This is my entry for TheCRYPTIC_'s contest, "A Christmas Prophecy."

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Christmas was not a merry time for me. 

In fact, it was quite the opposite. It was the day that a dark cloud from my not-so-distant past returned from the depths of my subconscious to haunt my every waking moment. 

Christmas was the day my little brother died. 

On December 24, 2016, just hours before the dreaded day, I made what was arguably the worst choice of my life. 

I decided to sleep in the room that had, only two short years before, been occupied by my dear brother, Luke. 

Why I did it, I do not know. Perhaps, I thought that directly confronting the monstrous memories that dwelled within me would allow me to overcome them. Or, maybe, I was just feeling a little braver than usual that night. 

Whatever mysterious thoughts were running through my head landed me alone on an old twin bed that creaked every time I shifted my weight. It was uncomfortable, but bearable, and I soon drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

Not for long. 

Scarcely had the night begun when I was seized with a series of most frightening and grotesque visions. I writhed under the thin sheets, sweat drenching my pale skin and seeping down past my wildly thumping heart and into my troubled soul. My breathing grew erratic as I watched the most horrid of scenes play out before my eyes. 

Axes embedded in the back of childrens' heads. 

Plates of cookies and...blood? 

Stockings marred by bullet holes. 

Soon, the once blissful realm of slumber could subdue me no more. I woke with a sudden shriek, involuntarily throwing myself a few inches into the air in shock. I came crashing back down, causing the old mattress to groan beneath me. 

That was when I saw it. 

Painted on the wall, in pristine, crimson letters, was a message that most definitely hadn't been there when I went to bed. 

The Chrislmas Prophecy

Tonight, Sanla's coming to town. 

Come see Sanla

or he'll lake your slocking down. 

Come see Sanla

You know you wanl lo 

Come see Sanla

Quick

Sanla doesn'l like lo wail. 

I frowned in confusion, repeating the seemingly nonsensical words to myself, before the chilling truth hit me. 

Luke always forgot to cross his t's. 

The night before his body was found, Luke and his friends had been staying up in the living room in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. 

This couldn't have been a coincidence. 

Good sense told me to stay safe in bed, but my curiosity got the better of me.  

Taking in a deep breath, I slid the covers away, allowing the cool air to caress my bare calves. I shivered at the first touch of my feet on the cold, hard ground, and walked quickly to better accustom myself to the change in temperature. 

Driven by pure instinct, I lumbered down the stairs in the darkness, nearly falling forward onto my face twice. Still, I pressed on, arriving in the silent, still living room. 

Unable to see much more than the faint outlines of objects, I operated purely on my prior knowledge of the room's layout. Coming to my senses, I stopped in front of a narrow coffee table, frowning. 

What was I thinking? Someone who had known my brother very well had broken into our house, and here I was, wandering around blindly without so much as a phone or a flashlight!

The dangerous reality of my situation as well as the eerie silence in the deserted hall began to shift my focus away from my frustration with myself and toward my creepy environment. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself as I took slow steps toward the dark, hulking figure of the Christmas tree before me. All the while, the faint static noise that often accompanies a creepy stillness hummed within my ears. 

And then, from the absence of noise, came a single sound. 

In a normal environment, it would've been almost imperceptible, yet it stood out in the dead silence around me like a star in the night sky. 

It was the soft shuffling of feet, the smallest hint of a human presence. 

I froze, squeezing my eyes shut as my breathing grew quicker. I noiselessly lowered myself to my knees, and pressed my upper body to the floor, hoping that whoever was in the room with me was having as hard of a time seeing as I was. 

The footsteps grew closer, stopping just beside me. I squeezed my hands together in dread, trying to take slower breaths to prevent myself from making too much noise.

"I know you're there, Kristy." 

An involuntary gasp escaped my throat, and my trachea seemed to temporarily close up. 

The voice was unmistakable. 

"Luke?" I whispered, my voice muffled by the carpet that lay just an inch below my face. 

"Don't look, Kristy!" my brother warned. "Santa doesn't like it when kids see him." 

"Luke, how?" I asked, ignoring his remarks. 

"Don't look!" my brother screeched in his adorable, five-year-old voice. He didn't sound like he had aged a day in the two years he had been 'dead.' 

I was dreaming. I had to have been dreaming. 

Now, all I had to do was open my eyes. 

I struggled to push my eyelids open, but felt an opposing force holding them down. 

"Don't look!" Luke screamed. 

If I wanted to wake up, I had to open my eyes. 

I rose to my feet, placing my hands on my eyelids. 

Open. 

"Don't!" Luke wailed. 

My. 

"Kristy!" he commanded. 

Eyes. 

My eyelids shot up. 

Yet, something was wrong. 

I was still in the living room. 

"Santa doesn't like it when kids see him." 

I looked up to see Luke standing before me. He was dressed in a Santa suit, with a thick, black belt and a glue-on beard. He looked down, and I shrieked at the sight of his face. 

Where his eyes should've been were two gaping, black holes. In his right hand was an ax covered in what looked like fresh blood. 

"I wanted to see Santa, too," he whispered regretfully, raising his ax. 

"Unfortunately, I did."