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I was very excited to see what I was going to get on Christmas Day, you see. So I crept down the stairs at two or so in the morning. The grandmother clock in the hallway was slowly ticking; I remember it only too well. I found myself shaking as I turned the living room doorknob. Was I that excited? Why did the metal feel so cold?
So as not to wake my parents, I slowly pushed the door open (it would squeak if you did it too fast), and crept into the living room. It was dark and cold. I mean, so cold I could make out my breath in what little light that was there. Was the heating broken?
The switch to the dimmer lights was next to the door. I turned it on and slowly turned the dial. In the diminishing gloom, I could make out the armchairs and the Christmas Tree, beneath which I could already glimpse the presents...
...And the leering, skinless face that was now just an inch away from me.
Its pupil-less eyes seemed to stare straight through me as its stench hit my nostrils – like rotting meat via burnt ozone. The thing reared back, its lipless face falling back behind the ragged hood it wore. It turned away and lurched and limped towards the tree. I could see more of it now.
It was stooped and withered, emaciated and cadaverous, draped with the rotting rags of what I guessed must once have been a robe. The thing seemed mesmerised by the tree, its head swivelling eerily from side to side as it contemplated what was before it.
Then it turned and looked directly at me, lifting a long bony finger up to its face where its lips may once have been.
My mouth was agape. I was rooted to the spot. I tried to scream, but no noise came out. Finally I managed to slowly retreat from the living room, turning off the light as I went. I closed the door quietly and crept up the stairs, too petrified to do anything else.
I ran to my room and hid under the covers. Only then did I manage to finally, silently, sob with fear. The next morning, I put on a brave face and pretended to be excited as I unwrapped my presents with everyone else. Mum must have known there was something wrong, as she asked if I was OK. I lied and said I was just tired as I couldn't sleep the night before (as you do when you're seven and it's Christmas Eve). She hesitated for a moment, but brushed it off as we picked up all the torn wrapping paper left behind.
But all I could think of was that thing I saw the night before. I barely played with my new toys. I just kept seeing its face every time I closed my eyes. As the years have drawn on, I've pondered this in some detail. We've forgotten what Christmas really is. It is how we used to survive the darkest, grimmest time of the year – that's what all the tinsel, and merrymaking, and Santa Claus all stems from. That need to shut out the darkness and the howling blizzard outside.
Yet I think there is something else, too. All that rubbish about Christmas being 'magical' is true. We dress it up with elves and reindeer with red noses, but it's more than that. There's a reason why we used to tell ghost stories at Christmas, 'til Halloween took over.
It is the one point of the year where the boundaries between this world and others are at their thinnest. No wonder they have a festival and a nativity this time of year.
Consciously or not, we're warding off the horror that seeps into our world during Yuletide.
Maybe all the rituals, tacky though they are these days, appease the things that wait, and ward them off for another year? What's a Xmas tree but an old pagan totem decorated in candles? A ward, or an appeasement?
These days I just blot it out of my mind and pretend I'm Buddhist or something. But there's one last thing I will never forget. All those years ago. The next night. The scrawled note I found under my pillow. It said just one word...
"...SHHHHHH."
[ENDS]
POSTSCRIPT: This story has something of a tangled history, first posted as a multi-tweet on the hellsite. Without realising it, of course, I came up with a really good Christmas ghost story, so decided to delete the tweets and post it up on Reddit. Cue any number of plaigirists recording a version of it on YouTube without credit or payment. So, I took the story down, made sure the videos (and their accounts) were given copyright strikes, and put the story in mothballs. For all that, this is a personal favourite of mine, so I am going to share it again, not least because it means I get to affirm my copyright. Enjoy! But wait for Christmas Morning - if you know what's good for you.
© Alexander Hay 2022-2024