December 18, 2025 • 42 mins
In the Christmas of 1965, a nine-year-old boy receives an Advent calendar that opens itself each night, revealing a shadowy figure drawing closer to his home — in a town where a child has been snatched and murdered every Christmas Eve for three years.
“THE ADVENT CALENDAR HORROR” by Michael Whitehouse #WeirdDarkness #HolidayHorrors
IN THIS EPISODE: It’s a short story of fiction I bring back every Christmas simply called “The Advent Calendar”, written by Michael Whitehouse. *** (Originally aired December 24, 2020)
SOURCES AND ESSENTIAL WEB LINKS…
“The Advent Calendar” by Michael Whitehouse: https://www.creepypasta.com/the-advent-calendar/
Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music Library. Background music provided by Alibi Music Library, EpidemicSound and/or StoryBlocks with paid license. Music from Shadows Symphony (https://tinyurl.com/yyrv987t), Midnight Syndicate (http://amzn.to/2BYCoXZ) Kevin MacLeod (https://tinyurl.com/y2v7fgbu), Tony Longworth (https://tinyurl.com/y2nhnbt7), and Nicolas Gasparini (https://tinyurl.com/lnqpfs8) is used with permission of the artists.
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(Over time links seen above may become invalid, disappear, or have different content. I always make sure to give authors credit for the material I use whenever possible. If I somehow overlooked doing so for a story, or if a credit is incorrect, please let me know and I will rectify it in these show notes immediately. Some links included above may benefit me financially through qualifying purchases.)
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"I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46
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WeirdDarkness® is a registered trademark. Copyright ©2023, Weird Darkness.
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https://weirddarkness.com/ChristmasCalendar
#WeirdDarkness #ChristmasHorror #ScaryStories #Creepypasta #AdventCalendar #HolidayHorror #ChristmasEve #HorrorPodcast #ScaryChristmas #TrueScaryStories
“THE ADVENT CALENDAR HORROR” by Michael Whitehouse #WeirdDarkness #HolidayHorrors
IN THIS EPISODE: It’s a short story of fiction I bring back every Christmas simply called “The Advent Calendar”, written by Michael Whitehouse. *** (Originally aired December 24, 2020)
SOURCES AND ESSENTIAL WEB LINKS…
“The Advent Calendar” by Michael Whitehouse: https://www.creepypasta.com/the-advent-calendar/
Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music Library. Background music provided by Alibi Music Library, EpidemicSound and/or StoryBlocks with paid license. Music from Shadows Symphony (https://tinyurl.com/yyrv987t), Midnight Syndicate (http://amzn.to/2BYCoXZ) Kevin MacLeod (https://tinyurl.com/y2v7fgbu), Tony Longworth (https://tinyurl.com/y2nhnbt7), and Nicolas Gasparini (https://tinyurl.com/lnqpfs8) is used with permission of the artists.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
(Over time links seen above may become invalid, disappear, or have different content. I always make sure to give authors credit for the material I use whenever possible. If I somehow overlooked doing so for a story, or if a credit is incorrect, please let me know and I will rectify it in these show notes immediately. Some links included above may benefit me financially through qualifying purchases.)
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
"I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." — John 12:46
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
WeirdDarkness® is a registered trademark. Copyright ©2023, Weird Darkness.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
https://weirddarkness.com/ChristmasCalendar
#WeirdDarkness #ChristmasHorror #ScaryStories #Creepypasta #AdventCalendar #HolidayHorror #ChristmasEve #HorrorPodcast #ScaryChristmas #TrueScaryStories
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:08):
Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marler, and this is Weird Darkness.
Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore,
the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained.
Coming up in this episode. It's a short story of
(00:31):
fiction that I bring back every Christmas, simply called The
Advent Calendar, written by Michael Whitehouse. Now bult your doors,
lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with
me into the Weird Darkness. It was the Christmas of
(01:10):
nineteen sixty five, before man had landed on the moon,
before the wall had fallen, before many things good and
bad for me. It was the last time that I
knew innocence, before the creeping shadow which engulfed my family,
before the madness, before death. Before it was the Advent Calendar,
(01:35):
that damned thing which I had to have, each door
a promise of Christmas, and each window a misted reminder
of the warmth and kindness of the festive season. I
was nine years old, and while the parents in my
neighborhood would have had no fears for their children in
(01:56):
the past, allowing them to play freely in the icy
December street. Those days were lost, like breath on a mirror.
If snow had fallen, there would have been no joy,
no snowball fights in the darkened evenings, no sleds sliding
care free down the fields nearby. Children could not be children.
(02:18):
Though the young may have felt apprehension in the dark,
it was the parents who were the most fearful, terrified
of the ultimate loss, a pain they could never extinguish.
For the previous three Christmases, without fail, the worst had happened.
A child had wet missing. While I was very young.
(02:42):
I remember it all as though it were yesterday. The
suburb where we lived had become the most somber of places.
Such a tragedy can do that, slowly draining away any
hope or happiness from a community, like blood from an
open wound. No Christmas Tree nor Carol Sang could stem
(03:03):
the flow. The first to disappear was Tommy Graham. He
was eleven years old, and although I had seen him around,
I didn't really know him personally. I remember my mother
crying about it. Just the thought of something terrible happening
to a child distressed her greatly, and the pain that
(03:26):
her parents must have been going through was often on
her lips. That Christmas. My Dad held on to me
tighter than he had ever done before, and I could
tell that they were affected terribly by the disappearance, just
as the rest of the community had been. The following year,
another Christmas came and another child was taken. Her name
(03:53):
was Cheryl and she was only four years old, Tiny
and fragile. Tears were misplaced, rage vented toward the police,
who were unable to find her, and by New Year
it was the commonly held view that, like Tommy the
year before, little Ryl would never be found. I, like
(04:16):
many of my friends, had been scared by the vanishing children.
It was the first time that I became aware that
adults could do harm, even to the most vulnerable of us,
that children were not always safe, and that those bigger
and stronger than us could have unspeakable things on their minds. Yes,
(04:39):
I had heard the fairy tales and frightening stories of
the Pied Piper and the bogey Man, but what was
going on in our suburb was far more gut wrenching,
far more real than any tall tale. Despite this impact,
it was not until the third child disappeared that I
(04:59):
was truly heartbroken. His name was Finn, and he was
one of my friends, a close one at that. We
lived on the same street, playing football in a field
by his house, and walking to and from school together
each day. My dad used to take us to the
cinema most Sundays, buying us each a hot dog, and
(05:22):
when we got home, Mom would serve us a beautiful
Sunday roast. Finn was like part of the family, and
I still think about him to this day. Where would
he have been now, what would he have done with
his life? How diminished have we been? I mean, not
knowing that boy or the adult he would have become.
(05:44):
No laughs, no tears together, just an empty seat in
the cinema, a vacant desk in the classroom. I remember
his blue eyes and blonde hair more than anything, for
some reason that, in his happy, go looking nature, I
missed him then and even now I wish that it
(06:07):
were not true. Not like the others, Finn had been
snatched from his bed as he slept on that most
peaceful of nights, Christmas Eve. His parents had tucked him in,
hanging his stocking over the fireplace, kissing his forehead, whispering
a Merry Christmas. As he fell asleep, they woke expecting
(06:31):
to hear the excited, scampering footsteps of their son rushing
down the stairs to see what Sannah had brought, what
wrapped secret boxes he had left by the tree, and
instead were confronted with an empty bed, the loss of
their only child, and an open window sucking in the
biting frost of Christmas Day. The parents of all three
(06:53):
children would not let go, could not, nor would they
assume the worst. Search parties were organized. Flyers were continually
posted through letterboxes, pasted onto bulletin boards and shop windows
across the city, and the hope was always there that somehow,
somewhere the three children would be found, unharmed and ready
(07:15):
to come home. That year, on the twenty eighth of
November nineteen sixty five, all hope was extinguished. In an
old sewage pipe across town. The crumpled, fragile bodies of Tommy,
Sheryl and deer Finn were found stuffed unceremoniously into a
(07:36):
corroded pipe and an old sewer rotting in the waters below.
The pain was palpable, the families inconsolable, and for all
of us who knew any of the victims. It was
to be a bleak and shadow ridden Christmas. Three days
later the month turned, eyes moved towards Christmas and the
(08:01):
shaking fear that something cruel and callous lived amongst us.
All three children in three years now into the fourth.
What would happen that Christmas Eve? Which family would be broken?
Which child torn from its comfy, warm bed dreaming of Santa,
only to be killed and discarded like a piece of
(08:23):
fetid waste. My parents were nervous, and who could blame them?
I sensed the change in atmosphere around the streets where
I usually played, families pulling their children in earlier and
earlier before the dark came at night. On more than
one occasion, I heard hammering echoing out from an unseen source,
(08:46):
no doubt, windows being nailed shut to prevent any more
children being snatched as they slept. On the first of December,
my dad hung our Christmas lights outside along the gutter
of our roof, little beads of glowing color piercing through
each cold winter night. We tried to continue on as
normal and think of happier times. As always, he asked
(09:11):
me to help. You're my wingman, kiddo, he'd say, from
behind his bright red scarf, clamoring up set of wooden
ladders to the roof above. He'd flown for the Air
Force before I was born, and still used the lexicon
of those days in the military, but I didn't mind.
It made me feel special. In previous years, I'd been
(09:31):
too small, too young to be of any real use
in decorating the outside of our home, but my dad
always included me. I think he just liked to do
things with me, to have some father son time. Standing
at the bottom of the ladder looking up at him,
whistling Christmas songs out loud, it made me feel part
of the accomplishment, part of the yearly celebrations. That December
(09:56):
was different, however. It was the first time I was
big enough to go up the ladders with him, to
look out at the old street below and see the
occasional blink from a weathered set of lights clinging to
a neighbor's fence or home. My mom was terrified. She
had visions of us both falling to our death. But
(10:17):
my dad always seemed sure of himself, not arrogant, just
confident and cheerfully reminding us all that things would be okay.
Looking back, I think that's what I loved about him
the most when I was a kid, the fact that
he had it all in hand and did everything to
reassure his family and friends. I never felt in danger
(10:41):
up those ladders, always loved, always safe, always Before we
came down, I remember looking at the rooftops poking out
in regimented lines from the streets around. I noticed that
the world seemed different from up there, and that to
me there appeared to be fewer Christmas lights than ever before.
(11:05):
That night, I knew what was coming. My mom tucked
me into bed as my dad finishing hanging some paper
ring decorations from my bedroom ceiling. I always felt those
decorations protected me. Somehow. I'd stir in the night, scared
of the dark, and yet at Christmas time I believed
(11:26):
that somehow, those pieces of colored paper, that blinking Christmas
tree in the other room, that those symbols, those pieces
of goodwill, would keep whatever monstrosities hid in the dark.
At Bay my mom kissed me on the forehead and
left the room, and there was my dad standing in
(11:48):
the corner with his hands behind his back, smiling. Well
wing man you know what time it is, he said,
as we both began to chuckle. Let me see, Dad, please,
I yelled, excited. From behind his back. He produced the
Advent Calendar. I'll continue with our story The Advent Calendar
(12:20):
by Michael Whitehouse when weird darkness returns. I leapt for
(12:42):
joy across the room and hugged him, before snatching it
from his hands and diving back under the covers. Sitting
down on the bed, Dad ruffled my hair with his fingers,
watching me curiously. He knew I loved getting an Advent
calendar each Christmas, and I'd worried that I wouldn't get
that year, as he had told me that most of
the shops were sold out of them. But Tad being Dad,
(13:06):
he had spent hours driving around until he found one
and made sure that on the night of December the first,
the first night of Advent, there it was. The calendar
was beautiful, handmade, with carefully crafted drawings on its front
and back. The lines and sketched colors lovingly showed a
(13:27):
Christmas street full of lights, with houses covered in snow
and the windows beaming with a warm yellow glow, Waiting
for the night Santa would arrive. What I loved about
each year's Advent calendar, the good ones at least, was
that they told a story. They showed something wonderful happening.
(13:47):
Each door or window would be opened night upon night,
revealing a picture building until that magical climax of Christmas.
I loved the anticipation of the holidays, and the Advent
calendar symbolized the hopes that Christmas held. Not just presents,
although as child that was a big part of it,
(14:09):
but spending time with my family, seeing my grandparents, who
usually lived in another part of the country, and getting
to eat all the chocolates and turkey I could cram
into my mouth, getting to be away from the boredom
of school, getting to play with new toys, getting to
have fun with my friends. It was the thought of
(14:30):
friends which brought me down for a moment. There I
was holding an Advent calendar, each cardboard door numbered from
one to twenty four from the first of December until
Christmas Eve. The same night that one year previous, my
dear friend Finn had been taken, murdered and left a
(14:54):
rout down a sewer. I began to cry in almost instinctively.
My dad seemed to know what was upsetting me. He
asked about Finn, and when he mentioned his name, I
sobbed deeper than I had since his death, my poor friend,
who would never again go on those care free days
(15:16):
out with me and dad, or walk alongside me to school,
laughing and playing. It was then that my father explained
to me something about death, words which have always stayed
with me. You know something, kiddo, as long as you
keep the memory of the people you've lost in your
mind and in your heart, they'll always be alive. They'll
(15:39):
always be with you. So Finn is right here, he said,
pointing to my chest gently. With those words, I felt
a soothing comfort wash over me, and we all cried out.
My dad tucked me into bed, kissed me on the head,
and said good night, knowing to leave my bedroom door
(15:59):
open slightly to let some light from the hall keep
my room from the dark. He left the advent calendar
sitting nearby, its closed windows, facing me from my nightstand.
And yet I was exhausted, and so my thoughts drifted
from what lay behind those cardboard doors to sleep and
(16:20):
hopefully to a more rested state of mind. But that
did not occur. I woke in the night from a
horrendous dream about my friend Finn. Little four year old
Cheryl and eleven year old Tommy Graham crushed down a
sewer pipe, the water running over their bodies into mouths
which once spoke and laughed and smiled, only then to
(16:41):
be rendered silent by an unseen brutal hand. In the darkness.
Finn's voice cried out, garbled and drowned. A word came
forth and clung to me like no other run. I
leaped out from my bed, soaked in sweat, ready to
cry out for my mum and dad. But then something
strange caught my attention, shaking me to the court. I
(17:05):
looked to the Advent calendar, to the drawings of cozy
houses covered in snow, their windows beaming out into the
cold December night, sitting there waiting almost as I had
left it. Yet something was amiss, something which I had
no memory of. The first Advent door had been opened,
(17:26):
the cardboard left a jar, like the one to my room.
Stepping forward, the sweat dripped from my hand as I
pulled the door back to reveal what secrets the calendar
had in store for me. In what little light there was.
I squinted, my mind, slowly piecing together the picture behind
door number one. As my eyes adjusted, I recoiled in
(17:49):
horror at the sight and screamed for my family. Within seconds,
the light was on and my dad appeared, picking me up,
consoling me as he put me back into bed. I
pointed it feverishly over to the calendar, telling him that
something awful hid behind the door. Of course, he looked,
then smiled reassuringly. It's just a happy Christmas scene, kiddo,
(18:10):
he said, handing it to me. Looking closely, I could
see that the picture had changed slightly. It depicted it
an old stone bridge covered in snow. Children played on
top of it happily. Yes, it appeared quite harmless, quite serene.
My father left, and soon I was drifting back to sleep.
(18:32):
Yet my mind hazed over with two thoughts, A fin
screaming run in my dream, and of what I could
have sworn I had seen in that first little calendar door.
The bridge was there, but underneath, in the dark, eyes
looked out to the children playing gleefully above eyes which
(18:53):
seemed racked with rage and heat. The next day at
school went quickly, but on my way home I dragged
my feet over the bitter, frozen concrete paths and pavements,
thinking of Fin and how he had always walked with me.
(19:15):
As my house came into view, I smiled for a
moment at the lights Dad and I had hung on
the roof. They warmed my spirits, But when I entered
my room, my soul was chilled, stagnant once more. The
next advent calendar door had been opened. This time I
knew I hadn't been there to do such a thing
(19:35):
in my sleep, as I had assumed must have happened
the night before. No someone had opened it. I touched
the yellow number two of the cardboard door, a number
which should have promised a treat or a happy picture,
reminding me that Christmas was near. I hesitated, and then
looked behind it. Another street scene played out before me,
(20:01):
this time a small boy pulled a red sled behind
him as other children threw snowballs at each other, grinning
wide and happy. At first, I sighed with relief that
the picture had no hidden intruder, no eyes staring out
of the darkness in contempt. But just as I sat
the calendar bag down onto my nightstand, I saw it
(20:24):
the faint outline of a person looking out towards me,
almost invisible, yet hiding within that Christmas scene in plain view.
Sitting there on the boy's red sled. They closed my
eyes and rubbed them, fearful that they might reaffirm the
figure's presence once more when opened. But just as the
(20:45):
darkened eyes had disappeared from under the bridge on the
first of December, the faint outline of the unseen pretender
had moved on from the picture. I knew that no
one would believe me, and even worse, I barely leaved
it myself. My nine year old mind could not comprehend
such strange and ominous occurrences. Yet I was not so
(21:10):
removed from the idea of horrid things scuttling around in
the dark, creatures which even parents could not protect you from.
The figure had moved on, I was certain of it,
and I knew that it must have traveled and hid
behind the door for the third of December. The next morning,
(21:31):
I told myself that I would not open any of
the closed doors from the advent calendar, I promised myself.
Yet someone, something, was doing it for me. That night,
I awoke in the darkness once more the same dream
playing out Poor Finn, muffled and drowned by the putrid
(21:53):
sewage water, crying out in the dark, crying out and
yet warning, pleading, Ron, he said, Ron again. I leaped
from my bed, and once more the calendar door for
that day had been opened by an unseeing force. There
in the dark, eye looked, compelled by the fear of
not looking, the terror of not knowing what was to come.
(22:18):
For in that third picture, it became clear to me
something was on its way. Something unspeakable was plodding and
slowly but surely drawing closer. Behind that door lay another
Christmas scene, families skating on a beautiful iced lake, and
(22:39):
under that transparent barrier between the cold air and the
icy water, there was a shape, darkened, indefinite but malevolent,
a blurred form under the ice, eyes, staring up in
disgust at the families who happily skated above. I screamed again,
(23:00):
and yet the results were all too familiar. My mom
and Dad arrived, tired, yet never annoyed at their child
for waking them in the night. Mom put me into bed,
and as she did so, I explained frantically to them
both that something was appearing in the Advent Calendar, that
each door held proof of something which meant to do
me harm. Yet there was no evidence of it, only
(23:24):
three open doors showing happiness and fun. At Christmas, Dad
said I was having bad dreams and that he and
Mom would sit with me for a while until I
fell asleep. I heard them whispering about work in the morning,
but they were more concerned about me than losing a
few hours of rest. The next day, again I tried
(23:46):
to ignore the Advent calendar, tried desperately to avoid its doors,
and again I failed. In the night, I awoke from
the same hideous dream, and yet this time the calendar
was not open. The door with a yellow number four
remained closed. I hoped that whatever strange thing was in
(24:10):
those pictures had left, that I could forget the hateful,
haunting eyes, and that I could return to simply enjoying
the anticipation of Christmas. But just as I nodded back
to sleep, happier than I had been since they had
first found Finn's body, I heard something, the sound of
a thumb or finger pulling at the cardboard. I opened
(24:35):
my eyes and stared in utter disbelief as the fourth
door was pulled open by an invisible hand in the dark.
It is strange that I did not scream, But since
then I have heard people say that when you are
as scared as you can possibly be, that you cannot move,
nor can you cry out for help. I opened my mouth,
(24:57):
and no noise came, a paralys a fear which was overpowering.
There I lay in the night, staring wide eyed at
the fourth door, wondering what disturbing the pitch and it
would reveal, and even more so, terrified that whatever had
opened it still lurked nearby. I wish I could say
(25:19):
that it stopped, that the horrid revelations ceased, but I cannot.
Some nights the dreams of Finn yelling at me to
run came, but on others they did not. The only
constant was that at some point a calendar door would
be opened, whether in the mornings or at night, Each
(25:40):
door would show a happy scene, and each time something
hideous which only I could see, would be momentarily present.
One door showed a group of carollers, cheerfully singing at night,
warmed by the glow of an open window, and at
the rear there stood an outline, something watching, something waiting,
(26:02):
something moving on relentlessly to Christmas Eve. The last door,
another picture showed a small girl, no older than poor Cheryl,
who had been killed, placing presents into a stalking, and
yet for a moment there was the faintest impression of
a hand reaching out from the stalking towards the girl.
(26:25):
By the twentieth the horrific pictures had intensified, as too
had my dreams. Finn now screamed my name, his voice
echoing up through a drain, pleading with me to get away.
And as those nightly terrors revealed themselves, the pictures had
taken on more weight, more immediacly. For I was certain
(26:46):
that they now showed the street where I lived. My
Dad found me crying that night, and when asked what
was wrong, I told him I believed that there was
something evil coming, something horrendous, which had snatched a child
each of the previous three Christmas Eves, the same evil
which had taken my friend, that hidden horror, which on
(27:07):
Christmas Eve would come for me. Dad reassured me that
this was not the case, that I was imagining things.
When he looked at the pictures on the calendar, He
just saw nondescript streets, anonymous faces, nothing which suggested the
place where we lived. But I saw differently. The drawings
clearly showed house by house, inch by inch, that something
(27:31):
was drawing nearer each day, fleeting glimpses of a faint
figure waiting to gorge itself once more. My dad offered
to throw the advent calendar away if it was upsetting
me so much, but I pleaded with him not to.
I needed to know. I had to see what was coming,
(27:53):
what was on its way to snatch me from my family,
as it had done the other children. The twenty first,
twenty second, and twenty third of December or torturous. Well.
I should have been excited for Christmas Day, I was not.
I was terrified, for I knew that I would never
(28:14):
live to see it. The calendar door on the twenty first,
opened by something unseen while I slept, showed a house
come into view, one with glowing lights hung around the
roof gutter and the faint outline of something terrible approaching
near by. I was certain that the house was mine,
and that the light which beamed outward onto the snow
(28:36):
landscape was from my family. Though as I peered out
into the night from my window. There was no snow
in reality, just a biting wind and a frost which
covered everything like a shroud. I could not see a
figure out there, but I felt it somewhere close, just
waiting for Christmas Eve. On the twenty second, the figure
(28:59):
drew closer to our home as the snow fell around
it in the advent calendar, and on the twenty third,
the prowler had reached the gate to our garden. That night,
I had such a terrible vision. In my dream. I
found myself lying in the dark. I could not see,
and all that surrounded me was the empty coldness of winter.
(29:21):
Pain coursed through my body and the sound of running
water pushed over it, forcing me deeper into an abandoned drain.
Putting out my hand instinctively, my fingers touched the frozen
mouth of another child. Slowly it moved against my hand,
and its stagnant lips whispered as if weakened, run get away.
(29:43):
I did not wake screaming, nor did I leap from
my bed as I had the other nights, like an
animal fleeing from a predator. There I lay in the
silence of the night, and in that stillness I cried.
The paper, chains and decorations my family had hung from
my room's ceiling proved no protection from the pain, or
(30:06):
from the thoughts of the three children, how they'd been taken,
and how I would be next. And then the day
had come, Christmas Eve. I was frightened, but a distance
took me, one which slowed my words and left me
dispassionate about the festive season, about my family. I wish
(30:29):
I had not been that way, and had savored every
moment I had left. But I was drained, numbed by
the lurking fear which had haunted me for weeks, tired
of it all, a strain which no nine year old
should have to bear. My dad knew that I wasn't
my usual self, as I normally relished Christmas Eve like
(30:53):
most children, excited and completely enthused for what would come.
But there I was, outside in the cold, helping him
fix part of the lights which had come unhooked in
the wind. I watched my dad on the ladders once more,
the wind rattling everything around, the slates on the roof,
the trees, the gutter. I thought about how Finn's family
(31:18):
or little Cheryls or even Tommy Graham's would have been
preparing for Christmas Day like we were, happily unaware of
the loss they were about to undergo. At least I
knew I had foresight each hideous picture, hinting at that
faint figure coming closer and closer to my home to
(31:39):
open my window as I slept, waiting for Christmas morning
to snatch me from my bed to slaughter me, discarding
my body down a sewer pipe used and forgotten. As
the wind howled and the lights chinked and jingled together,
I looked back at the gate to our garden, to
where I had last seen my future attacker. I could
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see nothing, just an empty sheet on the quietest night
of the year. But in that absence, I could feel
eyes bearing into me. My dad climbed down the ladder,
whistling merrily to himself, and as I looked up at him,
I simply asked, matter of factly, if he would nail
my window shut. He didn't ask why, He knew many
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parents had done the same, and so we went inside.
As the evening rolled in, carried by the promise of
frost from the outskirts of the city, Dad got his
toolbox out and drove a large series of nails into
the frame of the window. Once I was confident that
there was no way to open it, I thanked him
and asked him if he would do one more thing
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for me, only one to sit next to my bed
all night and look over me until morning. Unlike the
other nights, he did not tell me that there was
no monstrosity out there, nor did he say that the
world was a safe place, for that would have been
a lie. He placed his hand gently on my shoulder
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and said, if you need me, I'll sit right here
until it's time to open the presents, and sit there
he did. My mother came in to kiss me on
the head before returning back to the kitchen, where she
was preparing things for the dinner next day. I so
wanted to see it Gramps and gran and, knowing that
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the nightmare of December nineteen sixty five was over, I
fell asleep as my dad sat by the bed reading
his book. It must have been two or three in
the morning when I woke. I was unsure of the
precise time, but what I knew was that my dad
was standing at my window, looking down out of the street. Below.
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I whispered to him and asked what was wrong, but
his reply was hesitant, nothing, kiddo, go back to sleep.
Then I heard it, certain and labored the sound of
footsteps slowly walking up our garden path outside, shambling forward
towards our home. The sound frightened me, and my thoughts
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immediately turned to the advent calendar, to the faint outlined
figure which it haunted me. From what little light there was,
I could see that the door for Christmas Eve was
sealed shut, yet to be opened. The footsteps continued, one
after the other, slowly, steadily. My dad stared intently outside
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as if asked if he could see anyone there, but
he just shook his head in disbelief. The footsteps ceased,
and silence covered everything like the frost outside. Suddenly it
was broken by three loud, booming knocks. It was at
our door. I cried out in terror and started sobbing.
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It's come to take me Dad, like Finn and the others.
I howled in utter despair as the tears lid down
my cheek. Nonsense, it must just be a neighbor or something,
my dad said, unconvincingly. No Dad is here to take
me away, I screamed as I handed the calendar to him.
Open the last door. Open it and you'll see Christmas Eve.
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At each Christmas Eve it takes a child. And if
you open that you'll see it. I promise you'll see it.
Three more loud knocks echoed out, and for the first
time in my life, I saw fear flicker across my
dad's face as I could hear my mom stirring from
her room, shouting through asking what was going on. Three
knocks more, this time more pronounced. Please Dad, look at
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the door, Open it and you'll believe me. It's here
for me. My father's hand trembled as it held the
calendar tightly. Slowly he opened the last door to see
what was shown. God no, he yelled out, and with
that we heard the most hideous of sounds, one which
was laced with dread. A click of a lock, the
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turning of a handle, and the door opening to the cold.
Then footsteps climbing stairs, looking seeking, and then slowly coming
down the hall towards my room. Dad, Please help me,
I pleaded, as the nightmares thing in our house drew closer.
He looked at me, trying his best to hide his fear,
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but I could see it etched into his face, into
his soul. Listen to his son, as soon as I
go out there, I need you to grab all your things,
anything heavy, and barricade your door. Don't let anyone in
this room unless it's me or your mother. I believe
in that moment he saw the utter despair in my eyes,
and before he left the room, as the footsteps reached
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the room next to mine, he spoke, gently, patting me
on the head. It'll be okay, he said that he
was gone. I did as he said, and as soon
as he left the room, I moved my nightstand, my chair,
my books, anything I could against the door, sobbing my
eyes out, praying that my parents were safe. At first,
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I heard nothing throughout our house. Then suddenly violent shouting erupted.
A struggle quickly followed with what sounded like furniture being
thrown and glass smashed. And then the worst of it,
my mother screaming. She cried and yelled and agonized, and
finally I could not bear it anymore. I could not
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leave her alone. Clearing the things away from my door,
I opened it and wandered down the darkened hall, A
cold icy air blew through the house. The front door
lay open, decorations swung in the frozen breeze, and outside
knelt my mother alone, terrified, screaming into the night. I'll
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continue with our story The Advent Calendar by Michael Whitehouse
when weird darkness returns. Losing a parent is hard for
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a child, and to do so on Christmas Eve harder still.
The torture of that night cuts deeper than most. Few
can know my true pain. Over the years, I have
tried to understand it more clearly, understand what my life
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was before and what it is now. To little avail,
I cannot give solid explanations, nor can I say that
my anger will ever truly diminish. I've tried to live
as best I can, putting the mystery out of my
mind each year, each year, that is, until Christmas, when
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the memories flood back, like a comforting blanket, soon torn
away by a silent hand from the dark. My own children,
now grown up, and asked me why I've become a
little distant at this time of year, and to that
I have given no real answer. All I can say
to them is I do know two things, both of
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which haught me to this day. The first is that
no one ever saw or heard from my dad again.
My mother remained tight lipped until she died about what
had come into our house that night, what took her husband,
and who can blame her. I also know what the
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last door of the Advent Calendar contained and what had
frightened my dad so badly. It was a drawing, like
the others, a happy Christmas scene, with one horrid addition.
It showed a voice sleeping soundly in his bed on
Christmas Eve, a child who looked uncannily like my poor
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friend Finn, unaware that his life would soon be over,
and that he was being watched through the frosted window
by his killer, whose face looked remarkably like that of
my father. Thanks for listening. If you like the show,
(40:44):
please share it with someone you know who loves the
paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries
like you do. The Advent Calendar was written by Michael Whitehouse.
You could find a link to the original creepypasta in
the show notes. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark
of Marler House Productions, Copyright Weird Darkness and now that
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we're coming out of the dark. I'll leave you with
a little light Isaiah nine, verse six. For to us
a child is born, to us, a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders, and he
will be called wonderful counselor Mighty God, everlasting Father, Prince
of Peace. And a final thought by Greg Giamalva. The
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way we make an impact is if we do for
one what we wish we could do for everyone. I'm
Darren Marler. Thanks for joining me in the weird darkness.
Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marler, and this is Weird Darkness.
Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore,
the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained.
Coming up in this episode. It's a short story of
(00:31):
fiction that I bring back every Christmas, simply called The
Advent Calendar, written by Michael Whitehouse. Now bult your doors,
lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with
me into the Weird Darkness. It was the Christmas of
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nineteen sixty five, before man had landed on the moon,
before the wall had fallen, before many things good and
bad for me. It was the last time that I
knew innocence, before the creeping shadow which engulfed my family,
before the madness, before death. Before it was the Advent Calendar,
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that damned thing which I had to have, each door
a promise of Christmas, and each window a misted reminder
of the warmth and kindness of the festive season. I
was nine years old, and while the parents in my
neighborhood would have had no fears for their children in
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the past, allowing them to play freely in the icy
December street. Those days were lost, like breath on a mirror.
If snow had fallen, there would have been no joy,
no snowball fights in the darkened evenings, no sleds sliding
care free down the fields nearby. Children could not be children.
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Though the young may have felt apprehension in the dark,
it was the parents who were the most fearful, terrified
of the ultimate loss, a pain they could never extinguish.
For the previous three Christmases, without fail, the worst had happened.
A child had wet missing. While I was very young.
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I remember it all as though it were yesterday. The
suburb where we lived had become the most somber of places.
Such a tragedy can do that, slowly draining away any
hope or happiness from a community, like blood from an
open wound. No Christmas Tree nor Carol Sang could stem
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the flow. The first to disappear was Tommy Graham. He
was eleven years old, and although I had seen him around,
I didn't really know him personally. I remember my mother
crying about it. Just the thought of something terrible happening
to a child distressed her greatly, and the pain that
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her parents must have been going through was often on
her lips. That Christmas. My Dad held on to me
tighter than he had ever done before, and I could
tell that they were affected terribly by the disappearance, just
as the rest of the community had been. The following year,
another Christmas came and another child was taken. Her name
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was Cheryl and she was only four years old, Tiny
and fragile. Tears were misplaced, rage vented toward the police,
who were unable to find her, and by New Year
it was the commonly held view that, like Tommy the
year before, little Ryl would never be found. I, like
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many of my friends, had been scared by the vanishing children.
It was the first time that I became aware that
adults could do harm, even to the most vulnerable of us,
that children were not always safe, and that those bigger
and stronger than us could have unspeakable things on their minds. Yes,
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I had heard the fairy tales and frightening stories of
the Pied Piper and the bogey Man, but what was
going on in our suburb was far more gut wrenching,
far more real than any tall tale. Despite this impact,
it was not until the third child disappeared that I
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was truly heartbroken. His name was Finn, and he was
one of my friends, a close one at that. We
lived on the same street, playing football in a field
by his house, and walking to and from school together
each day. My dad used to take us to the
cinema most Sundays, buying us each a hot dog, and
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when we got home, Mom would serve us a beautiful
Sunday roast. Finn was like part of the family, and
I still think about him to this day. Where would
he have been now, what would he have done with
his life? How diminished have we been? I mean, not
knowing that boy or the adult he would have become.
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No laughs, no tears together, just an empty seat in
the cinema, a vacant desk in the classroom. I remember
his blue eyes and blonde hair more than anything, for
some reason that, in his happy, go looking nature, I
missed him then and even now I wish that it
(06:07):
were not true. Not like the others, Finn had been
snatched from his bed as he slept on that most
peaceful of nights, Christmas Eve. His parents had tucked him in,
hanging his stocking over the fireplace, kissing his forehead, whispering
a Merry Christmas. As he fell asleep, they woke expecting
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to hear the excited, scampering footsteps of their son rushing
down the stairs to see what Sannah had brought, what
wrapped secret boxes he had left by the tree, and
instead were confronted with an empty bed, the loss of
their only child, and an open window sucking in the
biting frost of Christmas Day. The parents of all three
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children would not let go, could not, nor would they
assume the worst. Search parties were organized. Flyers were continually
posted through letterboxes, pasted onto bulletin boards and shop windows
across the city, and the hope was always there that somehow,
somewhere the three children would be found, unharmed and ready
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to come home. That year, on the twenty eighth of
November nineteen sixty five, all hope was extinguished. In an
old sewage pipe across town. The crumpled, fragile bodies of Tommy,
Sheryl and deer Finn were found stuffed unceremoniously into a
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corroded pipe and an old sewer rotting in the waters below.
The pain was palpable, the families inconsolable, and for all
of us who knew any of the victims. It was
to be a bleak and shadow ridden Christmas. Three days
later the month turned, eyes moved towards Christmas and the
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shaking fear that something cruel and callous lived amongst us.
All three children in three years now into the fourth.
What would happen that Christmas Eve? Which family would be broken?
Which child torn from its comfy, warm bed dreaming of Santa,
only to be killed and discarded like a piece of
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fetid waste. My parents were nervous, and who could blame them?
I sensed the change in atmosphere around the streets where
I usually played, families pulling their children in earlier and
earlier before the dark came at night. On more than
one occasion, I heard hammering echoing out from an unseen source,
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no doubt, windows being nailed shut to prevent any more
children being snatched as they slept. On the first of December,
my dad hung our Christmas lights outside along the gutter
of our roof, little beads of glowing color piercing through
each cold winter night. We tried to continue on as
normal and think of happier times. As always, he asked
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me to help. You're my wingman, kiddo, he'd say, from
behind his bright red scarf, clamoring up set of wooden
ladders to the roof above. He'd flown for the Air
Force before I was born, and still used the lexicon
of those days in the military, but I didn't mind.
It made me feel special. In previous years, I'd been
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too small, too young to be of any real use
in decorating the outside of our home, but my dad
always included me. I think he just liked to do
things with me, to have some father son time. Standing
at the bottom of the ladder looking up at him,
whistling Christmas songs out loud, it made me feel part
of the accomplishment, part of the yearly celebrations. That December
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was different, however. It was the first time I was
big enough to go up the ladders with him, to
look out at the old street below and see the
occasional blink from a weathered set of lights clinging to
a neighbor's fence or home. My mom was terrified. She
had visions of us both falling to our death. But
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my dad always seemed sure of himself, not arrogant, just
confident and cheerfully reminding us all that things would be okay.
Looking back, I think that's what I loved about him
the most when I was a kid, the fact that
he had it all in hand and did everything to
reassure his family and friends. I never felt in danger
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up those ladders, always loved, always safe, always Before we
came down, I remember looking at the rooftops poking out
in regimented lines from the streets around. I noticed that
the world seemed different from up there, and that to
me there appeared to be fewer Christmas lights than ever before.
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That night, I knew what was coming. My mom tucked
me into bed as my dad finishing hanging some paper
ring decorations from my bedroom ceiling. I always felt those
decorations protected me. Somehow. I'd stir in the night, scared
of the dark, and yet at Christmas time I believed
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that somehow, those pieces of colored paper, that blinking Christmas
tree in the other room, that those symbols, those pieces
of goodwill, would keep whatever monstrosities hid in the dark.
At Bay my mom kissed me on the forehead and
left the room, and there was my dad standing in
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the corner with his hands behind his back, smiling. Well
wing man you know what time it is, he said,
as we both began to chuckle. Let me see, Dad, please,
I yelled, excited. From behind his back. He produced the
Advent Calendar. I'll continue with our story The Advent Calendar
(12:20):
by Michael Whitehouse when weird darkness returns. I leapt for
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joy across the room and hugged him, before snatching it
from his hands and diving back under the covers. Sitting
down on the bed, Dad ruffled my hair with his fingers,
watching me curiously. He knew I loved getting an Advent
calendar each Christmas, and I'd worried that I wouldn't get
that year, as he had told me that most of
the shops were sold out of them. But Tad being Dad,
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he had spent hours driving around until he found one
and made sure that on the night of December the first,
the first night of Advent, there it was. The calendar
was beautiful, handmade, with carefully crafted drawings on its front
and back. The lines and sketched colors lovingly showed a
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Christmas street full of lights, with houses covered in snow
and the windows beaming with a warm yellow glow, Waiting
for the night Santa would arrive. What I loved about
each year's Advent calendar, the good ones at least, was
that they told a story. They showed something wonderful happening.
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Each door or window would be opened night upon night,
revealing a picture building until that magical climax of Christmas.
I loved the anticipation of the holidays, and the Advent
calendar symbolized the hopes that Christmas held. Not just presents,
although as child that was a big part of it,
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but spending time with my family, seeing my grandparents, who
usually lived in another part of the country, and getting
to eat all the chocolates and turkey I could cram
into my mouth, getting to be away from the boredom
of school, getting to play with new toys, getting to
have fun with my friends. It was the thought of
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friends which brought me down for a moment. There I
was holding an Advent calendar, each cardboard door numbered from
one to twenty four from the first of December until
Christmas Eve. The same night that one year previous, my
dear friend Finn had been taken, murdered and left a
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rout down a sewer. I began to cry in almost instinctively.
My dad seemed to know what was upsetting me. He
asked about Finn, and when he mentioned his name, I
sobbed deeper than I had since his death, my poor friend,
who would never again go on those care free days
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out with me and dad, or walk alongside me to school,
laughing and playing. It was then that my father explained
to me something about death, words which have always stayed
with me. You know something, kiddo, as long as you
keep the memory of the people you've lost in your
mind and in your heart, they'll always be alive. They'll
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always be with you. So Finn is right here, he said,
pointing to my chest gently. With those words, I felt
a soothing comfort wash over me, and we all cried out.
My dad tucked me into bed, kissed me on the head,
and said good night, knowing to leave my bedroom door
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open slightly to let some light from the hall keep
my room from the dark. He left the advent calendar
sitting nearby, its closed windows, facing me from my nightstand.
And yet I was exhausted, and so my thoughts drifted
from what lay behind those cardboard doors to sleep and
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hopefully to a more rested state of mind. But that
did not occur. I woke in the night from a
horrendous dream about my friend Finn. Little four year old
Cheryl and eleven year old Tommy Graham crushed down a
sewer pipe, the water running over their bodies into mouths
which once spoke and laughed and smiled, only then to
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be rendered silent by an unseen brutal hand. In the darkness.
Finn's voice cried out, garbled and drowned. A word came
forth and clung to me like no other run. I
leaped out from my bed, soaked in sweat, ready to
cry out for my mum and dad. But then something
strange caught my attention, shaking me to the court. I
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looked to the Advent calendar, to the drawings of cozy
houses covered in snow, their windows beaming out into the
cold December night, sitting there waiting almost as I had
left it. Yet something was amiss, something which I had
no memory of. The first Advent door had been opened,
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the cardboard left a jar, like the one to my room.
Stepping forward, the sweat dripped from my hand as I
pulled the door back to reveal what secrets the calendar
had in store for me. In what little light there was.
I squinted, my mind, slowly piecing together the picture behind
door number one. As my eyes adjusted, I recoiled in
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horror at the sight and screamed for my family. Within seconds,
the light was on and my dad appeared, picking me up,
consoling me as he put me back into bed. I
pointed it feverishly over to the calendar, telling him that
something awful hid behind the door. Of course, he looked,
then smiled reassuringly. It's just a happy Christmas scene, kiddo,
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he said, handing it to me. Looking closely, I could
see that the picture had changed slightly. It depicted it
an old stone bridge covered in snow. Children played on
top of it happily. Yes, it appeared quite harmless, quite serene.
My father left, and soon I was drifting back to sleep.
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Yet my mind hazed over with two thoughts, A fin
screaming run in my dream, and of what I could
have sworn I had seen in that first little calendar door.
The bridge was there, but underneath, in the dark, eyes
looked out to the children playing gleefully above eyes which
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seemed racked with rage and heat. The next day at
school went quickly, but on my way home I dragged
my feet over the bitter, frozen concrete paths and pavements,
thinking of Fin and how he had always walked with me.
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As my house came into view, I smiled for a
moment at the lights Dad and I had hung on
the roof. They warmed my spirits, But when I entered
my room, my soul was chilled, stagnant once more. The
next advent calendar door had been opened. This time I
knew I hadn't been there to do such a thing
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in my sleep, as I had assumed must have happened
the night before. No someone had opened it. I touched
the yellow number two of the cardboard door, a number
which should have promised a treat or a happy picture,
reminding me that Christmas was near. I hesitated, and then
looked behind it. Another street scene played out before me,
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this time a small boy pulled a red sled behind
him as other children threw snowballs at each other, grinning
wide and happy. At first, I sighed with relief that
the picture had no hidden intruder, no eyes staring out
of the darkness in contempt. But just as I sat
the calendar bag down onto my nightstand, I saw it
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the faint outline of a person looking out towards me,
almost invisible, yet hiding within that Christmas scene in plain view.
Sitting there on the boy's red sled. They closed my
eyes and rubbed them, fearful that they might reaffirm the
figure's presence once more when opened. But just as the
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darkened eyes had disappeared from under the bridge on the
first of December, the faint outline of the unseen pretender
had moved on from the picture. I knew that no
one would believe me, and even worse, I barely leaved
it myself. My nine year old mind could not comprehend
such strange and ominous occurrences. Yet I was not so
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removed from the idea of horrid things scuttling around in
the dark, creatures which even parents could not protect you from.
The figure had moved on, I was certain of it,
and I knew that it must have traveled and hid
behind the door for the third of December. The next morning,
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I told myself that I would not open any of
the closed doors from the advent calendar, I promised myself.
Yet someone, something, was doing it for me. That night,
I awoke in the darkness once more the same dream
playing out Poor Finn, muffled and drowned by the putrid
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sewage water, crying out in the dark, crying out and
yet warning, pleading, Ron, he said, Ron again. I leaped
from my bed, and once more the calendar door for
that day had been opened by an unseeing force. There
in the dark, eye looked, compelled by the fear of
not looking, the terror of not knowing what was to come.
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For in that third picture, it became clear to me
something was on its way. Something unspeakable was plodding and
slowly but surely drawing closer. Behind that door lay another
Christmas scene, families skating on a beautiful iced lake, and
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under that transparent barrier between the cold air and the
icy water, there was a shape, darkened, indefinite but malevolent,
a blurred form under the ice, eyes, staring up in
disgust at the families who happily skated above. I screamed again,
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and yet the results were all too familiar. My mom
and Dad arrived, tired, yet never annoyed at their child
for waking them in the night. Mom put me into bed,
and as she did so, I explained frantically to them
both that something was appearing in the Advent Calendar, that
each door held proof of something which meant to do
me harm. Yet there was no evidence of it, only
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three open doors showing happiness and fun. At Christmas, Dad
said I was having bad dreams and that he and
Mom would sit with me for a while until I
fell asleep. I heard them whispering about work in the morning,
but they were more concerned about me than losing a
few hours of rest. The next day, again I tried
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to ignore the Advent calendar, tried desperately to avoid its doors,
and again I failed. In the night, I awoke from
the same hideous dream, and yet this time the calendar
was not open. The door with a yellow number four
remained closed. I hoped that whatever strange thing was in
(24:10):
those pictures had left, that I could forget the hateful,
haunting eyes, and that I could return to simply enjoying
the anticipation of Christmas. But just as I nodded back
to sleep, happier than I had been since they had
first found Finn's body, I heard something, the sound of
a thumb or finger pulling at the cardboard. I opened
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my eyes and stared in utter disbelief as the fourth
door was pulled open by an invisible hand in the dark.
It is strange that I did not scream, But since
then I have heard people say that when you are
as scared as you can possibly be, that you cannot move,
nor can you cry out for help. I opened my mouth,
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and no noise came, a paralys a fear which was overpowering.
There I lay in the night, staring wide eyed at
the fourth door, wondering what disturbing the pitch and it
would reveal, and even more so, terrified that whatever had
opened it still lurked nearby. I wish I could say
(25:19):
that it stopped, that the horrid revelations ceased, but I cannot.
Some nights the dreams of Finn yelling at me to
run came, but on others they did not. The only
constant was that at some point a calendar door would
be opened, whether in the mornings or at night, Each
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door would show a happy scene, and each time something
hideous which only I could see, would be momentarily present.
One door showed a group of carollers, cheerfully singing at night,
warmed by the glow of an open window, and at
the rear there stood an outline, something watching, something waiting,
(26:02):
something moving on relentlessly to Christmas Eve. The last door,
another picture showed a small girl, no older than poor Cheryl,
who had been killed, placing presents into a stalking, and
yet for a moment there was the faintest impression of
a hand reaching out from the stalking towards the girl.
(26:25):
By the twentieth the horrific pictures had intensified, as too
had my dreams. Finn now screamed my name, his voice
echoing up through a drain, pleading with me to get away.
And as those nightly terrors revealed themselves, the pictures had
taken on more weight, more immediacly. For I was certain
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that they now showed the street where I lived. My
Dad found me crying that night, and when asked what
was wrong, I told him I believed that there was
something evil coming, something horrendous, which had snatched a child
each of the previous three Christmas Eves, the same evil
which had taken my friend, that hidden horror, which on
(27:07):
Christmas Eve would come for me. Dad reassured me that
this was not the case, that I was imagining things.
When he looked at the pictures on the calendar, He
just saw nondescript streets, anonymous faces, nothing which suggested the
place where we lived. But I saw differently. The drawings
clearly showed house by house, inch by inch, that something
(27:31):
was drawing nearer each day, fleeting glimpses of a faint
figure waiting to gorge itself once more. My dad offered
to throw the advent calendar away if it was upsetting
me so much, but I pleaded with him not to.
I needed to know. I had to see what was coming,
(27:53):
what was on its way to snatch me from my family,
as it had done the other children. The twenty first,
twenty second, and twenty third of December or torturous. Well.
I should have been excited for Christmas Day, I was not.
I was terrified, for I knew that I would never
(28:14):
live to see it. The calendar door on the twenty first,
opened by something unseen while I slept, showed a house
come into view, one with glowing lights hung around the
roof gutter and the faint outline of something terrible approaching
near by. I was certain that the house was mine,
and that the light which beamed outward onto the snow
(28:36):
landscape was from my family. Though as I peered out
into the night from my window. There was no snow
in reality, just a biting wind and a frost which
covered everything like a shroud. I could not see a
figure out there, but I felt it somewhere close, just
waiting for Christmas Eve. On the twenty second, the figure
(28:59):
drew closer to our home as the snow fell around
it in the advent calendar, and on the twenty third,
the prowler had reached the gate to our garden. That night,
I had such a terrible vision. In my dream. I
found myself lying in the dark. I could not see,
and all that surrounded me was the empty coldness of winter.
(29:21):
Pain coursed through my body and the sound of running
water pushed over it, forcing me deeper into an abandoned drain.
Putting out my hand instinctively, my fingers touched the frozen
mouth of another child. Slowly it moved against my hand,
and its stagnant lips whispered as if weakened, run get away.
(29:43):
I did not wake screaming, nor did I leap from
my bed as I had the other nights, like an
animal fleeing from a predator. There I lay in the
silence of the night, and in that stillness I cried.
The paper, chains and decorations my family had hung from
my room's ceiling proved no protection from the pain, or
(30:06):
from the thoughts of the three children, how they'd been taken,
and how I would be next. And then the day
had come, Christmas Eve. I was frightened, but a distance
took me, one which slowed my words and left me
dispassionate about the festive season, about my family. I wish
(30:29):
I had not been that way, and had savored every
moment I had left. But I was drained, numbed by
the lurking fear which had haunted me for weeks, tired
of it all, a strain which no nine year old
should have to bear. My dad knew that I wasn't
my usual self, as I normally relished Christmas Eve like
(30:53):
most children, excited and completely enthused for what would come.
But there I was, outside in the cold, helping him
fix part of the lights which had come unhooked in
the wind. I watched my dad on the ladders once more,
the wind rattling everything around, the slates on the roof,
the trees, the gutter. I thought about how Finn's family
(31:18):
or little Cheryls or even Tommy Graham's would have been
preparing for Christmas Day like we were, happily unaware of
the loss they were about to undergo. At least I
knew I had foresight each hideous picture, hinting at that
faint figure coming closer and closer to my home to
(31:39):
open my window as I slept, waiting for Christmas morning
to snatch me from my bed to slaughter me, discarding
my body down a sewer pipe used and forgotten. As
the wind howled and the lights chinked and jingled together,
I looked back at the gate to our garden, to
where I had last seen my future attacker. I could
(32:02):
see nothing, just an empty sheet on the quietest night
of the year. But in that absence, I could feel
eyes bearing into me. My dad climbed down the ladder,
whistling merrily to himself, and as I looked up at him,
I simply asked, matter of factly, if he would nail
my window shut. He didn't ask why, He knew many
(32:24):
parents had done the same, and so we went inside.
As the evening rolled in, carried by the promise of
frost from the outskirts of the city, Dad got his
toolbox out and drove a large series of nails into
the frame of the window. Once I was confident that
there was no way to open it, I thanked him
and asked him if he would do one more thing
(32:45):
for me, only one to sit next to my bed
all night and look over me until morning. Unlike the
other nights, he did not tell me that there was
no monstrosity out there, nor did he say that the
world was a safe place, for that would have been
a lie. He placed his hand gently on my shoulder
(33:06):
and said, if you need me, I'll sit right here
until it's time to open the presents, and sit there
he did. My mother came in to kiss me on
the head before returning back to the kitchen, where she
was preparing things for the dinner next day. I so
wanted to see it Gramps and gran and, knowing that
(33:28):
the nightmare of December nineteen sixty five was over, I
fell asleep as my dad sat by the bed reading
his book. It must have been two or three in
the morning when I woke. I was unsure of the
precise time, but what I knew was that my dad
was standing at my window, looking down out of the street. Below.
(33:50):
I whispered to him and asked what was wrong, but
his reply was hesitant, nothing, kiddo, go back to sleep.
Then I heard it, certain and labored the sound of
footsteps slowly walking up our garden path outside, shambling forward
towards our home. The sound frightened me, and my thoughts
(34:13):
immediately turned to the advent calendar, to the faint outlined
figure which it haunted me. From what little light there was,
I could see that the door for Christmas Eve was
sealed shut, yet to be opened. The footsteps continued, one
after the other, slowly, steadily. My dad stared intently outside
(34:34):
as if asked if he could see anyone there, but
he just shook his head in disbelief. The footsteps ceased,
and silence covered everything like the frost outside. Suddenly it
was broken by three loud, booming knocks. It was at
our door. I cried out in terror and started sobbing.
(34:54):
It's come to take me Dad, like Finn and the others.
I howled in utter despair as the tears lid down
my cheek. Nonsense, it must just be a neighbor or something,
my dad said, unconvincingly. No Dad is here to take
me away, I screamed as I handed the calendar to him.
Open the last door. Open it and you'll see Christmas Eve.
(35:15):
At each Christmas Eve it takes a child. And if
you open that you'll see it. I promise you'll see it.
Three more loud knocks echoed out, and for the first
time in my life, I saw fear flicker across my
dad's face as I could hear my mom stirring from
her room, shouting through asking what was going on. Three
knocks more, this time more pronounced. Please Dad, look at
(35:37):
the door, Open it and you'll believe me. It's here
for me. My father's hand trembled as it held the
calendar tightly. Slowly he opened the last door to see
what was shown. God no, he yelled out, and with
that we heard the most hideous of sounds, one which
was laced with dread. A click of a lock, the
(35:58):
turning of a handle, and the door opening to the cold.
Then footsteps climbing stairs, looking seeking, and then slowly coming
down the hall towards my room. Dad, Please help me,
I pleaded, as the nightmares thing in our house drew closer.
He looked at me, trying his best to hide his fear,
(36:20):
but I could see it etched into his face, into
his soul. Listen to his son, as soon as I
go out there, I need you to grab all your things,
anything heavy, and barricade your door. Don't let anyone in
this room unless it's me or your mother. I believe
in that moment he saw the utter despair in my eyes,
and before he left the room, as the footsteps reached
(36:42):
the room next to mine, he spoke, gently, patting me
on the head. It'll be okay, he said that he
was gone. I did as he said, and as soon
as he left the room, I moved my nightstand, my chair,
my books, anything I could against the door, sobbing my
eyes out, praying that my parents were safe. At first,
(37:03):
I heard nothing throughout our house. Then suddenly violent shouting erupted.
A struggle quickly followed with what sounded like furniture being
thrown and glass smashed. And then the worst of it,
my mother screaming. She cried and yelled and agonized, and
finally I could not bear it anymore. I could not
(37:25):
leave her alone. Clearing the things away from my door,
I opened it and wandered down the darkened hall, A
cold icy air blew through the house. The front door
lay open, decorations swung in the frozen breeze, and outside
knelt my mother alone, terrified, screaming into the night. I'll
(37:53):
continue with our story The Advent Calendar by Michael Whitehouse
when weird darkness returns. Losing a parent is hard for
(38:20):
a child, and to do so on Christmas Eve harder still.
The torture of that night cuts deeper than most. Few
can know my true pain. Over the years, I have
tried to understand it more clearly, understand what my life
(38:40):
was before and what it is now. To little avail,
I cannot give solid explanations, nor can I say that
my anger will ever truly diminish. I've tried to live
as best I can, putting the mystery out of my
mind each year, each year, that is, until Christmas, when
(39:03):
the memories flood back, like a comforting blanket, soon torn
away by a silent hand from the dark. My own children,
now grown up, and asked me why I've become a
little distant at this time of year, and to that
I have given no real answer. All I can say
to them is I do know two things, both of
(39:27):
which haught me to this day. The first is that
no one ever saw or heard from my dad again.
My mother remained tight lipped until she died about what
had come into our house that night, what took her husband,
and who can blame her. I also know what the
(39:47):
last door of the Advent Calendar contained and what had
frightened my dad so badly. It was a drawing, like
the others, a happy Christmas scene, with one horrid addition.
It showed a voice sleeping soundly in his bed on
Christmas Eve, a child who looked uncannily like my poor
(40:13):
friend Finn, unaware that his life would soon be over,
and that he was being watched through the frosted window
by his killer, whose face looked remarkably like that of
my father. Thanks for listening. If you like the show,
(40:44):
please share it with someone you know who loves the
paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries
like you do. The Advent Calendar was written by Michael Whitehouse.
You could find a link to the original creepypasta in
the show notes. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark
of Marler House Productions, Copyright Weird Darkness and now that
(41:06):
we're coming out of the dark. I'll leave you with
a little light Isaiah nine, verse six. For to us
a child is born, to us, a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders, and he
will be called wonderful counselor Mighty God, everlasting Father, Prince
of Peace. And a final thought by Greg Giamalva. The
(41:29):
way we make an impact is if we do for
one what we wish we could do for everyone. I'm
Darren Marler. Thanks for joining me in the weird darkness.
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