family generations ago, and she could 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 Pergter. 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. Teddy's VHS collection never really came up in conversation. Sure, occasionally, I'd say something about the oblique pop-up cultural reference t-shirt he wore, and I recall having a discussion or two about his obsession.

with 90s sitcoms. But most of our time together was spent talking about the strangeness of the locals. I originally moved to Prague to squeeze out as much fun out of my twenties as I could in a cost-effective manner. Beer was cheaper than water, rent was infinitely more affordable than San Fran

and there's something to be said about dating in the porn capital of the world. Teddy's reasons for moving to Prague, on the other hand, were a bit more cryptic. Whenever I would ask him about his departure from the States, He would wax poetic about the dark Gothic streets, about the strangeness of the city, about how he could feel Kafka's perpetually confused spirit drifting through the subways. But it wasn't until one rum-soaked evening that he gave me something concrete.

You can also find some pretty niche VHS tapes here, he said, and I like collecting VHS tapes. Maybe he wanted me to press the subject further. Maybe he wanted to show me his collection. but to be honest, I didn't care. I liked the dude. He was weird, but I liked him. Frail and covered in adult acne, Teddy was funny looking and meek, but the guy had a heart of gold.

Whenever I found myself lost in the absurd bureaucracy of the city or looking for an explanation to the strange customs of the Pragueers, Teddy was more than happy to help. He moved to the city just a year before me, yet somehow he had managed to get a grasp on the same, strange consonant-filled lingo of the locals and knew of just about every ex-backed friendly gem hidden around the dark alleys. We were unfriendly enough terms to be conflict-free roommates and occasionally grab a drink

together. I like the dude. I just didn't want to enter check out my weird hobby territory. It wasn't until he went missing that I saw his collection. A regular VHS tapes fit about four episodes of a 20-minute show, judging by the spot. amount of space available in Teddy's room, he had enough tapes to stay occupied for weeks. While Teddy was privy to all the drama of my personal life, I didn't know much about his. I never met any of Teddy's friends, but I assumed he had some.

For the first two weeks of his absence, I assumed Teddy just went on some spontaneous hiking trip with some friends I'd never heard about. One worried phone call from his father dispersed those illusions. Teddy was missing. and Teddy only had one friend in Prague. Me. His father flew in from Maryland, and for six months he stayed in his son's cramped room.

It was miserable rooming with a grieving father, but the guy continued covering Teddy's share of the rent, and I didn't want to be soulless. For six months, he searched the city for some sort of evidence that his son was alive, but Teddy's disappearance was total. I had no leads, the police had no leads,

and after a year and a half of searching, Teddy's father ran out of hope. Long after it became clear that his son was not coming back, Teddy's father flew back home to hold a memorial service. They invited me to come speak at the service, even offered to cover my affair to Baltimore, but I declined. I didn't know Teddy well enough to speak to his grieving family,

and travelling across the Atlantic is about as pleasant as a sleep deprivation experiment. Instead, as his family gathered to mourn, I made my way to Teddy's VCR. I was going to put on a random friends episode. Teddy seemed to have really enjoyed that show. But when I tried to pop in the cassette, there was resistance from the machine. The slot was already filled with a different tape. Adventures of Professor Egghead's Season 1, Epp 1 to 4.

To pay my respects, I figured, I'd do my best and try to indulge in Teddy's weird hobby. I pushed the tape back into the machine and press play. A coffee shop flickered to life on the screen. On first glance, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. A group of teens gathered with laptops and one looked to be a study group. Out by the window, two friends had an animated conversation. A small line of people dressed in great office scarf stood in the line waiting for their coffee. Yet the longer I watched the coffee scene play out, the more I noticed something was off. The teens relentlessly typed away their computers, but the screens of their laptops were off. The conversation by the window was filled with excited hand gestures and bouts of laughter,

yet the two friends made no sound when they moved their lips. The line of office workers stood patiently in line, but no orders were ever filled. The whole shop seemed to be stuck in the same 30-second loop that repeated over and over. It was as if everyone was waiting for something, Sitting behind the thick screen of Teddy's television, I waited as well. It was faint at first. I even paused the tape to see whether the sound wasn't coming from my neighbour's apartment. But soon enough, it became clear the noise was originating from the television. Somewhere off-screen and live studio audience was clapping and cheering,

anticipating the arrival of a beloved character. Then the door opened and he entered. The studio audience hollered with joy as he appeared on screen, but my stomach went flush with discomfort. This man, this creature, this thing that stood at the entrance of the coffee shop, defied all reason. A face of a human, a desperately tired human, drooping from his egg-shaped body. Over his stubby limbs he wore a dirty lab coat, and the sparse nest of hair and his pointed scalp looked like it hadn't been washed in years. But it was his eyes that stood.

true discomfort in my core. Bloodshot and lined with yellow grime, they stared straight into the camera. I am Professor Egghead. The abomination screamed in a queer accent, drenched in anger. I have come to awaken myself for another day of science. The studio audience's joyous clapping turned to wild laughter, yet no one in the coffee shop found the creatures outburst funny. They all seem scared.

With rage-filled stumps, the egg-shaped being lumbered his way, past the frightened business folk to the front of the line. I demand boiled water, he screamed. I demand boiled water that has been strayed through crushed beans of the coffee plant. If I am to get any signs done on this day, I must have caffeine coursing through my powerful veins. Everyone in the coffee shop seemed wholly uncomfortable with the existence of the Eggman. His presence radiated a fury

throughout the entire establishment But it was the young barista He was facing who received most of his eyeer She looked to be on the edge of a panic attack I'm sorry sir Whiting her lip in discomfort I don't understand you No one understands the egghead

He screamed raising the nubs of his arms to the sky No one will ever understand the egghead This drove the studio audience wild. A deafening bout of can laughter boomed from the television. With a deep-seated confusion in my heart, I cut it off with a remote and went to the balcony for a cigarette. For a while, I tried to make sense of why Teddy would watch something so unhinged, but those thoughts didn't stick around for long.

Teddy was a weird guy. Who was into weird things? Trying to understand his tastes was just as futile as the six-month search effort. A part of me wanted to believe that he was still hiding somewhere in the smoggy city that stretched out beyond the balcony. But I knew the truth. Teddy was gone, and somewhere out in Baltimore, his family was gathered around a corpuseless funeral saying goodbye. His father cried a lot, just about every night for the first couple of months. It wasn't until I had to put on headphones to drown out a grown-man sob that I realized how thin the walls of the apartment were.

Even muffled through blaring music, those 2 a.m. howls were scratched into my memory. Standing on my balcony, alone, hearing faint echoes of the man's whales, I realized I needed a drink. As I rushed out of the house in search of company, however, the television screen in Teddy's room caught my eye. The screaming egg creature was still staring at the camera, stuck in an angry shout. If Teddy was around and he sat me down to watch, watch this madness, I probably would have lasted longer. A twinge of gilt sparked in my chest for never humouring Teddy's obsession. As soon as I resumed the tape, the cafe was replaced with the barber shop.

Much like the previous scene, there was an air of artificiality surrounding everything on the screen. A heavy middle-aged woman hovered over the single customer that the barbershop had with scissors in her hands, yet she never made a single cut. Another employee was using a broom to clean up the remains of a previous haircut, but he never actually disposed of the hair. He just pushed it around on the floor in a circle. Even the bright-colored fish in the barbershop aquarium seemed to be swimming around in a steady formation. The barbershop was stuck in a familiar 30-second loop, waiting for something to happen.

After a minute or two, the cheering of the studio audience started to reverberate through the quiet room. I am Professor Egghead The mad creature raved as he burst through the door I demand that the dead cells be removed from my scalp with sharp knives So that I could be born anew His words were much angrier than before The egg-shaped monstrosity was foaming at his mouth with rage

But his eyes still seemed comatose I am Professor Egghead I demand your attention He yelled, impotently, waving his short arms. The studio audience found his frustration hilarious. Everyone in the barbershop was doing their best to look away, but the malform scientist would not be ignored. He wobbled up to the occupied chair and started to nudge it,

making the hairdresser's job impossible. Please, sir, could you just wait your turn? She finally said, doing the best to look away from his horrible. suffering eyes. No, Professor Egghead screamed. I demand attention now. I demand that my scalp be cleansed of filth so that I can wholeheartedly commit

my egg-shaped body to science. With one swift motion, the nightmarous creature grabbed the man in the chair and threw him to the ground. There was stunning force in those stocky limbs of his. With the spine-chilling crack, the innocent customer slammed skull-first into the floor. He lay there and moving.

The studio audience saw the act of violence as the pinnacle of comedy. There are no more customers for you to serve, Professor Egghead screeched as a faint trickle of blood crawled across the floor. It is now time for you to serve the egghead. It is now time for you to cleanse my scalp. With clumsy effort, the creature climbed up on top of the chair. The hairdresser was extremely distressed, but the audience found the egg man's climb to be deserving of raucous applause. Bring out the knives and alter my appearance, he screamed, kicking his stubby legs in frustration.

I am a busy man, and there is science to be done. Do what I demand. For a moment, it looked like the hairdresser was going to say something, like she was going to decline the malformed maniac's service. but she reconsidered. With shaking hands, she grabbed a hold of the greasy tufts of hair on his oval scalp and started to cut. I am Professor Egghead, the creature screamed, looking straight into the camera. I always get what I desire.

All shall be given to me in the name of science. It was as if he could see me, as if his tight eyes. were reaching past the television screen and trying to bring me into his demented world. The glimpse into Teddy's confounding media diet was enough for me. I still didn't understand why the guy would watch the tape,

but I was certain I wanted to turn it off. I reached for the remote with my sweaty hands, but before I could turn off the television, the scene changed again. For a moment, I'm sure my eyes were playing tricks on me, that I was having some sort of psychotic break with reality. But the longer I looked at the screen, the more certain I was of what I was seeing. I desperately scrolled through my phone, searching for Teddy's father's number, but I kept my

eyes glued to the screen. A colorful fast food restaurant flickered to life on the television. The line to the counter stood still. The customers held their burgers in anticipation, but never ate, and somewhere off in the distance, a studio audience started to clap. Two rings, Teddy's father picked up straight away. I found your son, I said. The red uniform was an unusual choice of clothing, and the beginnings of a patchy beard were starting to grow on his face. But I recognised Teddy right away.

He was standing behind the counter, nervous, as if he knew what was awaiting him. You... You found my son? said the voice on the phone, shaking with breathlessness. Where? Where is my boy? I tried to explain what was happening, but I kept on tripping over my words.

The tape, the Eggman, the insane eyes. I didn't know where to start. Before I could gather my thoughts into something coherent, the television exploded in another way for celebration. I am Professor Egghead. The fever dream boomed from the screen. I demand the grilled carcass of an animal Between two pieces of processed wheat

I must receive nourishment Before I indulge in the science I'm sorry sir Teddy whimpered And sure I've had to speak to the monstrosity Which wadd towards him There are other customers If you just wait your place in line

There are no other customers than me Professor Egghead The creature shrieked as he shoved the innocent bystanders to the floor. I demand flesh and bread. I demand fuel for my body so that I can commit my mind to science. One by one, they crashed headfirst into the floor

to the cracking joy of the studio audience. Soon enough, the egg-shaped abomination was face-to-face with Teddy. You found my boy? cried the voice from the phone. Please, please tell me my boy. safe. I will destroy all that is in my path in the name of science, the walking nightmare hollered. Bring me a feast worthy of a philosopher king. With each uncomfortable twitch of Teddy's face, the audience on screen exploded into another fit of hysterical laughter. I tried to turn down the

sound on the television so that I could hear the grieving man on the phone, but it was to no avail. With every press of the remote, the Eggman shouted louder. With every decreased decibel, the studio audience became wilder. Leaving a desperate teddy flickering on the screen, I escaped to the balcony. Please, please do not joke about this, he whimpered into the phone. My heart cannot handle cruelty right now. I took a deep breath, lit up a cigarette and explained myself. I told him about the tape, about Professor Egghead,

about Teddy. All I got in response was silence. I tried to imagine how I would respond if I was on the other side of this phone, how I would make sense of it all. But I couldn't.

I waited for the man's response with echoes of can laugh playing in the back of my mind. This is not a joke. Teddy's father finally asked. No, I said. It all sounds crazy,

but a wave of dizziness washed through me. My cigarette plummeted to the streets below. Suddenly, the overcast city in front of me was impossibly bright, as if someone had turned on a thousand fluorescent bulbs across the sky. The applause. The canned applause that I thought was a simple memory in the back of my skull had grown to a tangible volume. My legs felt weak.

Fearing the balcony railing, I stumbled back into my apartment. I am Professor. egghead, boomed the television. I have arrived to exchange monetary tokens for goods. I must stock my domicile quickly so that I can commit the rest of my time on this planet

to science. The audience clapped and laughed, but suddenly they went silent. The only thing that I could hear was a gentle, repetitive beep. The beep of a supermarket checkout aisle.

What is this? he screamed. in the name of science, what is this? Past the buzzing lights in front of my eyes, I could see a spot of dark. I blindly crawled towards it, desperately hoping to regain my sight. Where is he? Professor Egghead demanded.

How am I meant to make a purchase when the sales clerk is missing? As I felt my way towards the one part of my universe that wasn't drenched in eye-burning light, A tower of cassette tapes collapsed against my back. I was back in Teddy's room, and I was looking up at the screen. The television was calming to my eyes, but it stirred fear in my heart. I was looking at the fluorescent lit checkout line of a supermarket.

A trail of blood and bodies led up to an unattended register. A defiant Professor Egghead gripped his shopping cart and stared into the camera with dead eyes. I have taken temporary leave from the world of science to purchase goods And this is how I'm rewarded Where is the shop assistant? I demand the shop assistant Where is the shop assistant I demand the shop assistant He screamed

The studio audience was in complete silence All that could be heard was the gentle beep of a far-off check-out machine And the professor's laboured briefs breathing. Where is he? I demand answers. Where is he? Spit was flying from his mouth onto the camera. In a show of rage, he started jabbing his shopping cart in the direction of the audience. I am world-renowned scientist, Professor Egghead. I do not have time for this. He wield his cart back and forth, foaming at the mouth, as if he were a rabid dog. But something behind the camera caught his exhaustive.

I. Oh, he said, his voice losing all of its fury. There you are. His sudden change of tone made me flinch away from the screen, but his dull eyes followed me. Professor Egghead can see you, he said, his eyes still dead tired, put his mouth forming into a thin lip smile. Come back to where you belong. Let me pay for my goods so that I can return to my work in the field of science. The clapping resumed gain. It was quiet at first, but as the abhorrent grin on the television grew, the applause became louder and louder. Whatever was happening, the audience loved it. Come on back to Professor Egghead, he said, flashing a smile of thin yellow teeth.

I demand attention The light around me reverberated with growing strength The clapping and cheering and whistling Was so loud It felt as if my eyes were about to pop out of my skull I demand Attention

The egg man screamed The rage returning to his voice I demand it I demand it I demand it I demand The screen went dark And so did the blinding lights I was back in Teddy's room

alone and drenched in sweat. For a moment I just lay in the floor, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to find a loose thread of sanity in an insane world. But before I could even begin to process the madness I had witnessed, my phone started to ring.

It was Ted's father. He begged me to turn the tape back on, to rewind and find the image of his lost son, to bring some semblance of hope back into his life. But, I couldn't. I refused to be in the same room as that tape, let alone to watch it again.

Whatever was on that cassette was cruel and dangerous. I didn't want to end up like Teddy. He offered money. He wept, he got angry, but nothing he could say or do could make me go back to that hellscape. I offered to mail the tape to him, but the idea of entrusting the footage

to the postal service drove the man furious. After two hours on the phone, Ted's father informed me that he would be flying to Prague and retrieving the VHS tape himself. I didn't argue with the man. The thought of not being alone with a confounding reality of Professor Egghead even eased my mind somewhat. With the last-minute flight, Tedd's father would be back in Prague in less than two days. I figured I could hold out that long. For a moment, I was calm. But that moment didn't last long. As I went to sleep that night,

I couldn't escape the visions of those dull eyes and that angry mouth. Even as I write this, with the morning sun quietly peeking into my room, the visage of the egg-shaped man still haunts me. Yet it's not the mere idea of Professor Egghead that is stealing sleep from me right now. No, there is something much worse that is keeping me awake. Throughout the night, as I found myself leaving behind my worries and nodding off to sleep,

I start to hear things. I hear beeps. Whenever I'm about to fall asleep, I hear the gentle beeps of a checkout machine. And beneath those beeps, I hear steadily growing applause. I fear that if I fall asleep, even for a second, I will be transported into the same demented reality where the egg-shaped man makes his demands. I fear that I would disappear, just like Teddy. I don't know how long I can stay awake.

I don't know how to make this stop. All I know is that I don't want to go back there. I don't want to witness another one of Professor Eggheads' adventures. Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify is specially designed to help you start, run, and grow your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand, marketing tools that get your products out there, and integrated shipping solutions that

actually save you time, from startups to scale-ups, online, in person and on the go. Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your one-year-o per month trial at Shopify.e. I work in construction, specifically with a company that focuses on purchasing, refurbishing, and then reselling old buildings. I sort of always expected that I'd eventually come across some messed up things I mean everyone's heard the stories bodies stashing the walls crazed stabby squatters hidden murder dungeons cult stuff

all sorts of disturbing things I had long accepted it as simply a reality of the business I'd chosen as my trade as such I wasn't particularly surprised when a couple of weeks ago my expectations became a reality though I definitely wasn't expecting my eventual discovery to be so particularly unconventional terrifyingly unconventional the building in which said discovery occurred was an abandoned suburban home

single story with a basement the neighbourhood was nice enough not the sort that had a lot of unoccupied buildings for whatever reason this particular home had simply been left vacant bit odd but not particularly uncommon. I had heard rumours from a co-worker that the company had bought the place for pennies on the dollar. Something about the terrible crime happening there a decade or two ago. I didn't exactly look into it.

It wasn't really an uncommon sort of story when it came to properties the company purchased. Certainly wasn't the first, or even the second house, with a chequered past that I'd worked on myself. One of my co-workers and I were the first two into the building, the only two that were sent out at first. We were there to do some preliminary inspections, assess damages,

and maybe do a bit of light cleaning. Standard stuff. As far as several decade-old abandoned buildings went, this place was rather run-of-the-mill when he came to what state it was in. Not too bad, but not exactly anything close to good either. Usually, with these sorts of places, we consider it a win if the building hasn't already collapsed in on itself. A lot of the panelling and drywall was beginning to rot,

but its foundation and main supports seemed more or less solid. We weren't surprised to find some evidence that some local kids had likely been hanging out in the place. Thankfully, the vandalism and the trash that they left behind was on the low end of the spectrum in regards to the damages I'd seen. A few beer bottles and snack wrappers were strewn about. There was a mud stains here and there

that I suspected to be urine. plus some particularly edgy brat had spray-painted a bunch of vaguely satanic stuff all over the basement and left some spent candles out. Nothing I haven't seen before and nothing some patience and a power washer couldn't fix. In general, it was a pretty good assessment. With the way my company operates, they'd still turn a profit even if they had to bulldoze the place and build a new home on top of it. However, if at all possible, they prefer to preserve as much of the original structure of it. as they can. Vintage does sell for a lot more than new these days. Things would soon take a turn though, for me at least. I was in the process of cutting out a section of a particularly rotten

stretch of wall when it happened. I was trying to get a read on what we could expect in regards to the state of the units of the place, the insulation, the wiring, what sort of pests had moved in, another such concerns. This would also be when I'd most likely come across some sort of suspect things. In my several years with the company, I never actually come across anything particularly awful, up until this point.

I had no reason to believe that this time would be any different. Even so, my imagination ran wild as I finished cutting out a small square of rotten wall and let the loose bits fell to the floor with a limp flop. Even so, I never imagined I'd find what I did behind that rotten wall. I looked once, looked twice, stared for a moment, leaned in close to peer inside and took a few slow steps back, cut a hole in a different part of the wall, moved into a different room to cut a hole there, then another room. It was the same everywhere, where there should have been insulation in the walls.

someone had instead shoved in countless teddy bears. They were all of subtly different styles, but all carried the same dirty marks of wear and aging, that indicated they'd been in the wall for a very long time. Why would anyone put them there? I mean, they might kind of do something to insulate the house, but such reasoning hardly made sense. It was hardly effective, cost or otherwise,

and most certainly a fire hazard. The most obvious answer would be that they were purposely hidden. But why? Were they filled with drugs? A refrain from reaching out to grab one and check. I'd be better off simply reporting the matter, safer. I went to inform my co-worker, who was out in front of the house on a smoke break, about what I'd found. He seemed more or less irritated as he put out his cigarette and tucked the half-finished stick of tobacco behind his ear, but followed me inside anyway.

when I told him there was something he needed to see. Well, what is it? he asked. There, I replied, gesturing towards one of the holes I cut. Look! My co-worker grumbled a bit as he leaned in to take a look. He then frowned, moving over to another hole to take a look. Hard, he eventually replied. I know right, I replied.

Yeah, strange, he paused. Pretty weird for a home like a little. this to have no insulation whatsoever. But oh well, saves us some trouble as we probably would have had to replace it anyway. What? I asked, incredulously, as I leaned in to take another look into one of the holes. The teddy bears were gone. All of them. What? Was there something else? My co-worker asked. No, I replied, pausing for a moment. No, just that. I... I... laid in bed that night, still having yet to put those stuffed animals out to my mind. I was certain of what I'd seen, wasn't I?

It wasn't like such an obscenely large number of titty bears could simply disappear in the space of a minute or two. The only explanation that made any sense was that I'd simply imagine them. Regardless of how many I might have seen, there was still a relief to be found in denial. I leaned up slightly in bed, shifting myself to face the nearby window, and pushing the curtains aside. I like to look at the stars whenever I'm having trouble sleeping. I live on one of the upper floors of my apartment building, which gives me a vantage point that allows me a view

of what few stars aren't drowned out by the light pollution. Though sparse, the twinkling lights always helped to calm my mind. My gaze drifted downward to the street below, streetlights illuminating equidistant patches of deserted road. Mostly deserted road? There was a smallish silhouette that I could just barely make out underneath one of the lights. It was hard to determine much at that distance, but I thought I saw a pair of somewhat chubby arms and legs, as well as a set of distinctly recognisable rounded ears.

I yanked the curtain close once more and rolled over in bed, still just seeing things. Nothing to worry about. When I woke that morning, I glanced out the window to find no touch. trace of the silhouette from the night prior. I took some small comfort in that, yet I couldn't shake the slight sense of a knees that lingered in my gut. As I drove back to the property that morning, I listened to a podcast I pulled up on my phone to get my mind off of things.

It was largely successful too. That is, until I happened to glance out of my car window as I sat idle at an intersection waiting for the light to turn green. There was a teddy bear, ragged and worn. sitting on the street corner there at the intersection, basing towards me. I stared at it, blinking a bit and giving my eyes a quick rub. It was certainly there, unmistakably. Why? Why would it be there?

It couldn't be one of the ones that I'd seen at the house. No matter how similar it might look to the condition those ones were in, right? Some kid had forgotten it there or something. I made a point to not even look at the condition. the thing's general direction. Not until the light turned green and I left the bear long behind. I was distracted at work, as you might expect. Thankfully, there wasn't much of an issue though. As power-washing spray paint off of the concrete of the unfinished basement was the sort of work I could do absent-mindedly. I dwelled on the issue of the teddy bears for a bit, but soon found my

thoughts drawn to the vaguely satanic graffiti. I had to give the kids some credit. Unlike the lopsided, and misshapen pentagrams I'd found in other properties, the symbols and the ritual circle, whatever they were was so well made, one might be led to believe that they were actually authentic. The paint they used seemed to be high quality as well, as the power washer wasn't quite enough to get all of it off. I ducked out of the building and headed over to my truck,

intending to make a quick run out of the hardware store to get some paint thinner. I offered the bed of my truck a quick glance, making sure nothing had gone missing, since I'd last been out to my vehicle. And there it was. A teddy bear. The damn thing was nestled in amongst my tools and materials. It was even facing towards me,

as if whoever had put it in that specific spot had done so with that intention in mind. It looked much the same as the one I'd seen earlier that day, though there were enough distinctive details to tell me that it wasn't the exact same bear. I was certain that someone had to be messing with me at this point, angrily I snatched the bear from the bed in my truck and chucked it across the street I then hopped into my vehicle and went about my business fuming all the while

by the time I got back with the paint thinner the teddy bear had disappeared from where it left it after tossing it with nothing to fuel it my anger cooled to a mild irritation then to worry and eventually to a cold sort of apprehension and dread I could make no real sense of what was going on someone was messing with me, and I couldn't pass out any sort of motivation for them doing so. Perhaps there was no motivation, an idea that served only to deepen my concern. Those who act without any motivation act unpredictably and are presumably capable of almost anything.

I was able to finish out the rest of my workday and make my way home to the apartment without incident. I resisted the sense of security that this calm began to lull me into. Perhaps things had come to an end, but I didn't find that likely. All the same, I did allow some tension to ease its way out of my shoulders once I locked my apartment door behind me. Feeling sufficiently safe, I felt there would be no harm in unwinding a bit. I cracked open a few beers, finished the few beers, and came to the conclusion that the thing to do at that moment in time was to make myself a pot of homemade soup. I gathered up some odds and ends from my fridge and pantry and set myself to prepping.

I found making soup to be a calming and even therapeutic activity, as well as a good way to use up leftover vegetables. So I make a point to keep the necessities for making soup in supply. I was in the midst of chopping up some veggies, humming a bit of a tune to myself. When it happened, I looked up, taking a freshly warm parsnip and laying it down on my cutting board. I trimmed off the remnants of the greens and looked back up to toss them into the wastebasket There was a teddy bear

On the counter Right in front of me I nearly jumped two feet in the air My throat seized up And what was once the beginning of a scream Ease this way out of my mouth as a hollow wheeze The damn thing's beady black eyes were fixed To my own almost mockingly

Maybe it was the alcohol in my system but I was gripped by an irrational anger. I hated that bear. Without thinking, I gripped the damn thing by its neck and slammed it down on the cutting board. I lifted my knife aloft. It just wouldn't stop staring. The knife came down and I stabbed deeply into its gut.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, or if I was even expecting anything to happen. I most definitely wasn't expecting a spurt of hot, viscous liquid directly into my eye. I yelped, wiping up my eye with my free hand. It came away, red. I looked down at the bear, more dark red, blood, oozed out from around where the knife had stuck out of its belly. It smiled at me, and this time the scream had no trouble working its way out of my throat.

I fell backwards, scrambling away from the counter on my rear end. There was a loud tearing, a flicker of a sudden movement, and the pitts. a batter of small feet running away from me. It took me a few long moments, but eventually I was able to get upright on my shaky feet. The bear was gone. All that was left was the blood, and the knife protruding out of the cutting board. When I got closer, though, I realized that there was in fact something else there. A bit of furry hide pinned to the cutting board by the knife.

It was a bit too leathery for what was. one might expect from a teddy bear. A set of little footprints led away from the counter through my apartment and eventually up to one of my windows. However, the window was closed, locked and unbroken. I'm not entirely convinced it had left. I haven't seen another teddy bear since then, but somehow that just makes everything worse. Sometimes, I swear I hear one of them moving somewhere behind me, but by

the time I look around, they're gone. I heard scrambling in the walls on my apartment once. I know for a fact that it wouldn't be the first time this building has had a rat problem. I've let my landlord know what I heard, and he said he'd take care of it. However, I'm scared that it isn't as simple as just a rat. I've still only seen three or four so far. One of them is heavily wounded, or at least his should be. However, I know for a fact that there are plenty more where that came from.

from. And I'm scared. They may have found a new home. 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 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 friend Zach, so we could pretend to be like the characters in the show, unbeknownst to the fact that those things were an absolute finger trap, catching skin every time you snapped it open, and that they absolutely wrecked her 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 post box. A week later I get a letter back in just this 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 Yugo Dool-Disc, and that year the instructions were pretty simple.

The letter was filled with the metaphors of locks and and keys, the key to happiness and locks of the heart, fuffy 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 P.E. and volunteered to 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 yanked the key out to rush back to tasks. No one suspected a thing, and I had to struggle to keeping the inner smugness of having pulled off such a hoist.

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 tempted 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 it, and 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 mom 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

injure and 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 sprites itself with some. 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, rolling 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 swiped 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 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, 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 an 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 centre class. Those of us that hadn't eaten were given pre-arranged Christmas meals, called off at this point to eat in 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 see me.

Mulder, 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 spiked. They never split in the nicest of terms, but the past time seemed to have leveled 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 back 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 had changed. 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-style tasks There, Poplex faces never dropped Until my dad caved in first When he realised 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 It's 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 unanswered. 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 somewhere, 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 one 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. 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, and clutched to my wheezing chest. Anthony! My blissful dreams of unwrapping my brand-new Game Boy dissolved into the pitch-black reality of my room, the same weight pressing down in my lower rib cage. As I squinted up, I saw my sister, perched on my chest, still dressed in a dotted pyjamas. 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, he's here, Anthony, and 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. I jolted in bed, now fully awake. Santa, idiot, she exclaimed. At 11, bordering 12, I had already a healthy skepticism 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 prittling any'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 her heads out of 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, soaring 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 and his 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 suddusted, cloven hooves, a forked tail swaying between two powerful furred legs. The figure's 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 a 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 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 breaking, 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 ached 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 turned.

It blindly groped around the floor, trying to pull the rest of the body it 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, Abras 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 brought 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 on 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 presence 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 failed 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 chain 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 Crampas. Despite having no idea what it meant, a chill ran down my spine as I read it.

However, the inside was written in elegant, jointed English handwriting, bearing both our names at the top. Tuani 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 one. 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 life-like 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 praise 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 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, and 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 is 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 hair. head. I've been jogging 10 miles every morning since I was 17, but 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 treks like this one. Five thousand 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. 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'd 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 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 hole. 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.

The ship was like black volcanic rock encased in glittering ice. Here and there bits of rigging and wood jotted 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 trap door that led to the below deck, I found my hand moving towards the latch before I'd 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 small. catch form at the back of my throat. The rigging of this 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 a 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 laying 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 fingerless 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 desires. 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's size of thought 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 and return, maybe set up a video feed. Maggie replied. As a meteorologist, I definitely feel a little out of my wheelhouse. 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 of the same. 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 him categorizing each tongue and blade for later expeditions. I tried to pour through these eyes. 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 whalebone, 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.

in 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 rod. 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-nored 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 we 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, 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 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 hard it'd 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 in 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, 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, 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-hewned trunks with still visible bark preserved by God knows how long spent 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 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 stools 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? Craig 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, Craig 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 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 swing. 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. Bloody 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 floor we run 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 no. 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 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 withered tree stood dominating in the centre of the room. Its limbs were decorated withered black prunes and charcoal rope

that would have been familiar to anyone who seen what centres have decayed, can do to frozen human remains. The baubles were organs, the tintel, intestines, left out to 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-dripping piece of waffle that sagged from the tree branch.

It's still warm, too. The eyes and that dull, Craig said, saw him 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 coloration of hardwood. The eyes, however, were far too human, and the arises 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. There's 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 had been cracked open like a turkey and left to air 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 in. 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. 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 longer 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, and 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 return to camp a few hours last. later, taking a few of the less terrifying artefacts 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 glary dream across the magnificent tundra, I found myself agreeing with him. 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 noticed them 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 it 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 had 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 it 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 pinnifor.

This is too weird, Maggie said. I bent down and noticed the name tag etched with meticulous cursive. Wilkuma Gionas, I 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 bloodsogged 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 weakly. Let's head down. The hold wasn't changed 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 agony 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'd 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 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 fit for. 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. 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 hold 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 was a little. 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 but 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 Yeoenster deskyoen The words sent shivers down my spine You left this old friend

It read I have a close friend who's a psychiatrist Please don't read too much into that She mostly just teaches these days From a textbook that she wrote no less But back when she was still practising This friend's speciality was the treatment of specific phobias You know, patients with an irrational fear of heights or needles or spiders

stuff like that. That's where I lovingly refer to her as Dr. Scarry, a nickname which she absolutely adores no matter what that lying cow tells you. One night, when we were both especially turned, I asked Dr. Scarry if she ever encountered a patient with a phobia that managed to scare even her. We were seated directly beside each other

on the wooden bench swinging suspended from her back porch, but Dr. Scarry didn't look at me when she replied. Her gaze remained fixed on the shadowy expanse of a well-manacured backyard and she scoffed and slowly nodded. And then she said, The elevator people. When this particular patient, a 39-year-old medical supply salesman who will call Simon, first showed up at Dr. Scarry's office,

he had listed fear of elevators as the reason why. Needless to say, but if that was an accurate summation of Simon's issue, we wouldn't be here. It all started almost a year prior while Simon was at a conference in Las Vegas. He was there with his sales manager, scoping out the latest innovations in pacemaker technology and hoping to find a distributor willing to haggle. The trip really was all business too. Simon had never been much for gambling and the live shows gave him a headache.

The conference might as well have been in voice for all he cared. Simon noted that the initial elevator ride up to his hotel room that night had been perfectly unavoid. though his flight to McCarran had been delayed of course. Simon had barely made it to the hotel with enough time for a quick shower and change of clothes before the meeting grid at the lounge at 8pm. It was five after when he finally re-emerged from the room in a flurry, Ty still untied and his blazer draped over one arm. As Simon hurried over to the bank of elevators at the other end of the hall, he got a text

from his sales manager, who sounded annoyed and was currently waiting for him down in the lobby. Simon hit the button to call for an elevator as he began to frantically tap out a response text explaining the flight delay. There was a mechanical ding as the middle elevator's metal door slid open in his periphery. Simon started inside the elevator as he finished his text and hit send. He looked up to smile politely at the other passengers on board. And that is when Simon went rigid. His half-formed smile freezing in place as a tingling surge of fear temporarily overly over-oed control of his body.

To his right, and naked and skeletally thin, old man stood grinning back at Simon. The man was completely hairless, his malformed bald head was the shape of a used pencil eraser. He didn't have eyebrows or facial hair. To Simon's left stood a woman in a tattered grey dress. She appeared to be hairless as well, and had a similarly deranged grin stretched across the front of a similarly bald and oddly shaped head. She spotted a pronounced hunchback and a glimmering feline eyes. Simon's bewildered gaze darted from the naked man to the female hunchback, then down to the bald child peeking out from behind her.

The woman shoved the child back out of sight as the naked man attempted to grab Simon by his face. Seeing those grimy fingers dart towards him was enough to finally snap Simon out of his shock and he just barely managed to evade the naked man's grasp with a single leaping jump back out of the elevator. He hadn't moved like that since college, and every joint and tendon in Simon's legs was currently screaming at him. Fortunately, at that moment, adrenaline was making it impossible for Simon to register much

of anything else, aside from the elevator doors sliding closed and what felt like slow motion, just as a lunging naked man was about to reach between them. A dumbstruck Simon was still standing there, quietly panting and staring at those same closed elevator doors a full minute later. when an attractive blonde woman approached from the other end of the hallway. She gave Simon a wave as she neared, but he didn't seem to register her presence. The woman's expression went from confused to annoyed, as she noticed that the button to call the elevator still needed to be pushed.

Simon shook off his days, managed to take the next elevator all the way down to the lobby without further incident. If you count several awkward glances from the attractive woman who rode down with him. He was only fashionably late for the rendez-over. with his sales manager, who was already busy talking up several of the reps waiting in line for the meet and greet. The open bar and inane conversation helped Simon put what had just happened to him out of his mind for the moment, and, to his surprise, it actually turned out to be a rather lucrative evening. So much so that about an hour in, Simon's manager gave him a pat on the back

and announced that he was going to officially clock out for the night to, quote, start focusing on Humma Bang. Still feeling a bit jet-lagged and generally exhausted from his earlier encounter, Simon decided to take this opportunity to get some much-needed rest before tomorrow, when the real work needed to get done. As he exited the hotel lounge and made his way back across the lobby, Simon spotted a pair of Vegas newlyweds forcefully making out while they waited for an elevator. A wave of relief washed over him when Simon realized he wouldn't have to ride back up to his room alone.

An elevator arrived a few moments later and Simon hit the button for the 10th floor as he entered. The couple followed him on and the young guy leaned away from his better half just long enough to poke the button labeled 3. Simon's stomach began to churn as he realised he was going to have to ride for seven whole floors by himself. When the car stopped to let the couple out

he was tempted to exit with them and take the stairs the rest of the way but the lovebirds had seen him hit the button for the 10th of 1. ready, following them off now without looking like a weirdo would be rather difficult. Simon just barely managed to suppress his urge to sprint out of there and took a deep breath as the elevator door slowly slid shut with him still enclosed behind them. The elevator resumed its ascent and almost immediately the overhead lights began to flicker. This prompted a tired eye roll from Simon as he muttered, You've got to be kidding.

That's when the lights switched off completely. He could feel the car continue its climb as he reflectively spun around and pressed his back to the cold steel of the elevator's inner doors. Somewhere, just past the oppressive darkness now enveloping him, Simon could hear movement. He held his breath in an attempt to better discern the sound's location. As Simon's eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he glimpsed what at first appeared to be the silhouette of a massive spider crawling towards him. but this was only a trigger of perspective. What he was actually seeing was merely a hand reaching out to grab Simon

by his face. There was another ding as the doors he was leaning against finally slid open, sending Simon spilling out onto the hotel's gaudy painted carpet, landing face up and looking into an open elevator that currently appeared to be both well lit and noticeably empty. It was that moment right there

when his fear of the elevator people truly took root. Since the inciting incident was tangibly related to his job, Dr. Scarry's first instinct had been to examine Simon's work life. He claimed he couldn't have been happier on that end. He liked the job and he had made good money doing it. Simon even liked the people he worked for, despite the fact that his sales manager was five years younger than him and a womanizing dick.

He was a young womanizing dick who knew the market and stayed out of Simon's way. At that point, the only negative aspect of his job stemmed from his recent inability to easily move about tall buildings. That might not sound like much of an issue to those of you who don't live and or work in large cities, but Simon did both. Granted, being in sales meant he spent most of each workday away from his own office, but the majority of that time was usually spent

visiting other people's offices in different, often taller buildings. As is typically the case with phobia patients. In the beginning, Simon tried to solve the problem by developing various workarounds for his sudden, yet crippling fear of riding in elevators alone. He started scheduling a lot more lunches with prospective buyers. He offered to take clients golfing, anything that would get them to meet him down on ground level.

He even volunteered to train the new intern because he gave Simon someone he could drag along with him on cold calls. But there was still the annual conference which were always out of town and often involved staying in hotels. And there was also the mortgage on his high-rise condo apartment which his husband, Ronald, absolutely adored. Simon had confided in Ronald

about his fear of the elevator people pretty much as soon as he became an issue. The whole thing had been rather difficult to hide from him given the circumstances. Of course, Ronald was totally understanding and most nights, he was able to meet Simon down in the lobby when he got home from work,

so they could ride the elevator up together. Of course, no system devised by humans was ever truly perfect. Eventually, they came a day when Ronald had to suddenly go out of town to assist his cousin with an extended family emergency, which resulted in Simon having to sprint up 15 flights upstairs to narrowly avoid crapping himself

because he had scheduled three different lunches with clients earlier that day, and two of them were at the same Mexican restaurant. It was actually this very bathroom mishap which finally convinced Simon that he was going to need professional help for his phobia if he wanted any chance at living a normal life. Though, in a rare and rather humbling turn of events, Simon's case was the first one in a long while that had Dr. Scarry feeling holy and truly stumped as to how she should proceed. She had asked about Simon's relationship with Ronald. He was the greatest thing that ever happened to him, Simon's parents. both still alive and super-accepting of their successful gay son,

and the likelihood that this was all stemming from a traumatic childhood event Simon simply failed to mention, apparently not very. I grew up in Connecticut, he said. Dr. Scarry must have looked disappointed by this answer because Simon followed it up with, not a big fan of the Constitution state. I'm just worried you might be schizophrenic. He was now Simon's turn to look disappointed

as he took a moment to consider this. Then, he said, Isn't that a hereditary condition? Typically, but not always. There may be no documented cases in your family history. There are, Simon replied with a nod. My aunt and my grandmother. Dr. Scarry held up her hands in a slow down gesture and said,

Okay, back up. For starters, symptoms of schizophrenia typically start to present in men by their early twenties. Plus, that was pure speculation. It's just as likely we simply haven't located the right stressor yet. There's plenty of stuff we can try. Like what? Are you familiar with the concept of exposure therapy? Dr. Scarry typically didn't like attempting such a drastic treatment this early into the process, but she clearly wasn't getting anywhere, just talking with Simon. Dr. Atterodora thought that if she could watch and react to the source of

his phobia in real time, it might tell her something that Simon couldn't. So, she decided to make their next session a house call. It was just past 1pm when Dr. Scarry arrived at Simon's high-rise condo complex. At that time on a weekday, his husband, Ronald, like most of the building's tenants, were still at work.

This, of course, had been intentional. They required an empty elevator for the exposure therapy, and Simon didn't need to feel any more self-conscious about this than he already did. It doesn't have to be all 15. One would be fantastic.

Ride one floor down by yourself and look. Dr. Skerry gestured at the smartphone in Simon's hand. He turned her own around to show him that the two phones are currently face-timing each other as she continued. I'm going to be here with you the whole way. Dr. Skerry gently grabbed Simon's arm and guided it up until his phone camera was aimed at his face. Right here. Perfect. Now, we're going to get started. Okay? Simon didn't respond, but it was clear from his expression that he wasn't exactly psyched about exposure therapy.

No phobia patient ever was. But then finally, Simon glanced at her as he lifted his shoulders in a nearly imperceptible shrug before returning his gaze to the elevator's closed outer doors. Okay, Dr. Scarry repeated. She then casually hit the button to call for an elevator and she turned to head inside Simon's condo. She leaned her back against the door to shut it behind her as Dr. Scarry held up a smartphone to address Simon through the screen. His uneasy expression had transformed into something more primeval by this point. He looked like a wild animal sensing an approaching storm.

Dr. Scarry tried to comfort Simon by saying, Remember, I'm right here. Simon's eyes stayed trained on the elevated doors as he eventually replied, No, you're not. there's nothing you could do anyway. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Dr. Scarry attempted to say something in protest, but was suddenly cut off by the familiar ding of an arriving elevator.

She heard the metal doors slide open, and then Simon let out a sudden, thunderous gasp. Oh, God, no, God, no, Jesus, please, he frantically muttered as he started to back away. What? What are you seeing? Look, he screamed. and then turned his phone around so Dr. Scary could see

inside the elevator. The interior wasn't well lit and it was hard to make out most of the details through Simon's forward-facing phone camera. But Dr. Scary swore she saw two figures inside that elevator.

They were both bald. The one on the right was skeletally thin and appeared to be naked. The figure on the left was shorter and had a pronounced hunchback. And just before Simon finally dropped his phone

and sprinted inside the condo. Dr. Scary glimpsed, a much smaller figure behind the first two, lying motionless against the back wall of the elevator. She said this smaller figure resembled something somebody had crumbled up and tossed aside, like the balled-up piece of paper you find next to a trash can, but instead of paper,

its pale skin and broken bones covered in bite marks. Bite marks? Dr. Scarry nodded and replied, big red bite marks. I waited for her to continue, but she remained silent for several moments. Then, finally, Dr. Scarry turned, and, for the first time since starting a story,

she looked at me. Her mouth was twisted into a somber, humorless smile, as she said. After that, Simon stopped showing up for his sessions. He killed himself a few months later. Caughts off guard, I reeled back and replied, Good God, woman, when was all this? Dr. Scarry's sad smile got a little sadder, and she said,

Right before I closed down my practice. Another long and much more awkward silence followed. Then, as if she could sense the one question I was still too afraid to ask, Dr. Scarry added, I never saw them again after that, though, I'll be honest. For a while, I was genuinely scared I might. But what happened that day was merely a pretty important. prime example of the power of suggestion.

Simon's fear of the elevated people made them so real in that moment. It's actually not surprising I saw what I did. I thought this over and then shrugged as I said. Makes sense. Though, of course, there were

the dreams. You had dreams about the elevator people? Dr. Scarry slowly nodded while avoiding my eye contact. She exhaled a sigh and then said, It actually still happens occasionally. It's the weirdest thing too.

Most of the time I'll be dreaming about nothing especially terrifying. You know, like visiting my sister, who somehow now lives at the summer camp we used to go to as kids. mundane stuff like that. And then, out of nowhere, I'll get hit with this. She tends their fingers into a claw-like gesture as she motions at a chest and said, Overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

That's how I know they're close. Dr. Scary glanced over at me again, and I saw that her eyes were now brimming with tears, yet the tone remained almost unnervingly even as she continued. And that's when I'll realize I'm standing at a bank of elevators, and I can hear one approaching from below, and that creeping, hopeless dread is now so palpable I can literally taste it in my mouth, like dirty copper. I turn and try to run, but my legs feel like they're encased in cement,

and I can hear the elevator doors opening behind me. I don't want to look, but I know it won't matter. The worst part, though, in the dreams, they know my name. I put her hand on Dr. Scarry's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, and she suddenly turned to glare at me, a morbid grin where her somber expression had just been as she nearly shouted, Do you want to know what they tell me?

I opened my mouth, but before I could stutter out a coherent response, Dr. Scary started blinking and her creepy grin reverted to a confused frown. She said my name I could question and asked if I was okay. I lied and told her I was fine and thanked her for sharing such a fascinating story.

And yet at first I thought there was no way I was ever going to tell it to anyone. Sure, it was creepy enough to have potential but in the end it just left me feeling sad for my friend. So I put the whole whole thing out of my mind, and for a while, that was that.

Though, yes, much like Simon, I too technically live and work in a major city, but my place is a duplex and my job is at a bar, so I typically don't encounter a lot of elevators in my own day-to-day life. But then my dentist retired, and the new guy my insurance switched me to just so happened to work at one of the CBD's taller high-rises. And even then, I managed to do. to get all the way across the building's otherwise vacant lobby and hit the button to call for an elevator

before Dr. Scarey's story finally came rushing back to me in vivid detail. It was the first time I'd even really thought about the elevator people since that night. I remember the look in her face as she described what she saw during Simon's exposure therapy session. The way she had grinned when she said,

Do you want to know what they tell me? I was outside in the courtyard, ordering the front of the high rise and trying to steady my hand long enough to light a cigarette before I was fully aware that I had left the building. It was about then that I decided two things, almost simultaneously. Number one, 12 flights of stairs would definitely count as my cardio for the day. Number two, if I have to worry about this mess now,

I'm taking the rest of you with me. This morning, I saw Santa cry, in an old battered crossover. One of the back tires had been replaced with the donut, and I could see the small clothes rod hanging up in the space behind the front seat where the large man sat, shuddering as he rested his wet face on white-gloved hands, hands that gripped the car steering wheel, as though it was the only life preserver bobbing in a black and wintry sea.

It wasn't the real Santa, of course. The Harvest Mills Mall couldn't afford both a cookie shop and a pretzel store, so the idea that they could pull the real deal seemed highly unlikely. Besides, I knew this guy, or at least knew of him. This sweeping Santa was Taylor Lemons, a town drunk and regional cautionary tale. A few years earlier, his kid had disappeared around Christmas, never to be seen again. Before the holiday rolled around again, he had lost everything. His wife left him, he started drinking all the time, and before long, his lucrative job as IT manager for the big office park outside of town went.

the way of his wife and little boy. It wasn't a small town exactly, but it was small enough that word got around. Whispered gossip of all that he had lost, men and women recounting the tale, embellishing it, wrapping it in the soft, smooth trappings of sympathy and regret,

as though they hated so much what had befallen the man called Taylor Lemons. But beneath that wrapping was a sharper, nastier thing, a preserved sense of glee and voyeuristic sadism. A look that would steal across their face As they recounted the implosion of a human life

A look that said they were glad it had happened That maybe this man's misfortune confirmed their own good luck Or how high their chosen god held them in esteem Or at the very least it was a sign that the angel of despair Had passed by their own door without pause Thrown off by the scent of blood already shed Watching this man in his late forties Tarted up in a shabby Santa costume

as he sat in his car sobbing. I didn't feel any glee or sense of blessing. I only felt shame and sadness, and oddly enough, guilt. I almost went over and checked on him, tapped on his window and wished him a Merry Christmas, or at the very least, asked if he was okay. But then he glared up,

and my motivation withered. His eyes was so red and so hungry, so raw and alone, I couldn't deal with that. I didn't know. know him? Nothing I could say would help, and what if he was crazy or dangerous? So instead, I just gave him a little wave and went on my way. I could hear Uncle Mike's loud mouth before I made it through the front door. I knew he was coming for Christmas, of course,

but the knowing had done little but gave me the constant needlepick of presided dread, anticipation of loud stories as he steamrolled every conversation, awkward tension as he slowly got drunk and more obnoxious before turning the inevitable corner. of being overly sensitive and apologising to everyone for being such an asshole. So, as far as I could tell, he only came because he was bored and lonely, and we only invited him because Mom felt sorry for him. But whatever the motivations, it got harder to stomach every year, and I found myself thinking of excuses to go run errands or hide in my room as much as possible.

I closed the front door softly, hoping I could scoot through to the back of the house without anyone noticing. but, Lottie, come here, girl, give Uncle Mike a hug. He was already to me before I turned around good, crushing me in an awkward bear hug

that flooded my nose with the smell of stale beer and closed cigarettes, letting out a rumbling laugh, he swung me under his arm and guided me toward the living room. Come see what I brought to liven up our Christmas.

My eyes had already found it. A monstrosity of a tree, crowded into the back half of the living, living room. It had clearly been cut down quite a bit, and it still pressed against the ceiling as though it planned to burst through the roof and reach out into the sky. Mom was stringing lights on it while Dad watched her work dubiously. It's, um, it's big.

I looked back to Dad, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. What happened to our tree? He went to answer, but Mom beat into it. A strange smile on her face. we put it back up dear Mike was good enough to bring this beautiful thing so we had to make room for it isn't it great

I stared at her um yeah great glancing at Mike I couldn't help but add but the old tree was pretty great too Mike grinned and gave me a squeeze no no I saw that thing

it was old and ragged artificial too no smell He sucked in a deep breath. You smell that? That's the real stuff right there. Smells like Christmas. I slid out from under his arm. Ah, huh.

Where'd you get it? It's gigantic. My uncle hugged his finger in his belt. Got it from a new job. Security and Ranger for the Mercer estate up north. Lots of woodland. He jerked a thumb towards the tree. One of the fringe benefits is going to bring a kick-ass tree for Christmas.

I wanted to ask if he'd actually ask permission to take one of the trees he was supposed to be guarding, but I suppressed the urge. No point in stowing up drama this early. Things would inevitably go downhill without my help anyway. What's that noise? Mom glanced at my father with a raised eyebrow. What noise? It was getting late now. Dinner had been eaten.

A single present had been unrapped by everyone, and now we sat in the stupor, staring at some sappy greeting card movie. on TV, or Mike punctuated the bad acting and heartless chipper soundtrack with thick, wet snoring sounds that made me more than a little queasy. Dad was sitting up more now. There's... I don't know. There's a funny squeaking sound coming from somewhere. He glanced around before locking onto the tree.

I think it's coming from that thing. Mom frowned at him. I doubt that seriously. You think there's a squirrel in there like in that movie? He returned a frown, irritation wrinkling his brow. No, but I know what I... He froze for a second, cocking his head like a dog, catching a sign of his quarry. There, did you hear it?

I nodded. I had heard something. A strange, softly shrill sound, like a screen door squeaking shut in the distant room. But the noise hadn't been far away. Dad was right. It was coming from the tree. He was on his feet now, pulling out his phone to turn on his light while walking up to it. I could tell Mom was getting ready to poke fun at him, but I didn't think it was going to matter. He was determined looking as he reached the tree and lifted one of his heavy branches.

I could only see the side of his face, but he was enough to seem squint as he shine the light into the dark interior of the tree, enough to see his eyes widen as something small and black leapt out onto his face. He stumbled back with a scream Which was all the opening the thing needed It scuttled from his chin And was gone inside as he fell to the floor And began thrashing as he clawed at his throat I could hear myself screaming now

Eyes rolling to mum for her to help To fix things To make me understand that this wasn't really happening at all Something But there was one crawling into her ear Black legs sliding out of view As her eyes flooded closed And she began to jerk slide away out of a chair

And onto the floor My last hope, unconscious Mike, was no hope at all. He hadn't stirred in the commotion, and even as I reached out to shake him awake, I heard a screeching sound as something fell past my face and landed on his chest. I was going to try and swat it off, but then I felt something on me too, digging sharp feet into my back as it crawled up towards my head. I stood up to shake it off or take off my shirt, but my legs weren't working right. nothing was.

I couldn't move my arms, I couldn't breathe. I felt at the carpet, barely feeling the impact as the world contracted to a pinprick of terror. And then it was gone. I woke up to snow, fluttering down onto my cheeks. I was in a field, some strange field I didn't recognise, covered in thick snow. And beyond that, a lake and a black winter forest unlike any I'd ever known. My parents and Mike were nearby, dead or unconscious on the ground, and my initial confused panic became more focused

as I remember the tiny black things that had attacked us from the tree. That was when I heard a loud snort behind me. I turned and led out a gasp at what was slowly approaching. Nine, massive deer with thick, shaggy fur and jagged horns that gleam like metal in the cold moonlight and looked wickedly sharp.

I felt no sense of wonder or joy at seeing them. Instead, I felt the abject fear warring the icy dread in my chest as my mind tried to fully take in what was coming toward me. They trudged across the snow lightly, spindly white legs ended in heavy black hooves that echo loudly, despite leaving barely a trace on the winter's skin of the world. Several of the deer had legs that moved at odd angles, and one seemed to have six legs instead of four, but all of that was secondary. My eyes were on their king.

It was smaller than the rest, but only. in stature. He carried the air of royalty, the surety of command. As if, to confirm my impressions, a burning crown of red fire began to form between the warped nests of bone that sprouted from the sides of his head. I squinted against that brilliant beacon as I heard its rough voice clawing in my head. Are you ready to do what you promised? I lifted my arm to block some of that terrible crimson light. Promised? What are you talking about?

You must do what you promised, complete what was begun, or all is for naught, and they will go into his minds, and you, Oathbreaker, will fare far worse. Mincing, I forced myself to look at the thing with a blazing crown. I haven't promised anything. I don't know what you're talking about. I felt heat coming off the creature as it stepped closer, towering over me. Its breath was fettered, boiling down as it boomed its breath. poison across my mind. Really? It wretched and spat something out onto the snow at my feet.

Then, what is that? I found my stomach shrivel as I looked down and recognised what had been deposited there. It was a folded piece of paper, clearly written in a child's version of my handwriting. On the side facing up, it said, to Santa. I looked back up at the dear thing and saw in his gaze that it knew that I read. recognized it, that I remembered what it said. Despite my fear, I frowned at it. I never got anything.

I only asked for one thing, and I never got it. So, I don't know what you're talking about. Don't lie, child. We know what you promised in your heart. You saw the boy that very day, hated him just for the sake of hating. How happy he seemed when you were so sad and lonely. With your shabby toys and shabby friends,

and shabby life. So you went home and wrote a letter asking for one thing you wanted most in the world, that you'd do anything for it, give anything for it, and you deserved it, you said, because you had been such a very good girl that year. Taking a step back, I glanced around desperately. Should I try to run? Where could I go? And what about my family? I... What do you want me to do? The voice thundered again in my skull as the world broke apart. What you've done already. Just remember it.

And do it again. I shivered against the cold as I looked up at the second floor of the house. I thought I knew what window was Toby's, but I couldn't be sure. The idea of being out at night, all alone and up to no good, scared me. But it excited me too. and this was the riskiest part. If I could get him to the window, I could talk him outside. I was good at talking people into things, especially kids my own age.

So I threw a pebble, then a second. As I was reading a third, the boy came to the window. He looked sleepy and a little scared until he saw me stand up from the bushes. I was a year older than him, and I knew he liked me, thought I was cool. It only took a few moments of whispered encouragement to get him to put on his coat and come down to the yard. I had something cool to show him, after all. He didn't get nervous until we were five minutes into the woods behind his house.

Scared didn't come until I was hitting him over and over with a rock until he didn't move any more. There was a large overflow pipe nearby. I hadn't known it was there. I'd never been in those woods before, but I hadn't had any trouble finding it when they'd. time came. Even then, I guess they'd find him eventually. One day the next week, I'd hear about how little Toby Lemons was beaten the death and found in the drain pipe, and I'd have to act

surprised and sad. But they never did find him, and I never got what I wanted, and before long it was easy to think it had never happened at all, until the deer brought me back to it, had me do it again, choose it again, and I felt his head give as I mashed that rock down into his stupid face. I gagged at the stench of the reindeer as it came back to me now. It had lowered its face to mine, and so close the smell and heat were unbearable. If only, I wasn't too afraid to move. The master keeps his word. Your family will be free, as will you. I nodded and felt a small, hopeful smile creeping onto my face. When they wake, you will all be back in your beds, and they won't remember what happened to them.

But they will remember your fulfilling of the pact, what you did in the woods. Gasping in cold air, I shook my head. They, no, they never knew that, any of that. There was a rumbling from the creature that might have been a little bit of. laugh. They do now. With that, the creature turned and began walking away, the procession of horrors parting for him, even as he paused to look back, giving me a final baleful glare. He reached something else out onto the snow before turning to walk away. I recognized it before it hit the ground, though I'd only ever seen one on TV, years ago. I heard the burning

deer's mocking voice in my head again. Here's what you asked for. What you deserved for being such a good girl. Enjoy your new doll. I stared at the slime-coated bit of plastic and cloth that was already disappearing into the snow, barely able to recognize it now. In my peripheral vision,

the snow-covered mounds of my family were fading away with everything else, and I could already feel myself slipping back into warm darkness. None of this made sense. It wasn't fair. I looked up, ready to call out, demand an explanation or another chance, but the reindeer and their king were already gone into the dark, and I wasn't far behind. I awoke at home in bed, my soiled prize tucked under my arm.

It wasn't long before there was a pounding on my door.