Christmas Eve, Never Again

The Mitchells—Emma, her husband Jack, and their eight-year-old daughter Lily—had always celebrated Christmas Eve the same way. They’d bake cookies, sip hot cocoa by the fire, and read "The Night Before Christmas" before leaving a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the mantel for Santa. It was a cherished tradition that filled their cozy New England home with warmth and joy.

But this year, Christmas felt… off.

Emma couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over her. The snowfall outside seemed heavier, the shadows in the house darker, and the usual Christmas cheer felt muted. Jack brushed off her concerns, chalking it up to holiday stress. Lily, blissfully unaware, sang carols as she decorated the cookies.

By 11 PM, the family was ready for bed. Lily placed the plate of cookies and the glass of milk on the mantel, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Do you think Santa will like the cookies, Mommy?”

Emma forced a smile. “Of course he will, sweetheart.”

The family headed upstairs, the house quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. But Emma couldn’t sleep. The unease gnawed at her, growing heavier with every passing minute. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, until she heard it—a faint rustling sound coming from downstairs.

At first, Emma thought it was the wind. But then came a low, guttural noise, like a growl. Her breath caught in her throat. She nudged Jack awake. “Jack, do you hear that?”

He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “It’s probably the cat.”

“We don’t have a cat,” Emma whispered, her voice trembling.

Jack sat up, frowning. The sound came again, louder this time. It wasn’t the creak of the house settling or the moan of the wind. It was deliberate. Alive.

“Stay here. I’ll check it out,” Jack said, throwing on his robe.

“Be careful,” Emma whispered, clutching his arm.

He nodded and crept out of the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Emma listened intently, straining to hear any sign of trouble. Minutes passed, and then—a scream.

Emma bolted upright as Jack’s cry echoed through the house. Her heart pounded as she grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed and raced downstairs. She found Jack in the living room, standing frozen, his face pale as snow.

“Jack, what is it?” Emma demanded, but her words caught in her throat when she saw it.

The cookies and milk were untouched, but the plate had been moved. Deep claw marks gouged the wooden mantel, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood. The growling sound came again, this time from the fireplace.

“Santa?” a raspy, mocking voice croaked from the chimney.

Emma and Jack stared in horror as a twisted figure began to descend. Its long, skeletal limbs scraped against the bricks, and its face—if it could be called that—was a grotesque mask of rotting flesh and hollow eyes that burned with malevolence.

“You left me cookies last year,” it snarled, landing with a thud. “But this year, I hunger for something more.”

Emma grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him back as the creature stalked toward them. Its breath reeked of decay, and its jagged teeth glistened in the dim light.

“Run!” Emma screamed, dragging Jack toward the stairs.

They sprinted to Lily’s room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind them. Lily sat up in bed, her eyes wide with fear. “Mommy, what’s happening?”

Emma crouched beside her, trying to keep her voice calm. “Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart. Just stay quiet.”

Jack pressed his ear to the door, listening as the creature’s heavy footsteps echoed through the house. The growls grew louder, more insistent.

“It’s coming,” Jack whispered, his face ashen.

The door shook as the creature slammed into it. “Come out, little ones,” it hissed. “I only want a taste.”

Emma clutched Lily tightly, her mind racing. They couldn’t stay trapped. The door wouldn’t hold forever.

“The attic,” Jack said suddenly. “We can climb out the window onto the roof.”

Emma nodded, pulling Lily to her feet. They moved quickly, pushing aside boxes to reveal the narrow attic stairs. The creature’s blows grew more violent, splinters flying from the door as it howled with rage.

They scrambled into the attic, Jack slamming the hatch shut behind them. Emma helped Lily through the small window, the icy wind cutting through her as they emerged onto the snow-covered roof. Jack followed, the three of them crawling toward the edge where a trellis offered a way down.

But before they could descend, the creature burst through the attic hatch. It lunged toward them, its long arms reaching out. Jack swung the baseball bat, striking it across the face, but the creature barely flinched.

“Go!” Jack shouted. “Get to the car!”

Emma hesitated, tears streaming down her face. “Jack, no!”

“I’ll hold it off!” he yelled, swinging the bat again. “Go!”

Emma grabbed Lily and slid down the trellis, landing hard in the snow. She looked up just in time to see the creature grab Jack, dragging him back into the house as he screamed.

Emma ran to the car, fumbling with the keys as Lily sobbed in her arms. The engine roared to life, and they sped down the driveway, the house receding into the darkness. Emma’s heart ached, but she couldn’t stop. She had to protect Lily.

They drove for miles, the snowstorm growing fiercer. Finally, Emma spotted the warm glow of a police station. She pulled into the lot, clutching Lily as they stumbled inside.

The officers listened to her story with skepticism but sent a patrol car to investigate. Hours later, they returned with grim faces.

“Ma’am, there was no one there,” one officer said. “The house was empty.”

Emma shook her head. “That’s impossible. My husband… he…”

The officer’s expression softened. “We did find this.” He held out a bloodied baseball bat.

Months passed, but Jack was never found. Emma sold the house and moved to a new town, trying to rebuild a life for herself and Lily. But every Christmas Eve, the nightmares returned—the growls, the twisted face, the echo of Jack’s screams.

Emma stopped celebrating Christmas. No tree, no lights, and certainly no cookies for Santa. She told herself it was for Lily’s sake, but deep down, she knew the truth.

One Christmas Eve, years later, Emma awoke to the sound of rustling downstairs. Her heart froze as she heard a familiar growl.

And then, from the darkness, a voice whispered: “You forgot to leave me cookies.”