He stood in the shadows, by the old, shriveled man's hospital bed--pensive, listening to the beeping of the monitors, the steady breath of the ventilator, keeping the man alive. He tried to reassure his conscience of the inevitable: this man was going to die soon anyway. His mouth was parched. His hands--trained to save lives, not take them--shook with fear and guilt. As he filled the syringe with morphine from the glass vial, Dr. Brad Telman wondered how things might have been different, if he hadn't opened that damned box.

It was the day before, the morning of December 24th. The fresh powdered snow blanketed the ground outside the St. Louis condominium when Brad first noticed the strange package on the hallway table. It was about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in holiday gold foil with a red velvet bow. The attached typewritten tag read--

To Dr. Bradley Telman--Open on Christmas Eve.

Brad, a tall, blonde, good-looking man in his thirties, worked as an intern at Mercy General Hospital, and was popular with the ladies. His roommate, Marty, was about the same age, somewhat short, and introverted in comparison. Lacking in social grace, he was a frizzy-haired nerd, but he was Brad's best friend. He had a pretty good paying job, installing advanced security systems for the private sector. Marty sat at the dining table, slurping the milk from his cereal bowl and scrolling on his phone. The condo was bright, located on the fifth floor, with a view of the Meramec River. It was sparsely decorated with a wood dinette table, two mismatched chairs, a couple of dead plants on side tables, a big screen tv, and a worn, black leather couch.

"What's this?" Brad asked, pointing to the parcel.

"Dunno," Marty replied, not looking up from his phone. "Found it outside the door this morning." Brad picked it up, shook it lightly, then sat down with it across the table from Marty.

"Are you sure?" he asked playfully. "You look guilty," he chuckled.

Marty was the king of weird practical jokes.

"Not me, man," Marty looked at Brad, straight-faced. "Maybe Sarah sent it."

"Doubt it. We broke up last night. She's not a happy camper," Brad said.

"Emily's back?"

"Yup," Brad smiled, pouring himself a coffee from the carafe. He had been dating Sarah Dross, a nurse co-worker at the hospital while his girlfriend, Emily, was studying in Germany. She had recently returned to rekindle their relationship. Sarah was a cute redhead, a diversion, who paled in comparison to Emily, who was the complete package: smart, sexy, blonde, and rich. "I bought a ring for Emily," he said. "Tonight is the night I'm going to pop the question."

"Well, good luck with that, and it's about time you let Sarah go," Marty said, getting up to discard his dirty dishes in the sink. "You can't blame her for being ticked off. You've been stringing her along for six months."

"How's the apartment hunting going?" Brad asked, eager to change the subject. "Emily and I need the space."

"I know," said Marty, his voice irritated. "Jeez. Don't rag at me, man. I'm working on it okay?" Anger brewed in his eyes as he abruptly walked to the closet, grabbed his winter coat and out the door he went, muttering, "See you later."

Brad regretted having to kick Marty out, especially at Christmas. They had lived together for two years now, but it was time to move on. He looked at the wrapped present beside him. It had a curious odor, a mixture of moth balls, cedar, and Old Spice. "Well, technically, it's Christmas Eve Day, so I guess I can open it," he said, as he carefully removed the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, was an old wooden nutcracker doll. It wore a red nineteenth century soldier's uniform with a withered, dirty feather adorning its black felt cap and held a silver-painted sword in its hand. Inside was a handwritten note in German. Brad grabbed his cellphone and typed the mysterious message into Google translator. His mouth dropped as he read:

The wrong you have done

Must be made right.

I take my revenge, on Christmas night.

A life you must take, or be cursed from above

At the stroke of midnight, you'll lose one you love.

signed,

Mr. Drosselmeyer

He picked up the doll and examined it closely. It stank of rot and mold. Its face, a death mask, resembled a skull with a cracked stump of a nose and black sockets where eyes had once been. As the hideous face stared at him, the hinged gnashing teeth opened and closed on their own--

"Fuck!" he yelled in horror, as he threw the repulsive doll back in the box. What kind of sick, demented person could have sent this? he said to himself. If it is a joke, it isn't the least bit funny--or worse, is it some kind of threat? And who had he wronged? Sarah? There was only one way to find out--to confront her.

Brad stormed into the ER entrance at the hospital around 1pm. The place was packed as usual, bustling with patients with strains, sprains, coughs and colds. Through the chaos, he spotted Sarah at the nurses' station, silver and gold garland strung just above her head. Although her face showed a mix of emotions: sleep deprivation, hurt and stress, Brad admired the simplicity of her beauty. She looked up from her paperwork, saw him, and started an avoidance maneuver to the back room, but he quickly intercepted her course.

"Well, if it isn't Doctor Ruin my Christmas. What do you want, Brad?" she asked defensively.

"Not funny, Sarah," he whispered and shoved the box at her. "I'm really sorry I hurt you. I'm a jerk, but this is going too far."

"I don't know what you're talking about. What's this?"

"Open it." Brad carefully watched her blank expression as she opened the box, revealing the doll, wrapped in the tissue, then handed her the card.

"Its German," she said. "It may be my heritage, but I don't speak the language." Brad translated the message written on the card, and Sarah denied sending it to him.

"Brad," she laughed, "Why would I give you anything after the way you treated me last night? Maybe Emily gave it to you as a joke. Or maybe she found out about us. Wasn't she in Germany? Go ask her." She stormed away to a patient's room and Brad followed. He watched in the doorway as she checked the patient's pulse and adjusted his blankets. The man was unconscious, a bald octopus surrounded by tubes and wires. "How are you doing, Mr. Avery?" Sarah's voice was soothing as she gently patted his hand, but he couldn't reply.

"It's a German nutcracker," Brad whispered as he came closer. "You told me your ancestors changed your last name from Drosselmeyer to Dross. You expect me to believe the name on the note is a coincidence? There's a children's story on the web, written by E.T.A. Hoffman in 1816, about a cursed boy who became a nutcracker on Christmas Eve." Brad's voice became more urgent. "Maybe Drosselmeyer, your relative, made this nutcracker too and it's cursed. Someone gave me this evil thing and I need to know who."

"Shhhh. Keep your voice down," she silenced him, motioning to the patient. "Poor Mr. Avery obviously isn't well. He's alone, just like me. No one should be alone at Christmas." Brad felt a pang of guilt as tears formed in her eyes. "Look, Brad," she continued, her sad brown eyes looked into his. "I didn't send it to you. There are no cursed dolls. What you're suggesting is crazy. I know we're through. I wish you and Emily all the best, but please--just go home and leave me alone. I need to get back to work." He nodded as he felt dismissed, and left the room. She's right, he thought. Just a nasty, stupid prank. He needed to go home, throw the thing in the garbage, and forget about it. He was looking forward to his romantic dinner with Emily. He should call her to confirm. Everything had to be perfect. Tonight, would be a night to remember.

As he was leaving, the doors of the ER flew open and the paramedics rolled in a young woman on a stretcher. Brad's heart stopped as he immediately recognized her--Emily.

"Car accident. Doesn't look good," he overheard someone say as they rushed her into the operating room. Brad stood, dumbfounded, unable to move. All he could think of were those words on the note: a life you must take, or lose one you love.

"My God," he whispered. "The curse is real."

After her surgery, Emily was taken to intensive care. She had suffered a brain hemorrhage and internal injuries in the crash. Brad sat vigil at her bedside, praying for her to wake up. The doctors had done all they could, all he could do was wait. He was tortured with guilt--his infidelity, his poor treatment of his best friend. He stopped wondering where the doll had come from, and just wanted to appease it.

Suddenly, a thought came to him--Sarah's patient, Mr. Avery, possibly dying, machines breathing for him, unconscious. A tiny voice in Brad's head said, "No one would miss him. Damn it, you'd be doing the old man a favor. It wouldn't be like killing him--not like murder. No, the guy wants to die, he would be grateful. The curse would be broken and Emily would get better." So, as dawn brought no change in his girlfriend's condition, Brad went home to get some rest, carrying the nutcracker in the box, and, in his delirium, he imagined it laughing.

He slept most of the next day, returning to the hospital Christmas night around 10pm. Most of the staff had gone home early to enjoy their turkey dinner with family and friends, so only a handful of nurses remained. Careful to avoid detection, Brad entered the nurses' medicine supply room, took a vial of morphine and a syringe, and crept down the hall to room 202. From the shadows, he could see Mr. Avery was asleep. The room was filled with the haunting raspy sound of the ventilator and the constant beeping of monitors. He checked the hall again to make sure no one was coming, then, with shaky hands, he injected the lethal dose into the PICC line. Suddenly, his victim's eyes opened in surprise, in judgement of his death sentence, then drifted back to sleep. Brad was shocked, and swiftly left the room, just as the monitors flatlined and he heard the code echo in the corridor. He fled out the back door, to his car. He drove back to his condo panicked, but satisfied that he had done the only thing he could do to save Emily.

Brad awoke the morning of December 26th to sunshine and the delicious aroma of coffee, and bacon sizzling in the frying pan, as Marty prepared breakfast in the kitchen. An exhausted, emotional wreck, he dragged himself into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, hopeful for good news about Emily.

"Morning, bro," Marty said, draining the grease from the bacon. "You look like hell. Rough night?"

"You could say that," grumbled Brad as he sat down at the table.

"What happened? Marty laughed," Did Emily turn down your proposal?" He turned around to see Brad's face buried in his hands.

"Brad, what's going on?"

"Emily was in an accident yesterday. She's in the hospital and I did something terrible. I don't think I can forgive myself." His phone rang. He answered it and quietly listened as the nurse gave him the bad news that Emily didn't make it through the night. Brad thanked her for the call and hung up, feeling the shock as his world collapsed. His mind was racing--But, Emily can't be dead, he thought. She can't be. I did what the note said-- what the nutcracker wanted.

"Actually," confessed Marty, "I also did something terrible. The other day, I was doing an installation in that downtown Victorian house, and I found this creepy nutcracker between the walls, and well, I played a nasty prank on you. I gave you that package. I know it was a mean thing to do, but you've been a real asshole lately, so to apologize, I made breakfast. Ta Da," he said as he placed the plate of food on the table. "Hey," Marty said, looking around, "where's the doll? The box was on the table this morning, now it's gone. Who was that on the phone? How's Emily? You said she was in an accident--"

"Shut up!" Brad exploded. He couldn't listen to Marty anymore. Spiraling out of control, he leapt to the door and just as he opened it, two policemen were standing there.

"Dr. Brad Telman?"

"Yes," Brad squeaked.

"You are under arrest for the murder of John Avery." The officer continued to read him his rights as he pulled Brad's arms behind his back and secured handcuffs on his wrists. His trial resulted in a guilty verdict. It was Sarah Dross, the night nurse who had called the police and testified as a witness, along with the video surveillance of the crime. Obviously, the jury didn't believe the defense of a cursed nutcracker. Marty continued to live in the condo, and--

the nutcracker was never found.