It was the last Christmas Eve Margaret planned to spend in the town of White Hollow. After years of struggling in the decaying village, she had finally sold her tiny antique shop and was set to move south come January. But first, she had one final obligation—a delivery to Old Man Grigg.
Grigg lived on the edge of the woods in a crumbling cabin, and though no one in town cared much for him, he'd been a loyal customer for decades. Each Christmas Eve, he'd request the same thing: a single antique ornament from her collection, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He always paid handsomely for it, and Margaret, needing the money, had never questioned why.
This year, the chosen ornament was a delicate glass sphere, its surface frosted and etched with the image of a reindeer pulling a sleigh. Margaret had found it tucked in a dusty corner of the shop, its origins unknown.
The snow was already falling when she packed the ornament into her car and began the drive to Grigg's cabin. The journey took her deeper into the forest than she liked, the trees closing in on either side of the narrow road. By the time she reached the clearing where the cabin stood, the light was fading, and the wind had picked up.
She knocked on the weathered door, but there was no answer. A single lantern burned in the window, casting long shadows over the frost-covered porch.
"Grigg?" she called, her breath clouding in the air.
The door creaked open on its own.
Margaret hesitated. She'd always thought of Grigg as a peculiar but harmless old man. Yet something about the stillness inside the cabin set her nerves on edge.
"Hello?" she tried again, stepping over the threshold.
The interior was dim, lit only by the lantern and the faint glow of a fire in the hearth. The room was sparsely furnished, with mismatched chairs and a crooked table. At its center was an open book, its pages yellowed with age.
"Grigg?"
Her voice was swallowed by the silence. She placed the package on the table, intending to leave it and go. But as she turned, her eyes caught something strange.
Above the mantel hung a garland made entirely of antique ornaments. Margaret stared at them, her unease growing. They weren't just similar to the ones she'd sold Grigg over the years—they were identical. Each one gleamed with an unnatural sheen, as if alive.
A faint sound reached her ears, like the chiming of distant bells. She froze, her gaze darting to the open book. The script was handwritten, spidery and uneven, and though she couldn't read the language, the illustrations were chilling. Figures cloaked in darkness danced around a tree hung with ornaments. Beneath it lay a pile of indistinct shapes—human shapes.
The sound of bells grew louder, and with it came a cold draft that extinguished the fire. Margaret turned toward the door, but it had closed behind her.
Something moved in the corner of her vision. She whipped around, her heart pounding.
It was the garland. The ornaments were spinning, slowly at first, then faster, as if caught in an invisible wind. Their surfaces began to shimmer, and Margaret saw her own reflection staring back, warped and distorted.
Then the reflections changed.
Faces appeared within the glass—dozens of them, their features twisted in agony. Margaret stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth.
"What the—"
The faces began to whisper, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of pain.
"Help us."
"Run."
"Don't let him take you."
Margaret's knees nearly gave out. She turned toward the door, desperate to escape, but before she could take a step, the air in the room shifted.
The lantern flickered, and a shadow appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. It was Grigg.
Or at least, it had been Grigg.
The figure was impossibly tall, its limbs elongated and its face obscured by a hood. In its hand, it held an object that glowed faintly—a glass ornament, nearly identical to the one Margaret had brought.
"You brought me another," the thing said, its voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in her bones.
"What are you?" Margaret managed to whisper, her back pressed against the table.
The creature stepped forward, its movements slow and deliberate.
"I am the Keeper," it said. "And they are my collection."
It gestured toward the garland, where the faces continued to writhe and whisper.
"Each year, I am given a gift," the Keeper continued. "A soul, bound to glass, to serve as part of my display. You have brought them to me for years, Margaret. Did you never wonder why?"
Her blood ran cold. "I didn't know…"
"Now you do," it said. "And tonight, you will join them."
Before she could react, the Keeper raised the ornament in its hand. Margaret felt an unbearable pull, as if her very essence was being dragged from her body. She screamed, but no sound escaped.
The world around her blurred, the cabin fading into darkness. The last thing she saw was her own face, staring back at her from the surface of the glass ornament, frozen in a silent scream.
The Keeper placed the new ornament onto the garland, where it began to spin alongside the others. The cabin grew still once more, the lantern dimming to a faint glow.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, and the forest swallowed the clearing whole.
---
The shop in White Hollow remained empty after Margaret's disappearance. The townsfolk whispered of curses and strange happenings, but no one dared to investigate.
And every Christmas Eve, deep in the forest, the chiming of glass ornaments echoed faintly through the trees.
"Do you believe in Christmas cheer?
Do you fear what's drawing near?"
The ground beneath begins to churn,
As ancient spirits start to yearn.
The Krampus, foul and full of rage,
Creeps slowly forth from his dark cage.
With horns that curl and chains that clink,
He's coming now, too fast to think.
The children hide beneath the bed,
But no safe place is left ahead.
The creatures feast, the old ones cry,
And from the night, no one can fly.
The bells will ring, but not in joy,
They toll for every lost and destroyed.
On this cold and cursed night,
The earth will swallow those in fright.
So pray to gods, and pray to kings,
But none can stop the terror that clings.
For on this Christmas, dark and deep,
The ancient ones will wake from sleep.