The ink of the night

 The Ink of Christmas Night

Harold Fenwick was a modestly successful horror author, known for his knack for twisting the mundane into the macabre. But his sales had been dwindling, and his publisher demanded something fresh—something terrifying.

“Christmas horror,” his editor had said. “Twisted holiday stories are trending. Write me a killer collection by Christmas, and I’ll make sure it flies off the shelves.”

Desperate to keep his career alive, Harold locked himself in his study, fueled by coffee and resentment. He tapped away at his keyboard, spinning tales of murderous elves, haunted ornaments, and malevolent Christmas trees. His mind was a whirlwind of dark creativity, and by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, his manuscript, Tales of Christmas Night, was complete.

That evening, as snow fell gently outside his window, Harold leaned back in his chair, exhausted but satisfied. The fire crackled in the hearth, and his house was eerily quiet—a perfect backdrop for horror.

That’s when he heard it.

A faint rustling, like paper being crumpled. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but the sound grew louder, coming from his desk. His manuscript sat where he had left it, the pages neatly stacked. But something about it felt… wrong.

The pages fluttered, though there was no draft. A deep, guttural laugh echoed through the room, and Harold’s heart raced. Slowly, he reached for the manuscript, but the moment his fingers touched the pages, the ink began to bleed.

Dark, inky tendrils seeped from the words, curling into the air like smoke. They twisted and writhed, forming shapes—shapes Harold recognized all too well.

The first to emerge was a figure from his opening story, The Grinning Elf. It was grotesque, with jagged teeth and hollow eyes, its tiny frame twitching unnaturally. It scuttled across the desk, its movements jerky and insect-like.

Harold stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. “This isn’t real,” he whispered. “It’s not real.”

But it was.

From the shadows of the room, a massive Christmas tree emerged, its branches sharp as blades, its ornaments glowing with malevolent light. The tree creaked and groaned, its roots dragging across the floor as it moved toward him.

“No,” Harold muttered, his voice trembling. “This can’t be happening.”

The ink bled faster, pooling on the floor and spreading across the room. One by one, his creations crawled, slithered, and stumbled into existence. The Gingerbread Golem, with its cracked, icing-covered body and razor-sharp candy cane claws. The Singing Ornaments, their voices warped and discordant as they sang Silent Night in a haunting, otherworldly tone.

“Why?” Harold screamed, backing against the wall. “Why is this happening?”

A voice, low and cold, answered from the shadows. “You gave us life, Harold. You brought us into existence.”

The voice belonged to a figure draped in black robes, its face obscured by a veil of shadow. Harold recognized it immediately—it was The Inkweaver, the antagonist from his final story, a being that turned stories into nightmares.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” Harold stammered. “It was just fiction.”

The Inkweaver tilted its head, its voice dripping with mockery. “Your words gave us form. Your fears gave us power. And now, we are free.”

The creatures closed in, their eyes gleaming with malice. The Grinning Elf leapt onto Harold’s chest, its claws digging into his flesh. The Singing Ornaments wrapped their glowing cords around his throat, their haunting song growing louder as he struggled.

The Inkweaver stood motionless, watching as Harold’s creations tore into him. “Merry Christmas, Harold,” it said, its voice echoing through the room. “Your stories will live forever.”

When the townsfolk found Harold’s house the next day, they thought it was abandoned. The doors were locked, the windows frosted over. But inside, his study was in ruins. Pages of his manuscript were scattered everywhere, smeared with ink and something darker.

On the desk, written in Harold’s handwriting, was a single sentence:

“The best stories are the ones that come to life.”

No one ever published Tales of Christmas Night. But sometimes, on Christmas Eve, people in the town claim to see strange figures—grinning elves, murderous trees, and shadowy ornaments—lurking in the darkness.

And if you listen closely, you might hear their voices, singing softly:

“Silent night, deadly night…”