The little town of Frostwood always looked like it belonged on a Christmas card. Blanketed in snow and lit by warm, glowing lanterns, it was nestled deep in the wilderness, far from the modern world. But its charm held a darker undercurrent. Frostwood had a secret, one that the townsfolk spoke of only in hushed whispers during the longest nights of the year.
Deep in the woods, where even the bravest hunters dared not tread, there was an ancient workshop. It wasn’t a cheerful, bustling place filled with holiday spirit. No, this was something far older, something that whispered of things best forgotten.
One year, a group of children decided to test their courage and find the fabled workshop. Among them was Henry, a curious twelve-year-old boy with a knack for finding trouble. Henry and his friends had heard the stories—the elves, Santa's little helpers, weren’t the jolly creatures of Christmas lore. They were strange, silent beings with sharp teeth and glassy eyes.
It was Christmas Eve when the children snuck out of their homes, flashlights in hand, and made their way through the dark forest. The trees loomed overhead, their branches forming skeletal hands against the moonlit sky. Henry led the group, his breath visible in the frigid air.
After what felt like hours, they stumbled upon a clearing. At its centre stood a decrepit building, half-buried in snow and frost. The workshop. Its windows were dark, its wooden walls warped and twisted, almost as if the structure had grown from the earth rather than being built.
“Should we go back?” whispered Clara, Henry’s younger cousin.
“Not a chance,” Henry replied. “We came all this way.”
Pushing open the heavy door, the children stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of mould and something metallic. The floor creaked beneath their boots as they moved deeper into the building. Dust-covered tables were strewn with tools—hammers, chisels, and strange implements they didn’t recognize.
“Look at this,” said Oliver, holding up a small wooden doll. It was exquisitely carved, almost lifelike, but its eyes were hollow, staring into nothing.
The children scattered to explore. Henry found a staircase leading down into the workshop's depths. Against his better judgement, he descended, the wooden steps groaning under his weight.
The basement was a vast cavern, filled with the rhythmic clanging of hammers. At first, Henry thought the workshop was abandoned. But then he saw them.
The elves.
They were small, their hunched forms barely reaching Henry’s chest. Their skin was a sickly grey, stretched taut over angular bones. Their hands were unnaturally long, tipped with claws that scraped against the tools they wielded. They worked in eerie silence, crafting toys that looked more like weapons—sharp, jagged things with glinting edges.
Henry’s flashlight beam caught the eyes of one of the elves. It turned to face him, its head tilting unnaturally to the side. The others stopped their work, their glassy eyes reflecting the light as they turned in unison.
“Go,” a voice hissed, barely audible over the clanging.
Henry stumbled back, but his foot caught on a loose board, and he fell. The elves moved faster than he could comprehend, surrounding him in moments. Their mouths opened, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
“Stay,” one whispered, its voice like the rustling of dry leaves.
Henry scrambled to his feet and bolted up the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest. He burst into the main room, shouting for his friends. But the workshop was empty.
“Clara? Oliver?” he called, his voice echoing in the silence.
There was no answer. Only the faint sound of laughter, high and childlike, drifting up from the basement.
Desperate, Henry ran outside. The clearing was empty, the snow untouched. It was as if they had never been there.
He ran back to town, his flashlight flickering out just as he reached the edge of the forest. Bursting into his house, he tried to explain what had happened, but his parents dismissed his story as a bad dream.
The next morning, Henry found a package under the Christmas tree. It was wrapped in faded, yellowing paper and tied with a frayed red ribbon. His hands trembled as he opened it.
Inside was a small wooden doll, carved with horrifying detail. It wore Clara’s favourite scarf.
That was the last Christmas Henry ever celebrated.
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