The cemetery claus

 The Cemetery Claus

It was Christmas Eve, and the snow fell gently over Hollow Pines Cemetery. The wrought iron gates stood open, creaking softly in the wind. Most people avoided the place, especially at night, but not him.

Santa Claus.

No one ever thinks about the dead on Christmas, but maybe they should. After all, didn’t they deserve to be remembered too? That’s what Santa believed. And every year, after delivering presents to the living, he’d make one final stop at Hollow Pines.

The sleigh touched down silently between rows of ancient headstones. The reindeer, their breaths misting in the frosty air, shifted nervously. Even Rudolph’s bright nose seemed dimmer in the cemetery’s eerie stillness.

“Easy now,” Santa said, his voice kind but firm. He grabbed his sack of gifts—smaller than the one he used for the living but just as full of good intentions—and began his rounds.

Santa moved through the cemetery with a reverence rarely seen. For each grave, he left a small token: a carved wooden toy, a knitted scarf, a sprig of holly tied with a red ribbon. They weren’t much, but they were something—a reminder that the dead were not forgotten.

As he worked, a strange sensation began to settle over him. The air grew colder, the shadows longer. The snow, so peaceful when he arrived, now felt oppressive, muffling every sound except the crunch of his boots.

And then he heard it.

A voice. Faint at first, like a whisper carried on the wind.

“Santa…”

He froze, his gloved hand hovering over a headstone. The voice came again, stronger this time.

“Santa… stay with us…”

He turned, but the cemetery was empty. Only the shadows of the headstones and the skeletal trees greeted him.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his usual jolly tone replaced with unease.

The voice didn’t answer. Instead, the ground beneath him shifted. The snow seemed to melt away, revealing dark, frostbitten soil. A skeletal hand broke through the earth, followed by another, and then another.

The dead were rising.

Santa stumbled back, his sack of gifts falling to the ground. The graves around him cracked open like brittle ice, and figures began to emerge—emaciated bodies, their hollow eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. They moved slowly, deliberately, their bony fingers reaching out for him.

“You’ve always come for us, Santa,” one of them rasped, its voice a hollow echo. “But this year… stay.”

He turned to run, but the path back to his sleigh was blocked by a wall of the dead. The reindeer screamed and reared, their hooves kicking at the snow. But Santa couldn’t reach them.

“Let me go!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “I’ve done nothing but bring joy!”

The dead laughed—a cold, bone-chilling sound.

“Joy for the living,” another said. “But what about us? You remember us only once a year. Stay, Santa. Let us have your joy.”

Santa swung his sack wildly, the toys spilling out and scattering across the ground. The dead picked them up, their skeletal hands clutching the gifts with a disturbing reverence.

“Join us,” they chanted, their voices growing louder, a cacophony of despair and longing.

Santa backed against a tall mausoleum, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The air was so cold now that frost formed on his beard.

“Please,” he begged. “I still have work to do. There are children waiting for me.”

The dead paused, their hollow eyes staring into his. For a moment, it seemed they might let him go.

Then one of them stepped forward—a child, no older than six, her form barely more than a skeleton wrapped in tattered cloth. She held out a tiny, frost-covered hand.

“Don’t leave us, Santa,” she whispered. “We’re children too.”

Santa’s heart broke. He reached out to her, his gloved hand trembling, and when her icy fingers touched his, he felt it—a deep, piercing cold that spread through his body, freezing him from the inside out.

The dead closed in, their icy hands pulling him into the snow, into the earth. His laughter, once so jolly and full of life, faded into the howling wind.

By morning, the cemetery was silent again, the graves undisturbed. But if you visit Hollow Pines on Christmas Eve, you might see them—small gifts placed on the graves, and a figure in red moving among the tombstones, his eyes hollow, his once-jolly spirit now bound to the dead.

And if you listen closely, you might hear his voice, whispering softly from the shadows:

“Merry Christmas… to all… and to all… a good night…”