There’s a reason we leave out milk and cookies for Santa, and it’s not out of kindness. It’s out of fear.
Snow blanketed the suburban neighborhood, muffling the sounds of distant carolers and creating a serene, almost otherworldly atmosphere. Houses adorned with twinkling lights stood as beacons in the cold night, their warm glows promising comfort and joy.
But inside Jenna’s house, the mood was far from festive.
“I still can’t believe you’ve never missed a year,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes as she poured another glass of wine.
“Leaving out milk and cookies for Santa? Seriously, Sal?”
I shrugged, feeling a bit defensive. “It’s a tradition, Jenna. My family’s always done it.”
Jenna laughed, her rebellious streak evident. “It’s a silly one. I mean, we’re in college now.
Do you really believe a fat man in a red suit is going to come down the chimney?”
“It’s not about belief,” I replied, looking out the window at the serene snowscape. “It’s about the spirit of Christmas, the magic of it all.”
Jenna smirked. “Well, if Santa does show up, I hope he likes red wine. That’s all he’s getting from me.”
The night wore on, and as the clock neared midnight, a mix of curiosity and defiance took hold of me. “What if we stay up and see if he really comes?” I suggested.
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “A stakeout for Santa? You’re on.”
We settled in the living room, the glow from the Christmas tree casting eerie shadows on the walls. Hours seemed to pass in minutes, and soon the grandfather clock in the hallway began to chime, signaling midnight.
That’s when we heard it—a faint scratching sound coming from the roof. Jenna and I exchanged nervous glances. “Probably just a squirrel,” she whispered, but her voice wavered with uncertainty.
The scratching grew louder, more persistent. Then, a thud echoed through the house, followed by heavy, deliberate footsteps. Jenna’s face turned pale, her earlier bravado gone. “That’s no squirrel,” she murmured.
We peeked around the corner, and what we saw was far from the jolly old Saint Nick of legends. A tall, gaunt figure, more shadow than substance, moved through the room. Its eyes, two glowing embers, scanned the surroundings, searching for something.
The milk and cookies.
My heart raced as I remembered the plate of cookies and glass of milk I’d left at home. Jenna’s house was devoid of the traditional offering, and the creature’s agitation was palpable.
“We need to find something,” I whispered, pulling Jenna towards the kitchen. But as we rummaged through the cabinets, the creature’s growls grew louder, more menacing.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. Jenna. I turned just in time to see the shadowy figure tower over her, its form even more monstrous, its eyes burning with rage.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. The milk and cookies weren’t just a tradition. They were a necessity. A protection against the darkness that sought to claim those who forgot.
The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock and Jenna’s ragged breathing.
The monstrous figure loomed over her, its form shifting and undulating like a living shadow. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to escape the nightmare unfolding before me, but my feet were rooted to the spot.
Jenna’s eyes, wide with terror, met mine. “Sally,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Help me.”
I frantically scanned the room, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon or a distraction.
My gaze landed on a plate of gingerbread cookies Jenna’s mother had baked earlier. Without thinking, I grabbed a handful and hurled them at the creature.
To my astonishment, the shadowy figure paused, its attention momentarily diverted by the cookies. Seizing the opportunity,
I grabbed Jenna’s arm and pulled her towards the back door.
“Run!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the silent house.
We sprinted through the snow-covered backyard, our breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The cold air stung my lungs, but fear propelled me forward. Behind us, the creature let out an enraged roar, the sound echoing through the night.
Jenna and I didn’t stop running until we reached the safety of a neighbor’s house. We pounded on the door, our cries for help muffled by the thick wooden barrier. After what felt like an eternity, the door swung open to reveal a concerned elderly couple.
“Good heavens!” the old woman exclaimed, ushering us inside.
“What on earth happened?”
Between gasps for breath, I recounted the night’s terrifying events.
The couple exchanged worried glances, their expressions grave.
“We’ve heard rumors,” the old man began, his voice trembling. “Whispers of a dark entity that roams the town on Christmas Eve, seeking offerings. Those who fail to appease it face its wrath.”
Jenna, her face pale, looked at me with wide eyes. “We have to warn the others,” she whispered.
The rest of the night was a blur. Jenna and I, with the help of our neighbors, went from house to house, warning residents of the impending danger. Some scoffed at our tale, dismissing it as a prank or the result of too much holiday cheer. But others, especially the elderly, nodded gravely, their expressions betraying their fear.
As dawn broke, a sense of relief washed over me. The nightmare was over, or so I thought. But as I returned to Jenna’s house, a chilling discovery awaited me.
The front door was ajar, and inside, the once-cozy living room was in shambles. Furniture was overturned, ornaments shattered, and in the center of the room lay the plate of gingerbread cookies, now empty.
A cold dread settled in my stomach as I realized the implications. The creature had returned, and this time, it had taken something far more precious than cookies.
Jenna was gone.
The weight of Jenna’s absence was suffocating, and the realization that she was truly gone, taken by that monstrous entity, was a knife twisting in my gut.
I had tried to appease the creature with the milk and cookies from the store, but it was clear that it wanted something more. Something irreplaceable. As I stood in the dimly lit living room, the gravity of my failure pressed down on me. Jenna had scoffed at the tradition, and now she had paid the price.
The silence of the house was suddenly shattered by a soft, mocking laughter that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The creature was still here, watching, waiting. I could feel its presence, a malevolent force that seemed to feed off my fear and despair.
Desperation drove me to the fireplace. Maybe, just maybe, if I could rekindle the fire, the creature would be driven away by the light. But as I struck match after match, they all sputtered out, leaving me in darkness.
A cold gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the last of the candles. And then, from the shadows, the creature emerged. It was no longer the jolly Santa of legends but a twisted, nightmarish version. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent light, and its mouth stretched into a grotesque grin, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.
I backed away, my heart pounding in my chest, but the creature advanced, its movements deliberate and predatory. I could feel its hunger, its need to consume and destroy.
In a final act of defiance, I hurled the empty milk carton at it, but the creature merely laughed, the sound echoing through the room, chilling me to the bone. It was clear that there was no escaping this nightmare.
Suddenly, a beam of light pierced the darkness. The first rays of dawn were breaking through the windows, casting the room in a soft, golden glow. The creature hissed, recoiling from the light. Its form began to waver, becoming less substantial, more shadow than substance.
Seizing the opportunity, I lunged for the front door, throwing it open and letting the morning light flood the room. The creature let out a final, enraged scream before dissipating into nothingness.
I collapsed on the front porch, gasping for breath, the events of the night replaying in my mind. Jenna was gone, taken by a force that defied explanation. And as the sun rose, casting the neighborhood in a warm, golden light, a chilling realization settled over me.
The tradition of leaving out milk and cookies for Santa wasn’t just a quaint custom; it was a necessity, a protection against the darkness that waited in the shadows.
The days that followed were a blur of grief and disbelief. The neighborhood was in shock, unable to comprehend the horror that had befallen Jenna’s household. Whispers and hushed conversations filled the air, with many speculating about the events of that fateful night. But no one dared to speak the truth aloud, for fear of invoking the creature’s wrath once more.
I found myself trapped in a cycle of guilt and despair. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jenna’s terrified face, heard her desperate pleas for help. I replayed that night over and over in my mind, wondering if there was anything I could have done differently, any way I could have saved her.
But amidst the overwhelming grief, a burning desire for answers took root. I needed to understand what had happened, to uncover the truth behind the monstrous entity that had taken Jenna from us. And so, I began my search.
I started with the local library, pouring over old newspapers and town records. While I found no direct mention of the creature, there were numerous reports of unexplained disappearances on Christmas Eve, dating back decades. Each case was eerily similar - a household that had neglected the tradition of leaving out milk and cookies, and a loved one gone without a trace.
As I delved deeper into the town’s history, I stumbled upon a name that sent chills down my spine - Mrs. Caldwell. The elderly woman had lived in the neighborhood for as long as anyone could remember, and rumors of her tragic past were whispered amongst the townsfolk. It was said that many years ago, on a cold Christmas Eve, her youngest daughter had vanished without a trace. The police had found no evidence of foul play, and the case had eventually gone cold. But now, with the knowledge of the creature’s existence, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.
I approached Mrs. Caldwell with trepidation, unsure of how she would react to my questions. But to my surprise, she welcomed me with open arms, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. As we sat in her cozy living room, she recounted the events of that fateful night, her voice trembling with emotion.
She spoke of the creature, of its insatiable hunger and the price it demanded for its appeasement. She spoke of her guilt, of the burden she had carried for all these years, knowing that her negligence had cost her daughter’s life. And as she spoke, I realized that our stories were eerily similar, two souls bound by tragedy and loss.
The weight of the truth was overwhelming, but it also brought a sense of closure. I finally understood the importance of the tradition, of the need to appease the creature and keep it at bay. And as I left Mrs. Caldwell’s house, a newfound determination took hold.
I would ensure that no one else suffered the same fate as Jenna, that the tradition was upheld, and the creature’s hunger was sated.
The aftermath of Jenna’s death became a turning point for me. The weight of the truth, the realization of the creature’s existence, and the importance of the tradition consumed my every thought. I couldn’t let Jenna’s death be in vain. I had to ensure that no one else suffered the same fate.
I became an advocate for the tradition, speaking at town meetings, visiting schools, and even going door-to-door. While some dismissed my warnings as the ramblings of a traumatized individual, many listened. Parents held their children close, their faces pale with realization. The importance of the tradition was discussed in hushed tones, and the local stores reported a surge in sales of milk and cookies as Christmas approached.
The town’s atmosphere during the festive season changed. There was a collective sense of responsibility, a shared understanding of the importance of the offerings. Houses that once overlooked the tradition now had meticulously arranged plates of cookies and glasses of milk, a silent prayer for protection accompanying each.
Christmas Eves became sleepless nights for me. The trauma of that fateful night with Jenna never truly left, and the fear of the creature’s return was a constant shadow. Each year, as midnight approached, I would sit in my living room, the glow from the fireplace casting flickering shadows on the walls. The plate of cookies and the glass of milk would be placed with precision on the coffee table, a ritual I followed with religious fervor.
One particular Christmas Eve, as the clock neared midnight, the familiar anxiety gripped me. The house was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. I found myself lost in memories of Jenna, the pain of her loss still as raw as ever.
Suddenly, a cold gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the flames in the fireplace. The room was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the soft glow of the streetlights outside. A sense of dread washed over me, every fiber of my being screaming that I wasn’t alone.
Soft, deliberate footsteps echoed through the silence, growing louder with each passing second. The creature was here, its presence palpable. I held my breath, praying that the offerings would be enough.
The minutes that followed felt like hours. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with anticipation. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the footsteps ceased. A soft rustling sound filled the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of munching.
As dawn broke, casting a soft golden hue over the snow-covered neighborhood, I let out a sigh of relief. The creature had been appeased, at least for another year.
But as I looked at the empty plate and glass on the coffee table, a chilling thought crossed my mind. The creature’s hunger was insatiable, its demands ever-growing. And as the years went by, would a simple offering of milk and cookies be enough?
I shuddered at the thought, the weight of the responsibility pressing down on me. And as I prepared for another day, one thought echoed in my mind:
I just hope the offerings are enough.