Short Story: The Yule Haunting
Lost in a relentless Highland blizzard, James stumbles upon a grand but decaying manor, its windows dark and unwelcoming. Seeking shelter, he steps inside, only to find the house strangely warm, the Christmas decorations untouched by time.
As the clock strikes midnight, James finds himself trapped in a holiday nightmare, realising too late that some traditions should never be disturbed.
The Yule Haunting
The blizzard had come suddenly, swallowing the landscape in an unforgiving white shroud. James had been driving through the Scottish Highlands, his satnav stubbornly insisting on a shortcut that no longer existed. When the snow thickened to an impenetrable wall, he had no choice but to abandon his car and search for shelter.
It wasn’t long before he found it—a grand but crumbling manor, half-buried under the weight of winter. Its towering windows stared like dead eyes, and the Yule wreath on the door was blackened with age. It had been left to rot, yet as he stepped inside, warmth still lingered in the air.
James knocked but there was no reply. He tried the door and it opened stiffly with a protesting squeal from long rusted hinges. He stamped his feet hard on the floor, he shook off the snow from his shoulders and called out, but no one answered. He found himself in a cavernous sitting room, a long-extinguished fireplace filled with charred logs. A massive Christmas tree stood in the corner, its ornaments dull with dust, but something about it unsettled him. Beneath it, neatly arranged, were gifts. And they weren’t old. The paper was crisp, the bows uncurled, as though placed there moments ago.
Despite the strangely warm air his breath misted as he breathed.
He took a step forward, drawn by the eerie sight. A grandfather clock in the hall chimed loudly breaking the thick silence—midnight. And then, the lights flickered to life.
The tree glowed with warm golden bulbs, the hearth crackled into flame. A gentle, ghostly sound of a Christmas carol drifted through the air.
And the presents… began to move.
James stumbled back as the boxes shuffled, their lids lifting an inch at a time. Childlike giggles echoed through the manor, soft but wrong. One box tipped over, and something crawled out. Small, with fingers too long, eyes too black.
More lids popped open. More shapes wriggled free.
James turned and bolted for the door, but the manor had changed. The corridor stretched away impossibly long, lined with flickering candlelight. Footsteps pattered behind him, too many, too quick.
The whispering began.
“Stay for Christmas.”
Far off, in the distance before him, the front door slammed shut and the sounds behind him grew louder.
Whith thick flakes still falling heavily from the sky, the thick snow surrounding the house snuffed out all the terrified screams James made. Nobody would hear, there would be no rescue.
© Colin Lawson 2024
© Colin Lawson Books