The Christmas Haunting

The Christmas Haunting

In the quaint town of Black Hollow, Christmas Eve was always cloaked in more than snow and starlight. A legend whispered through generations told of the Midnight Visitor, a spirit tied to a forgotten tragedy. Each year, when the town’s bell tolled midnight, the Visitor would emerge, seeking solace or retribution—no one was quite sure which.

This Christmas, Eleanor had come to Black Hollow to escape her own ghosts. The old Victorian house she rented was cheap, creaky, and full of drafts, but it suited her just fine. She needed solitude, not holiday cheer.

The house had its quirks: doors that groaned when touched, cold spots that lingered even near the crackling fireplace, and a peculiar antique clock that stopped every night at 11:55 PM.

On Christmas Eve, Eleanor’s phone buzzed with a text from the landlord.

"Remember to lock the door before midnight. Merry Christmas."

Odd, she thought, but shrugged it off. She secured the heavy wooden door, its iron latch rusted but functional, then settled into her armchair with a cup of mulled wine and a tattered book. The storm outside howled against the windows, rattling the glass as if seeking entry.

At 11:55 PM, the clock stopped. Eleanor barely noticed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She didn’t see the shadow pass through the room or hear the faint creak of the locked door easing open.

The first sound that startled her awake was a low, melodic humming. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was out of place—a childlike tune that didn’t belong to the howling wind or groaning house. Eleanor sat up, heart pounding, her gaze darting around the dimly lit room. The fireplace had dimmed to embers, casting long, flickering shadows.

“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling.

The humming stopped.

Then came the faint sound of footsteps. Not heavy—these were soft, almost hesitant, like bare feet on hardwood. They circled her, though no one was there.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, gripping the fire poker.

The only reply was the sudden crash of the antique clock falling to the floor. Eleanor yelped, jumping to her feet. When she turned back to the fireplace, she froze.

A figure stood there, half in shadow. It was a child, or what looked like one, wearing a soot-streaked nightgown and clutching a doll whose head was twisted unnaturally. The child’s eyes were hollow pits, dark and endless.

“You weren’t supposed to lock the door,” the child said, its voice echoing as if spoken from a deep well.

Eleanor stumbled back. “What? What do you mean?”

The child tilted its head, the movement jerky and unnatural. “He doesn’t like locked doors. He’s coming.”

A loud bang reverberated through the house, shaking the walls. The sound came again, louder and closer, as if something massive was pounding on the outside walls.

Eleanor turned to run, but the front door flew open, though the latch remained in place. A gust of freezing air swept in, extinguishing the last of the fire’s embers. Standing in the doorway was something far worse than the child.

It was a towering figure, draped in tattered black robes that seemed to shift and writhe like smoke. Its face was obscured by a cracked porcelain mask, and its hands were skeletal, tipped with claws that dragged across the floor as it stepped inside.

The child vanished, leaving Eleanor alone with the entity.

“Why are you here?” Eleanor whispered, backing into the corner.

The figure’s head tilted toward her, and from behind the mask came a low, guttural voice.

“You locked me out of my home.”

Eleanor’s mind raced. The house…was it his? Was that why the landlord’s text had warned her? She fell to her knees. “I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to…”

The figure’s claws reached for her, but they stopped inches from her face. Its head tilted again, as if listening. The silence stretched, broken only by Eleanor’s ragged breathing.

Finally, the figure straightened. “You do not belong here.”

In a whirlwind of freezing wind and shadows, the entity vanished, leaving the door wide open. Eleanor sat trembling, the cold seeping into her bones. The clock on the floor began to tick again, its hands now pointing to midnight.

The next morning, the landlord arrived to check on her. Eleanor’s face was pale, her eyes hollowed by sleepless terror.

“You didn’t tell me about the Midnight Visitor,” she whispered.

The landlord sighed. “I hoped you’d leave before it came to that. No one stays here long. But you survived.”

Eleanor stared at him. “Survived?”

He nodded grimly. “The Midnight Visitor doesn’t let everyone leave. Consider yourself lucky.”

Eleanor packed her things that same day and left Black Hollow, vowing never to return. But every Christmas Eve, she swore she could hear faint humming, no matter how far away she went.