The Christmas lights never turn off

 The Christmas Lights Never Turn Off

Everyone in my town loved the Johnsons’ Christmas lights. Their display was legendary—rows of glowing candy canes, reindeer with twinkling antlers, and strings of lights that draped their house like a shimmering blanket of holiday spirit. People came from miles away to see it, taking pictures and marveling at how much effort they put in every year.

But something about it always made me uneasy.

The lights weren’t just beautiful; they were too perfect. They never flickered, never shorted out, no matter how bad the weather got. They glowed with a strange intensity, like they were alive. And they never turned off. Not even during the day.

“It’s tradition,” Mrs. Johnson would say with a cheerful laugh. “The lights stay on from December 1st to New Year’s Day. It’s our gift to the town!”

But last Christmas, the lights didn’t turn off after New Year’s Day. They didn’t turn off ever.

At first, no one thought much of it. Maybe they forgot. Maybe they were just keeping the spirit alive a little longer. But weeks passed, and the lights stayed on, glowing brightly in the dead of winter. Snowstorms came and went, and still, the display shone as if powered by something far stronger than electricity.

People started to notice that the Johnsons weren’t around. Their car never left the driveway. Their curtains were always drawn. When someone knocked on the door, there was no answer. But the lights burned on, brighter than ever.

By February, rumors began to spread. Some people said the Johnsons had gone on vacation and forgotten to turn the lights off. Others whispered about fires and electrical accidents. But no one really believed that. Deep down, everyone knew something was wrong.

I didn’t want to get involved. But one night, as I walked home from work, I felt drawn to the Johnsons’ house. It was late, the streets empty, and their house blazed like a beacon in the darkness.

I don’t know why I went up to the porch. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe I just needed to see for myself. Whatever the reason, I knocked on the door.

No answer.

I knocked again. The sound echoed, hollow and loud in the quiet night.

The door creaked open.

I hesitated, but curiosity—or maybe stupidity—pushed me inside. The house was cold. Too cold, like no one had been living there for weeks. The only light came from the glow of the decorations outside, casting eerie patterns on the walls.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling. “Mr. Johnson? Mrs. Johnson?”

Silence.

I stepped further in, my breath fogging in the frigid air. The living room was empty, but there was something on the coffee table—a single Christmas ornament. It was a glass ball, clear and fragile, but inside it was a tiny, glowing light. I picked it up, and as I held it, I could swear I heard something—a faint, distant sound, like whispering.

The whispering grew louder, and then I realized: it wasn’t coming from the ornament.

It was coming from the walls.

I dropped the ornament, and it shattered on the floor, the glowing light inside fizzling out. The whispering stopped, replaced by a low, mechanical hum. I turned to leave, but as I reached the door, the lights outside flared impossibly bright.

And then they started moving.

The strings of lights slithered across the walls like snakes, wrapping around the windows and doors, trapping me inside. I screamed, trying to pull the lights away, but they burned my hands like fire. The hum grew louder, vibrating through the floor, through my chest, until it was deafening.

And then I saw them.

The Johnsons.

They were standing in the doorway to the kitchen, their faces blank, their eyes glowing with the same unnatural light as the decorations. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. They raised their hands, and the lights wrapped tighter around me, pulling me toward the living room.

Toward the tree.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights pulsing like a heartbeat. And at the base of the tree was something I hadn’t noticed before—a pile of gifts, wrapped in shiny paper.

The boxes were moving.

I struggled against the lights, but they dragged me closer. One of the boxes burst open, and a hand—a human hand—reached out, clawing at the air. The other boxes started to shake, their lids splintering, more hands, more faces pressing against the wrapping paper.

The Johnsons didn’t speak. They only smiled, their glowing eyes fixed on me.

I don’t remember how I got out. I woke up hours later on my front lawn, my clothes singed and my hands covered in burns. When I looked back at the Johnsons’ house, the lights were still on, brighter than ever.

The police didn’t believe me. No one did. But people stopped going near the Johnsons’ house after that. The lights are still on, even now, a year later.

And every night, I hear the hum. It’s faint, but it’s there, growing louder. I think they’re waiting.

For me.