The Wrong Christmas Gift
I thought I’d nailed it this year. My sister always loved antiques, so I ordered a vintage music box from a shady-looking website. It arrived late, scratched up but still functional. I wound it up, and the melody made my stomach twist—it was Mom’s lullaby.
Mom had been gone for fifteen years. I told myself it was just a coincidence. Same tune, same soft, haunting notes she used to hum when I was little.
The first night, the music box played by itself. I’d left it on the kitchen counter, and around 3 a.m., it started spinning. The melody filled the house, louder than it should’ve been, like someone was standing in the dark corners of my home, humming along.
The second night, I locked it in a drawer. That didn’t stop it. At exactly 3 a.m., the muffled tune started again, this time echoing down the hall toward my bedroom.
By Christmas Eve, I couldn’t take it anymore. I yanked open the music box, desperate to break it, but instead, I found a folded, yellowing note. The handwriting stopped my breath: “You forgot about me, Emily. I didn’t forget about you.”
That night, I woke to someone humming. Slowly, I sat up. A figure stood at the end of my bed, shrouded in shadows, rocking slightly.
“Mom?” I whispered.
It tilted its head. The humming stopped.
“No.”
It took a step forward, and in the dim light, I saw its face—Mom’s, but wrong. Pale skin stretched too tight. Empty, black sockets where her eyes used to be. Its mouth opened, but the voice that came out wasn’t hers.
“You stopped singing my song.”
The next morning, the music box was gone. In its place was a mirror—my reflection warped, my face beginning to look just like hers.
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Creepy Meter | How Creepy it was
