The Neighbour:
Christmas Eve had always been a time of warmth and laughter in our family. This year, however, was different. I was spending it alone. My sister had taken her kids to visit their in-laws, and Mom and Dad had flown to Florida for a well-deserved vacation. So, it was just me, a small artificial tree, and some leftover Chinese takeout.
The apartment felt colder than usual, despite the heating running full blast. The festive lights twinkling outside my window seemed almost mocking. I decided to distract myself by wrapping gifts for the family. I had a stack of brightly colored paper, ribbons, and tags laid out on the coffee table when my phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unknown number: “Merry Christmas, Emma. Don’t forget to lock your doors tonight.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the message. It could’ve been a prank, I told myself. Maybe someone had the wrong number. Still, I got up and double-checked the locks on the front door and windows. Everything was secure.
I tried to shake off the unease, but something about that text gnawed at me. I typed back:
“Who is this?”
The reply came almost immediately: “A friend. Just looking out for you.”
A chill ran down my spine. I wanted to call someone, but who? My family was miles away, and I didn’t want to ruin their Christmas Eve with my paranoia. I decided to ignore it, put my phone on silent, and focus on wrapping presents.
An hour passed. I was starting to relax when I heard a soft tap at the window. My heart leapt into my throat. I lived on the second floor, and there was no balcony. Who could possibly be at my window?
I stood frozen, staring at the sheer curtain swaying slightly in the draft. Another tap, louder this time. Gathering my courage, I crept toward the window and peeked through a small gap in the curtain.
Nothing. Just the empty street below, quiet under a blanket of snow.
I locked the window for good measure and returned to the couch. But my unease was growing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I grabbed my phone and texted back:
“What do you want? Stop messing with me.”
This time, there was no reply. But a few minutes later, I heard a faint sound—a shuffle, like someone walking on carpet. My breath caught. The sound wasn’t outside. It was inside.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could use as a weapon—a pair of scissors—and tiptoed toward the hallway. My heart was pounding so loudly I could barely hear anything else.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling.
No response. The apartment was small, just a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. I checked each room, my hands shaking. The doors were locked. The windows were shut. There was no sign of anyone.
But as I turned to leave my bedroom, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. My closet door, which I always kept shut, was slightly ajar.
I stepped back, scissors clutched tightly in my hand. “Whoever’s in there, you need to leave now!” I shouted, trying to sound braver than I felt.
Silence. Then, the door creaked open a fraction more. I held my breath. My mind raced. Should I run? Call the police? But what if they were armed?
“I’m calling the cops!” I yelled, fumbling with my phone.
Suddenly, the closet door swung open, and a man stepped out. He was thin, with a scruffy beard and wild eyes. He was holding a knife. My stomach dropped.
“No need for that,” he said, his voice calm, almost pleasant. “I just wanted some company for Christmas.”
My mind went blank. I didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar about his face. I took a step back, keeping the scissors pointed at him.
“Get out of my house,” I said, my voice shaking.
He chuckled. “Emma, Emma. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
Old friend? My brain struggled to connect the dots. Then it hit me. He was a customer from the coffee shop where I worked part-time. I’d seen him a few times, always sitting alone in the corner, watching me. I’d never spoken to him beyond the usual pleasantries.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said, stepping closer. “I just wanted to see you. Spend a little time together. It’s Christmas, after all.”
I backed into the living room, trying to put distance between us. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“Or what?” he said, tilting his head. His grip tightened on the knife.
Adrenaline surged through me. I didn’t think—I lunged, slashing at his arm with the scissors. He yelped and dropped the knife, clutching his bleeding arm. I didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. I grabbed my phone and bolted out the front door, screaming for help.
My neighbor, an older man named Mr. Jenkins, came out of his apartment, holding a baseball bat. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a man in my apartment!” I cried.
Mr. Jenkins didn’t hesitate. He barged into my apartment while I called 911. Within minutes, the police arrived and took the man into custody. They found duct tape, rope, and a roll of garbage bags in his backpack.
I later learned he’d been stalking me for weeks. He’d memorized my schedule, copied my keys, and planned to attack when he knew I’d be alone. The text message? His twisted way of “warming me up” for the encounter.
That night, as I sat in a police station giving my statement, I realized how close I’d come to not seeing another Christmas. The holidays would never feel the same again. I still loved the season, but now, the twinkling lights outside my window served as a reminder to always stay vigilant.
Because sometimes, the real monsters aren’t ghosts or ghouls—they’re people.
The Night Evil:
I was just a kid, maybe nine or ten, that Christmas Eve of 1971. It was our first Christmas in the quiet suburb of Rochester, New York. My family had moved there just a few months earlier, trading the noise and chaos of the city for a slower pace of life. Our new home wasn’t anything fancy—a modest, weathered house with peeling paint, a sagging roofline, and a creaky front porch that groaned under the weight of anyone who dared step on it. But my parents were optimistic. “It’s got charm,” my mom would say, smoothing her hands over the chipped banister like she could see its potential.
The neighborhood, for the most part, seemed friendly enough. Kids rode their bikes up and down the quiet streets, and neighbors waved at us as we settled in. But there was an odd air to the place, a kind of stillness that didn’t sit right with me. The towering trees, bare from winter’s grip, cast long, finger-like shadows across the sidewalks, and at night, the houses seemed too quiet, like they were holding their breath.
That Christmas Eve, snow began falling just after lunch. It was the kind of snow you read about in fairy tales—big, fluffy flakes that floated lazily down from the gray sky, blanketing the neighborhood in a pristine, sparkling white. By the time evening rolled around, it looked like the whole world had been wrapped up in a soft, snowy silence.
Inside, our house was filled with warmth and holiday cheer. The smell of pine from the freshly decorated tree mingled with the sweet aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg from the cookies my mom was baking in the kitchen. My dad was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, untangling what seemed like an endless string of Christmas lights, muttering under his breath as the bulbs flickered inconsistently. Amy and I flitted around the house, giggling and sneaking bites of cookie dough when Mom wasn’t looking. Christmas was, without a doubt, our favorite time of year.
Around seven o’clock, there was a knock at the door. My dad looked up from his battle with the lights, brushing his hands off on his jeans before opening it. Standing on the porch was our neighbor, Mr. Thompson.
He was a tall, thin man who always seemed to appear out of nowhere, like he’d materialized rather than walked. There was something strange about him, though I couldn’t have put it into words at the time. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal, and his pale blue eyes were so sharp they seemed to cut right through you. He always wore the same black wool coat, buttoned all the way up, and tonight was no exception.
“Merry Christmas,” he said in his smooth, oddly charming voice, holding out a plate of neatly arranged cookies.
“Thank you,” my mom said, stepping forward to take the plate. She gave him her warmest smile, the one she reserved for guests and strangers.
But Mr. Thompson didn’t leave right away. He lingered on the porch, his eyes drifting past my dad’s shoulder and into the house. His gaze settled on the back windows for a moment, and he smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Be careful,” he said, his tone suddenly lower. “These neighborhoods aren’t always what they seem.”
Before we could respond, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching in the snow. My parents exchanged a glance, but no one said anything. We assumed it was just an awkward attempt at small talk.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. We had a simple dinner—roast chicken and potatoes—and then gathered around the living room to admire the tree. Around nine, my dad suggested we all head to bed early to be ready for Christmas morning. Amy and I didn’t argue. The sooner we fell asleep, the sooner Santa would come.
Our shared room was cozy, with each of our twin beds pushed against opposite walls. The glow of the nightlight—shaped like a little snowman—cast soft shadows on the walls, making the room feel warm and safe. Amy fell asleep almost immediately, but I stayed awake for a while, staring out the frosted window at the snow-covered street below.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up. At first, I wasn’t sure why. The house was silent, save for the faint whistle of wind against the windows. I closed my eyes, ready to drift back to sleep, when I heard it.
A noise. Faint but deliberate. A scraping sound, like metal against wood.
I sat up, my heart pounding. “Amy,” I whispered, reaching across to shake her awake.
“What?” she mumbled, groggy and annoyed.
“Listen.”
The sound came again, louder this time. It was coming from downstairs.
Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up, clutching her blanket. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
We tiptoed to the bedroom door, pressing our ears against the wood. From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of something being pried open. Then, a voice—my dad’s.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
There was no response, just the heavy shuffle of footsteps and the sharp crash of something being knocked over. My mother’s voice followed, sharp and urgent. “Call the police, now!”
But then… silence. A suffocating, oppressive silence that made the air feel heavy.
Amy and I clung to each other, paralyzed with fear. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching into what felt like an eternity. Then, faintly at first, we heard the sound of police sirens.
When we finally crept downstairs, the scene was surreal. My parents were tied to the dining room chairs with strands of Christmas lights, their mouths gagged with strips of torn wrapping paper. The back door was wide open, and snow had blown inside, leaving a thin dusting on the floor.
The police arrived moments later, their radios crackling as they searched the house. My mom hugged us tightly, tears streaming down her face.
“It was him,” my dad said hoarsely as the officers untied him. “It was Mr. Thompson. He was looking for something.”
The police didn’t find Mr. Thompson that night. But when they searched his house, what they uncovered chilled us to the bone. His basement walls were covered in newspaper clippings about home invasions, including one from a nearby town where a family had been terrorized on Christmas Eve.
And then came the most horrifying discovery: Mr. Thompson wasn’t his real name. He was Ronald DeFeo Jr., a fugitive wanted for a string of crimes. He had a chilling pattern—terrorizing families during the holidays, making them feel unsafe in their homes.
That Christmas changed everything. The joy of the season was overshadowed by fear, by the memory of my parents bound with Christmas lights, by the open door and the biting cold. For years after, I couldn’t hear the sound of Christmas lights being unwrapped without feeling a shiver of unease.
Eventually, Ronald was caught, but not for what he did to us. Knowing he was off the streets brought some relief, but the scars he left on our family—and on that snowy Christmas Eve—never truly faded. Even now, decades later, I double-check the locks every Christmas Eve, haunted by the reminder that danger sometimes comes wrapped in a neighbor’s smile.
A Silent Night:
Christmas Eve always felt magical growing up. The flicker of candles, the scent of fresh pine, and the warm laughter of family filled my heart with joy. But last Christmas Eve changed me forever. It turned into a nightmare I can’t escape—a memory scarred with fear.
It started with a phone call.
“Maggie, can you do me a favor and lock up the shop tonight?” my boss, Jenny, asked. She ran the tiny convenience store in our quiet little town, and with it being Christmas Eve, she wanted to leave early to spend time with her kids.
“Sure, Jenny. No problem,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful. I didn’t mind; I didn’t have much planned that evening anyway. My parents were out of town visiting my aunt, and I’d promised to join them the next day for Christmas dinner. For now, I’d be alone.
The store was always quiet during the holidays. Around 8 p.m., the streets outside were deserted. A light snowfall had started, covering the ground in a soft, white blanket. The Christmas lights on the nearby houses twinkled faintly through the windows.
At 8:30 p.m., I locked the door and started counting the cash register. It was a routine I’d done dozens of times before. The only sounds were the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint Christmas music playing on the radio.
Then I heard the knock.
Startled, I looked up. A man stood outside, his face partially hidden by a scarf and a beanie. He waved at me, his gloved hand brushing snow from his shoulders. I hesitated. The store was closed, and something about him felt off.
He knocked again, harder this time.
“Sorry, we’re closed!” I called out, hoping he’d leave.
Instead, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted through the glass, “Please, it’s an emergency! I need to buy some diapers. My baby’s in the car, and we ran out. Please!”
The desperation in his voice made me pause. I could see a car parked across the street, its engine running. I thought of the freezing temperatures and the idea of a baby left without diapers. Against my better judgment, I grabbed the keys and unlocked the door.
“Just for a minute,” I said firmly. “We’re closed, so please be quick.”
The man stepped inside, brushing snow off his boots. He was tall, maybe in his mid-thirties, and his eyes darted around the store.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low. “Where are the diapers?”
“Aisle three,” I replied, pointing to the back.
As he walked away, unease crept over me. Something about him felt wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint it—the way he avoided eye contact, the stiffness in his movements. My instincts screamed at me to stay alert.
I heard his footsteps pause, then quicken. Suddenly, he was behind the counter.
“Open the register,” he ordered, his voice cold now. My heart stopped. He had a knife in his hand, the blade catching the fluorescent light.
“I don’t have much,” I stammered, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the keys. My mind raced, trying to remember everything I’d read about surviving a robbery. Stay calm. Don’t resist. Give them what they want.
“Hurry up!” he barked, slamming his free hand on the counter.
I managed to open the register and stepped back, letting him take the cash. It wasn’t much, maybe $300 at most. He stuffed it into his pocket, his eyes flicking toward the door.
“That’s all there is,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Please, just go.”
But he didn’t leave. He stood there, his breathing heavy, his knuckles white around the knife handle. My stomach churned as I realized he was hesitating. Was he deciding whether to hurt me?
“Is your car out front?” he asked suddenly.
“No,” I lied. “I walked here.”
His eyes narrowed, studying me. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” I insisted, my voice shaking. “Please, just take the money and go.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the faint crackle of the radio. Then, headlights swept across the front windows as a car pulled into the parking lot. The man stiffened, his eyes darting to the door.
“Who’s that?” he hissed.
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my heart pounding.
A figure stepped out of the car—a police officer. Relief flooded me as I recognized Officer Daniels, a regular customer. He walked toward the store, his hand resting on his holstered gun.
“Stay quiet,” the man growled, his knife trembling in his hand.
Daniels opened the door, the bell jingling. “Hey, Maggie. Forgot to pick up my wife’s favorite chocolate earlier. Hope I’m not too late.”
I forced a smile, praying he’d notice something was wrong. “Uh, no, not at all,” I said, my voice tight. My eyes flicked toward the man behind the counter.
Daniels’ gaze followed mine, his body tensing as he took in the scene. “Sir,” he said calmly, “put the knife down.”
The man’s grip tightened, his eyes wild. “Stay back! I’ll… I’ll use it!”
Daniels slowly raised his hands. “Nobody needs to get hurt, okay? Just put the knife down, and we can talk this out.”
For a moment, it seemed like the man might comply. His shoulders slumped slightly, and the knife wavered. Then, in a sudden burst of movement, he bolted for the door.
Daniels reacted instantly, tackling him to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor as the two struggled. I backed away, pressing myself against the wall, my heart racing.
Within moments, Daniels had the man subdued, handcuffing him as backup arrived. The store was soon swarming with officers, their radios crackling with chatter.
“You okay?” Daniels asked, helping me to a chair. I nodded, though my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The man was led out in handcuffs, his head down. I later learned he had a history of violent robberies and had been on the run for weeks. That night, he’d been desperate, and I’d been an easy target.
Christmas morning felt different that year. The world seemed colder, less safe. But as I sat with my family, their laughter filling the room, I realized something. That night could have ended much worse. And though I’d never forget the terror, I was grateful to be alive.
It was a Christmas I’d never forget—not because of joy, but because of survival.