Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - All I Want For Christmas

Episode Date: December 19, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎉 Ad-free bonus stories + exclusive uncensored animations: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Ryan Major Check out more of his work here: https://www.reddit.com/r/gtripp14/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Most people spend Christmas morning sitting in the living room surrounded by family. They will watch their children toss shreds of wrapping paper in the air that fall down like multi-colored snow. The room will be filled with cries of delight and wonder. You'll probably exchange a gift with your significant other as well. Maybe you will finish off the morning with a big breakfast while the kids play with their new toys. Not me. I've got an ex-wife and kids. They do all of that without me.

I spend every Christmas morning taking some unlucky kid to the police station for an interview, followed by an uncomfortable drive to drop them off with child protective services. That's my gift, a new missing person case and a terrified child who can't understand why their mom vanished. I've been a homicide detective for 11 years. When you take the job, you do it with an understanding that a work, home life balance is no longer on the table. You do your best, but when calls come night and day, and ends up being an all-day and all-night affair,

sprinkle in a little home life just to make you miss being there. For the past eight years, a single mother has been reported missing by her young children every Christmas morning. The local papers call him the silent night killer, since the women disappear during the evening. Leave it to the media to add a holiday twist to the name. I guess that kind of stuff sells more copies. The first woman went missing during my third year on the job.

Sarah Gilbert, a 27-year-old single mother, was reported missing on Christmas morning of 2013. Her daughter, Faith, was only five at the time. Smart kid, though. When she woke up and couldn't find her mom, she called her grandparents who went to the house immediately. They didn't waste any time calling the police. Two patrol officers arrived at the house within 15 minutes. They interviewed the grandparents and little girl, but received no useful information.

Sarah had put Faith to bed around 8.30 p.m., and gone downstairs to finish wrapping presents. The half-wrapped toy still sat on the dining room table. I was in the living room with my wife watching the kids open their presents when my work phone rang. The screen lit up with a photo of my partner, Melvin Garcia. Shea, my then wife, looked at me with sad eyes. On Christmas, Charlie, she said. Can you call back after the kids are done at least?

I looked at Clara and Tyler, as they gleefully ripped open a new box. It's just one Christmas, I replied. We knew this was part of the gig when I took it. I hit the screen to accept the call and held the phone to my ear. Merry Christmas, Melvin, I said. Just calling to tell me the same, right? A booming laugh echoed from the other line. We'll show we're over on the south side of town. I'll shoot you the address.

I'll head that way, I replied. Shea's look of sadness turned to disappointment with a hint of anger. Why are we checking out a missing person case? I asked over the phone. He said in a quiet tone. The investigation of the scene and the interviews hadn't given us many clues, but plenty of cause for concern. There was blood on the floor in front of the dining room table, as reported,

but no traces anywhere else in the house. Sarah's cell-phone and car keys were still on the kitchen counter. No valuables were removed from the house. No prints were recovered, and there were no signs of forced entry. We discovered the back door was unlocked. A print from a size 13 men's boot was found in the muddy yard, but no other physical evidence was recovered. The interviews with faith under grandparents proved equally fruitless.

The neighbors saw nothing unusual. Her co-workers, friends, and family had no information on anyone that may have wanted to hurt her. Even the ex-husband checked out. He and Sarah had separated two years prior and had an excellent co-parent. relationship. While that wasn't enough of an alibi, his distance away from the crime scene was. He lived over 10 hours away. His employer was able to provide us with security footage of him working the evening shift during the period of time Sarah would have gone missing. It wasn't impossible that he wasn't involved, but it was highly unlikely. We were scared the case

would go cold quickly and the public would lose interest. But on New Year's Day, we found Sarah. The caretaker of a local cemetery called 911 to report a strange object sitting on the property. When he arrived that morning, he saw a box the size of a refrigerator wrapped in black paper and tied with a crimson bow. It stood in shocking contrast to the recently fallen layer of snow. Thinking it was a strange prank, he approached it to investigate. When he was about five feet away, he saw the rings of crimson snow spreading from the same thing. the corners of the box. The sickly sweet smell of decay filled the air. When we arrived and opened the box, we found a collection of smaller wrapped packages. As crime scene technicians opened each one,

they revealed dismembered pieces of her body. She had been cut into 14 different pieces and wrapped in cheerful paper. Clear ornaments filled with her blood rolled around the bottom of the largest box. A few of them had shattered, leaking from the corners of the container. Attached to the underside of the lid was a printed sheet of paper. Sometimes you have to treat yourself during the holidays. Merry Christmas. Despite our best efforts, no meaningful evidence was found on the body or the packing materials. All of the paper was generic. The kind of stuff you would find at a thousand big box retailers around the country. No hairs, fibers, or prints. Just like that, the case went cold.

Our first real lead came after the sixth victim in 2019. Meredith Gillum, a 26-year-old, single mother of two, vanished, just as the other victims had. Her children called 911 when they were unable to find their mother on Christmas morning. Our crime scene produced the same lack of evidence as the five that came before. A social worker had already taken the children to the station while we searched the house. After searching the house multiple times and finding nothing of value,

I decided to head back to the station and interview the kids. Melvin agreed to stay behind and manage the scene. When I arrived at the station, I saw Margie Carson smoking a cigarette in the frigid weather. She was a veteran social worker and had the unpleasant task of being our liaison during the silent night killings for the past few years.

When she saw me, she threw a hand in the air and waved me over. Merry Christmas, Margie. I said as cheerfully as I could muster. I hate the cause, but I'm glad you're here. You never call me for lunch, she joked. But I get to spend most of the holidays with you. Must count for something. I've got the kids inside.

The two-year-old is inside with one of my coworkers, but I've been talking with the older girl. She has some information. Margie dropped her cigarette to the ground and snuffed it with her shoe. Actual information? I asked her excitedly. Margie, are you telling me that the kid saw something? What the hell did she say? Detective Renfro, she started.

I'm going to let you talk to her. Anna Gillum saw something last night. I don't want to influence what she has to tell you. She led me inside, and we walked. down the long corridor to the interview room. When we entered, I saw a red-faced little girl sitting at a table. She was pushing around puzzle pieces absent-mindedly as her body quaked with stifled sobs. My heart broke for her as it had with so many children in the years previous.

I introduced myself to the little girl and explained that I was going to try and help find her mother. Her controlled sadness broke like a dam, and she started to go. cry aloud. Margie, one of the kindest women I've ever met, comforted her, and asked if she could tell me the same story she had told her. I, I, I woke up last night to go to the bathroom. Anna said as she struggled through her tears. There was someone in the house. I got scared at first, but then I saw who it was. Anna, I asked. My heart screamed wildly in my chest. No one had ever seen the killer. It seemed like it may be the break we had been waiting so long for. It was Santa Claus.

She said, momentarily excited. He said he was there to leave our presence, and I wasn't supposed to see him. He made me promise not to tell anyone he was there. Fan of soccer, you could assist at a moment historic. You could gain the bill for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscrieve you at BMO.com bar obliques concourse. The reglements of the concourse sapplic.

By 2021, eight women in our city had gone missing. Aside from Anna Gillum's statement of a late-night visit from Santa, we had failed to collect any actionable evidence. Each scene remained the same. A small amount of blood, an unlocked back door, and no prints. The investigation treated the witness statement seriously. No. believe Santa Claus had sprung to life and committed a series of grisly murders.

But a man disguising himself as Santa was very believable. You could find Santa impersonators ringing bells by charity buckets on every street corner. Family members dressed up to surprise their young relatives during holiday get-togethers. If you wanted a disguise that wouldn't be out of place, Santa Claus at Christmas was ideal. We continued to find the dismembered bodies wrapped and packaged. at various locations throughout the city. There was a new note attached each time, but the generic taunts got us no closer to a suspect.

My wife divorced me in 2017. I still loved Shea, but I didn't blame her. Who wants to sit and wait day and night for their spouse to come home? Who wants the disappointment of another Christmas, of explaining to their children that Daddy won't be there? For better or for worse, sounds ideal. Until for worse is the prevailing outcome. I saw Clara and Tyler as often as possible, but they lived with their mom.

Shea was amazing about making sure I got all of the time I could with the kids. She even invited me to our old house for the holidays. I usually made it over for Thanksgiving. Maybe one day I could go for Christmas. Maybe Shea would fall in love with me again. Maybe. After the divorce, I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at the station. Melvin's marriage had survived the ups and downs, so I made sure he stayed home.

If a call or tip comes in, I'd be there to take it. No need to bail water out of my sinking boots into his. It was quiet that night for the most part. There were a few people in the dispatch center, but the night shift receptionist had the day off. All but one officer were out on my job. patrol. Some young Buck drew the short straw to stay in the station on standby. He was snoozing at a desk in the bullpen. I let him rest. My eyes felt heavy, but sleep wouldn't come. It was about 2.30 a.m. and I knew in a matter of hours, a frightened child, where their grandparents would call

and report a missing woman. Melvin and I would spend Christmas Day as we always do, another fruitless investigation and another broken family. Suddenly I thought I heard the soft thud of feet on the thin carpet of the hallway. A young woman wearing a headset appeared in my doorway. Her eyes were as wide as headlights. Sir, we just received a call, the young woman said. A six-year-old boy just called and said Santa Claus just dragged his mother out of the house. We've received multiple calls from the neighborhood reporting gunshots and a white cargo van fleeing the scene. Do we have an address. I asked as I jumped from my seat and grabbed my coat from the hook by the door. She handed me a yellow sticky note with an address scribbled on it.

I want all available units to that location immediately. I shouted as I ran down the hallway. Have a dispatch call Melvin Garcia and tell him to haul ass there. Maybe we can get this guy. I burst through the back door and sprinted toward my cruiser. Fat white snowflakes drifted through the quiet neighborhood. They looked almost beautiful as they danced in the streetlights. By the time I arrived at the scene, the street was washed and strobing red and blue lights from half a dozen police cars. Neighbors stood on their porches watching the scene as officers crawled over every inch of the house. Through the window, I could see a young boy on the couch. Margie Carson was sitting on the couch beside him.

The woman was a saint. It seems I wasn't the only one who spent sleepless nights waiting for these calls. As I started up the walkway, Margie saw me through the window. She patted the boy on the back and started to make her way outside. As soon as she reached the front porch, she pulled a cigarette from her pack with a shaking hand and lit it. A patrol officer stepped out and joined her. Officer Hunley, the young officer said. She stuck out her hand to shake mine.

I was the first on the scene, Detective Renfro. Deborah Stanley is the name of our missing person. her son, Dustin, said he was awoken by a loud noise. We suspect they were gunshots. There are two shell casings on the kitchen floor by the back door. It appears she attempted to shoot the intruder. Did he get an idea on the intruder? I asked. Anything we can follow up on.

Dustin said he came downstairs and saw Santa Claus dragging his mother out the back door. Margie said. He wants to talk to you, Charlie. I've tried to get more information from him. but he says it is a secret he isn't supposed to tell. After a little bit of coaxing, he said he would tell a police officer. We better hurry. We stepped into the warmth of the house and into the living room.

Dustin sat staring at the floor, distraught and crying. My heart ached for the kid. Visions of eight other inconsolable children I had let down filled my heart. Hey, Dustin, I said gently. My name is Charlie Renfro, and I'm a detective. with the police department. Tonight has been scary, but I want to help. Margie told me you have a secret you couldn't tell her.

Can you tell me? It may help your mom. The little boy kicked his feet and sniffled but didn't look up. I'm going to be in trouble. He said through a sob. Mama got hurt, and I'm going to be in trouble. Buddy, you aren't going to be in trouble. Margie said reassuringly.

Just tell Charlie what happened so he can help. I talked to Santa, and he asked what I wanted for Christmas. I told him I wanted a bike, and he said I could have it. Dustin whimpered. He told me I needed to leave the back door unlocked after Mama went to bed so he could bring it in. Then he took her. My head was swimming. The kid had talked to the suspect, and he used the boy to enter the house.

No wonder there was no forced entry. He gained their trust, and the children let him in. Where did you talk to Santa, buddy? I asked, did he come to the house and talk to you? No, the little boy said. Mama took me to the mall and said I could get my picture with Santa. He asked me a bunch of questions about me and my mom and why dad wasn't with us. I told him Dad got mad and left.

Santa said that made him sad, and he wanted to bring me a special gift. I told him where we lived and he said to unlock the door. But he said I had to keep it a secret or I wouldn't get my bike. Why did he take Mama? When is she coming home? Melvin Garcia showed up minutes after I finished interviewing the boy. I told Melvin everything Dustin had told me. The mall Santa, all of the questions,

how he had told Dustin to leave the door unlocked. You've got to be shitting me, Melvin exclaimed. A mall, Santa? The son of a bitch prowls for victims using the kids. I'm going to get in contact with someone at the mall and find this guy's name. Go get some rest. You look like hell. I'll call you when I get a lead. Melvin was on his cell phone before he even got in his car.

I talked with Margie and told her to continue talking to Dustin and see if he had any more information. That was the most frustrating possible moment of the investigation. A woman had been taken. We had got a nameless suspect, and Melvin would have to play phone tag until he located someone that could get into the office at the mall to pull his employment records.

I went back to the station and poured through all of the old interviews for any possible mention of a suspect, but none surfaced. Around 6.30 a.m., Melvin called. He said, I hung the phone up and ran to the car. My phone pinged with a text message, and I punched the address into my GPS. The wheels of my car spun on the asphalt as I flipped on my lights and peeled out of the parking lot. The address led to a house 25 minutes outside of town, in a cell. sparsely populated area. I had expected to see other patrol cars as I moved along, but I was the only car on the road. White blanketed fields lined the highway as I moved further into the country. Radio chatter spilled out into the cab of the car. Multiple cruisers were roughly 10 minutes behind

me. My stomach quivered and my temples were throbbing. Arthur Phelan's house was only 10 minutes away, and I was silently praying that I could make it in time. As I reached the end of the driveway, I could see a two-story farmhouse, an eighth of a mile off the road. A ramshackle outbuilding sat beside it. A white Chevy van sat in front of the building's doors. Fresh tracks in the snow trailed up the drive. I pulled my car beyond the entrance of the drive and threw it in park before jumping out and heading up the drive on foot. We had all waited for so many for that moment, and I hadn't wanted the sound of wheels crunching on gravel to give him any warning that we were coming. Moving from tree to tree for coverage, I made my way toward the house.

Thin wisps of smoke drifted from a pipe jutting out of the top of the outbuilding. I was maybe a hundred feet from the door when I heard a terrifying scream from inside. Knowing I was nearly out of time, I broke into a run and slammed my shoulder against the shed door with all of my might. The old wind splintered and gave way, almost causing me to tumble to the floor. Rank, odors of copper and decay filled my nose. What the hell? Said an old man dressed in a red suit, trimmed with white fur. He had a leather apron over his neck and held a hunting knife in his right hand.

There was a woman, Deborah Stanley, tied to a metal table with ratchet straps. Drop the knife and step away! I shouted, my heart thundering in my chest. Do it now! Wait a minute! The old man said, We can talk this out. Just let me put this down.

The old man lifted the knife in the air and gripped it with two hands. His face contorted into a sneer as he prepared to plunge the knife into the screaming woman. A fire twice, hitting him in center mass and sending him sprawling into the wall behind him. Deborah Stanley was wailing loudly as I carefully stepped around the table. Gun leveled toward Arthur. A thick pool of dark blood was spreading below him as he laid down. dead in a scattered pile of gift boxes. The very boxes he intended to use for Deborah. A chorus of sirens filled the air, and I turned toward the terrified woman on the table.

It was over. Arthur Phelan's reign of terror is over. For nearly a decade, the man who worked as a mall Santa to collect information from innocent children in pursuit of victims. He used them to get into the house and took the most precious things in their lives. We will never know why. We re-interviewed some of the old witnesses. Most of the children vaguely recalled meeting Santa at the mall before their parents were killed. Two even talked about leaving the back door unlocked, but didn't originally tell us out of fear of getting in trouble. A cruel man had manipulated them, using the visage of a beloved figure into keeping his terrible secret. I still see those dead women in my dreams. My own ghosts of Christmas past, I guess.

I tell them I did my best, but they just look on silently. They always will. They deserved better, and I was too late all but once. It'll be Christmas in a few days, and for the first time in almost ten years, I'll be spending it with my family. Things with Shea have been different. After I killed Arthur Phelan, and we recovered Deborah Stanley, she asked me if I wanted to come stay at the house with her and the kids for a while.

A while turned into nearly a year. We eat as a family. Go to the movies, play at the park. The kids stick to me like glue. I'm happy for the first time in years. Shea holds my hand everywhere we go. So tightly, it feels like she will never let go. I hope she doesn't.

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