There was a charged silence. Enraged with the boy, the man took a swig of the bottle and then smashed it on the floor. The woman’s laughing abruptly ended, and she stared down, eyes darting over all of the broken shards of glass on the floor.
“You will stop your disrespect this instant!” the man shouted. “Or you’ll face the consequences,” he warned, lowering his intense gaze, beaming at him with fiery eyes.
“Stop your disrespect! Stop your whining!” she echoed.
The boy jumped up and balled his hands into tight fists. “I want the doll! Give me the doll!” he screamed, as his reddened face sagged into tears and subdued rage.
I had a nauseous feeling at the pit of my stomach. I wanted to rush down to stop him, to calm him down—before he made things worse. But my legs were stuck in place, and I couldn’t move a muscle. I was only able to watch in horror from behind the railing as the chaotic scene unraveled—a memory I’d seen before. It was a recurring nightmare that lingered in my mind, half-asleep, half-awake, ready to torment me whenever I closed my eyelids.
Suddenly, from the corner of the room, a dark figure in a red coat and a plastic Santa mask darted toward the Christmas tree. My throat went dry as I stopped breathing. The demonic intruder yanked the star from the top of the tree—a long, pointed ornament, as sharp as a knife’s blade—and turned to the squabbling family.
The man barely had time to look up as the intruder slashed his throat with the yellow star, a fountain of blood instantly pouring out all over him. A wave of panicked screaming and shouting bounced off the walls.
My legs became weak, and I collapsed to the ground, my eyes wide with shock—unable to look away from the gruesome violence that was unfolding in front of me. It was like being in the backseat of a speeding car, knowing you were about to crash into a brick wall and be pulverized into dust.
The woman gaped at the intruder, unable to make a sound, only quiet, breathy gasps—she knew what was coming to her.
The intruder viciously swiped at her throat, her final words nothing more than a gurgling noise as blood poured out of her—an instant, violent death.
The boy’s screams shattered the air, high-pitched like an animal in pain, until suddenly—nothing. I squeezed my eyes shut and didn’t dare look at the bloodied, chaotic mess that had exploded down below. I couldn’t face it; I refused to.
When I heard loud stomps coming up the stairs—I jolted awake, my heart hammering in my chest, my hair slick with sweat, candy cane-themed sheets thrown on the floor…it had been a dream—no, a nightmare.
My bedroom was pitch black except for the faint orange glow of the rising sun peeking through a crack in the closed curtains. My icy skin was slick with cold sweat, and I tried my best to control my breathing.
It was a nightmare, just a nightmare. But…it happened. Maybe not like that…but it happened.
For a short moment I couldn’t remember why I felt a knot in my stomach, like something had gone very wrong. Then it hit me—Angela. I slapped my hand to the empty spot in our bed, where a warm body should’ve been.
She was gone. She had been abducted by someone who called themselves the Xmas Day Butcher.
Oh no…Angela, my sweet Angela.
I tried to remember…when was the last time I had spoken with her? I slid out of bed slowly, raising my hand to the back of my head—it was pounding. I shut my eyes and tried to recall what had happened, or what could’ve happened. It all still felt like a fever dream—a gift box with a “clue” and a letter from someone named “The Xmas Day Butcher.”
Seriously, what the hell was that all about?
I had seen her yesterday, in the morning. She had gone to work at the mayor’s office, like she did every weekday. She worked for Mayor Carl Hamonte. He was divorced and had one son—Henry Hamonte—but his son had tragically died of alcohol poisoning last December.Not long after Clara had gone missing.
Angela was telling me about the restoration project she wanted to implement for Whisper’s Creek.
I gave her a tight hug in the kitchen of our house and a quick kiss on the cheek, and off she went. After that, I went to go check on Grumpy Claus and did some menial chores for him. I texted her that I’d be home later because I went to buy her a Christmas gift; she hadn’t replied. She never did end up replying, because this monster abducted her, and when I came home, I realized I was being forced to play some sick, twisted game.
Then I went to thepolice station, met with Detective Castillo, she helped me fill out a missing person report and we went door-to-door. We walked throughout the town square, knocked on the doors of shops and restaurants—showed her photo around, to see if anyone had seenanything.
She drove me to the neighborhood near my house and we knocked on all of their doors—nothing. No one had seen a thing.
What the hell am I supposed to do next?
A harsh sound broke up my quiet flurry of thoughts—two deliberate knocks pounded against the front door. I froze. Then there was another knock—louder and seemingly angrier.
Oh my—Angela? Can it be?
I rushed out of my room, stumbling on the ice-cold floor, and pulled on a Santa Claus sweater that was hanging from my dresser near my door. I yanked open my drawer and quickly slipped on some Christmas Elf pajama pants and slid into my snowman slippers.
I wanted to put on clothes that Angela would love to see me in. When I’d find her—she’d be so happy. It was my way of keeping her spirit alive—paying respect to how much she loved Christmas.
I quickly maneuvered my way through the darkened hallway while my heart raced, hoping it was Angela at the door and that everything would be okay after all.
