The Red Stock ritual creepy story

 The Red Stocking Ritual

It started as a whispered dare passed around middle school halls: a game no one truly believed, until someone tried it. They said if you followed the instructions exactly, something otherworldly would answer your call on Christmas Eve. They called it the “Red Stocking Ritual.”

I never believed in that sort of thing. Ghosts? Demons? Urban legends? Just fuel for creepy YouTube videos. But this year, something about the holidays felt… hollow. My parents were working late shifts, and it was my first Christmas Eve alone in our big, drafty house. So, out of boredom—or maybe desperation for some excitement—I decided to give it a shot.

The rules were simple but specific:

1. Hang a red stocking (it must be red) above a fireplace or on your door handle if you don’t have a chimney.

2. At exactly 11:11 PM, write down your deepest Christmas wish on a piece of paper. It must be a wish for someone else, not yourself.

3. Fold the paper three times, place it in the stocking, and whisper, “Saint Nicholas, hear my plea. Deliver this wish, I beg of thee.”

4. Turn off all the lights and sit in silence for 11 minutes. Do not move, no matter what you hear.

I hung the stocking on my bedroom door. I didn’t have a fireplace, so this would have to do. At 11:11 PM, I scribbled my wish—something dumb like wishing my parents could have the holiday off next year—and slipped it into the stocking. My voice wavered as I whispered the words, suddenly feeling childish.

Then, I turned off the lights.

The first few minutes were uneventful, just the hum of my space heater and the faint tick of my wall clock. But as the seconds dragged on, the air in the room grew colder—unnaturally cold. The heater clicked off without warning, leaving an eerie silence.

I told myself it was just my imagination.

Then came the sound.

It started as a faint scratching, like fingernails against wood. I froze, heart hammering, but reminded myself of the rule: Do not move, no matter what you hear.

The scratching grew louder, more insistent, like something—or someone—was clawing at the other side of my bedroom door. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the red stocking sway back and forth, though there was no draft.

And then the whispering began.

It was soft at first, indistinct murmurs that I couldn’t understand. But as the whispers grew louder, they became clearer—voices, many voices, speaking in unison. They repeated my wish back to me, over and over, in a mocking sing-song tone.

“Saint Nicholas, hear my plea. Deliver this wish, I beg of thee.”

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to scream. The voices stopped, replaced by a low, guttural chuckle that came from the other side of the door. My eyes darted to the clock—11:22 PM. The ritual was over. I should’ve been safe.

Then why wasn’t it stopping?

The door handle rattled violently. The scratching turned to pounding, as if something massive was trying to break in. The red stocking tore loose and fell to the floor.

And then everything stopped.

Silence.

I didn’t dare move. I didn’t breathe. But curiosity got the better of me, and I reached for my flashlight. When I clicked it on, the room looked normal—too normal. The stocking was back on the door handle, as if it had never fallen.

I crept toward it, trembling. Inside was the folded piece of paper I had written my wish on. Only now, there was something else.

I pulled it out—a small, shiny object. A candy cane, its stripes glistening unnaturally red. I stared at it, confused, until I noticed the paper. My handwriting had changed. My innocent wish was gone, replaced by a single sentence written in a spidery scrawl:

“One wish granted, one price paid. Enjoy your gift.”

The candy cane broke apart in my hand, crumbling into a fine, sticky dust that smelled like copper.

The next morning, I found out my parents’ car had slid off an icy road on their way home. They survived, but barely. The doctors said it was a miracle.

But I know better.

I tried to destroy the stocking, but no matter what I do, it always reappears—on my door, above the fireplace, even in my closet. And every Christmas Eve, the scratching begins again.

This year, I’m begging you: don’t try the Red Stocking Ritual. It doesn’t grant wishes. It only takes.