December 12, 1899—It was a cold, foggy evening in Doshiqi Town. People were excited as they began their Christmas preparations. The silver light of a full moon bathed the town in a tranquil glow, reflecting off the frosty streets. Everyone seemed eager for the arrival of winter. But amid the festive air, three burglars moved toward a quiet house on the edge of town.
The burglars approached a ground-floor window, carrying a lockpick. They deliberately avoided the front door, knowing it might draw unnecessary attention from the street. Their faces were common among the town's criminals, blending easily with the city's underbelly.
"Careful," one of them whispered as the second man—the calmest of the three—worked patiently on the window lock. They carried bags and weapons—a machete and a butchering knife.
"Don't rush. The couple won't be back until midnight. We have time," the third man whispered. They had planned this robbery for a long time, just waiting for the perfect opportunity.
"Once we're done here, I'm getting the fuck out of this town. I'm not staying anywhere near this place," the third man muttered.
After a few moments, the window finally gave way. He pushed it open quietly. One by one, they climbed inside, throwing their bags in first before stepping in themselves.
As they looked around, their eyes widened—the house was massive, almost like a castle. It was clear no one was home. The third man switched on the chandelier, illuminating the entire room. The glow of the chandelier fell upon the lavish furniture, decorative plates, ornate wall designs, and the red-and-gold carpet. It was heaven.
Suddenly, a noise echoed through the house. All three men panicked. The leader switched off the chandelier and hid. The other two ducked behind the couch.
"Did you hear that?" the third man whispered, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
Their leader crawled toward them and slammed the third man's head against the wall. "Didn't you say no one was home?"
The third man waved him off. "Relax, Boss! I'm pretty sure the couple left for a birthday party. I work here, I swear! It must be a cat or something!" he whispered harshly.
The second man pulled out a sharp knife—one designed for skinning animals. He was a professional butcher. "I've got a knife. If someone's here, I'll slit their throat. Let's just grab what's valuable and get out."
They got up and, moving soundlessly, began searching for valuables. They rummaged through drawers and cabinets, stuffing their bags with anything that seemed expensive.
Then, another sound shattered the silence.
They froze. Did the couple have a child or a caretaker?
The third man smirked. "If it's a woman, we could have some fun—"
The boss shot him a dead stare, making him shut up immediately.
The second man grabbed the third guy's head and twisted it slightly. "There's no one here but the couple, and both of them are out. So focus. Let's get the goods and get the fuck out of here."
But just then, "Look at this," the third man whispered. He picked up a gold-adorned golf club. "Fuckers must be loaded! I'm taking this shit home!"
The couple were both doctors—a doctor and a pharmacist. No wonder they came from money.
The burglars continued exploring, grabbing expensive items and jewelry, but they were mainly looking for cash. They found nothing but jewelry and expensive clothes.
Then, the boss ordered, "Check that door and keep an eye on things down here. I'm heading upstairs."
He gripped his sharp blade and ascended the staircase, checking each room as he went. His machete was in his hand, ready to strike. He searched the entire second floor. Nothing.
Now moving more freely, he began stealing anything valuable. After a few moments, his flashlight's beam landed on a safe.
He immediately got to work, trying to open it. But just as he was focused, another noise came—from directly behind him. A cold chill ran down his spine.
He turned around. Nothing.
Trying to shake off his nerves, he returned to the safe. His hands moved faster now. Finally, it clicked open, revealing stacks of cash and important papers. He hastily stuffed them into his bag. The room was like a treasure trove—medals, trophies, jewelry, and priceless artifacts neatly displayed on the shelves.
He grabbed a few for himself, stuffing them into his pockets. But then—he froze.
A faint sound reached his ears. His pulse quickened as he swung his flashlight toward the noise. Nothing. The room was still, silent, untouched. But the unease remained.
Gripping his knife tightly, he scanned the area, searching for any trace of movement. He wasn't drunk, yet he felt as if his mind was playing tricks on him.
"Am I imagining things?" he whispered to himself.
Shaking off the fear, he grabbed the cash-loaded bag, but the oppressive silence bore down on him.
Then—something stirred behind him.
He tried to ignore it, but without realizing it, his gaze fell upon a long leather raincoat swaying gently from a rack. Its hem nearly brushed the floor.
But it wasn't just a coat.
From beneath it, a figure slowly lifted its head. Shrouded in darkness, it stepped forward, lowering itself from the small table where it had been perched.
The leather-clad stranger now stood upright, towering over the intruder.
The burglar froze, breath caught in his throat, as the figure reached for an axe.
He thought he was hallucinating. But just when he turned, the unknown figure's axe's blade gleamed menacingly in the dim light.
Before the intruder could react, the figure surged forward, swinging the axe with terrifying precision. The blade of the axe tore into his face to jaw, cutting and crushing through the skull, dragging and cleaving through bone and sinew, tore the chest, splitting his torso in a gruesome display. And the pressure of the dragging axe was so immense, when it hit his leg, it went flying off, detached from his body.
—Imagine the unbearable torment of a goat having its skin peeled off slowly while still alive—the sheer pain would force it to scream in agony.
But what he feels, what he endures, is far worse than that—a suffering so intense that even the tortured cries of that poor creature would pale in comparison. And with it comes an inevitable, instant death.
His scream was cut short as his body collapsed.
Downstairs, the other two burglars heard the commotion. Alarmed, they grabbed their weapons—a machete and a dagger—and bolted upstairs.
As they climbed, the axe-wielding figure appeared suddenly. With terrifying speed, it hurled the axe—the blade embedding itself into one of the men's skulls.
He crumpled instantly, his lifeless body collapsing onto the stairs. The remaining burglar screamed for help, terror filling his voice.
But the figure acted immediately—grabbing him by the throat, squeezing with monstrous strength. And then the figure pressed his eyeballs, making him blind completely and silencing him before he could utter another word.
The town remained silent beneath the moonlit sky. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the wind, rattling the windows faintly.
The clock struck 2:29 AM. The couple arrived home, unlocking the door and stepping inside. They had just come from the wife's parents' place, where they had attended a birthday party. The husband, carrying a few bags, spoke tiredly to his wife as they entered.
"I couldn't buy anything for your mother. I'll make sure to get something next time."
But as the lovebirds exchanged their words, the wife's gaze landed on something horrifying—blood dripping down the stairs. Before she could respond to her husband, a scream escaped her lips. Her body froze in place, her face turning pale with visible fear.
Startled, the husband turned toward her.
"What happened?" he asked anxiously, following her gaze. What he saw made his body go numb.
Blood was smeared across the furniture, staining the once-pristine surfaces. The living room was in disarray, drawers left open, and belongings scattered across the floor. The window had been forced open, allowing the cold night air to seep inside. But the most horrifying sight was the dark red trail of blood dripping from the second floor, seeping through the cracks in the ceiling and pooling onto the carpet below.
Realization struck them like a hammer—someone had broken into their house.
The wife got scared, immediately grabbed her telephone, and called the police. Meanwhile, the husband, driven by a mix of fear and determination, set the bags down and reached for a baseball bat from a nearby storage bin.
He noticed his golden golf stick was gone too. He was damn scared. He instructed his wife,
"Stay here. I'll check upstairs. If something happens to me, just run to the police station."
As he ascended the staircase, his eyes followed the blood trail smeared across the steps, leading straight to their bedroom. The crimson streaks suggested someone had been dragged inside. With each step, his heartbeat pounded louder in his chest, threatening to burst.
Finally, he reached the bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open slowly, peeking through the narrow gap. What he saw inside made his blood run cold.
His scream of pure horror erupted from his throat, echoing through the house.
Hearing his agonized cry, his wife, despite her fear and instructions, ran upstairs for her husband.
"Honey!" she screamed and rushed—she found him vomiting in the corner. She paranoidly started checking his body to see if he was injured or something. "You—you okay?!"
She held his cheeks. He was fine, but disgust was on his face. He opened the window in the hallway and started vomiting once again.
His wife kept holding him and patting his back, but then she looked at the slightly opened door of their bedroom. She wondered what made him throw up. She knelt, grabbed the baseball bat, and walked slowly to the room. She pushed the door, and then she saw it too.
Her body froze, her breath stuck in her throat. The telephone and baseball bat slipped from her trembling hands, hitting the floor—thud. Disgust twisted her face as she took in the grisly scene before her.
On the call, the police were still on the line. They kept calling them, but the wife was paralyzed from the scene.
The voice on the line remained calm and said, "Ma'am, please stay on the line. We're sending help immediately."
The couple remained silent, their shallow, panicked breaths the only sound filling the house. And after a few moments, the wife's mouth filled with disgust and vomit. She pressed her mouth but couldn't hold it any longer. She went downstairs with her husband, holding arms.
Minutes later, police sirens cut through the quiet night. The flashing red and blue lights reflected eerily against the neighboring houses as officers rushed inside. Even the most hardened detectives faltered for a moment at the grotesque scene.
The shaken couple was quickly escorted outside for safety, while the police sealed off the premises. Curious neighbors gathered nearby, whispering amongst themselves as fear spread through the small town.
Soon after, a forensic team and an investigative unit arrived. Among them was the lead investigator, Mr. Kenzo—a man known for his sharp mind and unshakable composure.
As he stepped into the house, he was greeted by an unsettling silence, broken only by the faint creaking of the blood-streaked floorboards under his shoes. He methodically climbed the stairs to the second floor, following the crime scene until he reached a large window.
Outside, faintly illuminated by the moonlight, stood a tall, conical tree. But what made the scene grotesquely macabre were the three lifeless bodies hanging from its branches—their corpses swayed slightly in the cold night breeze, their skin marred by countless wounds and injuries.
Even the forensic team, trained to handle the most gruesome of sights, felt disgusted.
Kenzo's gaze then shifted to the bedroom window.
There, scrawled in large, crimson letters, was a chilling message:
"Merry Christmas."
His breath hitched as realization sank in. Turning to the team, his voice was calm but laced with an unmistakable edge of dread.
"Mr. Santa did this. No doubt about it."
He issued firm instructions. "Get those bodies down immediately. This is no random crime. This was done by Santa Claus—there's no doubt."
One of the forensic workers muttered in frustration, "How did he kill them and nail them to the tree? And how did no one hear or see anything?"
Kenzo remained silent for a moment, his mind racing through the possibilities. He knew one thing for certain—Mr. Santa was no ordinary killer. He was smart, calculative, a monster who had likely planned every detail of this horror from the very beginning.
Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Kenzo imagined the crime scene as it must have unfolded.
But the only thing he could see was a man—a shadowy figure with an unsettling, mocking smile:
"The Bloody Christmas Killer."