The Stranger in Crimson

The Barrington Christmas Eve party was always the highlight of the season. Helena Barrington had spent weeks ensuring every detail was perfect. The twelve-foot tree, adorned with heirloom ornaments, stood at the center of the grand ballroom, its star twinkling like a beacon. The scent of cinnamon and pine mingled with the soft strains of a string quartet, creating a picture of Christmas perfection.

This year, however, the festivities had an unusual edge. Helena couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off. It wasn't anything tangible—just an unease, like the stillness before a storm.

"Helena, you're brooding," said Philip, her husband of twenty years. He was a pragmatic man, always grounded. "Relax. The party's a success."

She smiled tightly. "I know. I can't help feeling like—"

The heavy doors at the entrance creaked open, cutting her off. A hush fell over the room as the cold night air swept in. A figure stepped into the light and gasps rippled through the crowd.

The woman was striking. Her crimson gown shimmered as though woven from liquid fire, and her silver mask concealed all but her piercing eyes. She moved with an unhurried grace as though she were floating. In her gloved hand, she carried a small, unmarked box tied with a black ribbon.

"Helena," Philip said quietly, "who is she?"

Helena shook her head. "I don't know. She wasn't on the guest list."

The woman made her way to the Christmas tree, the crowd parting instinctively to let her pass. She knelt, placing the box beneath the boughs with deliberate care. Then she rose and turned to face the guests.

"Thank you for welcoming me into your beautiful home," she said, her voice smooth but strangely resonant. "I have brought a gift. But I must warn you—what you open may reveal more than you wish to know."

A murmur spread through the crowd. No one stepped forward to question her, as if they were collectively spellbound. Before anyone could respond, she turned and walked toward the arched doorway. Helena moved quickly, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

"Wait!" she called. But by the time she reached the foyer, the woman was gone, leaving only the faint scent of winter roses behind.

The party resumed, but the energy had shifted. Whispers filled the room as the guests speculated about the mysterious stranger.

"A publicity stunt?" someone suggested.

"Maybe a ghost story comes to life," joked another, though their laugh was nervous.

Helena stood by the tree, staring at the small box. "We have to open it," she said to Philip.

He frowned. "What if it's dangerous?"

"It's just a box," she said, though her voice betrayed her doubt. She knelt and untied the ribbon, her hands trembling. The room fell silent as the lid came off.

Inside was a photograph. It was old, sepia-toned, and slightly curled at the edges. It depicted the Barrington estate, but not as it stood today. The grounds were overgrown, the windows dark. A single window was lit in the upper left corner of the mansion. A shadowy figure stood behind the glass, their face blurred but unmistakably familiar.

Helena's stomach churned. "This... this can't be real," she whispered.

Beneath the photograph lay a folded piece of parchment. She unfolded it carefully, revealing a single line written in spidery handwriting:

"The past always returns for its due."

The chandelier flickered above, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. A chill swept through the ballroom, extinguishing several candles. The guests gasped as the lights dimmed, then returned to full brightness. When Helena looked back down, the photograph and note were gone.

"What the hell is going on?" Philip demanded, his voice shaking.

Before anyone could answer, the faint sound of bells echoed through the air. It wasn't the cheerful jingle of sleigh bells but something lower, more resonant, like the tolling of a distant funeral chime.

The guests began to leave, unsettled and eager to escape the strange energy that had taken hold of the night. By midnight, only Helena and Philip remained. They sat in the dimly lit ballroom, the tree casting soft shadows across the walls.

"Helena," Philip said, breaking the silence, "I think we should talk about—"

A knock interrupted him. It was soft at first, then louder, more insistent. Helena froze. "No one else was invited."

Philip stood, his jaw tightening. "Stay here."

He walked to the door, pausing before opening it. When he did, no one was there. Snow swirled in the icy wind, but the porch was empty. He stepped outside, looking around. A faint set of footprints led from the door but vanished halfway down the driveway.

When he returned, Helena was staring at the tree. "There's another photograph," she said.

Nestled among the branches was a newer picture. It was in color this time, showing the Barrington family—Helena, Philip, and their teenage son, Andrew—posing on the front steps of the estate. But Andrew's face was pale, his eyes sunken. In the background, just over Helena's shoulder, stood the woman in crimson, her silver mask glinting in the sunlight.

Elena covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "This is impossible. Andrew is away at school. He's safe."

Before Philip could respond, bells filled the room again, louder this time. The chandelier swayed though there was no breeze. The fire in the hearth flared, then died ultimately, plunging the room into darkness.

"Helena," Philip said, his voice shaking, "we need to leave."

But Helena wasn't listening. She was staring at the far corner of the room, where two crimson eyes gleamed in the darkness, watching.

The days that followed were fraught with tension. Helena couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, even during the brightest daylight hours. Philip initially dismissed her concerns, but when Andrew called and mentioned strange noises outside his dorm, Philip's skepticism began to waver.

Then, the dreams began.

Each night, Helena found herself back in the ballroom alone. The tree stood in the center, its ornaments glowing faintly. The box was always there, waiting. And the woman in crimson stood in the shadows, her mask gleaming, her eyes unblinking.

"Why are you here?" Helena asked one night, her voice echoing in the dream.

The woman smiled, a slow, chilling curve of her lips. "The past always returns."

When Elena woke, her sheets were sweaty, and the scent of winter roses lingered in the air.

Desperate for answers, Helena dug into the estate's history, and what she uncovered chilled her to the bone. The mansion had been built by Philip's great-grandfather, Edward Barrington, a ruthless businessman with a reputation for exploiting others. One Christmas Eve, a fire consumed the servant quarters, killing a young maid and her child. Rumors swirled that Edward had been involved, though nothing was ever proven.

"She was wearing crimson," Helena said aloud, staring at an old newspaper clipping. "The maid."

Philip rubbed his temples. "You think this is some kind of... ghost? A curse?"

Helena met his eyes. "I don't know what I think. But this family has blood on its hands, Philip."

That night, the final act unfolded.

The bells came first, tolling loudly enough to shake the walls. The lights flickered, plunging the mansion into darkness. And then she appeared—the woman in crimson, standing at the foot of the grand staircase.

"It's time," she said, her voice echoing like a hymn.

"What do you want?" Helena cried, her voice breaking.

"To be remembered," the woman said. "And for the debt to be paid."

The tree erupted in flames, though no heat filled the room. Helena fell to her knees, her vision blurring. When she woke, the mansion was quiet. The fire was gone. And so was the woman.

But on the mantle sat the box, its ribbon untied. Inside

was a single, unmarked key.