The train screeched to a halt at Pine Hollow Station, its brakes cutting through the still night air. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the platform in a soft, silent white. Emma Harper clutched her coat tighter around her, the wind biting at her cheeks. She had always loved Christmas—but this year, something felt… off.
Her luggage thudded against the platform as she stepped down. The station was nearly empty, save for a lone ticket clerk, who nodded silently before disappearing into the shadows. Pine Hollow had always seemed quiet, but tonight, it felt… too quiet.
Emma's father's old station wagon rattled to a stop beside her. Lucas Harper, her cousin, leaned out the window with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence," he said, his voice half teasing, half nervous.
She forced a smile. "Traffic. You know how it is."
Lucas shrugged and opened the back door for her. As she climbed in, a chill ran down her spine. The streets of Pine Hollow were deserted, the falling snow muffling every sound. Even the streetlights flickered oddly, like candles struggling against the wind.
"House looks the same," she said, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling. But as the wagon rounded the corner, Emma caught sight of the old Harper mansion, looming atop the hill. Its dark windows reflected the pale moonlight, giving it the appearance of a frozen, watchful eye.
Lucas noticed her stare. "Still creeps you out, huh? Old house, old stories. You'll get used to it."
Emma nodded, though she didn't believe him. Something about the way the mansion sat against the snowy night felt… unnatural.
Inside, the house smelled of pine, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—like blood, but old, faint. Her aunts and uncles bustled about, hanging ornaments and placing presents under the tree. Laughter echoed, but Emma felt as if it were a layer beneath the surface, something hollow, strained.
Dinner was a blur of roasted meats, cranberry sauce, and forced cheer. Conversations circled around trivial matters—jobs, the weather, who had sent what gift. Emma tried to focus, but her eyes kept drifting to the shadowy corners of the room. Something seemed to shift there every time she looked, just out of focus.
After dinner, as the adults lingered over brandy and small talk, Emma excused herself to explore. The mansion had always been full of nooks and crannies, secret staircases, and forgotten rooms. It had been thrilling as a child, but tonight, the thrill felt different—tinged with unease.
She wandered down the long, narrow hall that led to the east wing. The snow outside pressed against the windows, and her reflection wavered in the glass like a pale ghost. That's when she heard it—a faint scratching, like fingernails on wood.
Emma froze. The hall was empty. She stepped closer to the source: a small door tucked beneath the grand staircase. The scratching stopped abruptly. Heart pounding, she reached for the knob. It was icy cold under her fingers, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.
She opened it. The darkness inside was absolute. Dust motes swirled in the faint light from the hallway, and a damp, musty smell rose to meet her. On the floor lay an old diary, bound in cracked leather. Emma picked it up, her curiosity outweighing the sense of danger crawling up her spine.
The first page was yellowed, the ink faded but still legible. It belonged to her great-grandmother, Eleanor Harper, who had lived in the house decades ago. The entries were innocuous at first—notes about daily life, recipes, and Christmas preparations. But as Emma flipped through, the tone shifted.
December 24th: "The surprise has been prepared. Tonight, it will be revealed. They mustn't see me fail."
December 25th: "It came for them. I cannot stop it. The house weeps, and the children cry. I can hear it in the walls, in the snow."
Emma's hands trembled. Her mind raced. The words were desperate, fragmented… terrified. She swallowed hard, trying to rationalize it. Ghost stories. Old family myths. That's all.
A sudden thump echoed from upstairs. Emma spun, clutching the diary to her chest. The sound came again, louder this time, like something heavy moving across the floor above. The warmth of the house vanished. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward her, and she realized she wasn't alone.
"Hello?" Her voice was small, brittle. No answer—only the whisper of the wind outside and the soft creak of floorboards above.
Emma took a cautious step back, but the door slammed shut behind her. The diary slipped from her hands, landing open on a page she hadn't seen before:
"He waits for the first to wander too far. He watches. The surprise comes for all who are unready."
A cold gust blew from the staircase, extinguishing the faint light. Emma's breath came in sharp, visible puffs. She scrambled to pick up the diary, her fingers brushing against something slick and cold. She froze, listening. The scratching had returned, louder, coming from the walls themselves.
A whisper followed: "Emma…"
She bolted. Heart hammering, she ran toward the main hall, slamming into the warmth and noise of the gathering. Everything seemed normal again—the laughter, the clinking of glasses—but Emma knew it wasn't. Something had followed her, something that now waited patiently, watching.
She looked at Lucas, who was laughing with their cousin. "Did you hear that?" she asked, voice tight.
"Hear what?" he replied, frowning. "It's just the wind."
Emma didn't believe him. And deep down, she knew the diary hadn't lied. The Christmas surprise wasn't a gift this year—it was something far darker.
As the clock struck eleven, a shadow shifted at the edge of the room, unnoticed by anyone but her. And in that instant, Emma understood: tonight, nothing would be ordinary.