The Crimson Claus

The town of Frost Haven had been consumed by Christmas cheer every December for centuries. Snow-covered rooftops gleamed under strings of multicolored lights, and the church bells rang nightly, echoing festive hymns through the valley. Every home displayed a figure of Santa Claus on their lawns—a tradition that went back longer than anyone cared to remember.

But there was a story, buried deep in the town’s past, that the elders whispered only in hushed tones. It was said that Santa had not always been a symbol of joy in Frost Haven. Long ago, the town made a pact with something far darker. That year, the true Santa Claus never came.

Instead, he came.

The townsfolk called him the Crimson Claus. A grotesque figure, draped in a tattered red coat, his face obscured by a long, stringy beard, clotted with something darker than soot. His sack didn’t bring gifts but something else entirely—things no one dared to describe. That Christmas, the town paid a price for their merriment: twelve children disappeared without a trace.

Now, every December, Frost Haven's residents did everything they could to appease the Crimson Claus. Cookies and milk were replaced with offerings of raw meat left outside their doors. Lights were extinguished before midnight to avoid attracting his gaze. And the statues of Santa on the lawns? They were not just decorations—they were decoys. The hope was that the Crimson Claus would mistake them for real people and leave the living alone.

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It was Christmas Eve, and young Isaac Jenkins didn’t believe a word of the old tales. He hated the silence that blanketed the town like a second layer of snow. He hated the way his parents would nervously check the locks on the windows and doors. And most of all, he hated the lifeless Santa figure that stood in their front yard, its face carved into a hollow, grinning void.

So, at 11:45 PM, while his parents were asleep, Isaac decided to rebel. He grabbed a string of Christmas lights and began wrapping them around the wooden Santa, plugging them in for the whole street to see. The figure’s hollow face lit up in eerie shades of red and green, and Isaac laughed at his own boldness.

The first sign of trouble was the wind. It came out of nowhere, tearing through the still night with a howl that shook the windows. The second sign was the sound—a deep, guttural chuckle that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It wasn't jolly or warm; it was wet and rattling, like bones scraping against frozen flesh.

Isaac turned toward the sound and froze.

At the end of the street, standing beneath the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, was a figure. It stood unnaturally still, its head tilted at an impossible angle. The coat it wore looked alive, the fabric rippling as though something beneath it was writhing, eager to escape. In one hand, it held a sack that twitched and bulged, as if something inside was desperately trying to claw its way out.

And then, it moved.

The Crimson Claus didn’t walk. He glided forward, his feet never touching the ground, leaving no tracks in the snow. The sack dragged behind him, leaving a dark, steaming trail. As he approached, Isaac saw his face—or rather, the lack of one. His eyes were empty pits, his mouth a jagged gash that stretched too wide, lined with teeth that glistened like shards of glass.

“Ho... Ho...” the thing rasped, its voice like a dying breath.

Isaac stumbled back, tripping over the cords of the Christmas lights. The Crimson Claus stopped before the lit-up Santa figure, towering over it like a predator sizing up prey. For a moment, Isaac dared to hope that the decoy had worked.

Then, the Crimson Claus’s head snapped toward him, as though it could hear the frantic beating of his heart.

“No,” Isaac whispered, scrambling backward. He felt something cold and wet against his palm—snow? No. It was black, viscous, and it reeked of rotting meat. He turned to see the source.

The sack.

It had slithered behind him while he wasn’t looking, and it was open.

From its depths emerged a hand—not human, but skeletal, its joints wrapped in sinew and blackened skin. Then another. And another. They reached for Isaac, pulling him toward the gaping maw of the sack, which stretched unnaturally wide to swallow him whole.

Isaac’s screams were muffled as the sack closed around him. The Crimson Claus laughed, a sound so loud it shook the houses, shattering windows and extinguishing every light.

When morning came, Isaac was gone. The decoy Santa was smashed to splinters, its hollow grin smeared with blood. And in its place, hanging from the tree in the Jenkins’ yard, was a single ornament—a human eye, encased in glass, staring out at the snow-covered town.

No one dared to remove it.

For years afterward, Frost Haven’s traditions grew darker. Statues of Santa were replaced with grotesque effigies of the Crimson Claus, their grins wide and desperate. And every Christmas Eve, as the clock struck midnight, the townsfolk would gather indoors, whispering prayers they didn’t understand, hoping the Crimson Claus would pass them by.

But deep in the woods, the sound of sleigh bells could still be heard, followed by the soft, wet drag of the sack. And every year, without fail, someone in Frost Haven would be missing by morning.