December 25, 2025


“There are some gifts that return, no matter how often you try to throw them away.”

Snow clung to the windows like frostbitten fingers as Marcus Reilly poured himself another drink. The fire crackled, weak and wet, more sound than heat. His cabin—once his father’s, then abandoned for years—sat halfway up a frozen hill in Vermont. No visitors. No neighbors. Just the ghosts of family arguments and old pine smoke in the walls.

Christmas had always been lonely for Marcus. He preferred it that way. No tree, no lights, no holiday cheer. Just him, a bottle of Glenlivet, and a long night of forgetting.

But this year, something had changed.

The first knock came at 11:23 PM.

Not loud. Not insistent. Just… polite. Like a salesman. Or a priest.

Marcus froze. No one should be out here. Not in this weather. Not on this night.

He ignored it.

Then came the second knock. Firmer. Like someone who knew he was inside. Who expected an answer.

Marcus approached the door, slowly. His breath fogged in the air. The fire had dimmed to embers. When he finally opened it, the porch was empty.

Just snow.

And one thing more: a set of footprints—bare, human, and wet—leading from the woods. But none going back.

By 12:04 AM, Marcus had deadbolted every door and window.

At 12:19 AM, he heard footsteps upstairs. His father’s old bedroom. No one had been up there in years.

At 12:31 AM, the power flickered once… then failed.

He lit a candle with shaking hands, whispering to himself: It can’t be. It’s not possible. I buried it.

It had been twenty years. Twenty years since that Christmas Eve in 2005, when he left his twin brother, Martin, behind on a frozen lake. An argument. A punch. A fall through the ice. The search party never found the body. Marcus never told anyone the truth.

But now the door to the bedroom creaked open on its own. And something—soaked, silent, smiling—stood at the top of the stairs. Its eyes were white. Its mouth hung open, unbreathing, as it reached for Marcus with blue, bloated fingers.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” it said, though the lips never moved.

By morning, the cabin was cold. Empty.

Two sets of footprints now led back into the forest. And the Glenlivet glass sat half-full on the mantle, the liquor frozen solid inside.