S22 Ep4: NoSleep Podcast S22E04 Christmas 2024

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Twas the night before Christmas.

The house full of dread.

Not a creature was stirring,

for all there were dead.

The children were hung by the chimney with care.

Will Santa Claus save them?

No,

he don't care.

The parents were helpless, no hope, not a dread, while visions and nightmares danced in their heads.

And someone exclaimed with a voice deep and and fast,

brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast's 2024 Christmas episode.

I'm your festive host, David Cummings.

We're glad you've decided to let us bring some creepy chills into your holiday season.

You know, some call this the most wonderful time of the year.

And have you ever noticed the lyrics to that song?

One verse says, There'll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow.

There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago.

Ever wonder why it mentions scary ghost stories around Christmas?

You might assume it has to do with the three ghosts who visit Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol.

But there was also a Victorian tradition of telling scary stories during the Christmas season.

M.R.

James is the writer most associated with festive frights.

In fact, way back in the 70s, it was a British tradition to watch the BBC's Ghost Story for Christmas program.

Those were based on stories by M.R.

James.

So whether it's Dickens or James, we're proud to continue the tradition of bringing ghosts and other devilish creatures into this solstice season.

And let's not forget scary sleepless Santa.

Yes, that's right.

In recent years, our friend Santa here has been,

let's say, morphed into a symbol of horror.

Even Art the Clown has become the latest version of a killer Santa in Terrifier 3.

Santa, do you ever feel like they're stealing your thunder?

No, no, I don't mind those imposters.

Let them try to match my level of nightmarish stocking stuffing.

Among other things, I stuff.

Hmm, not sure I want to delve further into those details.

Well, Santa, it's time to start the show.

Wanna kick things off for us?

I would be happy to.

All right, all you naughty little people.

We've got the coal you so rightly deserve.

So enjoy these tales while you wait for me to arrive at your home.

And I'll be there, so you'd better

brace yourself.

In our first tale, we meet a family celebrating Christmas together.

And like any good festive home, They have all the requisite Christmas decorations around the house.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Beth Carpenter, there is a particular animatronic dancing Santa that seems to bring more than cheer into their home.

Ha ha!

Get them, Santa, baby!

Yes, performing this tale are Ash Millman, David Alt, Penny Scott Andrews, Erica Sanderson, James Cleveland, Connor Larkin, and Jake Benson.

So perhaps you should stick to the traditional baubles and bows for your decorations.

Far safer than Sam's Christmas abomination.

Oh,

oh no.

What?

What?

It's Santa.

Yeah, that I can see.

It's cute, damn it.

Sorry, Sam.

I'm just not big on, you know, puppets and animatronics and that kind of thing.

I'm sure the kids will love him.

No, they don't.

No?

Mina called him ugly.

Jimmy,

well,

started crying.

Aw, your kids are traitors.

I put him out here so they can't see him from the window.

I don't get it.

He's Santa, he's got a big happy smile and chubby cheeks.

He plays a little tune and does a little dance.

You can't trash talk Santa's moves at Christmas.

I mean, come on.

I'm sure Mrs.

Sparrow across the street will love him then.

Auntie Jean!

Mina!

Oh!

Your cannibal hooks are getting dangerous, sweetie.

Yeah.

Has your brother calmed down?

Yeah, I guess.

Mum's still mad, though.

Mrs.

Sparrow is my only friend.

What?

Never mind.

I'm gonna go and spread some peace and goodwill, okay, guys?

You two can plot to ruin Christmas amongst yourselves.

I don't want to ruin Christmas.

I'm getting a robot.

A robot?

A whole robot?

Yeah.

Not like dad's thing outside.

A proper robot.

I can program him to do stuff.

Wow, that sounds cool, Mina.

I would have loved a robot when I was your age.

I guess they weren't invented yet.

I wanted a dog, too, too, but mum says not this year.

Does Jimmy know what he's getting?

He just wants sweets.

He's too little to have any good stuff anyway.

He just breaks it or spills juice on it and then he cries.

Aww.

I'm glad I'm big.

So big.

Do you think he'll catch you up one day?

Maybe.

You're taller than dad, though.

Hmm, that's true.

Oh, here they come now.

Jimmy!

Oh, I like your sweater.

That's That's very nice.

Hello, Subera.

Hi, Jeannie.

How is the drive up?

Did you see Sam's abomination outside?

Yeah, I saw it.

It dances.

That's awful.

Sam's lucky he's cute.

That's all I'm going to say on the subject.

I mean, debatable.

But never mind that.

Look at all your other decorations.

They're gorgeous.

Thank you.

The kids helped, but not too much, you know what I mean.

Anyway, come through, come through, let's show you the tree.

Jimmy, shush.

Oh, that's lovely.

It's like something out of a Christmas advert.

Oh, thank you.

This one's on Sam, actually.

He put it all up last week.

He's got a good eye for colour and so on.

Yeah, he got all the artsy jeans.

Mom definitely used to pick his drawings over mine to go up on the fridge.

Ooh, ouch.

Still hurts.

I'm better at drawing than Jimmy.

Jimmy only stopped chewing on his crayons last year, Mina.

Don't compete with your brother.

Isn't that Santa's song?

I thought you didn't like him, Jimmy.

Don't like it.

Oh no.

Oh, sweetie.

Come here.

Oh, I'm so sorry, Subira.

I didn't mean to.

He's such a baby.

Mina!

What?

He's just mad because he thinks it's really Santa dad bought, and now Santa's weird and ugly.

I told him that's not the real Santa.

The real Santa stays at the North Pole making presents right up until Christmas because there's so many kids to get to.

Santa's busy.

Oh boy.

It is Santa.

Jimmy, no.

It's just a toy Santa that Daddy thought you'd like, okay?

The real Santa is...

he doesn't look like that.

But he said we had to be extra good, or Christmas would go wrong.

Daddy did.

No.

Santa, we can't be bad at all.

Stupid.

He didn't say that.

It doesn't even talk.

It did.

Well, even if it did, it's okay.

You can be a normal amount of good, and Christmas is right on track.

Dinny, can you watch them a moment?

I need to talk to Sam.

Uh, sure, yeah.

How about you kids show me around and tell me everything that's happened since I was last here?

Jimmy, do you want a piggyback?

Yes, please.

Oh, getting so big.

No, he isn't.

Sam, what

doesn't that thing ever turn off?

It only just started up again.

Must have seen you coming.

Ugh.

I'm leaning into the creepy now.

Of course you are.

Listen, Sam, does it have a

talking mode?

Huh?

No, I don't think so.

Just plays music and jigs around, really.

I've been trying to figure out what the tune is.

Must be a carol or something, mustn't it?

Just can't quite bring it to mind.

I suppose.

Jimmy's got it in his head that the thing's talking to him.

Saying happy Christmassy things?

Well, not really.

Saying Christmas is cancelled if he's bad at all.

We've never tried to use Santa to threaten the kids, so it's it's a little strange.

He seems scared.

Oh, hmm.

Don't look so glum.

I know you couldn't have predicted any of this, and they've both loved everything else you've set up.

This is just a

small misjudgment.

He'd have forgotten it by tomorrow, so long as it stays out of his line of sight.

Well, I hope so.

I'm sorry, Sibera.

Nothing to apologize for.

Oh,

screw you, Santa.

He just wants to feel included.

Damn, I'm gonna have that song stuck in my head all day now.

Ready to turn on the lights?

Yes.

Yeah.

Woohoo!

Go for it.

Okay.

Oh, that's tasteful.

Disappointing.

I'm not setting myself up for any more mockery.

But if you want to go bother Mrs.

Sparrow about her inflatable reindeer, be my guest.

Maybe later.

Right.

Bedtime, kids.

I'll be up in a moment.

Tuck you in.

Okay.

Okay.

Two more days.

Everything ready?

I think so.

We're extra prepared this year.

Don't jinx it.

You know, that thing is even uglier in the dark.

Oh, for heaven's sake, I hid it in a shrub.

You don't have to look at it.

I know, but it's kind of fascinating.

Someone out there is writing a dissertation on the Uncanny Valley, and they don't even know this thing is missing from their life.

Yeah, okay, it's cold.

Let's go inside and break out the booze.

Oh, yes, please.

I have a thirst.

Oh, we stocked up for your arrival.

Sorry.

Early night tonight, I think.

You guys go ahead and sit down.

I'll get the glasses.

Red or white, Gennie?

Red, please.

Red for me, too.

Thanks, sweetheart.

Okie-dokie.

Oh, it's good to get my feet up.

I love it, but sheesh, Christmas is a hassle.

Oh, it'll get easier when the kids are old enough for you to do what our mother always did and delegate some of the hassle onto them.

Are you kidding?

Everything gets a million times more complicated when they're being helpful.

Actually,

Jeannie, there's something I want to ask you about the whole

Santa topic.

Not about Sam's new friend, but

you know, my parents did Christmas, but more the religious side of things.

So I never actually believed in the magic old man from Antarctica bit.

And Sam and I never got around to discussing what we'd do about it with our own kids.

We just kind of sleepwalked into not arguing with what they picked up for their friends and, I suppose, movies.

And then we started leaving out cookies and sherry and so on, because they wanted to.

And I just want to know,

did it upset you, finding out?

Not so much that he doesn't exist, but that your parents lied to you about it, you know?

Oh,

well, to be honest, I don't know.

I don't remember when I figured it out, or was told, or whatever.

I do remember going around telling classmates that if Santa was going to get to all the kids he needed to get to, he'd have to be traveling fast enough to liquefy a person's bones.

Don't know if that's actually true, but I definitely knew it when I was about eight.

But I still believed in him at that point, so to me, Santa was like a kindly but basically eldritch being, weird and unknowable.

And then,

oh, I just don't remember.

I'm sorry I can't help more, Sabira.

No, No, no, I'm sorry.

It's just with Jimmy fixating today, I was thinking about it again.

Sam can't remember finding out either.

I guess that's a good sign, or evidence of a traumatic blackout.

I'm sure they'll be okay.

I just

hate messing up when it affects them.

Jimmy especially gets hung up on stuff.

Oh dear.

What's the calamity?

I'll go find out.

What's wrong, Mina?

Jimmy's taking forever to brush his teeth and I can't get into the bathroom.

You just have to be patient, sweetie.

Oh, but he's finished.

He's just doing it again and again to be annoying.

Okay.

Okay.

Jimmy?

Everything okay?

Yeah.

You're just taking your time?

I'm getting all the bad bacteria out.

Okay, just remember that other people need to use the bathroom.

Wow.

You really are scrubbing there.

I think you might be finished, sweetheart.

No, I gotta do it right.

Do it right?

Like a good kid.

Is

this because of Santa again?

Yeah.

I I think Santa is okay with just regular brushing, okay?

You don't want to hurt your gums.

Okay, mum.

Just a minute.

Fine.

Just a minute, Mina.

Oh.

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, thanks.

Oh, boy.

And Jeannie, the kids' presents from their grandparents have arrived.

Can you help me carry them through?

Oh, God, they've gone over the top as usual.

Sure.

Oh.

Okay, can you hand me...

Thanks.

I can't see my feet.

That's not supposed to happen until after Christmas dinner.

Yeah, watch the carpet when you get to the living room.

It sticks up at the...

Shucks.

I don't know why I bother.

Auntie Jeannie said a bad word.

I did not.

I clearly said for shocks, which is so not a bad word that it's not even a word at all.

Checkmates.

Sorry, Sam.

She said a bad word?

She said the F word.

It happens.

You can't swear.

It's not allowed.

Oh, Jimmy, I'm sorry.

Come on.

Oh, where are we going?

Outside.

Why are we going outside?

To tell him you're sorry.

Him?

Oh, him.

All right, that's enough.

Jeannie, I've got this.

Jimmy, can I have a word, buddy?

But...

You're not in trouble.

We just need to talk.

But she needs to tell him...

Okay, and we'll talk about that.

Come on, let's just go up to your room.

Okay,

so...

What's going on here, Jim?

Nothing.

It seems like you've been really anxious since I brought that Santa decoration home.

And it is just a decoration, yeah?

You understand?

Yeah.

It's not the real Santa.

Right.

It said...

It'll bring him here.

The Jolly Red Man.

Pardon?

You could tell the real Santa when he comes that she's sorry.

Oh, um...

Listen, Jim.

Santa isn't that strict, okay?

You don't have to worry about what your auntie does, and you definitely don't have to be scared of him.

Your mum told me that you've been worrying about all sorts of things these last few days, whether our Christmas lights are causing global warming, whether you need to give your sister half of your sweets, whether the definitely not actual Santa Santa decoration is going to get cold outside in his shrub.

Well, to start with, the lights are LEDs, so no, never mind that.

Look, you don't have to worry about being good.

You are good.

All you need to do for the next couple of days is have fun, okay?

Okay.

Right, good.

Go off and play now.

Okay.

For shucks.

You're being so weird.

I'm not.

Are two?

You're weird.

I'm not.

Why are you so scared?

Mum and dad wouldn't let anything hurt you.

Even I wouldn't let anything hurt you.

I'd beat them up.

It's not about that.

It's about being good.

You are good.

And you're just a baby.

So it doesn't even matter if you are or not.

I know you brushed so much tonight that you bled.

It matters to him.

The red jolly man.

Our bedroom isn't tidy enough.

What are you talking about?

Are you dusting?

It has to be perfect.

He has a list.

Santa doesn't care about some stupid dust, but we're supposed to be in bed, and mum cares about that.

Okay,

but I'm gonna open the window because we don't have a chimney.

He's magic.

He doesn't need the window open.

Go to bed.

Oh, it's cold.

Good night.

Stop that.

It's not me.

I'm trying to sleep.

It's not me.

It's him.

I think he's sticking his arm down from the roof because we don't have a chimney.

He has really big hands.

Huh?

Mina?

I didn't think he'd be so big.

Red.

Have you

been

good

Mina?

Mom is dad.

Have you been bad?

I've been good.

Will you please?

Mom is dad, it's got Jimmy.

Please, I've been good.

What the hell?

What?

Sam, grab him.

It's gonna pull him out the window.

I've got you, I've got you.

Daddy,

it hurts.

Let go, you bastard thing.

What is this?

He's slipping.

It hurts.

Mina, go.

What on earth is going on?

Is Jimmy okay?

A big hand struck through the window and it's trying to

a big hand?

It's like Santa, but it's not Santa.

It's all red and white and big and cold and it wants Jimmy.

Let me.

Sam, what's happening?

What?

What the hell?

Help us hold him.

No, go and get a knife.

Maybe it'll let go if we hurt it.

Where's your biggest strapping knife?

Damn it,

Auntie Jean.

I need your help.

Mina, stay back.

Auntie, it's singing the song.

What?

Dad's not Santa song.

And I went downstairs and I can hear that stupid robot dancing.

Oh, then that's.

Guys, you gotta keep holding on.

There's something I need to try.

I'll be fast.

It's up there!

Look, on the roof!

No, don't look at it!

Which drug did he.

Oh, dang you.

I knew you had something to do with this, you little bastard.

It's doing something, it's working!

Get

off

my

brother!

You

ugly fake!

The window!

Let him go!

Is

it gone?

I'm gonna fall!

I've got you!

Is it gone?

Jeannie, do you see it?

It's gone, I think.

Pull him back up!

Yeah.

No kidding.

Let's go back inside and make sure Jimmy's okay, okay?

Okay.

Hey, Auntie Jean?

Yeah?

The Easter Bunny isn't like that, too, is he?

Oh, boy.

I hate to tell you this, sweetie, but I don't believe the Easter Bunny exists.

He doesn't exist?

But what about the eggs?

Okay, okay.

I'll bring a sledgehammer to Easter, just in case, and you keep working on your cannonball tackles, right?

Right.

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It's not really Christmas without snow, am I right?

At least that's what all good Canadians profess.

Yes, they don't call it the North Pole for nothing, you know.

Right, and so when a couple decides to spend some time skiing in Alberta, you can imagine how disappointed they are when their plans are cancelled.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Lascelle Jones, their boredom forces them to explore the site of an old Christmas market long lost to an avalanche.

And what they find is more chilling than any winter wind.

Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Doolin, and Jeff Clement.

So I'd suggest you stay inside where it's warm.

You shouldn't venture outside, especially not in the instant before Christmas.

Flames blazed in the huge stone fireplace as I drained what must have been my fourth coffee of the day.

My eyes flicked towards the bubbling machine in the corner beneath a tinsel-festooned pair of antlers.

One another?

I asked Mark.

That bad, as it says?

I shrugged.

Skiing's been canceled for how many days in a row now?

It was the thing I was looking most forward to about this get-together.

Yeah, apart from the opportunity to spend time with our extended family, of course.

Sure, but really, whose idea was it to book this place?

Shoulder, Alberta?

I mean, who's ever heard of it?

I think it was Cousin Tara.

Red Summer, it was the undiscovered whistler.

There's a reason why it's undiscovered.

Most unreliable December snowfall in the northern hemisphere, I'd say.

At least the hotel's nice.

Yeah, but I feel trapped.

The lounge door burst open and three laughing boys crashed in.

Tara's little darlings.

I rolled my eyes.

So, how about we go for a hike instead of hanging around?

Where to?

The slopes are closed, and this place isn't exactly overflowing with alternatives.

I tapped the book I'd been browsing.

Been reading up on local history and have an idea if you're up for an adventure.

One of the boys pushed another into the Christmas tree.

It swayed precariously.

Mark raised an eyebrow.

What she got in mind?

I held up the page and showed him an old photo of a snowy market with cheery crowds milling around wooden stalls and fairground rides.

It was titled The Shoulder Christmas Disaster, 1983.

There's still a market?

No, but this former site's not too far up the mountain.

Kind of gloomy history, but could be interesting.

I can tell you the story on the way.

As long as we're back in time for the Carol service.

If you insist.

A kid grabbed a branch and ornament slipped off the tree.

A plastic angel plummeted to the floor, followed by a snow globe.

It shattered on the hearth, and limp snowflakes drenched the delicate village inside.

The boys ran out of the room, laughing.

Mark stood up.

Okay, that's decided it.

Let's go.

Less than 30 minutes later, we were trudging uphill through slushy snow.

So, from what I read, there was this weirdly heavy snowfall.

Caught everyone off guard and crushed most of the market.

The highway hadn't been built back then, so emergency services took hours to arrive, especially with it being Christmas Eve.

Some tragic on that day of old days.

Why was a market being held way up here anyway?

It was near the original church that was destroyed and got replaced the new one back in the village, but apparently there are some remains.

Yeah, pretty ghoulish way to spend Christmas Eve.

Actually, it's the funnest day to visit.

I've read it's when we might see ghostly visions of the doomed market.

A few people have gone missing, too.

That kind of bunkum might have scared me when I was a kid, Colette, but not anymore.

It's not bullshit.

I read it in an actual book, so it must be true.

Mark stopped to catch his breath.

How much further?

Just the other side of this tree line.

We pushed through the pines and the landscape opened up.

Mark shielded his eyes from the sun.

I thought you said it was here.

I looked around.

It ought to be.

Shit, hope it's not snowed under.

So we've come all this way for nothing.

Better than being stuck in the hotel, no?

A steely cloud shifted over the sun and large snowflakes began to fall.

You still think so?

Sorry, we better get back.

The snowfall intensified, and the wind picked up.

We stuck back into the trees and watched the landscape disappear behind swirling flakes.

Almost a blizzard.

Hope it doesn't last long.

Mark leant against a pine.

Best stay here till it stops.

Got my satellite phone, so don't worry.

I squinted through the gray-white motion.

For a moment, I thought I could see dark shapes growing in it.

I wasn't worried.

As suddenly as they'd started, the snowfall and the gale died.

Muted sunshine relit the mountainside.

Mark walked out of the trees.

Whoa.

I followed and stopped dead.

Those weren't there earlier.

Must have been the wind, I guess.

The top of a dented ferris wheel jutted from the snow.

Beyond it stood a crooked church spire.

Told you it'd be worth it.

Let's get closer.

We strode over and stood under the half-buried wheel.

Its bent metal frame loomed above us, battered gondolas dangling perilously.

I got my phone to take a pic and blinked.

There was a faint figure in the image of one of the carriages.

I lowered my phone.

No one was there.

I stepped closer.

The snowy crust under my feet crackled.

Mark wandered towards the church.

Uh, be careful.

It's all right.

His leg plunged thigh-deep into the snow.

Darn it.

Don't move.

His arms wheeled as his other leg sank.

Ignoring my own advice, I ran over.

The ground fissured and gave way.

I fell forwards, catching a glimpse of Mark disappearing under before my face hit the freezing surface.

Snow flowed over my head and I slid downwards like a grain in an hourglass.

A cap was torn from my head and my phone from my hand.

Snow filled my ears, pushed my eyelids.

Felt like I was going to be trapped, entombed, but I kept sliding down, outstretched fingers pushing through slush.

Then my fingertips met space and I collapsed into a bed of snow.

I brushed flakes from my eyes and looked around.

It was like I was in some kind of cavern or tunnel, but the curved surface above wasn't snow or sky.

It glittered like unreal stars.

White on off-white, a canvas of trembling crystals threatening to crash down at any moment.

Colette?

I turned around.

Mark, you okay?

He stood up unsteadily.

Think so.

Where the heck are we?

I got to my feet and shrugged.

Some kind of air gap?

He gaped at the blanket of shimmering flakes above.

Yeah, it's weird as hell, but we need to find a way out.

That way.

I followed his gaze.

A faint red light glimmered from a curve in the tunnel.

What is it?

Don't know, but we ain't got options.

We headed towards the glow.

As we got closer, a short loop of festive music broke the silence, like a stuck Christmas record.

What the?

The tunnel opened up into a wider area.

Wooden market stalls stood in freezing mist.

The nearest stands were illuminated by strings of red bulbs and seemed in good condition, other than being covered by a layer of frost.

The ones further away were unlit and damaged.

I approached the closest stall.

Inside was a metal tureen that smelled of spiced wine.

A sheet of steam hung above it, but didn't move like it should.

It rolled weirdly and repetitively.

I placed my gloved hand on the container.

It's still warm.

Mark shuddered.

Something's very wrong here.

We ventured further into the market.

The stands were packed with typical Christmas trinkets, carved baubles, handmade cards, and wreaths.

Everything looked confusingly pristine and fresh.

Rows of bratwursts sizzled unattended on bridles but didn't burn and the snippet of music kept drifting out of speakers.

The backs of the booths were half buried in a solid wall of snow, so we had no choice but to continue uphill towards the darker section.

Mark took out his phone, tutted at the lack of signal, and used it as a light.

But it barely illuminated a few feet ahead.

The ceiling got gradually lower, eventually touching the stand's cracked roofs.

They looked ready to collapse.

Up till that point, we'd seen no trace of people, but suddenly Mark tugged my elbow and pointed towards a stall, the frost-covered hood of a blue jacket ducking its shadowy interior.

Uh, hello?

No movement.

I tapped the counter and tried again.

Hello?

Still no reply.

Is it a person?

Mark stepped towards the stall.

I don't think you should...

He ignored me, pushed inside and knelt next to the figure.

He almost tipped backwards.

What is it?

He shone his phone at the head.

This is unreal.

I leaned over the counter and gasped.

Instead of a face inside the hood, there was a cluster of snowy baubles, as if the head was covered with hand-sized blisters of ice.

The rest of the body was also frosted over and dotted with the snowball-like lumps.

Let's leave.

Mark stared into the hood.

Feels like they're looking at me.

There's someone there.

They're sad and scary.

He moved his finger towards the ice.

Don't!

Let's go!

He reluctantly pulled himself away.

As we traced through the remains of the market, we became aware of more snow-blistered bodies in and around the stalls.

Some crouched, others were frozen in a running stance.

A few looked like they were trying to shield smaller figures under their bodies.

We instinctively kept as far away as we could, kept as quiet as we could.

It's like the snow that crushed them has vanished and they've been left behind frozen.

Did they recover all the bodies after the disaster?

Not sure.

All I know is I want to get out.

We passed the buckled base of the Ferris wheel, its heights hidden in the misty fuzz above.

The further uphill we walked, the more damaged the fair.

Stalls were overturned, half-crushed.

Splinters and smashed Christmassy goods spilled from them.

The figures looked less human, too.

Some were missing limbs or heads, some lay on the ground, sections of their backs and legs flattened.

One was contorted scorpion-like, legs folded the wrong way above their head.

Mark blinked back tears.

God help them.

We reached what must have been the most damaged section.

The cavern was so low we had to stoop.

The stalls were barely recognizable, just pulverized patches of sticks in the snow littered with half-recognizable fragments.

A smashed nutcracker, a crumpled wreath, a prone body.

The walls got narrower, the ceiling lower.

There were faces and limbs partially embedded in them, horribly close to our own as we twisted past.

We were virtually crawling when we began to hear a low female voice.

Mark stopped ahead and we listened.

It sounded pleading, desperate, the words indistinct.

Should we keep going?

Guess so, just be careful.

As we shuffled forwards, the chanting grew clearer.

We honor Christmas in our hearts.

Keep us safe to keep the season.

Something about the voice was making my heart race.

Gift us your stillness, your protection on this day of all days.

Mark scrambled to his feet.

We must have reached a pocket in the tunnel.

He motioned for me to follow.

Save us at this sacred time of times.

This time of times

I stood in the globe-shaped space.

Steps led up to a wooden porch decorated with ivy and cutouts of cherubs and reindeer.

But instead of a building behind it, there was a wall of pulsating snow, like a huge old TV screen filled with static.

A silhouetted figure knelt at the top of the stairs, hands clasped over her ears.

She was freckled with snowy baubles like the others, apart from the lower half of her face, muttering lips and wrinkled chin exposed.

Gamelio, see our predicament, our coming sorrow.

Gift us your precious defense.

She didn't stop even as we approached.

Hey, um, excuse me, can you help us?

She kept praying

on every plane and at every level, you know the nature of suffering, our helplessness in our moment of need, our moment of need.

Can you tell us what's going on?

I yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

No reaction.

I tried to go up, but couldn't bring myself to.

My foot just hovered above the bottom step.

Mark shook his head.

I don't think she'll help.

I backed away.

So, what now?

This looks like a dead end.

He walked over to the blurry wall.

Maybe there's a way through this.

It doesn't look dense.

Perhaps we could dig.

He placed his palm against it.

There was a grinding noise like an electrical sander, and he pulled back with a yelp.

He glared at the shredded palm of his glove.

Uh, you okay?

Yeah, just my glove, but we can't get through.

I turned to the passageway.

Maybe we missed something back there.

Hope so.

Not sure how much more of this I can take.

It's getting really cold.

My joints are stiffening.

Ah, mine too.

I ducked into the passage and Mark followed.

We sifted through the remains of the market, searching for any possible way out, but found nothing.

Disheartened, we stopped by the Ferris wheel.

We could try climbing this.

We know the tops above the snow.

I looked up.

That's not a bad idea.

I'll go first.

I grasped the frosted metal frame and pulled myself up.

It creaked and moaned.

As I climbed further, a brace cracked and the whole wheel shuddered.

I froze.

Okay, come down, Colette.

It's not safe.

I clung on.

I've got to try.

You stay down there for now.

Should be okay if it's only one of us.

I clambered upwards, my feet slipping, occasionally breaking part of the frame and shaking the wheel.

The higher I got, the more unstable it felt.

I reached a point where the spokes were so far apart I could barely reach the next one.

I thrust it up, managed to grab it, but the whole strut snapped off.

The weight almost hauled me backwards, so I dropped it.

The brace landed with a metered thud.

That's enough.

Come down, we'll try something else.

I looked around.

I'm gonna try climbing on the outside.

If I can hold a gondola, then it should hold me.

Fine, give it a try, but stop if it's unsafe.

Okay.

I cautiously sidestepped towards the car.

The beam felt safe at first, but the further I got, the more it creaked and shifted.

I knew I should have turned back, but I felt like I had to keep time.

Just as I reached the carriage, the metal cracked and began to give way.

I leapt and grabbed the open door as the strut swung downwards.

I clung on for a moment, heart thundering, hyperventilating.

I'm okay.

I called down as I pulled myself into the gondola.

It rocked violently, and I stayed on my knees to catch my breath.

Shit.

There was a figure curled up on the bench.

I rolled away and the carriage swayed again.

I peered at the body and relaxed a little.

It,

he, was frozen like the others.

Hoborp had a jacket that looked more modern than their clothes.

Maybe he was one of the missing I'd read about.

His gloved fingertip was stuck to the bench's surface.

It seemed like he'd been scratching something in the frost.

The scrawls were a mess, but I thought I could make out a few words.

Silence.

Hands.

Late, or fate.

I looked at the figure again and could sense fear, desperation.

It felt so close, so current, and made me reach for his hand.

At first it was solid, coldness pulsing through my glove, draining my warmth.

Then it started to soften.

I kept holding.

The fingers began to close around mine.

Before I could react, he snatched my hand towards his face, smashing it through the icy blister covering his mouth.

I struggled, but he'd sapped my strength as well as my body heat.

I shivered as he kept clasping and grasping, wrapping my palm over his jaw.

His flesh flesh started to thaw, and loose teeth rubbed against my palm.

He released me as garbled words began to spill from his lips.

I slid away, and the gondola shook.

You must stop, Constance.

Shriveled gray lips, beaded with frost, showed through the hand-shaped hole.

Her prayer keeps us all here,

frozen in the instant of the storm.

What?

It'll be your fate too, unless you stop her.

I realized too late.

Couldn't get back.

The woman at the church, you mean?

My family knew of her.

So devout.

Thinks she's doing right.

Begged for a Christmas

but delivered hell.

How do I silence her prayer?

Please.

His head jerked towards me.

The ice on his neck crackled.

I screamed.

Flashed out and the car juddered.

A metallic shriek above us was followed by a snap, and the carriage plummeted.

We crashed with a jolt, and the figure shattered into fragments along with the remaining windows.

Mark forced open the bent door and I clambered out.

I rubbed my shoulder.

Think so.

We gotta head back to the church.

Why?

We need to stop that woman praying.

She's causing all this.

How do you know?

I nodded towards the battered gondola.

He told me.

What?

Mark almost reched as he saw the shards of frozen gore scattered inside.

We walked back uphill as fast as we could.

It was getting harder to move, like we were seizing up.

I wasn't sure if it was the temperature or something else.

We fought on and reached the church porch.

I felt the same reluctance as the last time, like climbing them would be the wrong thing to do, a bad thing, but I pushed through it and walked up.

Constance knelt in the same pose, hands over ears pleading.

Gamaliel, gift us your stillness, your protection in this season of seasons, this day of all days.

I called down to a hesitant mark.

Come on, I know it feels wrong, but it's just a feeling.

Nothing's actually stopping you.

He lowered his foot onto the step, nodded, and tramped up.

So, how do we do this?

I suspect we'll need to do more than ask nicely.

I cupped my hand and swung towards Constance's face.

She didn't shift, but prayed louder.

Gamaliel, do not fail us now.

Let not your work be undone.

Cold blasted from her lips, and my hand stopped inches away.

No matter how hard me and Mark tried, we couldn't touch her mouth.

Maybe we should try snow.

The guy in the wheel made me thaw his mouth, so freezing might stop hers.

Sounds crazy enough to work in this place.

I leaned down and scooped handfuls of snow into a solid ball.

I drew back and flung it towards Constance's jaw, but it burst into powder before it could hit.

Thank you, Gamaliel, for the protection you provide.

The protection you provide.

Yeah, it's no use.

Mark tugged his green cap over his forehead despondently.

I glared at Constance, felt so much anger for her selfishness, her desperation to survive that was trapping everyone.

I felt like slapping her, screaming at her.

I paused.

Why is she covering her ears?

What doesn't she want to hear?

I knelt before her, ripped off my gloves, and placed my hands over hers without resistance.

Her prayer got louder, more frantic.

Gamaliel, let not your work be undone.

Her hands were agonizingly cold, but I kept pressing, willing my warmth to flow into her.

The ice began to melt, and frigid liquid trickled down my arms.

I pressed harder, forcing my fingertips under her palms.

Come on, you selfish bitch.

Let go.

Let go.

Gamaliel, I implore you.

Let not the enemy endanger your sacred work.

I pushed my fingers between her palms and her head, prying them apart a fraction.

A rumbling noise swelled around us and fragmented cries spilled from the market.

The clipped voices ticked like buffering audio.

Colette, maybe you should stop.

I ignored Mark, too caught up in the fright.

I pulled Constance's palms and her wrists snapped with sickening cracks.

She didn't flinch, but her prayer faded into sobs as I dropped the broken hands in shock.

The rumbling got louder, the voices fuller.

I looked up.

Mark was trembling as he watched the blurry wall throb behind the porch.

What have you done, Colette?

The noises and voices escalated into thunderous roars, and the top of the wall rolled towards us like a wave.

Get down!

We ducked in front of the motionless Constance as snowy chunks rayed down.

I closed my eyes, sure we were going to get buried, but the blocks flew past without touching.

I sensed delight through my eyelids and half opened them.

Oh god.

Above us hovered a huge, golden, doll-like face.

It was unreal, terrifying, but also somehow beautiful.

A sense of stillness beamed out of the angelic head as its translucent wings encircled us.

Constance twitched her lopped arms and resumed praying.

Camealia, give your gift, your protection, this season of seasons, this day of all days.

The avalanche stuttered and paused.

Shut up!

I slapped my hand over her mouth.

Let it pass.

Outside the wings, the snowslide snowslide restarted.

Stop!

Just accept you're dead!

You and everyone in the market, you've trapped them here for decades in terror and agony.

You're not helping.

You're torturing everyone.

Please stop.

Her lips stopped trembling against my palm, and I pulled away in relief.

You don't understand.

I tried to reassure her.

Constance, I know you're scared and trying to help, but you've got to let go.

The market, everyone in it, they've been gone for years.

There's nothing you can do.

It's not the market I was trying to save.

It was the village.

She crumbled into snowy dust.

What?

The air darkened as Gamelil dissolved, and I turned to look downhill.

The hurtling snow had swept away the market and was smashing into the pines we trekked through.

It flattened trees, revealing shoulder below, its colorful lights twinkling like a model village.

The avalanche roared mercilessly towards her.

Please, no!

My mind flooded with images of everyone down there.

Mom, dad, my nieces, and nephews.

What have I done?

What should I do?

Before I could say a word, Mark started to pray.

Camelion, please save shoulder.

The innocence.

My family.

Gentle light bathed us, and the crest of the avalanche jittered above the town before sinking as if it reached no further than the trees.

The landscape glitched into a snapshot.

Shoulder was safe, and the distant scene looked like a serene Christmas card.

Apart from two bodies half buried in snow at the edge of the pines.

One wore a green cap.

The other, my clothes.

My skin erupted with searing ice as regret tore around my head.

I couldn't move, couldn't cry.

But Mark kept chanting as we froze.

Gift us your stillness, your protection in the season of seasons, this day of all days, this season of seasons, this day of all days, this season of seasons, this day of all days, days, season of seasons, day of all days, season, seas.

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There is no place in anyone's home more synonymous with Christmas than around the fireplace.

Even if you don't have a fireplace, you'll find a way to hang your stockings on something.

And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author T.

Michael Argent, we meet a couple who have purchased a decorative fireplace for their home.

What could go wrong with such a kitschy, fun decoration?

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Mary Murphy.

So, like they sing in that song Santa Baby, ooh, let me say it.

Santa Baby, hurry down the chimney tonight.

I don't know how you talked me into this.

The thing Meredith had seen in the thrift store barely fit in the back of our car, even with the seats pushed down.

Getting it in had been one thing.

Getting it out would be another.

Oh, come on.

It's just too cute.

It'll be like living in a Christmas card with this next to the tree.

That was true.

The fireplace, maybe fireplace with a capital F was more appropriate, was a five-foot-tall monstrosity made of laminate wood, plastic stonework, and fake bricks.

Meredith practically squealed when she saw it in the houseware's section.

It came with a cord in the back, which lit up a small pile of plastic logs at the base.

It was wide, too, wide enough for a mantelpiece that she insisted we could hang our stockings from.

It looked like it came out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, in the kitschiest possible way.

I gave it an experimental tug.

It slid a bit out of the back, but not much.

Did this get bigger after we left the store?

Maybe we can get Nisty to help.

I turned to see our cat in the window, watching us with boredom.

She flicked an ear and began began licking her paw.

Lucky girl.

She gets to sit in the warm house while we're out here in the cold.

The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can join her.

It'll be easy.

Let's just get it out halfway.

Then we can tip it to the ground.

You pull, I'll push.

Meredith always had a better mind for these things than I did.

I took my position at the base of the fireplace.

She opened the passenger door and placed her hands on top of the chimney.

Okay, one,

two, three,

go!

I tugged with all my might while she put all her weight forward.

It slid out faster and easier than we thought.

It was heavier on the bottom.

I yelled in surprise and rolled to the right, barely missing caving my stomach in as it tumbled out and landed upright on the driveway with a loud crash.

In doing so, something that had been stuck inside the chimney came loose, dropping out and skittering across the concrete to land near my hand.

Matt, are you okay?

Meredith rushed around the side of the car.

I gave her a small wave from my position.

I thought I was going to have a lonely Christmas.

What is that?

It was a box, wrapped in white paper decorated with snowmen and tied with a red ribbon.

I thought presents were supposed to go under the tree, not up the chimney.

I got back to my feet and gave the box a shake.

Something rattled inside.

Previous owners probably hid their kids' gifts up there and forgot about it.

I wonder if.

Before I could stop her, Meredith snatched it out of my hands and began ripping at it eagerly.

I just love cool thrift stuff like this.

Little reminders of the people that things used to belong to.

Within seconds, she'd pulled off the ribbon and opened the lid.

The look of excitement on her face slowly drained.

Puzzled, I peeked inside and frowned.

It was a shoe.

A kid's sneaker, too dirty and roughed up to be new.

One of the laces had been violently torn out of the eyelets, hanging limply down and swaying slightly in the breeze.

Man,

what kind of bad parents did this kid have?

Meredith picked up the shoe and turned it over in her hands.

It has to be a joke.

A gag gift.

Give Jimmy his old pair of skechers before giving him new ones.

She looked troubled, so I put an arm around her.

Now, madam, we can't think such sad thoughts on the Yuletide.

Come, help me carry your hearth into thine castle.

She giggled

and bent down to pick up one side, letting the shoe drop to the driveway.

As As we carried our new eyesore into the house, I stared glumly at the would-be gift.

What a rotten present to give to a kid.

Meredith pounced on the fireplace immediately.

She had me move the tree out of its usual place in the corner to make room for it.

In a frenzy of stockings, garlands, and cards, she had the whole thing decked out in under half an hour.

And now for the piece de resistance.

She climbed eagerly behind it and plugged the cord into the wall.

The plastic logs roared to life, or rather, feebly lit up with just enough light to be disappointing.

But she'd strung lights around the mantle, and our stockings hung there, bathed slightly in the orange glow.

When Meredith stepped back out and saw the whole thing,

She sighed.

Aww, it reminds me of my grandma's fireplace.

She used to decorate it like this every Christmas.

I had to admit, it did look charming, at least in its total affront to good taste.

But if it made her happy, it made me happy.

Now we can decorate it every year, too.

Start a new tradition.

Meredith smiled and leaned up to kiss me.

Misty, who up to this point had been lounging with disinterest on the couch, pounced off and sauntered over.

She narrowed her eyes at the new addition to our home and came closer, reaching out an experimental paw.

Aw, this is too cute.

Matt, take a picture.

I was reaching for my phone when we heard a rattling.

Misty hissed and jumped back as a second peasant, this time with green paper, came tumbling out of the chimney and landed haphazardly in front of the fireplace.

With a yowl, she bolted and disappeared down the hallway.

Uh, guess there was one more in there.

I snatched it up and handed it to Meredith.

Things come in pairs.

One shoe for the other?

She began tearing at the paper.

Maybe the previous owners put the receipt inside somewhere.

We could try to find them.

They seem like special presents they forgot about before donating it.

She lifted the lid off and somehow frowned deeper than she had with the first gift.

What?

Did Jimmy have athlete's foot or something?

I peeked inside.

It was a pair of glasses.

For a kid, given the size.

The right lens was cracked nearly in half.

The left was missing altogether.

Matt, I don't like this.

Meredith put the box down and began looking around the edges of the fireplace.

People usually write their names on larger things they own, right?

I put my hands on her shoulders.

If it's freaking you out that much, we can just take it back to the store.

We both stepped back and looked at the decorations festooning the fireplace.

They seemed inadequate now.

Frivolous even, to cover up what was really just an ugly hunk of wood and plastic.

Meredith thought differently.

But it looks so nice.

Can we at least keep it up until mom and dad visit next week?

Then we can take it back, I promise.

I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd thrown the receipt away.

But no matter.

I could cart it off in the car, slap a free sign on it, and leave it somewhere in town.

Sure, babe.

Anything you want.

We stood there, wrapped in each other's arms as the lights twinkled.

We'd gotten the fireplace on a chance Thursday night trip to the thrift store, so the next day we had work.

Both our companies went back to the office post-COVID as quickly as possible.

I eyed the dark clouds outside the bathroom window as I brushed my teeth.

It was going to be a cold day.

I came downstairs to find Misty in front of the fireplace, crouched as if waiting to pounce.

Her tail flicked lazily behind her.

I reached down and scratched behind her ear.

What is it, girl?

Are you waiting for Santa to come down with some fancy feast?

I looked over and froze.

There was another present, in blue wrapping, lying in front of the fireplace.

I snatched it up and turned it over.

What the hell?

How many presents could fit up there?

I set it on the coffee table and got on my hands and knees, reaching up inside the fireplace.

I expected my hand to hit a wall of plastic only a foot or two inside the chimney, but to my surprise, it kept going.

I grunted and repositioned.

Despite the extra length, I still didn't find an end.

Oddly, the air seemed colder on my hands the further up I reached.

There was enough room to get off my knees.

The areas I was touching felt strange, rougher, harder than they should have been.

I thought I would have enough space to stand up completely, but I finally hit the top of the chimney.

I gave it a few experimental pushes.

It felt solid.

I tried to see by the light of the room seeping in the bottom, but it was surprisingly dark.

Well, I hadn't collided with any more presents.

That had to be the last of them.

Just to be sure, I began to feel around the top.

Who knows?

Maybe the previous owners had stuck the receipt up there.

My fingers found a purchase on the edge of something.

I frowned.

It felt like a slot.

I pushed my fingertips in and pulled.

It gave slightly, almost like the hinge on a trap door.

In doing so, a puff of air, colder than it had any right to be, ran over my fingers.

Goosebumps went down my arms.

What was this thing?

Babe, have you seen my necklace?

I think I left it in the kitchen.

Judging by the muffled quality of Meredith's voice, she was still upstairs.

I let the slot close again and crouched, quickly backing out of the fireplace.

For some reason, I didn't want her to see me peeking up there.

Misty apparently lost interest and took to staring wide-eyed at the lights that adorned the tree.

Uh, I don't know.

One second.

I quickly snatched up the present.

The glasses and shoes had been bad enough.

I didn't want to know what was in there, much less for Meredith to find out there was a third.

Hang on, I'm coming.

I heard her steps descending the stairs.

Without thinking, I jammed the gift under the couch and had just enough time to dart into the kitchen before she came down.

The necklace sat on the counter next to the coffee pot.

Found it.

She smiled and turned her back so I could fasten it.

How did Misty like the fireplace?

Did she find a new scratching post?

We'd lost a few pieces of furniture to her restless claws.

No, she doesn't seem to mind it, actually.

I lied.

She turned and smiled.

Come on, it's Friday.

Today will go by fast.

I left the tree on for Misty.

As we stepped out the door, I glanced back at the fireplace.

Only another week.

Meredith's office was closer, so she usually got home first.

As I drove through town, past the shop windows covered in fake snow and garlands, I began to feel uneasy.

Some Christmas song blared on the radio, but I shut it off.

Couldn't put my finger on what felt wrong.

I got my answer when I walked in the door.

Meredith stood near the fireplace, another present in her hands.

Her coat and bag lay forgotten on the couch.

I momentarily feared she'd found the hidden one from that morning.

But the paper was different.

Instead of blue trees with yellow lights, a pattern of red, green, and gold decorated it.

The momentary relief that washed over me was replaced with confusion.

There weren't any more presents up the chimney.

I checked.

This was in front of the fireplace when I came home.

She sounded uneasy.

Her hands trembled slightly as she held it out.

What the hell is going on, Matt?

I.

I uh

I struggled for words.

Before I could stop her, she began tearing furiously at the paper.

Where do these keep coming from?

They just can't appear out of nowhere.

She ripped away the last of the paper and opened the lid.

She recoiled like she'd been electrocuted and threw it to the floor.

It was a tie, an orange paisley necktie torn to shreds.

Only the carefully tied knot at the center of the loop kept the loose strands of fabric from falling away.

A few long black hairs were tangled among the folds.

There's something wrong with this thing, Matt.

Meredith began tearing down the lights she'd tied around the mantle and throwing the Christmas cards to the ground.

I don't want it in our house anymore.

Whoever owned this had a sick sense of humor.

For some reason, I thought of the slot I'd felt up the chimney that morning and got an idea.

Maybe the look of joy on her face when she'd finished setting it up yesterday inspired me.

Babe, wait.

She stopped her destruction and turned to look at me.

Maybe there's an explanation for all this.

I got on my hands and knees again and crawled inside the fireplace.

What are you doing?

I got back in the semi-crouched position I'd taken that morning and felt around for the slot.

My fingers found purchase and I tugged.

The cold air that shouldn't have been there hit my hands again, but I ignored it as the compartment opened.

I extended my arm as far as it could go down the new hole and felt around.

Mary, go around to the back of this thing.

Why?

Just do it.

I think I know the source of our mystery gifts.

I heard her clamber around to the back of the fireplace.

And what exactly am I looking for?

I don't know.

Some kind of door or hatch or something.

A few minutes passed before a second source of light came spilling out of the small compartment door.

I looked in to see a row of presents, all in their own cubby holes, arranged around some kind of chained track.

My head was inches away from a grabbing mechanism and the motorized hinge of the compartment.

Meredith's voice was clearer and closer, so I knew she was speaking through the hatch she'd found above.

Holy shit.

What the hell is this thing?

I think I know.

It's a gimmick.

You put presents in the back and this system moves them around and drops them from the chimney for you.

The parents can say, look, Santa's sending you one early.

It's a thing for kids.

There was relief in her voice when she spoke again.

Oh, thank God.

I thought they were coming through a wormhole or something.

I closed the door and retreated out of the fireplace.

Meredith was already removing the presents from the back.

I guess the parents forgot to take these out before donating it.

She glanced up.

Well, don't just stand there.

Give me a hand.

There were six more presents altogether, each wrapped in a different style of paper.

Given the glasses, shoe, and tie from earlier, we weren't expecting toys as we unwrapped them.

But each passing gift only made us more uneasy.

It made made for an odd, disquieting tableau once we laid them all out on the coffee table.

A woman's red sweater, torn at the left shoulder, a pair of house keys, the missing lens from the pair of glasses, an empty wallet, a broken necklace, a box full of separated links, and,

worst of all, a dried, bloody band-aid wrapped with a crusty piece of gauze.

Who the hell were these people?

There's no way any of these were meant as real gifts, even for a white elephant.

What's the point of buying something like that if you're going to have to dispense this stuff?

And they went through all the trouble of wrapping them in different paper, too.

I don't know.

Some people are just weird, I guess.

It was a sorry excuse, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Well, first thing tomorrow, we're taking it back to the store.

Let someone else take this creeps chunk home.

She began gathering up the wrapping paper.

My eyes drifted over to the fireplace and I noticed, for the first time, the scratch marks down the side.

The wood and plastic stonework was slashed in multiple places, especially around the base.

The glowing logs had a number done on them.

Looks like Misty used it as a scratching post after all.

She doesn't like it either.

One more reason to get rid of it.

Meredith stopped cleaning and looked troubled.

Have you seen her since we got home?

She usually greets me at the door when I come home, but she didn't tonight.

Now that I thought about it, I hadn't.

She usually came to supervise whatever we were doing in the living room in the evenings, but there was neither hide nor hair of our gray furball.

The next thing I knew, we were going all around the house, looking under chairs, in the bathroom, and inside kitchen cabinets.

I tried calling her name a few times before realizing she wasn't a dog.

As evening turned to night and we ran out of places to search, Meredith grew more frantic.

Maybe she slipped out when I was coming in the door.

I was checking a text from work and could have missed her.

Or maybe she's still here.

What if she's stuck somewhere?

I tried to calm her down.

Mary, it's okay.

Cats just disappear like this sometimes.

Maybe she's just feeling vengeful today.

She'll turn up.

Look, why don't we sit down and watch a movie?

Meredith only agreed to this plan if we set Misty's food dish on the ground beside the couch.

At every commercial break, she shook the bowl, hoping the sound would attract her.

But as love actually reached the final airport scene, it was clear she'd stopped paying attention long ago.

I just don't know where she could have gone.

I turned off the TV and started unplugging the lights.

Truth be told, I was starting to lose hope, too.

As we walked towards the stairs, I tried one more time to assure her.

This is her home.

If she got outside somehow, she'll find her way back.

I'm sure she'll be scratching on the front door anytime now.

I glanced back at the scratches on the fireplace.

Misty had been right, of course.

Animals have a sixth sense like that.

I was woken up around 8 the next morning by a box being thrown onto my stomach.

What?

I was still half asleep, trying to process what was happening when Meredith's voice, angry and demanding, cut through the fog.

Is this a joke, Matthew?

I blinked a few times and sat up.

It took me a second to process what was in my lap.

Another gift.

This one a swirling design of purple snowflakes, the paper torn away and the lid off.

I found that in front of the fireplace when I went to make coffee.

Did you sneak downstairs and wrap this in the middle of the night?

I looked inside the box, and my blood ran cold.

I put a shaky hand inside and pulled out Misty's collar.

The red one with blue stripes.

Her name tag glinted in the sunlight that streamed through the window.

What?

What are you talking about?

I turned to look at Meredith, who continued her death glare.

It was wrapped in everything.

What happened to Misty Matt?

Did you find her and think this would be cute?

Because it's not.

Especially involving the fireplace.

Where is she?

I have no idea where this came from.

I slept the whole night through.

Mary, you have to believe me.

But it was obvious she didn't.

She tore through the bedroom, looking under the bed and throwing the closet apart.

Uh-huh.

And I suppose it just materialized down there.

We took everything out of the fireplace.

It was empty.

Look, just tell me where she is so we can get on with our day.

We continued arguing.

her accusing me of hiding Misty and me trying to defend myself.

The words grew heated and our voices louder.

I ended up collapsing on the couch downstairs while she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

She'd left a Kenny G Christmas album playing on the stereo.

As the gooey saxophone ripples began to melt my brain, something came to me.

I got up and eyed the fireplace again.

The scratches in the plastic were deep.

deeper than I thought.

And given the location of scratched-off pieces, Misty's claws had dragged from inside the fireplace.

There was a bit of her gray fur on top of the logs.

I climbed behind it and opened the hatch.

Just as I'd expected, the slots were empty.

All six.

It clicked then.

There had been six presents for six slots.

That's all that could fit in there.

Where had the others come from?

The shoe, the glasses, the tie, the one under the couch, and Misty's collar.

My thoughts were interrupted by the bathroom door opening.

I peeked out from behind the fireplace to see Meredith coming down the stairs two at a time.

Her keys jangled in her hand.

I'm going out for a while.

Maybe I'll stop by mom and dad's.

Please, when I get back, stop the jokes.

Before I could get a word in, the door slammed behind her.

The next thing I knew, I was rummaging around under the couch.

The gift somehow looked worse than the previous morning, the paper more tattered, the ribbon practically falling off.

I tore the lid off and peered inside.

It was almost funny.

A dog color, with little mistletoes decorating it.

I read the name Benny on the tag.

I glanced up.

The interior of the fireplace looked darker than I remembered.

I couldn't even see the back wall behind the logs.

With a loud thump, another present came falling out of the chimney, tumbling over itself and landing next to the coffee table.

Something snapped in me then.

I don't know if it was leftover adrenaline from the fight with Meredith, the absurdity of it all, or the fact I missed my cat.

Before I could stop myself, I was on my hands and knees, crawling inside the fireplace.

I was slow in raising myself up, crouching slightly to not hit my head on the top of the chimney.

I barely registered I was now standing at full height before feeling around in the darkness for a second hatch, another compartment to put more presence in.

But as the cool, almost Arctic air draped down my shoulders, I was increasingly aware that was an impossibility.

My finger pricked on something sharp, and I drew back in surprise.

banging my elbow on the opposite wall.

I reached up again and found purchase on something small sticking out.

I yanked it out and held it up.

It was one of Misty's claws.

It had to be, embedded inside the chimney.

A few rows up, jammed in the fake stones, was a fingernail.

I spotted a second and third, jutting out from the cracks as I gazed upward.

The chimney continued, well past where it should have stopped, plastic stonework looking more like real masonry, until the shaft disappeared into darkness.

From somewhere high above, I heard a meow.

Misty?

The meow came again, and I detected movement just on the edge of the gloom.

If I squinted just right, It looked like a cat's tail, swinging in a slow, lazy arc.

Misty!

That's it, girl.

Come on down.

I stretched up on my tiptoes and reached as far as I could.

When my fingers found purchase on the fur, I registered two things at once.

First, it was cold and stiff, not like the warm softness of a cat at all.

Second, The tail had come down a bit too far out of the shadows, and I saw what was on the end, holding it out like a fishing lure.

A hand, old, ashen grey, and gnarled.

For a moment, I thought I saw a white ruff and a red sleeve behind it.

In the seconds it took to process this, the hand dropped the tail and grasped mine, intertwining our fingers and digging its nails into my palm.

I screamed and tried to pull back.

but the grip was like a vice.

It began retreating upward, slowly taking me with it.

I batted at it weakly with my other hand and tried to find purchase of any kind to stop the ascent, but my fingers skated uselessly over the stones.

With mounting horror, I realized my feet were starting to leave the ground.

I swung my legs outwards, trying to hook one of them on the edge of the opening, but I missed.

The hand dug its nails in tighter.

I felt blood well on my palm and start dripping down my arm.

I swung again and managed to catch my foot on the edge.

Instantly, a hot bolt of pain shot down my arm, concentrated in my wrist.

I flexed my muscles and tried to hold on.

Wildly looking around, I saw the severed tail lying in a heap next to the plastic logs, like a gray worm.

I swung my other foot and hooked that one as well, anchoring myself.

The pain in my wrist got worse, mounting in intensity with each passing second.

Suddenly, a cool rush of air came upon me, and something collided with my face.

I cried out and nearly lost the leverage.

As it slid off and tumbled to the ground below, I barely had time to register a flash of red wrapping paper.

A barrage of presents came, falling from the pit above me, each one landing on my head.

My wrist felt like someone had poured molten lava on it.

I looked at the thing grasping me, barely moving my head to avoid another falling gift.

I could see its fingertips beneath my skin, close to breaking through the back of my hand.

I felt my leverage start to loosen, the muscles in my legs starting to give out from the exertion.

They began to relax slowly, slipping ever closer off the edge.

My mind spun wildly, and I thought of Meredith coming home to find a particularly large gift waiting for her.

One foot slipped away.

I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, my whole arm was struck by a bolt of pain.

I let out another involuntary scream, and the blood that trickled down suddenly became a river, splattering onto my face.

With a sickening crack, the pressure let go and I fell.

The thing had something in its grip, pale and dripping, as it quickly vanished upwards into the shadows.

I hit the ground and rolled to the side, banging my head on the plastic logs.

Breathing heavily, I dragged myself out of the fireplace, leaving a wet trail behind.

The presents were soaked with red.

Several more came down the chimney.

My phone was on the coffee table.

I dialed as best I could and listened to the rings.

The pain in my wrist had intensified to such a degree I didn't feel it anymore.

Ignoring my slippery fingers, I reached for the nearest present.

I barely registered Meredith's voice.

Well, are you calling to end the charade?

I tore at the paper, but it wasn't going fast enough, so I ripped the ribbon off with my teeth.

I spat it out and lifted the lid.

I found Misty.

Misty's here.

She was in the fireplace the whole time.

Inside the box was a severed finger.

A wedding ring sparkled just above the knuckle.

They're here, too.

The previous owners.

No trouble getting a hold of them now.

Gifts still tumbled out of the fireplace, making a large pile that buried the logs.

I tore open another one.

An eyeball.

Dry.

The blue of the iris faded to a murky gray.

Matt.

Matt, what are you talking about?

You sound hurt.

Are you okay?

Just fine.

I tore the lid off another box.

An entire set of dogs' teeth rattling inside the box like stones.

You have fun.

I'll stay here and open everything.

The next box was bigger than the others, and heavier.

A few long dark hairs hanging out of the lid made me realize what was inside.

What?

Matt, please.

But I hung up.

That was about half an hour ago.

There's been several more calls, but I've ignored them all.

The presents continue to drop down the chimney, about one a minute.

It's hard to tear the paper and arrange things with only one hand, but I'm managing.

It's easy to follow, like putting a Lego set together, piece after piece.

Pretty soon I'll have the whole family laid out here on the floor.

Mom, Dad, Jimmy, and Benny.

And Misty!

Won't Mary be pleased to have her back?

The gifts have made quite a mountain.

Lots of them are dripping, their contents leaking through and staining the paper.

The carpet is soaked.

It's making a terrible mess.

Meredith is going to be angry.

I hope I can finish before my vision gets any dimmer.

Time for our last story, Santa.

Ooh, can I say it?

Sure, go ahead.

In our final tale.

Come on, Santa, do it right.

All right, all right.

In our

final

tale.

Right.

We hear the story of what happened to a village one Christmas.

Just a typical small town to grow up in, really.

That is, if you don't count the nuclear waste plant operating nearby.

And in this tale, shared with us by author R.J.

Wren, we learn how an odd snowfall one day became the beginning of the end for the village.

Performing this tale are James Cleveland, David Alt, Erica Sanderson, Jake Benson, and Penny Scott Andrews.

So this is good advice for now at least two reasons.

The advice, don't eat yellow snow.

I've never been able to forget the last time it snowed in the village where I was born.

I've tried, but I can't.

It isn't there anymore.

Redbreast.

Hasn't been for a very long time.

It looks as though, before the army or whoever they were left, they burned the entire place to the ground, then bulldozed what remained, scraped the earth bare and salted the soil upon which Redbreast had stood.

Very little grows there now.

I know, because...

Against my psychiatrist's best wishes, curiosity got the better of me about a year ago.

I found my my way back there just to see if any of it was real or like all the doctors over the years have insisted, I just made it up to explain away other more mundane but nonetheless disturbing memories.

But I hadn't.

Made it up, that is.

I know,

because

the nuclear waste plant is still there.

Closed now and abandoned.

Its days of processing radioactive waste long behind it, but still there, regardless.

So is, for some reason, most of the train station.

But the rest of the village has gone.

The school I went to was ground dust.

The house I spent the early part of my childhood, the rest of our street, all dust.

But otherwise, it's just how I remember it.

I don't know if anybody else ever made it out of Redbreast.

I've searched for others online and over the years I've even met up with a few who claimed to be fellow survivors.

But they have always turned out to be journalists or conspiracy nuts looking for a weird story to print in their grotty little magazine or post to their sad lonely blog that nobody other than their mum ever reads.

Honestly,

after all these years I'm almost glad I was the only survivor.

I wouldn't wish the memories of that Christmas upon anyone.

It's ruined my life.

The year was 1990.

School had broken up for the holidays and, like all my friends, I was wishing for a white Christmas.

But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for, because the snow came.

Only

it wasn't white.

It was Christmas Eve, and like every night, I was kneeling on my bed, gazing out of the window at the towering silhouettes of four mountain-like chimneys and their smaller, thinner counterparts that stretched into the sky from the nuclear waste plant.

During the day, it was a towering, concrete, grey monstrosity looming over us, blocking out the sun and spewing thick, foul-smelling smog into the air we breathed.

But by night, it was lit up like a Christmas tree.

The smaller chimneys with their coils of glowing white and red bulbs looked to me like giant candy canes standing tall between the four spewing giants as they belched flames of every imaginable colour into the night sky.

Dad was convinced the plant was making us all sick and was one of the few people in the village who had actively tried to stop it from being built in the first place.

Now that it was with us, he spent much of his free time trying to have it shut down.

I would never have dared say so to him, but secretly I loved the way it lit up the night.

and thought it was like living on the doorstep of Disneyland, not that I had ever been.

Dad opened the door to my room.

That's enough now, Robbie.

Oh,

just a little longer.

Dad sucked his teeth, as though considering my plea.

Stay up too late and he'll just fly right on past.

I gave him a curious look, uncertain whether to believe him or not.

Earlier that day, I'd heard one of the older boys on our street making fun of my friend Simon, who was a couple of years older than me for saying he still believed in Santa.

Mortified, I'd run straight home to ask Mum if what I'd heard was right.

She told me that some kids, when they get to a certain age, just stop believing in magic altogether.

She said, you can always tell who they are because Father Christmas stops bringing them gifts.

So he is real, then?

Yep.

And

if I don't believe...

Then I won't get any gifts?

You'll still get them from me and your dad.

Just not from from him.

Really?

Truth.

Truth.

He's really real.

Really, really real.

I remember Mum turned away from the washing bowl then and put her hands on her hips.

That meant she was serious.

You're willing to risk it on something you heard a bully say to someone in the street, Robbie?

The unhappy knot in my stomach eased a little, and I shook my head.

Good.

Now get upstairs and ready for bed before your dad gets home with your grandparents.

No doubt they'll want to see you, and I want you ready to head up just as soon as they're done.

I don't think I can remember a single other conversation I had with my mum before that day.

Even now, so many years later, sometimes I wake from a dream crying in the dark, knowing I'd been a kid again and speaking with her, but

whatever it was we talk about never stays with me.

I think maybe the memories I have of what happened the following day just...

well,

sort of wiped large parts of my life before that away.

Jack Carroll says he isn't real,

I informed Dad, watching for anything in his face that might have confirmed my suspicions.

But mum had prepared him for the question.

Jack Carroll is a fool of a boy.

Dad came to sit at the end of my bed.

And his dad ain't no better.

In fact, the whole deadbeat tribe of them wouldn't know magic if it walked up to them in the street and stuck a candy cane up each one of their honking great noses.

Laughing, I left the window and rolled into his arms.

Good.

I smiled against his chest.

Mum said he was real, and I believed her.

But I think I just needed to hear it from you as well.

Dad gave me one of his huge hugs.

The type that made me feel safe and loved and like I was going to be sick all at the same time.

God.

I miss those hugs.

Do you think it'll snow tonight, Dad?

I asked as he tucked me in and kissed my head.

Hmm.

He squinted thoughtfully.

Did you wish for it?

I nodded.

Well, if enough of the other kids in the village did too, then maybe.

I know Danny was going to.

And Paul, and Lucy.

He crossed his fingers and gave me a conspiratorial wink.

Good night, Robbie.

See you when it's Christmas.

Night, Dad.

Love you.

Love you too, boy.

Get some sleep.

It's going to be a long day tomorrow.

Presents to unwrap, nice things to eat.

That's how I like to remember him.

Tucking me in and saying goodnight.

Not the other way.

Not the way I last saw him.

Never that way.

Not if I can help it.

I woke up and saw a yellow light seeping into my bedroom around the edge of my curtains.

I gasped, remembering that it was Christmas and for the first time I could remember, I'd slept right through till morning.

I sat up in bed, snatching my Mickey Mouse alarm clock from my bedside table, wondering why it hadn't gone off.

But Mickey's gloved hands told me it wasn't even four o'clock.

I looked to the yellow light, wondering what it could be.

I replaced Mickey and pulled the curtain away from the window.

and couldn't believe my eyes.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of what looked like glowing yellow snow.

At first I thought it was just a reflection from the streetlights, but then I noticed the flakes were glowing, even as they drifted down from the sky above the waste plant, long before they got anywhere near the streetlights.

Besides, it was even glowing in the places where shadows should have been.

I stared out of the window.

Struck dumb by the sight, so confused by what I was seeing that I didn't even think to go tell mum and dad, let alone creep downstairs to see if Santa had been yet.

Trembling with confusion, I laid back down and closed my eyes, telling myself it was all just a dream.

A very strange, very yellow dream.

At some point, I must have drifted back to sleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up again back in bed, with Mickey chiming in my ear, letting me know it was six o'clock.

I chuckled at first.

remembering my strange dream about yellow snow.

But even before I'd thrown back my covers, I heard Mum scream from down the hall.

I jumped out of bed, flung open my door, and ran to see what was wrong.

Mum and Dad were standing at their bedroom window, peering down into our back garden.

Mum had her hands up to her mouth, and Dad was just shaking his head and muttering how he'd warned everyone something like this was bound to happen.

What's wrong?

I asked, wriggling between them.

But before they could answer, I saw for myself.

The yellow snow I'd seen falling during the night hadn't been a dream after all.

Mum had the radio on in the kitchen and dad was channel-hopping on the TV in the living room.

Both were trying to see if there was anything on the news about the yellow snow.

Granddad spoke up between spoonfuls of steaming porridge.

Now, when I was a nipper, back in the war,

we used to regularly get all sorts of gumps falling from the sky.

Mark my words, a bit of yellow snow ain't nothing to worry about, boy.

Yeah, we don't know that, Pops.

I just don't want you going out in it, Robbie, not until we know more.

But, Dad.

No, but, Robbie.

Mum came through the door with a plate full of bacon sandwiches.

Your dad's right.

It don't look safe.

Granddad waved her worries away with a brush of his wrinkly old hand.

Poppycock,

Pops.

Dad followed Mum into the dining room.

Just stop it, will you?

We don't want to risk it.

You know what I've been saying about that damn plant?

Wow, you don't know the plants to blame.

Granddad, like most people in the village, had spent the last few years before his retirement working at the plant.

Dad scowled at him and pointed a bacon sandwich at the plant through the window.

I bet everything we own, that place is responsible.

Grandad rolled his eyes and reached for a bacon sandwich of his own.

I remember the war.

Oh, that's nice, mum.

Grandma smiled as Dad handed her a sandwich.

She wasn't always up to speed.

Her mind tended to wander.

She often weighed in on a conversation a few minutes after the rest of us had started talking about something else.

After breakfast, we opened our gifts.

Mum and Dad both looked sheepish when I got to the large, awkwardly wrapped present that looked suspiciously like a sledge.

But I had to admit, even though I'd sort of wished for it, and no matter how much Grandad said we were all being ridiculous, even I had reservations about going out to play in the yellow snow.

I seem to remember a certain someone telling me never to eat yellow snow when I was a lad.

Dad grinned as Grandad stuck out his tongue and both began to laugh.

What?

I don't get it.

Pee!

Grandma cackled from the armchair by the window, and that made everyone laugh, even mum.

Once we had all finished opening our gifts, I asked if I could go up to my room to play with my new toys.

Santa had brought me the Ghostbusters fire station headquarters.

It had slime and everything.

They said I wanted to put it together, but secretly I just wanted to watch the kids that had been allowed outside playing in the yellow snow.

Dad looked like he might protest.

He liked us to spend the whole day together.

He used to say say that was what Christmas was all about, but Grandad cut in before he got a chance, saying it was time for the Queen's speech and that everyone needed to shut up and be quiet.

Noticing the pleading look on my face, Mum leaned down and whispered in my ear, Go on then,

but I want you back down once it's over.

I'm still not sure whether it was while I was watching the other kids playing in the strange snow, or later when those terrible cries started, then I realized there was something seriously wrong.

But what I do know is not one of those kids having snowball fights and making snow angels.

One, I remember, was even building a bright yellow snowman.

Not one of them seemed to care much about the color.

There were a few adults outside, but mostly, wherever I looked, I saw, pressed against the windows of virtually every house up and down our street, the faces of our neighbors and their children who, like me, hadn't been allowed into the snow.

So when the play fights the lucky kids were having turned into more than just a game, I can't have been the only one who saw it.

And I can't have been the only one who saw the black eyes open in their foreheads either.

But I didn't wait to find out.

Instead, I ran from my bedroom calling for mum.

Rommy, I am trying to listen to the blasting speech.

Don't speak to him like that.

Granddad frowned, turning back to the TV, mumbling something about respecting your elders and things being different when he was a nipper.

What is it, Rubby?

The kids.

Outside.

I thought you went up there to play.

I did.

I lied.

see if anyone had gone out and

and what rubby

dad crossed the room to the window

there are but i don't believe it.

Who would let their children out in that?

The Carols.

I shook my head.

Not Jack and Sophie.

Kids from further down the road, I think.

Well, they aren't now.

I know.

That's what I've been trying to tell you.

They were playing in the snow, having a snowball fight, but something happened to them.

Their eyes went all...

I don't know, like cloudy.

And one black one opened up in their foreheads and

they started fighting for real.

Mum pursed her lips and gave Dad a dark look as if to say,

see what all your nonsense has put in his head.

Stop talking rubbish.

He's going to a good bit.

Mum's look grew darker still as she turned towards granddad.

Dad broke in before she had a chance to speak.

Pops, why don't you try my new headphones?

They plug straight into the TV.

Well, what about your poor old mum?

She'll swear it too.

Mum's been asleep since it started.

Dad placed his headphones over Grandad's ears and then stood in front of him with his thumbs up.

Grandad nodded and made a shoeing motion.

Care the way.

Look, here she comes.

Sorry about that, Robbie.

Dad glanced apologetically at Mum before laying a hand on my shoulder and taking a knee so he could look me in the eye.

Tell me exactly what you saw.

I'm going to try the police again, and I think think they'll want to hear this.

It is Christmas, John.

There's probably no one at the desk.

Well, there should be.

It's not like crime takes a break for the holidays.

If I don't get an answer this time, I'll try Scotland Yard or the papers.

If the media get wind of this, they'll have a field day.

They'll soon get to the bottom of it.

I told Dad everything I could remember.

Then he went to the phone.

He'd just begun dialing when we heard the first of the cries in the street outside.

The sound made my skin crawl.

Dad flinched and dropped the receiver.

What was that?

Mum pulled me into a hug so tight I could hear the frantic pounding of her heart through the thick Christmas jumper she was wearing.

I, uh,

I don't know, a dog?

Don't sound like a dog to me.

Dad nodded and dragged his eyes from the window.

glancing to where Mum was squashing the life out of me at the bottom of the stairs.

It's probably nothing to worry about.

Probably just those kids Robbie was telling us about.

The looks on our faces must have told him we didn't believe a word he was saying.

Tell you what, I've got that hazmat suit in the garage, the one I bought for protesting the plant.

It's real.

I'll pop it on and take a look outside.

I could tell by the way Mum kept digging her fingernails into my shoulders that she didn't want him going outside.

But both of us knew.

Once dad had made up his mind to do something, it was useless trying to get him to stop.

Every so often as Dad rummaged about the garage looking for his suit, we heard another one of those guttural cries.

With every fresh wave of howls, I could see Mum growing more worried.

Eventually, she let go of my shoulders and squeezed my hand, marching me through the kitchen to the door that led to the garage.

She pushed it open and almost yanked my arm from its socket as she recoiled at the sight of Dad dressed from head to toe in the bright yellow suit.

He grimaced through the clear plastic covering his face.

I'm sorry, honey, only me.

Should have called through to let you know I was ready.

I don't like this, John.

Not one bit.

Whatever's making them sounds, they're getting closer.

It's probably just kids mucking about.

No doubt the police are on their way.

If there's anything to worry about, they'll be clearing the streets and getting it put right in no time.

For now, this bad boy will keep me safe.

He patted the suit and then walked to the garage door and pulled on the cord to slide it open.

It was strange.

I'd been expecting to feel a rush of cold air swarm in as the large metal door lifted.

But

if anything, the breeze that washed over us felt warm,

tingly.

Be careful, Dad.

You two better get inside.

I'll have a quick nosy about.

Won't be gone long.

Then, he stepped out into the yellow snow.

pulling the door closed behind him.

That was the last time I ever spoke to my dad.

Not the last time I heard his voice.

Like I said,

I don't like to remember the last time.

Me and mum left Grandad watching the Queen's speech, with Grandma still sound asleep in the armchair by the window, and headed up to my bedroom to watch Dad.

Thinking back on it now, so many years on,

I'm still not sure if I'm glad we decided to do that.

If we hadn't, it would have meant one less nightmare, but on the other hand, I got got to see what kind of a man he really was.

I already knew he was strong.

I might have only been a kid, but the way he stood up to the powers that be, heading the picket lines when they found out the government's planned to build the waste plant right on our doorstep taught me that.

But seeing the way he stood up to those things, well,

it made me realize just how brave he was too.

Plenty of others that day met their ends with their backs to them, running away.

I don't blame them.

Not one bit.

I would have run too if I'd been given the chance.

But not my dad.

No.

He fought them, tooth and claw.

Look, there he is.

I pointed to a white van covered in yellow snow.

It was surprisingly hard to make him out in the hazmat suit, and colour was a close match to the snow about him.

But I'd seen him scurry out from the cover of a snow-laden car to duck behind the van.

Where?

Mum reached for the cuddly slimmer pillow that lived on my bed, squeezing it as tightly as she had held me downstairs.

There!

I pointed again as Dad ducked from behind the van and crabwalked to kneel behind a snow-topped electrical box outside the Carol's house.

What's he doing?

I wish he'd just come back inside and let the police deal with this.

She opened the window and...

again.

That peculiar, warm breeze filtered in to greet us.

John!

John, that's enough now.

Come back, won't you?

Even though he was all the way across the street and his face was behind a film of plastic, I saw Dad's eyes widen in response to Mum's voice as it echoed up and down the seemingly empty street.

Flinching, He glanced up to see us watching and then held a shaking finger to the plastic covering his face, urging Mum to be quiet.

Just then, as as though in response to Mum's call, a fresh chorus of those blood-curdling cries filled the air.

There seemed to be more of them than before.

Louder and much, much closer.

All three of us looked in the direction the cries had come from.

I couldn't see anything from where Mum and me stood in the window, but judging by the way he reacted, Dad could.

He sprang from his hiding place, sprinted towards our house.

At first I thought they were dogs.

Rabid and bald from whatever had caused the snow to fall yellow.

But that was wishful thinking.

The dogs wouldn't have done what those things did to my dad.

There was only one, to begin with.

But I think the others must have been drawn by the sound of his pain.

Because the louder he screamed, the more of them seemed to appear.

Just how many there were in the end?

I don't know.

A lot.

I lost count before it was over.

The first one to reach him pounced on his back when he was only halfway across the road.

Toyed with him, like a cat does a mouse, letting him go just long enough so that he could flop bonelessly away, only to be wrenched back for more of the same.

The first few times he kicked and bucked at the thing, swung his arms wildly, clawed frantically at the snow-covered road.

But each time the thing overpowered him, with a gleeful, slack-jawed grin upon its vicious face, and drew him close to playfully break yet another part of him.

Again

and again, the thing tormented its prey until,

exhausted, Dad's strength faltered and the fight was over.

He looked up to us one last time.

I saw his lips slacken and then his head dropped to the ground.

That was when the others joined in and mum, who had been screaming and banging on the glass all the while, grew curiously quiet.

She turned away from the window and slumped to my bed, clutching even more tightly at my slimmer pillow.

I wish I had too.

Turned away, that is.

But for some morbid reason, I still don't understand, my brain decided that instead of protecting my young mind from the horrors of seeing my dad molested and eaten alive by monsters, I was to instead witness every single soul-wrenching moment of it.

I watched, fixated until those things lost interest in the Wet, plastic, wrapped mess of torn flesh and splintered bone that was was all they left of him.

I think maybe I went mad for a while.

It's the only way I can explain why I didn't run and hide, or even just turn away from what was happening like mum.

All I know is that I couldn't move.

Not a muscle.

It was like I had died from the eyes down.

I knew I hadn't though, because I could hear the jackrabbit thud of my pulse hammering in my ears.

I could feel the liquid fire of my tears gathering in my eyes and the burning trails they left on my bloodless cheeks.

The whole attack, from start to finish, can't have lasted more than a minute or two.

But watching from my bedroom, helpless and afraid, a 10-year-old boy knowing I was seeing my dad's final moment, and knowing there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it, it felt like a lifetime.

I think maybe the way the world seemed to slow down, as my mind held on with fierce lick fingers to what was left of my crumbling sanity, was all that allowed me to see the monsters for what they were.

Because I knew, beyond a question of a doubt, that the things eating my dad were the kids I'd seen playing in the yellow snow that morning.

I knew,

because they were still wearing the same clothes.

Parts of them at least.

Their coats and trousers had been torn to shreds during whatever loathsome metamorphosis had spat forth the primeval-looking creatures that, even as I looked on in dumbstruck horror, slashed and gnawed upon my dad's limp form.

In truth, if it hadn't been for the shredded shirts hanging from their hunched and spiny backs, or the lacerated threads of jeans flapping about their now fawn-like hips, I don't think it would have occurred to me.

Because...

Disregarding the remnants of children's clothes, there was little else to distinguish them as such.

Each grotesque had a vicious set of slashing black claws that curled from the ends of their ape-like arms, and a large and ungainly set of silvery blood-stained antlers that rose from the tops of their misshapen skulls.

When they weren't using them as weapons to battle one another or feasting upon my dad's corpse, They would scrape them along the ground, presumably to sharpen them on the concrete beneath the yellow snow.

Where Where once innocent faces had gleamed with seasonal delight, now elongated muzzles of raw sinew and bone, packed to brimming with thick, silvery needles, slathered and gaped as they gulped down wet, red mouthful after wet, red mouthful.

I watched until the things that had been children lost interest in the wet mass of torn flesh.

that was all they left of him.

Witnessed as their attention turned to the snow about their large black hooves,

and, with a hunger more ravenous than they had unleashed upon my dad, watched as they began to devour clawful after clawful of the glowing yellow stuff.

Only then, as I saw how they grew and changed, surrounded by red smears and fragmented bone, becoming more monstrous with each wolf-like bite, Did my body finally respond to my screaming mind.

Cheeks slick with tears, I turned my shaking frame away, stumbling from my bed and felt my ankle crumple beneath my weight.

Pain roared up my leg.

It took every inch of my strength not to cry out and risk inviting the monsters closer.

Instead, I clenched my jaw, took Mum's hand and pulled her to her feet.

She gasped, as though being woken from a dream, pulled her hand from mine and our eyes met.

I watched as hers grew wide, saw the realization of what we had seen sink home.

She turned to the window.

John!

I took her hand again, pulled her away before she could see what the monsters had left of him.

I was starting to feel cold all over and couldn't stop myself from shivering.

Mom,

just

don't.

Don't.

He's gone.

She frowned at me, as though she didn't understand.

But the look on my face must have told her everything, because she started whinnying.

A sound like a nervous horse rattled from her lips.

A noise that ended in shuddering sobs as she pulled me into her arms and started rocking us both.

She must have looked out the window, though.

Because a few moments later the sobs became a great rasping wail that made my ears ring and my heart ache.

She held me so tight that I could feel my ribs bending under the strain of it.

She pressed her face so close to mine and our tears mingled.

It was then that Grandad burst through the door, complaining about the noise.

Johns!

Dad, you stupid old fuck!

Mum brushed me aside and threw herself across the room, fastened her hands about Grandad's throat.

Thinking she was going to throttle him then and there, I staggered to where she stood with her hands around his frail neck, pressing him against my bedroom wall and calling him all the names under the sun.

I pleaded with her to stop.

Tears of fear and pain rolling down my cheeks, I pulled at her clothes, begging her not to hurt him, hissed through gritted teeth for the both of them to stop shouting in case the monsters heard.

At first, Grandad had refused to believe what we told him about dad.

But he couldn't deny what he saw with his own eyes.

Once I'd stopped mum from killing him, she went downstairs and I'd joined Grandad at my bedroom window.

We watched as a small pack of the monsters ripped the front door off a house across the street and piled in to get at the screaming family inside.

What are we gonna do?

Grandad glared defiantly at Mum and rubbed his neck where purple finger-shaped bruises had already begun to appear.

Mum didn't bother to look in his direction.

I don't know, Tom.

We were back downstairs.

Mum was trying to to explain to Grandma why my dad wasn't going to be able to make her the Irish coffee she kept asking for.

Well, we need to do something.

We can't just sit around here and wait for those things to get us, too.

At Grandad's words, I saw Mum close her eyes and her cheeks redden as her temper flared.

I hoped the old fool wasn't going to push her too far because my ankle was killing me and I couldn't move very fast.

I didn't think I could stop her from strangling him a second time.

But instead of flying flying for him, though, she just sort of...

deflated.

I know, Tom.

But if we go out there, they might get us or worse.

If Robbie's right and the snow turned those poor children into...

She held herself and shuddered.

Whatever they are now,

then we might end up just like them.

When me and grandad had joined them back downstairs, I told everyone what I thought the creatures were.

And to my surprise, none of them had dismissed it out of hand, saying it was as good a guess as any

so what we just sit tight and wait for them to tear our door down next

mum growled and darted towards the old man with murder in her eyes but before she reached him i snatched up the bowl of peanuts from the coffee table and hurled it at the wall he turned to face me what do you think you're doing robbie mum bent over to pick up the splintered glass

leave it mum

just listen will you

to To my surprise, she did and nodded for me to go on.

They got bigger and scarier when they ate more of the snow.

Maybe we'll be safe as long as we don't get it in our mouths.

We might be able to get away while they're in the other houses.

Mum and grandad exchanged an angry look, but didn't argue anymore.

What if he's wrong?

What if he's not?

At this point, I don't think we have anything to lose.

Something of this must have reached beyond Redbreast by now.

The army or someone will be on on their way to put a stop to it.

Okay, but how long's that going to take?

Because it's taking those things no time at all to go from one house to the next.

We're only still here because they started on the other side of the street.

At some point, they're gonna run out of houses on that side and head over here.

By the time someone arrives, those things will probably have gone through the whole village.

What was that?

Gunfire.

Grandad gave a knowing grin.

See?

Didn't I say help was on its way?

Bang!

Woo!

Oh, close to.

Mum ran upstairs, and I hobbled after her.

From where we knelt on my bed, we could see the source of the gunfire.

Three men with scarves wrapped about the lower half of their faces.

They were walking down the center of the street.

Two of them were firing shotguns at the monsters, and a third following close behind, loading two spares and swapping them out as the cartridges were spent.

Is that Mr.

Dappledown and his boys?

Looks like it.

Don't know anyone else in the village with hair like that.

Even from all the way down the road, we could see the matching nests of wild red hair that stuck out from beneath the woolly hats of all three men.

At least, I hope it is.

Can't think what reason anyone else in the village other than a farmer would have for needing so many guns.

A crashing of splintering wood and breaking glass sounded from downstairs, dragging our attention away from the trigger-happy farmer and his boys.

Get in the loft.

Quick.

Mum dragged me out of my bedroom, pulled the cord to the loft hatch above the landing, and lifted me until I could pull myself through.

She ran to the bathroom, coming back with a couple of tablets.

Take these.

She reached up to place them in my mouth.

They'll help with the pain.

One of those monstrous cries shook the house, and we heard Grandma scream.

Little Dom!

What the hell's that?

Get off her, you big ugly fuck!

The Nazis didn't scare me, and neither do you.

The sounds Grandad made as he went to Grandma's rescue were almost demonic.

I reached out a panicky hand, intent on helping Mum into the loft after me, but she shook her head.

No, you stay up there, Robbie.

The Dappledowns aren't far off.

If I can get their attention, they might be able to help.

What about Grandma and Grandad?

I sniffed as tears rolled off my nose to drip onto her face.

She wiped them away, along with her own.

They're already gone.

Robbie, I love you.

Remember that?

She closed the loft hatch,

leaving me terrified and crying in the dark.

Like I said, I don't know if anyone else made it out.

Certainly the soldiers who found me in the loft, dehydrated and half dead, however many days later, didn't see fit to tell me.

I don't know what it was that mum gave me for my twisted ankle, but it definitely wasn't paracetamol.

Because not long after I'd swallowed the tablets, I started feeling tired and woozy, and

before I knew it, I was waking up cold and shivering under one of my dad's old coats.

I had a pounding headache and was thirstier than I'd ever been.

So I crawled to the loft hatch and listened as best I could.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been up there, but I had a sinking feeling that if Mum had found the help she'd left me for, then she would have come back for me by now.

My bottom lip started quivering at the thought, remembering what I'd seen happen to my dad and had heard happening to grandma and granddad.

pushed the fear away,

not willing to let myself believe that had happened to mum as well.

I told myself that she and the Dappledowns were probably just outside keeping the monsters at bay.

I wiped my eyes and listened harder at the loft hatch.

I couldn't hear any gunfire or any of those raking cries the monsters had been making all morning, so I thought I'd risk climbing down to take a look.

Only, when I tried to open the hatch, it wouldn't budge.

Mum had locked me up there.

It was pitch black, and I had no way of telling if it was day or night.

But I think it was at least three days, maybe four, before the soldiers found me.

I guess they had been doing a final sweep of the village before giving the all-clear to wipe Redbreast off the map.

But none of that was ever explained to me.

When I asked about my mum, they told me I was the only one they had found.

And when I asked about the monsters, they told me I had imagined them.

Said that none of it had been real.

They were very adamant about that.

So

that's my story.

It's not the first time I've told it, but it is the first time I've written it down in full.

Maybe this time someone will believe me.

Frankly, at this point, I couldn't care less.

I just think it's important there's at least one record of what happened to my family and all the others who must have just gone missing that day.

I find it hard to believe that no one else has ever gone looking for answers.

I don't know.

Maybe they have and maybe they were silenced.

Maybe there are other survivors out there that have been told time and time again they just made it all up.

And if there are,

then I hope someday, somehow, They get to see this.

I'm going to post it on social media, but I don't imagine it it will stay on any of the main sites for long.

I'll send it to a few people I've met over the years.

Those who haven't simply written me off as crazy.

Maybe they'll be able to get someone to take it seriously.

But as for me,

this is it.

I give up.

Robin, Jay, Marley.

P.S.

Don't eat yellow snow.

We're finished with our night of Christmas.

Thank you for sharing in our plight.

May your nights be scary with blight

and may all your Christmases cause fright.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInally, Ollie A.

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The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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