The NoSleep Podcast - NOSLEEP PODCAST S15E17 – CHRISTMAS 2020

Episode Date: December 20, 2020

It’s Episode 17 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey takes us to the dark side of Christmas.“Raw Materials” written by Liam Hogan (Story starts around 00:04:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“A Christmas Feast” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:22:10) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Theodora – Nichole Goodnight, Mother – Nikolle Doolin, Father – Mick Wingert, Benjamin – Jeff Clement, Sabrina – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Jacob – Atticus Jackson“The Paper Plate House” written by A.C. McAnelly (Story starts around 00:47:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Kelsey – Danielle McRae, Stephanie – Tanja Milosevic, Tori – Alexis Bristowe, Paper Plate Man – Graham Rowat, Mom – Kristen DiMercurio, The Doubt Girl – Erika Sanderson“Carol’s Christmas Cookies” written by Penny Tailsup (Story starts around 01:27:20) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Wafiyyah White, Carol – Tanja Milosevic, Caller – Jeff Clement, Patti – Erin Lillis, Robert – Mick Wingert“Happy Holidays from the Sturbins!” written by Rona Vaselaar (Story starts around 01:45:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Eleanor – Jessica McEvoy, Evelyn Sturbin – Mary Murphy, Post Office Worker – Kristin DiMercurio, Police Officer – Atticus Jackson“Orphans” written by Seth Borgen (Story starts around 02:19:35) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Willie – Matt Bradford, Dante Inferno – Peter Lewis, Ruth – Mary Murphy, Margo Banish – Erin Lillis, Harold Banish, Sr. – Mike DelGaudio, Agatha – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Lonnie – Elie Hirschman, Maid – Erika SandersonThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepHelloFresh – Get fresh, pre-measured ingredients and mouthwatering seasonal recipes delivered right to your door with HelloFresh, Americaís #1 meal kit. HelloFresh lets you skip those trips to the grocery store, and makes home cooking easy, fun, AND affordable! Go to HelloFresh.com/80nosleep and use code 80nosleep to get $80 off including free shipping  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about S.H. CooperClick here to learn more about Penny TailsupClick here to learn more about Rona VaselaarClick here to learn more about Seth Borgen Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAdditional music for "Paper Plate House" provided by: Travis VengroffChristmas illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker Audio program ©2020 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's the holiday season with Christmas right around the corner, and all of us at the No Sleep podcast wish you and yours all the festive joy of the season. But we also recognize that this time of year can be challenging. 2020 has been a difficult year for all of us, and at a time where we're expected to be jolly and basking in the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends, it's easy to feel alone and isolated. Maybe restrictions are keeping you from gathering with loved ones for the home, Maybe you're worried about your health or your job.

What can really be helpful is the chance to talk with someone, to open up to someone trained to counsel you through difficult times. That's where BetterHelp can make a big difference. BetterHelp is professional counseling done securely online. They will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist so you can start communicating in under 48 hours. You can log into your account any time and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses.

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BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. You deserve to feel better. Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterHELP. And join the over 1 million people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. In fact, so many people have been using BetterHelp that they are recruiting additional counselors in all 50 states.

And for our no sleep listeners, you'll get 10% off your first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. So reach out. and start feeling better. And from the entire no-sleep family, we wish you the very best of the holiday season. And now it's time for our annual helping of festive frights.

Halls with blood and cobwebs, fa la la la la la la la la. Ah, hello, didn't see you there. Merry Christmas, deck the halls, away the manger, jingle the bells, silence the night, one horse they open sleigh.

Apologies, I'm just a little over-excited. You know why? It's Christmas. But more importantly, it's nearly the new year, which means this nightmare year born from the darkest depths of the nether, is nearly over. And yeah, yeah, it's just a date on the calendar, but I think the symbolism of drop-kicking 2020 into the sea will be cathartic for all of us.

But also, it's Christmas. And Christmas at the No Slee podcast means fear, in a good way. So tonight, for our socially distanced Christmas gathering, we bring you six tales of terror to chill the spine and rattle the bubbles. Hand-picked from the cream of the festive crop, these stories are sure to mince your mince pies and scorch your eulog. Tis the season of bad will, the winter of your discontent. So, brace yourselves for Christmas with the No Sleep Podcast.

The wind whistled around the big man's legs as he slammed the door of the cavernous workshop, a drift of snow whirling across the ancient wooden floor until it finally succumbed to the warmth from the stove. Santa shuddered. It was cold out there, and the giant sack over his shoulder was only half. full. He'd have to go out again, one more time at least, but it could wait a while longer. There was still light, so there was still time. Just. He didn't like to cut it this fine, but the harvest had been delayed by a fierce storm that left him snowed in and impatient and frustrated. It was only on the autumn equinox itself, the last day of the Arctic summer, that conditions

had improved enough for him to venture outside again. Already he had made a dozen trips to make up for lost time. His back ate, and his arms felt like they were carved from wood. Such storms were getting disturbingly common. Climate change, perhaps. There was even talk that the North Pole would become ice-free in as little as two decades. Worrying times.

He shook his great, bearded head. The window of opportunity had always been tight, but he couldn't begin the harvest any earlier, and he certainly couldn't finish it later, in the dark, after the sun had finally set for the next six months. A week was all he would ever get, storms or not. But if there was no ice. At his feet, the sack wriggled, and he untied the thick rope around its neck. Pale eyes peered drowsily up at him, blinking in the wan lamplight. He carefully tipped the sack so that the writhing, naked forms tumbled free,

stretching and yawning, the ice that had encased them forming puddles around their little pink feet. Santa pushed forward brightly colored garments in an assortment of sizes, though he knew they wouldn't be interested in dressing quite yet. It took time for them to learn. Right now they were as innocent as newborns, but it helped to familiarize them with the concept of clothes. Left too late, they didn't even bother, and that was a mistake he'd quickly learned to avoid.

The life cycle of a North Pole elf was a peculiar thing that even he only vaguely understood, in a very real way, harvesting them just before the equinox, before the Arctic sun plunged them into a deep state of hibernation, bringing them into the heated workshop, well, strictly speaking, it wasn't natural. But without them, he wouldn't be here, up at the frozen summit of the world, freezing his ass off. Without them, there would be no workshop, no Christmas tradition of long centuries standing. He busied himself at the great stove,

ladling red-stained bowls full of porridge, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. He couldn't abide the smell himself. Not anymore, but it was all the elves would eat at first. Later, he'd add dried reindeer and seal blubber. They grew big and strong on the additional protein, quickly reaching maturity. By the time he'd put down the last of the food, to a bow-legged runt he wouldn't have bothered digging a out of the ice if he hadn't been in such a rush and who kept tripping over his or her misshapen legs, a few of the elves were trying on the striped hats, giggling and laughing in their high-pitched voices. He stroked his beard. They seemed to be getting the gist of it. Making sure the fire guard was secure around the stove. Another mistake you only wanted to make once, he took up

his spade and checking how long it was until sunset. Oh, not long, not long at all. He grabbed his empty sack and went out into the fading twilight to dig up the rest of the elves. By the time he returned, frozen to the bone, the previous batch were beginning to explore their surroundings to pick up things, mostly cooking utensils, that might make good tools. He left the sack. He left the sack filled to the brim on this, definitely his last trip, and shewed the elves out of the kitchen towards the wood shop proper, towards the cacophony of hammers and rhythmic chants, towards the rest of the elves.

In the end, it had been a good harvest this year, despite the delays. There must be at least a thousand of them. The wonderful thing about elves was that you only had to show one or two of them how to do something, how to make a Christmas toy, for example. They shared tasks and knowledge so that even now the new cohort was gathering around the elves he dug out of the snow at the start of the week,

watching and starting to mimic their actions. Sometimes it looked like there were more elves than tasks, but somehow they worked it all out, two elves to a workbench, speeding through twice the work, movements coordinated by their earworm songs, even if what they were singing about was impossible for Santa to decipher. Mindful of his latest charges, he dashed back to the kicking, punching, bulging sack,

quickly releasing the cord and scraping the bottom of the giant porridge pot into the last of the red bowls, before scattering the remaining elf clothes. Outside, the sun dipped below the icy horizon. Santa watched it with a small sigh. It would be a busy three months, the sunless days passing in a blur, as they always did. For three months, he would be hard-pressed to keep the lamps lit, the kitchen stoves going, the elves fed, hard-pressed, carting supplies of raw materials from the outer stores and into the workshop as they ran low, refilling those stores with Christmas presents ready to be delivered.

Everything else, the toy-making, the painting, and the boxing. the elves would handle. Good old-fashioned toys the way they should be. No digital gadgets, nothing plastic, nothing short-lived or disposable. Dolls and carved animals, music boxes, and intricate puzzles. He wasn't sure where the elves got their designs from. Each year they were a little different.

Each toy unique and very obviously handmade, a labor of love. Santa didn't really care that such old-fashioned toys were in waning demand, that he was only called upon to deliver them to the young of the Mongolian nomads who sent him his reindeer, to a dozen other remote peoples who gifted him his oats and spices and a few other essential things the frozen North could not provide. He served a shrinking fraction of the world's children, but it was the thought that counted, the tradition upheld. The parents elsewhere would do the rest, in his name, as they always had, as they always would. Christmas came round, so damned fast.

In the stables the exhausted reindeer slept, but Santa himself had one big, onerous task to do before he could rest. The noise as he re-entered the workshop was deafening. It was always chaos when he returned with his empire. desled. With nothing to do, nothing more to make, the elves were busy getting into mischief, clambering from the rafters, sticking their noses where they shouldn't. And these were big elves now, fully mature, fat and sleek on their rich diets and prolonged warmth, a state they wouldn't reach for at least a dozen years in the wild. Banging an empty pot, Santa drowned out their squeals and the occasional scream when one of the elves slipped, waiting until there was silence

other than a few broken whimpers. He gave the speech he always gave, never knowing how much of it they took in. He thanked the elves for their tireless work, congratulated them on the ingenuity of their creations, assured them that children who received their toys would be truly delighted and would treasure them for years to come. He told them, the elves deserved a day off, a reward, and announced a feast, a grand Christmas celebration, and that any elf who wanted to help in the preparation of that feast was more than welcome. Of course they all wanted to help. In short order, the larders were raided and emptied. The workbenchers cleared. A dozen elves stirred each of the great pots.

The random, whatever was left ingredients made for a gray, unappealed. feeling mush, but thankfully he, Santa would not have to partake. Finally, when everything was as ready as it would ever be, he unveiled his secret Santa gifts to the excited elves. Twelve huge barrels of potent, noxious liquor, a viscous ruddy slop that bubbled even as it was decanted. "'Hoo-ho-ho! Let's the feast begin!' He called out, raising his own empty tankard. All day long the elves feasted and caroused,

the impossible noise levels ratcheting even louder. As the barrels ran dry, elves squirmed through the openings to carry away the thick dregs. When the very last of it was scraped clean, The elves paired off in twos and threes, and rosy-cheeked, staggered outside into the Arctic darkness to do whatever the hell it was that led to the next generation of elves, that led to the strange shapes in the ice pockets that waited for the first touch of the polar sun

before beginning to grow through the six-month summer, finally ready for him to harvest as the sun once again set. arms crossed plumes of his breath in the bitterly cold air santa watched as they cavorted into the dark waiting for the last elf to leave the bow-legged runt he'd almost left behind now naked and priapic the cheeky saw gave him a wink as he passed before he lulloped off to catch up with the rest santa kept the doors wide open the heat quickly spilling into the insatiable cold pulling on his great red coat, he closed the air vents on the stoves, watched as the flickering flames died. And then he set up his sharpening wheel,

whistling as he worked, a tuneless, meaningless melody, but that didn't matter. There was no one there to pick it up, to turn it into a maddening earworm that would come echoing back to him in a thousand high-pitched variations. He'd be waiting.

in the dark, by the cooling stove when the elves returned, flushed and giddy, skin red-wrought from the cold. They lie down in messy piles of discarded clothes and fall into a deep sleep, their first for three months, exhausted by their orgy, drowsy from the barrels of intoxicating liquor, becoming even more lethargic as the temperature plummeted well below zero, as they finally succumbed to their hard-coated need to hibernate through the Arctic winters. It would be a simple thing for Santa to visit each of them in turn, to place a wooden bowl beneath their necks and wickedly sharp knife in hand.

To quickly slice. Air would then be thick with the scent of their blood. But even that would fade as the elves froze solid. It was something that no one ever seemed to add. to wonder, what did children think Santa's presence were made out of? Well, what else did he have? The only raw materials he had were the elves. Their mature bodies, carefully nurtured and replenished year on year. By the new year, they'd be as dry and stiff as boards, ready to be rendered down. Every part of them would be used. Santa couldn't afford any waste.

and he would be kept busy these next nine months. Nine months, Santa had to process the cold corpses. Through the dead days until New Year's, through the quietest months to the spring sunrise, where, across the snowy wastes, embryonic elves in their ice chrysalids would begin to grow in the startling sunlight, somehow taking enough from the air and the ice

to finish the first stage of their development. through those bright months until the sun once again threatened to disappear. Nine months to make the soft leather from their skin, rope and string and braid from their sinews, to stack the bones by length, the skulls for carving, the limbs and ribs for structure, and to make paint from their blood. The bright, glossy red paint that almost all Christmas toys sported.

The same red that stained the elves' bowls, the same red that coated the corners of their mouths as they licked and shaped the paintbrushes, the hairs of which were also elf, of course. There were other colors, acts of alchemy to be wrought from gallbladder's and other internal organs, his large hands barely up to the delicate task. Sometimes, in the dark thoughts that come to any man, alone for so much of the year. He wondered if the elves knew what they made their toys out of,

surely they must, or did they think it was from some other animal, one they never saw? Did they realize what it was that was fermented in the huge barrels to make their alcoholic celebratory festive brew? Santa put down the last of his sharpened knives, listened to the silence only broken by the keen wind, a silence he would have to endure for a long time after tonight. They'd be back soon, and the last deed of the year would begin, and he could then sleep in his little hut, separated from the by then frozen workshop. He was so tired, so very tired, his thoughts strayed as they often did in this brief lull. It was the only downside to the whole magical annual cycle

that he could almost wish for some elves to assist him with the final stages of his work, the nine months of solitary duty that sometimes threatened to overwhelm the chaotic three with a thousand little helpers. He thought about the runt, the cheeky one, but shook his head in the sorrow. Another experiment tried and failed, Faced with dismembering his own kind, faced with the realization that he had drunk the fermented viscera of other elves, an earlier spared elf had run amok,

and Santa still had the scars to show for it. No, tradition was tradition, and duty was duty. Santa stepped into the shadows with his knives, listening intently for his raw materials to return. people have often asked whether I'm connected to Santa, and now you know. I wouldn't have that kind of insight into the inner workings if I didn't have at least a finger on Santa's sack. But that very true story was eloquently compiled by author Liam Hogan, in a tale he calls raw materials. But of course, it is true, just like every story in this festive compilation.

But I'm hungry. Now, and I've got a sumptuous feast here. Let's see who will be joining me for dinner. Looks like Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Mick Wingert, Jeff Clement, Sarah Thomas, and Atticus Jackson. Ah, yes, they'll all make good roasts. And let's see here. Our chef for tonight is S.H. Cooper,

who's cooked up a tale about poor Theodora. So baffled by her family's sudden Christmas cheer, They don't normally go all out like this, so why is her brother bringing home a girl such a cause for celebration? Find out as we tuck into a Christmas feast. I knew about Christmas. Of course I did. It permeated my radio programs and wrapped the town in tinsel and bows. As far as I could tell, it was a holiday of gift-giving and good cheer, a family.

but not in my house. There were no stockings hung by the chimney with care, no great tree topped by an angelic figure, and certainly no good cheer. We did not even speak the word Christmas in my house, although I didn't know why. Warmth did not come easy within the walls of Belfordshire Estate. My mother was a woman made of edges,

sharp features, sharp tongue. I only ever saw her smile during social events when she wore the painted mask of Mrs. Remington Beasley, wife to the wealthy lumber mill owner. My father, the aforementioned Remington, was as soft as mother was sharp, with a fondness for good whiskey and loud laughter that never rang quite true.

I think only two things kept them together. I'd like to say that it was myself and my brother, but that would imply some kind of affection or desire not to hurt the kids. Now, theirs was a simpler bond, built on mother's love for father's fortune and father's fear of mother. Truly wedded bliss. Usually it wasn't such a terrible existence. My parents weren't unkind, mostly due to the fact that they didn't pay attention to me at all. I was trotted out for portraits and for functions where it was beneficial to look like an ideal family,

but otherwise, I had the best tutors money could buy, a maid to clean up after me, and a cook to prepare all of my meals. I wasn't unhappy or particularly lonely, given my staff, but it probably wasn't the healthiest upbringing out there. My favorite times were when Benjamin came home. He was a decade older than me, a student at the same university the last three generations of Beasley men had graduated from. ever since he'd gone off to school, I didn't see him much. He had always had a harder time with our life than I did, craving much more of the world outside the estate walls and frequently fought with our parents.

Usually he waited until they'd gone on one of their trips before dropping in to visit me and then just disappear again, leaving behind no trace he'd been there at all. So when I was 10, and he came home on December 24th, a day that meant no more to me than any other in the month, I was immediately concerned. Had he been hurt? Had someone in our family died?

I raced down the steps to the front door and skid to a halt when I saw mother and father had already beat me there. I braced myself, clinging to the banister while I waited for the fighting to start. It never took long. But when mother spoke, it was not with her usual dismissiveness. No, she welcomed him with open arms, crooning his name and pulling him in for a hug. I'd never heard that tone come from her before, and I'd certainly never seen her hug anyone. Somehow it was more unsettling than the silent wrath she was so fond of brewing, just beneath the surface.

And you must be Sabrina. As mother and father parted, I was shocked to see my brother enter with a young woman at his side. She was pretty, with her blonde hair cut into a curly bob and a tea-length dress beneath her long coat. I didn't know what to make of her. As far as I knew, Benjamin had never brought anyone home before, much less a girl. Theodora, don't be shy. Come say hello to your brother and his lovely friend. I lingered on the bottom step, fingers playing against the railing's wood,

while I looked from mother to father and then to Benjamin. Questions burning at the back of my throat. Don't mind her. She's always been a bit on. haven't you, pup? Hearing Benjamin used his nickname for me was enough to draw a tiny smile, and I finally moved to join them. Sabrina crouched, so we were eye-to-eye.

Hello, Theodora. Benjamin's told me so much about you. I've really looked forward to meeting you. I mumbled a greeting and then turned to my older brother. How come you're home? For Christmas, of course. Before I could ask what he meant, father took the opportunity to usher everyone inside

the boisterous sweep of his arm. No need for us to stand in the doorway all night. Let's go to the parlor and have a drink, shall we? Theodora, take Sabrina's coat and hang it for her. Benjamin helped her shrug out of her coat and handed it to me with a wink, ruffling my hair. Mother linked her arm through Sabrina's and led her away with the men in tow. I stared after them, mouth pulled into a baffled O. Home for Christmas?

After tossing the coat onto the rack, I scurried to catch up with the other. curious as to their sudden shift in holiday spirit. Mother and father were seated in their customary places, the former at the far end of one sofa and the latter in his armchair. My brother and his lady friend were seated on the second sofa, a socially acceptable distance between them. The sight of the room stopped me in my tracks. Yesterday, it had been up to Mother's museum quality standards.

Now, Garland was strung along the mantle over stockings. There was a tree decorated with the tree. colorful glass balls and silver tinsel, and Christmas carols drifted softly from the record player. Even the portrait of Jacob Beasley, founder of the mill and still revered patriarch of the family, despite his far back death, had a red bow affixed to its corner. Things I didn't even think we owned. Benjamin tells us you met by complete chance. Sabrina nodded.

He stopped into the diner where I waitress when driving back to his school, and we just got to talking. She beamed at Benjamin and he placed his hand over hers. Isn't that sweet? To anyone who didn't know Mother well, her genial expression would seem to match her words. I know we've only been going steady for a couple of weeks, but when she said she didn't have anyone to spend Christmas with,

I knew I had to bring her home. Why? The word was out of me before I could stop myself and I regretted it instantly. when all eyes turned towards me. Benjamin shook his head as if it were a silly question. I couldn't let my best girl spend the holiday alone. I wanted to ask more to find out who had been visited by three ghosts to bring about this change,

but mother stopped me with a look, a smile on her lips but cold fire in her eyes. Don't stand in the doorway gawking at our guests, Theodora. Sit down. Confusion made my steps dreamlike as I crossed the room to perch on the opposite end of Mother's couch. She reached over and closed her long fingers around my hand with a tight squeeze. What was she warning me for? I straightened and pulled my hands into a ball in my lap. If Sabrina noticed my awkward stiffness, she didn't comment on it.

Mother picked the conversation up again. You poor dear. No family to go home to. Friends? The girl's cheeks tinted a pale shade of pink. I haven't seen my parents in a long time. And I tend to move around a lot. Go where I can find work.

Hard to make friends that way. Mother clicked her tongue sympathetically, and she and father traded a look. I couldn't read it, but I knew I didn't like it all the same. Well, you're here now, and that's something to celebrate. Let's get some drinks in these hands. Cognac, my boy. Just like your old man.

And for you, Sabrina? A martini? While father made a show of preparing the aperitise, I tried to meet Benjamin's eyes, begging him to tell me what was going on. But he chatted away with Sabrina and mother as if this was all normal. I didn't dare ask anything aloud,

too afraid to cross mother after she'd made it so obvious she wanted me to keep my mouth shut. The conversation about Benjamin's courses, Sabrina's quiet life as a small-time waitress, my parents' vacation plans, swirled around me in a haze while I studied the Christmas decorations. I wanted to find them pretty like I did when I saw them on trips to town. I wanted to feel happy that they were finally here in my house. But it was wrong. So very, very wrong.

I was made to join my family for dinner in the formal. dining room, mother steering me to my seat with a clawed hand upon my shoulder. A giant turkey platter, far more food than the five of us could ever hope to eat, was already laid out. Plates were heaped high with meat, vegetables, potatoes, and father enthusiastically encouraged us to tuck in. I picked up my food with my fork, no appetite despite its delicious aroma. When Benjamin got up to use the restroom, I quickly did the same, earning me subtle reproach from my parents. I didn't care. I walked as quickly as I could from the dining hall and then, went out of sight, dashed after my brother. I caught up with him at the top of the stairs.

What's going on? I grabbed the hem of his sweater. The smile he'd been wearing all night had faded, and he looked down at me with a nervous lick of his lips. Everything will be fine. Go back to dinner, before mother comes looking for you. He nudged me away and continued down the hall. shutting himself in the bathroom. I stood there a moment longer, my frustration threatening to burst from me in a scream before stomping down the steps to rejoin the others. We kept up our Christmas charade in the parlor

after we'd finished the meal. More small talk, more of mother's strange tone and father's too loud voice. I couldn't bring myself to look at Benjamin again, too angry with him for going along with this ruse and not telling me why. Sabrina excused herself very briefly and when she returned, she had a trio of small wrapped packages in her hands.

It's not much, but I wanted to thank you for letting me share Christmas with you. Oh, you needn't to do that? Father laughed. Too loud. Too long. Mother stepped between them and took all the gifts, one of which was labeled with my name. We'll just put this beneath the tree until midnight, shall we? Oh, yes, of course.

Who's up for a round of cards? I'm feeling lucky. Benjamin produced a deck from one of the side table drawers. The other adults joined him around the coffee table, and I marveled at the scene as Benjamin dealt them each a hand. Even Mother joined in, although games were, in her opinion, a waste of time and brain matter. It was picturesque.

This family gathered in front of a roaring fire, smiles lighting their features while they played rummy to the tune of Bing Cros. I just wanted to know what they'd done with my family. I kept expecting Mother's nightly dismissal signifying she'd tolerated my presence enough for one day, but it never came. I didn't buy that it was because she was too engrossed in their game, and so I stayed, sitting quietly in the background, watching, waiting. They played round after round until I was curled up and dozing on one of the couches. Until the clock showed five minutes to midnight.

Benjamin pointed it out. The jovial air that had filled the room immediately faded, replaced by quiet tension that rang louder than their conversation had. The sudden shift was enough to rouse me, and as my gaze shifted from my brother to my parents, their features stony and pale, goose pimples spread across my arms. They stood as one. Wait here, Sabrina.

His tone was distant, quivering, and he licked his lips again. Sabrina lowered her card slowly to the tabletop. Is everything all right? Yes, wait here with Theodora. Wait for what? But they turned and filed out of the room, leaving me and Sabrina to share an uncomfortable silence. Do you know what's going on?

I shook my head, absently pulling a throw pillow into my lap to hug it against my chest. Footsteps shuffled in the hall. Benjamin? Sabrina started to stand. My brother returned first, that easy smile back on his face, and he held a hand out to his best girl. I don't know that she ever noticed the way he kept his other hand tucked behind his back, or the grim flicker in his expression, because she went to him willingly.

Benjamin leapt upon her with a snarl. She cried out, but shock kept her from reacting more, and they tumbled to the floor. He straddled her, and as she struggled beneath him, demanding to know what he was playing at, my parents entered, armed with long-bladed knives on gilded hilts. I was too surprised, too afraid by this version of Benjamin. I'd never seemed to do anything but watch from over the pillow. The knife he'd had hidden behind him was clutched, tighten his fist. The Adora come.

When I didn't immediately comply, Mother grabbed hold of my wrist and raised. ripped me upright. Come. I was dragged between her and father to stand over Sabrina still fighting to get Benjamin off of her, but he clung with vicious determination. Father? Father knelt beside Sabrina and grabbed one of her legs. She screamed, and I did too, burying my face in my hands.

The mother pulled my head back by my hair. You must watch. Father pinned Sabrina's ankle beneath his knee and raised his knife. To the father, we offer this gift. The point of his blade plunged into Sabrina's foot and she howled. The deep, gut-wrenching sound of a panicking, pained animal caught in a hunter's trap, tears streaming down her face. My stomach churned and the room seemed to shrink around us until it felt so compressed I could hardly breathe.

My legs had turned to jelly and I swayed dangerously. Mother took firm hold of one of Sabrina's arms. To the father, we offer this gift. The gasping squeal that Sabrina released when mother drove her knife through her palm forced me back a few steps, and I collapsed in a heap, hands pressed over my ears. Benjamin crawled off of Sabrina towards her uninjured foot. Even with my ears covered, I heard my brother's muffled voice. To the father, we offer this gift.

And then hands were under my arms, hauling me upright, and something cold and heavy was pressed into my grasp. I gazed dumbly down at a fourth gilded knife and then up into my mother's face. She dragged me to Sabrina's side and held Sabrina's hand hard against the floor in front of me. Do as we did. Say the words. I could only cry and shake my head. The knife slipped from my numb fingers and clattered against the hardwood. Come on, pop. There was desperation to Benjamin's words.

Sweat dotted his forehead. You must. Father's throat bobbed hard as he swallowed. It's 1159. I know. Sabrina and I locked eyes, and I witnessed the horror and hurt flashing in their blue depths. She opened her mouth as if to say something, perhaps to beg me for mercy, but mother shoved the knife into my hand and folded her fingers over mine.

Say the words. No. Say them. The slap she delivered twisted my whole body. To the father we offer this gift. Please. Sabrina started to reach towards me with her only free hand. Mother shook my arm.

Say them. And while I stared into Sabrina's terrified face, I did Under mother's forceful guidance I sank the blade through her outstretched hand until the tip bit into the floor I screamed louder than Sabrina did that time Benjamin scrambled to his feet and swept me up

half carrying me across the room to stand in the doorway her parents quickly followed for a moment the only sound in the room was Sabrina's muleing cries She writhed against the knives piercing her limbs and kept asking Benjamin in this wounded voice why we were doing this to help her. The clock struck me on me.

We call upon you, Father, to accept our offering. You who made this family. You who keep this family. He ignored her. A bargain made on Christmas, a bargain kept. A life for a debtor.

At first I thought my eyes might be playing tricks on me, but no, the firelight was dimming. Benjamin held me close to his side as I sobbed. My parents didn't seem to notice. All of their attention fixated on the fire. Fingers unfurled upward from the center of the hearth. Their flesh charred and shrivel. My sobs started to turn to choked screams, but Benjamin's hand flew over my mouth. I tried to wrestle away, but his grip tightened until it hurt.

Sabrina rolled her head to look at the fire, and when she saw the figure rising in the flame, she started yanking her arms and legs, wailing with each movement, but panicked beyond pain. The thing that hauled itself from the fireplace was skeletal, a patchwork body of too many limbs that shuddered and twitched. Its burnt skin crackled like thin paper as it crawled slowly towards Sabrina. It lifted its head as it neared the young woman,

and despite the gauntness of its seared oozing face, I recognized it. Him. My eyes flew to the portrait of my ancestor, Jacob Beasley, and then back to this monstrous thing pulling itself from the heart. There was no mistaking him. A Christmas feast for Father, who gave himself to the fire on this night so long ago, so that his legacy would burn forever bright. We do all of this in your honor. Sabrina held and almost managed to tear one hand free when the thing that had been Jacob, Jacob closed the distance between them. Its many fingers raked hungrily against her body, gouging her flesh with blackened nails,

pulling her towards it as the knives held her in place. The screams rose and rose, piercing the air with such shrillness. Jacob stuck his face in hers, swalling tongue protruding to drag along her cheek. He lunged forward suddenly with the speed I hadn't thought possible and closed his teeth around her nose. A sharp crack. but tearing and snapping, punctuated by Sabrina's endless shrieking. He shook his head from side to side, and when he came away,

he left a jagged, comes in hole in the middle of Sabrina's face. Red dribbled down his chin while he chewed, eyes closed in rapture. When he dove in again, tearing at chunks of her face, he did not stop. For an eternity, I was made to stand there, watching, listening as he consumed her, snapping her bones and slurping her blood until all that was left of her was a leg and a stain upon the floor. He held the limb close, cradling it to his concave chest, a small trophy to add to his body's gruesome collection,

and he looked up at us. Alive for a decade. Then he returned to the fireplace, disappearing once more. The fire grew again, burning bright, And in the silence that followed, I could have sworn I still heard Sabrina screams. Well, that's done. Mother was already back to her familiar frostiness. Benjamin, clean the knives and put them back.

Tell the maid to take all this garbage down the moment she gets here in the morning. I can't stand to look at it any longer. Time for bed, Remington. I'm exhausted. Yes, dear. without another glance towards us or what remained of Sabrina they left the room Benjamin finally loosened his hold and I sank to the floor fighting the urge to vomit up with little dinner I had eaten Benjamin sighed and crouched beside me but I couldn't look at him

for the first time in my life I didn't even want him there it's only once every ten years pup it's the least we can do He sold himself to ensure the family endures no matter what. To protect us, isn't that worth it? He squeezed my shoulder. Isn't that the greatest Christmas gift of all? Delicious, just what the plague doctor ordered. Truly a story to recount around the dinner table.

But now I have to do the dishes. And done. Well, that's another set of tableware lost. One of these days I should remember to buy disposable crockery. It would make my life so much easier. But speaking of disposable crockery, I have a gift here from Danielle McCray, Tanya Milosovich,

Alexis Bristow, Graham Rowett, Kristen Demecurio, and Erica Sanderson. So horrifying, you could eat your dinner off it. It's a tale shared with us by author AC Macanally, in which a group of cousins discover that boredom leads to curiosity, and curiosity leads to danger. How is this connected to disposable crockery, you ask? Well, because the abode they find is covered in it, of course.

That's why they call it the paper plate house. If you grew up in my hometown, or even lived there for your high school years, then you've heard of a paper plate house. It was tucked away in the neighborhood by the Walmart down crooked side roads. You couldn't drive too slow down that road either, or everyone knew what you were there to see. At first glance, there wasn't anything ominous about the house. No spine-chilling sensation just from driving by. No, but it was eye-catching.

The owner, I never knew his name, blasted the outside of his house with paper plates, taped, stapled, glued, tacked, whatever device he had handy. If the paper plates had only been paper plates, I think most people would have just gawked and never dared to cross into his yard. But they weren't just paper plates. On them were words, so of course people wanted to know what was written on them.

At least, me and my cousins wanted to. It was Christmas break, of my senior year. Mom was hosting a Christmas get-together for the family of the weekend before the big day, which meant a house full of cousins and good food. My cousins closest to my age were Stephanie and Tori. We hung out in my room as the adults gathered in the kitchen playing cards, the younger kids in the living room with my grandma playing games. Tori flung herself on my bed as we walked in. What are we going to do tonight? Tell me we aren't. and staying cooped up in this house.

Stephanie sat down at my desk. We could go to the mall. No way. Mall at Christmas time? I waved my hands in the air. I'll look downtown's no-go. Traffic will be redonculus. Why don't we go exploring?

Tori propped herself up on my bed with one arm. What do you have in mind? We could go to the cemetery and put small wreaths on the tombstones, bring some Christmas spirit as we ghost hunt. That way, no one will complain about us being there. Man, that's middle school crap. How about we finally make a run to the paperplate house? The last two years we had said this,

and at least two years we had chickened out. At this point, I also had the sympathy to realize that the man who lived there was probably unwell, and it might be best to let him alone with him and his paper plates. Do you want to get shot? Because that's how you get shot. Oh, come on. Ladies, this is the last year before we move off

and start the next chapter of our lives. I flicked a peppermint at her. Wait, why do we always wait until Christmas to try to do this? I've always wondered that and keep forgetting to ask. You have to do it when he's playing music. He always has Christmas music playing every start of December. Wait until he's playing music. It made sense.

That way, he couldn't hear you as you crept up. But, man, if I were him, I would be paranoid every night in my house, wondering if people were going to try something. But he had to know what putting those paper plates up did to people. People, especially teenagers, were curious little brats. He had to know they would try something, right? So why keep doing it? My sympathy only took me so far against my curiosity.

I had to know more. Let's do it. After asking our parents if we can go hang out at the mall together, we snaked our way down the side roads in my car by Walmart until we came to the empty parking lot. Across from the paper platehouse, snow clouds cover the sky and cast a gray light over us as the day slid into twilight.

Today had been one of those rare cases for Arkansas to have actual snow. Not sleet, not ice, real powdery snow. Didn't happen often. And when it did, you didn't have a lot of time before it turned to ice. So you got out and enjoyed it while you could. I walked a few dozen feet from the car, trying to get a better angle to see the house. A huge bush hit it from the road on one side. But as I walked around it, I was both odd and not surprised. The house couldn't have been more than 800 square feet, yet almost every inch of the exterior walls was covered in paper plates. A closer look let me see the blue, black, green, and red writing on the plates.

But I didn't dare get close enough to read them. The house had a small porch wrapped by a banister needing some TLC. The curtains were drawn back, framing the windows, nothing but darkness beyond them. It was that darkness that really unsettled me. What could be lurking inside? I walked back to my cousins. They were both leaned up against the still running car.

Steph stared at the paper plate house. You know, snow is a natural noise cancelor. That's why it seems so dead quiet in the winter. Yeah, but if we're trying to walk in it, don't think it's going to cancel at our footsteps. How do we want to do this? The powder was still soft. It didn't give the crunch that ice would.

It could still work. Let's get back in the car until we hear the music. It's freezing out here. We piled back into my car and all shut up. A breeze swept through the air outside, throwing snow dust against the car. Other than that, nothing. No music, no cars passing by. there was no noise whatsoever.

How long do we give it until we can call it quits? Oh no, we are not calling it quits this time. Let's give it an hour. If we don't hear any music by then, then we go anyway. I hated the sound of that. But I agreed, hoping that we would hear music soon. While we waited, we scrolled on our phones quietly, didn't want to talk much so we could hear the music. Should it ever start? Very few cars passed by,

so we weren't worried about anyone stopping and asking us what we were doing. But I did take note of our surroundings. There was a church behind the house with a few parked cars in front of it, but I couldn't see any lights on in the church. I figured they must be rehearsing their Christmas pageant. A metal building with several cars in front of it was across the road from the house. But again, no lights were on, and the bay doors was shut. Other than the possible Christians rehearsing, there wasn't a solo round. Then there was music. It wasn't the Christmas music I thought it would be. It wasn't a classic Christmas hit, pop or gospel. I mean, it was. It was, it was. It was, God rest ye merry gentlemen, but it wasn't played through speakers.

It was on an accordion. Was he playing it? That's our cue. So how are we doing this? Wait, is he playing that? We probably need to move fast then, right? Right. He does a few songs and then takes a break.

So that's another thing. If we hear the music stop playing, run like hell back to the car. The fact that you know so much about this dude doesn't surprise me in the least. If he's that distracted, why don't we just park the car off the road in front of the house? And that way it's not so much of a run back to the car. Good idea. Kelsey, pull us right up to his yard, lights off, then kill it. We all jump out, run up behind the bush, and then grab from the sidewall. Sounded as good a plan as any. I started the car, hurt racing for what I was about to do. Was I really going to do this?

I was the one driving. I could have just floored it and dealt with them calling me chicken shit later. But something about the music drew me in. Made me want to find if I had the courage to do this or not. I needed to see what he wrote on his paper plates. After I crossed the intersection to get to his yard, I turned the lights off. I killed the engine as quickly as possible.

Let's do this. We all flung our doors at, open and left them like that, hoping no car would come flying by and take out one of my doors. I didn't watch what the other two did. But I heard their soft foot falls in the snow, not with a crunch, but more of a tap. Tori was the idiot who fell into the bush, an avalanche of snow following her from the branches. Steph and I froze, but the music never let up. Just switched to Silent Night. There? Help me out!

We muffled our laughs as we pulled Tori to her feet. She was covered in snow. I tried to pat some off, but she swatted my hand away. Let's just get this over with. The music poured on through the air as the darkness crept in. The lone streetlight on the road was on the opposite end. Nowhere near this side of the house. We waited a few seconds, making sure the music continued.

and then we bolted forward together, hand in hand, until we came to the closest wall of paper plates. There were hundreds of them. Steph and Tori didn't hesitate. They immediately peeled off whatever random plate they grabbed, but I was smarter, or so I thought, and pulled my phone out to take a picture of the wall, try to capture as many plates as I could and read them all later. My phone's damn sound effects would be the end of me. The flash wasn't going to hurt anything because there were no windows on that side of the house. But when I pushed the button to take the picture, the loudest click went off.

Again, we all froze. But the music didn't stop. Only slowed. Its tempo now drawn out in every note more menacing. Even though it was stringing together, a year. usually pretty Christmas song. I didn't dare snap another picture. I just grabbed for a plate and was going to head back to the car. But the plate had other plans. The plate I grabbed wasn't taped on like Staps and Tori's plates were. Oh no. Mine had to be stapled on. And instead of ripping

the plate as I pulled, the dozens of staples holding it on popped off, causing a quick succession of pops off the side of the house. That time, the music did stop, and I ran as fast as I could. Steph and Tori were already in the car. Steff had hopped into the driver's seat and was trying to turn the engine over. As I jumped in the back, it became clear my car was not cooperating with Stephanie. Kelsey, what do I do? It stalled.

Put it back in park and turn it over again. She did, but it didn't want to be turned over. Steph didn't know how temperamental my Honda Civic could be. Move! Steph hopped over the seat and landed beside me in the back while I quickly rushed to the front and locked the doors as I made it to my seat. Oh, come on, Gloria. Why do you got to do this to me now?

You named your car, Gloria? Can you not right now? Oh my God, guys, look! As I tried to turn it over again, I turned and looked to the front porch. That house couldn't have been any bigger than 800 square feet, but the man that just stepped out of it was over six feet tall. He stood in the open doorway of the house, golden lights spilling out behind him,

casting him in a shadow. He was skin and bone. His hands reached to his knees. Even in the silhouette, I could see the gun holster on his hip and the accordion hanging from his shoulders. We were dead if I didn't get my car to start. Let's just get out and run.

No, I can get her to start. I can get her to start. Kelsey, he's coming! I pumped my foot on the brake three times. I turned the wheel until it locked up. It seemed counterintuitive, but I knew my Gloria. She was fixing to do me right. That's when his shadow pressed close to my window.

For a moment, he just stared. And we stared at him. He was just a man. A really freaking tall, skinny man. A little pale looking in the snow. His hair, that salt and pepper color of my dad's, but his cheeks were collapsed a bit, and his lips were cracked.

His words were way more calm and soft than I expected them to be. He focused on me, didn't even bother to look at the other two in the car. Maybe he didn't care who else was with me. Maybe he thought if he knew at least one face along with the car's tag, he could hunt us down later and get us in trouble. Something in his face told me that line of thinking was wrong.

But I still wanted to believe that was the reason he only had his eyes on me. This is your only chance to give them back. Your one chance. I couldn't get my body to do anything. My hands were clenched tight on the wheel and ignition. My foot still pressed hard on the brake. I stared. Eyes locked with his.

There was no real malice in his glare, but I was scared anyway. Why was I scared? Why couldn't I move? What would this man do to us? Could I trust that he wasn't going to hurt us if we tried to give the plates back? Tori shook me from the passenger seat. Damn it, Kelsey, go! Her voice upset the man, and it broke me from his gaze.

He swung his fist hard into my side window, but it didn't shatter. The thud of his hand on the glass was the last signal for my body to wake up and do stuff again. I moved my foot from the brake to the gas pedal and got us the hell out of there. I looked back once in my rearview mirror and saw him standing in the middle of the street. Playing his accordion, he screamed as we drove off. What did he say? I don't have a clue. He said don't get them wet.

What a weirdo. I didn't go directly home in case he ended up following us. I drove like a lost kid around the neighborhood, up and down the same roads until I finally parked at a gas station. Stephanie and Tori were celebratory. They giggled like crazy and we told how we almost died to a. each other. What does your plate say? The plate? Where was my plate? Step, is my plate back there? Staff dug around. Oh, yep, right here. She flung it to me and hit me against the head with it.

Fumbling to catch it, I grabbed a snow-covered edge. How did I get snow on it? I guess as we were switching seats? Wait, how were they not completely covered in snow to begin with? The edge of a roof, dummy. Well, what's your say? Steph ratted hers off. It was some sort of manifesto, a list of his beliefs on government. Boring. Tori reads hers.

It was a letter to a loved one, though it wasn't clear if it was to a relative or a lover. It told whoever it was for how he would be home for Christmas and for when she graduated in the spring. Pity ate it my heart. Did the real real. real letter even reached a person intended for it?

Then I looked down at mine. It was a poem. Darkness once reached my mind. Overthrown by peace of mind. Usurped the once rightful king, betrayed by an unsightly thing. Trust nothing but the voices that aren't kind. Wow, that's romantic. We all burst out laughing, so maybe there was nothing to these paper plates, but

But the scribbles of a man with too much time on his hands. Hey, what about the ones on your phone? Yeah, the one that almost got our asses killed. Well, let's just see. I pulled out my phone, smiling at them. I opened my gallery and clicked on the photo. The picture showed the houses and the plates, but I zoomed in as much as I could on one plate. Holy shitballs, Batman.

The words didn't show up on camera. What? Oh my God, let me see. They gasped in odd, as none of us could make out any of the words that had been written on the plates. What the hell caused that to happen? Surely my flash couldn't have caught all the words in the glare. Okay, I'm done. We are going back to my house, and you can giggle more there.

We walked through the door with no shopping bags, and my parents wondered what was up. Stephanie and Tori spilled the beans. after first insisting that we had planned on going to the mall, but stopped by the paper plate house first. Our parents weren't surprised. Apparently, they had done the same thing when they were kids, like a rite of passage. That's how long this house had been standing?

Stephanie retold the words so theatrically, I thought all the little cousins would be scared out of their wits. There we were, eye to eye with the paperplate man, and he told us, this is your only chance to give the plates back. And we said, no way. That's when he swung. His arm and smashed his hand into the window, and it shattered into a million pieces.

He reached through the broken window and grabbed onto Kelsey. Staff grabbed me around the knock. But we beat him off of her, and she was able to drive up. us to safety. My dad mumbled something about how the story better be made up as he glanced out the window to see if my car window really had been broken. Steph released me and went after the little ones again, pretending to chase as they scrambled

about the house. As one little cousin raced by, he tipped over a cup of water onto my lap. The cold beverage shocked my leg, but most of it was caught by the paper plate in my hand. Damn it! I quickly shook the plate and tried to keep the ink dry, but it ran and smudged. As it ran, a new word stretched out down the plate. It was the first letter of each line.

Together, they made the word doubt. I showed Stephanie. Oh, bummer, lady, you wouldn't think a little bit of water would wipe the plant completely clean. What are you talking about? You don't see the word? She inspected it more closely. What word? I stared at the letters clearly written on the plate.

Nothing. Guess I just thought I saw something after the word smudged. Why the hell couldn't she see the letters? I decided to put the plate in my room and enjoy the rest of the night with my family. We played our family traditional card game of Canasta, and after a few rounds of that, I was tired enough to go to bed. Tori was spending the night, but Stephanie had to work the next morning. So Tori and I squeezed into my full-size bed, played on our phones a bit and gossiped before finally drifting off to sleep.

The slow hum of the wind outside was all I heard. When I woke up that night, no idea how late or early it was. But it was something else that had awoken me. No way the wind would have done it. My eyes fluttered as I tried to bring the room into focus. It was dark and blurry, and my eyes refused to adjust. Until I realized that they had adjusted, and I was looking at something other than the ceiling above me.

It was a floating mass of black and gray, with hundreds of small wisps that looked like strands of hair. But they vibrated as they moved. My eyes couldn't make sense of anything else until I heard the voice. So soft. I wasn't sure I actually heard. heard it. Doubt everything.

The voice breathed in my face as it spoke, and I realized the mass of darkness was a body. There were two eyes, even blacker than the rest of the void. And that floating figure above me, I stared into its eyes like I had the owner of the paper-plate house. Its gaze caught me, and I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. It kept repeating that friend. over and over, as if it had multiple voices.

My body quivered but still refused to move. What would happen if I did? Would it attack or would it evaporate? God, please let this be a dream. Tori stirred behind me, still asleep, but her movement was enough to give me my voice back. I opened my mouth to scream at the figure to leave me alone.

But as soon as I did, it shot its tendrils at me. My mouth gaped wide as the thing forced its way into my mouth. Eyes locked on mine while it shoved its way in. Its form changed from black to gray to white.

As more and more of it entered my body, it slid cold down my throat and filled my lungs like I was drowning. My body jerked as it traveled into my torso, writhing through my limbs like ice dragging across my bones. I kept trying to scream, but no sound came. The next time I woke up, the sun was peeking into my room. I threw the

blanket off of me as I sat up, imagining every inch of my body. It must have all been a dream. I stood up and headed to the bathroom, but stopped as something caught my eye in the corner of the room. In my vanity mirror, I almost didn't see it. It blended in against my white walls. I only caught it because it was moving. It was me. Well, it was a girl that looked like me, except her skin, hair, and eyes were completely snow-white. Her irises were as white as her scolera, with no black dot for her pupil. She twitched. Her body was not. Her body was not. like static. Her arms jumping around in ways they possibly couldn't. As if I was watching a TV show when the channel was cutting in and out. She stopped twitching and looked directly at me. She pursed

her lips as if to whistle, but instead of a whistle, the voices from last night echoed into the room. Doubt everything. Doubt everything. Is Brandon really like you? Tori hates your guts for sure. Stephanie just uses you for your car. Doubt everything. Carlo is mom's favorite. She just likes bossing you around. Doubt everything. Will you get accepted into Hendricks?

Doubt everything. You're nothing. You're useless. You're nothing. You should die. The voices grew louder and louder. How could Tori sleep through this? I ran out to the room, down the hall to the bathroom.

It's not real. It's not real. It was there again in the bathroom mirror, right behind me. Doubt everything. I turned around to face it, but there was nothing. It was only in the mirror. Doubt everything. I left the bathroom rushing downstairs, hoping someone else was awake. I made it to the kitchen, avoiding the big mirror in the hallway,

but from my periphery, I saw her still there. Doubt everything. Oh, good morning, hon. Are you hungry? I'm making breakfast, and then I'm starting the gingerbread house. She's really saying she wants your help. She doesn't feel like making breakfast for you. She thinks you should be making breakfast for yourself.

Let me help, Mom. But you can't help. Doubt everything. You don't know how to cook. You suck every time you try. Doubt everything. I tried to ignore the voice, as I washed my hands and took over frying eggs, standing there, staring into the yoke.

The voice wouldn't leave me alone. Doubt everything. You're going to burn the egg. You're going to make it too hard, and you know Mom likes her eggs runny. Doubt everything. The sizzle of the eggs in the pan couldn't drown out the voices as they crept closer and closer, louder and louder, until I felt the girl behind. me. Her breath hot on my ear. I tilted my head away, bunching my shoulders. God, please make her stop. Just make her go away. Kelsey! I looked down to what my mother was freaking out about.

The pan was smoking the burnt egg. I got it out of the pan with a spatula. No saving it. Oh, sorry, Mom. I spaced out. I need to go do something. What? Something. You can't do anything. You're useless, don't you see? Doubt everything. There's nothing you can do right. I went back upstairs and grabbed the paper plate. Head down the whole time. Hand-cutped over my eyes to avoid catching a glimpse of the vanity mirror. Still, the voices persisted. My head and my heart pounded As I slipped my shoes on and went outside, I knew what I had to do to get rid of this. I pulled up in the front of the paperplate house. The voices followed, the snow white girl sitting in my backseat, her figure apparent in my rearview mirror.

You're not strong enough to do this. Doubt everything. You know he's a maniac, a madman. He'll slice you up and stuff you in his accordion. doubt everything. He'll use your skin to make a new accordion, play you every Christmas. Your teeth are ivory for his keys. Doubt everything.

It had to stop. I had to make it stop. I got out of the car and trudged up to his door. I knocked loudly and waited. No answer. I knocked again and the door swung open. He still had the accordion strap to his chest as he dipped his head down to see. out of the door. And I looked up at him. Paper played in hand. Please. I know you told me to give it back

last night, but I was too scared to. Please take it back. Did you get it wet? What? Did you get it wet? I didn't. My cousin spilled his drink on it. He started to shut the door. I can't help you, girl. I put my foot in the way. You have to help me. You're the only one who can help me. Tell me what's happening. Help me. He leaned down, arm resting on the door's edge. There is no help for you, girl. You will either beat it or it will beat you. If you hadn't gotten it wet, I could have helped you still, though you didn't deserve it. People never learn. Why hang them up? Why do this to people? If people left me alone, nothing would happen to them.

But I have to write. Don't you see? I have to write. If I don't write. His hands began to tremble. I didn't think it was from the cold. Darkness once reached my mind. Overthrown by peace of mind.

Usurped the once rightful king, betrayed by an unsightly thing. Trust nothing but the voices that aren't kind. He muttered it over and over. The poem had been on the plate. How the hell did he know which plate I took? Did he really pay that close attention to the things he wrote? His whole body began to tremble, his mouth moving inhumanly fast. His words all jumbling together, distorting the sound of the poem.

But he didn't stop. He had jerked every which way as the entire way. intensity of it took him. I backed off that porch as he stood there, twitching like the snow white girl did, repeating that horrible poem over and over until the door shut on its own. I flung the plate on the porch and took off to the car as I shut my door and put it in reverse. I noticed the plate was in the passenger seat. The same damn plate I just left behind. Christmas Day came two days later. And by then, my sanity was hanging on by a thread.

I could never get rid of that plate. And the girl never stopped. She never stopped whispering to me all those horrible things that could be true. The only time she let up was when I took her words and thought them myself. Started my own train of thought on one of those horrible truths. My family crowded around the dinner table, getting food. Tori and Stephanie brought their own paper plates. from the house and ask that we take a picture together.

Let's make it a Christmas card and send it to the paperplate man. On the bottom, we will write, please don't hit our car. Only you would think of that. That's when the idea struck me again. I had thought of it before, but dismissed it as a non-option. But I saw the girl in the mirror hanging from the hallway, her mouth spilling out horrible, possible truths. and I just wanted it over.

I had to try. After we ate, it was time to give presents. Having just finished the wrapping, I smiled as I handed Stephanie hers. Just to show how much I love spending time with you, she opened the box and saw the paper plate. She pulled a box from behind her, laughing. Oh, how funny.

We got each other matching gifts. My stomach dropped. If my plan worked, then surely hers did too. But she hadn't gotten hers wet. Nothing happened to me until I got mine wet. I unwrapped the box and opened it. I stared down at the word doubt on my plate. Stephanie chuckled, but all I could do was stare.

Wait, what? How did we switch boxes? That's weird. Doubt everything. I doubted Stephanie would ever understand the pain I was going through, all because she had to go and mess with a troubled old man. No one would care for my pain because no one would believe my pain if I told them. They would all think it was crazy. There was only one way to fix that.

I grabbed the cup full of tea beside me and poured it in the box on Stephanie's lap. Hey, what the hell? Oops. I watched his Stephanie try to try to. to clean it off, watched as the wheels turned in her head, watched as the ink ran on her plate. But I couldn't see what word would be left. What word do you see, Steph? She tried to show it to me, but of course it was blank. Steph, I know there's a word there, but I can't see it. What is it? She shook her head, leaning in, back to staring at the plate.

It's not a word. It's a picture. What is it, Steph? The longer Steph looked at it, the wider her eyes got. I can't. It's moving. Steph, what is it? Tell me what it is, and I can try to help. She flung the plate across the room and screamed. She tore at her arms as if trying to get something off of her.

Her hands swatted higher and higher until she was digging at her neck. The whole family rushed to her aid. But no one saw it. anything. All the adults tried to ask, what is it? I sat and drank the rest of my tea, watching as she took the same breathless gasps that I had only a few nights earlier when the snow-white girl slithered down my throat. Her demon might not have been doubt, but whatever it was, was going to stay with her, just as mine did with me. I wondered what Tori's plate would say. I'm going to take a short break from these spooky tales.

They're keeping me wide awake here on Christmas Eve. And I'm so stressed about all the meals to make over the holidays. I don't know what I'm going to do. Huh? Is someone in my kitchen? Santa? Why are you in my kitchen? And why are you cooking a delicious-smelling meal? Well, you've been a good little girl this year, and Santa knows that you don't know what to do

when it comes to providing healthy meals for your family. So I've brought you a box from Hello Fresh. Hello Fresh? America's number one meal kit? Precisely. Hello Fresh makes meal prep easy and stress-free. They offer convenient, no-contact delivery to your doorstep for easy home cooking with the family.

You'll find the recipes are easy to follow with simple steps and pictures to guide you along the way. I know this guy Cummings who runs a podcast, and he says Hello Fresh delivers fresh, high-quality, pre-portioned ingredients so I can make meals that are delicious and nutritious. Over 90% of ingredients are sourced directly from growers to ensure peak flavor and ripeness. He's absolutely right about Hello Fresh. And did you know that by skipping the grocery store and using Hello Fresh, you're reducing your food waste by at least 25%. Hello Fresh delivers pre-portioned ingredients,

so you're not over buying, which is a burden on the planet, and frankly, isn't very good on the old wallet either. I remember him saying there's something everyone will enjoy, including 20-minute meals, low-calorie, vegetarian, kid-approved recipes, and more. Quite true. Did he also say something like go to hellofresh.com

slash 80-no-sleep and use code 80-no-sleep to get $80 off, including free shipping? Why, yes, he did. But how did you know he's on the no-sleep podcast? Oh, never mind about that. Look, HelloFresh offers more than 20 chef-crafted delicious options every week

to help you break out of your recipe rut. Try new things and make any night feel special. I have to admit, that cranberry chicken and herbie pan stuffing you're making smell so good. My family will love a meal like that. Well, then take advantage of getting $80 off and free shipping by going to hellofresh.com slash 80 no sleep. and use code 80 no sleep at checkout. Santa, you've shown me how to save money, reduce waste, and provide my family with tasty, healthy meals.

This is truly a Christmas miracle. I guess you have to be going, huh? But you never told me how you knew about no sleep. Oh, well, I... Cummings! Is that you? No, no, it's not me. I mean it's not Cummings. Off I go now, on Dasher and dancer and all that stuff.

Go back to listening to your scary stories with that delightfully handsome host. Oh, wasn't that just smashing? But all this talk of paper plates has reminded me. I should put some treats out for Santa and his reindeer. There, that ought to stop them in their tracks. And you know what that means? More treats for me. Got a glass of milk here, but more importantly...

Aha, certain baked goods. Now, what brand are these? Let's see. Oh, nice. They're from an independent bakery owned by Penny Tails Up. Ingredients? Hmm, Wafia White, Tanya Milosovich, Jeff Clement, Aaron Lillis, and Mick Wingert. But what food is it, you ask? Well, obviously, it's Carol's Christmas cookies. Today was the annual holiday pot look. My office doesn't really do Christmas parties, but every occasion gets a potluck. It's business as usual, except everyone brings food.

We work while stuffing ourselves silly. Nothing like working through a stomachache, right? It's always a game of food poisoning roulette. Since I was the first one in, I was expected to do the basic setup. Dutifully, I cleared off the sorting table and got the coffee going. I expected to spend my first 30 minutes of my shift in peace, But it wasn't to be, the phone started to ring. It's too early for this.

I answered anyway, putting on my best customer service voice. At this hour, most customers hadn't had their coffee yet, so answering the phone was a crapshoot. Fortunately, it was only Carol. Thank God you answered. Can you let me in? My arms are full. She always brought enough baked goods for everyone to have seconds and thirds. It was one of the few things I loved.

looked forward to. I'll be right over. Hold on. I hung up and hurried over to the employee's entrance. I yinked open the door and found Carol standing there with a heaping stack of Tupperware in her arms. The scent of the gingerbread hung around her like a warm Christmas perfume, sweet and inviting. Let me help you with that. You try to get it all in one trip, huh? I carefully grabbed a few of the containers, making sure not to tip them over. and walking with her inside. Carol smiled appreciatively, relieved she could finally set everything down.

I peaked at the goodies. As expected, gingerbread cookies, gingerbread office workers, each one bigger than my hand and intricately detailed. What do you think? She pucked out her chest with pride. I made one for everyone in the office.

After I passed these out, I'm out of here, though. I'm not working today. But I wanted to make sure Everyone gets theirs. Wow. I admired her handiwork. It only took me a moment to realize that the gingerbread cookies were modeled after our co-workers. I looked eagerly for the one she made of me, but I didn't see one.

These must have taken you forever to make. The details are perfect. No way can top these. Suddenly, my crock-pock of meatballs seemed a lot less exciting. Oh, well, it was. It wasn't a competition, as if I could beat Carol's Christmas cookies. By then, my phone started to ring, so I hurried back to my desk. I watched Carol pass out her cookies with care, placing them on desk atop pretty poinsette of plates.

The customer barked at me the second I picked up. Are you going to be open on Christmas? No, hello. Only a shrilled inquiry. No, but we will open as usual on the 26th. What do you mean you won't be open on Christmas? What if I need help right away? I'll have to wait?

I gave my scripted answer to the angry customer, distracted and deadpan. By the time the call was done, Carol came over with a smile, bringing the very last cookie over to me. I'd say it's too pretty to eat, except he was never really a looker, was he? I looked down at the gingerbread man. It wasn't me. It was our boss, Dale. This one's mine? Maybe there was a mistake.

Of course. How many opportunities do you get to buy your boss's head off? I wanted to give you the honor. If Carol sensed my disappointment, she didn't let on. I looked down at the cookie again, a dinched gingerbread man in a cheap suit. Even though the suit had been made with glaze and frosting, I had that impression. Cheap, ill-fitting, and gray. A perfect replica of one of Dale's two suits with a garish Christmas tie.

As long as it doesn't taste like, Dale. To be honest, as perfectly made as the cookie was, I didn't find it appetizing. Well, I did. It smelled amazing. But there was something off-putting about eating a cookie shaped like someone else, especially Dale. Then again, it would just have been as weird to eat one that looked like me. Cookie cannibalism. You didn't give him one that looked like me, right?

I shuddered. Now that would be creepy. Dale was a real piece of work, but I had to tolerate him if I wanted to keep my jaw. Of course not. Could you do me a favor? Wait until everyone else gets in to eat it. I want everyone to see.

I wish I could see the looks on their faces. You'll tell me, won't you? Sure. I slid the gingerbread away from me. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was going to eat it or not, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Maybe if I scraped off the decorations first. That seemed equally rude, though.

When you eat gingerbread cookies, are you the kind of person that goes for the head? Or the arms and legs first? Or maybe you'll pull off the decorations one by one. Carol wasn't looking at me when she asked. She was looking towards Dell's office. What a weird question, especially coming from her. When she saw the look on my face, Carol, and patted my shoulder.

Sorry, I was just having a funny thought. There's a little sadist in everyone, isn't there? Excuse me? Grabbing her empty Tupperware, Carol gave me a wink and wished me a Merry Christmas. She left leaving me alone in the office. I kept eyeing the gingerbread dale, still feeling. a bit weird about it. Weird, but also, hungry. The cookies smelled divine, which was odd, considering I've never been a huge fan of gingerbread. About 10 minutes later, the rest of my

co-workers trickled in. They complained about how tired they were, morning traffic, and the holidays. Of course, the belly aching became explanations of delight when they discovered the cookies set neatly on their desks. Everyone started showing one. another their cookies and taking pictures, marveling at the perfect detail. Patty's cookie had her trademark beehive updew in pearls. Mark's cookie was bearded with square glasses. Betty's had the electric blue eye shadow and dimples. Though the outfits weren't an exact match, the resemblance was uncanny. Eventually, the clamor died down and everyone sat at their desk. All except Patty, who scurried over to my desk with a wide smile.

I didn't see yours. She showed me hers for the second time. She carried her plate proudly with both hands, like she was presenting a piece of art. To be fair, Carol's work was really exquisite. I just didn't like Patty. Patty's eyes moved to the plate I'd set away from me. My cookie wasn't like everyone else,

which suddenly seemed like a problem. Oh, it looks like Dale. Is it yours? She scratched up her face at me, somehow managing to keep a smile. I didn't like her insinuation. Yes, it's mine. Did she really think that I scarf down my cookie and stole another one off my boss desk? Really?

Why doesn't it look like you then? Oh yes, the insinuation was still there. A bitter anger spread across my tongue, but I fought to keep my voice level and my face flat. It was weird that I was the only one with the cookie that looked like someone else, but I didn't make them. It wasn't up to me. Carol thought it would be funny.

That's all. Carol? But wasn't she fired yesterday? Patty's expression scrunched up even more. Her hands moved up to her pearls, fidgeting with the long strands. Sometimes I wonder if she wore pearls just so she could clutch them. Wouldn't a memo have gone out if she was? I turned my attention back to my work.

I hope Patty would get the hint and go away, but she stood there for a long moment. Sucking in, she picked up her plate off my desk, staring hard at the gingerbread Patty. Didn't you make these? No, I brought the meatballs. Why would you think I made them?

I didn't look up. I pretended to read an email. Patty was being nosy as usual. I'd never like that about her. She didn't have anything better to do, I guess, except for the work she let pal up. But if I said that, she'd complain to Dale. Patty was his favorite for some reason. So I'd probably get written up for not being a teen player.

Like a lot of offices around the world, this one was toxic. I'm not sure if this is okay. I'll be right back. I looked up when she said that, unable to help myself. She didn't explain pivoting towards Dale's office. To tell on me? Or Carol? I honestly wasn't sure.

Either way, it was a headache for me. She reappeared in the doorway with Del a moment later. They both made a B-line straight for my desk. Their expressions a lot more serious than cookies called for. Great. I pretended not to notice, busying myself with a stack of fresh paperwork. Before they reached me, there was a loud cracking sound. Every head in the room whipped in the direction of the sound to find Robert with tears running down his face.

All I could see were his eyes poking up from his workstation, expression twisted and red. Oh my God, it won't move! A couple of co-workers ran over to see what happened. I reached for my phone instead, ready to call 911 if an ambulance was needed. Patty and Dell changed their course, but everyone looked confused. How on earth had Robert hurt his arm while sitting at his desk? Carpal tunnel? Now's your chance, came an errant thought.

My eyes slid towards the gingerbread dale. It looked perfectly patatable on that pretty poinsette of plate. Hurry, before they confiscated. Now wasn't the time to worry about cookies, but my tongue tangled with anticipation, and my teeth, itched with the urge. Just one small bite? The thought was strange, almost like it wasn't mine, but very compelling.

The gingerbread man was heavier than I expected. I lifted it to my lips and bit off one of the feet. It crunched in stereo, unusually loud as the foot snapped off and began to melt on my tongue. Delicious. A rush of delight washed. over me, brought on by a flood of flavors that had drowned out Dale's cursing scream. He'd fallen, rocking back and forth on the floor. He must have twisted his ankle and his haste to check on Robert.

How unlucky. Two injuries in one day? A chorus of, oh my gods, rang through the office, but I sat down my phone so I could hold the gingerbread Dale with both hands. Without even thinking, I took another bite nibbling up the leg before switching to the other foot. The screaming kept getting louder, filling the room. The gingerbread had such a rich complex flavor. Ginger, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and something else. Was it earthy? Or maybe it was the texture, soft and velity, yet dense and crunchy.

So much screaming all over carpal tunnel in a spring ankle? Annoyed, I glanced around the room to find almost everyone was screaming. The ones who weren't screaming were chewing with blest out looks on their bloody faces or slumped over their desk. Confused, I touched my own wet mouth and looked down at my red fingers. I wasn't in any pain. Had Carol put glass in the batter or something? Where was the blood coming from? Why was everyone still eating?

Because they can't help themselves. I couldn't help myself either. Without realizing it, I had eaten half of the Dale cookie and found myself going in for another bite. Horrified, I dropped the cookie, the gingerbread snapping in half as it hit the floor. Dale, curled up on the carpet, was suddenly still and quiet. Patty was right next to him on the floor. But she didn't seem to notice, chewing frantically with glazed eyes, gingerbread crumbs, and blood running down her chin.

She rolled and started eating her cookies off the carpet. The spell of the cookie cast on me had broken with my boss spine. He was dead. And with each quieted scream, a coworker joined him in death. I was the last one standing, the last one screaming. Soon, I was standing in perfect, silence. No more screams, no more chewing. Only then was I able to move. I grabbed my keys and ran out of the office. Maybe I should have called the police, but I didn't know what I was going to tell them,

that Carol's Christmas cookies had killed everyone but me, that I had chewed my boss to death with the voodoo gingerbread man. I couldn't come up with a logical explanation in my state of pure panic. Even though my voice had broken, my thoughts kept screaming. I ran through the snowy parking lot and found my car. I'm not sure why I ran. No one was chasing me. There was no one who could. Before I could jump in my car and drive away,

I noticed a little red gift bag sitting on the hood of my car. Across the front, written in glitter were the words, Merry Christmas from Carol. I was terrified but looked inside the bag anyway. As I feared, there was a cookie. My heart thumped in terror, but I felt compelled to examine it. Despite my dread, I started to salivate, clenching my teeth together. Even after what I witnessed, I wanted to eat it.

The cookie wasn't me. It was Carol. Carol down to the outfit she worn that very, morning, except for the sorry, piped across her sweater in red. I swallowed the bloody spit in my mouth, reaching back into the gift bag. There was a Christmas card inside. Still holding the gingerbread carol, I opened it up. A key was taped to the glittery cardstock, along with a simple message.

Merry Christmas. There's a gingerbread office in my apartment. If you smash it, everyone will think the roof collapsed. That should explain all the broken bones. Don't worry, no one will find me. P.S. You were always kind to me. That's why I spared you. I hope you'll do me one more, kindness, and make it quick.

Love? I close the card, tucking it back into its envelope and sitting in my car. I look down at the cookie still in my hand. My tongue, my teeth, you want to do it. I bit off Carol's gingerbread head. It tasted like gingerbread. Stories given me some ideas for next year's work Christmas party. At least for those employees who didn't send me a card.

Thankfully, I have a whole stack to open here, so I'm sure everyone's safe. Let's see, who's this first one from? Oh, a Christmas card from one of our authors. How thoughtful. Dear David, have a very scary Christmas. Much love, Rona Vassilar. Ha-ha, she's a treasure. But what's this?

There's a photograph in with the card. Hmm, it appears to be a picture of a family. I don't recognize these folks at all. Although, how strange, each of them has a name tag on. Let's see. Jessica McAvoy, Mary Murphy, Kristen DiMecurio, and Atticus Jackson. Oh, this can only mean that courtesy of Rona, I'm being wished,

Happy Holidays from the Sturban's. Hello, treasured friends and family. It's been another successful year for the Sturban family. At the start of the year, Paul got that promotion he's been waiting for. Maybe now we can afford an upgrade to the minivan. We'll sure need it, too. Jane turned 12 this year and has been the star of the Bordamville youth soccer team. Shutting her and her friends back and forth has made for one interesting year.

Brody turned seven this year and is the top reader in his class. He asked for science books for Christmas. He wants to be a mad scientist. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Hopefully he'll remember us when he accepts his Nobel Peace Prize. As for me, I'm still head of the PTA and in charge of the Valentine's Day bake sale. It's been a quiet year for me, but I've so loved watching my family grow. We hope your holiday season is full of happiness and cheer.

May your tree be bright and your holly stay green all through the season. Much love, the Sturvins. Hall, Evelyn, Jane, and Brody. Have you ever gotten a Christmas card from someone you didn't know? That's how it all started for me some years ago. Just before Christmas, I was going through my mail, weeding out the usual junk promotions to toss in the garbage. When I came across a card and letter from a family, I'd never heard of.

At first, I thought maybe they were distant relatives or something. You know how it goes. You lose track of people, but somehow end up on their mailing lists. Upon some discreet inquiry, however, no one in my family knew who they were, which wasn't a surprise, really. My family doesn't do Christmas cards. Nowadays, it just seems kind of pointless. I mean, I'm not trying to insult people who do them. Of course not.

It's just with social media and all, you can take your cute Christmas pictures and share them with everyone you know instantly. and there's no need for a letter with a family update because you can find out all that information after 10 seconds on Facebook. The card wasn't addressed to me either. There was no name on the envelope. It was simply sent to my address. I figured that maybe they got the address wrong or it was intended for the person who owned the house before me. I didn't have any way of contacting them, though, and I thought it might be weird to reach out to the family themselves. Ring, ring,

Hey, random strangers, I got your Christmas card in the mail, even though it clearly wasn't intended for me. Cute kids, though. Anyway, who should I pass this on to? Speaking of kids, the card itself was rather cute. The man, presumably Paul,

was standing in front of a fireplace, and his wife, Evelyn, sat in front of him on a wooden chair. Standing on either side of her were two children. A girl, Jane, and a boy, Brody. They were all wearing matching red sweaters with white snowflakes embroidered on them. They also wore matching smiles.

You could really see the family resemblance in the two kids. They looked every inch the hallmark card family. I was oddly charmed by the letter and the card. Maybe it sounds creepy, but it was a tiny glimpse into another life, a glimpse that spoke of happy memories in the making. and now I'll sound even creepier. I just couldn't find it in myself to throw them away. It seemed rude in a weird way.

So I put the letter in a wooden box where I keep all my written correspondence and I put the card up on my fridge. You won't believe how many people would visit the house and ask about it. Everyone got a chuckle when I told them what had happened. So that was the start of the Christmas cards. but it certainly wasn't the end. Oh, beautiful friends and kin. As you know, it has been a long year for us Durbin's.

Although times are sometimes hard, we're managing to soldier through. Paul is no longer with his former company. As soon as illegal circus has died down, he'll be moving on to greener pastures. In the meantime, he's getting lots done around the house. He's even managed to finally re-shingle the roof. Jane broke her leg a few weeks ago.

Fortunately, the doctor says she's making a full recovery. We're hoping to get her cast off within the next month. Maybe it will be an early Christmas present. Brody's school troubles have been piling up lately. He'll be home for the remainder of the term. Hopefully, he can start somewhere new in the new year. We think a change of scenery will be. do him good.

As for me, after my health scare earlier this year, the doctors have me on a strict diet. No Christmas cookies for me. Hopefully the damage can be reversed if I'm careful. The doctors are cautiously optimistic. So you see, there's still a lot to be thankful for this year. Please keep us all in your thoughts as you celebrate this holiday season. May your carols be resonant and your bells be. Be Silver. Happy holidays. The Sturban's. I stared at the note and card with a frown. I remembered

the family from last year. Eventually, the original Christmas card had migrated to my correspondence box with the letter, so it wasn't exactly top of mind, but seeing the envelope with the familiar return address had jogged my memory. I hadn't expected to get the card that year. I figured the family probably realized their mistake and would have corrected it before the next year's cards went out. It appeared that they hadn't, and I felt a little guilty, seeing a slightly greater peak into their life, one that revealed details they probably wouldn't want to share with a total stranger. The card itself was just as strange. They were dressed like angels that year, with white robes and halos made of silver tinsel. Something about the way those halos hung lopsided

above their heads reminded me more of nooses, like the tinsel had grown a mind of its own and was reaching down to strangle them. I tried to shake the unsolicited thought from my mind. They were standing in the snow in front of the house this time, Paul and Evelyn in the back as before. Paul had bags under his bloodshot eyes. Evelyn looked a little thin, her robe not fitting her quite right. She was pale, too, like she hadn't gotten enough sun. Both of them look tired and sick. Jane was faring little better. There was no angelic smile this year, ironically.

She looked sullen and unhappy, standing there on her crutches with her leg unnaturally stiff in its bright pink cast, throwing off the color scheme of the photo. Brody was straight up glaring at the camera like it had mortally offended him. His hands were clenched into fists at his side and wondered what kind of shouting match had preceded the photo because it was clearly on the verge of rekindling. I went to my correspondence box and fished out the previous year's card to compare them side by side. The change was unsettling. The year before, they looked like a happy family, but that year, they looked like they were headed for a funeral. I was suddenly seized with a desire to know more about the family,

to understand some of their struggles just that much better. For one fleeting moment, I thought about sending a letter back, to explain that they'd sent me two Christmas cards in a row by accident, and that I didn't know them, but I wanted them to know I'd be keeping them in my thoughts this Christmas, and that I hoped things would be better for them next year. I didn't, though. I had a feeling that definitely wouldn't have been welcome.

I mean, can you imagine receiving a letter like that? Still, I wish I could help somehow. At the end of the day, we can't take on everyone's burdens for them. Some things aren't meant for us, and that's the thought I had as I placed both cards and letters into my correspondence box. It didn't seem right to put them on the fridge, not this year. I thought of the stirbans that year as I decorated the house and made gingerbread cookies and watched the Peanuts Christmas special.

I hoped things would get better for them, and that next year they'd have a happier Christmas. card and letter to send. Happy isn't exactly what I got. Hello, dearest family and friends. This has been another year of ups and downs for the stirbans. But it's the downs that really make the ups meaningful. My poor husband, Paul, was rushed to the hospital early this year due to a heart attack.

His heart was stopped for several minutes. Thankfully, the doctors were raised. to restart it. Now he's completely recovered and feeling better than ever. Miracles do exist. Jane is a rising star of her Bordenville High School soccer team. If only she liked English class as much as she likes sports. Brody has made lots of friends at his new school and is doing very well in his classes. His music teacher says he has a brilliant singing voice. Perhaps we've got a budding Broadway star on our hands. I've been back at work while Paul recovers.

I forgot how much I missed working in an office. Although my stay here is about to come to an end as Paul goes back to work, I've treasured my time with my new coworkers. Thank you for thinking of us last year, and for all the support you offered us this year. We couldn't have done it without you. May your sleigh bells ring and your, your winter be a wonderland.

Best wishes, the stirbans. When I read that note, I was relieved. I'd been wondering if I would get another card that year and wondering if the stirbans were doing all right. Well, my question was answered. They were doing pretty great. Maybe this year I'd put the cards up on the fridge. Maybe this year I'd send them a little Christmas card of my own,

just to say that I was happy things. were looking up for them. And then I looked at the card. It wasn't... There wasn't anything wrong, exactly, but my instincts registered that something was strange about it before my brain was able to articulate what was going on. They were all sitting on a sofa side by side that year

with matching snowman sweaters. On the far right was Brody, smiling cheerily at the camera. Evelyn sat next to him, her arm wrapped around his shoulder. Her smile was overflowing with joy. The two looked like a picture-perfect family. The problem was Paul. Paul sat next to his wife, his back ramrod straight.

His hands were clasped in his lap so hard that the knuckles were white. His skin had a gray tinge to it, and his eyes were sunken just a little in his head. It made sense, I tried to tell myself, since he'd been so sick that year. But even the obvious signs of stress and illness weren't what put me off. It was his smile. He looked. There's just really no nice way to say this. Like a nutcracker on meth.

Like he was half a candy cane short of a package. Like he was seriously contemplating eating. a bucket of shattered glass ornaments and enjoying every second of it. Next to him sat Jane. She was leaning away from him slightly, and her smile was strained to put it lightly. She gave the impression that she was avoiding looking at him at all costs. I wanted to believe that I was just imagining things, or being overly judgmental for no reason. But that picture got more unsettling with every second I loved.

looked at it. Eventually, I came to a decision. I put all the pictures and notes into an envelope, so I wouldn't run across them on accident and spook myself, and shoved the whole mess back into the correspondence box. Then I wrote a letter to the Sturban's. It went like this. Dear Sturban family, you don't know me, but I've been receiving your Christmas cards for the past three years. I believe you have the wrong address for one of your friends. Just wanted to let you know. Hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Thus, Eleanor. I didn't waste any time tossing it in the mail. That would be the end of that, I told myself, no more creepy letters or cards for me. Until I got my own letter back, that is, with a red, undeliverable stamped on it.

Undeliverable? Are you kidding me? I was sure there had been some mistake, so I marched myself down to the post office just a few days before Christmas, determined to sort it out. Excuse me, I got my own letter back, and I was wondering why.

Did I not put enough postage on? The boardwoman at the counter smacked her gum as she took the letter from me. There was no further acknowledgement for a few moments as she typed away on her computer, Finally, she handed the letter back. The address doesn't exist.

I'm sorry? The address you wanted to send it to doesn't exist. You'll have to find the correct address before you try sending it again. I left the post office in bewilderment. I was just sure I'd written the address correctly. Then again, I'd been in something of a hurry, hadn't I? I must have gotten a number off or something. That was it.

so I went back home and double-checked. The addresses were exactly the same. Frustration and unease grew inside me in tandem as I pulled up my computer and searched the address. To my dismay and general confusion, the postal woman was right. The address didn't exist. The town and zip code didn't match,

so I tried searching within the town and state for the street address. No luck there. Then I tried looking at other towns by the same name in other states. No luck there either. It well and truly led nowhere. This is ridiculous. I snapped my computer shut a little more sharply than was necessary. I resolved to just put the matter out of my mind.

If I got a card and letter again the next year, I'd throw them away without looking at them. And that would be that. to loved ones all. It's that time of year again, where we reflect on the gifts we've been given throughout the year, celebrate our successes, and be grateful to have made it through life's struggles. Paul is healthier than ever.

The doctors say it's as if nothing was ever wrong. The experience has really made its mark on him. It's like he's a completely new man. You may have already heard that Jane quit the soccer team, but she's keeping herself very busy at home, having picked up a few secret new hobbies. She's gotten to that age where she's too cool to share things with her mom. Ah, the joys of teenagers.

Brody was a little ill this fall, but is feeling much better now. He'll be starring in the school Christmas play in a few days, where he'll be singing, O Christmas Tree. He's quite the performer, and we're very proud, although I'm not sure I'm ready for all the costumes I'll have to sew in the future. After some discussion, I decided to keep my job. With both of us working,

we are hoping to afford a nice family vacation this year. I've been keeping busy, and am, as always, so grateful for my job. My loving family, wishing you the best this holiday season. May your cocoa be warm and your sugar plums dancing. Yours always, the stirbons. I stared down at the letter in my hand, trying to tamp down on the fierce unease burning a hole in my stomach. I didn't really want to look at the Christmas card, which was at that moment lying upside down in my hand.

I didn't have to either. I could just throw it away. Why didn't I just throw it away? I flipped the card over. My heart dropped out of my stomach. I felt lightheaded. For a moment, I thought I might actually faint. Paul and Evelyn were dressed as Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus.

Evelyn's red dress fit like a glove, the white wig and fake spectacles completing the look. Her smile looked a little wan this year, though. And although she had her arm looped around Paul's, she was leaning away from him slightly, like Jane had been last year. Paul looked worse. What words are there to describe Paul?

His weird, demented smile was still stuck on his face. It looked exactly the same as it had last year, like it hadn't moved an inch. The grayish tinge to his skin was worse now, though. And his eyes were... His irises and pupils were smaller, leaving more white space. The Santa suit hung off him like he was nothing more than a coat rack. The effect was unsettling. Jane and Brody were dressed like elves.

Jane was wearing a green dress and candy cane-striped tights. She was a little too old for the outfit, but it didn't look like she minded. It didn't look like she noticed it at all. Just like her father, a grin pulled the edges of her mouth nearly up to her ears, showing off her teeth in something barely short of a snarl. Her brows were drawn down sharply, making her smile look like a threat. Her head was tilted just a little to the side, as though in curiosity, and her hands were clasped behind her back. She stood next to her father, and I noticed she was leaning toward him this year instead of away.

And Brody, poor Brody! He stood next to his mother, practically huddled into her side. His green tunic and candy cane-striped hat should have looked cute, but instead of, he looked like an unwilling inductee into a murderous cult. There was no smile on his face, but a look of unease and apprehension. He knew something was wrong and was perhaps more willing to acknowledge it than his mother was. It was Brody that made me go digging. I couldn't just sit there and look at his terrified face,

too young to help himself or to understand what was going on. Hell, I was a full-grown adult and didn't know what was going. on. I pulled out my computer once again and started searching. I'd find out who the stirbans were and try to get their actual address. Then I'd, well, I wasn't sure I hadn't gotten that far yet, but I'd do something, because I couldn't just sit there and keep getting these two cheery letters and increasingly fucked up pictures. So I started looking, and I looked, and looked and looked. I spent hours, actual hours,

sifting through pages and pages of search results, trying and failing to find the disturbance. They might as well have not existed. What the f- I looked at the picture and felt that same frustration as before, but this time it was also tinged with sadness and panic. I was shocked to pin a name to the feeling that was rushing up inside me the longer I looked at that picture. I just knew on an instinctual level that something terrible was going to happen.

And if I couldn't find the disturbance, if I couldn't stop it, it would always feel like my fault. Whatever that terrible thing was going to be anyway. To our beloved friends and family, we hope that you, year has been full of happiness and joy. Paul has left his job and is working from home. He has set up an office for himself in the basement. He seems to enjoy it down there. Jane is doing fine in school.

She tells me her favorite subject is Map. Brody turned 11 this year. His golden birthday. We celebrated with a party. I've been staying busy. My hours at work have been long, but I don't mind. The overtime is nice. We're wishing you a happy holiday season this year.

Best. The Sturban's. That was the first letter I'd ever gotten that was so curt. It was lifeless, bordering on rude if it hadn't been so depressing. It didn't sound like Evelyn at all. It was like all the color had been sucked out of her world, and this was what was left. I picked up the Christmas card and saw what I had feared last year. They all wore brown sweaters and antler headbands.

Paul stood with his arms around Brody and Jane. His skin was discolored in patches now, and his eyes were almost entirely white, with only little pinpricks in the center where his irises should be. His grin was exactly the same as the two years before. Only his teeth looked longer now. I couldn't tell if his gums had receded or if his teeth were starting to fall out or what was happening. To his right was Jane. Unsurprisingly, her snarling smile was the same as the year before.

Her skin had begun to gray and her eyes were bloodshot. Her hair looked thin. I was sure I could see some balding patches on her scalp. To Paul's left was Brody. Gone was his fearful avoidance. In its place was a smile that could almost be called sweet if his lips weren't pulled so far from his teeth. It looked painful.

There was a wild look in his eyes. He looked more animal than human. Standing to the left of the group, separated just slightly was Evelyn. She looked exhausted. She'd clearly lost weight and, judging by the bags under her eyes, she hadn't been sleeping. She held her hands in front of her like she was failing to stop herself from ringing them. She was barely smiling.

The slight forced curve to her lips looked more like a cry for help than a smile. I called around to my family. The first year I'd gotten the card, nobody in my family seemed to know who was sending them, but I had to try again. Maybe someone would think of something. I enlisted my mom's help. She's uncannily good at finding people, online and off. When I was a kid, I thought she was magic. Sometimes I still wonder. She didn't find anything. Neither did anyone else. I tried to tried posting online. Every site I could think of,

I asked if someone knew this family, if anyone else had similar experiences with horrifying Christmas cards. Some people shared some truly fucked up stories about stalkers, murderers, strange, unexplained phenomena, but nothing quite like this. This time, I didn't put the cards back

in the correspondence box to be ignored until next Christmas. Instead, I spent the whole year looking. They had to exist somewhere. I had proof in those pictures that this family was real, and they were in trouble. I had to find them. I would find them. I just knew it.

Except, of course, I didn't. And then, before I knew it, it was Christmas again. Last Christmas, to be exact. There was no letter this time, just a card. The thing, though, was that the card hadn't been mailed to the house. There was no postmark on it. It had been hands delivered to my front porch, placed under a rock for me to find in the morning when I stepped outside. I picked it up.

On the back, it said, to our dear friend, I turned it over with shaking hands. Paul's gray skin had shrunk, clinging tight to his skull, pulling away from his eyes so they almost looked to be floating in rings of black in his head. His eyes were totally white now. The thin hair that had graced the top of his head had all fallen out, and he was still smiling, that God-dam smile. The remnants of Jane's hair hung in sad wisps from her peeling scalp. Like her father, her eyes were slowly turning white. Her graying skin was clinging to her bones, and she was still grinning. Brody's transformation had similarly progressed.

I could see in his frozen smile that he'd also lost a few teeth. Soon he'd look like Jane, like his father. And then there was Evelyn. She was smiling again this year. A smile pulled so tight it looked like it would split her skin. Her eyes were wide and staring, full of horror. It looked like two different faces had been stacked on top of one another. The pieces didn't quite fit together right.

They all stood, side by side, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, a demented parody of a happy family. That wasn't the worst part, though. This time they took the picture outside in front of a house. A house with a porch and wide bay windows and a big tree in the front yard. They were standing in front of my house. I went to the police. There was no putting it off, not anymore.

Maybe I should have gone sooner, but given how our conversation went, I'm inclined to think it wouldn't have made any difference. So you're saying someone has been sending you creepy Christmas cards? They aren't just creepy. There's... Look at these. Something is obviously wrong with this family. And the letters!

I'm worried something has happened to them. And I'm worried they're going to do something to me. Look, it seems to me like you're the victim of some weird long-running prank. It's unsettling, sure, but that's all it. It is. The bottom line is that nobody has threatened you or even mentioned you in any way. Just ignore it. Throw away any other cards and letters you receive and eventually they'll stop bothering you. It wasn't all right. I searched the front of the house for footprints or some evidence of the trespassers, but there had been thick snowfall the night before and that morning, and it masked whatever sign they may have left behind. I sold the house, pretty quickly after that. I didn't just move out of town.

I moved out of the state. I very pointedly didn't leave a forwarding address with the local post office. I burned the cards and the letters. All those posts I made online looking for the disturbance, I deleted those two. Whenever my family or friends asked me about them, they all knew about the cards and my search.

I refused to answer and change the subject. Eventually, people stopped asking. Eventually, people forgot. Except for me, of course. It's one of those weird things. No explanation, no purpose, no meaning. But at least it's over. It has to be over, right?

I've been so careful. Only my closest family and friends have my new address. I deleted all my social media. I did everything short of changing my name. It's over. So, why did I find another damn Christmas card sitting in my mailbox this morning? Chilling.

And as if to mirror the cold dread creeping down my spine, it's begun snowing outside. I can hear the faint sound of responsibly distanced carolers. Everyone's getting into the Christmas spirit. And I should begin to wrap things up to. I've got a hot date tonight with the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. And there's still so much prep to do before the big day hits. But I'll go on then.

Maybe we've got time for just one more. So, in our final tale, we join a pair of children journeying through the woods. On their travels, they meet a stranger who informs them it's Christmas Eve, and he begins to tell them a story which oddly mirrors their own. Shared with us by author Seth Borgon. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Peter Lewis, Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgado, Sarah Thomas, Ellie Hirschman, and Erica Sanderson.

So wrap up warm and join us for one final journey into the night, as we find ourselves in the company of orphans. We're in these woods now, Ruth and me. And the only thing there was for us in the whole wide world was finding our way through. It was the kind of dark like we'd been swallowed. If there was a right direction, I sure didn't know it. But the trudge kept us warm. Branches and thorns clung at our coats like bony arms and fingernails.

Roots pulled at our feet. He might as well have been standing still, but standing still would mean freezing to death. So we pushed on. Like the trees, it was a crowd moving in the other direction. We pushed on. A light flickered off yonder in the darkness, and I told Ruthie to put all she had left into reaching it. Fire meant people. People were troubled, but we needed that fire.

That was it. The flicker grew close. Eventually we came to a clearing no bigger than a lean to. A small fire burned in the center and huddled over the fire was a human form. A man, there are only two reasons you find yourself in a wood like this on a night like this, because you're lost or because you're hiding. We were lost. What he was doing out here, it was our lot to find out.

Hello, travelers. The stranger spoke like he'd been found and being found wasn't so bad. We just happened along. And that's all I was going to say if I could help it. Please sit. He gestured to the flame. It's a fool who claims to own a fire. He seemed friendly enough, which made me wary.

I put my hand on Ruthie's shoulder to tell her she should be wary too. She, of course, was smiling like we'd met a friend. He sat opposite the man. His hat and coat were. full of patches. He had one of those faces that could have been 20 or 30 or 40, depending on what life had done to him. I'm sure we were something of a sight ourselves, emerging from the dark like we did. Two bundles of rags with faces that haven't seen soap or proper indoors for weeks. We put our hands close to the flame. The stranger did the same.

Can't remember a night so cold. He talked like there might be scary things in these woods, but that he certainly weren't one of them. I knew enough to know that's exactly how scary things sound sometimes. A lot of people don't know this, but in Dante's Inferno, it got colder the deeper down he went. Is Dante Inferno? Oh, he's nobody. It's just an old story about a fellow went on a really long trip. Long trip, too.

Ruthie's eyes grew white. Is it a scary story? Parts of it I like scary stories I liked scary stories as well when I was your age Let me guess eight Nine And 14

15 I added two years to my actual age Oh nine and 15 He shook his head like 9 and 15 what wondrous things to be. It wasn't going to matter how many times I told Ruthie to keep quiet, so I gave up. In short order, she told him everything there was to know.

That she was Ruth and I was Willie. That we were brother and sister. That we were making our way east to find an aunt we'd never met. That we stowed away on a train and wanted to jump clear before reaching the next town. But we jumped too early and now we were here. It was mostly, Ray. There weren't no aunt, not in Pennsylvania, not anywhere. That was just something I told her, a lie, but a lie that kept us moving.

What wasn't a lie was there was no home the way we came. I nodded. Is your family dead, Mr. Inferno? Ruthie's question came so suddenly I don't know who was more surprised. Me or the stranger. Ours is, not with them. He was looking into the fire. but not like he was really seeing it.

And on this night of all night, Mr. What's tonight got to do with anything? He looked at us like our eyeballs had gone black. Don't you know it's Christmas Eve? He glanced around like that might reveal something. Maybe even Christmas Day by now. We didn't know that.

At least I didn't. What I wanted was for Christmas to, have come and gone without Ruthie spending a whole day thinking about what we didn't have no more. A home, a family, someplace we belonged. If anything like that was waiting for us at the end of all this, we had to survive the night first. That's true no matter what day of the year it is. Understand, you spend enough time out here. Any day is just another day for a lot of folks.

That's the idea. They're dead, aren't they? The stranger nodded. Make sure orphan doesn't it? Like us. Don't be ignorant, Ruffy. He's too old to be an orphan. I motioned to the man.

He isn't that so. He didn't respond. But he looked like he might any second. His hands were real close to the fire. Too close, I'd say. That very idea seemed to occur to him. He pulled his legs in close and pushed his hands into his coat pockets. Mr. Inferno?

He looked up like he'd forgotten anyone was there. Say something about a scary story? It being Christmas Eve, don't you want to hear a Christmas story? A scary Christmas story? I only know one Christmas story, child. And it's the scariest story I know. This is the story he told us. There once was a forest.

It was a lot like this forest, far removed from the world. And right in the center of that lonely forest, a family built a home. The family's name was banish. There was a mother, a father, their three children, and sometimes there were aunts and uncles and cousins, but not always. Now, the banishes, they... They had a lot of money, more money than the pharaohs. No one knows exactly where all the money came from.

The father, Harold Lawrence, Spanish, Sr., he invented some new way to do something old, matchsticks or rubber or some such. It doesn't matter. What does matter is they had so much money that they couldn't just build a house. They had to build a mansion. And mansions, you see, have to have names. So in the middle of that lonely forest, the Banish has built their mansion, and they christened it Manor Hirayeth. The Banish family loved one another, and they were quite

happy in Manner Hireth. But like I said, it was a lonely forest, so they set out to make it as not lonely as possible. To that end, every Christmas Eve, the mother, Margaret Eleanor Banish, Margo to the world would organize a grand and no expenses spared Christmas party. It was a chance for the whole family to be together, to be sure, and to see friends. And of course, there were all the rich and respectable people we would expect at such an affair. But none of these were the guests of honour. No, you see, in addition to being a party, the entire night was an act of humanity. You mentioned orphans before, Ruthie.

Well, for the whole night, every child from the local orphanage was given free reign of manor, Hirai. All the food they could eat, all the presents they could carry. And to all in attendance, the children were madam and they were sir. Really, the party itself was a drop in a bucket compared to how much the evening would raise for the children and how much the Banish Foundation donated to the orphanage annually. It gave the children something to look forward to, a night free from having nowhere to belong. It is the kind of thing that never appears in a ledger book. Margot Banish used to say.

Not to mention, the kindest of things. The Banish family looked forward to this night all year as well. But there was one Christmas Eve in particular they were looking forward to just a little bit more. Margo and Harold's eldest son, Harold DeLorence Spanish, Jr., though he wouldn't know you were addressing him unless you called him Hal. He hadn't been home much since leaving for college. In fact, on the night of the previous Christmas party, Hal was in Switzerland skiing with friends, and was again considering something along those lines the following year. But when he heard the heartbreak in his mother's voice on the other end of the telephone, he knew he'd been way too long.

When the motor car pulled up in front of Manor Hiraiat, the party was in full bloom. Hal heard voices and laughter and music almost immediately. Before the car door was even open, his mother came rushing out into the cold night air to greet him, wrapping her arms around her son. College keeping my beautiful boy! Who is this handsome man? Merry Christmas, Mother. Hal said, returning her embrace.

Biting cold, giving way to intoxicating warmth as she guided him through the main entrance, through the parlor toward the ballroom, throngs of well-wishers parting for them like they were on the prow of an ocean liner. As he expected, a manor Heraieth's walls and arches were draped in ribbon and wreaths and holly. A decorated tree stood in every room and every inch of every inch was bathed in golden light.

Young Hal was never so happy to be anywhere. As mother and son floated through the rooms every now and then, he tuxedoed, fine-moustached man would slap Hal's shoulder and say, there he is, or something to that effect. Or a woman wearing a shimmering, sherbet-colored gown. would find and press Hal's free hand and say, welcome home, young man. Something to that effect. More common, though, and more welcome,

was some little one wearing a new set of clothes running full speed into Hal's knees and peeping a quick, pardon me, before bolting off to find yet another room's untapped wonders. Another successful evening, I see. Hal said, smiling wide, Only now it is. They stood in the ballroom for a few minutes and listened as the band played O'Tanenbaum. Hal looked about the room.

He was not surprised to see that his parents had not completed the crossover from a gas light to electricity. As if to the music, tiny flames guttered and danced from the chandeliers and walls' concerts. When are you going to get it? Get rid of these things, Mother. He said, gently chiding her. Haven't you heard, the whole world's gone electric? Mrs. Bernish rolled her eyes. Electric light transforms the world into a place I don't recognize.

What if I don't recognize you? You've never seen me in the daytime? The sun's not fire? They'd had this conversation many times. and he found the familiarity of their performances comforting. In truth, he agreed with his mother. He didn't want to think about a manor Herayeth buzzing with cold, lifeless incandescence. Now that he was home again, after seeing a little something of the world,

what he wanted more than anything was for Manor Heraiath to stay just like this forever. Where's Lonnie and Agatha? Oh, they're around. Agatha's been rehearsing a little something for you all day. Has she now? But before that, let's find your father. I know he wanted to speak to you right off. He's not still sore about last year, is he?

About Switzerland? She patted his hand. Don't worry. It's a good thing. Where's father? Where do you think? They passed beneath the arch. separating the ballroom from the great hall. A blazing fireplace to his back,

Mr. Banish regaled a small flock of industry titans, their hands filled with cigars and brandy sniffters. Though the titans were hanging on to his every word, Mr. Banish left them mid-sentence upon seeing Hal enter the room. Warmly, he took his son by the shoulders. It is truly a happy man. who has his entire family under one roof. Merry Christmas, Father.

Please don't interrupt business on my account. Mr. Banish looked over his shoulder at the Titans. What? Them? He spoke clandestinely, his pipe clenched between his teeth. I'm only talking business with them because they don't know how to talk about anything else. And I'd hate for them to feel like the imposition

they are. Events were unfolding at a dizzying pace. It seemed only moments ago, Manner Harriath was a glowing dot in the distance as his motor car made its way up the snaking drive. And now here he was,

wholly swept up in the evening's dreamy momentum. He realized then that at some point someone had placed a glass of eggnog in his hand. Harold, wasn't there something? What's that, darling?

Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Banisher's mannerisms and tone became suddenly more deliberate, more thoughtful. He removed the pipe from his mouth. Hal, this party, it's a complicated affair bringing it all together. Decorations, invitations, hiring extra help, coordinating with the orphanage. As much effort as your mother and I put in, some things simply fall through the Crack. Isn't that so, darling? Mrs. Bernish nodded.

It's true. We're not as young as we used to be. Quite so, my dear. Mr. Bernish began relighting his pipe as he spoke. You see, in all the confusion, I forgot to write a toast for Christmas dinner tomorrow. And, well, you'd really be doing me a favor if you could make the toast tomorrow in my place. Hal was dumbstruck. The Christmas dinner toast was one of the family's oldest and most cherished traditions. Mr. Banish's father passed it down to him and his father to him and so on, back into time unknown.

Despite this, it never occurred to Hal that the privilege would someday pass to him. Mr. Banish's face did a poor job containing his excitement. It was your mother's idea, but it's time. What do you say? Can you help an old man out? Sir, surely I'm not ready. How will I know what to say? Well, just considerate practice for when you are ready. Without another word uttered on the subject, no formal declarations made, the honor of making the Christmas toast at next day's dinner,

and all banished family Christmas dinners for the foreseeable future, now belonged to how. There, now that that's settled, we can get back to the festivities at hand. Indeed. Hal was about to take a sip from his eggnog when he noticed that the glass was empty. Strange, he thought.

Stranger still, the glass was clean, a little dusty, perhaps, but otherwise completely clean and dry. He was about to say something when he felt a slight hug at his pocket. Standing beside him was his sister, Agatha. all of five years old and quite a different little creature from what he remembered. She wore a coral dress with green trim and a green bow and shining patent leather shoes

to match her black shining ringlets. In Hal's memory, she was barely walking. Now, here she was, a demure, expectant-looking thing standing on her own two feet and demanding an audience. Why, who is this? Not Agatha. It couldn't be... Hal said. What a little lady you have become. The attention made her a little fevered, but she refused to let that detract from the seriousness of her task.

All right, Agatha, all right. Are you ready? Is it time? It was time. Her legs crossed at the knees, her left hand clasping her right wrist. Agatha took a deep breath and in a voice. like the ting of a music box began her oration. However, he began to think, as you or I would have thought at first, for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too. At last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light

might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on furtherance, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea, taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door. She finished with a curtsey, Mr. and Mrs. Banish and some nearby guests applauded. Hal knelt down so that he and his sister were face-to-face. That was wonderful. Did you know that a Christmas carol is one of my favorite stories? She nodded. Tell me, what made you pick that passage in particular? I didn't.

You didn't? Hal smiled. Who did then? You did. I did. He thought his smile just sort of hang in there. What on earth could that mean? Just then out of the corner of Hal,

The hall room, the room that he and his mother had just been in, was brighter than it was a few moments ago. Brighter than it ever had been, actually unnaturally bright. He rose to his feet and excused himself to investigate. Hell passed under the arch and found himself once again in the ballroom. It was a little brighter, to be sure, but not as dramatically as he initially thought. What was it? A trick of the eye? A slight surge in gas? He scanned the room for anything unusual, but aside from a little extra light, everything appeared exactly as it should. The band was now playing God resty, merry gentleman.

Guests mingled, guests danced. Children raced and laughed. Servants moved about. But there was something. more curious than strange. It took a moment for how to be sure that he was seeing what he thought he was seen. Standing amongst the other guests was a fully dressed and adorned a mannequin, the kind you might see in any shop window on any street corner. A woman's form in a black and brown silk dress, necklace, bracelets, black shoes, a black hat, and black veil partially covering a faceless face.

If this was some kind of new Christmas decoration, it was lost on Hal. And if there was something surprising about a mannequin standing in the middle of a bustling ballroom, it seemed to be lost on everyone else. Cadet Lonnie Benish, reporting for duty. For as long as Hal could remember, his brother Lonnie, eight years old. Or was it nine? was obsessed with the Civil War, so much so that his parents had a small replica 1860 West Point Cadet uniform tailored for him. White trousers and collar, grey tunic, gold buttons, and what else would he be wearing to a Christmas party?

Lonnie snapped a salute and waited for inspection. At ease, cadet. Hal offered a playful salute in return. You look great Really? Lonnie sheepishly fiddled with the gold buttons. I was hoping to be an officer by now. Well, let's see what we can do about that. I have a mission for you.

Hal was about to ask Lonnie to explain the presence of the mannequin when he saw that the glass that was still in his hand was once again filled with eggnog. Startled, he dropped the glass onto the parquet floor. Almost immediately a young maid appeared, got on her knees and began cleaning the spill with a towel. Don't fret, sir. Everything's fine, but don't fret. The room came to a standstill. All conversation, all dancing, all music ceased, leaving only the flutter of flames and the hiss of gas.

Everyone stared at Hal. Even the mannequin, it seemed, it turned to face him. Looking around, Hal saw several more mannequins. A man wearing a tuxedo and monocle. A waiter with a silver tray propped up on its shoulder. One of the musicians, all mannequins. Hal backed away. Hal, where are you going?

Everything's fine, sir. Nothing that can't be on Don. Okay, Hal told himself passing under the arch. Someone was having some fun with him, that's all. An elaborate gag at the expense of the prodigal son. Some light-hearted comeuppance for missing last year's Christmas party, but surely it had been taken as far as it can go, and it was time for his parents to let him in on the joke.

Back in the Great Hall, the same guests as before continued to mill about, Fill in the air with a gentle din and clinking glass. Mr. Banish had resumed his position before the fireplace. The Titans nodded, puffed their chests, and took long pulls on their cigars. Mrs. Banish and Agatha were nowhere in sight. Hal took several unsure steps into the room. Upon seeing him, Mr. Banish once again, broke away from his audience.

He took Hal by the shoulders. It is truly a happy man who has his entire family under one room. Yes, Father, I know. Listen. I wasn't sure how he was going to finish that sentence, but before he had to, he saw that there was no fire in the fireplace. In fact, it looked like it hadn't been lit in days, months. The room's warmth. began to drain like water down a broken bath-tob stopper.

The fire. He stammered. Mr. Banish peered behind him. What about it, son? Harold? Suddenly Mrs. Banish was standing next to them. Wasn't there something? What's that, darling?

Oh, yes, of course. How? Just like before, Mr. banish removed his pipe from his mouth. This party, it's a complicated affair bringing it all together. Hal tried to stop him, but his father pressed on. Decorations, invitations, hiring extra help, coordinating with the orphanage. Eight tuxedoed mannequins with unlit cigars and empty brandy sniffters balanced on their

outstretched hands were now arranged around the cold pitch. stained fireplace. As much effort as your mother and I put in, some things simply fall through the cracks. Isn't that true, darling? Standing beside them was a mannequin draped in Mrs. Banish's evening gown and pearls. It made no reply. Quite so, my dear. Undiluted terror pulsed through him.

Hal's entire body recoiling from the scene. He felt a thump against his hip. He looked down just in time to see a tiny mannequin in a coral dress with green trim and a green bow hit the ground like a tangle of dry bones. A plaster arm snapped off at the elbow and skittered several inches. Like he had been caught mid-crime, he spun towards his father. But staring back at him was an eyeless, nose. Mouseless face of a mannequin, an unlit pipe stuck between the hollow fingers of a hollow hand.

Lonnie? Hal called out. Lonnie! He raced into the ballroom. The air there was so cold now his body felt like it had been drained of blood. Propped on its hands and knees was a mannequin, wearing the young Irish maid's uniform. The spilled eggnog was gone. The broken glass was still there underneath an inch of dust.

Again, he called out for Lonnie. Lonnie! Standing right there was Lonnie in his replica West Point uniform. As alive and breathing as the last time he saw it, Hal got down on one knee and wrapped his arms around his brother. Though confused, Lonnie did the same. Hal? You're scaring me.

I'm scared, too. He scanned the room. As bright as it had been just moments before, the light was fading. The flames above and along the walls seemed to be absorbing more light than they were giving off. Every man, woman, and child, and there were so many children. Was now a mannequin, motionless, silent, as if waiting to see what Hal was going to do. do next. Behind him, beyond the arch, the Great Hall was almost total darkness except for faint blue moon glow pouring in through the rear windows, revealing the stark silhouettes of patient, unmoving forms.

We have to get out of here. Hal whispered. Lonnie, in his arms, Hal was preparing to make a dash for the front door when he realized that he was face to face with a lifeless plait. He was face. a facsimile of his brother. Falling backwards, Hal flung the near weightless figure away from him. Landed on the parquet floor with a dry, padded crack, its arms outstretched, hanging in the air like a jagged half-circle. The dying light cast the ballroom in a smoldering orange. The strange geometry of the mannequins surrounded him like gravestones. Was he next? Hal wondered.

Or was there something worse in store for him? A noise, something like footsteps. There was someone else in the house with him. Another noise. No, not in the house, in the room. Something he couldn't quite make out was moving behind or within. in the forest of bodies and limbs. Hal shot glances in every direction,

no matter how hard he tried, his eyes could not land on who or what it was. Each time he thought he could see it, a moving leg or hand, a face seen with recognition. It, whatever it was, would disappear into the bloodless abattoir like a star stared at too long.

Hal didn't know how he knew, but he was running out of time. The temperature dropping, the light almost completely gone, he thought he had a bead on it. Hal raced headlong into and threw a copse of mannequins finding nothing. Another glimmer, another moving shadow, this time on the far side of the room. He ran barreling through mannequins. like they were screened doors, bodies falling, pieces shattering, finding again, nothing. Corners, spaces, just him alone in this dark place. That was there. There was no more story.

And for a long time when he was done, there was nothing but the hiss and pop of the fire. Mr. Inferno? Yes, child. Did the it in the house with him turn Hal into a mannequin? He shook his head. No, nothing like that. He went on to explain how, once, a long time ago, there really was a Banish family living in Manor Hereith.

Al Banish really did spend a Christmas Eve in Switzerland instead of attending his family's annual party. He did come the year after, but he arrived late. and when the car pulled up there was no one to greet him he went to the front door and it wouldn't budge it gave a little when he pushed it with his shoulder and after pushing harder Hal saw what had been blocking the door

a dead body no ruth hundred of them a gas leak in manor here I've claimed the lives of everyone in attendance that Christmas Eve night It was Hal who first found them. He covered his mouth and ran through the house, frantically opening doors and windows much, much too late for it to matter. The dead, limbs tangled like twill, made a new floor through the rooms.

Guess. The staff. The children from the orphanage. Mr. and Mrs. Banish. Agatha. Lonnie. Later on, the coroner told Hal it must have been like far. falling asleep. But no, that was not nearly enough to unbreak what was broken inside hell.

And the mannequins? I don't know, Willie. Maybe it's extraordinary the lengths some people will go to not be alone. The following morning, what I was expecting was to wake curled up on frozen ground, staring into a colorless dying fire. Ruth sleep breathing next to me. Of all those things I was expecting. Only the last one happened. We were in a dark room, seated side by side, propped up in chairs at one of those tables that looked like it was carved out of a single tree. Two, three angles of pale light cut through the blinds. I blinked. Ruth was wearing a pink and green dress with a green bow. I was in a gray and white military uniform with gold buttons.

My eyes began to adjust. The table was set with unlit candles and platters, serving bowls and silver and place settings for five. All empty except for a layer of dust. I woke up Ruth. Wish I hadn't when my eyes adjusted a little more. We weren't alone. Two mannequins, a man and a woman, sat on opposite ends of the table.

Next to the man's hand, a pipe. Around the woman's neck. a strand of pearls. Where are we? She knew. Somewhere above us, I heard creaking floorboards, like someone pacing in the faint murmur of a single voice. There was nothing keeping us where we were.

We weren't tied or chained to our chairs. I took Ruthie's hand. I scanned the room for our belongings. No sign. It didn't matter. If we were going to go, it was now. The house was long, long like a train, and cold and dark. He soon came to a room with a high, high ceiling.

The brown skeleton of a fir tree stretched 20 feet into the air. Cold white light poured in thick through the windows like stage lights. The room was filled with what looked like people, woman and gowns, men and suits, children, and next to a fireplace that hadn't seen fire in years stood a group of men wearing suits with white waistcoats and long black tails. I told Ruthie not to look, not to touch nothing. Her footsteps echoing we slowly made our way through the crowd. We passed through into a wide open room. Decayed wreaths and drooping bows, gray with dust hung from the walls.

Another room filled with gowns, tuxedos, white serving jackets, and dancing couples were caught mid-step like photographs. On the far side of the room, a band. Right there in front of us, a maid hunched over chunks of broken glass. Next to her, a woman wearing a silk and black dress, black hat, and a black veil. A Ruthie's hand tight in mind, we turned the corner and made our way down a dark hallway. At the end of the hallway stood the biggest door I ever seen. And on the other side, the world as it was for us. The creaking floorboards were right above us now. Dante Inferno, Albanish, whatever his name was. He was pacing back and forth, back and forth nervously, it seemed. The murmur of his voice was so close we could just about

make out individual words. He was rehearsing his Christmas dinner toast. The doorknob was about the size of an orange, but it turned. Three thin cracks of light appeared. Icey air breathed in. I was about to swing the massive door wide open when I felt a tug at my arm. I turned towards my sister. Just slightly, she was leaning her weight away from the door. There's nothing out there for us. I was about to lie to her. For a moment forgetting myself, there was no aunt.

Never was. I suspected for a while that she might know the truth. and she did. Now I did too. It wasn't a lie I told her to keep her going. It was a lie she let me tell to keep me going. But where? We were lucky to have made it this far,

and we were no closer to anything on the other side of that door. She was right. There was nothing out there for us. Hal's nervous pacing, the creaking floorboard, the murmuring, all of it stopped. He wasn't upstairs anymore. The house felt almost warm suddenly compared to the chill seeping in from the barely open door. Ruthie wasn't scared anymore. Neither was I. I reached for the doorknob, unsure if it was to swing it off its hinges and run

or close it. I stopped, made a fist, summoning my strength. But To do what? The tug at my arm dwindled to nothing. She was looking down the hallway. Something in the ballroom held her attention now. Something familiar and warm. I didn't at first. Then I did.

Like a flower blooming. It was music. Christmas music. And clinking glasses. Voices. At the end of the hallway, the ballroom glowed a warm glow. And so our Christmas episode concludes. All of us here at the No Sleep Podcast, wish all our listeners a happy, heartfelt holiday season.

This year has provided unique and unprecedented challenges for the entire human race, but together we've kept going. We're grateful to each and every one of you who have found joy and solace in our scary destruction. this year, and allowed us to find a port in the storm with fear that's a little safer. So we hope everyone can have a wonderful final few weeks of 2020, before we boot this year into the ocean. So join us in 2021 as we conclude season 15. Then it's onwards and upwards with many exciting new projects. So book some time for us.

Don't play games with our hearts. prepare to feast on our offerings, which you'll no doubt hear about. Weather the drama, watch out for those you hold dear and set up camp with us in 2021. We cordially invite you to join us in our chambers for what we have in store. Brace yourselves. It's going to be horrifying. But for now, Merry Christmas. Happy holidays. And see you next year. This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc.

All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of, yes, creative reason media, ink.