Execution and Revelation

I locked myself in my room, shutting out the world. I barely moved from my desk, dedicating every waking moment to the books in front of me—the cursed one and the history book from the library. They sat side by side, taunting me, their pages filled with secrets I couldn’t quite grasp.

Hours blurred together. I jumped from one website to another, scouring old archives, scrolling through conspiracy forums, deep-diving into sketchy Reddit threads filled with ghost stories and urban legends. I messaged strangers, searching for anyone who had even the vaguest knowledge of the curse.

Nothing.

It was all fucking useless.

No one knew how to stop it.

At some point, Mom came home. A knock at my door made me minimize my tabs in an instant, switching to a blank school document.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly, poking her head in. “You’ve been up here all day. You okay?”

I forced a small smile, nodding. “Yeah, just busy. Trying to get ahead on some research.”

She pressed her lips together in that way that told me she wasn’t fully convinced but didn’t want to push. “You’ve barely eaten. What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything’s fine,” I muttered. “Maybe… my usual?”

Her expression softened. “Your favorite, huh? Alright.”

I nodded and turned back to my screen, acting disinterested, even as guilt gnawed at me.

She hesitated. “You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I said, my voice tight. “I just wanna focus.”

A pause. Then, “Okay.” She left, closing the door behind her.

I exhaled, shoulders slumping.

My gaze flickered to my phone. No messages. No notifications.

Blocked. Probably.

It was better this way. That’s what I told myself. If I didn’t have friends, then the curse couldn’t hurt them anymore. If I didn’t let anyone close, then no one else would die because of me.

My fists clenched as I glanced at my desk. The Santa doll sat there, grinning like it knew something I didn’t.

I sneered at it. I had thought things were finally going to be normal after fixing things with my mom. Maybe I could start liking Christmas again.

Guess Christmas was never meant for me.

I clicked open a new article. Time to get back to work.

The dream came suddenly.

At first, it was just noise. A dull, rhythmic thumping like a distant drum. It pulsed, deep and steady, vibrating through my bones.

Then—a heartbeat.

I was standing in the middle of a street.

It was snowing. But something was wrong.

The snow wasn’t white. It was stained red.

A flickering streetlamp illuminated a dark figure slumped against the side of a house. I couldn’t see their face, but the silhouette was eerily familiar.

My chest tightened. Something told me not to move closer.

Then, I heard it.

A whisper, carried by the wind.

My name.

"Wise..."

A chill crawled down my spine.

I turned my head. A woman stood behind me.

She was tall and faceless, her entire body wrapped in Christmas lights. They flickered weakly, some dim, others blinking erratically. The wires twisted around her limbs, digging into her skin.

She lifted her hand—my mom’s hand.

My blood ran cold.

“It’s almost time.”

The lights exploded.

Darkness.

▪▪▪

I jolted awake, my body snapping forward as a blanket slipped from my back and draped over the chair behind me. My breathing was uneven, my pulse hammering against my skull. I had fallen asleep at my desk, arms sprawled over the open books in front of me. The glow of my monitor cast a dim light over my room, browser tabs still open to articles, forums, anything that might help me understand this curse.

The dream was already slipping away, fading like smoke in the wind, but something about it gnawed at me. The beat—it had been there, low and steady, almost hypnotic. It burrowed into my brain, clinging like an echo from a memory I couldn’t place. It was familiar. I had heard it before. But where?

And then… my mom.

She had been in the dream, wrapped in Christmas lights, suffocating in their flickering glow. Her presence, her voice—it felt like a warning.

My stomach clenched.

Luca’s mom had died. The curse had taken her without hesitation. What if my mom was next?

Panic surged through me, my body kicking into motion before my brain fully caught up. I shoved my chair back, nearly knocking it over, and rushed to my door. The moment I yanked it open, I moved on instinct, my bare feet padding softly against the floorboards as I bolted downstairs.

I had to see her.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, breath caught in my throat as I peeked into her study.

She was there.

Sitting in her chair, reading a book, the soft glow of the lamp casting warm shadows over her face. She looked peaceful. Normal. Alive.

She hadn’t seen me.

Relief hit me like a tidal wave, but I didn’t move any closer. I just stood there, watching her, making sure nothing was… off. Then, just as quickly as I came, I turned around and bolted back upstairs. I couldn’t let her see me like this. I didn’t want to worry her.

I reached my room, pulse still racing, and pulled the door shut behind me.

Something was wrong.

The air was thinner, and heavier. A lingering chill settled over the space, crawling over my skin like ice. It wasn’t just cold—it felt off.

I scanned the room.

And then I saw it.

My window was open.

The curtains billowed in the freezing wind, twisting and snapping as if something had just passed through. My breath clouded in front of me as I took slow, careful steps toward it.

Then, I noticed him.

Santa.

He was sitting on the windowsill, facing away from me, his plump body hunched as if he had been watching something. Or waiting.

And of course, he was bigger.

Not just a little bigger. He had grown. Again.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My fingers curled into fists.

I could feel it.

Even though the doll wasn’t looking at me, I could feel it staring. Smiling. Its grin was wider than ever, almost lifelike.

Then my breath hitched.

Blood.

There was blood on it.

Dark, wet streaks across its tiny gloved hands. Splatters across its red suit. A drop near its stitched mouth, like it had licked it clean.

A shudder ripped through my body, but my mind was already spinning.

This wasn’t just some supernatural force.

The doll moved. It acted. It killed.

It had been here. Every single night. Sitting in my room. Watching me sleep.

I had been sleeping next to the thing doing the killings.

The realization sent a wave of nausea rolling through me, but it also lit something else inside me.

Elation.

I finally had proof. A solid, tangible answer.

This was how it happened. This was how the curse worked.

But alongside that twisted excitement, there was disgust. A raw, skin-crawling revulsion at what this thing was.

And then came the fear.

Why hadn’t it killed me?

I had been sleeping right next to it for days. Completely vulnerable. Wide open.

But it never made a move.

I exhaled shakily, breath visible in the freezing air. Because we’re conduits. Because the curse had already marked us.

But that immunity didn’t extend to our families.

Rage surged through me, fueled by frustration and exhaustion. Without thinking, I swiped at the doll, meaning to knock it away from the window—

The moment my fingers touched it, a shockwave of energy ripped through me.

My body arched backward, a violent jolt snapping through my limbs. It was like getting struck by lightning, except it wasn’t just pain.

It was a vision.

I wasn’t in my room anymore. I wasn’t me.

I was seeing through Santa’s eyes.

The dolls were moving. All of them.

A cluster of them—Santa, Mrs. Claus, the elf—slinked through the shadows of a stranger’s house. They moved like something unnatural, creeping over furniture, sliding under doorways, climbing onto the bed.

A man lay sleeping, his chest rising and falling peacefully.

Santa stretched out his gloved hand.

Five golden rings materialized.

The other dolls moved quickly, placing the rings over the man’s limbs.

One over each leg, stopping at his waist. One over each arm, stopping at his shoulders. One over his head, settling at the base of his neck.

The rings pulsed, then grew.

And in an instant, they tightened.

The man never even got the chance to scream.

Blood splattered. Everywhere.

His arms and legs—gone. Severed like paper.

The rings had shrunk, cutting through him like a hot blade through butter.

Santa looked down. Blood was on his hands.

And then—he started to laugh.

The vision snapped.

I collapsed onto the floor, gasping.

My hands trembled. My body felt weak, drained, and violated. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I had seen it.

I had felt it.

It was an execution.

Not random. Not chaotic. Calculated. Precise. Deliberate.

The dolls weren’t just killing.

They were enjoying it.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling to the bathroom. I barely made it to the sink before heaving, dry retching over and over again.

Nothing came out.

I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours.

I splashed cold water on my face, gripping the edges of the sink, trying to steady myself. But nothing could wash away what I had just seen.

Dragging myself back into my room, my legs barely working, I slid down against the wall and sat there.

Silent.

Tears pricked at my eyes, but I didn’t sob. Didn’t make a sound.

I had seen evil.

And it was laughing.