Saint Nicholas' Last Ride

The snow fell in ashen flakes, the sky above a perpetual gray that mirrored the despair of the world below. In the year 2147, Christmas was a relic, outlawed decades earlier by the Council of Unity. Declared a source of division and greed, the holiday and its traditions were erased from history books. But whispers of rebellion persisted—quiet murmurs of a time when people gathered, when joy and giving weren’t crimes.

In the ruins of a church on the outskirts of New Providence, a group of rebels huddled around a crude altar. Their leader, Elise, held a fragile relic in trembling hands: a yellowed page torn from an ancient book. On it was an image of Saint Nicholas, dressed in crimson robes, his eyes kind, his hands full of gifts.

“We’re bringing Christmas back,” Elise declared, her voice resolute. “They took everything from us, but they can’t take this.”

The others exchanged wary glances. Nathan, the group’s skeptic, stepped forward. “Elise, if the Council finds out, they’ll kill us. This isn’t just rebellion—it’s suicide.”

Elise’s jaw tightened. “It’s worth it. The world needs hope again.”

With that, she placed the page on the altar and began the ritual. Using scraps of salvaged holly and a single, flickering candle, they recited the verses scrawled in the margins. The words were archaic, almost musical, though none of them understood their meaning.

The air grew colder. The candle’s flame wavered, then burned an unnatural red. A deep, resonant sound echoed through the ruins—a low, distant jingle, like bells rattling in the void.

The first sign of his arrival was the wind. It howled through the broken windows, carrying the scent of decay and ash. The rebels huddled closer, their breath visible in the icy air. Then, the bells grew louder, accompanied by the crunch of heavy boots on snow.

A shadow appeared at the edge of the ruins, towering and grotesque. It stepped forward, and the rebels froze.

It was Saint Nicholas, but not the kindly figure from the page. His robes were tattered and stained dark, his beard matted with something black and viscous. His face was gaunt, his sunken eyes glowing with a malevolent light. Over his shoulder, he carried a massive sack that writhed as if alive.

“Who summons me?” he growled, his voice deep and jagged, like the crack of splitting ice.

Elise stood, trembling but defiant. “We... we want to bring back Christmas.”

Saint Nicholas tilted his head, his cracked lips curling into a grin that revealed jagged, yellow teeth. “Ah, Christmas. A time of joy... and judgment. But your world has no joy, only sin.”

He reached into his sack and pulled out a long chain, its links rusted and dripping with a black sludge. “You’ve awakened the last Saint Nicholas—not the giver of gifts, but the punisher of the wicked.”

The rebels tried to run, but the ruins transformed around them. The snow turned crimson, the walls bleeding as they warped and stretched. Chains snaked across the floor, binding their feet.

“You’ve been naughty,” Nicholas sneered, advancing. “And you shall pay.”

Nathan was the first to die. The chain coiled around his throat, lifting him into the air. “I didn’t even want to be here!” he choked, but Nicholas only laughed.

“Excuses are the tools of the guilty,” the spirit hissed, yanking the chain. Nathan’s neck snapped with a sickening crunch, and his body crumpled to the floor.

The others screamed, but there was no escape. The walls closed in, the space suffocating. One by one, Nicholas turned to them, pulling horrors from his sack. For Alice, the thief, he produced a twisted doll that grew thorns, piercing her flesh until she bled out. For Marcus, the liar, he summoned a book that forced his own deceitful words back down his throat until he choked.

Elise stood alone, her heart pounding as Nicholas loomed over her. “And you,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You sought to revive a dead tradition. Why?”

Her voice wavered, but she held her ground. “Because... because we need hope. The world needs it.”

Nicholas paused, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Hope? Your kind turned Christmas into greed, your joy into cruelty. You let it die.”

He leaned closer, his breath rancid. “Hope is for the innocent. Are you innocent, Elise?”

She faltered, memories of betrayals and failures flashing through her mind. Tears streamed down her face. “No,” she whispered. “But I wanted to make things right.”

Nicholas straightened, his sack writhing violently. For a moment, she thought he might spare her.

“You cannot make things right,” he said. “Only balance the scales.”

With a flick of his hand, the sack opened, and she was pulled inside, her screams swallowed by the darkness.

By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the ruins silent. The rebels were gone, their bodies erased as if they had never existed. The world outside remained unchanged, cold and gray.

In the center of the ruins, the ancient page lay untouched, its image of Saint Nicholas now altered. His kind eyes were hollow, his smile twisted into a cruel sneer.

Far away, in the desolate wastelands, the faint jingle of bells echoed once more, heralding Saint Nicholas’ last ride. Waiting for the next foolish souls to summon him, hoping to resurrect something long dead and better left buried.