The Christmas caller

 The Christmas Caller

Every Christmas Eve, my family had a tradition: we’d turn off all the lights except for the glow of the Christmas tree, sit by the fireplace, and tell holiday stories. But one year, everything changed.

It was the year we lost Grandma. She’d always been the heart of Christmas, baking cookies, singing carols, and wrapping presents in her perfectly neat, signature red bows. After she passed, my parents tried to keep the tradition alive, but it felt hollow. Still, we went through the motions.

That Christmas Eve, it was just me, my younger brother Jake, and my parents. The air felt heavy, the silence too loud even with the faint crackle of the fire. At exactly 11 PM, the phone rang.

We all froze. Who would call so late on Christmas Eve?

Dad answered, his voice cautious. “Hello?”

For a moment, there was no response. Then his expression changed—his face went pale. “Mom?” he whispered.

I stared at him. Grandma had been gone for six months.

Dad’s voice quivered. “Mom, is that you?”

The rest of us huddled around him, straining to hear the other end of the line. There was a faint sound, like static or wind, and then a soft, familiar hum.

It was Grandma’s voice, clear as day, humming her favorite carol: Silent Night.

Dad dropped the phone, and Jake scrambled to pick it up. “Grandma?” he asked, his voice trembling with both fear and hope.

“Jake,” the voice said, low and warm, but slightly distorted. “You’ve been such a good boy this year. I’ve missed you.”

Jake’s eyes filled with tears. “We miss you too, Grandma. Are you… are you in heaven?”

There was a pause, followed by a chilling response: “Not quite.”

The line went dead.

We stared at each other, unsure what to do. Mom, trying to calm us, said it must’ve been a prank or our imaginations. But deep down, we all knew what we’d heard.

That night, none of us slept well. I kept hearing faint whispers in the house, though I convinced myself it was the wind. Around 3 AM, I woke up to Jake shaking me.

“She’s here,” he whispered, his face pale.

“What are you talking about?” I hissed.

He pointed to the hallway. The faint glow of the Christmas tree reflected off the floorboards, and I could hear something—soft footsteps, slow and deliberate.

“Mom? Dad?” I called out.

No answer.

I got out of bed and crept toward the hallway, Jake clutching my arm. As we peeked around the corner, we saw her.

Grandma.

Or at least, it looked like her. She was standing by the Christmas tree, her back to us. She wore her favorite red sweater, the one she was buried in. Her hair was the same silver curls we remembered, but something was off. Her movements were jerky, almost mechanical, as she reached for an ornament on the tree.

“Grandma?” Jake whispered.

She turned her head slowly, too slowly, until we could see her face. Her eyes were hollow, dark pits, and her mouth stretched into a smile that was too wide, too sharp.

“You didn’t finish your wish list,” she said, her voice echoing unnaturally.

I grabbed Jake and bolted for my parents’ room, slamming the door behind us. Dad woke up instantly, demanding to know what was wrong. When we told him, he grabbed the baseball bat from under his bed and went to check the house.

The living room was empty. No sign of Grandma—or whatever that thing was. But the phone was off the hook, and on the floor next to it was an ornament we’d never seen before: a tiny glass figurine of Grandma, smiling serenely.

We didn’t finish Christmas that year. The tree came down the next morning, and we haven’t put one up since. But every Christmas Eve, at exactly 11 PM, the phone rings.

We never answer.

And every year, we find another ornament in the house—another member of the family, perfectly preserved in glass, smiling that same unnatural smile.

We’re running out of places to hide them.