The children, all twelve of them, made their way through the darkened mansion. It was 10:00 PM, the time that, on their first day here, they had been told was to be designated as “story hour.” The oldest two led the procession, lighted candles atop golden candle holders grasped in each of their right hands. They stopped periodically, to make sure none of the others had wandered off or gotten lost, especially the youngest. It was a real concern considering the maze-like layout of the estate. Fortunately, this time, they made it to the library without having to send out any impromptu search parties. All of the staff were asleep, so they’d be on their own if they had to.

In the library, before a great and blazing fire, itself situated inside a grand and ornate fireplace, sat their grandfather. Adorned in a red robe and gold slippers, eyeglasses perched upon his nose, he stared at the flames silently as his descendants shuffled into the room and dutifully took their places on the floor around his grand leather chair, just as they had done every night during their Christmas “vacation” at Timberridge.

For a few moments more he watched the dance of the fire, while the winter storm raged outside. The children hoped, quietly, that it would end before Christmas day. They, understandably, didn’t want to spend the holiday cooped up inside, like they had been for the past few days.

Finally, and perhaps because he had settled on what he wanted to talk about, or how he wanted to tell it, the old man turned toward the assembled, and started to speak.

“This is your sixth night here, at Timberridge,” he began. “Each evening I have told you one fantastic tale after another.”

“First, there was my discovery of a remote, hidden island full of beasts once thought to be long extinct, along with its tragic sinking beneath the waves of the Pacific Ocean shortly after I had made my escape via seaplane.

“Then, there was the time I rescued the love of my life, your grandmother, from a pack of fiendish centaurs, who had stolen her away from me and sought to make her the bride of their chieftain! I know you especially liked that one, Mary, as it ended with the story of our wedding.”
Mary, the oldest of the girls, blushed and giggled.

“Next, I told you of the epic saga of me and my compatriots’ (including your grandmother) successful battle against the cartoonish invaders of a parallel reality, bent on nothing but the destruction of our own! And all because, in their world, there were no cartoons, and they found live-action programming so boring!”

“Then, our subsequent adventure in which we saved the Soviet Union and all its people from the wrath of Jack Frost! That was the last time any nation ever conducted nuclear tests in the Arctic Circle, and for good reason! We came close to meeting our demise in that one, if you all recall, if not for the timely intervention of a mysterious figure that I’m still not convinced wasn’t an ancient Norse god in a mortal disguise."

“Finally, last night, I told you all about my personal battle with a witch from Eastern Europe, whose demise I still find myself entirely doubting in the late hours. She was only one of my many rivals from over the years, though she was my sole female one. I always found that fact interesting.”

Some of the children exchanged excited glances at one another, an acknowledgment of the thrill and awe that each of their grandfather’s stories had inspired within them, that had lasted beyond the nights and still burned brightly throughout the days.

“Yes, account after account, each more fantastic than the last. And yet, all true. Your parents all doubted me at the time, too, when they sat where you are all now. Of course, they’ve now all gone on to have adventures themselves, many of which have been even more extraordinary than my own!”

Their grandfather’s tone became more sober, and a shadow drew across his face.
“But none are more terrifying than the events I am about to relay to you tonight, I regret to inform you. I am sure of it. I know some of you are not quite old enough for this particular story, but I want you to hear it from me, and I don’t know how much longer I have left in this life before I join your grandmother in the next.”

“So, please forgive me if you have nightmares tonight. But also always keep in mind that fear is sometimes justified, and I would never scare you if I didn’t have good reason too.”

He paused then, and the house shook under the force of the howling winds. The ornaments on the Christmas tree in the corner of the study rattled delicately. Some of the children huddled closer together for warmth. The house creaked above and below under the strain of the elemental force outside.

The children were no longer looking forward to this particular story.

…

It was the day before Christmas Eve. I had gone into the city to go shopping for presents. I was on my own, not even having requested the assistance of a driver, as I thought the long ride there and back by myself through the countryside, what you might call “the long way,” might do my mind some good after the stressful events of the previous few weeks. I’ll tell you about that particular ordeal tomorrow, don’t worry.

I was on my way back - successful, but lighter in my wallet - when things took a turn for the strange. I was driving on one of the many back roads through the forest when, out of seemingly nowhere, a snowstorm hit. While the radio hadn’t mentioned any snowstorms on the forecast for the day, let alone one of such severity, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It’s not like they hadn’t been wrong before, of course.

I tried to make my way through the blizzard, inch by painful inch, but even after a few minutes, it was clear that I was headed for a car accident under the conditions, and on such a particularly curvy and treacherous road. Nor could I simply stop the car and wait it out, as I did not have nearly enough gas to last the night, which was quickly approaching. I was relieved then, to see a small wooden sign with the name of a town inscribed upon it: “Noel”, it was called, and the arrow below it indicated all I had to do was turn off the main road I was on to reach it. Not wanting to crash or freeze to death, that’s what I did.

After about fifteen minutes of driving, I finally saw the lights of Noel in the distance, faint as they were. Green, red, and white they sparkled, fitting both the namesake of their origin point and the time of year. My mind, involuntarily, conjured images of my destination: rows of single-family homes, each with a lit Christmas tree in one window, while lights glittered from their roofs and shingles. With any luck, there’d be a small hotel or Bed and Breakfast where I could wait out the storm. And if not, well, hopefully they were a generous people.

A few minutes later, I was driving down the main street of the village. But it was not as I had pictured it at all: it looked as if no new structures had been built there since the late 1800s! But this was obviously a small, rural community, I told myself. I never should have expected to see what you might call “modern development.” And, again, I was still in the middle of the gall, and had to find some sort of lodging, so beggars can’t be choosers. But, along with the unexpected storm, the lack of weaponry on my person, enhanced or otherwise, was beginning to feel like more and more of a problem. I had simply experienced too much over the course of my life to not be concerned.

At the end of the main drag, I spotted the only building that had any lights on at all. To my relief, the headlights of my car illuminated a sign outside it that read “Bed and Breakfast.” I parked in front, behind another car (the only other one I had seen in hours), and went hurriedly inside, bracing myself against the bitter cold.

In the foyer, lit only by a candle sitting atop the front desk, I met two brothers, who, like me, had found themselves trapped in the middle of the sudden storm. They were much younger than myself, however, and had been traveling back from college together for the holiday. Their names have been long forgotten by me now, but some details remain: they were only a few years apart in age, about the same height, and had the obvious physical builds of athletes. This will all be important later.

Despite our predicament, they were in good spirits, and we all agreed that we hoped that the wind and the snow would stop before morning, so that we would not risk missing Christmas with our families.

The owner of the establishment then emerged from somewhere deeper in the house, dressed in her nightgown and holding another candle, obviously not having expected any more customers so late and with the current weather. She was a plump, kind-looking woman in her early 40’s, and introduced herself as Agnes.

“Did the power go out?” I asked her, looking at the candle. She didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if she was being rude, or didn’t hear me, but I didn’t want to press my luck with her, considering this was seemingly the only available lodging in town.

I paid for a room for one night. It only cost a quarter! And when I handed the coin over to her, she held the candle up to better inspect it, as if it was in some way strange or new to her. But then something changed, and the look of confusion I had just observed plainly on her face was suddenly gone, and she placed it in some hidden pocket in her gown without further fanfare
I said goodnight to the brothers, and Agnes led me upstairs and down a hallway to my room. It was modest but still very cozy, and I was not surprised to see it did not contain a television.

“Do you have a telephone?” I asked Agnes. Even if the power was out tonight, I hoped I could use one in the morning, to at least let my wife know I was safe, and would shortly be on my way back.

Again, Agnes look confused.

“No, we don’t,” she said, slowly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of what she saying.
I was too tired to press her any further. I bid her goodnight, removed my coat, and, despite my growing unease and the prospect of sleeping in my clothes, I still found myself collapsing upon the very comfortable bed.

Before unconsciousness overtook me, I went over the events of the past few hours in my head: the spontaneous blizzard, the discovery of this town, perhaps (not) coincidentally called Noel, and its decidedly un-modern appearance. Had I somehow found myself in the middle of some sort of paranormal phenomena, when I, ironically, had least expected it? My conclusion: maybe. But I knew I had to get some sleep before any of my questions could be answered anyway, and maybe the cold light of day could assist me.

In the meantime, I was happy I had remembered to lock the bedroom door.

…

I awoke the next morning, happy to see the sun was indeed bright and shining. My instinct was to get back on the road immediately, but I was hungry, and still had a few hours of driving left before I reached home. And I had paid for breakfast, as cheap as it was.

I went downstairs, where I caught the two brothers, along with Agnes, already eating. It was a veritable feast: pancakes, eggs in all their varieties, waffles, muffins, bacon, sausage, crepes, croissants, and probably even more that I’m now forgetting. I have to admit, it was the greatest breakfast I have ever had, in quality and quantity, to the point where I barely spoke at all the entire meal, my mouth was so full.

But I did make a few observations. Agnes, out of her nightgown and dressed for the day, was wearing a very… retro outfit. I don’t exactly know what everything was called, never having been an expert in women’s fashion, but, like the town itself, it looked to predate the turn of this century. It was the kind of thing you’d imagine the ladies in A Christmas Carol to be wearing, if that helps.

Second, and much more concerning, I realized one of the brothers, the younger of the two, had appeared to have changed, physically, overnight. It was subtle, but still noticeable, at least to my trained eye: his hair had grown a little, and he appeared a bit thinner. And when they both stood to excuse themselves from the table, having each met their stomach’s maximum capacity, I made a final observation: he had shrunk a few inches in height.

I had two thoughts, at that moment. My first was that this was further evidence that there was something more going on here. My second, and which inspired much more panic, was a question: had I changed as well? I finished eating, thanked Agnes, who I had learned over breakfast ran the business with her husband and son, and retired to my room. It was difficult to climb the stairs back up, I was so full with her cooking.

There, I examined myself in the mirror, even getting undressed out of my days-old clothes to make sure I didn’t miss anything. As far as I could tell, nothing had changed. Nothing that is, beyond the usual ravages of time, that I had observed with much chagrin over the past decade. That, however, was regrettably all too natural.

Naturally, I began to second-guess myself. Maybe the young man hadn’t morphed at all, and I was simply misremembering? It was dark in the foyer last night, and I had been tired beyond all measure, after all.

Whatever the reasons, ultimately, my short-term goal was the same: get home. I could figure out the rest later, when I had the assistance of my brilliant and capable team. I retrieved my coat, went back downstairs, thanked Agnes for her hospitality, and went outside.

…

My stomach sank when I saw how much snow had fallen the previous night. The road was covered by at least a foot of it, and the cars, mine and the brothers’, were inundated to the point that not even their basic shapes could still be discerned.

Agnes had followed me outside. She placed her hands on her prodigious hips, and shook her head.

“My husband and my son will get your machine out for you,” she said. I noted her use of the word “machine”, instead of “vehicle” or “car”.

“But what about the roads?” I asked. “Will some snowplows be coming through soon?”

“Yea, the horses will be out here before too long,” she answered.

Horses, I thought. Of course they’re using horses.

“Listen,” Agnes continued. “Why won’t don’t you go into town in the meantime? It’s Christmas Eve, and everyone will be out shopping and doing the rounds! Oh, there’s no place else like Noel on Christmas Eve! I’m sure you’ll love it!”

I weighed the risks. Something odd was going on, I was now sure of it. The evidence was insurmountable. And I was alone, and without any of my instruments. But my curiosity had grown with my suspicions, and exploring the village might reveal some answers. And if it was obvious that this was more than I could handle on my own, I would simply come back with the lads and the ladies later. In the meantime, I would be sure to keep my guard up. It wasn’t like this was my first time.

I thanked Agnes for her help and her suggestion, and began to walk back into the main area of the hamlet that I had first glimpsed last night, albeit in the dark.

…

Over the subsequent hours, any lingering doubts were erased: I was in the middle of what began to think of as a “time warp”. Everyone I met and talked to was convinced it was 1899, with the turn of the century only a week away. All of the technology, fashion, and culture I observed were also squarely of the same period as well.

I had thought, initially, that maybe this was all some kind of grand performance by a community that had simply wanted to escape the modern age. But, unless they were all trained actors as well, that seemed unlikely, as none would drop the act even under intense examination. And why couldn’t this be some sort of “hole” in time? Stranger things had happened, especially to me.

Around noon, after hours of conversation with anyone that would entertain me, I sat down on a bench in the middle of the town square, in front of their massive Christmas Tree, and watched the citizens of Noel as they shopped, ate, talked, and played in the snow. I spotted young couples, full families, groups of friends, elderly retirees, and gangs of young children: all happy and content on this Christmas Eve.

Overlooking the town was a large mountain, and I could see a mansion seemingly embedded on its face. This, I had been told, was the residence of Barnaby Wilson: industrialist, philanthropist, and notorious playboy.

It reasoned that this man, in some way, was responsible for Noel and its condition. After all, he was apparently benefiting the most from it. But should I consider him an enemy? All around me were happy people living simple lives. The pews would be full at the midnight mass later, I had been assured.

By contrast, out in the real world, we had hate, disease, division, famine, crime, and the threat of Nuclear War hanging like the sword of Damocles over all of human civilization.
So what was the problem, exactly?

At that moment, I actually felt blessed to have stumbled upon the town of Noel when I did, as if God himself was rewarding me for my good works with a glimpse into this miracle. I even considered not telling anybody about any of this when I got back home, so as to preserve it from the wider, cruel world beyond its invisible borders.

I gazed up at the moon, faded in the daylight, but still visible. Was it altered as well? Was it the same heavenly body that had been so recently conquered by mankind? Was the American flag implanted on its surface?

Would it be good, if it weren’t? The thought even surprised myself.

But then, my gaze shifting back to the Earth, I saw something that quickly annihilated my optimism, or any notion that the good God of Abraham had anything to do with this.

I saw the two brothers again, walking arm in arm. And the younger one, the one I had noticed physical changes in earlier at breakfast, was now even shorter, thinner, and had longer hair. Moreover, he was now also sporting what were obviously, even under his (women’s) winter jacket, two large breasts, accompanied by much wider hips, and a behind that stuck out further than a bustle alone could account for (I’m sorry to be so explicit, children, but I need to explain how I knew he had turned female).

I ran up to the pair, and began to question them. They explained to me that they were born in the village a few years apart, had started as childhood friends (not siblings), before graduating to lovers in their teenage years, and now, were engaged to be married come spring. They had no memory of who they had been a mere twelve hours before, even after I reminded them. They took offense to that, actually, and abandoned me in disgust.

“How dare you say such a thing, and on Christmas!” said the now-woman, in shock and disbelief.

I hurried back to the Bed and Breakfast. Every bemused person I ran past, I couldn’t help but wonder: were they like the two brothers? Had they too been sucked up by this place, and changed to suit its twisted means? My mind raced with possibilities: had siblings become lovers, children become parents, and parents into children? Were even the pet dogs and cats I spotted once human beings? I could have ejected my breakfast onto the snow.

And why hadn’t I been affected? Actually, there I could make an educated guess. On my person I presently had: a cursed ring on my right ring finger, enchanted tarot cards in my left breast pocket, a necklace once worn by King Solomon himself resting on my chest, and a vial of sacred water from the Ganges in my right pocket.

There were also the various times I had been blessed by priests, shamans, rabbis, imams, and medicine men, and granted spells of protection by white witches, mages, and warlocks.
All of these were the prizes won from my previous adventures, and any of them, or even multiple working in concert, could have been responsible for keeping me from succumbing to whatever evil force was at work.

…

I made it back to the hotel, where I was not surprised to see that the cars hadn’t been dug out at all. No matter, I thought. I would do it myself. I still had my gloves.

I began to remove the snow by hand, but, even after 20 minutes of excavation, no vehicle was emerging. All it was, I realized with horror, was a giant pile of powder. It too, had been assimilated into this alternate dimension, along with the gifts I had stored in it.

I didn’t bother to check the state of the brothers’ car. It was easy to assume that it was gone as well, if the state of its owners was any indication.

I considered my options. I could try to trek back to the main road on foot, but it was about 25 degrees, even in the sun, by my estimation, and, even after reaching the main road, it might be hours before I saw another car. There was a very real chance that I would end up succumbing to the cold in the meantime.

There was also the possibility that the dimensional pocket that I had found myself in wouldn’t let me leave anyway – that I would find myself walking and walking only to end up back in town, or in an endless expanse of forest. Maybe I was beyond rescue already, and so this was all a moot point anyway. Or, even more disturbingly, maybe the outside world was gone, and only Noel remained.

I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, I decided.

Another option sprung to mind: horses! Agnes mentioned that they would be using horses to clear the streets of snow! I looked around. Clearly the streets hadn’t been touched. Maybe the horses were still in their stable? I ran inside and asked Agnes, now eating lunch with her husband and son, where I could find it. She told me the farm was located a little outside of town.

I started walking there as fast as my feet would carry me.

…

Arriving at the farm, I noticed immediately that something was wrong. It was too quiet – even if the animals had been kept in their pens on account of the snow, I should still have been able to hear them, even if muffled and at a distance.

I knocked on the door of the main house. No answer. I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I let myself in. I could handle the farmer, if that’s what it came to.

Inside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. But something outside, in the backyard, caught my eye. I moved closer to one of the windows, and through it viewed what I can only describe as absolute carnage. Masses of dead animals littered the area between the farmhouse and the barn, their blood and entrails staining the white snow red. I couldn’t recognize any of the individual species - such was the state of their dismemberment. I ran outside.

No ordinary animal, or animals, could have done this. The only creatures that came to mind that possibly could were the dinosaurs I had encountered on that now-sunken island.

Then I spotted him – the body of the farmer. And he was still breathing.

I ran over to him. Something had taken a massive bite out of his shoulder. There was nothing I could do for him. I had no medical expertise.

“What did this?” I asked him, hoping, selfishly, that in his final moments he could possibly still help me.

“The horses”, he struggled to say. By the sound of it, his throat was inundated with blood “But they’re not horses anymore. And they’re still in there.”

I looked over at the barn. A trail of blood led to its front doors, which stood wide open, but its interior was shrouded in shadow, hiding whatever lay waiting within. I became acutely, and uncomfortably, aware that, given the distance, whatever the horses had become could be on me in a matter of seconds.

I looked back down at the wounded farmer, hoping he could offer me some more information in his final moments. But they had already passed. He was dead.

What was there left to do? I looked behind me, back in the direction of the town, the looming mountain behind it. From that distance, the mansion that called it home was not visible, though I knew it was still there. I had earlier reasoned that the man who called it home was in some way the cause of all of this.

I decided I would have to confront him. There were simply no other options.

But first I needed more information. I left the farm without taking any further action, hoping, and praying, that whatever resided in the barn was content to stay there, at least for now.

…

I went back to the Bed and Breakfast and talked to Agnes, along with her husband and son. I went back into town, and questioned anyone I could. I even saw the two brothers again, though I dared not approach them. The female was now obviously pregnant. By the size of her protruding belly, I guessed she was probably in the third trimester. My stomach still churns at the thought.

But, overall, my endeavors were largely fruitless. All I had learned was that Barnaby Wilson was seldom seen in person these days, and that he liked to throw lavish parties with guests from out of town. There was talk that one such party would be happening that very night, but that morsel of information was more like a rumor that no one seemed to know the exact origin of, or who they had first heard it from.

At this point, dusk was not long coming, and I still needed a weapon. I went to the police station.

…
Fortunately, the town only had a single law enforcement officer: the sheriff. And since crime in Noel was nonexistent, as the residents had proudly told me earlier, it reasoned he didn’t have much practice in either shooting or fighting.

By contrast, I had much of both.

I entered the front door, and found Noel’s sole police officer shining his badge behind the front desk. To his left was the gate to the cells, which had been left open, indicating that there was nobody currently locked up in any of them. That suited me fine.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” I said to him in a cheerful tone.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, and finally looked up from his book. He squinted at me, obviously trying to remember my name.

“Oh, I’m new in town. Just got in last night.”

“Oh…uh…what can I help you with?” It was as if he was in a play, and had forgotten his lines.

“Well, I’m going to need your gun, and every bullet you have for it on hand. Plus, your nightstick, and whatever else you might have lying around.”

I didn’t want to hurt him, As far as I knew, he was just as much a victim as everybody else here. So my goal was this: get him to draw his weapon, whereupon I would quickly disarm him, and turn the gun on its owner.

Over the next 30 seconds, that’s exactly what happened. The result: the sheriff, bound to a chair with a makeshift gag stuck in my mouth in the cell at the end of the hall, which I had locked. And now I had a revolver, with 20 additional shells stuffed into my pants’ pockets, and a nightstick, which I had placed in the breast pocket of my coat.

Someone would find the man, I reasoned. Eventually,

Now armed, I began to make my way up to the mountain, just as the sun was beginning to set.
It was getting colder.

…

There was a gate at the foot of the hill, with a heavy lock upon it. I shot it off.

…
I didn’t encounter a single other soul on my hike, nor did I see any animals or birds. I didn’t see any other tracks, either, until the path I was on merged with another that originated somewhere else further down the mountain. This road had obviously been the one used by the party guests I had heard about, as there were now many imprints in the snow before me.

But I didn’t see any that were obviously made by any wheel or horse. No, these tracks were made by … other things. Whether vehicle or animal, I do not know. None of them had been made by anything I had ever encountered, and no two were alike.

One set were square, as if made by a giant robot. Another was nothing but a deep cut, a mini canyon between walls of white. I imagined something like a miniature ship had produced them. A ship that didn’t need water, apparently.

A third pair resembled the tracks of a bear, albeit with 10 toes on each foot. The adjacent prints were nothing but three zig-zagging lines. The last imprint I could make out was a perfect circle six feet in circumference, each marking about 5 feet apart from the next, as if a giant had taken to playing with a pogo stick.

I could finally see the manor through the trees. I needed to get closer.

…

Now I was in front of the mansion. Whatever had made the tracks, they weren’t parked outside. Maybe they were inside, I thought. Maybe this mansion was bigger on the inside than the outside. Much, much bigger.

But there was certainly a party going on, as every window was lit, and an excited murmuring could be heard emanating from within. I couldn’t pick up any of it, however, and I still don’t know if it’s because the sound was too muffled, or if the language or languages spoken were simply alien to my ears.

Shadows moved behind the drawn curtains. Some were too big to be made by even a large human adult. Others were too small to be children. At one point, a huge shadow moved across multiple windows at once, as if it were being cast by a huge caterpillar.

Now I could make something out. It was hard to hear, but I realized it was “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” by Brenda Lee. Released in 1958, fifty-eight years later than it was supposed to be in this strange place.

Rockin' around the Christmas tree
At the Christmas party hop
Mistletoe hung where you can see
Every couple tries to stop

The song changed. Now a male voice emanated from inside.

There'll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There'll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories
Of Christmases long, long ago

“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” by Andy Williams. This was a bit more recent – 1963. Then the song changed again.

The mood is right
The spirit's up
We're here tonight
And that's enough
Simply having a wonderful Christmastime
Simply having a wonderful Christmastime

I knew the voice – it was Paul McCartney. But I didn’t recognize the song at all. Then it hit me: this was a song from the future. For whatever reason, this final irregularity – this final insane contradiction - is what broke my resolve.

I stared up at the mansion, but for how long, I couldn’t be certain. I took out the revolver, loaded with six bullets. But I quickly put it away. It was now undeniable: I was in over my head.

Whoever, or whatever, was in there, it was more than I could handle on my own.

The party's on
The feeling's here
That only comes
This time of year

I had been beaten.

I turned around, and looked back over the town. The red, green, and white lights were back, and I now realized that their coloring should have been impossible considering the state of their technology. Another mystery. Another terrible wonder.

The word is out
About the town
To lift a glass
Oh, and don't look down

…

I walked back down the mountain, to the town. All the while, I considered what my next action would be.

I could try to start a fire, to create an inferno that would wipe out the whole of Noel, but who’s to say it wouldn’t be suddenly deprived of oxygen, snuffing it out? Or, I could simply go on a killing spree, and try to save as many of the villagers through the mercy of death that was as I possibly could. But how long before the doors of the mansion would fling open, and whatever is in there descended upon me to save its playthings?

The final choice was the simplest: suicide. I would use the revolver on myself, and die in this lonely place. Never see my wife, children, or team ever again. They wouldn’t ever even know what had happened to me.

What would they think? Would they assume that I had gotten into a deadly car crash? Been the victim of a simple carjacking and homicide? What an ironically pedestrian way for me to meet my demise that would be!

Or would they imagine something greater? Maybe one of my old, still-living rivals had finally bested me by striking when I least expected it? Or maybe it was a new foe, the vengeful sibling or friend of some villain I had once bested?

Whatever they theorized, I doubted any would ever guess this.

How could you?

…

Back in town, the streets were deserted, the residents of Noel no doubt eager to get some sleep before their namesake holiday. I stopped again before the great tree in the town square, where my hopeful delusions about Noel had been shattered only a few hours before.

I would decide my fate here.

The sound of bells interrupted my dark brooding. I turned to find that an ornate, red sleigh had materialized behind me. Along with 12 reindeer before it.

I inspected the sled, trying to discern whether or not this was some sort of trap. The bench, where Santa himself would presumably sit, was too small for even a thin man to rest comfortably. And in the rear, where there should have been a sack overflowing with presents, there was instead a single wrapped box. I took it out, and opened it. Inside was a scrap of paper, with one word handwritten upon it: “Leave.”

I looked back towards the mountain, where I could see a pinpoint of light emanating from its side: the mansion. Whatever was in there, it simply wanted me gone. It must have realized it was not going to be able to assimilate me, now having been in Noel for about twenty-four hours. And maybe it didn’t like how close I had come to its seat of power.

I sat down on the bench inside the sled, whereupon the reindeer suddenly took off into the sky. For a few seconds, I could again look down upon the town, along with the sea of trees that surrounded it.

Then I blacked out.

…

I awoke, still sitting up. We were back on solid ground. To my left was a truck, the bright beams of its headlights almost blinding me. I summarized, by the shocked look of the driver, that the sled had landed here right in front of him, no doubt almost causing him to crash.

One of the reindeer grunted: a clear signal to get out. I did, and the reindeer immediately began to turn round and head back into the sky. As they did, I caught a glimpse into the eyes of the head buck, the truck’s lights illuminating its pupils enough for me to see them clearly. Instead of being horizontal, as they are for all deer, horses, and sheep, they were round. Like a human’s.

I watched as the reindeer and the sleigh climbed higher and higher into the sky, until….they abruptly winked out of existence. A word popped into my head: firmament. Yes, that sounded right.

I walked over to the passenger side of the truck. I had half-expected the driver to refuse to let me in, but he was apparently feeling generous, as he leaned over and unlocked the door for me. It was Christmas Day, I suppose.

“You don’t want to know,” I said to him, before he could even ask me anything.

He believed me, thank God.

…

We arrived back at the mansion shortly after daybreak, where my wife (your grandmother) and five children (your parents) ran to meet me outside. They asked me where I had been. I shot a knowing look to your grandma, before telling them that I had been snowed in back in the city. They believed me, because they did not yet know what they do now: how strange and terrible this world, along with a few others, really are.

I gave the truck driver a handsome tip, and we all waved him goodbye as he drove off. Back inside, we opened presents (minus the few that had been swallowed whole by Noel), played with some of the newly unwrapped toys, and had breakfast.

...

In the early afternoon, when the children were all taking naps, exhausted from the excitement of the holiday, I told your grandma over hot chocolate what had really happened to me. She said nothing the whole time, and, when I was finished, only had one question.

“So, when do we start?” was all she asked.

She knew me too well.

…

The next day, I called the Company. I was able to get through to the Boss, and I told him the same story I had told your grandmother. When I was done, the line grew silent.

“Can you come in for an Audit?” he asked

I knew that was coming.

An Audit is a grueling, week-long process in which magic and medicinal means are both employed to get the absolute truth out of someone.

Actually, I misspoke: it’s to get the truth out of someone’s soul. That way, even the unconscious deceptions crafted by one’s own mind can be detected and discarded.

Usually, an operative will only ever be subjected to one Audit in their entire lives, when they first join the Company. This is standard procedure, to weed out any spies or psychopaths. So, yes, I’m sorry to tell you: all of you will likely have to go through one yourselves, if you choose to follow in the footsteps of your parents and grandparents.

But I wasn’t offended. If I were the Boss, I would be skeptical too. What were the odds that an operative would just happen to stumble into a situation like this? And it may not have even been deliberate on my part. The life of an operative is, to put it lightly, stressful. It was not unreasonable to think I had had some kind of mental break, and made up the entire story of my time in Noel while in the midst of it.

Or maybe I had gotten into a car accident, and the whole thing had been a kind of dream or hallucination? The possibilities were endless, really.

I agreed to come in.

…

A week later, and the Audit was complete. I was fifteen pounds lighter, and had more gray hair, but there was no longer any doubt: I was telling the absolute truth, as my own soul knew it to be. I was not being deceitful, or mistaken.

With all that cleared up, the hunt for Noel could begin.

…

The main team, along with two sub-teams, were summoned to Headquarters. Once all were assembled, I again retold my story, which was followed was a short Q & A session.

Then, we set out.

…

We combed the woods for months. We used every spell and piece of technology at our disposal, even at one point using a helicopter to survey the area from the air. We tracked down the truck driver who had rescued me. We interviewed local residents, amateur historians, and consulted the Native American tribes that had lived nearby since pre-Colombian times.

But we never found Noel, or any record that such a town had ever existed at all, at least in the State.

…

Back at one of the Company’s offices, someone crunched the numbers and found that the area in question had a higher-than-average rate of missing persons than in similar parts of the country.

And the consultations with the Native American tribes did dig up one interesting piece of information: the range of land where Noel should have been had a name that translated roughly into English as “Don’t Go There.”

I had also surrendered the sheriff’s revolver for analysis. Examination showed that its general design was of the late 1800’s, but that was all that could be gleaned from it. I’m sure it’s sitting in a warehouse somewhere now.

A year later, and this was all we had. With no more leads to pursue, the file was closed, as we used to say.

…

The last loose end was the matter of the brothers who had become husband and wife. We actually discovered their identities very early on, as their family had reported them missing on Christmas Day. Once my Audit was complete, the Company felt confident enough to leverage its influence with the FBI and Local Authorities to work with them to cover up their deaths.

Together, they planted and staged a fake car crash, complete with the burned skeletons of two unclaimed male corpses. What else could we do? It would have been crueler for the family to continue their search, when we knew it would forever be fruitless.

And, in a sense, they were dead.

I attended the funeral, under the guise of being one of their college professors. I stared at their weeping mother, and wished I could comfort her in some way, while still fully well knowing that that even this deception was better than the truth.

The truth was that the world she knew was a lie. That monsters were real, and could be hiding in your bed or in your closet every night when you lay down to sleep. That every time you went out on some mundane errand, there actually was a chance you’d suddenly disappear into thin air, in the short walk between the door to the grocery store and your car. That your children weren’t really safe playing outside, even when they stayed confined to your backyard, and away from the forest. That witches, vampires, ghosts, and werewolves were not only real, but were actually among the least of your concerns.

Yes, this poor woman had to believe her sons were killed in a car crash, so every other mother could still comfortably place their newborns in their cribs and not have to worry that elves would come in the night and replace them with a changeling.

After that, it was time to move. During the investigation, we had kept the children under strict supervision, not allowing them anywhere near where I had chanced up that cursed town. But, realistically, we knew we couldn’t keep it up forever.

Eventually, they would be more and more on their own, and what if, for example, one late December, my son found himself driving his girlfriend home for the holiday, eager for us to meet her? Then, when none were ever forecasted by the weather, a sudden snowstorm was to strike. And what if, desperate to find shelter from the wind and sleet, they were to see a sign for a town called “Noel”, and all they had to do was make that fateful turn to reach its shelter?

The risk was too great, so we moved out of state, and into Timberridge, where we have lived since.

But I still think about Noel, especially around this time of year. I have not suffered many failures in my life, or my career, but I still consider this to be the worst of them. I couldn’t save those people, and that is something I still cannot make peace with.

And what exactly was Noel, anyway? I still wonder. The company released a memo laying out all of the theories that the boys back in the office had come up with. They ranged from “incursion from a parallel universe,” to “a glitch in the simulation that is our known reality.” I never did come up with my own personal hypothesis, but I suspect that the Company hadn’t even come close with any of theirs.

Whatever Noel really was, I’d wager it was something so fantastic and terrible that it’s beyond our human imagining. That’s why, no matter how powerful you all might grow to become, and despite my personal regrets, I still hope and pray that you never stumble upon the town of Noel, or that the Company never tries to restart the hunt for it.

You must never see those terrible lights in the distance yourselves.

…

With that, their grandfather stopped talking, and turned back to the fireplace. The children knew that this meant he was done for the night. They slowly got up, one by one, and made their way back to their rooms.

Christmas was only a few days away, but the promise of it was not as enticing as it had been just a few hours ago.