Sleigh bells ring, Are ya listenin'?

The gift sat under the tree like a goddamn joke.

Daniel hadn’t expected anything, not really. The last few months had been a string of increasingly petty fights, the final one a bitter, drawn-out thing that ended with Megan packing a suitcase and walking out. She said she needed space, but Daniel knew what it meant. She was done. He was a wreck, and he knew it. And yet, there it was—this box, wrapped in thick red paper, a festive bow tied haphazardly at the top, like some cruel prank.

“From Megan,” it said, scrawled in hurried black marker. 

Megan. Of course. Her idea of closure was giving him this. Maybe it was some final attempt at kindness. Maybe she was laughing at him, the same way she always did. He didn’t care. He ripped the paper open.

Inside was a goddamn Santa Claus mask.

Old, tattered, and unmistakably vintage. The plastic face was cracked in places, the beard yellowed with age, the red fabric faded like it had been left in the sun for too long. The eyes, hollow and dark, stared back at him, like they were waiting for him to do something—anything. Something stupid.

Daniel dropped the mask onto the floor.

The hell? He hadn’t worn something like this since… well, since he and Megan used to throw those drunken Christmas parties, laughing like fools in front of the fire. She used to joke he looked like a mall Santa, back when things had been good between them. When they were good.

He leaned over, grabbed the mask again, and yanked it on. The plastic pressed against his skin, tight but not uncomfortable. The fuzzy white beard brushed against his neck.

A chuckle, dry and bitter, slipped out of him. Real funny, Meg. Real fucking funny.

He felt ridiculous. There was no way he was going to go around wearing this thing. He could already imagine how she'd laugh if she saw him. Maybe this was some last dig—her way of showing him just how far gone they were. God, how he hated himself in this moment. The bitterness of it all churned in his stomach like bile.

He reached for the back of his neck, ready to pull the mask off, but something held him there. The weight of it, a pressure he couldn’t explain, started to feel—real. Too real. 

He shook his head, trying to shake it off, but the damn thing didn’t want to leave. He forced the mask off, his skin slick with sweat beneath it, and tossed it back, onto the couch. The laugh he let out was shaky, forced.

It’s just a stupid thing. Nothing more.

He went to grab a drink. As he moved to the kitchen, he noticed his reflection in the window. His own eyes stared back at him, wide and unblinking, the dark hollow pits of the mask still clinging to him, even when it was gone. He froze. He wasn’t sure why, but something felt wrong. The mask was nothing. It was a joke.

Daniel poured another whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass as his hand shook. He downed it in one gulp, wincing as the burn hit the back of his throat. He leaned on the counter, the kitchen dark except for the amber from the streetlights outside. He tried to steady his breathing.

"It’s just a mask," he said out loud, though the words didn’t feel right. His voice sounded foreign to him, tiny and small.

The thought came unbidden: It’s not just a mask.

He cursed under his breath and shook his head, running a hand through his damp hair. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t want to be here, alone, with the walls closing in and that stupid box sitting out there in the other room, like it was waiting for him to come back. He forced himself to glance at the clock. Midnight had come and gone, but he wasn’t even close to sleep. He hadn’t been, not since—

His stomach turned as he remembered the way the mask had felt. The whisper of its edges curling over his cheeks. He tried to push the memory away, but it was no use. The thing had crawled under his skin, rooted itself in his brain. He could still feel it.

He crept back into the living room. The box sat where he’d left it on the couch, the lid crooked like it had been disturbed. His heart stuttered at the sight of it, though he tried to convince himself it was nothing. He must not have closed it all the way. That’s all.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just a stupid, plastic mask.”

But even as he said it, his chest tightened. He approached the box slowly. His breath fogged in the cold air of the room, though the heat was on. When he reached the box, he froze. The lid was slightly ajar, and from the shadows inside, the pale grin of the mask stared back at him.

The longer he looked at it, the less it seemed like the mask he’d unwrapped earlier. The cracks along its edges were deeper now, the paint duller, the fabric beard curling like something burned. The hollow eyes bored into him, and for a split second, Daniel could have sworn the thing was breathing. Just enough. Just enough for him to hear it in the stillness.

He slammed the lid shut and grabbed the box. Without thinking, he stumbled to the front door, threw it open, and stormed out into the snow. The icy ground bit at his bare feet, but he didn’t care. He marched to the trash can, yanked the lid off, and shoved the box inside. He slammed the can shut, his breath coming in fast, harsh clouds.

“Stay gone,” he muttered. “You’re not getting in my head.”

The cold clawed at him as he turned and hurried back inside, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against it, heart racing, his skin prickling with adrenaline. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of the mask’s weight, the way it had clung to him earlier.

But as he moved toward the couch, something stopped him in his tracks. His blood ran cold.

The box was sitting on the coffee table again.

Neatly wrapped.

The red bow tied just so.

When the knock came at the door, it startled him so badly that he almost screamed. Three sharp raps, like someone was in a hurry. He swallowed hard. Nobody knocked at this hour. And certainly not in this neighborhood.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it, but then the knocking came again, louder this time. Reluctantly, he moved to the door, glancing at the box one last time as if it might spring to life the second he turned his back. He unlocked the door and opened it.

Megan stood on the porch, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice flat.

“Nice to see you too,” she shot back, stepping past him into the house without waiting for an invitation. She shook the snow off her coat and looked around. “Jesus, it’s bleak in here.”

“Didn’t realize I had company,” Daniel said, closing the door behind her. He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “What do you want, Meg?”

She ignored him, her sharp eyes already scanning the room. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

“Didn’t feel like talking,” he said. “Not much to say these days, is there?”

Megan turned to face him, arms crossed. “You look like shit, Dan.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.” He motioned toward the door. “You can leave now.”

She didn’t move. “I’m serious. You’re pale as a ghost, and your hands are shaking.” Her voice softened, just a little. “Are you drinking again?”

He clenched his jaw. “What do you care? You’re the one who walked out, remember?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice rose, sharp enough to cut. “You leave me here to rot, and now you show up like some concerned angel? What is this, Meg? Guilt? Pity? Spare me.”

Megan’s face darkened. “I came to check on you. You think I wanted to? Your mom’s the one who made me drive out here. Said you sounded off the last time she called. I thought, okay, maybe he’s spiraling again. But you’re right, Dan—I don’t care anymore. Not after the way you’ve been acting.”

Daniel barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. “Oh, I’m acting? Like you haven’t been cold as ice since the day you packed your bags.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “This is exactly why I left. You don’t see it, do you? The way you twist everything, like you’re the only one who’s hurting. Newsflash, Dan—we’re all hurting. But you don’t get to pull me down with you.”

“Then leave!” he roared, stepping toward her. “Get the hell out of my house! You’re not my keeper, Megan!”

She stood her ground, staring him down, but he could see the flicker of fear in her eyes. He hated it. Hated her for being here, hated himself for everything that had led them to this moment. When she turned to leave, the anger surged in him like a tidal wave.

“You always run,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

When she didn’t respond, he snapped. He shoved her—not hard, but enough to make her stumble into the wall. Her wide eyes shot to his, and for a moment, the room went silent. The weight of what he’d done hit him like a slap to the face.

Megan straightened, her face now set in stone. She marched to the door without another word.

“Megan, wait—” he started, but she was already gone, the door slamming shut behind her.

The house was quiet again. Daniel sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. His breath came fast and ragged as the realization of what he’d done crept in. He could still feel the mask watching him, its presence heavy, suffocating.

When he looked up, the box was gone.

And the mask was sitting on the coffee table, bare and waiting.

The mask burned like a living thing. Daniel stood in front of the fireplace, watching as the flames consumed it. The cracked smile twisted in the heat, the hollow eyes seemed to shrink, curling and warping as the fire swallowed the plastic and fabric. It should’ve been satisfying, seeing the thing melt down to nothing, but all he felt was emptiness. No triumph. No relief. Just that nagging, gnawing feeling in his gut.

He didn’t wait for it to finish. He turned on his heel and stormed upstairs. The house groaned under his feet. He needed sleep—real, deep, dreamless sleep—and maybe by the time he woke up, the whole nightmare would feel like something distant. Faded. Gone.

In his room, the bed swallowed him whole. He sank into it like a man falling into quicksand, his body heavy, his head spinning. The fire crackled faintly below and the wind howled outside like it wanted in. For the first time all night, Daniel felt the promise of rest curling around him.

Then he heard it.

A creak.

It was faint at first, just the house settling, he told himself. The kind of sound this place always made in the dead of night. But then it came again—sharper, louder. It wasn’t the house. It was above him.

The attic.

His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the ceiling. The creak came again, slow and deliberate, like someone—or something—was moving up there. He sat up, his breath catching in his throat. His skin crawled as the sound continued.

"You're imagining it," he whispered, though the words tasted like a lie.

But it didn’t stop. The sound wasn’t in his head. It was real. He climbed out of bed, his legs weak, his steps careful and deliberate as he made his way into the hallway. The pull-down attic ladder was above him, the access panel just a flat piece of wood hiding the dark space beyond.

The creaking stopped.

He stared at the cord hanging from the ceiling. His hand reached up, slow and hesitant, fingers brushing against the frayed string. He gave it a sharp tug.

The ladder unfolded with a loud groan, the noise like a scream in the stillness of the house. He stared up into the darkness above. The attic smelled musty and stale, a faint hint of mildew and something he couldn’t place—something sharp and acrid, like old smoke.

He climbed the ladder.

The attic bulb dangled from a chain, swaying slightly even though there was no wind. He pulled it, and the light flickered weakly to life. The room was small and cluttered with forgotten things, boxes stacked high, sheets draped over old furniture like ghosts frozen in place.

By the window, his grandfather’s rocking chair sat, as it always had, facing out into the night. Daniel’s breath hitched.

Sitting in the chair was the mask.

He froze, his body unwilling to move, his mind screaming at him to run. But he couldn’t. The mask sat there, pristine, untouched by fire. Its grin was wider now, stretched unnaturally across its face. The hollow eyes bore into him, daring him to come closer.

And he did.

Daniel didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was standing in front of the chair, his hand reaching out, trembling. He picked up the mask, his fingers brushing over the edges that should’ve been burned, melted. Instead, it was cool, smooth, and almost… inviting. He didn’t think. He didn’t stop himself. He put it on.

The world shifted.

When he opened his eyes, the attic was different. Warmer, somehow, the air heavy with the scent of pine and wood smoke. He blinked and realized he was sitting in the rocking chair. He didn’t remember sitting down. The mask clung to his face, tighter than before, like a second skin.

At his feet, a bottle of whiskey rested on the floor. Full. The label was old and worn, but he knew it instantly. His grandfather’s brand. The kind the old man had always kept stashed in the attic.

His hands moved on their own, picking it up, unscrewing the cap. He brought the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, the burn of it familiar, almost comforting. The warmth spread through his chest, dulling the fear, quieting the noise in his head.

Somewhere outside, faint and distant, he heard carolers. Their voices rose in soft harmony, a haunting melody that floated up through the attic window. The sound should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. It made his chest ache, his eyes sting.

He cried. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, trapped behind the mask. He drank until the bottle was empty. He leaned back in the rocking chair, the creak of it blending with the distant carolers.

When the bottle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, the mask was gone.

He reached up, his hands finding only his own face. He sat there, staring out the window into the dark, the silence pressing in around him once again.

The mask was gone.