December 19, 2025

The company Christmas party at the old lodge on Birch Hollow Pass had all the festive trimmings—evergreen garlands, hot cider, and a roaring fire—but none of the joy. Most of the staff didn’t want to be there. They showed up for the year-end bonuses and little else.

The highlight was the annual “Mystery Gift Exchange,” a white-elephant-style tradition that was mostly an excuse to rewrap junk from the supply closet or offload unwanted Secret Santa gifts. But this year, someone had added a new rule:
“Take what is given. Keep what you take. Or the spirit of snow will take you.”

People assumed it was a joke. Marketing probably. Some weird Gen Z thing. But there it was—typed on frosted vellum and tucked into the first package opened: a hand-carved wooden snowflake, pale as bone.

Then came the other gifts.

A wool scarf that wouldn’t warm the wearer, only tighten around their neck.
A child’s music box that played Carol of the Bells backwards and made your breath fog even in a heated room.
A tin of peppermints that melted into ice when touched, refreezing your fingertips.
And finally, a snow globe—shaken by an intern who instantly vanished, as though sucked inside.

People panicked. Rushed for the doors. But the lodge windows now showed nothing but endless white. Snow, falling fast. No trees. No road. No sky.

One by one, the recipients of the cursed gifts began to change. Frost bloomed across their skin. Their eyes turned glassy, snowflake-shaped irises spinning in place. They smiled with cracked lips and whispered, “Take what is given. Keep what you take…”

By morning, the lodge was quiet again. A light dusting of snow had covered the cars outside. Police found no bodies—just a circle of strange gifts under the dried-out tree.

And outside, on a bench carved with initials and melted wax, a fresh layer of snow clung to a single, new note:

“Next year: bring better offerings.”