December 24, 2025

It was the final party before the blizzard rolled in.

Everyone from the Coldwater Pass Historical Society had gathered at the curator’s home, an old Victorian mansion on the edge of the ridge. Outside, snow fell soft and thick, blanketing the world in white silence. Inside, cider flowed, lights twinkled, and laughter echoed through the chandeliered halls.

At 9:00 p.m., as tradition dictated, they began the Secret Santa exchange. Everyone drew a name weeks ago. Everyone had a limit of twenty dollars. Everyone swore to keep it light, fun, anonymous.

But someone didn’t follow the rules.

When Cassie, the new intern, opened her package, the room went quiet. Inside wasn’t a gag gift or a tin of cookies. It was a small, wooden figure—hand-carved, old, and damp with something that looked like melted snow. It wore a red hood. Its face had no features. Only a mouth, wide and open, carved too deep.

“Is this a joke?” Cassie asked, her smile faltering.

No one claimed it.

That’s when the power flickered. The lights dimmed. And the mouth on the doll seemed to stretch just a little wider.

They laughed it off. Drank more. Played carols. But around 11:30, people began to feel off. Dizzy. Cold. The fireplace blazed, but their breath still fogged.

Then one of the guests vanished.

Laura from Archives, who’d been sitting near the coat rack, never came back from the kitchen. A half-filled wine glass stood abandoned on the counter. Her name tag sat in the middle of the floor, perfectly centered.

They searched the house, but it was like she’d been erased.

That’s when they noticed Cassie’s gift had moved.

It now sat in the center of the coffee table, though she’d left it upstairs. Its red hood was dusted with fresh snow. Its mouth seemed deeper. Hungrier.

One by one, they disappeared. No screams. No signs of struggle. Just a sudden chill in the room and the faint sound of sleigh bells outside—slow, irregular, off-beat, like dragging chains over snow.

Cassie was the last. Hiding in a broom closet, phone clutched to her chest. She pressed record. Whispered, “If anyone finds this… it wasn’t a person who brought the gift. I think—”

The sound cut out.

The phone was found the next day, frozen solid. The audio? Corrupted. Except for the sleigh bells. They came through clear.

The figure was never found. But in the corner of the sitting room, someone noticed faint bootprints—small, child-sized, but bare, leading into the fire.

For Those Still Awake on Christmas Eve

Now, if you’ve read this far, first: congratulations. You’re officially among the curious, the courageous… or the categorically naughty.

And second: a bit of holiday truth for you.

Santa, the real one—not the mall stand-in with a fake beard and breath that smells like peppermint schnapps—always arrives after midnight and before 6:00 AM on Christmas morning. Every year. Without fail. He knows exactly when you’re going to wake up. He’s Santa. He just knows. That’s part of the magic.

As for that NORAD Santa Tracker you might’ve seen? Total red herring. A cheerful government-sanctioned spoof to keep kids in their jammies and off the roof with binoculars. The elves at NORAD play along, of course. It’s all part of the plan. A diversion.

Because catching Santa in the act? Impossible. He’s older than the wind, faster than regret, and quieter than snow falling on velvet.

So close your eyes. Pull the covers up tight. Pretend you’re asleep, even if you’re not.

And if you happen to hear faint sleigh bells or the creak of a floorboard just after 3:00 a.m., don’t worry…

…it’s probably not the figure in red from Cassie’s story. Probably.