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Tis the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.” The fire softly crackled, a warm amber glow, Casting shadows that danced on the ceiling below. Outside, winter whispered in silvered delight, As the moon painted rooftops a luminous white. The children lay dreaming of wonders untold, Of sleigh bells and laughter and stories of old. When suddenly—hark!—from the hush of the night, Came a clatter of magic, a sound of delight. Up to the window I tiptoed with cheer, Heart pounding softly with childlike fear. And there in the sky, as clear as could be, A sleigh drawn by reindeer came gliding to me. With a jolly old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment—it had to be St. Nick. He laughed as he worked, then gave a wink, And vanished like starlight before I could think. The fire burned low, the house held its breath, Wrapped in a peace that felt warmer than warmth itself. And long after footsteps had faded from sight, The night still seemed to whisper: “Merry Christmas to all… and to all a good night.” 🎄✨ Stake id santoshchimtu

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“The House That Waited” Every Halloween, the little town of Ash Hollow would come alive — not with laughter or fireworks, but with silence. After sunset, not a single porch light flickered, not a single child dared to trick-or-treat. Everyone locked their doors, drew their curtains, and waited for morning.Everyone, except Lila. Lila had moved to Ash Hollow just a month before, a college student renting a cheap attic room above the bakery. When she asked the baker why the town went dark every October 31st, he only muttered, “Because the house still waits.” He wouldn’t say more. That night, curiosity burned brighter than fear. Lila pulled on her coat and stepped outside. The moon hung low and swollen, and a cold wind whispered through the empty streets. There, at the end of Willow Lane, she saw it — the house. It looked ordinary at first: peeling paint, sagging porch, a single jack-o’-lantern by the steps. But the air around it felt different, like the world was holding its breath.The front door creaked open on its own. Inside, the house smelled faintly of rain and something else — old dust, maybe… or candle wax. Room by room, she wandered through the quiet halls. Portraits lined the walls, but all the faces were blurred, as if painted by a trembling hand. A grandfather clock ticked though its hands never moved. And somewhere upstairs, she heard — faintly — the sound of footsteps. She climbed the stairs. The hallway was narrow, the wallpaper split and curling like dried leaves. A door stood slightly ajar at the very end. Lila pushed it open. Inside was a small room — a child’s room — lit by a single candle. On the bed sat a girl in a faded white dress, holding a trick-or-treat bucket. She looked up and smiled. “You’re late,” the girl said. “Everyone else went home.” Lila’s voice faltered. “Who are you?” The girl tilted her head. “I used to live here. But nobody comes to play anymore.” She held out the bucket. “Take one. It’s Halloween.” Inside the bucket was a single piece of candy — wrapped in paper so old it was nearly transparent. Lila reached out — and the candle went out. Darkness swallowed the room. When she stumbled back, the bed was empty. The air was freezing. And somewhere, in the pitch black, a small voice whispered — right beside her ear —“Now the house won’t have to wait alone.” The next morning, the bakery’s owner found the door of the Willow Lane house wide open again. Inside, there was only dust and silence. But on the child’s bed, two trick-or-treat buckets sat side by side. Both half full. Stake id santoshchimtu

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