In the small, secluded town of Kacksburgh, nestled deep within a blanket of snow, the days leading up to Christmas Eve were always a blend of excitement and nostalgia for me. Every year, my cousins, Garrett, Chris, Jake, and I found ourselves drawn to the annual tradition of visiting our grandparents’ old, creaky house for a Christmas Eve like no other. It was a quaint, picture-perfect home, adorned with flickering lights and ornaments that had witnessed countless holiday seasons.
My grandparents lived on the edge of a dense, dark forest that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The house itself had an eerie charm, with its aging wooden beams and creaky floors, but there was something enchanting about spending Christmas in this mystical, rustic setting. The distant howl of the wind and the muted footsteps of animals in the snow-laden woods added an extra layer of magic to the atmosphere. The food my grandmother fixed was always incredible. It was truly perfect.
Yet, it was a tradition that made our annual visit truly unique. Every year, when the clock struck 11:00 PM on Christmas Eve, my cousins and I would wrap ourselves in layers of coats and scarves, and venture outside. The thrill of the night beckoned us towards the woods, and the haunting beauty of the winter forest was irresistible. We would sprint excitedly out of the squeaky back door, and head into the moonlit wilderness.
The woods were always a mesmerizing maze of towering pines, their branches heavy with snow. The silver moonlight cast eerie, elongated shadows, and the air was filled with the hushed whispers of the winter night. With each step, the snow crunched beneath our boots, and our breath hung in the frigid air.
As we made our way deeper into the forest, we couldn’t help but feel the excitement building. It was a tradition that we had been doing for at least 5 years at that point, and it was a way to connect with the magic of the holiday season, away from the cozy warmth of the house. Our laughter echoed through the silent woods, and the thrill of our adventure was intoxicating.
We talked about the things we wanted for Christmas, and guy things like how many girlfriends we had. As we followed the winding path, we noticed peculiar footprints in the snow, leading further into the forest. At first, we assumed it was our mischievous grandpa’s doing, trying to add an extra layer of mystery to our tradition. However, these footprints were different—larger, distorted, and chillingly out of place.
Curiosity piqued, we continued to follow the ominous trail. The woods grew denser, the trees pressing in on us like silent sentinels. The air grew colder, and the thrill of our adventure was slowly giving way to unease. The footprints led us deeper into the forest, and at this point, considering we were the furthest from the house we had ever been (a goal that we had set a few days prior) the light-hearted fun began to turn into the thrill that we had been seeking for as it started to become creepy.
As we turned the corner, our breath caught in our throats. There, under the pale moonlight, stood an abominable sight. A figure, dressed in a tattered Santa Claus costume, his beard matted and dirty, stared at us with crazed, bloodshot eyes. His smile was grotesque, stretching impossibly wide, and his lips were smeared with fresh, glistening blood, and his teeth, black and rotted.
The world seemed to freeze around us as we stared in terror at this nightmarish version of Santa Claus. The silence was shattered by the maniacal laughter that erupted from his blood-smeared lips, and he began to move towards us, slowly, menacingly, like a predatory beast closing in on its prey.
We turned and fled, our hearts pounding, and our screams lost in the frigid air. It was truly the most scared I had ever been. The adrenaline that was blasting through my body allowed us to run at speeds that we never thought possible. I turned my head to look back, my flashlight shaking and pointing behind the direction I was running, in hopes that it wasn’t chasing us. Much to my pleasure, there was nothing within my flashlights beam of light. In my moment of distraction, I tripped over a log and lost my flashlight.
My cousins, did not stop, which, although I was mad at the time, I don’t really blame them now. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to try to find my flashlight or if I wanted to get right back up and sprint away, and risk tripping again. I decided to quickly look for my flashlight. As I frantically patted the ground, I saw my cousins sprint away, and a feeling of total dread flooded me when I heard the sound of deer hooves clicking against the snow-matted forest floor.
I started running so fast that I was able to catch up with Garret, Chris, and Jake, who were just 40 yards ahead of me 10 seconds ago. Finally after about a minute of sprinting, we found ourselves back in my grandparents yard. The blow up Santa Clause decoration that sat on the porch wasn’t so welcoming anymore.
We dashed inside, slamming the door and locking it behind us. The parents sat at the dining room table, each of them absolutely hammered, playing card games. At this point, the adrenaline had worn off and we were all completely out of breath. I remember uncle Sam, Jakes dad, saying “The hell were you guys up to?”
We knew that no one would believe us, as we were 13 year olds with wild imaginations, but we told them anyways. We described the whole story in detail, to which all of them laughed, except Grandpa. Grandpa believed us. He was always a bit of a crazy guy, especially when he was under the influence. But, tonight, he seemed weirdly serious and concerned about this, almost as if he knew who we were talking about. He brought us to his bedroom and sat us down as he straggled over to his gun safe. “So you little buggers are serious huh? I mean this really happened?” He questioned as he unlocked the safe and pulled out his 12 gauge shotgun.
“Yes sir” I said quietly.
“Okay. Go back into the kitchen and play cards with the parents.” So we did. We sat down and played cards with them for about 20 minutes. Grandpa must have exited out of the back door in fear of the parents seeing him with a shotgun and telling him to calm down. As we played these card games, the tension between the four of us was palpable. I was on edge, listening closely, ready to hear that sound of a shotgun being fired.
We never heard it, but I assure you it happened. Grandpa came back in the dining room with a pleasant smile on his face, calm as ever. Since it was past midnight at this point, everyone was about ready to leave, and my family was first. We said our goodbyes and started walking on the sidewalk towards the driveway. As my family was distracted on their phones, I looked over at the shed by the woods about 100 yards away. “Santa”, who I didn’t immediately recognize because of the massive shotgun wound in his face, sat slumped over outside of the shed.