James looked forward to every winter season. It was tradition for James to make snow angels, ride down the little hill in his backyard on a sled and build his annual Frosty the Snowman. Each year James changes his attire. When he was four it was your classic snowman with a bright orange carrot and pebble eyes. The following year James had joined the community football team. So James put his helmet on top of its head and craftly placed the football on its side by making a hole and pushing it into the snow. Last year James dressed the snowman up as a cowboy. Wearing his dad’s ranch hat and put a little piece of wheat in its mouth. Now this year James had just turned seven and developed a special interest in building after his dad and him crafted a bird house for his mom. He was super excited when his dad let him saw a piece of the wood all by himself. Wearing a helmet and gloves of course. So James decided to put his orange builders helmet as the topper and put his dad’s saw in its hand. James’s bedroom window looked out onto the front lawn so he was only able to take a quick glimpse whenever he wanted. James’s mom had tucked him into bed, kissing his forehead goodnight and leaving with the special request of leaving the door slightly cracked. James loathed being fully in the dark, which is why he loved his room so much. It overlooked his front lawn that was always lined with some type of lights and during Christmas his mom went above and beyond. James threw his head down onto the pillow and was out within minutes. After being woken by a loud crash, James rose and peaked outside his blinds and everything seemed to look normal. “Hmm, must have been the leaves I guess”, James silently thought to himself. So he laid his head back down to rest. When he turned over and tucked in he noticed the room go dark. James peaked outside his window again and noticed how all the lights outside had flickered then dimmed. He then fully rose out of bed, his feet flinching after touching the cold wooden floor. James inched towards his window and lifted his arms up to spread the curtains open completely. The lights were on but dim. He studied the lawn, rotating his head slowly from right to left. After fully packing a complete scope his head flashed back to the right. In this moment he realized Frosty the Builder, the name he had decided on this year, was no where to be found. The lights flickered. James instantly jolted backwards a step. His eyes widenening and heartbeat accelerating. The lights then began blinking rapidly, causing James to feel dizzy. BLACK! Everything went dark. James’s heart at full sprint speed, slowly walking backwards towards his bedroom door. Eyes wide and locked on the black void in front of him. “SCREECHH.” James hears an unbearable sound causing him to shield his ears with his hands, using them as ear muffs. James slowly lifts his head and takes a step forward. Narrowing his eyes to try and make out what it is he was looking at. He could feel something there but still didn’t have enough light to see. When the colorful Christmas lights turned back on, Frosty the Builder was staring at him with a twisted grin and saw in hand slowly sliding it across the window. Them tapping it three times.

[TW: Swearing]

The snow howls outside my room, as the wind pushes it along. I sit, with my knees to my chest, trying to stay deadly still and quiet. It is said Santa Claus used to come round the world and give children presents. People used to wish for a white Christmas to better add to the Christmas feeling. But that was when Mrs Claus was alive. Nowadays we hope for snow to better conceal our tiny Scottish villages.

I hear a rattling, my dad told me it used to be a jingle. But Santa swapped out his bells for something more sinister. I tuck my head between my knees, praying he doesn’t land. But I hear a dull thump next door. I live on the outskirts, so he usually passes over to the main town, but not today. I cross my fingers, hoping the neighbours remeber to stay hidden and quiet. But I think I hear a stifled cry. A pause. And then… Santas heavy boots thump along the wooden floors, the sound travelling through the thin walls. I close my eyes tightly, tighter than they were before, and I dig my fingers into my ears. But it’s not enough. I hear begging; a thump as something falls to the floor. Next, pleading to save the children; a crack and another thump. The sound of crying, and then silence. My breathing hitches as I try desperately not to cry.

I used to babysit those kids.

Deep breath in. And out.

The sound of footsteps recedes. It’s my house next. The sound of joy as Santa comes down the chimney. If I stay quiet, he should leave. He only checks the rooms where he would put the presents. So that’s the living room and-

Shit

I’m in the bedroom.

Oh shit.

How could I be so stupid. Of course he would come in the bedroom. The place of the- Jesus Christ the place of the fucking stockings. My mind races thinking of solutions, but I come up blank. I can’t- I can’t breathe- what the fuck was I thinking a simple mistake that can cost my life. Jesus Christ. As my mind continues to whirlwind I hear a noise that was concealed by the walls. “Who feeds the reindeer all their hay?” Is that Santa? “Who wraps the gifts and packs the sleigh?” Is he _singing _ __“Who’s helping Santa everyday? Mrs. Santa Claus!” The singing morphs into a rendition of hummed jingle bells as Santas heavy boots clomp up the stairs. He checks the room next to mine and I crawl under the bed, sprawling myself out. My door bursts open, welcoming a swirling snowstorm. I remeber my teachers saying it’s supposed to represent his grief. That it was never there before. I used to call bullshit, but, if your wife’s death puts you on a murdering spree, I guess it must be a lot of grief. And there is a lot of snow. The floorboard creaks as he lifts his foot from it. _Maybe he’s leaving _I think, right before he slams down on my foot. I gasp out a breath as he drags my body across the floorboards. So this is it. I’m done. And I’m leaving with my dignity.

“Respectfully, fuck off.” I gasp out through the pain. As soon as it’s said I regret it. I didn’t have to. I could’ve have just stayed silent. Silence says more than talking typa thing. Maybe he’s going to kill me slowly now. But you know what. I refuse to spend my last minutes regretting my actions. “It’s rude to enter without permission.” I say, my face still facing the floor. I think I’m drunk off of pain hormones. Or whatever it is. I can’t be bothered to remeber. Stars in my eyes as he kicks me in the chest. Hard. He has a spike on the front of his boots. We were never told about that. The stars grow across my vision as I cough up blood. I thought being impaled in the chest would be a quick death. He kicks again. Why did he have to kick again? More blood gurgles out my mouth as I feel get sleepy. Is a word supposed to go between feel and get? I feel a slight shift as the jolly fat man crouches down. He lifts my head and I look into his black eyes. Black as coal. He shakes his head before slamming mine down on the floorboards. I hear a faint Ho Ho Ho before I slip off.

Santa Claus reminded me of the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. He could always find me, wherever I went—almost like he was waiting for me.

At every five-year interval at Christmas, I would get a doll. It was fun at first, till it wasn’t.

It was always the same doll: black hair, black empty unblinking eyes that stared at me, and a red hooded dress. It reminded me of litle red riding hood.

It came with a note: “Santa’s favorite.” It smelled like cherry candy.

By the time I was 15, I found the gift childish and embarrassing and decided to throw it away—all of them and any that came after.

At 20, failing at community college and working to keep a roof over my head, I dealt with nasty customers on waitressing duty. This particular one was the worst of all.

I stood with a strained smile on my face as she hurled insults about her order, and I’d had enough when she threw her piping hot soup at me and slapped me. I hit her back, quit, and called the cops on her.

Only when I was back home, shivering under my blanket with a broken heater and no money to fix it, did I dread losing that job.

Then came a creak from the floorboards, and I froze. I wasn’t alone.

I held my breath, terrified, but no sound came after. After a few minutes, I realized I wasn’t being attacked and dared to sit up.

I scanned my dark room, and my heart seized as I made out a shape.

I turned on the lamp and grabbed the nearest object, a paperweight. The ticking of my clock as it struck midnight was the only sound, along with my heavy breathing.

There was something on my bedroom floor—something covered in a red bag. I cautiously walked closer and opened it with shaky hands.

Black soulless eyes stared at me, and I jumped back in fright. There was a woman dead on my floor. It was the customer from today, and she had black hair and a red cape, caked in blood. A tape was over her mouth, and written in blood was: “Santa’s favorite.”

I forgot it was Christmas, and Santa had just delivered his gift.

Would you like to be Santa’s favorite?

i hear the window creak. it must be st nicholas. i hear heavy footsteps. it must be st nicholas. i hear a muffled scream. did sister see st nicholas? i hear a deep chuckle. it must be st nicholas. i hear something hit the floor. presents for me. i hear a crack and a crunch. it must be st nicholas eating our cookies. i step out of bed. i shuffle down the hallway. there i see him. red blotches on his clothes. it must be st nicholas. he turns around to me, smiling. it must be st nicholas. mommy's on the ground, neck broke. sister's one the ground, chloroform to the face. i look up at him. it must be st nicholas. the red on his clothes was not their on purpose. blood. a few more red spots were added to his clothes that christmas. mine.

The wind, a ravenous beast starved on the desolate Yorkshire moors, gnawed at the chimneys and clawed at the windows of Ebenezer Scrooge's austere dwelling. It shrieked and moaned, a chorus of tormented souls echoing through the frozen night, mirroring the icy desolation within Scrooge's shriveled heart. Inside, the fire in the hearth fought a losing battle against the encroaching cold, its feeble flames casting flickering shadows that danced like macabre specters across the room. Ebenezer Scrooge, a man whose very existence seemed to exude an aura of glacial misery, huddled closer to the meager warmth, his gaunt face a grotesque tapestry of avarice and disdain. His eyes, deep-set and as cold as glacial ice, glinted in the firelight, reflecting the flames with a malevolent intensity. He was a man who personified winter's cruel grip, his soul as barren and unforgiving as the frozen landscape that surrounded him. "Christmas!" he rasped, the word a venomous curse upon his lips, a defilement of all that was joyous and pure. "Bah humbug! A festival for fools and wastrels to squander their meager earnings on frivolous trinkets and gluttonous feasts, while prudent men like myself are left to toil ceaselessly." His clerk, Bob Cratchit, hunched over his desk in the corner, his thin frame wracked with shivers that rattled his bones like dry leaves in a winter storm. The single, glowing ember in the grate offered a pathetic defense against the biting cold that seeped through the ill-fitting windows and cracked walls, gnawing at his exposed flesh. He dared not utter a word, for the mere whisper of Christmas cheer would undoubtedly unleash a torrent of Scrooge's vitriolic scorn. The old man's gaze, sharp as shards of ice, held him captive, a silent, menacing warning against any festive indiscretion. As the inky blackness of night consumed the day, Scrooge dismissed Cratchit with a dismissive wave of his hand, his lips curled in a sneer of disdain. He derived a perverse pleasure from the image of the frail man battling the blizzard, his meager form swallowed by the swirling snow. Alone in his austere counting house, Scrooge settled into his worn armchair, a grim anticipation coiling within him like a serpent, its scales cold and sharp against his soul. He welcomed the fear, the icy dread that slithered through his veins, for it was the only sensation that could pierce the impenetrable armor of his miserly heart, a heart that had long since forgotten the warmth of human compassion. As the ancient grandfather clock in the hall chimed the midnight hour, a bloodcurdling moan, a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth itself, echoed through the house, and the temperature plummeted to an unbearable chill. A spectral figure materialized from the swirling shadows, its form grotesquely contorted, a horrifying amalgamation of human and beast. Its eyes, burning with infernal fire, bored into Scrooge's soul, igniting a primal fear that threatened to consume him. The stench of decay and grave soil filled the air, suffocating Scrooge, its putrid sweetness clinging to the back of his throat like a rancid poison. "Marley?" he gasped, his voice a strangled whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. The apparition let out a guttural laugh that reverberated through the room, chilling Scrooge to the very core of his being. "Indeed, Ebenezer," it rasped, its voice a grating cacophony of screams and moans. "But I am not your harbinger of redemption. I am here to revel in your descent into eternal damnation, to witness your soul consumed by the flames of your own avarice." Marley's spectral hand, skeletal and decaying, with flesh hanging in strips from the bone, pointed towards the fireplace. From the ashes, a figure arose, tall and emaciated, its form shrouded in a tattered black cloak that reeked of the grave. The air grew thick with the cloying sweetness of decay, and the faint sound of rattling bones echoed through the room, each click and clack a hammer blow against Scrooge's crumbling resolve. "This is the Ghost of Christmas Past," Marley rasped, his voice a grating whisper that scraped against Scrooge's eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. "It will force you to relive the moments that twisted your soul into this grotesque parody of humanity, the moments that extinguished the last embers of compassion within you." The Ghost of Christmas Past extended a skeletal hand, its touch searing Scrooge's flesh like burning ice, leaving a trail of frostbite in its wake. The room dissolved, and Scrooge found himself standing in a bustling Christmas market, the air filled with the joyous sounds of carols and laughter, the festive atmosphere a stark contrast to the grim reality of his own existence. But the scene brought him no solace, only a profound sense of alienation and despair. Instead, he saw himself as a young boy, abandoned and alone, his eyes filled with a profound sadness that mirrored the emptiness within his heart. The Ghost of Christmas Past forced him to relive every Christmas spent in solitude, each memory a fresh wound to his already scarred soul. He saw his schoolmates, their faces contorted in cruel laughter as they tormented him, their words like daggers piercing his young heart. He felt the sting of their blows, the humiliation of their mockery, the isolation that gnawed at his soul. He witnessed the slow decay of his family, his once vibrant home transformed into a tomb, the laughter and warmth replaced by an oppressive silence and an ever-present chill. He saw his beloved sister, Fan, her body ravaged by consumption, her coughs echoing through the empty halls like the death knell. He relived the agonizing moment of her death, the chilling touch of her cold hand in his, the image of her lifeless eyes, staring blankly into the abyss, burned forever into his memory. The Ghost of Christmas Past dragged him through the agonizing memory of his apprenticeship with Fezziwig, a jovial man who had treated his employees with kindness and generosity, a stark contrast to the miserly existence Scrooge had chosen for himself. Scrooge saw himself, young and full of hope, his heart slowly poisoned by the insidious influence of his avaricious partner, Jacob Marley. He witnessed Marley's ruthless business dealings, the despair he inflicted upon those who fell into his debt, the gleeful cruelty with which he crushed his competitors, leaving them destitute and broken. He relived the bitter end of his engagement to Belle, a woman who had once loved him deeply, her heart overflowing with warmth and compassion. He saw her pleading with him to choose love over wealth, her voice filled with anguish as she realized the man she loved had been consumed by greed, his soul devoured by the insatiable hunger for riches. The memory of her tear-stained face, her voice choked with sobs, twisted his gut with a long-forgotten pain, a sharp reminder of the love he had sacrificed on the altar of avarice. With each passing vision, Scrooge's face grew paler, his eyes wider with horror, reflecting the gruesome tapestry of his past. He clawed at his throat, gasping for air, as if suffocating under the weight of his past sins. He begged the Ghost of Christmas Past to end his torment, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible above the cacophony of his own guilt and despair. But the specter remained unmoved, its skeletal face a mask of sadistic pleasure, reveling in Scrooge's agony. Finally, as the first rays of dawn pierced through the darkness, offering a glimmer of hope in the desolate landscape of Scrooge's soul, the Ghost of Christmas Past vanished, leaving Scrooge a broken, whimpering wretch. He collapsed onto the cold, stone floor, his body wracked with sobs, his mind a maelstrom of guilt and regret. But his torment was far from over; it had merely begun. As the morning mist clung to the bleak moors, shrouding the landscape in an eerie silence, a new specter emerged from the shadows, its form shrouded in a dark, hooded robe that seemed to absorb the very light around it. This was the Ghost of Christmas Present, its presence radiating an aura of chilling despair, its voice a whisper that slithered into Scrooge's mind, planting seeds of terror that bloomed into nightmares. The Ghost of Christmas Present, its face hidden beneath the deep shadows of its hood, forced Scrooge to witness the misery of those around him, the suffering he had caused through his relentless greed, the countless lives he had blighted with his insatiable hunger for wealth. He saw Bob Cratchit's family huddled around a meager Christmas meal in their cramped, freezing hovel, their faces gaunt with hunger, their bodies covered in festering sores from the relentless cold. The air was thick with the stench of poverty and disease, a suffocating reminder of the deprivation Scrooge had inflicted upon them. He saw Tiny Tim, Cratchit's crippled son, his frail body wracked with violent coughs that seemed to tear at his lungs, his eyes filled with a haunting despair that belied his tender years. The Ghost of Christmas Present, its voice a chilling whisper that echoed through Scrooge's mind, revealed to him the gruesome fate that awaited Tiny Tim: a slow, agonizing death from consumption, his tiny body consumed by the disease, his lungs filled with blood. Scrooge watched in horror as the specter showed him a vision of Tiny Tim's lifeless body, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth agape in a silent scream, his small form ravaged by the disease that Scrooge's indifference had condemned him to. But Scrooge, his heart encased in a thick layer of ice, remained unmoved. He scoffed at the Cratchit's plight, his laughter a cruel mockery of their suffering, a testament to his utter lack of humanity. The Ghost of Christmas Present's eyes, glowing with an infernal fire, burned with fury, its voice rising to a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of Scrooge's being. "You are a monster, Ebenezer Scrooge!" it bellowed, its voice reverberating through the desolate house, each word a hammer blow against Scrooge's crumbling facade. "Your heart is a black abyss, devoid of all humanity, a breeding ground for avarice and cruelty. You are doomed to a fate worse than death, a fate of eternal torment and unimaginable suffering, your soul condemned to wander the depths of hell for all eternity!" The Ghost of Christmas Present vanished, leaving Scrooge cowering in terror, his body trembling uncontrollably, his mind a maelstrom of fear and guilt. The weight of his sins pressed down on him, suffocating him with the realization of his own depravity. But the worst was yet to come, the final nail in the coffin of his soul. As the night descended once more, casting its pall over the land, the final specter emerged, its form shrouded in a swirling vortex of darkness that seemed to consume all light and hope. This was the Ghost of Christmas Future, its presence radiating an aura of death and despair, its very existence a harbinger of doom. The air grew heavy with the stench of decay, the cloying sweetness of death clinging to Scrooge's nostrils, and the mournful wailing of lost souls, condemned to eternal torment, filled the silence, each cry a chilling reminder of the fate that awaited him. The Ghost of Christmas Future, its form shifting and indistinct, The Ghost of Christmas Future showed Scrooge a vision of his own demise, a gruesome death in his decrepit bed, his body ravaged by disease, his eyes pecked out by scavenging crows, his flesh rotting and festering. He saw his meager possessions fought over by greedy relatives, his name cursed and reviled by all who knew him, his memory tainted by his wickedness. He saw his tombstone, defaced and desecrated, a monument to his miserable existence. But the most terrifying vision was that of Tiny Tim's grave, a small, unmarked mound of earth in a desolate, overgrown graveyard. The Cratchit family knelt beside it, their faces etched with unimaginable grief, their bodies wracked with sobs. Mrs. Cratchit's hair had turned white with sorrow, and Bob Cratchit's eyes were hollow and lifeless, a testament to the depth of his despair. Scrooge's heart, finally pierced by the sharp blade of remorse, shattered into a thousand pieces. He fell to the ground, his body convulsing with sobs, his mind tormented by the gruesome images, the weight of his past sins crushing his soul. He begged the Ghost of Christmas Future for a second chance, a chance to redeem himself and avert the horrors he had witnessed. But the specter remained silent, its form dissolving into the swirling darkness, leaving Scrooge alone with the echoes of his own damnation. Scrooge awoke with a start, his body drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding like a drum. The room was shrouded in darkness, the fire reduced to a pile of ashes. But something had irrevocably changed within him. The horrors he had witnessed, the gruesome depths of his own depravity, had shattered the icy shell around his heart, exposing the raw, wounded soul beneath. With a newfound desperation, Scrooge leaped from his bed and flung open the window. The morning air was crisp and clean, the snow-covered streets bathed in the soft light of dawn. A carol singer's voice drifted through the air, the melody a fragile beacon of hope in the desolate landscape of Scrooge's soul. Scrooge, his soul filled with a desperate yearning for redemption, rushed out into the street, his eyes searching for the young boy he had seen singing carols. He found the boy huddled in a doorway, his clothes threadbare, his face pale and gaunt, a stark contrast to the joyous melody he had sung. Scrooge pressed a fistful of coins into the boy's hand, his voice trembling with emotion. "Merry Christmas, my lad," he croaked, his voice rough with disuse. "Go and buy yourself some warm clothes and a hearty meal." The boy's eyes widened in disbelief, then lit up with joy, a stark contrast to the despair he had previously shown. He thanked Scrooge profusely, his voice filled with gratitude, a stark contrast to the bitterness he had previously expressed. Scrooge, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, felt a flicker of warmth ignite within his chest, a spark of hope in the darkness of his soul. He continued his journey through the streets, driven by a desperate need to atone for his past sins, to undo the damage he had inflicted upon the world. He bought gifts for the Cratchit family, a magnificent goose for their Christmas dinner, and a warm coat and sturdy crutches for Tiny Tim, a symbol of his newfound compassion and empathy. He anonymously delivered a cartload of coal to their doorstep, ensuring they would be warm throughout the harsh winter, a small act of kindness that warmed his own heart. He visited his nephew, Fred, whom he had long shunned, and embraced him with a fervor that surprised them both. He begged for forgiveness, his voice choked with remorse, his words a desperate plea for redemption. Fred, his heart filled with compassion, welcomed Scrooge with open arms, his forgiveness a balm to Scrooge's wounded soul. The Christmas feast was a joyous celebration, filled with laughter and warmth, a stark contrast to the cold, desolate existence Scrooge had previously endured. Scrooge, for the first time in decades, felt a sense of belonging, a connection to humanity that he had long denied. He laughed with genuine mirth, his heart overflowing with joy, a stark contrast to the bitterness and cynicism that had once consumed him. As the days passed, Scrooge continued his transformation, his heart thawing with each act of kindness, each moment of compassion. He became a benefactor to the poor, a champion of the downtrodden, his name synonymous with generosity and compassion, a stark contrast to the miser he had once been. He sought out those he had wronged, offering apologies and restitution, his efforts to amend his past relentless and sincere. Tiny Tim, his health miraculously improved, became a constant reminder of Scrooge's redemption, a symbol of the power of compassion and the transformative nature of love. Scrooge showered the boy with affection, his heart filled with a paternal love he had never known, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he had previously shown. He would often visit the Cratchit family, his presence bringing joy and laughter to their humble home, a stark contrast to the misery he had once inflicted upon them. And so, Ebenezer Scrooge, the miserly old man who had once been a harbinger of misery, became a symbol of the Christmas spirit, a testament to the power of redemption, however improbable. The icy grip of greed that had held his soul captive for so long finally shattered, replaced by the warmth of human connection and the joy of giving. The ghost of his former self, a chilling reminder of his past wickedness, served as a constant motivation to spread kindness and compassion, ensuring that the horrors he had witnessed would never come to pass. And so, Scrooge, once a man consumed by darkness, emerged as a beacon of light, a testament to the transformative power of love and the enduring spirit of Christmas.

In a small, snowbound village in New England, nestled among frostbitten pines and silent fields Christmastime was not a time for celebration but for survival. Generations of villagers told of a vengeful spirit, known only as the Chain Bearer. Whispers spoke of its icy touch and shadowy form, a harbinger of doom that prowled the snow-draped woods during Christmastime.

According to the lore, if he found you, he would drag you into a haunting vision of your Christmas past and future, forcing you to confront the darkest corners of your soul. Those who failed to change their ways would meet a grimmer fate—the Chain Bearer would bind them in his heavy, spectral chains and take them into the void, never to be seen again.

To avoid his wrath, the villagers shunned Christmas entirely. No wreaths adorned their doors, no candles burned in their windows, and no songs filled the air. They bolted their homes, hung crude talismans made of iron and holly, and whispered prayers through the night, begging for the spirit to pass them by. From sunrise on Christmas Eve to sunset on Christmas Day, the village endured its most harrowing hours. When the sun chased away the shadows, did the village dare to breathe again.

The air was this particular evening was bitterly cold, the kind that pierced through even the thickest coat and burrowed into your bones. The church bells in the town square had long since fallen silent, their tolling replaced by the crackling frost and the occasional murmur of wind.

Andrew Cavill, a bitter boy of thirteen, didn’t believe in the stories.

To Andrew, Christmas was a lie —a cruel facade designed to make the poor feel even smaller. He scoffed at the village’s fear, dismissing the local myths as nothing more than nonsense. To him, the stories of the Chain Bearer were just a way for the village to justify their inability to celebrate like the wealthier towns. For him, Christmas was a reminder of everything he lacked—a warm house, a table full of food, and the kind of joy that only came with privilege. While the village cowered behind locked doors and muttered prayers to ward off the Chain Bearer, Andrew scoffed at their fear. He didn’t believe in spirits or curses, only in the harsh reality of hunger and cold.

Let them hide, he thought bitterly, while he faced the night head-on. He’d never seen a ghost, let alone one dragging chains, and he refused to live in fear of shadows. After all, what could the spirit show him that he didn’t already know? His past was nothing but poverty and loss, and his future promised more of the same. To Andrew, there was nothing left to lose—except, perhaps, himself.

“Christmas spirit,” he muttered. “What a joke.”

Andrew watched his mother, her frail form curled under the threadbare quilt, holding tightly onto the talisman that hung around her neck. Her shallow breaths were the only sound in the quiet house. With a final glance, Andrew moved quietly to the door, leaving the lights on, their dim glow cutting through the darkness like defiance itself. He pulled it open, letting the cold air spill into the house, and didn’t bother to shut it behind him. The creaking hinges echoed softly in the still night as he stepped outside, his breath visible in the freezing air. His mother remained inside, her tiny figure still clinging to the talisman, unaware of his departure.

He stepped into the cold night, the crunch of frozen snow beneath his boots the only sound. The village was silent, its streets empty and still, save for the occasional flicker of moonlight. Andrew clenched his fists, his breath misting in the chill air.

He didn’t believe in ghosts, didn’t believe in myths. But the stories of the Chain Bearer had become more than warnings— they were a symbol of their poverty, a reminder of what they couldn’t escape. And tonight, Andrew was determined to confront whatever fear haunted the village.

He walked deeper into the shadows, his steps steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I’ve got nothing left to lose,” he muttered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Come on then,” he muttered again, louder this time, his voice rough from the hours spent wandering the empty streets. “Show yourself, if you’re real.”

He didn’t believe in the tales of the Chain Bearer, but if the spirit was supposed to come, maybe he could summon it himself. Perhaps all those old stories were just waiting to be broken.

Taking a deep breath, Andrew began to sing—quiet at first, then louder, his voice cutting through the silence like a challenge. The lyrics of old Christmas songs filled the air, defying the fear that had haunted the village for generations.

“Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright—”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, forcing the words into the darkness.

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”

The echoes of his own singing reverberated through the empty streets, but there was no response, only the wind and the distant creak of frozen trees. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let doubt take hold.

“Frosty the Snowman, Was a jolly, happy soul!”

His voice faltered as he realized how absurd it sounded, standing alone, singing to the night. But he didn’t stop. If the Chain Bearer was real, he had to face him. And if the spirit didn’t come, well, he’d take the risk anyway.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he kept singing, letting the cold seep deeper into his bones. The songs were meant to be heard, even if no one was listening.

“Run, run, Rudolph, Santa’s gonna make him —”

A sudden silence fell, heavier than before. The wind died down, leaving behind only Andrew’s ragged breathing. The air felt thicker now, like the world itself had paused. His pulse quickened, and for the first time all night, he wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else.

Then, from the darkness, the sound of chains scraping against concrete emerged. Followed by a chilling voice.

“Is that how you wish to be remembered, boy?”

Andrew froze. The voice was cold, hollow, like the wind itself had taken form. His stomach tightened as he slowly turned, expecting to see the figure the village had feared for generations. But there was nothing. Only shadows.

“Who… who are you?” Andrew’s voice shook.

A figure began to emerge from the darkness, shrouded in the faint glow of dawn. Tall, with a long white beard, spectral, with chains clinking softly with each step. The Chain Bearer. The spirit of their cursed folklore, now stepping into the world of the living.

Andrew stood his ground, his fists clenched but his heart racing. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, his voice steadier now. “What do you want from me?”

The Chain Bearer didn’t answer right away. His hollow gaze seemed to peer into Andrew’s very soul. “You summon me,” the spirit said at last, his voice like the whisper of the wind. “What do you seek?”

Andrew took a deep breath, meeting the spirit’s hollow stare. “I seek nothing but the truth,” he replied. “No more fear, no more myths. If you’re real, show me what lies ahead.”

The Chain Bearer regarded him for a long moment, then spoke again. “If you face your past and change your ways, you will escape your fate. But if you fail, you will carry these chains for eternity.”

Andrew clenched his fists tighter. “I have nothing to lose. Show me.”

The spirit regarded him one last time, then began to fade into the shadows. As the night grew darker over the horizon, Andrew remained standing alone in the quiet, empty streets, his heart both lighter and heavier than before.

Andrew’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as the Chain Bearer loomed before him once more. The spirit’s hollow gaze was piercing, unrelenting, as though he could see deep into Andrew’s very soul. Without a word, the Chain Bearer reached out, and in an instant, Andrew was pulled back—back to a time he wished he could forget.

The scene unfolded before him like a ghostly replay. A younger Andrew stood in a dimly lit room, watching his parents in their younger days, vibrant and full of life, before they had moved to this godforsaken village. His mother was smiling, her laughter echoing through the halls as they both tucked him into bed, her hand warm on his head. His father stood beside them, strong and proud, his smile bright as he tousled Andrew’s hair, his presence a pillar of strength and love. The warmth of those moments clung to Andrew, a reminder of a family that had once been whole and joyful.

But soon, the vision shifted, growing darker and colder.

His mother, now older, frail and hollow-eyed, sat alone by the fire, clutching that same talisman. The warmth of her presence was gone, replaced by silence. The once-bright spark in her eyes had dimmed, leaving behind a deep, unrelenting sorrow. Her face was lined with weariness and sadness—sadness Andrew hadn’t fully understood, hadn’t cared to acknowledge.

For years, he had blamed her. Blamed her for his father leaving. In his mind, she had been the one who couldn’t hold everything together, the one who had failed to keep their family whole. The one who moved them away with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The bitterness had grown like a weed, suffocating any affection or understanding he once held for her. He had turned his anger inward, turning away from the very person who had given him life, who had fought to shield him from their shared pain.

He had ignored her for years, treated her with coldness and indifference. Her quiet cries, her hidden pain, had become background noise to his own struggles. The burden of poverty, of the village’s fear, had hardened him. And in his own bitterness, he had failed to see the woman who had once given everything to protect him.

Andrew’s throat tightened as the vision lingered. Tears streamed down his face as he sank to his knees, the memory of his mother’s quiet suffering consuming him. “I didn’t mean to…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to be so cruel.”

But part of him didn’t care. Part of him didn’t believe that was his future. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end—shackled by guilt, by regret, by the weight of a life that felt beyond his control. He clenched his fists, staring at the ethereal being in front of him , and the anger inside him simmered, sharper than before.

The Chain Bearer’s words echoed in his mind. “Your future is condemned. You shall carry these chains forever.”

“No,” Andrew whispered, his voice trembling. “That’s not my future. My mom always tried her best. I wouldn’t leave her.”

“You are not good,” the Chain Bearer hissed, his voice filled with the weight of centuries. “You cannot escape what’s coming. I will not allow it.”

The icy grip of the chains tightened around Andrew’s throat, dragging him closer, choking him with the very burden he had fought against. His vision blurred, his body went rigid, but deep inside, a flicker of something stronger than fear stirred—a burning desire to break free.

In a sudden surge of defiance, Andrew lashed out, his fists clenched tightly. The Chain Bearer let out a cold, hollow laugh, and his chains began to tighten around Andrew’s neck, pulling him closer. The sound of their clinking grew louder, suffocating, as if they were trying to drag him into the very abyss of his own regret.

“You cannot escape!” the spirit growled. “You are bound to these chains!”

Acting on instinct, Andrew reached into his coat pocket, his hand shaking, and grabbed a sprig of mistletoe he had stolen from a neighbors garden. With all the strength he could muster, he hurled it at the Chain Bearer.

A blinding light burst forth, illuminating the street. The chains clattered to the ground, dissolving into nothingness. The spirit let out a low, tortured wail as he vanished into the mist.

Breathless, Andrew stumbled back, his chest heaving. For a moment, the world felt still, as though the nightmare had finally ended.

The sun rose began to rise, casting a pale light over the village. As Andrew walked home, his mind was consumed with thoughts of his mother. When he stepped through the door, his heart sank.

There, on the worn floorboards, lay his mother—lifeless, her frail body still clutching the talisman. The warmth he had fought to preserve was gone, replaced by the cold emptiness that had haunted their lives for too long.

Tears blurred his vision as he knelt beside her, gripping her lifeless hand. “I thought…” his voice broke. “I thought I defeated him.”

But there was no answer, only the echo of his sobs.

“I saw mama kissing Santa Claus last night by the christmas tree,” I told my dad with confusion locked in my eyes. “Why was she? I thought she only kissed you?” My dads eyes widened in rage and sadness. I was only 4 years old, and my older brother was 10. He shot up out of their bed, and went directly to the basement. I hollered as he walked away fastly, “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?..” He stepped down the staircase angrily. I got too scared to approach… standing there… as if I was frozen. I heard yelling, crying, screaming, like the man had gone mad. I slowly tip-toed to my room, and closed the door quietly. I sinked down. Why was mommy kissing santa claus last night…

You know Rudolph, Santa Claus, his elves, and the others in the North Pole. You know Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen. Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But good old Saint Nick never did keep my promise. So here I am now, breaking mine as well. This is the story of an 8th reindeer, replaced by his brother. Murdered… with no one knowing it was him. Santa couldn’t lose his most popular reindeer, so he told me to keep quiet, the only one who witnessed the whole thing, promising he’d tell one day. 25 years later, here I am, still waiting.

Until now.

Viven was a good reindeer. A strong and intelligent son of Vixen and Dancer. I was the stable hand. I did what you would think a stable hand does. Replacing hay. Cleaning the “messes.” Keeping them clean. Although you wouldn’t think so, I enjoyed my job. The reindeer weren’t too much trouble, (except for Blitzen.) It’s when Rudolph showed up that things went haywire.

It was your typical day at the North Pole. Elves scurrying around, preparing for Christmas like it was tomorrow. Mrs. Claus had just paid a visit to the laundromat, (they exist), dragging Cupid along with her. Santa Claus had just returned in his sleigh. I ran to his aid, unharnessing the reindeer as quickly as my hands would let me. Donner, bumped Vixen, but he ignored him, so Donnor hit Blitzen, making him angry. “Donner, don’t make me get Orantia.” The small orange elf terrified him for no reason. I walked to the head of the team. Viven stood tall and proud. His glossy gold-brown coat glistened in the sunlight. “Zurückstehen,” I told him. “Stand down,” in German. He loosened his shoulders, his expression still firm. He called to the other reindeer, and they mimicked it. It wasn’t until Santa stepped out, a reindeer with a bright white nose behind him, that the other reindeer spooked. Thank goodness for Viven. He stood at the head of the herd, making the bright-nosed reindeer look small. “Ah, Hadley, please give Rudolph a home. He said the other reindeer wouldn’t let him play games. He was abused for being different. We will all love him here, right?” The elves around him cheered, some wiping tears from their eyes. And Santa strolled off to “Goley’s Cookie Emporium,” leaving me more confused than ever.

It wasn’t until we got to the barn that things went wrong. All of the reindeer hated Rudolph, and they let it show. Bunching up around Viven, making loud calls. “Please, calm down. Rudolph won’t be here forever,” I tried to calm them down, though I wasn’t so sure myself. All of the reindeer huddled into one stall, Viven, Vixen, and Comet at the front. Cupid and Dancer slept snuggled together. Rudolph’s nose was agitating. I didn’t know if reindeer could look evil, but if they could, Rudolph was the definition. Finally, Viven had had enough. Comet stayed in front of the other reindeer, and Viven faced Rudolph, his father Vixen at his side. Rudolph should’ve backed away and made it clear that this was _Viven’s _territory, and he would not be invading it. Instead, he stepped forward, hoping for a fight. I turned around and huddled my walkie-talkie to my mouth. “We have a code 000.001, I need all the elves I can get in the stable now.” The reindeer were already butting antlers when I turned again. Viven was strong enough on his own, but with Vixen helping as well, Rudolph wouldn’t stand a chance. Rudolph’s nose glowed brighter and brighter until Vixen began walking around blindly. He had blinded Vixen. I couldn’t interfere, or I would be dead as well. Viven was agitated. He charged forward, hoping to come in for the kill I was suspecting. But in a flash of light, and a loud cry from Viven, Rudolph’s antlers were dripping with blood, and Viven lying lifeless on the ground. I could hear the rustling of elves' feet, and yelling. But there was no use. No one would know who had done it. The blood had disappeared from Rudolph’s antlers, but his nose was stained red.

Now you know how the most beloved reindeer around the world became a red-nosed reindeer.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Candles and garlands hung high with care, But something was stirring in the cold midnight air.

Moon through the window cast shadows so cold, While whispers and creaks filled the silence untold.

Stocking where hung, yet something felt wrong, A chill in the room, an eerie, low song.

A figure appeared by the dimming tree light, With eyes that where empty, devoid of all sight.

Presents layed scattered, the tinsel all torn, The scent of decay from Christmas joy, now forlorn.

…

Children where tucked in, but not in bed, For visions of horror danced in their head.

The wind hallowed, the fire now dimmed, as something approached with a low, eerie hymn. With fingers like claws and a face so deformed

Out of the chimney a shadow did rise, It snarled and hissed with red glowing eyes

“Santa?” A child did call, But the answer was silence as something did fall.

The tree was unlit, stockings where ripped, And nothing was left except the dred that did sit.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all joy had died— Something was coming, and no where to hide.

On Christmas Eve, little Peter lay awake, restless with excitement, imagining the gifts and treats awaiting him by morning. But as the clock struck midnight, a strange chill crept into his room. He sat up, heart pounding, as he heard the sound of chains rattling in the distance, like an ancient warning creeping closer.

Peering out the frosty window, he saw a dark figure, cloaked in ragged red, dragging heavy iron chains. Its face was a twisted version of what Peter thought Santa might look like—its eyes hollow and glowing with an unnatural light, its long fingers curling as if reaching out. This wasn’t the jolly figure he expected. Instead, it seemed like an ancient, tormented being who had come for something…or someone.

The figure creaked open Peter’s bedroom door without touching it. Shadows filled the room as it slithered closer, each step echoing with the clinking of rusted chains. It smiled, a chilling grin that revealed teeth as sharp as icicles.

“Peter,” it rasped, voice like crackling fire, “I am the keeper of forgotten promises. The one who collects the broken oaths of children who didn’t keep their word…”

Peter felt his heart stop. He remembered the promises he’d made and broken over the year: promises to be kind, to share, to tell the truth. Now, this creature had come to collect on those broken vows.

With a swift, icy hand, the figure seized Peter’s wrist, binding him with the same cold chains it wore. “Tonight, you will pay the price,” it hissed, dragging him toward the darkness that filled the hall.

Peter screamed, but the shadows swallowed his cries. By morning, all that remained was an empty bed, a single rusted chain, and the faint echo of a twisted carol fading into silence.