The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep12: NoSleep Podcast S20E12 - Christmas 2023

Episode Date: December 24, 2023

It's Episode 12 of Season 20. The 2023 NoSleep Christmas Special. Come join us around the fireplace as we fill your stockings with horror!"Home Is Where the Heart Is" written by Alyssa Alessi (Story starts around 00:02:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, Lilyana - Erin Lillis, Older Son - Jeff Clement, Younger Son - Elie Hirschman, David - Dan Zappulla, Paul - Matthew Bradford, Adam - Kyle Akers"Yuletide by the Fireside" written by Austin Case (Story starts around 00:35:00)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - Sarah Thomas, Jennifer - Nikolle Doolin, Mark - Atticus Jackson, Titan Leeds - Jesse Cornett, Astaroth - Jeff Clement"The Holiday Rush" written by Charlie Davenport (Story starts around 01:11:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, George - David Cummings"Season's Greetings from the Graysons" written by H. H. Duke (Story starts around 01:31:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Andy - Graham Rowat, Becca - Tisha Boone, Sadie - Ella Boone, Not-Woman - Erika Sanderson, Not-Boy - Erika SandersonThis episode is sponsored by:HelloFresh - With HelloFresh, you get fresh, pre-measured ingredients and mouthwatering seasonal recipes delivered right to your door. And with America's #1 meal kit you can get free breakfast for life! Go to HelloFresh.com/nosleepfree and use code nosleepfree for FREE breakfast for life.Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Christmas 2023" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2023 - 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.

From our earliest Christmas nights, we've gathered around the fireplace to hang our stockings. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there are dark corners without ornaments. And it's in the darkness of the corners where we find ourselves waiting, yearning for a visit from the jolly old elf. But our fireplace holds more than firelight. For with us, you will hear the tales that make Christmas a nightmare, and you'll dare not close your eyes. It's Christmas 2020. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

Now, here's your jolly old host, David Cummings. Thank you for that introduction, kind stranger. Oh, he left in a hurry. And it's odd how he left by the chimney. Even strangers still, we don't have a chimney. Ah, well, welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Christmas 2020 special. It's been quite a year, this naughty and sometimes nice, 2023. Lots of things to gladly bid farewell to, but also things which feel like wonderful presents under our tree.

For us here at the No Sleep Podcast, we can echo the words of that most celebrated of Christmas poets when we say, all we want for Christmas is you. Yes, thank you, dear listeners, for making all this possible. No matter how, where, when, or how often you listen, knowing that you're out there in the dark, listening to our tales, well, it's better than all the figgy pudding in the world. So let's celebrate Christmas with the ghosts and spooky. stories this holiday deserves. And no matter how you spend the holiday season, we're glad you've let us spend some of it with you. And now, the sun has set. The fire is down to embers. The jolly old

man just left in case you don't remember. But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first festive tale, we meet a woman experiencing the holiday season in a very familiar way. Carols, cocoa, and chocolate, you ask? No, hers is one of stress, headaches, and the Herculean effort of balancing her real estate work, family, and presents. But in this tale, shared with us by author Alyssa Alisi, her holidays just might be festive after all,

as long as she can sell the old Cromwell Manor. Performing this tale are Kristen DeMcCurio, Aaron Lillis, Jeff Clement, Ellie Hirschman, Dan Zapula, Matthew Bradford, and Kyle Akers. So don't let the stress get to you. Remember this most profound truth. Home is where the heart is. New England winter is blankets of freshly fallen snow, glowing a faint blue from the moonlight. It is multicolored bulbs strung on perfect wraparound porches of Gothic Victorians, with stained glass windows adorning the obscure structures. It's children, riding atop their father's shoulders in a field of balsam fir trees,

while a single snowflake falls gently and lands on their perfect little red noses. Except when you live in New England. When you pluck the too perfect Norman Rockwell painting from your brain, toss it aside, and look around, it looks like shit. According to Lillianna Giacomo, New England winter was dog-piss yellow snow. her children crying green snot tears after ten minutes of sledding and the neighbor, thinking she won't bash their head in for moving the chair out of her parking spot.

Oh, I'll come with that shit. You're taking them to the tree lighting. The sound traveled from the master bedroom to the den, where David, her husband, laid. Her long brown hair was half blow-dried, and a Newport menthol hung from her lower lip as she did her best to finish the other half of her damp frizzy head. Her makeup was too heavy for a face that was already considered to be pretty. Amber eyes done up with an Amy Winehouse cat eye, cheeks with a bronzer too dark for her skin tone, and lips painted a deep burgundy that left a stain on every wine glass in their $800,000 first floor condo. Lilliana had been voted best dressed in high school and would have joined a sorority in college if she had gone. She met David the summer before

she was supposed to attend the University of Vermont, and decided what the fuck was the point? She took a year off and spent the time with David, who already held a master's degree in business and was on his way to inheriting his dad's real estate brokerage and portfolio. But David was a lazy son of a bitch, and 17 years later, Lillianna found herself running a whole real estate office with 12 agents, keeping their three-bedroom condo clean, stuck up bitch moms at PTA meetings happy, and looking, in her words, damn good while doing it, honey.

A 14-year-old boy laid stretched out on the velvet sofa. Potato chip crumbs scattered across his chest and beginning to collect on the floor. A sickening resemblance to David. The trance-like look in his eye as he stared at the tiny screen in front of him and all. What's for dinner? He moaned without looking up,

as it took far too much energy to engage with other humans. The blue light illuminated his face, accentuating all the features David passed down to him. Lillianna's lip curled up in the corner and disgust at the image before her, and her heart broke a little because of it. All she could muster was, ask your father, in the most Boston accent you ever heard. David, get your ass in here and deal with his kids. I have a show wing in 20 minutes. Her hand was on the doorknob, black wedge boots already. slipped on. The younger son, who also had David's black hair and perfect lips, tugged on Liliana's leather Versace purse. Are we going to the tree lighting tonight? Anthony's mom said

there was going to be hot chocolate in rides. If we don't go, I'll miss it forever because it's the only night and everyone will talk about it except for me and I want hot chocolate. Liliana was overwhelmed, as usual, a tiredness she could feel in her bones. Her neck physically ached from the stress of Anthony's mom constantly telling her kid shit that added to her workload. The stress of the blue tocky crumbs that stained the rug next to the sofa. The stress of her husband staring at God knows what on his phone, instead of helping her with all of it. Can I have hot chocolate? Can you put whipped cream and sprinkles on it like Anthony's mom? Ma, ma, ma, ma, can I have hot chocolate?

His pouty little seven-year-old face begged for an answer for the 50th time today, and his chubby little hands pulled on her work purse for what seemed like the millionth time since she bought it, and she couldn't take it anymore. Her temples pulsed, and her left eye twitched. Her heart pounded and the thin woman in a silk leopard print shirt was one second from exploding into a bloody mess. A pinata made of flesh and organs, beaten by the life she'd chosen, until the walls were covered in her brain matter

and streaked with the sorrow she carried deep in her soul, her crimson-colored regret, dripping for all to see. Boys, get your boots on. Come on, let's go. Leave your mother alone. It's guys night, remember? David said it like he had been trying for hours to get the boys ready, even though he just came out of the den. He was wearing gray sweatpants, a black hoodie, and his gold chain on the outside visible to everyone. His pace was quick as he walked up to push his mini-me along to retrieve his coat and boots.

He kissed Liliana on the cheek so proper as if they had more investments and savings than they actually did. It's about fucking time. I'm sweating. in this coat and the kids are driving be nuts. You won't be all worked up before a show-in? She reached into her purse, frantically digging for another menthol to calm her nerves. Yeah, yeah, you're good. He pushed her out the door. David was old-school Boston Italian, the kind that talked the talk, but that's all he did.

She wished he was Boston Italian like her father-in-law was, the kind that made money and dressed in a suit to drink in the north end with the guys. David was attractive, but sweatpants on a weekday pissed Liliana off. Stepping out onto the salt-covered porch, she took a long drag on her cigarette. When she exhaled into the frigid air, she was a new woman. The anxiety subsided, and the trembling ceased. The night was silent. Only the crunch of snow under her feet as she walked to her car.

She read the text message over and over when she finally got in her black Mercedes SUV and got the heat adjusted. The text was from a man in his 30s named Paul Wilkinson, but the contact was saved as guy with mole three bed. The text simply said, Okay, great, I'll see you then. My buddy's coming along to make sure things are copacetic. Liliana had met Paul in person at the office last week and agreed to show him a few places even though it was winter break

and she had a to-do list the size of a CVS receipt. Lord knows David wasn't going to help with any of it. She couldn't help but feel something was off about. this guy. Maybe the heater was finally shitting the bed, or perhaps she was right, because a chill tickled her spine. Paul was a handsome guy, tall, well-dressed, well-mannered, and single. Why was this good catch of a guy single in his late 30s when he could probably have any man or woman he pursued? This wasn't what bothered Lillianna, though. It was the fact that he was bringing a friend to the showing. Being alone in a giant manner of a home with two men she didn't know, did not.

sit right in her gut. She hadn't even met this other man. You could be anyone. There are rules for beautiful women in real estate. One is always know who you're meeting with a picture of their ID. Another is to let someone in the office know what property you are showing. Lastly, arrive at the property before the client to understand the layout and where the exits are. If you feel uncomfortable, stand near the front door while the client looks through the property on their own. She knew the rules because she'd made them and taught them to the younger agents. She even suggested carrying protection, even if that meant holding the keys between your fingers

in a way the key could take someone's eye out if you swung a right hook. Somewhere along the drive, though, she silently decided she was going to break her own code of ethics and continue on to the purple Victorian on the hill because it's better than listening to her kid whine about hot chocolate and easier than watching her husband fail. The Cromwell Manor was built in 1687 by Hendon, Henry R. Cromwell. The massive four-bedroom home sat on a hill overlooking one of the few suburban

streets inside one of the country's oldest cities. The once-12-acre lot had been sold piece by piece until all that was left was a slither of a solitary acre. In summer, vines covered the western-facing side of the house, and shade plants grew on the mostly mulched slope of a lawn. An oak tree's craggy roots protruded from the woodchips, giving shade to the second-floor bedrooms. In autumn, the house was a sight for a catalog, the backdrop for a movie about witches in love or a haunted house with a friendly ghost residing inside. But as the yellow and orange leaves dried to a brown and withered from the trees, the land died for the season. The land died, and something else came to life in the stillness of the fallen snow. The eggplant Victorian radiated

an energy, an energy that could not be explained without sounding like you weren't bat-shit-crazy. A presence dogs shied away from. Ravens sat perched in the dead oak, crying out a warning of a storm to whoever would listen. The house last sold for $1.8 million, a steel for such a monstrosity of a home, yet remained vacant, even after the sale. The light from the old windows tower above shone down a dim yellow, acting as the homes Christmas star on an unlit tree. Liliana parked her car behind the stone wall at the foot of the driveway that led uphill to the mansion.

Local legend claimed the wall was made from the original property line barriers. As the acres decreased, the rocks were added to the remaining walls until they reached seven feet high. The temperature had dropped to an almost intolerable cold as she fumbled with the mess in her trunk, trying to find the white plastic pole with the sign attached. The sign read, Giacomo and son properties, with her late father-in-law's phone number below. She stuffed a flashlight,

a bottle of mace, and a can of air freshener in her expensive purse as her fingers began to numb. She jammed the white pole into the frozen dirt at the bottom of the stone steps and gave it a stomp with her foot. If it weren't for the pre-dug hole that waited for the sign's return,

it would not have been possible to penetrate deep enough to stand. She looked down the hill at the sight of the familiar neighborhood, only ten minutes from her own residence. The city lights twinkled in the distance, competing for attention with the colorful holiday glow that only made an appearance temporarily.

The stairs were slick with ice, but she didn't bother to lay the salt that sat in a can only three feet away. Her realtor ritual began the moment the black iron key was forced into its puzzle piece below the cold metal knob. The creak of the door echoed in the silence of the sub-zero night of midwinter. Once inside, Lillianna's, side a deep breath, and the air seemed to breathe back. A slight whistle of wind tossed her freshly straightened hair as she closed the heavy wooden door behind her. She made her round through the

bottom level first, walking from the foyer down to the living room, dining room, the kitchen, and even the large pantry attached to it. She opened the back door in the kitchen to turn on the light to the back hall, but after pulling the chain three times, she realized the bulb must have blown. Okay, we'll skip the back hall and use the front. Her boots were quiet as she made her way upstairs to turn on the lights and open some closet doors. She put the toilet seat down in the upstairs bathroom because she thought it was disgusting and inappropriate to show a place with the toilet seats up. Who the hell used this bathroom? The sound of the aerosol freshener filled the air as she sprayed her way back down the foyer, the scent of fresh linen slightly masking the

underlying tinge of musk, dead animal, and fear seeping from the wood. By the time the tiny speckles of wet artificial scent particles evaporated, the doorbell rang, and the silhouettes of two men took shape in the glass in the front door. Hi, welcome to the Cromwell Manor. Her lipstick was freshly reapplied in the bathroom, and her teeth were blinding white for a smoker. Hi, nice to see you again. Paul grinned while reaching out for Lillianna's still-gloved hand. This is my buddy, Adam. Hey, nice to meet you. Adam nodded without making eye contact.

The men took off their beanie hats and scarves and hung them on the coat rack that stood next to the door. Adam glanced around with wild eyes that were mostly aimed at the plank wood flooring and oriental carpets. Paul put his hands in his front pockets and looked directly into Lillianna's eyes. So this is a big one and price is right, but what am I going to do with four bedrooms, you know? I mean, whatever you want. Possibilities are endless, really. Maybe start a family, maybe have some parties, rent out some rooms short term.

She was bombing this show verbally because what would a single man do with a four-bedroom Victorian home? The living room is an absolute dream for entertaining, with plenty of space for sitting and drinking. The two men trailed on behind her, admiring the undeniable beauty of the home, even if the tacky realtor and leopard print was clearly overstating its charm. The wood paneling was dark and had a slight gloss as if it were freshly polished. The pink wallpaper stretched from the foyer through to the kitchen, where it then changed to a dark paint. The charcoal-gray-colored walls appeared dramatic against the modern white cabinets. Fairly updated kitchen. Appliances put in about five years ago.

Large pantry for storage or making coffee if you don't want to clutter the counter space. The realtor's hands stretched out over the counter. as she spoke to demonstrate. All right, this is decent. Paul pressed his lips and looked to Adam for approval. Adam remained with his arms crossed, looking over his shoulder as if someone was tapping him from behind every minute. Liliana caught every strange movement coming from Adam's direction.

She sensed that something was different about him. He hadn't said a word since the entryway, and he seemed like a shell of a human. The only emotion he seemed to display was scared housecat. Lillianna hated cats, and she held the keys between her ring and middle fingers, the black iron poking between. She rested her hand against her chest, hiding the key weapon behind the listing sheet. We can head on upstairs to peek at the bedrooms if you're ready.

Her enthusiasm settled to an even tone. Her voice was still confident as she spoke her salesy bullshit, minus the fake smile behind it. It could have been because she was, in fact, a tad nervous, or it could have been because she was already halfway through the showing, and the newness of her client had worn off a bit. It's quite possible that it required extra concentration to abandon her thick accent in a professional setting, and the energy naturally faded after five minutes of the act. Regardless, she let them go first and trailed behind them for a change.

The men murmured quietly about the natural wood and the square footage, pointing every few steps at another detail they found intriguing. Whose paintings are these? Paul was referring to the gold-framed portraits that hung on the stairwell, each oil painting home to a solemn face and a forgotten soul. I honestly couldn't tell you. They would come with the place, and you could do whatever with them. I'd probably call that antique road show or something to see if they were worth some money.

Paul nodded his head in agreement. Not a bad idea. Goose bumps were visible on Adam's pale neck, forcing microscopic blonde hairs to stand straight out of the collar of his brown plaid shirt. Paul ran his vainy hands along the mahogany banister as he took each stare. Adam remained with arms folded, like a teenager who was just along for the errand with his guardian. Lillianna was unsure as to what these two men had in common. She wondered what Adam could offer to Paul and why he needed him to tag along for this very adult process.

All right. All four bedrooms are up here. three of them on this second level, and the largest upstairs on the third. Paul and the real estate agent walked together on the thick, heavily designed carpet. It's two inches of pile absorbing the sound of each step. They noticed that Adam lingered behind on the top of the stairs. What they didn't know was that Adam saw something out of the corner of his eye when he looked down the dark, 16-foot hallway. Adam had been sensitive to paranormal energy since he was a child.

He'd stare into the distance and talk to the nothingness beyond him. He'd play on a swing and carry on in happy banter when no one was beside him. As a teenager, he'd been made fun of for being a goth, a wannabe medium, a freak. As the years went on and Adam became an adult, he turned off the I-See Dead people narrative. But Paul and Adam had gotten shit-faced together enough times in college for Paul to know there was something special about Adam. even if he downplayed his psychic abilities to the general public. This capability did not resemble the cheesiness of a horror flick made for entertainment. What this man felt now rattled his insides, causing his stomach to drop low and bile to fill his throat.

In the presence of something unworldly, his fine hair would stand tall out of each pore and salty tears would fill his eyes. He did not hear human voices, but a small voice within himself. that warned him to leave. The moment he stepped foot onto the property, he informed Paul. This place has bad vibes, ma'am. It isn't worth going in there. Paul wanted to see his realtor one last time. She's fucking hot.

We'll go in real quick, then we'll get her to go out for a drink. Adam didn't agree, but after being pushed around for 20 years, he had a habit of blindly putting one foot in front of the other and following his best friend into the fire. He hadn't seen a ghost since he was a boy, until he reached the top of the stairs at Cromwell Manor. A shadow of a man stood almost 20 feet away, for a flash of a second,

and the sudden apparition caused him to stumble back. Adam turned and leaned on the cracked wall for balance, falling behind in the tour towards the bedrooms. The shadow was gone, but the pain in his chest remained as he stood stunned, staring at the wall in front of him. The small picture frame that hung ever so carefully to the hideous wallpaper held a tattered document inside its dirty glass.

The small paper was frayed on the corners, and with closer inspection, Adam realized the title to the home hung before him. The home appeared to be owned by itself, or possibly by the evil that lurked in its dark crevices, or maybe the devil was in disguise, and the home was owned by a beautiful woman who lured men into its wooden door of a mouth,

so she in the house could feed on their flesh. But it wasn't the flesh that Lillianna wanted. It was their checkbooks and their hearts. Paul, let's go. He called to his friend several times, but did not dare take another step further down the corridor to hell. The faces and the portrait seemed to have more gloom in their eyes than they did on the way up the stairs,

and Adam's knees began to buckle under him. Paul! He gave one last effort Before sliding his way down the stairs Skipping a step or two at a time His hand shook with nerves As he rattled at the brass door knob Finally pulling the door open

His friend, the realtor And his hat Were left behind as he ran as fast as he could Out the front door When Adam reached the concrete step He fell backwards His head meeting the top of the stairs Blood almost immediately staining the snow

His body laid unconscious on the unsalted steps, as the warm liquid melted the ice at a much slower pace than even the cheapest of hardware store ice melt. In the green-colored bedroom upstairs, Paul noticed his friend had been gone for the better half of their tour through the second story. With Adam gone, probably looking for wandering spirits or some creepy shit like that, it was his time to make a move with Liliana. Where's your friend? He probably went to go look for the bathroom or something, but I think it's nice with just the two of us.

His dark eyes had a charm that he had used on many people before, but no one like Lilliana. Lillianna sat on the four-poster bed, with her legs spread just enough to let him know that he was invited over. The key to the house still wedged between her manicured but gloved fingers. She licked her lips the tiniest bit to moisten, but not mess up her cat von D. Vampira lip stain. Paul bent to kiss the flirtatious married woman, but was pulled down and straddled to his pleasant surprise. The iron key plunged into his throat and pierced through with one blow. A choking gurgle came from Paul's mouth, and Lillianna licked the blood that dappled his lower lip, and then his dark brown mole.

I'm sorry, Polly, but I'm a married woman. What kind of slut do you think I am? The sweat began to stain her silk blouse as she dragged the 180-pound man down the stairs as he choked on his own blood, staring almost lifelessly as it happened. adrenaline pumped the woman with the strength she needed to get his body to the basement door, where she then just pushed the slump down the stairs. Would she have the strength to deal with two men in one night? She didn't know.

She almost had to cancel her plans, but when Adam disappeared, she knew it was meant to be. She couldn't ignore the signs that were given to her. The man had been afraid of his own shadow since he walked in the door. She could take him, especially if Paul was already down. The problem was she would have to find him. him now, and she would have to move quickly before Paul died. What the fuck good is this if his heart stops? The house was as frigid as outside, because the front door was left open.

With the moon almost full, she could see matted blonde hair on the front porch, darkened by something wet. Oh, fuck. She stepped onto the porch. Are you fucking kidding me, Adam? You want the neighbors to see something funny going on here? She checked the man's pulse, a slow, thump hit her index and middle finger. A two for one, mommy's having a night. She used every ounce of

the one more rep mentality she learned at the mommy boot camp a few years back. She could do this. All she had to do was get his body from the front porch to the basement door across the foyer. Her hair began to frizz from the extra workout she hadn't planned for. She wouldn't have put in the effort to blow dry her hair tonight if she had known. The bodies of the two men laid clinging to our world on the dank basement floor of the beautiful home on the hill. The soft dim light reflected off the hundreds of jars that sat on the industrial metal shelves. Inside the covered mason jars were fresh hearts,

cut from piece of shit men that weren't worth shit anyway. Well, that's not true. The hearts that pickled and formalin were from many good men and a few assholes. The truth was, Lilliana didn't care what morals her victims had, or if they were deemed good people or not. She needed their hearts. because she didn't have one of her own.

All she wanted was to have a heart so pure and full of love. All she wanted was a perfect life. White carpet spread wall to wall in a perfect house that she owned, with her perfect handsome husband and Disney Channel worthy children. She wanted to be adored by all, and she wanted to truly feel like she adored her family. She wanted to shop on Newberry Street and sent her kids to private school

so they could grow up to be the kind of people who belonged to country clothes. She wanted them to speak proper, like Californians, and not white trash from Boston. This was the way she was going to do it. Every time she cut the chest cavity, pulled out the soft, beating heart, and held it in her hands as it took its final throbs, the pulsations acted as a live wire to her own barely existing heart. The love, the fear, the sadness, pleasure, and excitement gushed with ecstasy through her veins.

She felt like she was in control. She was in control of her life, her feelings, and the future generations after her. When Adam came too, his eyes wildly rotated back and forth. This time it was not a manifestation of evil in the shape of a shadow man, but in the shape of a desperate 130-pound Italian woman with frizzy hair. Hi, Adam. Lillianna spoke like nothing was wrong, her eyes feral and her voice demonic. I know what you're thinking.

This bitch is nuts. Am I right? Well, fuck you, Adam. I didn't even know you were coming. She raised her knife as she screamed at the half-dead sucker of a friend. When Adam looked through his watery eyes and passed the splitting pain that sat between them, he saw Liliana and the shadows that danced around her. He saw black memories of flames that kissed the cement walls.

He saw what was truly happening. The evil of the home had sunk its clawed grip around the neck of a depressed. and vulnerable woman, and made her believe that she held power in her hands. It fed off her sadness and took it as its own. They were now entwined as one. Every time she let her depression and anxiety get the better of her, Adam's heart thumped long and slow, and he could hear it loud and clear. He took his last breath and didn't hear Lillianna's final comment. Oh, what the fuck? She was still filled with the high of placing Paul's heart in its new home on the shelf, so she forgave Adam for screwing her over and dying too soon. She'd been in the home for

an hour and a half and knew it was time for a smoke. She left her mess where it was, and went upstairs to get her coat. She didn't bother putting it on because her body was still dripping sweat. She sprayed the foyer one last time before locking the door behind her. The brisk air went down her lungs with a pull of menthol, and she didn't care that her silk shirt was ruined, or that her hair was a disaster. She looked down at the can of salt, and tossed some over the front steps. She took Paul's car and pulled it into the garage around back before locking the front door

and tossing the heavy white pole and old sign back into her trunk. Back at the overpriced condo, Liliana called home, she stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered for the second time today. Her hair was damp but brushed, and her flannel snowflake pajamas hugged her body just right. She poured herself a glass of Merlot and signed a check made out to Giacomo and Sun properties

from Paul Wilkerson. She placed the check on the marble kitchen counter before the tea kettle sang. Her boys waited patiently in the living room for their hot chocolate in matching holiday pajamas. She took out the whipped cream and topped each cup with a four-inch dollop

before adding green and red sprinkles. Did Anthony's mom have green and red sprinkles? I don't fucking think so. That night, Lilliana sat with her family and watched a Christmas carol, a solstice tradition, smiling at them and their quirks. She answered every question her youngest had asked and let them throw popcorn at each other during the boring scenes.

She didn't give a fuck because her cup was full, her temporary heart beating in the rhythm of footsteps in the dog piss stained snow. She wasn't insane, as some would say. She didn't particularly enjoy the evil acts the Cromwell Manor possessed her to do, but she did agree that they were necessary. It was very matter of fact to carry on with this mundane life. Work, mother, clean, fake it with her husband, repeat, this is what needed to happen. She would enjoy the rest of winter break with her perfect little family in her perfect little condo

until her phone buzzed with another request for a showing. For many, there is no better way to spend the holidays than at a snowy Christmas cabin straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting via a Hallmark Christmas movie. Even if the cabin is in New Jersey. Oh, don't at me for that. My wife is from Jersey, and she'll make sure I pay for that joke. Nonetheless, a cabin like that is the setting for our tale, shared with us by author, Austin Case.

But the couple will meet would enjoy the cabin so much more if there weren't strange noises coming from outside. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Nicole Doolin, Atticus Jackson, Jesse Cornett and Jeff Clement. So grab some candy and cocoa and cuddle under a blanket because we'll be spending Yuletide by the fireside. Hey, honey, could you switch the radio to Christmas songs? Jennifer sighed with mock exasperation and flick the dial.

Being Crosby's unmistakable croon poured from the speakers like fresh maple syrup, Mark smiled. Perfect. Jennifer drove her explorer along the narrow twists of rural roads, with names like Southwoods and Mount Misery, toward her cousin's cabin. This holiday excursion to the New Jersey Pine Barrens was a last-minute plan suggested by her cousin Nick. He'd stopped by their house last weekend for an early Christmas visit. Nick was traveling to Tahiti for his Christmas vacation and visiting his Philadelphia family members before he left.

Jennifer felt Nick and the other relatives on the Decatur side of the family tree put on airs. They were rich from wealth passed down from a series of naval Commodores who served in both the American Revolution and the War of 1812, as well as old money from their connection to the Leeds family dating back to the 17th century. The Decaters always found a way to force these and other flattering historical family facts into conversation. During a one-sided discussion from Nick about how unspoiled Tahiti is, Jennifer mumbled about how nice it would be to go on a vacation. Nick smiled and offered them a chance to stay in his winter cabin for the holidays.

Mark, ever, the eager puppy, jumped at the chance for a romantic getaway. She was conflicted by the prospect because although the Decators always boasted about this cabin and she'd never seen it, she had an important project for work. she absolutely needed to finish by the end of the year. When she saw Mark's pleading eyes, she considered how things between them were strained. Work at her branding agency job had been taking up all her time. Jennifer agreed on the condition that she could work on the project during their stay.

Nick handed over his key to the cabin. He told them he kept it fully stocked with food and other amenities, but they needed to arrive there no later than the 20th, since dangerous drivers heading to their own cabins for the holidays overran the roads then. As Jennifer drove along the back roads, a silver BMW zipped around a sharp curve, and she thought to herself how glad she was they were arriving on the 19th. I'm pretty sure this is the turn. The white SUV slowed as they approached a barely visible offshoot from the main road.

The new route was more of a path than a road, Snow covered and encroached upon by icicle-covered pine branches. Jennifer turned on the vehicle's four-wheel drive and attempted to navigate the terrain without sliding or knocking icicles onto the explorer. Gee, Nick, thanks for warning us how rough the path to the cabin is. You're doing a great job. This cabin better be worth the drive. It was about a half mile to the cabin,

and it remained snowy and hedged in by pines for the rest of the drive. When they finally saw the cabin, Mark exclaimed in wonder. It's gorgeous. It's not bad. Not sure it was worth the drive, but it is pretty. Jennifer had to admit that the cabin was stunning. It looked like a child's vision of a fairy tale cottage built from Lincoln logs and gingerbread cookies. But rather than children's fancies, someone had made it with actual pinewood lumber, shalack, and paint.

The wood had a fresh coat of barnish and elaborate carved ornamental designs adorned the cabin's frontispiece. It looked prepared for Christmas, with the bells, garlands, reits, and ribbons strung upon its overhang and window frames. They parked in front of the cabin and hauled their luggage to the porch. Jennifer reached into her pocket and pulled out the key that gave her the previous week. It was surprisingly dingy, considering the state of the cabin.

The brass was burnished and had traces of verdigree in it. its crooks. She unlocked the door and Mark walked in, leaving the luggage he'd set down on the porch behind. Oh my gosh, this place is freaking amazing. Palling in her luggage, Jennifer followed Mark inside. The interior was extravagantly furnished. Atop a massive Persian rug rested a polished oak table surrounded by brushed leather furniture. To her left was a modernly furnished and immaculate kitchen. To her right was a stairwell that led up to an open loft bedroom with an enormous bed. Its towering frame and columnar posts made of black walnut. Below the bedroom, Jennifer could just make out a porcelain cloth-foot tub in a partitioned bathroom.

Opposite the entrance was a huge marble fireplace, and in the far corner of the room rose a fir tree that brushed the rafters. It was at least 18 feet tall and decked out in the same trimmings as the cabin's exterior. Atop the tree rested a polished silver star. Its appearance was unique, with letter-like filigree twisting around its five points. Isn't this place great? It's elegant in a way.

For what about that? And that? Ugh. Jennifer pointed to the head of a ram or goat mounted above the fireplace's mantle. She then pointed to the chandelier hanging above them. At first glance when she entered the cabin, and she thought it was made of antlers, like some chandeliers and law capons.

This one, however, was made of the same twisted horns of the creature that rested above the fireplace. Yeah, those are kind of creepy. Kind of creepy. Okay, but you've always told me how eccentric your cousin's side of the family is, and how much they like to show off their prowess. I'm pretty sure people don't hunt goats or rams or whatever, if that's what you're getting at. That's not true. People hunt for big horn sheep. At least they used to. Maybe a Decatur shot the stuffed guy over the fireplace in the 1800s. And the chandelier was an attempt to match the style. Yeah, makes sense. Still hideous, though.

No argument here. Now, come on, horn's notwithstanding. This place is awesome, right? She sighed and smiled. I suppose. I'll take it. Now let's unpack and enjoy ourselves. By the time they'd settled in, it was dark. Mark offered to look around the cabin to see if there was firewood, since the log rack next to the grandiose hearth was empty.

The cabin was already heated, but he thought a roaring fire would be romantic. Jennifer wanted a snack, so she grabbed some fancy cheeses and crackers stocked inside the kitchen. She set out a plate on the oak table and grabbed her laptop so she could start on her project. After playing around with a few images in her graphic design software, she put her head in her hands. Capture all add thoughts, new goals, and core mission any single... Mark re-entered the cabin. I couldn't find any logs.

Oh, well. Hey, are you already working? Yeah, so? Wasn't this trip supposed to be a chance for us to spend more time together? It is, and it will be. I just wanted to start on the most important project of my career. I'm the brand manager for a branding agency, and I'm in charge of creating the new logo for the company's rebranding.

Can't you see how important this is? It's not like coming up with a new cupcake. Mark's jaw dropped. Wow. I didn't know that's how you felt about Justice Scones' throw away. I guess being a baker isn't a real job. That's not what I meant, Mark. It's fine.

You've got important work to do. I'm going to go upstairs and read. He grabbed a novel from his suitcase and climbed the staircase to the bedroom. Jennifer shook her head and returned to her logo. For hours of assiduous work, she heard a noise coming from outside the cabin. It was faint, but it sounded like a distant flag, flapping in a gale. She walked to the northeastern window of the cabin toward its origin. The light from inside penetrated the night a short distance,

but it was enough for her to see the stillness of the snow and pine branches. The flapping was clearer and more audible by now, but she couldn't make out what was responsible for it. After peering through the window for a minute, the sound stopped. Jennifer waited and listened for it to pick up again, but the night remained quiet. Huh, well, I might as well go to bed. Once she cleared up her new workspace,

she performed her pre-sleep routine, went upstairs, and slid into bed next to a dozing mark. The next morning, Jennifer woke up to an empty bed. She didn't see him after dressing and checking downstairs. She heard a loud crack from outside and ran to investigate. Mark stood over a pine stump and a split log, holding a large axe. Hey, sweetie, I found this axe around back. I figured since there wasn't any wood, I could chop some while you do your work thing.

Jennifer exhaled and relaxed. That sounds nice. I'll come back in a bit. After some coffee and toast, she returned to work. Frustration crept in since none of the designs looked right. Either the font was sloppy, the symmetry was wrong, or it just didn't pop. She decided to take a break and bring Mark some hot cocoa. He was still plodding away, even though he'd already amassed a sizable stack of wood.

As Jennifer trudged toward him, careful not to spill the cocoa, she noticed how his arms swelled inside his plaid wool coat on each down swing. The cold had blushed his dimples. Their pink hue complimenting his tidy chestnut beard. Oh, hi, honey. Thanks for all the hard work. I thought I'd bring you something to warm you up. Oh, that's so sweet. Chopping all this wood is keeping me warm,

but I'll never turn down a mug of hot chocolate. Thanks, babe. Sure thing. She packed him on the cheek. Don't stay out here too much longer. You've already chopped enough wood to last through the new year. Back inside, she scoured the cabin. In a closet next to the bathroom,

she found a large worn quilt that she dragged into the kitchen. She gathered more cheese and crackers and grabbed a winter salami, a knife, and a few ales from the refrigerator. Mark called in an arm full of firewood. What's you doing, babe? I'm making us a picnic. A picnic?

He placed the stack in the rack next to the heart. Outside? Whereup? else. Didn't you just ask me to come in from the cold? You said chopping the wood warmed you up. Come on, sissy. I'll pour us a thermos of cocoa. She kissed him, and after filling a thermos with hot chocolate, she bundled the meal into the quilt, and they made their way outside. They hiked about 100 yards until they found a lovely snow-covered glade hidden in the pines. The sun glistened off the icicles as they set up their picnic.

While Jennifer and Mark enjoyed the refreshments, they reminisced and laughed about silly and joyous moments from their past. After their meal, they cuddled on the quilt and stared at the sunlight refracted through ice on the pines. The cold eventually upset their comfortable repose, so they walked together back to the cabin. When they returned, Mark started a fire. Jennifer got back to work while he resumed his book, this time without the shared asserbity. Once again, she found herself blocked and uninspired. Her mind wandered and her eyes unconsciously darted around the cabin until they fixated upon the star atop the Christmas tree.

Its patterns and flourishes were beautiful and striking. That's it. What? That star, the one on the Christmas tree. What about it? I can use it as a template for Out Thought's new logo. Oh, wow. That's great, babe.

Obviously, I can't use it exactly, but I can play around with some variations incorporating the company name. That's wonderful, sweetie. Yeah. You know what? I think I'm done for the night. The biggest hurdle's finally been cleared, and I have the rest of the week to finish. Great! I wonder if Nick's left anything sweet here.

I could really go for a treat now. Oh! Mark scurried upstairs and returned holding a Tupperware container. I baked sweets for us. He opened the lid to reveal a cornucopia of cookies, tarts, sandies, macaroons, pastries, and brownies. Oh, they all look so good. Would it be bad if I just take one of each instead of dinner? Not at all. We're on vacation.

The couple gorge themselves. Once they had their fill, Mark rubbed his abdomen. I think it could burst. I am definitely full. I think I'm going to go to bed and let these sugars and carbs digest. Sounds good, sweetie. I'm going to shower, then join you upstairs. Jennifer luxuriated in the hot, steamy water spraying from the polished brass showerhead.

Sated by her dessert dinner and relaxed from the water stream, her mind arranged and positioned the letters of her company's name in ways that mirrored the Christmas star. She was happy she now had time to finish the logo at her level. leisure and spend her free time with Mark. A smile crept on her face as she remembered her day with him. After drying off, she put on her nightgown and brushed her teeth. She was about to climb the stairway when she heard the noise from the previous night. It sounded louder and closer than before. Jennifer flitted toward the window and peered into the darkness. Again, there was nothing to see, only still snow and pines.

Hey Mark Yeah Do you hear that flapping sound? What? Come down here, I heard something weird outside She looked back outside And thought she could make out the shadowy silhouette of a person At the edge of the light's reach

It looked like it was shaking or convulsing As the flapping sound continued She heard a cackle in the farther distance Mark Jennifer ran toward the stairs as he tried brought it down. What's going on? That sound.

Don't you hear it? The cabin was silent again. No flapping and no cackle. Just her rapid breathing. It stopped, but did you hear it? That flapping or the cackle? Cackle. You didn't hear anything?

I heard a kind of rustle outside. Look out the window. I think someone's outside. Mark walked to the window and peered into the distance. Jennifer crept behind him and peaked over his shoulder. The silhouette was gone. I swear I saw someone at the edge of the shadows. Okay, babe, I'll check outside.

No, don't go out there. Mark grabbed a poker resting by the fireplace. I'm sure it'll be fine, and I can take care of myself. He slipped on his coat and boots and grabbed his cell phone, turning on its flashlight feature. After opening the front door, he stepped into the brisk air, and closed the door behind him. Jennifer ran to the other side of the cabin to look out the window,

awaiting Mark's approach. After a few seconds, she heard the crunch of his boots and saw him walk across the virgin snow. He reached the shadows and held his phone in one hand and the poker in the other. The phone's light darted around the snow and pines as Mark traipsed further into the dark. Jennifer watched the phone light shine and dimmed through the trees

as Mark continued along the perimeter of the cabin lights expand. It moved along like this for about a minute, and then she saw him returning. She sighed and waited by the door. It opened, and Mark kicked the snow on his boots off against the door jam, then closed and locked the door. Did you see anything out there? No. I scoured the area for footprints and didn't see a thing.

The snow was as smooth as silk, but only half as lovely as the silk of that nightgown on you. Be serious. What about the cackle and whatever that creepy flapping sound was? I bet it was animals. A coyote probably made that cackle you heard. And the flapping was an owl or even a crane. The woods aren't like Philly. There's all sorts of creatures that make weird sounds at night.

I don't know. Tell you what? Why don't you go to bed and I'll read down here by the window for an hour and listen for any other weird noises? Well, I guess. You're probably right. It was just an animal, but thank you. She kissed him, then retired to the bedroom. Her nerves were too frazzled to sleep,

but she rested and waited for Mark's return. There were no more noises until she heard Mark's footsteps, and she embraced him as he slid into bed. Jennifer's spirits thoroughly improved the next day. She was excited about her work progress and concluded that animals were certainly responsible for the sounds in the night. After Mark cooked a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast, she suggested they built a snowman.

They used some spent coals and a carrot they found in the pantry. It looks great. What should we call him? What if we call him, Mark? He is pretty goofy-looking. Oh, yeah? Mark grabbed a handful of snow, patted it into a ball, and threw it at Jennifer. Now who's goofy-looking?

I hope you know, good sir, that this means war. They ran around the cabin and ducked behind trees, lobbing snowballs and gickling until the cold numbed their extremities. Call it a draw. I obviously won, but because I love you dearly, I'll consider your surrender. Okay, you are indeed a mighty snow warrior. Let's go inside. I want to get started on dinner. No more dessert.

I figured I'd surprise you with a romantic dinner. I looked through the kitchen supplies and found the makings of something special. We can still eat some sweets for dessert, though, right? What am I, a barbarian? They returned to the cabin, clearing off the snow they'd accumulated before entering. Once inside, Mark removed his coat and boots, then walked into the kitchen. How about I make more cocoa to warm us? Then you head upstairs to work on your project.

Trying to get rid of me? No, no. I just want dinner to be a surprise. Trust me, it's much more romantic this way. Jennifer rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically. Oh, the things I do for love. Mark made their cocoa. Jennifer grabbed one of the novels she brought and went to the bedroom.

She didn't feel like working and was confident in her ability to complete the project in the coming days. The book was so engrossing that when Mark called for her to come down, she didn't realize that hours had passed. The cabin smelled wonderful. Rich, savory aromas filled the air, and Jennifer wondered what Mark made. Tadda! He spread his arms before the table, which he decorated with the linen tablecloth and lit candles. In addition to the decorations was a glazed ham, fire-roasted chestnuts, and a baked vegetable medley of potatoes, yams, onions, rosemary, and butter.

There was also a bottle of red wine and two filled glasses next to their plates. This looks amazing. Thank you, thank you. Jennifer kissed Mark and sat at the table. She raised her glass in a toast. To my lovely husband and a wonderful holiday. To my lovely wife and a wonderful holiday.

The dinner was delicious. Since Mark wasn't just an amazing baker, but also a great cook. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine, and they both soon found themselves blushed and tipsy. Jennifer was about to finish her last bite of vegetables when she heard the flapping. Okay, do you hear that now? Yes, I definitely hear that. The noise blared through the cabin and moved from the north, to the east, to the south, to right above them. Mark, what is that?

Is it a helicopter or a drone maybe? Before he could respond, the clatter stopped. They stood, holding their breath and silence. The northeastern window shattered into the cabin, showering glass shards like jagged blades of ice. Jennifer screamed and cowered as Mark ducked. Their hearts pounding. They arose to see the disarray and broken window leading into the freezing night air.

What is it? Mark walked to the fireplace and grabbed the poker from the rack. With Ginger steps, he advanced to the window, ferociously gripping the makeshift weapon. He stared into the black. I don't see anything. Nothing. No, I don't see any people or animals. I don't see any tracks in the snow.

I don't see what could have broken the window. Nothing. Mark, let's get out of here right now. He continued staring into the distance. Mark? Yeah. He shook his head and returned to Jennifer. Let's pack up, then drive home.

I don't care about our things. Really? Let's just go. Okay. They grabbed their keys and phones and started putting on their boots and coats. A cackle, like the night before, rang through the glistering cord. It sounded like whatever made it was right outside the door. Stay here. I'm going to check and make sure it's safe. Mark, no! It's going to be all right.

We're going to get out of here. I promise. Mark held the poker in his right hand and slowly opened the front door with his left. It was clear that no one was outside. The path between the cabin and the SUV was unobstructed. Stay inside the cabin for a second while I make sure everything's clear. He continued past the porch and into the snow. It crunched beneath him as he tramped toward the explorer, continually looking around for

any danger. Halfway between the vehicle and the cabin, Mark turned toward Jennifer and gestured to her with his open hand. A mass of twitching shadows lifted Mark into the air, that appalling flapping drowning out his screams. Jennifer ran to the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife, then returned to the door jam. The scene was again, quiet and empty. Watching all directions, including the sky, she inched her way to where Mark was carried off. A small pool of blood remained with the dropped poker. In the distance toward the woods, still just within the reach of the cabin's light, she saw a small spot in the snow.

She crept toward it, still holding the knife in her steel grip and looking at all angles around her. The spot was blood, and she thought she saw another out further toward the pines. Jennifer grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight feature. Her breath formed small clouds of vapor as she panted and wept. Walking through the woods, she found the droplets by the light of her phone. She remained vigilant and kept a tight hold of the knife in her other hand as she tracked her missing husband. A voice deep inside of her, maybe her instinct or just her fear,

kept telling her to leave him behind and drive the explorer back to Philly. But she loved Mark more than anything and knew that there was a chance that he was still. alive and that she could save him. As she continued along the bloody trail, her phone caught the outline of a person in the distance. They were too far away to clearly make out their form. She froze on the spot. Mark, Mark, is that you? They remained still and silent.

Jennifer wept and called out. Mark, Mark, please talk to me. The figure spasmed in a phalanx of beating wings. Jennifer screamed and a hard object struck her temple, knocking her to the ground. Light splashed in her peripheral vision. Then darkness poured over her as she fell into oblivion. Consciousness returned slowly. The first thing Jennifer noticed was how hot her front was and how cold her back was.

A painfully bright light overwhelmed her until her vision gradually adjusted. A massive bonfire burned about 20 feet in front of her. Her head rang with a deafening wail. The sound began to localize itself to her left. She tried to move in that direction, but felt her arms tied behind her to a large object and saw that her legs were also bound. When she turned her head to the left,

she saw Mark screaming and tied to a pine tree. Mark! He was covered in bloody scratch. but otherwise unharmed. Silence, whelps. Jennifer tried to call out, but only steam poured from her lips. Tears ran down Mark's base as he struggled and continued to open his mouth, but no sound came from him either.

A man stepped forward into their vision and stood between them and the fire. His gaunt visage was skeletal and sickly. Clumps of hair clung to his otherwise bald and scapid-in-head. He wore tattered and ancient clothing. It looked like the garb Jennifer saw people wearing in American history books, but threadbare and moldy. The time it hath come. He raised his hands into the air.

She realized not all his clothing looked shabby. On his right hand glinted a silver ring, and he wore a pendant with an engraving she couldn't make out on his backlit warm. He began croaking a litany of unfamiliar words. words. She thought she recognized one or two words of Latin, but couldn't understand anything he said. A chill shot up her spine as she heard the flapping approaching from behind. Try as she might to scream, nothing came. A shadow crept forward and settled on the grizzly man's right side. It seized in a frenzy of rapid winkets, each thunderous pulse contracting Jennifer's stomach in a

repulsed horror. The creature transfixed her. From most angles, it appeared as the shadowy form of a man, or at least something man's shape. However, she caught the occasional glimpse of something altogether more terrifying. Six leathery wings rose from its back and furiously flapped at random intervals. Its face looked almost human, but stretched out, giving in an ovine quality. Atop its head twisted a crown-like tangle of horns, the same horns inside the cabin. Its lower half was an enormous serpent,

who slithering propelled it forward. It was an abomination, a waking nightmare. You should boweth your heads. Be ye now in the presence of royalty. Du Castoroth is mighty, indeed, and has cometh. For what is rightly, ease.

The man raised his hand in front of his face and gestured toward Mark. The thing opened its mouth to reveal thousands of needle-like teeth. When it spoke, its voice sounded with the roar of a thousand nightbeasts before rending the flesh of their prey. Unlike anything experienced by Jennifer before, emanated from its mouth and assailed her, almost rendering her unconscious. It smelled of death, bile, excrement, sulfur, and other things no earthly nostril is meant to smell. The thing slithered toward Mark, and the man followed behind. Mark still screamed in silence as it looked him up and down.

With a claw-fingered hand, it swiped across his midsection, spilling his intestines onto the snow. Jennifer again tried unsuccessfully to scream. The man faced her. Flesh, it'd be weak, but the viscera, it'd be powerful. Mighty powerful for those proper skill to use it. He reached into the wound and pulled out more of Mark's intestines. Blood, chime, and undigested chestnut chunks splattered onto the snow

as he gazed intently at Mark's dribbling entrails. Mark was still alive. He thrashed his head, mouth agape as the ghoulish fiend poured over his insides. After minutes of investigation, the man dropped what he held to the ground and nodded his head. The creature slid toward Mark and again opened its mouth, spreading its stench over the area. The inside of its mouth protruded out of its face to reveal what looked like a horse's skull full of porcelain needles. It struck like a viper and tore through Mark's chest, leaving a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

Mark's head dropped forward as blood and pieces of lung and rip cage fell onto the pile of his outside innards. Astoroth chewed and tore him apart. As blood dribbled down the bony extrusion, one could only approximately call its chin. Both the old man and the monster stepped toward Jennifer. She prayed for a miracle. to somehow break free and run back to the explorer

for an angel to come down and smite these things to hell. She prayed, but she knew there was no hope. The man smiled as she thought this, as though he knew exactly what was in her mind. The demon slithered right up to Jennifer. She stared into its infernal eyes and knew there was no hope. It stared back and smiled.

When it comes to shopping for Christmas presents, things have certainly changed over the years. We've gone from shopping at the little stores in town to shopping in huge malls to today's online shopping and all its selection and convenience. But in this tale, shared with us by author Charlie Davenport, we're reminded to remember those who suffer most from holiday online shopping, the people who scramble all over town delivering the packages. Performing this tale with me is Mike Delgadoo. So be thankful for them and maybe leave a little treat for them on your porch. After all, they're dealing with the holiday rush. The dawn came grudgingly to Brand Avenue.

The canyons of shadow created by the buildings lining the Broad Street ensured that its residents could sleep in for perhaps another 30 minutes without the intrusion of sunlight. But who would? Who even could? lay a bed on a day such as this. George thought as he piloted the van and took in the holiday glory of it all. Strung to the lampposts and palm trees on either side of the street were Christmas lights. Their timers telling them that they had to keep twinkling just a bit longer. Large green and red banners shifted lazily in the early morning breeze,

providing every passerby with the dates of the winter festival and wishing them very happy holidays. The wind picked up, giving the day a six. snap and chill that was rare in this delightful spot with its Mediterranean climate. Anyone who was awake and ambulatory would have found their belly tingling with an anticipatory excitement they might not have felt since childhood. Alas, it seemed that the only one experiencing this magical moment was the delivery man, who took it all in and patted his palms against the van's steering wheel to the beat of jingle bells. The company provided all drivers with the van. Usually it was what the boys at the warehouse called a JPWV, or just a plain white van.

Now and again, George had gotten lucky and had been given the keys to one of the vans emblazoned with the company's colors and logo. Nobody ever asked you to move along when you drove one of the fancy vans. No police officers would tick at you and no resident complained you took too long or took up their parking space. Why would they? Especially this time of year. Almost everybody had a package they were waiting on. Those were the good days. But today it was a JPWV for George, and that was all right with him. He wore a blue-gray uniform, impeccable in its tidiness.

A ball cap was tilted back high on his head. Dispatch had told him he had 140 or so stops to make on this rescue run, which is what they called it when another driver couldn't hit their quotas, and they brought somebody like George in. Poor guy. George turned off the main road and found himself heading to the residential areas and then shrugged. It was the holiday season after all. Even with the work week and daily hours extended to handle the countrywide rush, drivers got overwhelmed all the time.

He found Clarence in the locker room just a couple of mornings ago. His head had been in his hands and he had been looking like he was going to cry his eyes out at any minute. The gray had advanced through his long hair, taking over most of the original black. George had asked him if he was okay, but his old friend had only mumbled, something along the lines of, I just can't. This had worried George. Clarence had been the one to train him. It had been him that said, delivery has its own ups and downs,

but it beats warehouse work by a country mile. You signed in in the morning, picked up your load, and then you were out the door until you dropped the, hopefully, empty van off at night. It was the good life. He pulled the van against the curb at the Marino House. First stop of the day. George whistled Santa Claus' come into town as he walked up the drive. The box in his hands wobbled, something shifting side to side within it.

The other package rested easily atop it without adding much to the combined weight. A big, beautiful wreath adorned with gold ornaments among its natural greenery sat on the door in front of him at eye level. In its center was a handmade sign, reading Help Yourself, with several arrows cut from construction paper running up. across the wall and down to a small table. There sat a basket filled with granola bars, and on the ground alongside it was a cooler teeming with bottled waters. Gosh, this time a year brings out the best in folks. You don't get this at the warehouse, no, sir.

George tucked the packages under one arm and made his selection, savoring the cool water as it slid down his throat, and the chocolatey delight of the crunchy bar grinding between his teeth. It was going to be a fine day. He set the bottle down on the table and dug out the device the company called a hopper from the holster on his hip. A scan of the barcodes confirmed that, yes, these packages were intended for the Marino household. Then a message popped up on the device's tiny screen. Additional instructions.

George grumbled slightly. Set the boxes down and finished the bar while he read through the list. A quick gulp of water washed away the last few bites. and he pulled a box cutter out of his pocket and got to work. The first package opened easily, the blade cutting along the top to reveal a dozen or so pieces of paper. Bar receipts for cash purchases. Hotel and motel bills also paid for in cash.

Printouts of emails that Ryan Marino had apparently sent to someone named Audrey. Most damning was the old Polaroid buried among the rest of the evidence. It showed Ryan reclining on a bed, not the one he shared with his wife, but the kind with sheets worn thin by years of industrial washing and covered by a cheap, mostly polyester comforter. Next to him was a young woman, wearing only a gray polo, with the logo of the store Ryan managed on it. As instructed, George forced the pages through the mail slot and listened to each one fluttered down to the floor inside. The second box held a Glock 43, with a single-man

magazine. George loaded the gun, racked a single round into the chamber, and clicked the safety off. He pulled out his company-issued notepad, and, with exceptionally neat penmanship, wrote, It's been going on for two years. Then slip the note inside before resealing the box and placing it on the welcome mat. George looked once more at the snacks and sucked his teeth. It was a shame when it happened to nice people. But the morning stand-up was still fresh in his mind, The managers had told them all, no packages could come back, period, no matter what. It didn't matter if a signature was required and there was none to be had, or if the customer cancelled, or even if the item was damaged.

As one manager, the guy with the heavy handlebar mustache put it, Your fault, their fault, nobody's fault. It doesn't matter. The order doesn't come back. It's Christmas. Everything gets delivered. The Hopper's screen became a map as he slid it into a, his dash mount, directing him further into the suburbs. He had 20 minutes to get there. He dropped his

van into drive and began whistling again as he listened to the turn-by-turn directions. He wished they let him have a radio. George loved to listen to the radio this time of year. Oh, well. Ms. Medina's neighborhood was very festive, even at this early hour. Each lawn was covered with those inflatables that had grown so popular over the last few years, and over the rumble of his engine, could hear the tiny motors that powered them. Snowmen, reindeer, and even Santa himself waved to him with the help of the growing wind as he puttered by. Every street lamp had a string of lights, twinkling amid a garland of artificial Norfolk pine, and all tied together with a bright red bow. However, on many of them there was also a neon pink piece of paper that distracted from the effect,

or so George thought. It was only when he reached Ms. Medina's househouse. that he walked up to one and carefully read the rosy notice. On it was a picture of an American short hair, with brilliant silver and black streaks running through its gray fur. The word missing was printed in bold black capitals underneath it. Answers to the name MacArthur. If found, please return to Jeanette Medina at... George took out his phone and snapped a picture to get all the details.

He made a mental note to keep an eye out. Everybody should be home for Christmas after all. Then he walked back to the van. He scanned package after package, and several minutes passed without him turning up the delivery that had been intended for this address. Each swipe of the hopper brought another name and town that George would have to get to at some point that day.

Ralph Billingsley, Adam Square, Teddy Shields, West Glendale, Patty Hosevar, North Glendale. For just a moment, George felt the enormity of the task, and the breath in his throat quickened, blowing hot past his lips. It would not do to panic. You eat an elephant one bite at a time, or so Clarence had been fond of saying. Cars were now passing by on the street as their early bird owners were beginning their journeys to their various places of employment. The warning timer popped up on the hopper, flashing red and emitting a gentle,

buzzing beep. Both would grow in intensity until he located the package. George kept swathing. George kept swatmer, wiping. Scott Ward, Eagle Rock, Donald Robb, Silver Lake Heights, Grover Anaya from North Highland Park. Finally, he grabbed a small box tucked in the back on a high stack of the many, many delivery still to be made. George scanned it and was already putting it back when the hopper gave out a small, pleasant, beep, beep, Jeanette Medina, Walnut Park. He breathed a sigh of relief and let the muscles of his back relax. Then additional instructions popped up on the screen. Oh, come on. George eyed the countdown timer, then looked around as though he were afraid someone might have heard him. He opened the box as instructed. There, he found MacArthur, stiff and cold.

George could see the frown upon his face reflected in the tabby's still unmoving eyes. Oh, this is too much, Ro. He carefully held the flaps of the box closed and dashed up Medina's walk. George was more of a dog person himself, man's best friend and all that, but this just didn't sit well with him. Still, a job was a job. Medina's car was facing the street, always the sign of someone who was eager to just get going in the morning. George could respect that, and he nodded in approval without realizing he'd done it. He tucked at the cat's corpse just under the right front tire of the passenger side,

hoping that the shadow of the car itself would keep Ms. Medina from noticing it as she came out and keep it hidden until the crunch alerted her. The hopper hooped, chastising George for taking too long. He dropped his hand over it, desperately trying to muffle the sound. It was moments like this that made him see the appeal of going union, but even the thought drove a hot flash of panic through the delivery man's spine. Notions like that get a body fired, Clarence used to say. Or worse, retrained.

He got into his van and was steering it onto the road again before his seatbelt even clicked into place. He arrived at the Wilson's house and was back on schedule after only running a few stop signs. Six big packages were dropped off there. Through the front door and the large pane of glass set alongside it, he saw a grand old mudroom. It was filled with shoes and coats of varying sizes.

and there was an expensive-looking storage rack from which no fewer than five bikes on, each with a helmet above it. One each for mom and dad, and the remaining three looking just right for kids, age is five to eight. George felt a lump forming in his throat. The job could get lonely. He was literally driving around for a minimum of ten hours by himself. When he got home, his kids were asleep and his wife was already in bed. He often wondered what he had missed out on that day and what he'd miss on the next and the next and the next.

In fact, he felt like he hadn't seen his family in... Gosh, forever. The next delivery was only a block away at the Clark's. Thank goodness for small favors. No additional instructions popped up as he scanned their single, but very heavy package. Though it did give several thumps as he set it down on the ground. slithery substantial thumps. Best not to think about it too hard.

Ten minutes later, he was out in front of the King's ranch house, working quickly but calmly. He was copying the looping cursive whys and teased from a sample of Mrs. King's handwriting to craft the message, You were a mistake. Then he slipped it into an envelope marked for Shelley King, their youngest, George believed. He was just getting back into the van when a large boom

rocked him in his seat and set off every car alarm in the neighborhood. George checked his watch and reasoned that Mr. Wilson had found the delivery that the hopper had instructed to leave him under the man's Tesla. At the home of Glenda and Herbert Wu, he scanned two packages. He tensed as he waited, but nothing else came up, and he left the delivery right next to their door. George put a little extra gusto into his whistling, and he honest to God skipped back to the van. The day was turning around. Well, for George anyway, Mr. Wu would come home late from work on the 23rd,

and feeling a little peckish would warm up some of the organic chili that Glenda Wu didn't remember ordering at all. A man with a severe allergy should read the labels more carefully. But, in his defense, who would think chili had peanuts in it? By the time George reached the Manukians across town, the sun had occupied the middle of the sky for a bit and was now settling the same. down for a rest. The late afternoon light allowed George a clear view of the chalk artwork covering every inch of the sidewalk in front of their house and the walk up to their door. The Manukian kids had gone to town, drawing everything from the Grinch with his heart-growing

three sizes to Charlie Brown and Snoopy, tending to the tiny tree bending under the weight of its single ornament. George's absolute favorite was a single square of concrete dedicated to six white birds in stocking caps, all reclining on beds. Ah, a laying. Six geese allaying. George chuckled and looked around to see if there was anyone to share the joke with. There wasn't. Still, it had brought a fresh smile to his face, and he was grateful for that. If the Mrs. was awake when he got home, he'd be sure to tell her about it. He knocked on the door, as per the instructions for the delivery, but nobody came. He tried skisks. scanning the package again, seeing if there was some way to push it through without a signature,

but it simply refused. He wanted to call Clarence, see if the old dog had a trick for such a situation. Then he noticed a series of bright yellow post-its stuck one on top of the other on the mailbox. Please stop, said the first message, or the last one, George supposed, based on your viewpoint. What did we do? said the next. We didn't order this. We will accept no more. packages. George gave one more knock, one more solid wrap against the door on the Manukian home. Something within its frame clicked, and then it swung ever so slightly open. It was dark inside, and the air was stale, resistant to whatever O2 George brought in with him. If there were artwork, knick-knacks, brick-a-brac, or even furniture that suggested the tastes of the owners,

George couldn't see. Not behind the hundreds and hundreds of packages that filled the residence. Brown boxes bearing the company's logo covered every inch of the floor, pressed against every wall, and blocked all the windows, letting only thin traces of light squeeze in. There was a small path over to the kitchen. George was careful as he navigated it, the shoulders of his uniform threatening to knock over the towers that had been stacked around him. This reminded him too much of his days in the warehouse. A few of the boxes were arranged so the codes were facing towards him, and he carefully brought the hopper up to scan them.

Noah Stewart, La Canada, Emma Grimes, Pasadena, Liam Reed, Altadena, Olivia Patton, Alhambra, Jacob Hawkins, Rosemead, Sophia Barrymore from Sunland. The device began to grind to a halt as each scan brought additional instructions scrolling across it. Each one had been marked as delivered in the system. In the kitchen there was some free space still, at least what wasn't taken up by Mr. Manukian. He was lying in the center of a huge blot of dry blood. The dead man's hands had been placed around a package resting atop his chest. If you had bet George $5, he would have guessed it had been placed there

after somebody had turned the homeowner's skull into a collection of bone fragments and matted hair. On the corpse's garishly bright red sweater were the words Nakatomi Plaza, 1980. and several strands of long iron-gray hair. Oh, Clarence, what have you done? The order doesn't come back. The delivery man set the box he brought in with him next to the body and went back out to the front.

He would have to report this. It was a serious matter after all, dumping deliveries at a customer's home, and it had started out as such a nice day. As George stood there, the lights in the neighborhood started to come on, bringing about a gentle shifting glow that alternated between red, green, and gold.

Somewhere nearby, the Johnny Mathis version of I'll be home for Christmas started playing over somebody's speakers. George closed his eyes, let the colors flash along inside of his eyelids, and let the crooner's silky-smouth voice curl around his ears. He heard brakes and opened his eyes to see a car pulling up on the opposite side of the street. What George took to be a mother and son piled out and began loading their arms up with heavy

plastic shopping bags, several of them with rolls of wrapping paper poking out the top. Brick and mortar shoppers. George mused with a sense of nostalgia that teetered on the edge of awe. Then, as if he'd heard the thought, the boy stopped and saw George standing there. He shifted some of his burden and freed a hand to wave enthusiastically at the delivery man. George felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. The scent of stale air and blood from inside the Manukians was beginning to make its way out into the street through the partially open doorway.

He pulled it closed with his foot and returned the boy's gesture. The cute little fellow smiled and then started jogging to catch up with his mom. Maybe it had ended up being a good day after all. George made a call to the main office and minutes later was back in his van, ready to head home. He hummed, I'll be home for Christmas all the way back to the warehouse. In our final Yuletide tale, we meet a lovely family getting ready for the most wonderful time of the year. And along with that comes the Christmas tradition shared by many,

writing the Christmas newsletter for family and friends. But in this tale, shared with us by author H.H. Duke, the man is writing this newsletter not so much in hopes of sharing Christmas. cheer as much as he's desperately crying out for help. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Tisha Boone, Ella Boone, and Erica Sanderson. So Merry Christmas. No, no. Happy holiday.

Let's just say, Season's Greetings from the Graysons. Season's Greetings from the Graysons. Hello, and Happy New Year from Andy, Becca, Sadie and Ralph. We hope this letter finds you and yours merry and bright, and perhaps a few pounds heavier from your Christmas ham. This last year was a doozy for all of us, but... She's gone.

I'll have to bake more cookies by the sound of it. I don't think she can read. At least not full sentences, but I didn't want to chance it. I think she scans for keywords. It makes her sound like a robot, but... She's very much flesh. I shudder at the thought of it. I need help.

Please send the authorities to 1437 Hawkeye Lane. Do not come yourself. Make sure they are properly protected and make sure they read this letter so they know what they're dealing with. I cannot stress enough that this is not a prank. I used to scoff at found footage movies where the protagonists chose to keep filming long after the cameras became a hindrance. But now I get it.

There's a desire to record your last moments so that your loved ones understand what happened. There's also the fact that once I finish writing this, I have to go back out there with those things. The last time I saw Becca and Sadie was yesterday. Friday. I was helping them load the SUV for the annual pilgrimage to her family's cabin in the mountains. There wasn't much in the way of luggage. It was only a weekend trip, after all.

Bags of presents for cousins, aunts, and uncles took up most of the remaining space, including the passenger seat and the back next to Sadie's car seat. Becca leaned into me. Are you sure you can't come? Mom and Dad want to see you. I lowered the hatchback door experimentally. It barely closed, crumpling a large department store bag full of matching pajamas for her sister's tribe. The clothing would be fine, but I was glad Becca didn't see.

She'd be horrified I don't know where you'd put me That's easy We'll strap you to the roof just like we did the tree I chuckled And she wrapped her arms around my chest I need to finish this article So we can enjoy the holiday when you come back

Your family won't even miss me Sadie popped her head out of the open SUV door She came so long Her eyes brightened Did you decide to come with us daddy We can go sledding with Charlie and Uncle Rob just like last Christmas. Sorry, hon. You'll have to go sledding without me this time. Next year we'll go for sure. Now, give your old man a hug. Her face fell for a moment, but then she threw her arms around my neck. Then she would through from the embrace suddenly. Her expression, serious.

There's a new present underneath the tree. Sadie had been keeping a running inventory of the presents underneath the tree. She knew when each one arrived and who would send it. It wouldn't surprise me if she had a spreadsheet somewhere. Who's it from? She shrugged. Maybe it's one of mom's fakes. Every year, Becca wrapped empty boxes to make the area under the tree look filled out

while we finished our Christmas shopping. They became increasingly unnecessary as the season progressed. Sadie shook her head vigorously. It's green. almost laughed. This year, Becca had outfitted the house in what she called Farmhouse Christmas. I wasn't sure what that meant exactly, but it involved a lot of artificially distressed wood and burlap. The color scheme was different shades of gray with highlights of cherry here and there. Sadie lowered her head conspiratorially.

I think Santa left it. Santa only comes on Christmas Eve, sweetie. You know that. After one last hug, I buckled her into her car. seat and shut the SUV door. I hated to admit it, but working was a lot easier with just me and Ralph in the house. I locked myself in my office. The closed door always put me in the right frame of mind to work and got to it. With my coffee on my right and a bowl of reindeer chow, puppy chow with red and green M&Ms mixed in. On my left, I was tapping away in no time. Before I knew it, Two hours had passed. I looked down at Ralph, who was looking up at me from his dog bed with his head cocked.

Come on, boy. It's time for lunch. Once we'd made it out to the kitchen, Ralph beeline for the doggie door that led to the backyard. I scooped some kibble into his bowl and then set to work scrounging up some grub for myself. Though the sky was gray, not a single flake of snow covered the lawn. That would change on Monday. night, according to the news. We'd have a white Christmas for the first time since Sadie had been born. It was supposed to snow a decent amount, about a foot, so I was glad that Becky and Sadie would be getting back long before then. As I had it for the fridge, I noticed a rack of cookies

on the kitchen counter. Becca must have baked them before she left and forgot to put them away. I hadn't noticed the smell of baking cookies, but that didn't surprise me much. I'd been working after all, and anyway it was difficult to smell anything over the holiday candles and pot-per-ee placed strategically throughout the house. The cookies were the decorated kind, each cut out into the shape of an angel, mitten, snowman, or Santa. They were perfectly iced, as though professionally made. I was surprised that Becca had time to bake and decorate them in the rush to leave, but it always amazed me what she was able to get done.

I grabbed a mitten-shaped cookie and absent-mindedly took a bite as I headed towards the refrigerator. I immediately gagged. Cookie tasted awful. The plasticy, bitter flavor didn't even register as food. The texture was even worse. There was no crunch, and it was oddly soft, like biting into a dense sponge. I spat the bite into the sink, turning on the side. a garbage disposal before rinsing my mouth out.

Once I'd purged as much of the taste from my mouth as possible, I turned back to the rack of cookies. Upon closer inspection, they looked phony, like the fake bakery items they keep in the display case at coffee shops. I laughed. Of course, these weren't cookies. They were ornaments. I was still chuckling to myself when my pocket began to

vibrate. I checked the caller ID. Becca. They must have reached Stonecrest. It was the last rest stop before the cabin and the last place with reliable reception. I tapped the screen. And, hey, Bex, you're not going to believe it. I just bid into one of your ornaments. I thought they were real cookies. Talking about. The ornaments you made. The ornaments. I felt like a jerk. So they were cooking. but she'd gotten the recipe wrong. It happens to the best of people, especially when they do as much as Becca does. Rather than insult her baking,

I changed the subject, asking about the drive and how Sadie was doing. As we finished up, Ralph came in from the yard. Just as I hung up the phone, Ralph snarled from the living room. The hair on my arms stood on end. I'd never heard him make those sounds. They were primal, derived from fear of immediate and present danger.

I followed the sound to the living room. I was sure someone was in the house. But when I rounded the corner, I saw only Ralph. He was pointed toward the Christmas tree, hackles raised. I'd never seen my friendly, immediately buds with any stranger off the street dog like that. I grabbed Sadie's softball bat from the stand near the back door. I was sure someone was hiding in the room. I checked behind the couch and the chairs and found no one.

The only other place someone could hide would be in the corner behind the tree, though they'd have to be very skinny. I approached it. Flimsy aluminum bat held in front of my face. Then relaxed. Empty. Fading twilight filtered in from the window behind the tree. No one was outside either, but dark clouds loomed on the horizon.

Was the storm coming sooner than forecast? Maybe that was why he was so upset. He was still growling, though he'd calmed somewhat now that I was investigating. It's okay, Ralph. It's just a storm. I held my hand out, but he didn't approach. I stepped toward him, but almost tripped. I looked down, finding a package at my feet. It was wrapped in holographic green foil.

I examined the area beneath the tree and saw that there were several boxes wrapped in the same green paper. Looks like you missed a few saints. I guess she didn't have as much of a handle on the present situation as I thought. She was right about one thing, though. None of them had tags. I keep thinking back to this moment. Was I being willfully ignorant so that I didn't have to face the truth? Some of the green presents were quite large.

I would say do you have missed them, even if they were buried? How would I have missed them? I wish I'd examined the tree, the decorations. Had they started to change? Even then? I was too worried about my deadline. It's amazing what you can reason away when the truth is inconvenient. I believe the presence must have been there,

that both Sadie and I missed them somehow. They were here, weren't they? What other possibility was there? I went back to my office. Ralph ran ahead of me, his tail low. He lay down on his bed when I pointed to it, but remained tense. I blamed it on the combination of Becca and Sadie being gone and the dark clouds I'd seen on the horizon. It was well past midnight when I powered down my computer.

I didn't bother turning on the hallway lights. If I had, what would I have seen? Ralph slept fitfully, pressed against my side. Every few minutes he'd lift his head, his large ears outlined by the bluish light seeping in from the window. Every so often a low growl emitted from his throat. I ignored him. The next morning I walked out into the kitchen and started my coffee. Due to the late night, I was still partially asleep,

but I couldn't afford to sleep in. If I wanted to be done with my deadline before Becca and Sadie got home, I needed to keep up the pace. Flakes of snow drifted outside the kitchen window. Nothing major, maybe one or two every ten. seconds. The snow wasn't supposed to start for a couple days. I hope that Becca and Sadie would be able to make it out of the mountains.

If not, it'd be a lonely Christmas for me. I hadn't heard the flapping of Ralph's doggie door, and usually he was pretty quick to go outside. But faster he took care of business, the sooner he got fed. That was the unspoken deal between us. I walked towards the living room. Ralph, time to go out. I froze.

Ralph faced a tree. But instead of barking like he had the previous night, he was silent, motionless. His head low to the ground, the fur standing up straight all along his spine, and even at the tip of his tail. And I knew exactly why the green foil presence had multiplied. Last night there had been four or five of them, tops.

Now, there were dozens. That alone I might have been able to write off as me being distracted, but they were everywhere. On the chairs and the sofa, along the window ledges. They looked artfully placed, like a magazine ad selling a glut of prosperity. And no matter how distracted I was, I would have noticed the one shaped like a bike.

Every inch of it reflecting holographic green, from the handlebars right down to the individual spokes of the tires. Then another was large, large enough for Sadie to hide in. It was a prank. It had to be. Becca was trying to get back at me for not going to the cabin. I was so desperate for a reasonable explanation that I wouldn't even have been mad. I pulled out my phone, misdialing her number twice because my hands were shaking.

When I finally accomplished the task, the phone went straight to voicemail. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back to my office. Ralph followed, whimpering at my heels. I slumped down at my desk, going through a list of people who could have done this. Beck's cousin, Jim? You all know Jim? huge jokester. But he was also up at the cabin.

Or was he? My co-worker Mick, known for inappropriate office pranks? This was too far, even for him. And how would he have gotten inside? I took out my phone and pulled up the footage from our two security cameras. The one in front covered the garage and front door. The one in back covered the back door. I watched both feeds simultaneously at maximum speed, starting at the time Becca and Sadie left.

It took about an hour to watch both. No one had entered the house through the doors, and none of the window sensors had been triggered. So where had the presence come from? I slumped back in my chair. Soon a sound drifted in from the living room. It had an ethereal quality that made me unethereal quality that made me unethical. sure of whether I was actually hearing it, or if it was a stress-induced auditory hallucination. It had the jazzy, bombastic sound of mid-century Christmas music.

But I couldn't tell what the song was. I stood. I couldn't hide in my office forever. I had to figure this out before Becca and Sadie got home. My hand shook as I opened my office door. The music didn't sound any clearer out in the hallway. It sounded like it was coming from a damaged speaker, or maybe being broadcast from a distant radio station. Ralph followed me reluctantly into the hall,

though I could tell he wanted to stay in the office. He wouldn't let me face this alone. If I was going, he was going. At the end of the hallway, I called... Alexa, turn off music. Hoping the noise was originating from our smart speaker. The music didn't stop. Even more concerning was the fact that Alexa didn't respond.

Alexa? I rounded the corner, looking to the living room shelf where the smart speaker should have been. It was gone. In its place was an old-fashioned radio. The box-shaped kind made of wood, with round dials in the middle and two speakers on either side. It was the source of the strange music. I stopped two feet in front of it, dumbfounded.

Even at such a close range, the song was indiscernible, though it sounded achingly familiar. I was sure I'd heard it a thousand times before. Was it it's the most wonderful time of the year? Or jingle bell rock? The singer crooned, sounding like one of the adults from a Peanuts cartoon if they'd been offered a recording contract. Now, I knew the radio hadn't been here an hour ago. I whirled around to face the living room, wanted to keep my back to the wall.

Who's in here? Show yourself. But as much as I wanted to believe that someone was in the house, it simply didn't make sense. No one had come inside. The cameras and sensors would have caught them. That meant they must have been inside before Becca and Sadie left. And where would they have hidden all the stuff

that was appearing in the house. How would they remain so quiet that I didn't hear them at all? And even more stuff had appeared. Tinsel dripped from the tree, almost obscuring the green of the branches. Three stockings hung over the fireplace, but they weren't the faux burlap ones

Becca had put up weeks before. They were knit from red and green yarn with Santa faces on them. They bulged, almost comical. with gifts. Everywhere I looked, I saw something new, something that had appeared out of nowhere, or been replaced.

And it all looked wrong. I've heard of the uncanny valley to describe a feeling of unease caused by things that look almost, but not quite, human. While I was feeling that same way about these presents and decorations, they were off in a way

that I couldn't put my finger on. I spied the present that Sadie had first mentioned. It still sat where I left it on the coffee table the previous day. I examined it more critically, and I could see why it had upset her. Its edges looked smudged, and the color was wrong, the shadows off, like a cheaply animated video game. I sank into the couch, staring at the present. I don't know how long I sat there like that.

Finally, I grabbed the present and began to unwrap it. It wasn't an easy task. Presents are made to be opened, but this one put up a fight. I was able to open the corner flaps easily enough, but the paper stuck to the entire surface of whatever was inside like it was covered with adhesive. I ended up peeling it off in tiny shreds. When I finally got most of the paper,

off, what was left was beige-colored. Slivers of green still clung to it as though glued down. It wasn't made of cardboard or wood. It felt plasticy, but also organic, like a mixture of plastic and flesh. I looked for box seams, somewhere where the container could be opened, but found none. It was a solid cube. Static seemed to pulse through it regularly, like it was electronic, but there were no visible metal parts or wires. It was alive. The more I held it, the more it felt like a living thing.

My stomach turned, and I set it back down on the coffee table as gently as I could. Something popped from behind me. I felt it more than hurt it. like a change in atmospheric pressure. I turned to look at the tree and quickly got to my feet. The Douglas fir was gone. In its place was an aluminum monstrosity. Its branches pointing up at perfect 45-degree angles.

My aunt and uncle had one just like it when I was a kid. I'd always thought it was ugly. That was impossible. The Douglas fir had just been there. I'd wrestled that thing into the house myself. I knew how heavy and unwieldy it was, and that was before it was covered in fragile and noisy ornaments. Though most of our decorations had disappeared,

a few still hung on. There was no way someone could have removed and replaced them so quickly, let alone without me noticing. It took me over an hour to load up the truck. I like to think that's pretty quick, considering how much there was. I managed to get the tree, the bike, the radio, and all of those presents into the bed. I used a lint roller to capture every last shred of tinsel. I ferried it all out into the garage in Sadie's red wagon.

When I finally got everything in the truck, the snowflakes had increased to a rapid flurry. There was no denying it. The winter storm was on its way. With Ralph buckled into his car harness in the passenger seat, I drove into town and threw everything into the dumpster behind the Walmart. On the drive back, I felt lighter. For the first time in weeks, I'd forgotten about my deadline. A bunch of multiplying presents invading your home

really gives a man perspective on what's important. I laughed at that. Maybe I would drive up to my time. the cabin and surprise Sadie and Becca. She was right. The article could wait. The flurries quickened, the closer I got to the house. As I turned on to my block, the blanket of snow on the ground was thick, as though it had been

heavily snowing for hours. Or maybe that was just a trick of the light. I could barely see through my windshield, after all. The truck pulled easily enough into the garage, so I didn't worry about it. I opened the door to the house. Ralph was reluctant to enter, which was understandable. After some goading and a promise of lunch, he'd missed breakfast and all the commotion, he cautiously trotted inside and into the mudroom.

I closed the door behind us. I heard movement, like someone was walking around inside the kitchen. I bristled, sure, the person who had deposited all this stuff into my house. was still here. At this point, I'd already convinced myself I hadn't seen what I'd seen, and this strange new reality was hitting me hard. Presence and trees don't just appear out of thin air. I cursed myself for letting my guard down.

I leaned forward so I could see around the corner and into the kitchen. I was surprised to find the figure standing at the counter. Her back turned to me. was Becca. She appeared to be mixing a dough of some sort. In fact, the counters were filled with several racks of cooling cookies. I was so relieved to see her that I stepped towards her, saying her name. Becca?

She didn't immediately turn around. She was humming some Christmas song or other. I couldn't place the tune. Her voice sounded distorted. Trumpety. I slowed. though I'd already crossed half the distance between us, taking in the scene. Her hair was indeed the right color, but it was quaffed in a strange beehive,

rather than loose and free like she normally styled it. She wore a dress that looked like it belonged to June Cleaver, narrow at the waist and flared at the hem with beige heels, the kind her mother wore to church. Had she borrowed these clothes from her? Becca? I stopped two feet away from her. Something was wrong.

And then it hit me. The SUV hadn't been in the driveway. There hadn't even been tire tracks in the snow, or footprints for that matter. This wasn't my wife. I froze. A stranger was in my house baking. cookies. In some far-off corner of my mind, I noticed that the scent of cookies wafting through

the air smelled off, almost plasticy. Like a scented candle with a name like gingerbread dreams or grandma's Christmas cookies. Who the hell are you? I'd meant the words to come out as a growl, but they came out more like a whimper. She stopped humming and told her. She stopped humming and current. How can I describe the horror of her face? The back and side of her head were normal enough, though they had the same unreal feeling that the presence did. Her jaw and cheek curved up to a perfect earlobe pierced with a tasteful pearl stud earring.

Her face, though. It followed the basic contours of human features, but it was too large. Her nose curved it downwards, and ended in a bulbous protrusion right above her mouth. No nostrils. Her mouth was a thick, lipless line that spanned almost from earlobe to earlobe.

Even when it was fully closed, as it was now, the two halves didn't quite meet. Her eyes were like two tiny beads set deep into golf ball-sized indents on her face. The undeveloped eyes, of a mole. Useless, ugly things. These were not human features.

This was not a woman. The flesh of her eye sockets pinched over those beads. A blink. I backed away from the not woman, not caring where I was going. I registered that Roth was barking somewhere near my feet,

but it sounded distant. like it was happening on a television and the sound was turned down low. I moved toward the living room, noting, again distantly, that Ralph was following me. I turned the corner and stopped in my tracks. It was all back. The aluminum tree, the presence, the radio. Not only that, but there was more.

A light on a rotating wheel was pointing at the... the tree, washing it in changing colors. Blue, red, yellow, green. Bubble lights globed from the end of the branches. The stockings on the mantle were so engorged with presents that they looked like ticks about to pop. The presence beneath the tree now stood in mounds as high as my waist. As I stared, one began to giggle and shift. the presence falling to the ground to reveal a small child. A boy standing behind it. He had the same misshapen facial features of the monstrosity in the kitchen.

The same beady eyes, bulbous nose, and oversized, lipless mouth. When he saw me, his mouth opened, the corners turning upwards. The sight of that gaping maw was so horrifying. It took me a few seconds. seconds to realize. He was smiling. The word came slow and distorted from his cavernous mouth, like an infant testing out the word for the first time. The sound of that word coming from this thing's mouth turned my stomach. I backed away from him, only turning around when Ralph began growling and barking. The knot woman was there, holding a plate of cookies in one hand and a steaming

mug of hot cocoa in the other. She opened her mouth. She spoke in that same distorted, trumpet too close to the mic sound as the boy. The knot boy. She walked toward me. Ralph's barking intensified, and then he was charging her,

jumping up and biting the wrist of the hand that held the plate. The cookies and plate. tumbled to the ground. When Ralph released the bite, he left punctures in her wrist. They didn't bleed, though they were deep enough that they should have. There was no flesh or muscle. It was like he'd bitten into a piece of fresh polymer clay.

The knotwoman looked at her wrist. Then to Ralph. She said something then. The words were so distorted that I couldn't make them out. She leaned down, her finger outstretched. Fear from my best friend filled me. No. I moved forward to stop her, but it was too late.

She touched him with that perfectly manicured finger. He yelped. He took a step toward me, then collapsed. A moment later, he started to convulse. His little legs twitching, his top. falling out of his mouth. Acting on instinct, I scooped him up and ran past the woman and into the kitchen. I expected her to reach toward me and do to me what she'd done to Ralph.

Instead, she began to clean the cookies off the floor. Out in the garage, I placed Ralph on the passenger seat of the truck. He was practically vibrating. Not knowing what I could do for him, except get him the hell out of there, I clipped him into his safety harness. and opened the garage door. There was now a foot and a half of snow on the driveway. There'd only been a few inches just minutes ago when I'd pulled in.

I couldn't even see the tire tracks now. There was no time to clear it, or ponder how a night's worth of snow had built up in only a few minutes. I got into the driver's seat and flicked on the four-wheel drive. I put the truck in reverse and slammed my foot down on the accelerator. I was thrown forward as the back of the truck hit the edge of the snow, my forehead colliding with the steering wheel. I may have accelerated faster than I should have in my panic.

But the snow should have had at least some give to it. It was like the white stuff in the driveway was solid ice, not snow. I checked Ralph. Luckily, the safety harness had held him in place. At least one of us. us have been wearing our seatbelt. Not that it mattered much. The convulsions had slowed, and he only jerked every few seconds now. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. He looked otherwise lifeless, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Still seeing stars from the knock on my head,

I pulled forward until the nose of the truck almost touched the garage's back wall, then shifted into reverse and pressed gingerly on the gas. I hoped that a slower approach would help the tires find purchase in the snow. I felt a crunch as the tailgate met the edge of the snow, not stopping to wonder at the fact that the snow was now high enough to touch the tailgate. The rear tires squealed as they lost purchase on the polished cement floor. It was no use. I swore and pulled forward before killing the engine.

I'd have to dig us out. I exited the truck and grabbed the shovel from the corner, noting that the wheels and tailgate had made only the slightest marks on the snow. I started to dig, or at least I tried to. Though the stuff falling from the sky looked as white and fluffy as something depicted on a Christmas card, the mass it created as it gathered on the ground was disproportionately heavy. I only managed to lift away slivers of the stuff

at a time. With nowhere else to put it, I tossed it along the wall of the garage. The pile remained pathetically small, while the snow on the outside of the garage grew taller at an impossibly fast rate. The hole I was digging quickly became only an indent, then disappeared altogether. I dug until my shoulders ached, then dropped the shovel, accepting the futility of the endeavor. The snow now came up to my belly button. I leaned out over it. I could see the Johnson's house next door, though it was heavily obscured by the raging snow.

The snow smelled chemical, like freezer burn, but I ignored this. I wasn't going to drive out, but maybe I could make it to the neighbors for help. I climbed the mountain of icy flakes, expecting it to hold my weight. It held up against the truck, after all, and it did, at first. I made it up to the top and made two labored steps before being sucked down.

The way that Quicksand does in cartoons, I was pulled sideways, the ice-cold snow covering my head. I made the mistake of trying to take a breath, and the stuff entered my mouth and nose. It tasted bitter and plasticy. Just like the cookies, the realization came crashing down on me. This snow wasn't real. It was fake. Just like the cookies, the presents, and the thing inside my kitchen masquerading as a 1950s housewife. The knot snow shifted around me, pushing me downwards and to the side until I landed back inside the garage.

I drew in a ragged breath and coughed the remainder out of my lunds. My teeth chattered. Unable to do anything else, I dragged myself toward the left side of the truck, the side facing away from the door that led into the house. My arms and legs were numb, so this was no easy task. I stopped at the rear wheel and leaned up against it. I wanted to check on Ralph, but couldn't get my limbs to move right. Part of me was fine with that.

I was sure he was dead, and I didn't want to see him like that. that. I couldn't go outside, and I couldn't go inside either. So I sat there. I don't know how long, only that the light peeking through the two feet of space between the top of the open garage door and the top of the pile was nearly faded. I wondered how long it would take to freeze to death in my own garage. The house door opened and closed, waking me from my stupor. Had the knot woman come to finish the job? I heard a few footsteps that were too soft and quick to be from heels. And then the beady-eyed face of the knot boy stuck his head around the corner of the truck. What do you want? I said, my words soft and distorted thanks to the numbness of my tongue.

He stepped around the truck the rest of the way, revealing that he was holding a cup of hot cocoa in his hands. steam billowed from it It looked so perfect So warm Excessively so There was the air of unreality That pervades advertisements The perfection, the very thing

That gives it away Still, my eyes watered with relief When I saw it When he approached and held it out to me I took it My clumsy, numb fingers Almost dropping it I took a sip.

The contrast of the heat of the cocoa felt like a burn against my numb tongue. But I didn't care. I savored every drop of heat, ignoring the bitter, plastic taste. The knot boy moved back to the other side of the truck. The passenger side door clicked open, followed by happy yips. Ralph? His collar jangled as he jumped down. Then the rapid clicking of toenails as he approached me.

His little form rounded the corner of the truck. Oh, thank God! The words stuck in my throat as I got a good look at him. It was harder at first to tell due to his shaggy fur, but there was no mistaking the changes. Ralph was a mutt, and we'd often debated over his heritage. Now, though the fur color was the same, He was undoubtedly a pure-bred schnauzer.

The only imperfections were his eyes, which were small, dull beads that stared back at me from beneath the fur. And his mouth, which was a wide, distinct line. A red plaid bow was tied around his neck. Had the knot boy put it on him when he'd opened the truck door? I didn't think so. Knott Ralph wagged his tail and sat down in front of me. I closed my eyes, and two hot tears ran down my cheeks.

My best friend was gone. Worse, he'd been changed. The knot boy appeared again. He held out his hand. Was he going to do the same thing to me as the knot woman had done to Ralph? But what else was there to do? I couldn't escape, and I didn't want to freeze to death. I allowed him to loop his hand through mine, expecting to start convulsing like Ralph had.

Instead, he tugged on me until I stood. His arms felt like they were made of clay, and I was careful not to pull on them as I rose. This thing still wore the visage of a child, and I didn't want to hurt him. He didn't terrify me like the knot woman. He pulled me inside, not Ralph running ahead of us. The knot woman was there. She came and stood directly in front of me,

then leaned in towards me. It took me several awkward seconds to figure out she wanted me to kiss her. I suppose that if she had lips, she would have been puckering them. The thought of touching my mouth to that gaping slash was almost more than I could bear. but then I remembered what she'd done to Ralph, and was sure she could and would do the same thing for me. I wanted to live.

So I closed my eyes and brushed my lips against hers as quickly as I could, barely touching them. She didn't seem to notice my reluctance. The knot boy took my hand again and led me to the living room. It had changed even further. The 65-inch plasma over the mantle was gone. on. Instead, an old-fashioned tubed television stood in the corner where the fireplace met the wall. The kind on a three-legged stand with an antenna and knobs on the side to change the channel.

The knot boy pointed to the couch. I sat down in the middle, and then he ran up to the television and began fiddling with the knobs. The screen came to life. The picture was black and redone. The picture was black and white. The knot woman came in carrying a tray of cookies and three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She held the tray out to me. I obediently took a cookie and a mug. She placed the tray down and then sat next to me, laying her head on my shoulder. The knot boy sat on the other side of me, taking one of my hands. Not Ralph curled up at my feet. Being so close to the not woman made me sweat. I tried to focus on the television. All the characters on the screen had the same deformed facial features as the not woman and not boy. Still, the movie was achingly familiar,

though I couldn't quite put a name to it. It didn't help that the sound was so low that I only heard a vague murmur of dialogue, though I could detect the wamp-womp I'd come to associate with the speech of the not boy and not woman. Was it miracle on 34th Street? Or it's a wonderful life? Neither, I realized. The farce taking place on the screen managed to capture the essence of both. Of Christmas movies in general, without being either of those things.

It was mimicry. Just like the not woman. Just like the presents. They were mimicking a perfect Christmas, one from the 1950s by the look of it. And I was allowed to keep being me because I played along. I knew I needed to get in touch with the outside world. But how? I began to form a plan. My cell phone had mysteriously disappeared from my pocket,

and I didn't have much hope that the rotary phone that it appeared on the wall would connect to anything. We'd been sitting on the couch for nearly a half hour when I said, in the most concerned voice I could manage. Oh, no, I haven't written the holiday newsletter yet. The words sounded painfully fake to my own ears, but neither of them seemed to notice. The knotwoman turned to me, her features twisted into a look of concern. She said something too warped to make out, though the cadence sounded like she'd repeated what I'd just said. Holiday newsletter? Yeah.

You know, everyone sends them out at Christmas to tell their friends and family what they've been up to. If we don't send one out, everyone will be talking about us. And not in a good way. Even worse, it won't be Christmassy. That seemed to convince her.

I couldn't understand the concerned tirade of wamps and horn noises she was making, but her gestures told me that I'd better get to writing. And that brings me here to this note. I guess that's all of it. Anyway, she stuck her head into my office several times in the last few minutes, checking on me. I don't know what she has planned, but they want me to be a part of it.

As much as it terrifies me, I have to wrap this up. Please send help. The police, the government, whoever's running Area 51, all of the people. All of them. Just don't let Becca and Sadie anywhere near the house. It can only be one wife, after all. And I worry that the knot boy wouldn't want a sister. Merry Christmas.

And happy holidays. The Graysens. Place is growing dim. The presents, ah, yes, they're under the tree. Our tales must come to an end until Christmas next year. We'll keep the fire glowing until you return. That is, if you dare to remain sleepless. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

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