The Christmas Eve No One Speaks Of

Every Christmas, there was an unspoken rule in our family: never open the mysterious gift under the tree. It was an ancient, dust-covered box, always wrapped in the same tattered red paper, tied with a frayed golden ribbon. We placed it under the tree in our old, ivy-clad house, a tradition as enigmatic as it was unbroken.

This year, the air in our small town felt charged, electric with whispered rumors about our family’s odd ritual. They said the box was cursed, haunted by spirits from a tragic Christmas long ago. I always scoffed at such tales, but a part of me couldn’t help but wonder.

On Christmas Eve, as a haunting silence enveloped our home, I found myself drawn to the box like never before. My family sat around, their eyes betraying a mix of fear and curiosity. As the clock chimed midnight, I reached out, my fingers trembling, and untied the ribbon.

The lid creaked open, revealing not an object, but a mirror, old and clouded. Peering into it, I was met with a reflection not of our living room, but of a scene from a bygone era – a festive gathering turned nightmarish. The faces of my ancestors were twisted in horror, fleeing from an unseen terror.

A Haunting Reflection

Dropping the mirror in shock, it shattered, its pieces scattering across the floor. A bone-chilling wind swept through the room, snuffing out the lights. Whispers filled the air, echoing the terror of the past.

As we huddled together, the room grew colder, the whispers louder. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the haunting ceased. The lights flickered back on, revealing an empty room – the box and its shattered contents had vanished.

In the days that followed, our family was shrouded in a heavy silence. The town’s whispers turned into outright accusations, their fear palpable. Our tradition had unveiled a truth too sinister to comprehend, leaving us isolated, haunted by the ghosts of our lineage.

I vowed to leave this all behind, to forget that Christmas Eve. But fate had other plans. Years later, I returned to my childhood home, only to find the box waiting under the tree, its ribbon freshly tied.

The Legacy of the Curse

Compelled by an unseen force, I opened it once more. This time, the mirror showed my reflection, but behind me stood a shadowy figure, its eyes burning with a familiar terror. As I turned, the figure vanished, leaving me alone with the chilling realization: the curse wasn’t just a relic of the past; it was a living, breathing entity, and I had become its next vessel.

The unopened gift was more than a tradition; it was a gateway, one that I had unwittingly reopened. Now, every Christmas, I wait, the box under the tree, a silent guardian of a terror that lurks just beyond the veil of our reality.

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