The snow had fallen thickly over the village of Elderwynd, muffling the sounds of life and turning the countryside into a white expanse of silence. It was the sixth day of Christmas, and the townsfolk were still in the throes of celebration. Children built snowmen, church bells tolled, and families gathered to share laughter and warmth by roaring fires. But for one family, this day marked a darker tradition.
On the sixth day of Christmas, the Wycombe family locked their doors before dusk, pulling heavy iron bars across their windows and lighting every candle in their old stone house. No one in the village questioned their strange behaviour anymore; it had been this way for generations.
Margaret Wycombe, a stern woman of forty-five, stood by the kitchen table, her hands trembling as she lit the final candle. Her son, ten-year-old Thomas, watched her with wide, anxious eyes.
“Is it true, Mother?” he asked. “What they say about the Sixth Day?”
Margaret glanced at her husband, John, who was bolting the last window. His face was pale, and his hands shook as he worked. She hesitated before answering. “It’s a tradition,” she said carefully. “Something our family has done to keep us safe.”
“But safe from what?” Thomas pressed.
John turned, his voice low and grim. “From the Sixth Caller.”
Thomas’s curiosity only grew. He had heard whispers in the village—stories of a spectral figure that came knocking every year on this night. Some said it was a wandering spirit, seeking refuge. Others claimed it was a curse that had followed the Wycombe family for centuries.
The hours crept by as the family huddled together in the parlour. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and the faint sound of carolers drifted through the heavy drapes. Thomas sat between his parents, his ears straining for the slightest noise.
Then, as the clock struck eleven, there came a knock at the door.
It was soft, almost polite, but it sent a shiver through the room. Thomas froze, his heart pounding as he turned to his parents. Margaret’s face was ashen, her hands clutching the arms of her chair. John stood, his movements stiff and mechanical, and motioned for silence.
The knock came again, louder this time.
“Who is it?” Thomas whispered.
“No one,” Margaret said firmly, though her voice wavered. “We do not answer.”
The knocking continued, steady and deliberate, echoing through the house like a heartbeat. Thomas’s curiosity burned hotter with every rap of knuckles on wood. Ignoring his parents’ warnings, he crept toward the door, his small feet silent on the rug.
“Thomas!” Margaret hissed, but he was already at the threshold.
The door was thick and sturdy, its surface covered in scratches and dents from years of similar visits. Thomas pressed his ear against it, holding his breath.
“Please,” came a voice from the other side, soft and mournful. “Let me in. I’m so cold.”
Thomas’s fingers brushed the bolt, but he stopped when he felt his mother’s grip on his shoulder. “Don’t,” she whispered, pulling him back.
“But they need help,” he protested.
“No,” John said, his voice shaking. “It’s not what you think.”
The knocking stopped, and for a moment, silence enveloped the house. Margaret let out a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. The voice returned, louder and sharper, filled with an unnatural edge.
“Let me in,” it demanded. “It’s the Sixth Day. You know the rules.”
The walls seemed to tremble with the force of the words, and the candles flickered as if caught in a sudden gust. Thomas clung to his mother, his earlier bravery replaced by cold fear.
The family huddled together, their breaths shallow as the minutes dragged on. The knocking continued, relentless, until the clock struck midnight. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
The house fell silent.
“Is it gone?” Thomas whispered.
John nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on the door. “For another year.”
Margaret kissed Thomas’s forehead. “Now you understand why we keep the door locked. Why we light the candles.”
“But what is it?” Thomas asked. “Why does it come to us?”
Margaret hesitated, her gaze distant. “It’s a debt,” she said finally. “A debt our family owes.”
“A debt for what?”
“For a kindness refused long ago,” John said. “An ancestor of ours turned away a traveller in need on a cold winter’s night. That traveller died, and ever since, the Sixth Caller has come to collect what is owed.”
“What does it want?” Thomas asked, his voice trembling.
“A life,” Margaret whispered. “One of ours.”
Thomas’s blood ran cold. “Will it ever stop?”
“Only if it gets what it wants,” John said grimly. “And so, we will never answer the door.”
Thomas nodded, vowing silently to obey. But as he lay awake in bed that night, he couldn’t shake the sound of the knocking or the mournful voice that had pleaded for warmth.
Outside, in the snow-covered darkness, the Sixth Caller waited, its shadow stretching long and thin beneath the moonlight. It would return, as it always did, until the debt was paid.
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