The Haunted Christmas Tree

The snow had fallen heavily that December, blanketing the small town of Ash Hollow in a thick, pristine white. The Miller family—Mark, his wife Emily, and their ten-year-old daughter, Lily—were eager to celebrate their first Christmas in their new home. Mark had driven out early that morning to a local tree farm, eager to find the perfect Christmas tree.

Among the rows of evergreens, Mark noticed one tree standing apart from the others. It was tall and lush, with dark green needles that seemed to shimmer in the winter sunlight. Though it stood at an odd angle and its lower branches were twisted, Mark found himself inexplicably drawn to it. The elderly vendor hesitated when Mark pointed to the tree. “That one?” the man asked, his voice tinged with unease. “It’s been here longer than any of the others. Strange things happen with that tree.”

Mark laughed off the old man’s warning. “Superstitions won’t stop us from having a great Christmas.” With a wave of his hand and a few bills exchanged, the tree was his.

When Mark brought the tree home, Lily clapped her hands with delight. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. Emily nodded in agreement, though her gaze lingered on the tree’s twisted branches. They set it up in the living room, adorned it with sparkling lights and heirloom ornaments, and topped it with a golden star. That night, the family went to bed feeling the warmth of the holiday spirit.

But the warmth didn’t last.

The first sign came the next morning. Emily was the first to notice it. “Mark,” she called, staring at the tree. “Did you put water in the tree stand?”

Mark frowned. “Of course. Why?”

Emily pointed. The tree seemed fuller, its branches thicker, as if it had grown overnight. Mark shrugged it off, joking that the tree must have come from magic soil.

By the third night, strange things began to happen. The lights on the tree flickered, even when unplugged. Ornaments swayed on their hooks as if moved by an unseen hand. Lily swore she heard whispering when she sat near the tree, a soft voice murmuring words she couldn’t understand.

Emily’s unease deepened when she found long scratches on the hardwood floor beneath the tree. “Mark, did you drag the tree stand?” she demanded.

“No,” Mark replied, his brow furrowing. “It’s been in the same spot since we set it up.”

That night, Lily woke screaming. Mark and Emily rushed to her room, finding her trembling and pale. “The tree,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “It was in my room.”

Mark tried to reassure her. “You must have had a bad dream, sweetheart.” But when he returned to the living room, his breath caught. The tree, which had been nestled against the far wall, now stood inches from the couch. The faint scent of pine hung heavy in the air, almost suffocating.

Emily insisted they remove the tree, but Mark hesitated. “It’s just a tree,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “We’re letting our imaginations run wild.”

The next day, Emily found a photograph lying on the floor beneath the tree. It was old and yellowed, showing a family of three standing in front of a cabin. The mother and child smiled, but the father’s face was obscured by scratches. On the back, scrawled in faded ink, were the words: “They’ll never forget me.”

That night, the house seemed alive. Doors creaked open on their own. The faint sound of footsteps echoed in the halls. The tree’s branches seemed to stretch further, their tips brushing against the ceiling. And always, there was the whispering.

Unable to bear it any longer, Emily grabbed an axe from the garage. “We’re getting rid of it,” she said, her voice resolute. Mark nodded, his fear finally outweighing his skepticism.

As Emily swung the axe, a deafening scream filled the room. It was not human—a low, guttural wail that made the walls tremble. The tree’s branches lashed out, scratching and tearing at the furniture. Emily’s strikes were relentless, and with one final blow, the tree toppled over.

The house fell silent. The air felt lighter, the oppressive presence gone. But as they dragged the tree out to the curb, Emily noticed something chilling: the roots of the tree were covered in dark, viscous stains, and a faint outline of a handprint was visible on the trunk.

The Millers never bought a real Christmas tree again. Each year, as they set up their artificial one, they couldn’t help but glance at the spot where the haunted tree had stood. And every so often, late at night, they swore they heard the faint sound of whispering, carried on the winter wind.