A Christmas Eve Terror
It was Christmas Eve night, and the excitement in the air was palpable. Our family had a tradition of hosting Christmas Eve at our house, a gathering that included my grandparents, uncles, and cousins. This year, I was twelve, and my mom was busy preparing her famous duck, as she always did for the occasion. My dad, unfortunately, was battling a nasty cold and was trying to keep his distance from everyone.
As the evening progressed, family members started arriving one by one. My Uncle Joe was the first to show up, bringing my cousins Chris and Valerie with him. They were the closest in age to me, and we quickly got distracted from helping my mom when Chris pulled out a new video game for my PlayStation—Driver 2. We rushed upstairs to play, but our fun was short-lived. My mom called for me, her voice sharp with frustration, reminding me of the work still to be done.
Reluctantly, we paused the game and headed back downstairs. The house was now bustling with family, and I juggled saying hello to everyone while helping set the table. Within half an hour, the entire family was present, and dinner was almost ready. Just as we settled at the table, I heard my mom yell, “Oh no! I forgot the stuffing!”
She sent me to the basement to grab it from the makeshift pantry behind the bar. I hurried down the stairs, the familiar scent of the basement greeting me. As I rummaged through the shelves, I noticed a blanket covering something in the corner next to the two sofas. At first, I thought it was one of my cousins hiding, trying to scare me.
As I approached, I could see the outline of a head beneath the blanket. I stood there, waiting for whoever it was to jump out and scare me. Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out, plunging the basement into darkness. The door slammed shut behind me.
“Screw you!” I yelled, thinking it was Chris or Valerie trying to mess with me. I was determined to scare whoever was hiding under the blanket. I tiptoed across the carpet and yanked the blanket off, ready to scream.
But instead of a scream of surprise, I was met with silence. A strong grip suddenly seized my neck, and I froze in terror. This was not Chris; this felt like the grip of a grown man. Panic surged through me as I struggled to breathe.
“Let go!” I screamed, my voice barely escaping my throat. The basement door opened, and light flooded in, revealing an old, disheveled man. His clothes were tattered, and his face was gaunt. He released me and bolted toward the back door, which led outside.
“Help! He’s in here!” I cried, my voice trembling. My family rushed down the stairs, confusion etched on their faces. I pointed toward the open door, still in shock.
“Two of my uncles ran outside to chase him while my mom and aunts tried to comfort me. I was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face. My mother called the police, her voice frantic as she reported the intruder.
My uncles searched the streets for twenty minutes, but the man seemed to have vanished. The police arrived, and one officer assessed the situation. “It sounds like a homeless squatter trying to escape the cold,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We’ve had several calls like this recently.”
The officer’s words did little to ease my fear. The image of that man’s hand around my neck haunted me. My cousins had initially planned to prank me by turning off the lights and shutting the door, but this was clearly beyond their intentions.
After a long night of waiting, the police concluded their investigation, assuring us they would patrol the area. My family learned a valuable lesson that night: always keep every entrance to the house locked.
As the evening wore on, I tried to shake off the incident, but the fear lingered. I couldn’t sleep, my mind racing with thoughts of what could have happened if I hadn’t escaped his grip.
Christmas Day came, but the joy of the holiday was overshadowed by the memory of the intruder. I felt jumpy and on edge, unable to relax. My dad tried to lighten the mood, but every creak of the house made me flinch.
Later that day, while we exchanged gifts, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching us. I kept glancing out the window, half-expecting to see the man lurking in the shadows. My family tried to reassure me, but I could tell they were affected too.
As night fell, I retreated to my room, hoping to find solace in sleep. I locked my door, something my dad always advised against but felt necessary after the events of the previous night. Just as I began to drift off, I heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps outside my door.
My heart raced as I sat up, straining to listen. The footsteps stopped, and I held my breath, waiting. Then I heard the doorknob jiggle. I felt a surge of panic. Was it the man from last night? Had he come back for me?
I remained frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. The footsteps moved away from my door, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. But it was short-lived. Suddenly, I heard a soft knock.
“Hey, it’s me,” a voice whispered, low and menacing. It was not my dad or any family member.
“Who are you?” I called out, my voice trembling.
“Just let me in. I won’t hurt you,” the voice replied, but I could hear the underlying threat.
I pressed my back against the wall, terrified. My mind raced with thoughts of what could happen if I opened the door. I remembered my mom’s warning about strangers and the fear that had gripped me the night before.
“I’m calling the police!” I shouted, hoping to scare whoever it was away.
“Go ahead, but you won’t make it out of here,” the voice taunted.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, my hands shaking. “Please, someone is trying to get into my room!” I whispered urgently. The operator assured me help was on the way.
The knocking continued, more insistent now. “You’re just a kid. You think they’ll believe you?” the voice sneered. “Let me in, and I promise I’ll make it quick.”
I swallowed hard, fear coursing through my veins. I could hear the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway, followed by the sound of the front door slamming. My heart raced as I wondered if the intruder had left or if he was still lurking nearby.
The police arrived moments later, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. I opened my door cautiously, the fear still gripping me. They searched the house, checking every room and corner, but found no one.
“Are you sure you saw someone?” one officer asked gently, trying to reassure me.
“I swear, I heard him! He was right here!” I insisted, my voice shaking.
After a thorough search, the officers confirmed that the house was secure. They advised my family to keep all doors locked and to call them immediately if anything felt off. My heart sank as I realized how close I had come to a terrifying encounter.
That night, I lay in bed, the events replaying in my mind. The man’s voice echoed in my ears, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I felt vulnerable and scared, wishing I could erase the memory of that night.
As Christmas Day faded into night, I clung to the hope that I would never have to face that fear again. But deep down, I knew that the shadow of that night would linger long after the holiday lights were taken down.
In the days that followed, I tried to find comfort in the holiday spirit, but the fear of the unknown haunted me. I learned the hard way that sometimes, the most festive nights can hide the darkest secrets.
