The grinning gifter

 The Grinning Gifter

It started as a rumor, a whispered urban legend among kids in my neighborhood. They called him The Grinning Gifter, a shadowy figure who appeared only during the twelve nights leading up to Christmas. If you found a gift on your doorstep with no tag and no explanation, you were supposed to open it immediately. If you didn’t? Well, no one seemed to know what happened—only that no one who ignored the gift was ever seen again.

Of course, it was just a creepy story to scare kids into checking for packages. At least, that’s what I told myself. But last year, on December 13th, I found the box.

It was sitting on my front porch, wrapped in bright red paper with a shimmering silver bow. There was no name, no card—just a simple tag that read: “For You.” The paper was pristine, untouched by the frost-covered steps, and the bow seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight.

I hesitated, the legend suddenly coming to mind. It was stupid, I told myself. Just a prank from a neighbor. But as I picked up the box, I felt an odd warmth emanating from it, almost like it was alive.

I brought it inside and sat it on the kitchen table. My curiosity warred with my skepticism. After a few moments, I tore the paper off.

Inside was a small, hand-carved wooden figure of a man. His face was grotesquely exaggerated—a wide, toothy grin stretching from ear to ear, his hollow eyes staring straight through me. He wore a long red coat and a crooked hat, and his tiny, jointed hands held a perfectly wrapped gift. Something about him made my skin crawl.

Underneath the figure was a note, written in looping, ornate handwriting:

“He gives, and he grins. Ignore him, and he wins.”

I shoved the figure and the note back into the box, heart pounding. It had to be a prank—someone trying to scare me. I decided to throw it away, but when I opened the front door to toss it in the garbage, I froze.

The figure was standing on the porch.

Not in the box. Not in my hands. Standing upright on the porch, its carved grin wider, its hollow eyes fixed on me.

I slammed the door and locked it. My pulse raced as I backed away. When I turned around, the figure was on the kitchen table. Its tiny, wooden hands were now empty—the wrapped gift it had been holding was gone.

A knock at the door made me jump. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

But then, I heard it.

The faint sound of wrapping paper tearing. It was coming from the living room.

I crept forward, every instinct screaming at me to run. There, under the Christmas tree, was a small, neatly wrapped box I hadn’t put there. Its silver bow glinted in the dim light as the lid slowly lifted.

Inside was another wooden figure, identical to the first, but this one was even more distorted. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its head nearly in half, and its hands were held out, as if beckoning me closer.

The lights flickered. I turned, and there he was.

The Grinning Gifter.

He wasn’t carved wood anymore. He was real—tall, gaunt, and impossibly thin, his crimson coat hanging off him like a shroud. His face was stretched into that same grotesque grin, his black eyes gleaming with malice.

He raised a long, bony finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispered, his voice like dry leaves. Then he pointed to the second figure under the tree.

“Open it,” he said, his grin never faltering. “Or I will.”

I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember running. All I remember is waking up in my room, drenched in sweat, the figures gone and the house eerily quiet. I thought it was over, a nightmare I couldn’t explain.

Until Christmas morning.

There, under the tree, was a single wrapped box. No tag, no explanation. I didn’t open it.

And now, every night, I hear him. Slow footsteps in the hall, the creak of the floorboards by my bed, and the soft, rasping sound of his laugh.

This Christmas, I’ll open the box.

Because I know if I don’t, he will.