Wintervale was the perfect Christmas town. It had everything you could imagine for a holiday postcard: snow-dusted roofs, warm lights glowing in every window, and streets lined with cheerful wreaths. On Christmas Eve, the town square was alive with joy. Children chased each other around the towering Christmas tree while their parents drank hot cocoa and chatted with neighbours. Carolers wandered the cobblestone streets, their songs filling the cold night air.
Marianne had lived in Wintervale her whole life, and this night was her favourite. She stood with her friends near the tree, her cheeks pink from the cold, laughing as they exchanged stories. The mayor, a plump and cheerful man, stepped onto the stage and gave his annual speech about love, community, and the spirit of Christmas. The crowd clapped and cheered as he flipped the switch to light the tree. The massive pine lit up with thousands of golden lights, and everyone gasped in awe.
The night was perfect.
But as the evening wore on, things began to shift. It started small: the wind picked up, sending a chill through the square that even the bonfires couldn't chase away. The carolers, who had been so lively, seemed quieter now, their songs softer and less cheerful. Some of the parents whispered to each other, casting nervous glances at the darkened church that stood at the far end of the square.
Marianne noticed it first. "Why did they stop singing?" she asked her friend Clara.
Clara shrugged. "Maybe they're taking a break?"
But then the church bell rang.
The sound was deep and heavy, echoing through the square. Marianne glanced at the clock tower—it wasn't time for the midnight service yet. The bell kept ringing, slow and deliberate, as if someone was pulling the rope with great effort.
The crowd fell silent, everyone turning toward the old stone church. Its windows were dark, and the doors were closed, but the bell rang. It was an eerie, haunting sound that seemed to vibrate in Marianne's chest.
"Is someone up there?" Clara whispered, her voice cracking.
Marianne shook her head. "I don't think so."
A nervous laugh broke the silence. "It's just the wind," someone said. A few people chuckled, but it sounded forced, like the laughter of a child trying to convince themselves that there were no monsters under the bed.
The laughter died when the lights on the Christmas tree flickered. The golden glow dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again. The crowd murmured uneasily. A few people pulled their coats tighter around them, and a mother held her child close, whispering soothing words.
Marianne couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She stepped closer to the church, drawn by a strange curiosity. The bell had stopped ringing, but now she heard something else: a faint shuffling sound, like footsteps.
"Don't," Clara warned, grabbing her arm.
Marianne hesitated but pulled away. "I just want to see."
The chill in the air grew more intense, biting at her skin. She approached the church doors, her boots crunching on the snow. When she reached the doors, she saw they were slightly ajar. The darkness inside the church seemed to pull at her, a void waiting to swallow her whole.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice trembling.
The shuffling stopped.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The church was empty. The pews were lined up neatly, and the altar stood undisturbed, but the air smelled strange—like metal and damp earth, a scent that made her stomach twist.
"Is anyone here?" she asked, the silence pressing in on her. Her voice echoed, making her jump.
Then, from above, came a creak. Marianne looked up at the belfry. Shadows moved there, just for a moment, and she felt a chill run down her spine. A sound like whispers drifted down, too faint to understand.
"Marianne!" Clara called from outside.
Marianne turned and hurried out of the church, her heart pounding. "There's something in there," she said breathlessly.
Clara grabbed her hand. "We need to leave."
But when they turned toward the square, it was empty. The cheerful crowd was gone, the fires had burned out, and the tree lights were off. Only the faint sound of the wind remained, weaving through the empty streets like a ghost.
"Where is everyone?" Marianne whispered, fear tightening her chest.
Clara shook her head. "They were just here."
Marianne's gaze fell on the footprints. They were everywhere, leading away from the square and into the woods at the edge of town. The snow was disturbed, trampled in a strange, chaotic pattern.
"They wouldn't just leave," Clara said, her voice cracking.
Marianne's breath fogged in the air as she stared at the dark woods. The trees, silhouetted against the starless sky, seemed to lean toward them, their branches like bony fingers. "We have to find them."
Clara hesitated but nodded. "We'll get the mayor. He'll know what to do."
They followed the footprints, their lanterns barely piercing the thick darkness. The trees loomed overhead, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers. The deeper they went, the quieter it became, until the only sound was the crunch of snow beneath their feet and their shallow breathing.
Marianne glanced at Clara, who looked pale, her eyes wide with fear. "We're not alone," Clara whispered.
Marianne's heart thumped louder in her chest as the wind picked up again, carrying a low, guttural whisper. It was distant, but it made her shiver. They pressed on, eyes darting to the shadows that danced at the edge of their lanterns' light.
Then they saw the first figure.
It was the mayor, standing perfectly still in the snow. His back was to them, and he didn't move as they approached. His coat was torn, and his scarf was stained with something dark that looked like old wine.
"Mayor?" Marianne called, her voice shaking.
He didn't respond.
"Sir, are you okay?" Clara asked, stepping closer.
When she touched his shoulder, he fell forward into the snow. Marianne screamed, stumbling back. His face was pale, his eyes wide open, but there was no life in them. The air around them grew colder, the silence more suffocating.
They stumbled back, panic setting in. As they turned to run, they saw more figures—dozens of them—standing motionless among the trees. They were the townsfolk, their faces frozen in expressions of fear or sorrow, their clothes battered and torn. None of them moved.
"They're all here," Clara whispered. "The whole town."
Marianne clutched her lantern tighter, her hands shaking. "We have to get help."
But as they tried to leave, the forest seemed to close in around them. The trees shifted, their branches reaching down like claws, blocking their path. The snow beneath their feet felt softer as if it were pulling them in, dragging them toward the figures. The whispers grew louder, no longer a murmur but a chorus of low, hissing voices that spoke in an ancient tongue.
Then they heard the bell again.
It was faint at first, but it grew louder, echoing through the forest. And with it came a voice, low and guttural, whispering words they couldn't understand. It was a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself, a voice that promised something dark and deep.
"Run!" Marianne screamed, grabbing Clara's hand.
They fled through the trees, their lanterns swinging wildly. The wind howled around them, and the whispers followed, rising to a crescendo as the forest seemed to shift and twist. The figures stood still, their hollow eyes watching as the girls ran, but the shadows around them moved, stretching and twisting, chasing them through the snow.
Marianne's breath came in ragged gasps, the cold seeping into her bones. The trees thinned, and the moon's pale light pierced the darkness, guiding them back to the edge of town. When they finally burst out of the woods, the town was silent. The church bell tolled one last time before falling quiet.
They looked around, but Wintervale was empty. Every home, every shop, every street was deserted, and no one ever saw the townsfolk again.
Except for Marianne and Clara.
But they never spoke of what happened that night. And every Christmas Eve, when the wind picked up and the whispers returned, they would lock their doors tight, close the curtains, and pretend that they had never been part of the silence that swallowed Wintervale whole.