Creepy - The Christmas Pageant

Episode Date: December 20, 2021

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Written by Ryan Peacock Over the years I've had multiple people ask me about the Christmas pageant held in my mother's hometown of Forsel in the Netherlands. So, given the particular time of year, I thought it only right that I take the time to finally discuss it. I will warn you up front. The Forsel Christmas pageant is not exactly what one might immediately expect when they hear the words Christmas pageant. I'd honestly say that the name doesn't exactly fit it well. But that's what it's been called for as long as I can remember. And if it has any other name, I don't know it.

The tradition probably dates back longer than forceful has even existed. I don't know the full history behind it. And I'm not entirely sure that there's anyone still alive who does. Even those enforceable who still hold fast to the old traditions probably don't know where they came from anymore. It's all been lost to time and buried by history. Because of all that, I can provide no real answers beyond. what little I experienced firsthand.

I have, however, drawn some of my own conclusions from what I do know, and I imagine that you'll do the same. Whether there truly is anything behind the force of Christmas pageant or not, it's really a matter of personal belief. At the end of the day, it's very much just a strange local tradition and may have no real significance towards the rest of the world. Whatever the case, it's what I grew up with. and despite everything, I still do hold my fond memories of it.

When I was a young boy, I participated in the Forsel Christmas pageant. Then again, so does every other child under 12. Participation is considered to be mandatory, although that doesn't mean it isn't fun. Well, yes, the pageant itself is a rather formal and somewhat dour affair. Kids will still be kids. Put enough of them in a room together, and that, I'll find some way to have fun. That was a bit of an odd case among some of the other children.

My mother was born in Forsel, but she moved to the United States when she met my father years ago. Most of the year we lived in a decent-sized house in the American suburbs, but during November and December we'd spend our time in Forsel living with my grandparents. I used to look forward to it every year. Not just because I got a couple months away from school, but because I had friends in town. It was exciting to see them and catch up. It was like for a couple of months, I could live an entirely different life.

Just for a little while. I wasn't the only one who lived in forceful during the holiday season. A lot of people who had moved abroad came back for the Christmas pageant. They'd bring their kids to participate, and it was just as fun to see them too. Most of them had moved to America, but some would come from Canada, and England and a few other surrounding countries. The Christmas pageant brought us all together. We play games during breaks or after rehearsals.

We play in the snow, out by the pageant grounds or play hide and seek in the forest so long as it wasn't dark. In fact, I remember looking forward to rehearsal days just because I knew I'd get to see my friends. I remember once my friend Bram and I caught hell from one of the organizers during a dress rehearsal when we took advantage of a break to go to bogging out back. Our costumes have been covered in snow when we returned the old woman who had been organizing the pageant that year chewed us out in Dutch for the better part of 15 minutes. She'd made us finish the rehearsal soaking wet as punishment.

But I can't say either of us regretted a thing, even though I don't think I've ever been so cold in my life. Looking back at it, I suppose it is a little bit funny, how excited I was for the pageant every year. As I said before, the actual proceedings are a little bit dull, and I can't quite say that it was very Christmassy. Not in the conventional sense, at least. But that's Forsel for you.

Their traditions are a little simpler than what most others are used to. In fact, I couldn't tell you of a single place in the world that does Christmas the same way as they do it in Forsel. And I'm genuinely not sure I mean that entirely as a compliment. I've seen how the rest of the world views the holiday and how drastically different it is from what I grew up with. Outside of Forsel, there's much more focus on the upbeat aspects of the holiday. The bright colors, the gifts, and the jolly old man in red. Yeah, you get some of that in Forsel, but not quite as much.

Christmas was always a much more quiet and formal affair. For example, their Christmas season didn't officially start until December. There were no decorations in November, as those were considered to bring bad luck. It was usually mid-December before anyone began decorating, and even then, they weren't quite as flashy as some of the ones I've seen in other parts of the world. There were no elaborate lights or figurines. It was all very traditional. Grandma and Grandpa would decorate their home with a bit of greenery, handmade evergreen wreaths and bowels of holly, amongst other things. Nothing plastic or bought from a store.

That was partially because the nearest place to buy such things was an hour or so drive out of town. And partially because they all seemed to look down on such things as an omen of bad luck. We cut our Christmas trees from the forest outside of town and decorate them with old ornaments, most of which were handmade by our grandparents, although each member of the family contributed a decoration or two of their own making in time. There were no carolers, no special holiday season, sales and the local shops. Nobody dressed up as Santa Claus, and there were very few, if any, parties. Outside of the decorations, Christmas was always a quiet and family-focused affair.

The only major community gathering they had was the pageant, which was held every year on the evening of December 20th. It came around like clockwork, and carried out in much the same way. As I said before, every child under 12 was required to participate. Usually there wouldn't be more than 20 or 30 of us, almost half of whom weren't full-time residents. Being a small town, Fawcille didn't have very many children, and by the time I left, the number had dwindled to around 15, including those who came down just for the pageant.

There were probably even less of them now. The pageant was never particularly exciting to either watch or to perform, but everyone in town came to see it all the same and every child participated in it. As a sunset on December 20th, everyone in town would venture out to the pageant grounds on the edge of town. The pageant grounds were carved in stone near the edge of the forest. People brought their own chairs to sit and watch as the children gathered with their backs to the trees. They would assemble in rows with the youngest in front and the oldest in back. All them dressed in red cloaks lined with white furrow.

furs and they would sing. The songs they would have them sing were always strange. The lyrics weren't in any language I know. In fact, I'm not sure just what language they were in at all. I have looked, half-heartedly, for an answer, but I've never found one. We all knew what the lyrics were supposed to mean, of course. We had all read the lyric sheets, which came with a translation. Although, I don't think any of us thought too hard on any of it. It wasn't until recently, when I thought about the forced of Christmas patching. But I truly stopped to think about them and realized just how odd they were. The translated lyrics were as follows, although my memory is a bit rusty, so if there are some errors, please forgive me.

In the forest, in the forest, where the snow is not broken in the old man sleeps, in the house in the house, where the fire is cold and the old man sleeps. Be good and walk quietly. Don't make a sound. Light the fire and open the wine. The old man sleeps for now. We offer a gift of roast meat and red wine. On this day would no sinner be unpunished.

On this night let no good man be harmed. Follow the song, follow the song. Let the old man sleep again. The song doesn't make much sense outside of context, unfortunately, and translated into English. I'd say that it loses most of its impact. That said, I'd be lying if I said that reading these words again after all these years didn't send an icy chill through me. I can still hear the low chanting of children, reciting the song in its original language. No music to accompany them.

Just a chorus of young voices speaking words they didn't understand. to a sea of adults who regarded the whole affair with stern intensity. This was always the first song-song that began the pageant, and it was the most important. There are other songs sung after this, of course, but nothing with quite the same impact. Nothing in that bizarre, forgotten language that no one understood. The other songs were more traditional Dutch carols, the kindied here elsewhere in the Netherlands, and most of the children participated in those while the other part of the pageant was prepared. Every year, two of the oldest children would be selected from the group of 12-year-olds

who wouldn't be participating next year. There was always people chosen both by the other children and by the adults, and it was always someone thought well of by the community. They were usually the kids who did well in school, were kind to their friends, and treated others with empathy. Good kids. Most children didn't see the full extent of the force of Christmas pageant. Sure, they hear things, rumors, whispers, but they dismiss them.

I know I did. I wrote it off as some odd tradition, and maybe it is. Maybe there really is nothing more to it, but I don't know if I believe that. When I was told that I was one of the ones who was chosen amongst my peers, I was beyond excited. I'd seen it happen to others over the years. during the pageant while the younger children sang, the oldest will quietly leave and retreat into the woods with one of the adults. They would remain absent until the last song,

when at last they would return. We never saw what they did, and nobody ever talked about it. But I knew that it involved the chosen children doing something special. But I'd never imagined that I'd be one of the ones who was picked. I wasn't a full-time resident. but I guess that hadn't stopped him before. I was a good student back at home, much to the pride of my grandparents who were quite vocal about it.

I had lots of friends both in Forsel and back home, and I got along well with just about everybody. But I probably could have named others who were better fit. Maybe that was why I was the ideal choice. I can't say. But I was excited, nonetheless. The other child who had been chosen alongside me was a girl named Mila. Unlike me, she lived in force full time, and I only somewhat knew her.

I can't say we were ever really friends. I'd heard whispers and rumors about her, of course, none of which were very flattering. Even in a small town, kids can be cruel. What I did know for sure, however, was that her family life was not a happy one. Her father had passed away years ago, although a boy. I couldn't tell you how, and her mother worked long hours at a local lumber mill. Without any other family in her life, Milud started down a difficult path. I'd heard that she missed school often, and while I was in forceful, I'd seen her in a pickup truck,

belonging to some stranger from out of town a few times, a man who was at least old enough to drive. Once my friend Bram and I spotted her sleeping in a tent in the woods, you could smell the alcohol on her from a good distance away. Her life was not set up to be a happy one. And knowing what I knew about her, I pitied her more than anything else. She was not who I would have expected to be chosen alongside me. But I never resented her for that.

If anything, I couldn't help but be happy for her. Perhaps this would be a good thing. Maybe it was a sign that things were getting better for her. Who could say? During the rehearsal, the adult spent extra time with me and the other children my age. We would stay longer, while the other kids were allowed to play, and we'd venture into the woods through a small, snowy clearing. There, they told us how we would be here, after the opening song in the pageant.

They told the others how they were to wait, patiently and silently, while Mila and I were to venture alone into the woods. They said it was part of the tradition, that the path was clearly marked so we wouldn't get lost. I never questioned any of it. I was too excited to question it. It's funny. Tell a person they were chosen.

Tell them that they're special. They'll do just about anything. All of it was just part of the tradition. Part of the pageant. They never let us actually go down that path. They said that we could only go down that path in the woods on the day of the pageant. They never explicitly told us what we'd be doing when we went down there either. They simply told us that we'd know.

And of course, I trusted them implicitly. Mule and I never really spoke during the rehearsals when she was there. I honestly wasn't sure what to say to her and she mostly preferred to keep to herself anyways. I got the impression that she wasn't particularly interested in having been chosen. but I didn't let her laugh of enthusiasm kill my own excitement for the coming pageant. I was so blinded by the idea that something special, something very few others had seen was waiting for me, that I couldn't have cared less what she did or didn't do.

December 20th rolled around. I was 12 years old, and it felt like the single, proudest day of my life. My age group was the last on the stage. We were dressed in the same red cloaks as you. the others, but mine and Milas were special amongst them. There was a gold trim to the fur and a shimmering gold pattern on my cloak that marked us as the ones they'd chosen. I still have photographs of myself from that night, beaming with pride, dressed in that red

and gold cloak as if I just achieved everything I could have possibly wanted. From where I stood on the pageant grounds, I could see the whole town gathered to watch us. Behind them sat Forsel. quaint, quiet, and snow-capped, lit by a full moon. It was beautiful. Like something out of a holiday postcard. For as long as I live, I don't think I'll ever see a sight so lovely again. We sang that bizarre opening song.

I knew the lyrics even without looking down at the sheet in my hands. I don't think I'd ever sing it quite so well before. Then when the unusual chanting ended, the 12-year-olds left quietly and ventured into the woods. I could see one of the adults who had helped us prepare standing by the edge of the trees, an oil lantern in his hand. He gestured for us to follow, and we did, staying in a single file the entire time. He didn't speak. None of us did.

The only sound was the crunch of our boots in the snow as we weaved through the trees and into the quiet clearing, we'd come to know. There we stood in a half-moon shape. There were only seven of us, myself and Mila included. The other five children looked at me expectantly as they took their positions, and the man who'd led us there. I recall his name was Finn, although I never knew him well, quietly addressed us. Tonight is an important night for all of you, he said. When you leave this clearing, you will be grown, and you can never go back. understand that. He was met with silence, but I got the impression that was the answer he'd been expecting.

He managed a slight smile before looking at me. He offered me the lantern, and I took it. You too should go. There's someone waiting for you up ahead. You'll know what to do. Something about his tone was, well, it's hard to describe. Time's taken so much from me. There's so much that I struggle to remember.

I don't remember the name of the man who led us into the woods. I don't remember the name of a few of the other kids who stood with me in that clearing. I doubt I could recognize most of their faces now. But I remember very clearly the tone in his voice. There was a heaviness to it, almost a regrettable tone. He said it as if it was an apology, and I didn't have a moment. understand why. Not at first.

The lantern felt heavy in my hand. The man nodded at me and Mila and with one last look back at him, I ventured forward into the forest. Mela didn't say a word as she followed me, but she lingered behind as if she didn't want to go. Maybe in her heart she knew better than to follow me into the woods. But tradition urged her forward, and in the end, common sense didn't stay her feet. She followed my footsteps, staying close enough to be in the light, but no closer.

After the first few steps, I didn't look back as the trees swallowed me up. The moonlight's reflection off the snow almost made it bright enough to see where I was going, even without a lantern, and the trees cast sinister shadows around me. But I continued to walk, eyes set ahead. looking for the light of someone else waiting for me. We kept a slow pace, keeping an eye out for the small stacks of stones and flags tied to branches that marked the way. They were dusted in snow, but I could find them easily enough.

After what felt like a half hour of walking, though, I never saw any light or any indication that I wasn't alone. The only sound I heard was the distant singing from the pageant, and the low whispers of the wind. Mila spoke after a while, a hint of exasperation in her voice. What exactly are we out here for? How much further do we need to walk? I don't know.

It was the only reply I could give her. I suppose we'll know when we see it. They didn't tell you? She asked, clearly annoyed. I heard her swear and saw her reach under her. a cloak for a cigarette. You shouldn't. What if you get seen?

I said. She didn't respond. She just glared at me as if to imply some sort of threat. I thought better of seeing anything more about it. I let her trail behind in smoke as I kept walking. The crunch of her boots in the snow and the stink of tobacco is the only thing that told me she was still there. The next time she spoke, several minutes later,

it was the suggest that we turn around before we get lost. But I insisted we stay on the path, just to see it through to the end. I could tell that she wanted it turn back anyways, but the darkness behind us was deep. I'm sure that she could have made it back without a light, but she didn't want to try. She tossed her cigarette aside and picked up the pace behind me, eager to get this over with.

I suppose I couldn't really blame her first. for that. It wasn't much further until we saw the house. I could see it through the trees as we neared the end of the trail. It was old and made of weathered stone. Virgin snow covered the roof and the grounds leading up to it. The windows were dark, but I knew that it was where we were meant to be. My pace quick and as I hurried towards the door. For a moment, I forgot about Mila and my haste to see what was waiting for us, to see what we'd been chosen for. I could hear her running behind me to catch up and stay close to the light. By the time she caught up to me, my hand was already on the door and turning the knob.

It swung open with a gust of wind, and I only barely stopped her from slamming against the wall. I looked back, Emila. Her brow was furrowed in curiosity. She pursed her lips before stepping inside and calling out, Hello? There was no answer. The house seemed empty. I'd expected it to be at least a little warmer inside.

The air seemed cold enough to cut me to the bone. I could see Mila shiver as she pulled her cloak tighter around her. She glanced to me cautiously before going further into the house, and I'll admit, I was a little happy to see her showing some enthusiasm about this. I stayed close to her, listening for some of her. listening for some other sign of life in the empty house. But as far as I could tell, there was none. Are you sure we're in the right place?

She asked as she venture down the hall and into another room. The room was large, with a large fireplace dominating one wall. I could see some weak embers glowing inside and approach them. The fire was nearly dead. He would need to be stoked. I said about doing just that. Mila stood behind me squinting in the darkness to survey the rest of the room. I didn't notice when she stepped away from me.

Towards a large table it dominated the center of the room. I was too focused on the fire and getting it restarted. Studying it, I could see the broken, burnt, and twisted remains of a couple of oil lanterns, similar to the one I was holding. It seemed as if whoever had set the fire last had smashed their lantern to do so. Odd. I looked over at Mila again. She was standing by the head of the table holding a dusty bottle of wine beside an ornate crystal glass.

She pulled the cork off and found it empty. She looked a little bit disappointed. No wine and no food? She said. What are we supposed to do? Wine and food. The moment she said those words I understood. In the forest in the forest, where the snow is not broken and the old man sleeps, in the house in the house, where the fire is cold, and the old man sleeps.

The song we'd sang for as long as we could sing. This was the house that spoke of. It had to be. An old house in the forest covered an unbroken snow with a dying cold fire? It fit too well. What was the next verse? Be good and walk quietly. Don't make a sound.

Light the fire and open the wine. The old man sleeps for now. We offer a gift of roast meat and red wine. I understood. It's a feast. We need to prepare a feast, I said. The fire, we need to light it. We need to roast meat and red wine.

A feast, she asked. Like in that song? For what? An old man? There's nobody here? Let's go. It's cold and I don't want to stay here any longer. We don't have meat and wine anyways.

She was right. It had to been something we missed. Meat and wine. Perhaps there was some in the house somewhere. I looked down at the lantern in my hand. It'd be easier to find out if we had some light. I hadn't questioned things up until now. Why start now?

I'd seen the twisted remains of other lanterns in the fireplace. It was obvious to me what I had to do. I dashed my lantern down into the fireplace shattering it, igniting the embers anew. Mila cried out in surprise as warmth bloomed in the old house. I looked around. blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light. The old house did look abandoned, but there had to be something here, right?

I brushed past her as I ventured into another room, looking for a kitchen or a pantry. I found nothing. Yes, there were rooms that once could have been a kitchen, but there was nothing in them. No stove or oven, just empty rooms. I have turned to the main room where Mila had moved closer to the fire. watching me out of the corner of her eyes I searched.

They had to leave us something. I said as I searched for another room to explore. I spotted a chest in one corner and headed over to it. It opened with a low creek and kicked up dust as it did. I'd hope to at least find some wine in there. But all there was was a large iron pole, a small rusted knife, and a couple more red cloaks, similar to those we were wearing. I picked up the knife and turned it over in my hands before looking back Emila.

There's nothing else in here, I said. I don't understand. What were we supposed to do? I went over the song again in my head, repeating the first two verses before moving on to the third. On this day, would no sinners be unpunished? On this night, let no good man be harmed. Leave the forest, leave the forest. Let the old man sleep again.

In context, it wasn't exactly helpful. Maybe I was getting it wrong. I picked up the iron spit, looking at it, and it looked like it would comfortably fit over the fireplace. It was long enough to place a decently sized animal as well. Perhaps a young pig? We can't figure it out. There's no point in staying here.

Mila said, let's just go back. It's too cold to stay out here. No. No, I wasn't ready to leave just yet. I wanted to figure this out. I wanted to understand what was going on here. I looked at the knife in my hand, reciting the final verse of the song under my breath and trying to decipher its meaning. If indeed it had any meaning. As I did, I could hear something move on the floor above us. something massive seemed to stir and the entire house seemed to creak under its weight. Both Miel and I fell silent as we looked up.

We traded a glance but neither said a word. I don't think either of us dared to take a breath. In the house, in the house, where the fire is cold and the old man sleeps. We weren't alone. The silence around us was deafening and the knowledge that it could be broken at any moment It was nothing short of crushing. It was during that silence that I looked down into the trunk again. I hadn't touched the cloaks at the bottom.

I dismissed them as something we didn't need. But now as I stared at them, I could see a rusty reddish color of staining the white fur trim. I gingerly set the spit down before I reached in to take out one of the cloaks. Dry blood flaked off onto my hands and I felt my stomach lurched slightly as I dropped it. What is it? Mila asked. I looked at her but didn't have the heart to speak. I just stared at the bloody cloak I dropped onto the ground,

feeling my knees grow weak beneath me. It took everything I had to keep standing. I suddenly wanted to vomit, because I finally understood what we had come here to do. And I didn't know if it was something I was capable of. Mila looked at me, oblivious. She didn't know. She didn't understand.

I envied her. I knew why she'd been chosen. She'd been chosen because of all the people in force all our age. She was the one that no one would miss. She was the one who could disappear, and everyone would simply shrug it off. Even me. if I hadn't been standing in that room with her, if I hadn't known what fate had been chosen for.

I never would have thought twice if one day she'd simply vanished. I probably wouldn't have even noticed if she wasn't around when I came back again next year. I wouldn't have even spared her thought. Milo was coming closer. She snatched the discarded cloak off the ground and studied it. I still had the knife in my hands. Her eyes settled on the spip I'd left on the ground

And even with her back to me I could see that she was putting the pieces together in her hat Just like I had They'd sent her here to die And they'd sent me here to kill her Do this I couldn't murder her I couldn't

Do you God I couldn't put her on the fire Then above us I heard the slow little rumble of movement again. Whatever was in the house with us, the old man stirred once more. This time I could see the ceiling's sag as it moved. Mila heard it too and she looked up with wide eyes.

The old man was waking up. Something told me that he would be hungry. When I looked at Mila again, her eyes were on me. We stared at each other for several moments. each choosing our future more carefully. She looked at the knife in my hand, and I knew what she aimed to do. I gripped it tightly and exhaled, and I waited for her to take it. She came at me suddenly, lunging at me to try and force me to the ground and ripped the knife from my hands.

I held it tightly, pulling it out of her grip as she clawed for it, panting in rage as she tried to wrestle it from me. I... I don't remember much about what happened. One minute she brought me down to the ground, one minute we were fighting, then the next, I heard her gasp in pain, and when I looked down, the knife was buried in her ribs. I stumbled backwards, ripping it out of her as I scrambled away.

She pressed a hand at the wound in her side and looked at me, angry and afraid. I could see the tears, swelling up in her eyes. I could feel tears swelling up in my own. We offer a gift of roast meat and red wine. The old man needed his wine. I held the knife in my shaking hand as I made my way to the table. I picked up the crystal wine glass and approached her again. Mila looked at me, knowing what was going to happen next but too badly hurt to resist it anymore. Her lips trembled. Tears of anger and dread ran down her cheeks.

We... We don't have to, she said. Those were her final words to me. Noah! We don't have to! Maybe we didn't. Maybe. After I cut her throat,

I forced the wound over the wine glass and let it fill with her blood. Mila died, gasping and choking on the floor. I waited until she was dead before I prepared her for the fire. Above me I could hear the slow creak of movement. I could hear the old man coming. By the time I heard him on the stairs, his obscene feast was cooking. I didn't stay in the house to see him for myself. As I heard his heavy footsteps drawn near her,

I ran back the way I came and out there. door into the snow. My hands were still slick with Mila's blood, and I was crying as I stumbled back out into the woods. I had no light to guide me, but I could hear the distant songs from the pageant. So long as they sang, they would guide me home, I stumbled forwards, away from that house, away from Mila and what I had done to her. But even as I returned to the woods, I could still hear the jolly. laughter of the old man from inside the house. It's funny. Of all the little things that change

between every interpretation of Christmas, one of the ones that doesn't is the distant chuckle of the jolly old man who defines it. I've heard it imitated so many times by Mall Santas, cartoons, television shows, and the like. But none of them have ever captured the sheer mirthed in it. No matter who does it, the memory of that laugh still sends a chill through me and I can imagine him. A grossly fat, barely human thing with a flowing white beard carving meat off the spit. Meat that was alive just moments ago.

Meat that died. Telling me that we didn't have to do this, meat that nobody would miss. I said at the beginning I have no real answers. I meant that. When I returned to Forsel, so the other children were waiting for me, we returned to the pageant as if nothing was wrong, and they stood around me and sang the final song.

Sinter Claus Copant. Then, the pageant was over. We went home. Christmas passed like it always passes. Nobody mentioned Mila, not even her own mother. Although I'm told that she did leave town a few months later. A few times I considered asking about what happened in the forest. What I saw.

What I did. Maybe my parents would know, or some of the others in town would arrange the pageant. Maybe they'd understand why they sent Mila and I out into the forest. Maybe they'd have an answer. but I'm ashamed to confess that I never gathered up to strength to do so. To this day, I'm not sure if it was the fear of facing the guilt of what I'd done. The fear of truly knowing what was out there that kept me from asking. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Even if I never could ask about it, though, sometimes I caught my mother looking at me and the expression in her eyes was, it reminded me of the way the man in the forest had spoken to it. us before we departed into the woods. There was a deep sorrow there, the implication of a heavy truth that couldn't be spoken. I never asked my mother about it. To this day, we've never spoken about the Christmas pageant. I don't think we ever will.

What I know for certain is that when I was 12 years old, I participated in a ritual of some sort. One child, held in high regard by the community, sacrifices one that the community holds in low regard. Perhaps it's necessary so that the old man continues to sleep. Perhaps if forced whoever to fail to perform the annual Christmas pageant, he would wake and find his feast elsewhere. I don't doubt that that would be a calamity. Maybe that's just something I choose to believe, so I can tell myself that Mila was wrong,

that I had to kill her, that we couldn't just have walked away. I really don't know for sure. Maybe I'll never know. I have now returned in foursulent years, and I've never been back growing Christmas time. Even after the last year in the pageant, I begged and pleaded to stay elsewhere on Christmas.

I spent those two months staying with a friend, going to school normally and trying as hard as I could not to think about Forsel. It always crept back into my mind though, always. After my grandparents died, my parents moved to Forsel full time. I was old enough to strike out on my own then, so that's exactly what I did. I still talk to them, but I very rarely visit. I tell them that a flight to the Netherlands would be too expensive. It's a good excuse.

I haven't seen the Christmas pageant ever since my last year participating. But when I was down in force a last, about five years back, I couldn't help but notice that the town seemed smaller than before. There are more abandoned buildings and fewer people. I can't imagine there are a lot of children left there now. And somehow, I doubt that those who've moved away are coming back just for the holidays. There are precious few things left to tie anyone there anymore. My parents don't talk about the state of the town, but I can hear it in their voices.

Forsel is dying. It's dying the same slow, drawn-out death that countless small communities have died in the past. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that. Part of me is almost glad. But part of me? Part of me is afraid of it. I can hear the dread in my parents' voices whenever they dare to mention Forsel. From an ocean away, I can almost sense their fear of the upcoming holiday season.

How many children are left in Forsel now? At least one less every year. How many people are still putting together the pageant? How much longer can they carry on? And what happens when they can't? For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. Fireflies Written by bent thoughts

And narrated By Nate Du Fort My family has a cabin In the North Georgia Mountains This isn't located in the more industrialized areas If you can call things like having an Ingalls or the Starbucks inside

Right across the street from a Chili's industrialized Our cabin's a little Further back in the mountains Where there aren't businesses Paved roads Or streetlights We've been going every summer for 15 years since I was 10. All throughout college and even now, although I'm a few years into my teaching career,

I will always make sure I'm available to unplug for a bit and get away with my family. It's the only tradition that survived my sister's intensive traveling with a tech company and my father's lack of availability due to his overloaded schedule as a nurse. We haven't really done holidays together since, I left for college, so we prioritized this yearly summer trip. This year, my sister's fiancé Gregory would be coming with us. Having someone else come with us isn't a big deal. I've had college roommates and now ex-girlfriends come on vacation with us before.

But Gregory was particularly annoying. He was full of uninteresting facts that he told with great expectations of his audience being overcome with fascination. I was grateful to be driving myself this year. Sometimes, especially when it was just my parents and my sister, we all made the drive in the same vehicle. Not always the most comfortable situation, but it saved on gas, we got to connect.

But with the addition of Gregory and his tidbits of knowledge, I was relieved for some time to myself before the overstimulation of family time. I lived about two hours away from the cabin, so I'd have plenty of time to listen to audiobooks, podcasts, or simply nothing. Enjoying some of the only time on this trip that wouldn't be filled with conversation. Being an introvert on a trip where there isn't Wi-Fi or cell service can be daunting. I love my family, but since I started teaching,

I try to use the summer to completely decompress from the school. year. This trip assisted me with that in the sense that I wouldn't be surrounded by high school students, but it also cost me energy. With the inclusion of Gregory, I was already feeling tired. I was also beginning to get the restless feeling tinged with dread that I get every year right before we leave. It isn't dreading the trip exactly, but a very specific part of it. This has been happening since the first trip we took when I was 10. There's a small, sort of meadow near the cabin. For 10-year-old me, it was about an eight-minute bike ride. There's a single tree in the middle of the glen, and the grass is pretty tall all around.

I'd noticed a little area when we drove by it on our first trip on the way to the cabin. That entire first day, I'd thought about it. I was drawn to it for some reason. That night, after a couple of hours of playing board games, my parents and sister went went to bed around the same time. I'd bargained with my mother for a little extra reading in bedtime. I'd huddled under my sheets with a flashlight and a Hardy Boy's book, waiting until I felt like everyone was asleep. I crept out of my room and down the staircase that led from the second floor into the living

room of the cabin. I pulled on my shoes that sat by the front door and tried to quietly open and close the door. I stood still for a moment, trying to gauge whether anyone had woken up. I didn't see any lights turn on, so I assumed the coast was clear. I grabbed my bike from the tree it was chained to, and it was off. I held my flashlight precariously in my right hand as I tried to hang onto the handlebars of my bike while not dropping the only light that was available to me. Looking back, I'm surprised I didn't completely wipe out. There's something about childhood confidence.

Sometimes it seems like something bad doesn't happen simply because children believe it won't. And then sometimes, well, sometimes the very opposite's the case. I reached the little meadow and gazed in absolute awe. Hundreds of flickering lights were floating

out of the grass and up into the leaves of the lone tree. For a moment, I was frozen in wonder. Soon, though, curiosity got the better of me. I laid my bike down in the grass and walked closer. As I approached the tree, I could see that the lights were fireflies. Well, kind of. They looked a lot like fireflies, but they were much, much larger.

An overwhelming urge to touch one overcame me. I looked up in the luminescence from the insects blurred with the stomachs, stars in the sky overhead. I felt dizzy and shook my head, trying to steady myself so I could try and catch one of the bugs. I tried to cut my hands around several bugs, but missed each time. They seemed to be lazily hovering up and down, so I was getting frustrated with my own ineptness. Then I heard something scream. It was tortured, animalistic, high-pitched yelp. I looked wildly around, the anxiety that was already simmering because I knew I was out when I shouldn't be escalated to a panicky degree. I saw bright lights bounding around the other side of the tree.

Nervously, I crouched down and crawled forward towards the large trunk of the tree, trying to obscure myself. I pressed my body against the trunk and peered cautiously around. My eyes widened, so I began to take in the scene before me. A fox was covered in the large fireflies. It was jumping around trying to shake them off. No, wait, not off. Out. At first it looked like the fox had the insects on it, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the bright light actually seemed to be coming from inside the poor animal, with the brightness illuminating it from within, like a small fire was raging through its body. In horror, I watched the light. I watched the the animal stopped screaming and simply writhe around until it was completely still.

In a moment of sheer stupid curiosity, I edged closer to its corpse. In disgust, I watched the large fireflies begin to eat their way out of the fox and fly closer to the tree, floating with the rest of the insects. All of a sudden, I felt something brush against my face. I instinctively swatted at it with my hand and saw that I'd batted a large firefly to the ground. More wings began fluttering against my body, and I felt them all over my legs, my arms, my face. After watching the fox, I was terrified of being touched by these creatures. Curiosity quickly sharpening into terror, I screamed and ran towards my bike. Not bothering to try and balance my flashlight

against my handlebars again, I raced toward the cabin. Not able to see took its toll this time. Twice I hit large stones in the gravel road and went sprawling, face first, ignoring the pain I mounted my bike each time and sped off again. When I got to the cabin I was wailing, relief from being back, pain from falling and fear from what I'd seen, all tumbled out at once in large half sobs, half yells. My parents and sister immediately came from their rooms and downstairs to the living room, where I'd collapsed on the couch. My mother ran to me and frantically tried to understand what was happened.

I'm sure I looked a scary mess. I could feel hot blood running down from my nose, no doubt for my face planting multiple times on the way back, and I was definitely covered in dirt for the same reason. It took at least half an hour, but when I finally calmed down, I tried to explain what I'd seen. Because of my clear exhaustion and the fact that I had a notorious imagination,

my parents did not seem to believe that I'd seen exactly what I described. And even though I tried to be detailed, the particulars did feel sort of fuzzy and unreasonable. Regardless, I was filled with unrelenting dread. Even though the memory faded, the feeling of dread never went away. Over time, I even stopped believing that my memory of the night was completely accurate. However, the oppressiveness of that feeling was so dark and heavy that I never went back to that glen with the single tree and the large fireflies. As I packed for my present upcoming trip, I suppressed the familiar fear that was bubbling to the surface.

With tired resignation, I packed several books. Not only would reading help me relax, isolating myself with a good book would be an effective way to get away from whatever pompous story Gregory was sharing. I was determined to get some sort of rest from this trip, regardless of Gregory, and regardless of bad memories. The drive to the cabin was pleasantly uneventful. I didn't listen to anything, and instead I enjoyed complete silence for over two hours. It was amazing compared to the frenetic energy and loudness of teaching high school students. I was filled with immense gratitude for summer and for a remote mountain cabin. Excited to be near my destination, I rolled down the windows and breathed in the mountain air.

I was already feeling more refreshed. I looked out of my right window and saw the clearing and the tree. Without thinking about it, I rolled up my windows. As relaxing as this trip would hopefully be, there was still that terrifying memory, lurking down in the corner of my mind, where I continually tried to keep it hidden. When I pulled up to the cabin,

I could see that my parents' van and my sister's car were already in the driveway. I hefted out my single suitcase and rolled it up the steps to the porch and opened the front door. Inside, everyone was seated on the couches in the living room, drinking wine, talking, and laughing. It was such a cozy scene, even with Gregory, that I instantly felt home.

I greeted everyone and left my bag beside the staircase. After hugs and grateful helloes were exchanged, I got myself a glass of wine and sat down the living room as well. Right after I sat down, my sister excitedly pulled Gregory towards me, and in a bubbly voice, asked him to tell me as good news. I took a large gulp of wine and raised my eyebrows. Looking overly proud, Gregory told me that he'd been promoted from assistant manager to actual manager at his local target.

I told him truthfully that I didn't even have the words to express my feelings. He smugly told me that he understood and that his trajectory was higher than even he expected. It really was mind-boggling to me that my incredibly intelligent, sister, who was high up in the tech firm she worked for, was going to marry Gregory. Gregory, who had once told me that he was the Elon Musk of Target. Just mind-boggling. We caught each other up on our lives and, at my sister's insistence, decorated a very small Christmas tree.

She told us that she wanted to start doing this every year since we don't see each other much or at all during the holidays. Gregory annoyingly shared a few holiday facts, like how we shouldn't all sing jingle bells as a Christmas carol, as it was originally written to be a Thanksgiving song. Man, I drank two more glasses of wine. At least I felt pretty relaxed, that is, until Gregory started to criticize Hollywood's depiction of Crampus.

My sister cut her eyes wickedly at me and announced that I had a scary story of my own to tell. Not following, partially because I was, wallowing in frustration towards Gregory and more than partially because I was about three glasses of wine deep in the night. I furrowed my eyebrows quizzically. The fire flies, was all she said. I must have looked stricken because she laughed triumphantly. My parents looked at each other worried, and my mother chastised my sister telling her that she shouldn't bring up things like that

and that I'd been so bothered as a child. It wasn't nice of my sister to tease me for it. My sister's devilish grin and my parents' obvious concern piqued Gregory's interest, and he prodded me for information. At first I refused to talk about it, but when Gregory pivoted to a self-important speech about good horror storytelling and how Stephen King wasn't really all that talented, I decided rehashing that awful memory was worth stopping Gregory from speaking anymore. When I'd finished recounting that night from 15 years ago, Gregory sat in silence a moment. Then, in an almost mocking tone, he asked if I was willing to go back to the clearing tonight. I looked at him with annoyance, trying to mask the anxiety I felt of the thought of going back to that clearing.

I nonchalantly told him no. He pushed telling me that it was just a ten-year-old's imagination. then what was the harm in checking the area out again? Resisting the urge to yell obscenities of my future brother-in-law, I excused myself for bed. Three glasses of wine, and I did not trust myself to passively ignore him anymore. However, as I laid in bed, I had trouble getting past Gregory's question. If I also thought my story was a mix of staying out too late and my tex. 10-year-old imagination, then why don't I feel so defensive?

Moreover, why had I lived with anxiety and fear when I thought of coming up to the cabin? Why hadn't I ever gone back, even in the daylight, to check out that tree and meadow? And why the hell did Target Manager Gregory think he had the right to ask me to go back? As my wine-muddled thoughts turned into fuming at Gregory's audacity, I made a decision. I got out of bed and carefully opened my bedroom door. My parents' door and my sisters and Gregory's door were all closed. I tiptoed down the stairs, and, like I did 15 years ago, pulled on shoes that sat by the front door. As I was turning the knob slowly and carefully to the door,

I heard Gregory's self-satisfied voice behind me. Going for a midnight stroll? I took a deep breath and turned around. Irritation and insecurity both rose up in me. You're either coming with me or not. We don't have to talk about it, I said. Gregory shrugged and told me to lead the way. Using our cell phones as flashlights, we walked in silence.

While the bike ride had been around eight minutes, the walk was about half an hour. I was surprised and relieved that Gregory seemed content with not speaking. Dread and nervous anticipation mounted in my body as we drew nearer to the clearing. Gregory and I both stopped completely when we saw them. Hundreds of these floating, flickering lights surrounding the tree, Gregory looked nervously at me. I felt both a relief and terror that I hadn't completely made up that horrible night.

cautiously we both moved forward i stopped just before the glittering mass of fireflies gregory walked right up to the tree standing among the hundreds of insects even though i felt a little self-conscious i advised him to come away from all the bugs in the glow of fireflies i saw gregory roll his eyes as he said what you don't actually think these little well big Guys are going to, what was it, eat you? I mean, I'm impressed you didn't totally dream this up, but I'm not buying their carnivorous. Irritation and maybe a little personal chagrin replaced any sense of protectiveness I'd felt towards him. Angrily, I started walking around the tree, thinking about the fox from that night. Of course there was nothing there. I don't know what I'd expected or even wanted.

If there'd been a 15-year-old skeleton, I don't. Know if I'd feel less or more crazy. Then I heard Gregory yelling. A series of, Get off! What the hell? And holy shit! Pierce the quiet night.

I ran around the tree in time to see Gregory alternating between waving his arms frantically around his body and scratching furiously at his legs. He looked up at me and stumbled forward. I involuntarily stepped back as he got closer. I could see his skin glowing. "'Help me get these off!' Gregory screamed wide-eyed. I felt frozen as I watched Gregory's skin burn brighter.

It almost seemed like I could feel the warmth radiating off of him. I didn't know what to do. Gregory had asked for me to help him get the bugs off, but they were inside him. I had no idea how to get them out. With his face contorted in pain, he whispered, "'Help me!' But I knew I couldn't. Just a few seconds later, fireflies began ripping their way out of his skin,

biting off chunks of flesh as they exited his body. I was paralyzed as I watched Gregory fall to the ground, twisting around like the fox had done. His body's glow began to dim as the bug swarmed out of him. Within moments, Gregory lay completely still on the ground. Eyeless sockets still trained on me. I turned and ran as fast as I could back to the cabin. I burst through the front door and screamed, Help!

As loudly as I could over and over again, more in shock than anything else. And just like 15 years ago, my family rushed to the living room. My sister began screaming as I tried to tell them what happened to Gregory and to convince them to leave the cabin and go home right away. My mother held my sister and looked confused and helpless. Being a trained nurse,

my father tried to remain somewhat calm and asked me to repeat my story as he lay a hand on my head to crudely assess my temperature. Fear and desperation made me choke in my words as I tried again to quickly explain about the fireflies and to urge my family to leave. As I was talking, I noticed my sister had stopped screaming. I refocused on the room around me. My parents and my sister were staring at me, mouths open and horror. I felt my skin get increasingly hot. I slowly looked down and saw large bulges of light, wriggling underneath my flesh. For even more from Creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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