December 8, 2024
December arrived as it always did in Minnesota: cold, gray, and laced with biting winds that whispered promises of snow. Charlene McKenzie, eighty years old and three years a widow, rose early that morning. She padded across the worn carpet of her small home, humming a hymn under her breath. Outside, frost clung stubbornly to the edges of her windowpanes, casting soft halos around the pale light creeping in from the streetlamps.
Charlene had lived in the same house for nearly fifty years. It was a sturdy little bungalow, the kind built to withstand harsh winters. Her husband, Carl, had died of a stroke three years earlier, leaving Charlene with the sort of quiet loneliness that seeped into every corner of a life. Her two children, Mary and Billy, had passed before him—one to cancer, the other to a car accident—and now it was only Charlene and the memories she kept like fragile ornaments in her mind.
Thanksgiving had been a rare bright spot. Her granddaughter Annie had come for an early meal. They laughed, ate pie, and reminisced about happier times. But once Annie drove away, the silence returned, hanging heavy in the house like an unwelcome guest.
On December 1st, Charlene found an unexpected package on her doorstep. She hadn’t heard a knock, and when she peered out, the street was empty except for the occasional swirl of snow. The package was wrapped in plain brown paper, its edges neatly folded and taped. There was no return address, no note, nothing to indicate who had left it.
She brought it inside, setting it on her kitchen table. As she unwrapped it, her hands trembling slightly from the cold, Charlene revealed a beautiful advent calendar. It depicted a charming winter village, complete with snow-covered roofs, a skating pond, and tiny golden stars twinkling in the painted sky.
“Well, isn’t this something,” Charlene murmured.
Though puzzled, she smiled, imagining a thoughtful neighbor had left it for her. She hadn’t bought an advent calendar since Carl passed. It seemed a small but lovely way to mark the days until Christmas.
She pressed open the tiny perforated door for December 1st. Behind it was a chocolate shaped like a cat. She frowned; the chocolate was broken in half. A pity, she thought, but she ate it anyway. It was sweet but left an odd aftertaste, almost metallic.
A few hours later, there was a knock on her door. It was Sally, her neighbor from down the street.
“Charlene, have you seen Brooks?” Sally’s voice was tinged with panic. “He must’ve slipped out this morning, and I can’t find him anywhere.”
Charlene promised to help look. Wrapping herself in a thick coat and scarf, she trudged through the snow-dusted neighborhood, calling for the tabby. Her search led her to the edge of the road where she froze, her breath catching in her throat.
There lay Brooks, his body crushed and mangled, split in half like a child’s broken toy. Charlene stared, the image of the chocolate cat flashing in her mind.
When she told Sally, the woman collapsed into tears, and Charlene’s heart ached with guilt, though she had no idea why.
The next day, Charlene hesitated before opening the second door of the calendar. What she found startled her: there was no chocolate. Instead, behind the flap was an illustration of wrapped presents. She frowned but dismissed it. Maybe it was just an oversight.
Later that morning, Martin from the second house on the street knocked at her door. He looked flustered.
“Charlene, have you seen any packages on your porch by mistake? I had some gifts delivered for my nieces and nephews, but they’ve gone missing.”
Charlene shook her head, apologizing. But her stomach churned. It was too much of a coincidence.
By December 3rd, Charlene was obsessed. She woke early, her hands trembling as she opened the next door. A chocolate candy cane. This seemed innocent enough, and she convinced herself she was reading too much into the calendar.
But as the day wore on, something gnawed at her. No candy canes appeared at church, the store, or even the checkout counters. She went home and realized her mind was getting the best of her. She made some tea and sat down to watch some Christmas-themed television.
It was colder than usual tonight. She went to her bedroom closet. It was filled with robes from previous Christmases. Carl wasn’t a creative gift giver. Scarves and robes were usually wrapped for her each year under the tree. She grabbed one of the warmer ones she hadn’t worn it since last Christmas. When she reached into the pocket of an old robe, her fingers curled around the cold, curved shape. She pulled it out to find the item was a candy cane.
Charlene’s unease deepened.
The next day, Charlene hesitated before opening the fourth door. When she did, she found a gingerbread house, it was partially melted. That seemed odd as the previous chocolate was just fine.
The day passed uneventfully until the early evening when fire trucks roared down her street. Charlene followed the noise to find her neighbor Wilma’s house engulfed in flames. Neighbors stood outside, their faces lit by the orange glow.
Wilma stood in the snow, sobbing.
“It started in the kitchen,” she said. “I left a gingerbread kit by the stove—must’ve been too close to the burner.”
Behind the fifth door was a snowman. The chocolate figure was smiling, with buttons down its front and a jaunty little hat. Charlene’s heart sank before the day even began.
Around noon, Charlene saw her elderly neighbor Wilma heading to the mailbox. The sidewalks were slick, and Charlene’s pulse quickened as she watched Wilma shuffle carefully across her icy driveway.
As if in slow motion, Wilma slipped. Her feet shot out from under her, and she landed hard. At the base of a snowman. Charlene rushed to her, finding Wilma conscious but shaken. A broken wrist and bruised pride were the outcome, but Charlene couldn’t shake the image of the snowman from her mind.
Charlene considered throwing the calendar away, but a morbid sense of duty kept her from doing so. Maybe, she thought, it could be used to predict—and possibly prevent—tragedies.
The next morning, the chocolate was a reindeer. Charlene resolved to stay home, hoping to avoid causing harm. That evening, Emma called with grim news. Driving home from work, she had hit a deer. The windshield had shattered, and though Emma wasn’t hurt, the deer had died. The chocolate calendar’s grip on Charlene’s life tightened.
As the days progressed, Charlene opened each door with mounting dread. December 7th brought a boy throwing a snowball, she couldn’t get over how bitter it tasted. Almost spoiled. This was followed by the news of young Sheldon from the neighborhood falling ill. December 8th revealed a Christmas tree, and that afternoon a family arrived home with a tree strapped to their car. Not all the events were devastating, but the randomness kept Charlene on edge.
The chocolate on December 9th was a pair of mittens. Charlene almost felt foolish for expecting tragedy, but later that evening, she heard about a neighbor slipping on ice outside the library, her bare hands exposed and frostbitten by the time someone found her.
By December 10th, her dread had deepened. The day’s chocolate depicted a Christmas tree, and true to form, a family down the street returned with a fresh tree strapped to their car. Charlene thought the event benign—until the next morning, when she learned that the father had thrown out his back unloading the tree and couldn’t work his seasonal job at the mall.
From December 11th to 14th, the coincidences began to pile up. One chocolate was shaped like a gift box, and a neighborhood child received an unexpected package in the mail, sparking jealousy among their siblings. Another day brought a chocolate bell, and that evening, the church bells rang in alarm after a small electrical fire during choir practice.
By mid-December, Charlene no longer opened the calendar with curiosity. Each day’s revelation filled her with dread.
On December 15th, she pulled a chocolate star from behind the tiny door. The day passed without incident until the evening news reported a robbery at Star Market, just a few blocks away. A neighbor had been injured in the scuffle.
On December 16th, the chocolate was a snowflake, and a record-breaking storm blanketed the town that night, cutting power to several homes. December 17th revealed a toy train, and Charlene noticed that a neighbor’s model train display in their window had derailed and fallen, smashing several pieces.
The calendar seemed to oscillate between the minor and the life-changing. On December 19th, the chocolate was shaped like a bird, and Charlene heard about a rare robin sighting that thrilled local bird watchers. Yet December 20th’s chocolate—a pair of boots—foreshadowed a harrowing accident when a neighbor slipped into the icy river while hiking, his boots found abandoned on the riverbank hours later.
Charlene tried to warn herself not to see connections where there might be none. By December 21st, though, the coincidences were too numerous to ignore. That day’s chocolate, a sleigh, coincided with a neighborhood boy falling from the sled his father had been pulling behind their car. He broke his arm but was otherwise fine.
December 22nd brought an even darker premonition. The chocolate was a candle, its wick perfectly etched. That night, Charlene woke to the acrid smell of smoke. A candle had been left burning in the Wilkes’ home, and the fire department was there, hosing down the charred remains of their living room. No one was hurt, but the family was displaced for the holidays.
Through all of this, Charlene opened each door day by day, too terrified to stop but too entranced to throw the calendar away. Every minor coincidence and major calamity seemed tied to her small act of peeling back the paper and discovering what lay inside. Some events were simple annoyances, others devastating turning points for her neighbors.
Still, she rationalized. I’m just seeing patterns where there are none, she thought. But deep down, Charlene knew the truth. The calendar’s hold on her was growing, and the worst was still to come.
On December 24th, the chocolate behind the door was a bow, wrapping paper, and scissors. The chocolate represented a gift being wrapped perhaps. Was a present to be delivered? Was she to deliver a gift herself? Her mind raced and gave her dozens of options and ideas. Every chocolate represented something. Every chocolate couldn’t be ignored. She walked around all day looking for hints, clues to what it could mean. She clearly was obsessed.
That evening, there was an unexpected knock at Charlene’s door. It was Danny, a neighbor she barely knew, holding a plate of brownies. They were wrapped in a ribbon. A ribbon like the advent chocolate she saw earlier in the day. Was this what it meant? Simply just a neighborly gift?
Danny’s visit unsettled Charlene. She invited him to sit, which he did. But in an old folding chair next to a collapsable table. One she set up to wrap gifts. On the table was wrapping, tape, and a pair of scissors. It seemed like an odd place to sit considering all her furniture. It didn’t seem right.
He asked her how she was. They talked about Christmas day plans. He spoke casually about the strange occurrences in the neighborhood, but Charlene couldn’t stop staring at the scissors on the table next to him. He noticed her unease.
“Do you need these?” he asked, picking up the scissors.
Panic surged through Charlene. She screamed, grabbing a large glass vase next to her and swinging it at Danny. He staggered back, dropping the scissors, but before she could stop herself, she picked up the scissors and plunged them into his side. Blood soaked his shirt, and in her terror, Charlene struck him again, knocking him unconscious.
Unsure of what to do, Charlene dragged Danny to her greenhouse, where she hastily dug a shallow grave and buried him alive. The act left her trembling and exhausted.
On Christmas Day, Charlene opened the final door of the calendar. The chocolate was Santa, but his hand held a pair of scissors, raised like a weapon. Each previous chocolates were vague and unassuming. But this? This was clearly showing something horrific was coming. She didn’t know what it could be. Clearly, she was too old to believe in Santa. So how was an imaginary character going to come after her? But the scissors? Was this showing her something that already happened? Was it showing her killing Danny? Was she the Santa in this piece? So many questions ran through her elderly brain.
She spent Christmas alone. She told anyone who might see her that she was ill. She closed the drapes. Dimmed the lights. She didn’t even turn on the Television or listen to the radio. She just sat quietly in a chair and waited for the day to pass. And eventually, it did. At nearly midnight she realized that she was going to be okay. She decided to call it a night.
As she was about to crawl into bed, she heard a noise in her living room. It was subtle. She lived in an older house and it occasionally made noises. She waited for another sound to see if it was worth investigating. Moment later, another sound. There was someone or something in her house. She had to see what it was. Was it Santa coming to kill her? At this moment, she’d believe anything.
In the living room stood Danny, his body bloodied and broken, his eyes glinting with malice. His clothing were covered in blood. As if he was only wearing red.
He held the scissors above his head.
“Merry Christmas,” he growled, before plunging the scissors into Charlene’s neck.
As her vision dimmed, Charlene’s hand brushed the advent calendar on the table. She grabbed the chocolate Santa and bit into it. The taste was metallic, bitter, and unmistakably like blood.
The calendar was finally silent.
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