Last Christmas was supposed to be simple. My kids—Arthur, who’s seven, and Ella, who’s nine—and I were going to spend a cozy week at my parents’ house, like we always did.
My mom loves Christmas. She decorates every corner of her house until it looks like Santa’s workshop exploded. Dad makes his “world’s best” eggnog and tells the same jokes every year. It’s a week of family, laughter, and sitting by the fireplace with big mugs of hot cocoa.
But one week before Christmas, I got a phone call that changed everything.
A friend told me that a fire had destroyed the home of a family in our neighborhood. A mom, dad, and two kids—about the same age as Arthur and Ella. They’d lost everything. The thought of them spending Christmas in some sad hotel, or worse, split up in different places, broke my heart.
So, without really thinking, I told them they could stay in our house while we were gone.
When I told Arthur and Ella, they were full of questions.
“Mom, will they bring their own Christmas stuff?” Ella asked, her eyebrows scrunched up.
Arthur piped up too. “Do they even have clothes anymore?”
“They lost a lot in the fire,” I told them. “But we’re going to help make this Christmas really special for them. They’ll stay in our house, but we’ll be with Grandma and Grandpa, remember?”
Ella’s eyes lit up. “Can we leave them presents, too? So they can have Christmas morning here?”
My heart felt so full. “That’s a wonderful idea,” I said.
So before we left, we decorated the whole house. The tree was sparkling, stockings hung up, and we wrapped presents for each of them and placed them under the tree. I left fresh blankets on the beds and some cookies and treats on the counter. I even wrote a small note: Welcome! Make yourselves at home.
After a week of holiday chaos at my parents’—too many cookies, too much eggnog, and endless games by the fireplace—we finally came back home.
But when I stepped inside, I felt something… off. The house was too quiet. Too clean.
“Arthur, Ella, wait here for a second, okay?” I said. I looked around, half-expecting to see toys lying around or maybe some crumbs on the couch. But nothing. Everything was spotless, almost like no one had lived there at all.
Arthur grabbed Ella’s hand and whispered, “Why’s it so clean, Mom?”
I forced a smile. “Maybe they were just really tidy.”
I walked into the living room, my heart pounding for no reason I could explain. That’s when I saw it—a big red box under the Christmas tree. It was wrapped perfectly in shiny red paper with a huge gold ribbon.
Who left this?
I walked over, my hands shaking a little. I untied the ribbon, peeled back the paper, and opened the lid.
What I saw inside made me gasp so hard I almost screamed.
“Oh, God!” I said out loud.
Inside the box were masks. Not cute masks—scary, realistic ones. A zombie with rotting skin, a creepy gorilla, and a dragon mask with eyes that seemed to stare right at me. They looked real. Too real.
At the bottom of the box was a folded note. I stood there, holding the paper, the room so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
The note read:
“We are truly sorry for what happened. Our kids found your Halloween costumes in the attic and thought it would be fun to play with them. They didn’t realize how much they meant to you, and by the time we found out, it was too late…”
I closed my eyes for a second. How did they even get into our attic? I never told them about it.
I kept reading:
“…We didn’t want your children to feel bad, so we ordered replacements online. We know this doesn’t make up for it, but please accept this small gesture.”
I looked back at the masks. They were horrible compared to the cute ones we’d collected over the years. Arthur’s old dragon costume had googly eyes and tiny wings—now this new dragon looked like it could breathe real fire. Ella’s old gorilla mask was goofy and silly—this one looked ready to tear someone’s arm off.
At the end of the note was one more line:
“We received an insurance payout and found a new place to live. We are very grateful. Here’s a small token of thanks.”
Taped to the paper was a $100 bookstore gift card. As if that made everything better.
I let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t evil—just careless. They went through our things without asking, let their kids play in the attic, and now our sweet costumes were gone. Replaced by… nightmares.
Just then, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I stuffed the masks back into the box. Arthur and Ella didn’t need to know the details.
I climbed the stairs and heard giggles coming from their room. I peeked inside and froze.
Arthur was holding the zombie mask over his face. Ella was waving the gorilla mask in the air like a trophy.
“Mom! Look!” Arthur yelled, his eyes bright. “This zombie mask is soooo much cooler than the old one!”
Ella bounced beside him. “Yeah! Look at this gorilla! It’s so scary! We’re gonna have the best Halloween ever!”
I blinked. “You guys aren’t… scared of these? They’re pretty creepy.”
Ella shook her head. “No way! They’re awesome! They’re so real, it’ll be like a monster movie! We can scare Dad next year!”
Arthur pulled out the dragon mask and made a scary roar. “Mom, I’m gonna wear this one and chase Ella around! And we can play monster hide-and-seek!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Monster hide-and-seek?”
Ella grabbed my arm. “Please, Mom? Can we play before bed? Please?”
I shook my head, smiling. “Alright, one game. Then bedtime.”
They both squealed, grabbed their masks, and took off down the hall yelling, “Zombie Arthur’s coming to get you!” and “Run from Gorilla Ella!”
I stood there, listening to their laughter echo through the house. They’d turned something that creeped me out into something fun. Maybe they were right—Christmas didn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes you just have to roll with the weirdness and find a way to laugh.
Arthur’s voice boomed from around the corner. “Mom! Hide! The zombie’s coming!”
I laughed and shouted back, “Oh no! I’ll never get away!”
Maybe it wasn’t the Christmas I planned. But thanks to my kids, it became a story we’d never forget.
What do you think? Would you have been creeped out too? Let me know!