December 23, 2025

They were snowed in when the baby came.

Mira gave birth just after midnight on December 23rd, in a drafty cottage atop Hollis Hill. The storm howled, clawing at the roof, rattling the shutters, as if the wind itself wanted in to witness the birth. The midwife, old and silent, said nothing as the child arrived without a cry. Just wide, unblinking eyes that reflected the flickering hearth fire.

“Is she alright?” Mira asked, her voice hoarse.

The midwife wrapped the girl in flannel and muttered in some old tongue. Then she handed her over without a word.

They named her Elspeth.

The storm stopped the next day. Just stopped. Not a flake more fell. Birds returned early. Strangers commented on the “odd warmth” of the season. Mira, recovering quickly, said it was a blessing. Her husband, Alec, wasn’t so sure.

In the following days, animals kept their distance. The family dog refused to enter the nursery. When Alec picked up the baby, the lights dimmed. And at exactly 11:59 p.m. each night, the old grandfather clock would chime thirteen times.

On the eve of Christmas Eve—her birthday—they found the midwife’s body, frozen solid in the root cellar. Her mouth agape, her eyes frozen open in terror. She had etched a symbol into the dirt floor with her fingernails: a ring, with a slash through it. A warning.

That night, Elspeth spoke her first word.

“Mine.”

The snow returned. Violent. Relentless. It buried the cottage up to the roofline.

Alec disappeared into the drifts the next morning. Mira found the baby’s cradle warm, untouched. Elspeth sat upright in bed, one finger tracing the frost on the window into that same ringed shape.

Now, each year on December 23, Mira hears the chimes again. Thirteen. Always thirteen. The snow starts up again. Something ancient stirs beneath her daughter’s skin.

They say children born on Christmas Eve walk the line between light and shadow—gifted, yes, but claimed by something older than joy. Something that doesn’t want to be forgotten.

Elspeth turns five this year. Mira hasn’t aged a day