The Heart’s Beat

When I pushed open the door, the smell hit me first—copper and rot, thick enough to choke on. Then I saw the blood. It was everywhere, a massacre painted across the room. Crimson splattered the walls in violent arcs, dripping from the ceiling like a storm had torn through. The bed was soaked, sheets clinging to the mattress, heavy with gore. Puddles pooled on the floor, glistening under the moonlight, reflecting the horror back at me. And there, kneeling in the center of the bed, was my mom—or what was left of her.

Her body was propped up, chest arched toward the ceiling, like some twisted offering. Her skin was gray, her face frozen in a scream, eyes wide and empty. A jagged hole gaped where her heart should’ve been, ragged edges of flesh and bone torn apart, strings of muscle hanging like tattered ribbons. Her heart—God, her heart—hung suspended above her, floating in the air, tethered by some invisible, unholy force. It pulsed, still beating, veins twitching as if it refused to die. In the hollow of her chest, a drum sat, small and grotesque, its surface stretched tight with something that looked like human skin. It thumped, a slow, sickening rhythm, the same beat that had haunted my dreams since this fucking curse began. The rhythm of her heart, stolen and mocked, pounding in time with the drum’s vile song.

I stared, my knees buckling, the world tilting. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The blood, the drum, her heart—they burned into my eyes, branding themselves into my skull.

Then I woke up.

I shot upright in the guest bed at Belle’s house, my chest heaving, sweat soaking my shirt. My hands flew to my face, rubbing hard, trying to scrub away the image. My left eye twitched, a sharp, involuntary spasm, and the veins in my temples throbbed like they might burst. It was a dream. Just a dream. But it felt so real, so vivid, like I’d been standing in that room seconds ago. My mom’s dead eyes, her torn chest, the drum’s beat—it was all still there, clawing at my brain.

I needed to move, to do something to shake it off. My legs were shaky as I stumbled out of the guest room, the house dark and silent. Everyone must’ve been asleep. I crept downstairs to the kitchen, the floor cold against my bare feet. My hands trembled as I grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the sink. I brought it to my lips, but the image flashed again—blood dripping from the ceiling, my mom’s heart pulsing in the air, the drum’s relentless thump. I gasped, water flooding my windpipe. I choked, coughing hard, my throat burning with grief, guilt, and something bitter I couldn’t name.

The glass slipped from my hand, shattering on the counter. Shards bit into my palm, blood welling up, mixing with the water on the floor. I didn’t care. I dropped to my knees, the sobs tearing out of me, raw and ugly. My parents were gone. My dad was burned to ashes in that plane crash. My mom, butchered in her own room, her heart stolen by those fucking dolls. And it was my fault. If I’d never touched that book, never played hero with Belle and Luca, someone else might’ve died instead. Not them. Not my parents. The weight of it crushed me, my chest caving in, my breath short and ragged. I was drowning in it—guilt, regret, the blood I could still see, still smell. I clutched my head, nails digging into my scalp, willing the images to stop, but they wouldn’t. I sobbed harder, my body shaking, the world blurring through tears I hadn’t even felt coming.

I don’t know how long I was there, crumpled on the kitchen floor, blood and water pooling under my cut hand. Then I felt it—warm arms wrapping around me, pulling me close. I looked up, my vision swimming, and saw Belle. Her eyes were red, her face soft with a grief that mirrored mine. Behind her, Bella crouched, her usual smirk gone, replaced by a quiet, human sadness I didn’t know she could feel.

“It’s not your fault, Wise,” Belle whispered, her voice breaking. “I know it feels like it, but it’s not. And if you need to let it all out, I’m here. We’re here.” She tightened her arms around me, her warmth anchoring me to something real.

Bella didn’t speak, didn’t try anything. She just knelt beside me, her arms joining Belle’s, holding me without a word. For once, she wasn’t the predator, just a girl letting me break. The tears came harder, a flood I couldn’t stop, my sobs echoing in the dark kitchen. I let it all out—my parents, the blood, the curse, the guilt that was eating me alive. And they held me through it, two sisters in a house that wasn’t mine, keeping me from falling apart completely.

The days that followed were a slow bleed, each one a fresh cut to the soul. Losing both my parents—my dad in that plane crash, my mom torn apart in her own room—crushed me that night in Belle’s kitchen, and the pain kept rippling, like a stone dropped in a lake of tar. I tried to move on, I swear I did. Tried to laugh with Belle, joke with Luca, act like I wasn’t broken. But everywhere I looked, that fucking Santa doll was there, its grin burned into my brain. It wasn’t the jolly old man from Christmas cards anymore. It was bigger now, human-sized, its face gaunt and gray, like it chain-smoked death itself. Its red coat hung tattered, stained with something darker than blood, and its eyes glowed with a sick, tar-pit malice. Mrs. Claus matched him, her smile sharp as a blade, and the elf—God, that gremlin thing—scuttled like it was stitched from nightmares, its teeth glinting like broken glass.

They came for me one night, while I was trapped in my hundredth rerun of that dream—my mom’s blood painting the walls, her heart floating, the drum in her chest thumping its cursed rhythm. I was curled in the guest bed at Belle’s, my pillow damp with sweat, when I heard it: “Ho ho ho.” Santa’s voice was a rasp, like gravel dragged through a throat full of ash. I jerked upright, my heart hammering, and realized I wasn’t in the guest room anymore. Hell, I wasn’t in the Forrester’s house. I was… nowhere. Floating in a void, stars swirling around me like the Milky Way had cracked open and swallowed me whole. The air was heavy, infinite, pressing on my chest. Just me, my bed, and them—the dolls, standing in a triangle, their grins wide enough to split their faces.

“What do you want from me?” I croaked, my voice barely holding together.

Santa tilted his head, his laugh a guttural wheeze. “Ho ho, heh heh heh. Why so glum, little fella? You acted like you had it all figured out, didn’t you? Like we couldn’t touch you. Invincible.” His eyes narrowed, glinting like oil slicks. “When Luca’s mother died, didn’t it cross your mind? Keep meddling, and we’d take what’s yours.”

“Foolish child,” Mrs. Claus hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You live because we allow it. Every breath, every step—it’s ours to control.”

The elf skittered closer, its claws clicking on the invisible floor. “You killed them, Wise. You. If you’d let the curse run its course, maybe someone else would’ve bled instead. Not your mommy. Not your daddy.” Its grin stretched, showing too many teeth.

I grabbed my hair, shaking my head, trying to block them out. “No, you’re wrong,” I said, my voice cracking. “I saved people. My parents… they’d be proud.”

Santa’s laugh was a blade in my gut. “Proud? From beyond the grave? Oh, I’m sure.” He stepped closer, his stench—like burnt sugar and decay—making my eyes water. “We let you save those sacrifices, boy. Every life you spared made your parents’ deaths hit harder. Their blood’s on you.”

My stomach lurched, the void spinning around me. “What comes next?” I forced out, clinging to the bed’s edge. “The twelve days are over. You got your victims.”

Santa turned, his grin stretching so wide it split his cheeks, black ichor dripping from the cracks. My whole body shuddered, my soul icing over. “Heh heh, Wise, Wise, Wise. Pitiful little Wise. You read the curse’s history. Care to guess what happens at the end?”

My brain scrambled, clawing through the fog of the last few days. The book, the library, the stories of the town’s past—something about the curse always ending the same way. Then it hit me, like a punch to the throat. “The mass murder,” I whispered. “Every Christmas, on the 24th… a slaughter bigger than the town’s ever seen.”

Santa clapped, slow and mocking, his claws scraping together. “There’s the spark! You’re not as dumb as you look.” He leaned in, his breath hot and rancid. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, boy. No heroics this time.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, he snapped his fingers. A shockwave slammed into me, hurling me through the void. I crashed hard, pain exploding in my ribs, my arm twisting at a wrong angle. I screamed, writhing on the invisible floor as Mrs. Claus and the elf materialised above me. Their claws dug into my limbs, grinding bone against bone, fire tearing through my nerves. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—just pain, white-hot and endless.

“Stop!” I gasped, tears streaming down my face. “I won’t—I won’t do anything!”

Santa loomed over me, his grin a crescent of malice. “This isn’t just about you, Wise. Ruin our event on the 24th, and everyone you love—Belle, Luca, that pretty little sister of hers—they’ll live in hell. Then I’ll end you, slow and sweet, until you beg for it.”

I nodded, choking on sobs, the pain too much to fight. Another snap, and the void dissolved. I was back in the guest room, sprawled on the bed, my limbs whole, my body untouched. No blood, no breaks—just my heart pounding like it might burst. “Live out your days in ignorance,” Santa’s voice echoed, sourceless, “and await that dreaded day.”

I collapsed against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. December 24th. A mass murder. The dolls’ final act. I could still feel their claws, their words carving deeper than any blade: You killed them, Wise. My parents’ faces flashed—my dad’s laugh on the phone, my mom’s torn body. The town was a ticking bomb, and I was too broken to stop it.