Ever since that fateful Christmas night, the numbers won’t stop appearing. Torturing me. Like shadows, they will never go away unless I submerge myself in absolute darkness. There’s only one way to stop them from haunting me, but I want to tell my story before I surrender my life to the evil.
I used to have a family, a couple of years ago. I stopped counting after the numbers started blurring everything to a maniacal extent. I had two sons and a loving wife. Although we lived in poverty, we had each other, and that was kept me sane through the sleepless nights. It was Christmas Eve, Santa was to come and deliver my children their presents. I hugged my children in a warm embrace before sending them to bed. Their bed was a cheap mattress we got at a garage sale, but to them, it was enough to protect them from the horrors of the night. Me and my wife retired for the night ourselves, not concerned about bringing our children gifts. The reason we were not concerned? In the midst of night, every Christmas, Santa would come and deliver our children gifts. He knew we were not able to afford them, so it was a miracle for us. Looking back, I should have known better. Everything comes for a price in this world, and the price for this, was the numbers.
My alarm clock let out piercing beeping, and I started working on regaining my consciousness. Everything was hazy, hazier than usual, for some reason. After a while, it came to me that it was Christmas Day! I rolled over to the other side of our mattress, expecting to find my wife, but it seemed she was already up. I got up from my cozy sheets, which was a hard task. With a jolly feeling in my heart, I strolled into the living room, whistling Christmas tunes.
That’s when the first number appeared.
It was 10,000. The number imprinted itself into my mind. It was a sharp pain. I fell to my knees, and let out a deafening scream. My eyes started twitching, against my will. The walls started coming in, trying to suffocate me, whilst the furniture moved away from me, getting smaller exponentially. The table next to the Christmas tree glowed bright red. Everything was distorted.
My wife phased through the wall, into the living room, and suddenly, everything returned back to normal.
The first time is happenstance. I brushed it off and told my wife I stubbed my toe. We celebrated Christmas, and as promised, the gifts were there. Right under the tree, as expected. Our children clawed open their presents, and the moment of truth arose. Inside, they found…
Nothing.
My sons looked at me with a face of confusion, and I remembered something important. The milk and cookies!
Every Christmas Eve, we would set milk and cookies for Santa, but in our tiredness, we forgot to last night.
I swiveled my head towards my wife in mortal terror, unsure of what would happen next.
And that’s when it hit me.
9,999. It was even worse than the last one, the pain was so overwhelming I was forced to close my eyes in pain. The number was attacking my brain, mercilessly. It felt like a nightmare where I was getting ripped apart by wolves. Even though I couldn’t see, I could still hear, and the things I heard that day still haunt me.
My family started screaming and yelling. My sons, in all their pain, managed to form words through their shouts.
“Dad! Help!”
Suddenly, 3 popping noises violently shook my psyche, and my family’s screams stopped, and my pain subsided. I opened my eyes, only to see my family. My grotesque, disfigured family. Their heads were missing, but there was no blood. They had no fingers, neither did they have feet. Yet, still no blood. The only remains of their missing body parts was a pool of hair at their feet. White hair, hair that couldn’t have been theirs.
I stood up, and mourned the death of my family. Tears gently dripped on the bodies of my sons, as I stood over them, hugging them one last time.
I took my families’ bodies, and tucked them into bed, one last time. The three of them slept peacefully, in rest. It was that moment when I stopped thinking straight. My brain was fuzzy, and I couldn’t perceive reality properly. I started frequently hallucinating, and my life had no purpose. Unable to work, I ended up in a mental hospital. Throughout the years, the numbers attacked multiple times, until I was down to the last number.
1.
Every time they attacked, people died. So many people. Every time they attacked, a little part of my soul would burn up. Every time they attacked, I was reminded of my family. I eventually forgot their faces.
I am typing this now after everybody in the asylum has gone. Gone to the shadows. I don’t want to experience the pain of the number “0.” I don’t know what happens next, but I am about to take a knife from the hospital kitchen and cut my head off. I want to be reunited with my family.
If anybody is reading this, please, I beg of you, give Santa his milk and cookies. Otherwise, prepare to have everyone you know and love gone. Along with your soul and brain.