The Christmas Stranger

(As told by Alexander Grayson, December 1847)

It was a bitterly cold Christmas Eve when the stranger arrived. Snow had fallen thickly over the countryside, blanketing our modest village of Wrenwood in silence. Inside my family’s old stone house, a fire roared in the hearth, the only warmth against the icy draft that crept through every crack and crevice. My wife, Margaret, busied herself with mulling cider, while our daughter, Elizabeth, played by the tree, her small fingers tangling with the ribbons on her wooden doll.

We had just settled in for the evening when there came a knock at the door.

A single knock. Firm and deliberate.

Margaret and I exchanged glances. At this hour, in weather so treacherous, who could be out on the road? Wrenwood was a quiet place, and strangers were rare, particularly on Christmas Eve. I hesitated before rising, instinctively reaching for the sturdy iron poker by the hearth.

When I opened the door, a tall man stood before me, his figure framed by the swirling snow. He wore a long black coat and a hat pulled low over his face. In the dim light of the lantern hanging above our door, I could just make out his pale, sharp features and the cold glint in his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, though his accent was one I could not place. “I am a traveller, caught in the storm. Might I trouble you for shelter?”

Margaret appeared behind me, holding Elizabeth close. Her gaze flicked nervously to the stranger, but hospitality was a virtue in these parts, and it was Christmas, after all.

“Come in,” I said reluctantly, stepping aside.

The man entered, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the wooden floor. He removed his hat and coat, revealing hair as black as coal and a curious silver medallion hanging from his neck. Something about him unsettled me, though I could not say why. His manners were impeccable, his smile polite. Yet the air seemed heavier with his presence.

We offered him cider and a place by the fire, where he sat with an unnatural stillness. He did not eat or drink but instead asked strange questions about our lives, about Wrenwood, about the traditions of Christmas. His voice was calm, but his eyes—those piercing, icy eyes—seemed to drink in every detail of our little home.

“What brings you to Wrenwood?” Margaret asked cautiously.

“Business,” he replied, though he did not elaborate. “And you, good sir?” He turned to me. “How long has your family lived here?”

“Generations,” I said, my grip tightening on the poker. “Why do you ask?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Curiosity.”

The hours stretched on, and though the stranger’s tone remained pleasant, an undercurrent of menace crept into his words. Elizabeth, normally cheerful and full of questions, grew silent, clinging to her mother’s skirts. The fire dimmed despite Margaret’s efforts to stoke it, and shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally across the room.

Then came the second knock.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but the stranger’s head snapped toward the door with an unnatural quickness.

“Are you expecting someone else?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“No,” I said, my unease deepening.

I moved toward the door, but he stood abruptly, blocking my path. “I wouldn’t open that if I were you.”

His tone froze me in place. Margaret gasped, clutching Elizabeth tighter.

“Who is it?” I demanded, but the knock came again, louder this time.

The stranger turned to me, his eyes gleaming like shards of ice. “Do not invite it in,” he said. “For your family’s sake.”

My heart pounded. “What are you talking about? Who’s out there?”

“The storm brings more than snow,” he replied cryptically. “And not all who wander seek shelter.”

I pushed past him and flung the door open. The storm howled outside, but no one stood on the threshold. Only the dark expanse of the snow-covered fields greeted me. Yet I felt watched, as though unseen eyes lingered just beyond the glow of the lantern.

When I closed the door, the stranger was standing closer to Margaret and Elizabeth than I liked. He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “It’s time for me to take my leave.”

He put on his coat and hat, but before stepping outside, he placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip colder than the wind. “Keep your family close tonight. And remember: not all guests bring goodwill.”

With that, he was gone, vanishing into the storm as silently as he had appeared.

We bolted the door and spent the night huddled by the fire, but none of us slept. Outside, the wind wailed, and faint, distant knocks echoed through the night.

By morning, the snow had stopped, but the stranger’s footprints were gone, as though he had never been there. Only his medallion remained, lying on the hearth where he had sat. I picked it up, and a shiver ran through me. Its design was unfamiliar, ancient, and wrong, as if it had no place in this world.

I never saw the stranger again. But every Christmas Eve, when the wind howls and the shadows grow long, I bolt the door and pray no traveller comes knocking.

Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model