Santa’s Shadow

Christmas Eve in the Walker household was a time of joy and tradition. Seven-year-old Emily sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, clutching a mug of hot cocoa as her parents read her favorite Christmas stories. The twinkling lights on the tree cast warm, colorful reflections on the walls, and the scent of gingerbread cookies filled the air.

“Remember, Emily,” her mother said with a smile, “Santa only comes if you’re asleep.”

Emily nodded solemnly, her eyes wide with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see what Santa would bring her this year. But as her parents tucked her into bed and wished her sweet dreams, Emily’s excitement turned into restless curiosity. What if she stayed awake? What if she saw Santa?

The clock struck midnight, and the house was silent. Emily lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding with anticipation. Suddenly, a faint rustling sound came from the living room. Her breath caught.

He’s here.

Quietly, Emily slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. She peeked around the corner into the living room, where the dim glow of the Christmas tree illuminated the space.

There, by the fireplace, a figure crouched. But something was wrong. This wasn’t the jolly, red-suited Santa she had imagined. The figure was tall and gaunt, cloaked in shadows that seemed to ripple and shift like smoke. Its long, spindly fingers reached toward the stockings hanging above the hearth.

Emily’s excitement turned to fear. She pressed herself against the wall, her small body trembling. The figure moved with unnatural grace, pulling something out of its sack. Emily squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It wasn’t a toy or a wrapped gift—it was a small, black box, pulsating faintly with an eerie red glow.

The shadowy figure placed the box carefully inside one of the stockings. As it straightened, its head tilted, and Emily felt its gaze sweep the room. Though its face was hidden in darkness, she knew it was searching for something—or someone.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the figure’s head turned toward her hiding spot. For a moment, the room was deathly still. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, the figure stepped toward her.

Emily’s instincts took over. She bolted back to her room, her bare feet pounding against the hardwood floor. She dove under her covers, pulling them up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear.

Minutes passed, or perhaps hours. Emily didn’t dare move. Finally, the silence was broken by a soft creak. Her bedroom door slowly swung open.

Emily held her breath as the figure entered the room. It loomed over her bed, its shadow stretching across the walls like ink spreading through water. She could feel its presence, cold and suffocating, as it leaned closer.

“Emily,” it whispered, its voice like the rustling of dead leaves. “You’ve been waiting for me.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to cry out. The figure reached into its sack and pulled out another black box, identical to the one it had placed in the stocking. It held the box out to her, its long fingers trembling.

“Take it,” the figure said.

Emily shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re not Santa.”

The figure let out a low, rattling laugh. “No, I’m not. But I have a gift for you.”

When Emily didn’t move, the figure placed the box on her bedside table. Then, without another word, it turned and melted into the shadows, leaving behind a faint, sulfurous smell.

Emily didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. She stared at the black box, its sinister glow casting eerie patterns on the wall. When the first rays of sunlight crept through her window, she finally mustered the courage to touch it.

The box was cold and unnaturally heavy. There was no lid or visible seam, yet Emily felt compelled to open it. As her fingers brushed its surface, the glow intensified, and the box began to vibrate. With a sudden, sharp crack, it split open, releasing a puff of black smoke.

Inside was a single, folded piece of paper. Emily unfolded it with trembling hands. The paper was blank except for a single sentence scrawled in jagged, crimson letters:

He’s watching.

By the time her parents woke up, Emily had hidden the box and the note in the back of her closet. She didn’t tell them what had happened. How could she? They wouldn’t believe her. Instead, she tried to convince herself it was a nightmare, a trick of her imagination.

But as the days went on, strange things began to happen. The lights on the Christmas tree flickered, even when the rest of the house’s electricity was fine. Emily’s toys moved on their own, shifting positions when no one was looking. And every night, as she lay in bed, she felt the weight of unseen eyes watching her.

Her parents noticed her change in behavior. “Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?” her mother asked one morning, brushing Emily’s hair. “You’ve been so quiet lately.”

Emily nodded quickly. “I’m fine, Mom.”

But she wasn’t fine. She was terrified.

On Christmas night, Emily decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She retrieved the black box from her closet and carried it down to the fireplace. The house was dark and silent, her parents fast asleep upstairs.

Standing in front of the hearth, she hesitated. The box seemed to hum in her hands, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Summoning all her courage, she hurled it into the fire.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the flames roared to life, turning an unnatural shade of green. The room filled with the sound of whispers, growing louder and louder until Emily clapped her hands over her ears. Shadows writhed within the flames, forming the shape of the figure she had seen on Christmas Eve.

“You cannot escape,” it hissed, its voice echoing in her mind. “The gift has been given. The bond cannot be broken.”

Emily backed away, tears streaming down her face. The flames suddenly died, leaving only smoldering embers. The box was gone, but the sense of dread remained.

The next morning, Emily’s parents found her sitting by the fireplace, her knees pulled to her chest. She wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t eat. They assumed she was just exhausted from the excitement of Christmas and promised her things would feel better soon.

But Emily knew the truth. She had tried to destroy the box, but it wasn’t enough. The shadowy figure—Santa’s dark reflection—had left its mark on her. Every night, she felt it drawing closer, its whispers growing louder. And every morning, she found new messages scrawled on the walls, written in ash:

You cannot run.

You cannot hide.

The gift is forever.

Years later, long after the Walkers had moved away and Emily had grown up, the house remained abandoned. Locals told stories of strange lights in the windows and the sound of whispers in the night. And every Christmas Eve, a shadowy figure was said to be seen by the fireplace, waiting to deliver its next gift.