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- [00:00]
Podcast Host
Hey, welcome to Scary Stories and Rain. Real quick. Before we begin, I just want to remind you that if you want to subscribe to this podcast for just 2.99amonth, you'll get rid of all of the ads across every single episode and you'll be automatically entered to win all of my giveaways that I do every month. Right now we have a PlayStation 5 on the line, so if you want to be entered to win, subscribe for just 2.99amonth, get rid of all of the ads, and you'll also be supporting the podcast, which is highly appreciated. And last thing before we begin, I just wanna say thank you so much for being here and I really hope you enjoy this episode. So good, so good.
- [00:37]
Co-host
So good.
- [00:37]
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- [00:46]
Podcast Host
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- [00:49]
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- [01:09]
Co-host
When did making plans get this complicated? It's time to streamline with WhatsApp, the secure messaging app that brings the whole group together. Use polls to settle dinner plans, send event invites and pin messages so no one forgets mom 60th and never miss a meme or milestone. All protected with end to end encryption. It's time for WhatsApp message privately with everyone. Learn more@WhatsApp.com Mike and Alyssa are always.
- [01:36]
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Trying to outdo each other. When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a 4 liter jug. When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.
- [01:46]
Podcast Host
Oh come on.
- [01:47]
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- [02:10]
Podcast Host
If ever there was a time for hope, it was Christmas time. The pure clean white snow covering every surface is it reached being crunched underfoot as people continued to mill around during the festive season, laughing and enjoying the bright lights lining the streets to enhance the Christmas spirit. One could almost feel the good energy and positivity radiating from the bustling street full of people. Perhaps it was the purity of the snow that made it feel as though miracles can happen. Not to mention the countless shows centered around unbelievable things happening during Christmas. The walls of Daniel's room mirrored the beauty he gazed out longingly to. But the room he was in was more of a prison than anything else. The blinding white walls did not have the splendor and beauty of the snow lined surroundings. Instead, they seemed to represent the end. Cold, white emptiness. Hospitals, regardless of the time of year, are never nice and comfortable places to be. While not as comfortable or warm as his room back home, Daniel's family had done all they could to decorate the hospital room and make him feel more at ease. As much as they didn't like to think of it, the reality was that this room would be the room that Daniel lived out the rest of his life in. Mitral valve disease had stolen the dream of growing up and living whatever life he could possibly have. The doctors had told his parents that they could possibly prolong what little life Daniel had left in the hope that he would receive a heart from being on the transfer lift. There were other candidates higher up on the list than Daniel, but the doctor had passed a comment that deaths increased dramatically during this time of year. And there was the ever so slight chance that enough people would die for his life to be saved. Hope goes hand in hand with faith, and Daniel's family prayed around the clock for him. His mother and father never left his side and his relatives were in what seemed like a rotation regarding who visited him. There was never a moment that the room was not filled to its capacity. A dim murmur as everyone said their own prayers. The funny thing about prayer is that anyone can do it from anywhere in the world. While you say a prayer to bless your food, someone thousands of miles away could be praying for the exact same thing. Someone who shared a prayer at the same time was a gentleman by the name of Keith. Keith, too, sat praying for his life that same night that Daniel did. The difference in their situation was that Keith's actions were the cause of his soon to be death. Having been convicted of multiple counts of murder, his date with the gas chamber had arrived. He clutched his rosary and begged the Lord to spare him. His screams rang out in the halls of the penitentiary, dim lights flickering and fellow inmates shouting obscenities. The room Keith was in bore absolutely no resemblance to the room Daniel was in. Midnight was the time set for Keith to pay for his sick sins. He could do nothing but watch the clock as the seconds brought him ever closer to death. Keith hoped that praying as much as humanly possible in his remaining time would prompt God or whatever higher being to save him from this situation. A shaded figure drifted past the guarded cell that housed Keith in his final hours, which Keith presumed to be the priest. The warden had advised Keith that a priest would attend to him prior to his execution, to comfort him and pray for and with him. Save me, Father. Keith shouted at the figure as it walked past his cell. It seemed the priest wasn't going to stop for him, so hopefully the priest heard him shout and will pray for him. Seemingly following the priest that walked past him, a guard opened the slot to his cell and pushed a tray with food. In Keith's last supper, they had given him the freedom to choose the last thing he will ever eat and to feel some sort of comfort through nostalgia. Keith opted for a dish his grandmother would often make for him. A medium cooked steak topped with pineapple and a side of chunky cut fries. It was a strange combination, but Keith loved it. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Daniel noticed a figure in the corner of his room. His room was quiet and seemingly devoid of the usual crowd that stayed with the poor child to bring warmth and comfort. Feeling the rosary, his mother stayed armed with priority. Pressed against his hands as she clasped them, Daniel could make out the shadow a little better. There was what seemed like a distinguished light surrounding the head of the figure. The light, for some reason, cast no illumination on its face. It was almost as if the lights did not shine, yet somehow it did. With a fever boiling him, Daniel was consumed by his vision. He could feel energy radiating from where the figure stood, and this gave him what felt like an immediate boost in energy. Ask God to help me, please. I don't want to die, Daniel implored the figure in the shadows. What's wrong, love? Daniel's mother asked when she heard him speak out. There's an angel in the corner. It came to visit me, Daniel explained. I asked it to ask God to help me. Everything will be okay, mom, he finished before his mother could reply. Daniel fell back asleep wondering what he was talking about. His mother turned around to see who he could have possibly been talking about. With the family having taken a break from the room to eat and clean themselves, the room was empty apart from Daniel and his mother. She figured he must have had a fever dream, getting up to straighten the crucifix hanging on the wall that seemed to have been knocked by one of the relatives and now hung upside down. His mother's prayers once again commenced when Keith once again opened his eyes. The first thing he did was look to the corner for his perceived guardian angel to his disappointment. The only thing in that corner of the room was a table and the wall ornament made to remind us that Jesus died for our sins. No angels in sight as the family began to pour back into the room to resume their vigil, the doctor walked hurriedly in and asked to speak to Daniel's parents. Fearing the worst, they trudged out of the room and stood with their doctor in the blindingly bright hallway. I've got some great news. The doctor began, all the while checking his watch. What? What is it, doctor? Daniel's mother asked with hope. We may have found a donor for Keith, the doctor said with the biggest smile on his face. The grief stricken parents couldn't form a word to express their thoughts. The doctor gave them a minute as they sobbed and cried from joy after feeling so hopeless it could not work out. Unfortunately, the doctor said, our primary fear is that Daniel's body will reject the heart. There is also the issue as to where the heart came from, Daniel's dad replied before the doctor even finished the sentence. Why would we care where it came from as long as it will save our boy? I feel obligated to tell you who the donor will be. You can then discuss it and let me know what you think. It's nearly 11. The heart will be available after midnight. Why on earth do we need to wait until midnight? Why can't we begin the procedure now? Asked the worried mother. You see, that's the thing, the doctor began nervously. The donation would be coming from a convict at the state penitentiary. He is awaiting his sentence, which is scheduled for midnight. Following that, the organs that are to be donated will be extracted and the process for distribution will be done. Who it's from doesn't matter in the slightest. Some good will finally come from someone who has obviously committed heinous acts, stated the now hopeful father. As long as you're sure, the doctor replied, I will update you as I hear more. Keith was almost at complete peace by the time the officials strapped him down to receive the Life ending cocktail. The curtains were drawn so the gallery could look in and Keith could look out. A voice boomed from the speaker in the room. Do you have any last words? It asked Keith. Keith looked into the audience and felt the tears begin to flow. As he began to formulate his final words, he noticed a figure figure near the back of the room, almost completely obscured by shadows. Please save me. Keith said with his last breath. With a new lease on life, opening gifts on Christmas Day seemed almost irrelevant because the heart he received was indeed a Christmas miracle. Toys paled in comparison to a life saving saving donation. Ripping off the wrapping paper to expose the various toy cars and video games, the smile on Daniel's face warmed his parents hearts. He was still in the hospital recovering, but the promise of living a longer and fuller life made the stint of recovery that much easier. He could grow up and do anything he wanted. The imminent threat of his heart being unable to supply his body with oxygen was no longer a worry. The nurses were overjoyed with Daniel's recovery and the staff on all the floors of the hospital knew him as he would often go on accompanied walks or wheelchair rides to get out of the confinement of his room. Picking up one of the toy lightsabers, Daniel begged to venture the halls and fight the enemies, quote unquote. Being three weeks post post operation, Daniel was by no means completely able bodied, but he could sort of hobble on his own at a very slow pace. His parents cast a slightly worried glance at each other but ultimately nodded in approval and requested that Daniel did not venture far. His current nurse aid dawned him with a panic button hung on a lanyard. If anything, something was wrong, Daniel knew to press the button and help would be attending to him in an instant. He was in a hospital after all. The elevator bell rung out as Daniel reached the floor above his. He exited the empty elevator and walked slowly down the hallway, occasionally swinging his lightsaber to activate the light inside. The hospital seemed eerily empty, but perhaps people were holed up in their rooms with loved ones visiting on this very special day. The gleaming white walls now seemed to be the promise for the outside world. Daniel would get to enjoy snow, have snowball fights, and build angels. As Daniel wandered around the upper level, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned slowly to see who could be roaming the empty hallways with him. He missed the figure as it rounded the corner, but he saw enough of a dim light at head level to recognize the figure that had appeared to him. Daniel hobbled as fast as he could, discarding the lightsaber so he could move as efficiently as possible. Making his way around the corner he saw the figure disappear, peer into a room not far from where he stood. Daniel found himself walking toward the room, but with no conscious thought to do was almost as if he was being drawn towards it much like a magnet would draw metal Standing at the entrance to the room. The death rattle signifying a breath being drawn was emitted from the bed. What looked like a skeleton lay in the bed, the hospital garments hanging loosely off the bones. The grotesque Body immediately made Daniel feel uneasy and he wanted nothing more than to go back to the safety and comfort of his parents. Before he could take a step, the familiar glow caught Daniel's attention. Standing in the corner of the room was the owner of the halo looking light shrouded in shadows. Ignoring the tortured breathing from the living corpse, Daniel took a step into the room. Being drawn in by the figure he did not remember moving, but once again his feet had a mind of their own. Stepping into the shadows, Daniel could feel the immense presence of the figure. It opened its mouth to speak, the pungent aroma of death and fear filling the room. You. You who asked me to save you. I played my part. It croaked to Daniel. Now you've. You must play your part. It continued. I. I don't understand. Daniel stammered with fear. God is good. I will be a good boy and go to church. Is that what you want? Be careful when you go into the darkness. You never know what will answer you. My child, the figure whispered to Daniel. Now you are mine. Daniel felt the tears stream down his cheek. Unsure of what to do, he closed his eyes to try and stop the tears. He opened his eyes and the figure was gone. Daniel stood at a bedside, but he was not sure whose bed it was or how he had walked to it. Unaware, he heard the rattle of the breath once more and felt a chill pass over him. The rattle breath was not heard again and Daniel looked up towards the person in the bed. His gaze was met by the most vibrant red sheets he had ever seen. The once all white room now had a deep crimson centerpiece on the bed. The skeleton man had been shredded to the bone. With said bone and sinew full on display, blood pooled around the neck and abdomen of the victim. Him throat slit and blood bubbling. There was no rattle, just the gasps for breath being restricted by the blood filling his lungs. Daniel stepped back in shock, almost slipping in the pool of blood accumulating at his feet. Distraught, Daniel raised his hand to press his panic button, almost impaling him himself in the process. A bloodied scalpel clutched firmly in his hand. Mind racing and feeling dizzy, Daniel burst into tears. He was not scared or fearful. He just felt as if he wasn't himself. Daniel knew he would just have to wash his hands and get away from here. No one would believe a little boy who was received a heart transplant would be capable of committing crime, let alone the same crime as his donor. Well, would they even consider the fact that the young boy received a killer's heart? The blood and dead man before him didn't disturb Daniel. After the thought of not being himself passed over him, he just felt a bit hungry. After murdering the man, Daniel would go and ask his parents to get him some food. Now he was in the mood for steak with pineapple and fries. One thing the Hallmark movies and joyful Christmas movies don't show is that there aren't any Christmas miracles. There are only deals made. And the entities that conduct deals always find a way to have the last laugh. Be careful who you call out into the dark in desperation. Whatever answers you won't have your best interest in mind. It was the Christmas of 1965. Before man had landed on the moon, before the wall had fallen. Before many things, good and bad. For me, it was the last time that I knew innocence. Before the creeping shadow which engulfed my family, before the madness, before death. Before it was the Advent calendar. Calendar. That thing which I had to have. Each door a promise of Christmas, and each window a misted reminder of the warmth and kindness of the festive season. I was 9 years old, and while the parents in my neighborhood would have had no fears for their children in the past, allowing them to play freely in the icy December streets, those days were lost like breath on a mirror. If snow had fallen, there would have been no joy. No snowball fights in the darkened evenings, no sledges sliding carefree down the fields nearby. Children could not be children. Though the young may have felt apprehension in the dark, it was the parents who were the most fearful, terrified of the ultimate loss, a pain they could never extinguish. For the previous three Christmases, without fail, the worst had happened. A child had gone missing while I was very young. I remember it all as though it were yesterday. The suburb where we lived had become the most somber of places. Such a tragedy can do that, slowly draining away any hope or happiness from a community. Like blood from an open wound. No Christmas tree nor carols sang could stem the flow. The first to disappear was Tommy Graham. He was 11 years old, and although I had seen him around, I didn't really know him personally. I remember my mother crying about it. Just the thought of something terrible happening to a child distressed her greatly. And the pain that the parents must have been going through was often on her lips. That Christmas, my dad held on to me tighter than he had ever done before, and I could tell that they were affected terribly by the disappearance, just as the rest of the community had been. The following year, another Christmas came and another child was taken. Her name was Cheryl, and she was only four years Old, tiny and fragile. Tears were shed, misplaced rage vented towards the police who were unable to find her. And by New Year it was the commonly held view that, like Tommy the year before, little Cheryl would never be found. I, like many of my friends, and had been scared by the vanishing children. It was the first time that I became aware that adults could do harm even to the most vulnerable of us. That children were not always safe and that those bigger and stronger than us could have unspeakable things on their minds. Yes, I had heard the fairy tales and the frightening stories of the Pede Piper and the Boogeyman. But what was going on in our suburb was far more gut wrenching, far more real than any tall tale. Despite this impact, it was not until the third child disappeared that I was truly heartbroken. His name was Finn and he was one of my friends, a close one at that. We lived on the same street, playing football in a field by his house and walking to and from school together each day. My dad used to take us to the cinema most Sundays, buying us each a hot dog. And when we got home, mom would serve us a beautiful Sunday roast. Finn was like part of the family, and I still think about him to this day. Where would he have been now? What would he have done with his life? How diminished have we been not knowing that boy or the adult he would have become? No laughs, no tears together, just an empty seat at the cinema, a vacant desk in the classroom. I remember his blue eyes and blonde hair more than anything else for some reason. That and his happy go lucky nature. I missed him then and even now. I wish that it were not true. Like the others, Finn had been snatched from his bed as he slept on that most peaceful of nights, Christmas Eve. His parents had tucked him in, hanging his stocking over the fireplace, kissing his forehead, whispering a Merry Christmas as he fell asleep. They woke expecting to hear the excited, scampering footsteps of their son rushing down the stairs to see what Santa had brought, what wrapped secret boxes he had left by the tree, and instead were confronted with an empty bed, the loss of their only child, and an open window sucking in the biting frost of Christmas Day. The parents of all three children would not let go, could not, nor would they assume the worst. Search parties were organized. Flyers were continually posted through letterboxes, pasted onto bulletin boards and shop windows across the city. And the hope was always there that somehow, somewhere, the three children would be found unharmed and ready to come home. That year, on the 28th of November, 1965, all hope was extinguished in an old sewage pipe. Across town, the crumpled, fragile bodies of Tommy, Cheryl, and dear Finn were found stuffed unceremoniously into a corroded pipe in an old sewer rotting in the waters below. The pain was palpable, the families inconsolable, and for all of us who knew any of the victims, it was to be a bleak and shadow ridden Christmas. Three days later, the month turned, eyes moved towards Christmas and the shaking fear that something cruel and callous lived amongst us all. Three children in three years. Now into the fourth. What would happen that Christmas Eve? Which family would be broken? Which child torn from its comfy warm bed, dreaming of Santa, only to be killed and discarded like a piece of fetid waste? My parents were nervous, and who could blame them? I sensed the change in atmosphere around the streets where I usually played, families pulling their children in earlier and earlier, before the dark came. At night. On more than one occasion, I heard hampering, echoing from an unseen source, no doubt windows being nailed shut to prevent any more children being snatched as they slipped. On the 1st of December, my dad hung our Christmas lights outside along the gutter of our roof, little beads of glowing color piercing through each cold winter night. We tried to continue on as normal and think of happier times. As always, he asked me to help. You're my wingman, kiddo, he'd say from behind his bright red scarf, clambering up a set of wooden ladders to the roof above. He had flown for the Air Force before I was born and still used the lexicon of those days in the military, but I didn't mind. It made me feel special. In previous years I had been too small, too young to be of any real use in decorating the outside of our home, but my dad always included me. I think he just liked to do things with me, to have some father son time. Standing at the bottom of the ladders, looking up at him, whistling Christmas songs out loud, made me feel part of the accomplishment, part of the yearly celebrations. That December was different, however. It was the first time I was big enough to go up the ladders with him, to look out at the old street below and see the occasional blink from a weathered sea of lights clinging to a neighbor's fence or home. My mom was terrified. She had visions of us both falling to our death, but my dad always seemed sure of himself. Not arrogant, just confident and cheerfully reminding us all that things would be okay. Looking back, I think that's what I loved about him the most when I was a kid, the fact that he had it all in hand and did everything to reassure his family and friends. I never felt in danger up on those ladders. Always loved, always safe. Always. Before we came down, I remember looking at the rooftops poking out in regimented lines from the streets around. I noticed that the world seemed different from up there and that to me, there appeared to be fewer Christmas lights than ever before. That night I knew what was coming. My mom tucked me into my bed as my dad finished hanging some paper ring decorations from my bedroom ceiling. I always felt that those decorations protected me somehow. I would stir in the night, scared of the dark. And yet at Christmas time I believed that somehow those pieces of colored paper, that blinking Christmas tree in the other room, that those symbols, those pieces of good will, would keep whatever monstrosities hid in the dark at bay. My mom kissed me on the forehead and left the room. And there was my dad, standing in the corner with his hands behind his back, smiling. Well, wingman, you know what time it is? He said as we both began to chuckle. Let me see, dad, please. I yelled, excited. From behind his back, he produced an Advent calendar. I leapt for joy across the room and hugged him before snatching it from his hands and diving back under the covers. Sitting down on the bed, dad ruffled my hair with his fingers, watching me curiously. He knew I loved getting an Advent calendar each Christmas, and I had worried that I wouldn't get one this year, as he had told me that most of the shops were sold out of them. But dad being dad, he had spent hours driving around until he found one and made sure that on the night of December 1st, the first night of the Advent, there it was. The calendar was beautiful, handmade, with carefully crafted drawings on its front and back. The lines and sketched colors lovingly showed a Christmas street full of lights, with houses covered in snow and the windows beaming with a warm yellow glow, waiting for the night Santa would arrive. What I loved about each year's Advent calendar, the good ones at least, was that they told a story. They showed something wonderful happening. Each door or window would be opened night upon night, revealing a picture building until that magical climax of Christmas. I loved the anticipation of the holidays, and the Advent calendar symbolized the hopes that Christmas held not just presents, although as a child that was a big part of it. But spending time with my family, seeing my grandparents who usually lived in another part of the country, and getting to eat all the chocolates and turkey I could cram into my mouth, getting to be away from the boredom of school, getting to play with new toys, getting to have fun with my friends. It was the thought of friends which brought me down for a moment. There I was hoping, holding an Advent calendar. Each cardboard door numbered from 1 to 24 from the 1st of December until Christmas Eve, the same night that one year previous, my dear friend Finn had been taken murdered and left to rot down a sewer. I began to cry, and almost instinctively my dad seemed to know what was upsetting me. He asked about Finn, and when he mentioned his name, I sobbed deeper than I had since his death. My poor friend who would never again go on those carefree days out with me and dad, or walk alongside me to school, laughing and playing. It was then that my father explained to me something about death. Words which have always stayed with me. You know something? Kidding, Kido. As long as you keep the memory of the people you've lost in your mind and in your heart, they'll always be alive. They'll always be with you. So Finn is right here, he said, pointing to my chest gently. With those words I felt a soothing comfort wash over me and all cried out. My dad tucked me into bed, kissed me on the head and said good night, knowing to leave my bedroom door open slightly to let some light from the hall keep my room from the dark. He had left the Advent calendar sitting nearby, its closed windows facing me from my nightstand. And yet I was exhausted. And so my thoughts drifted from what lay behind those cardboard doors to sleep, and hopefully to a more rested state of mind. But that did not occur. I woke in the night from a horrendous dream about my friend Finn. Little 4 year old Cheryl and 11 year old Tommy Graham crushed down a sewer pipe, the water running over their bodies into their mouths, which once spoke and laughed and smiled, only then to be rendered silent by an unseen brutal hand in the darkness. Finn's voice cried out, garbled and drowned. A word came forth and clung to me like no other. Run. I leapt out from my bed, soaked in sweat, ready to cry out for my mom and dad. But then something strange caught my attention, shaking me to the core. I looked to the Advent calendar, to the drawings of cozy houses covered in snow, their windows beaming out into the cold December night. Sitting there, waiting, almost as I had left it. Yet something was amiss, something which I had no memory of. The first Advent door had been opened. The cardboard left a jar like the one to my room. Stepping forward, the sweat dripped from my hand as I pulled the door back to reveal what. What secrets the calendar had in store for me in what Little light there was. I squinted, my mind slowly piecing together the picture behind door number one. As my eyes adjusted, I recoiled in horror at the sight and screamed for my family. Within seconds the light was on and my dad appeared, picking me up, consoling me as he put me back into bed. I poured, pointed feverishly over to the calendar, telling him that something awful hid behind the door. Of course he looked and smiled reassuringly. It's just a happy Christmas scene, kiddo, he said, handing it to me. Looking closely, I could see that the picture had changed slightly. It depicted an old stone bridge covered in snow, children playing laid on top of it happily. Yes, it appeared quite harmless, quite serene. My father left, and soon I was drifting back to sleep. Yet my mind hazed over with two thoughts. A fin screaming run in my dream and what I could have sworn I had seen in that first little calendar door. The bridge was there. But underneath, in the dark, eyes looked out to the children playing gleefully above, eyes which seemed racked with rage and hate. The next day at school went quickly, but on my way home I dragged my feet over the bitter frozen concrete paths and pavements, thinking of Finn and how he had always walked with me. As my house came into view, I smiled for a moment at the lights dad and I had hung under roof. They warmed my spirits. But when I entered my room, my soul was chilled, stagnant once more. The next Advent calendar door had been opened. This time I knew I had not been there to do such a thing in my sleep, as I had assumed must have happened the night before. No, someone had opened it. I touched the yellow number 2 of the cardboard door, a number which should have promised a treat or happy picture, reminding me that Christmas was near. I hesitated and then looked behind it. Another street scene played out before me. This time a small boy pulled a red sled behind him as the other children threw snowballs at each other, grinning wide and happy. At first I sighed with relief that the picture had no hidden intruder, no eyes staring out in the darkness in contempt. But just as I sat the calendar back down onto my nightstand, I saw it. The faint outline of a person looking out towards me, almost invisible, yet hiding within that Christmas scene in plain view. Sitting there on the boy's red sled, I closed my eyes and rubbed them, fearful as they might reaffirm the figure's presence once more when opened. But just as the darkened eyes had disappeared from under the bridge on 1 December, the faint outline of the unseen pretender had moved on from the Picture. I knew that no one would believe me. And even worse, I barely believed it myself. My nine year old mind could not comprehend such strange and ominous occurrences. Yet I was not so removed from the idea of horrid things scuttling around in the dark. Creatures which even parents could not protect you from. The figure had moved on, I was certain of it. And I knew that it must have traveled and hid behind the door for the third December. The next morning, I told myself that I would not open any of the closed doors from the Advent calendar, I promised myself. Yet someone, something, was doing it for me. That night I awoke in the darkness once more, the same dream playing out. Poor Finn, muffled and drowned by the putrid sewage water, crying out in the dark, crying out, and yet warning, pleading. Run, he said. Run. Again I leapt from my bed, and once more the calendar door for that day had been opened by an unseen force. There in the dark, I looked compelled by the fear of not looking, the terror of not knowing what. What was to come. For in that third picture, it became clear to me something was on its way. Something unspeakable was plotting and slowly but surely drawing closer. Behind that door lay another Christmas scene. Families skating on a beautiful iced lake. And under that transparent barrier between the cold air and the icy water, there was a shape darkened, indefinite but malevolent, a blurred form under the ice, eyes staring up in disgust at the families who happily skated above. I screamed again. And yet the results were all too familiar. My mom and dad arrived, tired, yet never annoyed at their child for waking them in the night. Mom put me back into bed, and as she did so, I explained frantically to them both that something was appearing in the Advent calendar, that each door held proof of something which meant to do me harm. Yet there was no evidence of it. Only three open doors showing happiness and fun at Christmas. Dad said I was having bad dreams and that he and mom would sit with me for a while until. Until I fell asleep. I heard them whispering about work in the morning, but they were more concerned about me than losing a few hours of rest the next day. Again I tried to ignore the Advent calendar, tried desperately to avoid its doors. And again I failed. In the night, I awoke to the same hideous dream. And yet this time the King calendar was not open. The door with a yellow number four remained closed. I hoped that whatever strange thing was in those pictures had left, that I could forget the hateful, haunting eyes and that I could return to simply enjoying the anticipation of Christmas. But just as I nodded back to sleep, happier than I had been since they had first found Finn's body. I heard something, the sound of a thumb or finger pulling at cardboard. I opened my eyes and stared in utter disbelief as the fourth door was pulled open by an invisible hand in the dark. It is strange that I did not scream, but since then I have heard people say that when you are as scared as you can possibly be, that you cannot move, nor can you cry out for help. I opened my mouth and no noise came. A paralysis of fear which was overpowering. There I lay in the night, staring wide eyed at the fourth door, wondering what disturbing depiction it would reveal, and even more so terrified that whatever had opened it still lurked nearby. I wish I could say that it stopped, that the horrid revelations ceased, but I cannot. Some nights the dreams of Finn yelling at me to run came, but on others they did not. The only constant was that at some point a calendar door would be opened. Whether in the morning or at night. Each door would show a happy scene, and each time something hideous, which only I could see, would be momentarily present. One door showed a group of carolers cheerfully singing at night, warmed by the glow of an open window. And at the rear, there stood an outline, something watching, something waiting, something moving, moving on relentlessly to Christmas Eve. The last door, another picture, showed a small girl, no older than poor Cheryl, who had been killed, placing presents into a stocking. And yet, for a moment, there was the faintest impression of a hand reaching out from the stocking towards the girl. By the 20th, the horrific pictures had intended intensified, as too had the dreams. Finn now screamed my name, his voice echoing up through a drain, pleading with me to get away. And as those nightly terrors revealed themselves, the pictures had taken on more weight, more immediacy, for I was certain that they now showed the street where I lived. My dad found me crying that night, and when he asked what was wrong, I told him I believed that there was something evil coming, something horrendous which had snatched a child each of the previous three Christmas Eves. The same evil which had taken my friend, that hidden horror which on Christmas Eve would come for me. Dad reassured me that this was not the case, that I was imagining things. When he looked at the pictures on the calendar, he just saw nondescript streets, anonymous faces, nothing which suggested the place where we lived. But I saw differently. The drawings clearly showed, house by house, inch by inch, that something was drawing nearer each day, fleeting glimpses of a faint figure awaiting to gorge itself once more. My dad offered to throw the advent calendar away if it was upsetting me so much, but I pleaded with him not to. I needed to know. I had to see what was coming, what was on its way to snatch me from my family as it had done to the other children. The 21st, 22nd and 23rd of December were torturous. While I should have been excited for Christmas Day, I was not. I was terrified, for I knew that I would never live to see it. The calendar door on the 21st, opened by Something unseen while I slept, showed a house come into view, one with glowing lights hung around the roof gutter and the faint outline of something terrible approaching nearby. I was certain that the house was mine and that the light which beamed outward into the snowy landscape was from my family. Though as I peered out into the night from my window, there was no snow in reality, just a biting wind and a frost which covered everything like a shroud. I could not see a figure out there, but I felt it somewhere close, just waiting for Christmas eve. On the 22nd, the figure drew closer to our home as the snow fell around it in the Advent calendar. And on the 23rd the prowler had reached the gate to our garden. That night I had such a terrible vision. In my dream I found myself lying in the dark. I could not see, and all that surrounded me was the empty coldness of winter. Pain coursed through my body and the sound of running water pushed over it, forcing me deeper into an abandoned drain. Putting out my hand instinctively, my fingers touched the frozen mouth of another child. Slowly it moved against my hand and its stagnant lips whispered as if with weakened Run. Run. Get away. I did not wake screaming, nor did I leap from my bed as I had the other nights, like an animal fleeing from a predator. There I lay in the silence of the night, and in that stillness I cried. The paper chains and decorations my family had hung from my room's ceiling proved no protection from the pain or from the thoughts of the three children, how they had been taken and how I would be next. And then the day had come. Christmas Eve. I was frightened, but a distance took me, one which slowed my words and left me dispassionate about about the festive season, about my family. I wish I had not been that way and had savored every moment I had left. But I was drained, numbed by the lurking fear which had haunted me for weeks, tired of it all, a strain which no nine year old should have had to bear. My dad knew I wasn't my usual self as I normally relished Christmas Eve, like most children, excited and completely enthused for what would come. But there I was, outside in the cold, helping him fix part of the lights which had come unhooked in the wind. I watched my dad on the ladders once more, the wind rattling everything around, the slates on the roof, the trees, the gutter. I thought about how Finn's family, or little Cheryl's or even Tommy Graham's would have been preparing for Christmas Day, like we were happily unaware of the loss they were about to undergo. At least I knew I had foresight, each hideous picture hinting at that faint figure coming closer and closer to my home, to my open window as I slept, waiting for Christmas morning to snatch me from my bed, to slaughter me, discarding my body down a sewer pipe, used and forgotten. As the wind howled and the lights chinked and jingled together, I looked back at the gate to our garden, to where I had last seen my future attacker. I could see nothing, just an empty street on the quietest night of the year, but in that absence I could feel eyes bearing into me. My dad climbed down the ladder whistling merrily to himself, and as I looked up at him I simply asked, matter of factly, if he would nail my window shut. He didn't ask why. He knew many parents had done the same. And so we went inside. As the evening rolled in, carried by the promise of frost from the outskirts of the city, dad got his toolbox out and drove a large series of nails into the frame of the window. Once I was confident that there was no way to open it, I thanked him and asked if he would do one more thing for me, only one to sit next to my bed all night and look over me until morning. Unlike the other knights, he did not tell me that there was no monstrosity out there, nor did he say that the world was a safe place, for that would have been a lie. He placed his hand gently on my shoulder and said, if you need me, I'll sit right here until it's time to open the presents and sit there. He did. My mother came in to kiss me on the head before returning back to the kitchen where she was preparing things for dinner the next day. I so wanted to see it. Presence meant nothing to me. By that night all I cared about was being there at the family table, laughing with Gramps and Gran and knowing that the nightmare of December 1965 was over. I fell asleep as my dad sat by the bed reading his book. It must have been two or three in the morning When I woke, I was unsure of the precise time, but what I knew was that my dad was standing at my window, looking down out to the street below. I whispered to him and asked what was wrong, but his reply was half hesitant. N. Nothing, kiddo. Go back to sleep. Then I heard it, certain and labored. The sound of footsteps slowly walking up our garden path outside, shambling forward towards our home. The sound frightened me and my thoughts immediately turned to the Advent calendar, to the faint outlined figure which had haunted me. From what little light there was, I could see that the door for Christmas Eve was sealed shut, yet to be opened. The footsteps continued one after the other, slowly, steadily. My dad stared intently outside as I asked if he could see anyone out there, but he just shook his head in disbelief. The footsteps ceased and silence covered everything like the frost outside. Suddenly it was broken by three loud, booming knocks. It was at our door. I cried out in terror and started sobbing. It's come to take me, dad. Like Finn and the others, I howled in utter despair as the tears slid down my cheek. Nonsense. It must just be our neighbor or something. My dad said unconvincingly. No, dad. It's here. It's here to take me away. I screamed as I handed the calendar to him. Open the last door. Open it and you'll see Christmas Eve. Each Christmas Eve it takes a child. And if you open, you'll see it. I promise you'll see it. Three more loud knocks echoed out, and for the first time in my life, I saw fear flicker across my dad's face as I could hear my mom stirring from her room, shouting through, asking what was going on. Three knocks, once more, this time more pronounced. Please, dad, look at the door. Open it and you'll believe me. It's here for me. My dad's hand trembled as it held the calendar tightly. Slowly, he opened the last door to see what was shown. God, no. He yelled out. And with that we heard the most hideous of sounds, one which was laced with dread. A click of a lock, the turning of a handle, and the front door opening to the cold. Then footsteps climbing stairs, looking, seeking, and then slowly coming down the hall towards my room. Dad, please. Please help me. I pleaded as the nightmarish thing in our house drew closer. He looked at me, trying his best to hide his fear. But I could see it etched into his face, it into his soul. Listen to me, son. As soon as I go out there, I need you to grab all your things, anything heavy, and barricade your door. Don't let anyone in this room. Unless it's me or your mother, I believe. In that moment he saw the utter despair in my eyes. And before he left the room, as the footsteps reached the room next to mine, he spoke gently, patted me on the head. It'll be okay, he said. Then he was gone. I did as he said, and as soon as he left the room, I moved my nightstand, my chair, my books, anything I could against the door, sobbing as I did, sobbing my eyes out, praying that my parents would were safe. At first I heard nothing throughout the house. Then suddenly, violent shouting erupted. A struggle quickly followed with what sounded like furniture being thrown and glass smashed. And then the worst of it. My mother screaming. She cried and yelled and agonized, and finally I could not bear it anymore. I could not leave her alone. Clearing the things away from my door, I opened it and wandered down the darkened hall. A cold, icy air blew through the house. The front door lay open. Decorations swung in the frozen breeze. And outside knelt my mother, alone, terrified, screaming into the night. Losing a parent is hard for a child, and to do so on Christmas Eve Eve, harder still. Yet the torture of that night cuts deeper than most. Few can know my true pain. Over the years I have tried to understand it more clearly, understand what my life was before and what it is now, to little avail. I cannot give solid explanations, nor can I say that my anger will ever truly diminish. I have tried to live as best as I can, putting the mystery out of my mind each year. Each year, that is, until Christmas, when the memories flood back like a comforting blanket seen torn away by a silent hand from the dark. My own children, now grown up, have asked me why I become a little distant at this time of year, and to that I have given no real answer. All I can say is I do know two things. The first is that no one ever saw or heard from my dad again. My mother remained tight lipped until she died about what had come into our house that night, what took her husband, and who can blame her? I also know what that last door of the Advent calendar contained and what had frightened my dad so badly. It was a drawing, like the others. A happy Christmas scene one with one horrid addition. It showed a boy sleeping soundly in his bed on Christmas Eve. A child who looked uncannily like my poor friend Finn, unaware that his life would soon be over and that he was being watched through the frosted window by his killer, whose face looked remarkably like that of my father's. It's.