Uphill-Town is located at the center of Doshiqi, Feropia, renowned for its delicate beauty and vibrant culture. It was a haven of blooming flowers, drawing tourists like bees to nectar. Nestled close to the mountains, the region boasted numerous cattle farms and sprawling tea gardens. Doshiqi's fragile, erosion-prone soils were poorly suited for wheat.
It was thirteen minutes past midnight on a cold night on December 12, 1899. Christmas preparations were underway, and the full moon's silver light bathed the town in a tranquil glow. Everyone eagerly anticipated the embrace of winter. But amid the festive air, three burglars—faces hidden behind balaclavas with tiny eye slits—crept toward a bungalow on the town's outskirts, where neighbors were sparse. They'd smeared a gritty black paste, whose texture seemed a mixture of cigarette ashes and pen ink, to obscure recognition. Clad in thick black leather jackets with full sleeves and rubber gloves. They were locals here; people knew them. They were those faces often seen behind bars or sprawled on streets, lying or puking from heavy drug binges. They had plotted this burglary for nights. 'Tonight's a burglary night,' they said.
They carried large duffle bags and weapons like a machete, an animal-skinning knife, a crowbar, and tools to pry the window. They'd considered the front door, but it faced other homes, so they opted for the rear window instead. Tonight was going to cry snowflakes, and around fourteen minutes past midnight people would be deep in snoozing. The owner of the bungalow—a neurosurgeon and his spouse, professionally a banker—weren't home, according to the drug addict one; (He was a toilet sweeper at their home.) "They wouldn't be coming back tonight," he said. This was their opportunity to strike it rich and flee the town that despised them.
Their boss was a thirty-year-old man with a rugged face, charcoal hair, and weary eyes. The second man was calm and sly but frail; people called him the 'Bastard.' The last one had the flat eyes of a killer. He was a drug addict, hooked on heroin.
Upon reaching the backside of the bungalow, the Bastard drew the crowbar and smashed the window's lower pane, shards tinkling softly. He slipped his hand through the gap to grasp the old crank lever inside.
"Once we're done," the Addict whispered, rubbing his hands in excitement, "I'm getting the fuck out of this hellhole." After a few moments, finally, the Bastard reached the lever and pulled it downward. The window opened. Finally! Both of their faces lit up with the hope of a big score, though the boss stayed stoic; he planned to murder them afterward, claiming every coin and jewel for himself before fleeing. They pushed the window open, its warped wooden frame groaning softly, and one by one they climbed inside. But first, they tossed those duffle bags onto the polished oak floor, then stepped in, pressing their feet on the ground. Surveying the room, their eyes widened at the sprawling interior, vast as an abandoned castle with shadows devouring the high ceilings.
Certain the house was empty, the Addict smirked and switched the chandelier's cord on quite confidently, illuminating the entire room with a golden glow. Though it looked more reckless to the other two. Crystal prisms glittered under curling brass arms, dozens of candle-like bulbs flooding the space with golden light. The chandelier's light fell upon the lavish furniture, decorative plates, ornate wall designs, picture paintings, and the red-and-gold carpet. It was a heaven for thieves. Then suddenly, a sound—like heavy boots running across the floorboards upstairs. All three of them panicked. The boss switched off the chandelier and ducked behind the towering walnut door. The others dove behind the red-velvet couch, breaths shallow, ears alert. They stayed silent for a few heart-pounding moments. "Did you not hear that as well?" the Bastard whispered to the Addict, his voice taut with doubt, even doubting the Addict's certainty. The Addict had no answer; he was now twice as unconfident as he had been confident earlier. The boss crawled toward them, dragging the canvas bags across the floor, and slammed the Addict's head against the wall with a thud, hissing, "Didn't you say no one was here?"
"Relax, Boss. The couple's at that party—I swear. Must be a cat or a bird." "Cats and birds of your local wear boots?"
Rattled, the Bastard unzipped his bag for the skinning knife. "Don't worry. If someone's here, we'll just slit their throat. Let's just grab what's valuable and get out."
They rose and prowled the hall, rummaging drawers and cabinets, pocketing anything pricey. They rummaged through drawers and cabinets, stuffing their bags. But once again, another sound of running with heavy boots shattered the silence. They froze. Could a caretaker be home? Should we leave? Risking would be foolish. the boss suggested aborting, but the Bastard wasn't agreeing upon it. If they did, only he would be 'the foolish one' since he had planned for so long, and this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Also the Bastard had his reasons. "I cannot leave, Boss," he said. "We must steal something, even if it's just a coin. If we don't, my family will die starving."
The Addict agreed with him as well, even though he didn't care at all. The boss sighed and took out the flashlights from the mini pocket of the bag and handed one to each of them. They continued exploring through the hall to every single room of the house.
Almost an hour passed, but upstairs beckoned. With the Bastard hesitant and the Addict scared, the boss gripped his machete and ascended the staircase, checking each room. His machete was in his hand, ready to strike immediately at anyone. But no one was found. When he was done examining the rooms, he sighed with relief and started moving more freely. He began stealing and filling his big fat duffle bag with every single piece of treasure he could find. After a few moments, his flashlight's beam caught a safe under the bed. He dragged it out noisily; the rotary lock was child's play for him—he was skilled at unlocking even the toughest padlocks effortlessly in the most efficient way. He immediately got to work to unlock the safe. But just as he was focused, a thud noise of some object—perhaps the sound of a thick wooden piece hitting the wall—came from right behind him. A cold chill ran down his body, and his legs numbed. He turned around anxiously, frightened. But nothing was behind him; it felt more like a horror short film for him.
The door was wide open, and certainly he could see no one from here to the straight hallway of the whole floor—not even his own men. He called them twice but no one responded. He was slightly uncomfortable as he turned to the safe and worked anxiously—Faster! Faster! Finally, it clicked! Open. Inside, stacks of cash and important documents of the house—which he had no business with. He stuffed only the money into his bag. The room was like a treasure trove—trophies, jewelry, and priceless artefacts neatly displayed on the shelves—but he didn't have enough space in his bag to satisfy his greed, nor did he have courage.
Now that the bag ran out of space, he pocketed the bundle as he called out to his men upstairs once again. But then a faint sound reached his ears. His pulse quickened. He turned—The room was still, silent; everything was untouched in its place. But the unease remained inside him. He stood up, gripping his machete tightly, scanned the room. 'Am I imagining things?' he wondered. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, yet it was so strange; he had never met such experiences before. Shaking off the fear, he grabbed his stuff, preparing to leave the house since it had been an hour. Then, something stirred behind him, and now he could see a shadow cast upon the wall, etched sharply by the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through the window. He thought to ignore it since he was trying to justify his eyesight.
Behind him, a coat rack held a swaying leather raincoat. Its hem nearly brushed the floor, but it wasn't just a raincoat. From beneath it, a figure slowly lifted its head. Shrouded in darkness, it stepped forward, lowering itself from the small table where it had been perched and straightened its back. The leather-clad stranger now stood upright, six feet tall, towering over the intruder. The intruder could clearly see the shadow from behind him, and even the breathing sound was clear and loud.
"Someone is definitely behind me," he realized. His breath caught in his throat; he wanted to turn, but he was no longer able to think or walk forward as the figure reached for an axe hidden just behind the rack, concealed by the clothes, and started walking soundly toward the boss with heavy boots on, making thud! Thud! heavy noises with the axe.
Now things were getting crazy and frightening. He was sure that whatever crept behind him wasn't his men—if they were, they would have call out for him. It was an intruder among the intruders. The second he decided to turn swiftly, swinging his machete to attack and kill the figure. But just when he turned, the figure's axe blade gleamed menacingly at him in the dimming torchlight.
Before he could even react, the figure surged forward, swinging the axe with terrifying precision. The blade of the axe tore into his maxilla—between the bones under the eye circle—ripping through cheek and jaw-flesh, dragging and cleaving through sinew. As it escaped the mandible, it ripped the chest from fat to flesh to ribs, splitting his torso in a gruesome way, spilling blood all over his body, filling the gaps of his torn flesh with blood. The pressure of the dragging was so immense that when it was tearing through his belly, it met his leg; immediately after, it went flying off, detached from his body—Imagine the unbearable torment of a goat having its skin peeled off slowly while still alive—the sheer pain would force it to scream in agony. But what he felt, what he endured, was far worse than that.
A suffering so intense that even the tortured cries of that poor creature would pale in comparison. And with it came an inevitable—Death…
His cry was cut short as he collapsed, the metallic stench flooding the room. Downstairs, the other two burglars heard the commotion. They charged up, weapons drawn, alarmed. They had never heard such a loud cry and intense silence immediately after. As they climbed, the axe-wielding figure appeared suddenly. With terrifying speed, it hurled the axe—the blade embedding itself into the Bastard's skull. He dropped dead on the stairs.
The Addict screamed, but the figure throttled him, popped his eyes to blindness, stuffed torn flesh—which the figure removed from their boss's body—in his mouth, then gutted him with the skinning knife, yanking organs while he writhed alive. After three agonizing minutes, he was free.
The clock struck 5:29 AM—the couple returned, laden with shopping bags. The husband spoke tiredly to his spouse, "I couldn't buy anything for mother." He sighed as he said that. His spouse smiled and kissed his cheek, wrapping her arms around him romantically, saying, "It's fine."
While they exchanged words, the spouse's gaze landed on the blood dripping down the stairs, seeping through the staircase and pooling onto the carpet below. Stains on the wall and the red carpet, painting them a deeper red. The blood was still wet, warm, and it smelled foul. She screamed, face ashen. "What?!" the husband panicked, but she didn't utter a word. He followed her gaze and turned his head, and the reek hit him—blood was smeared across the furniture, staining the once-pristine surfaces. The living room was in disarray, drawers opened, and belongings scattered across the floor. The window shattered, that the burglars broke through forcefully.
The spouse immediately grabbed the telephone on the shoe cupboard nearby and dialed the police station twenty minutes away. She was terrified.
He set bags down, grabbed a cricket bat from the storage bin—noticing his gold golf club missing. He was terrified as well, yet he instructed his spouse, "Stay here. I'll check upstairs. If something happens, do not follow me upstairs. Call our neighbors." As he ascended the staircase, nausea rising from the stench, blood stains leading straight to their bedroom. The crimson streaks told that someone had been dragged inside.
With each step, his heartbeat pounded louder in his chest. The disgusting smell of wet blood made him want to throw up. Finally, he reached the bedroom door, peeking through the narrow gap. What he saw inside made his blood run cold. His scream of pure horror erupted from his throat, echoing through the house to his spouse's ears. Hearing his agonizing scream, his spouse, despite her fear and instructions, dropped the telephone from her hands and rushed up. "Honey!" She found him puking out the hall window. Checking him frantically,—You okay?—he was unharmed, just disgusted. Once again, his mouth filled, and he pushed the window in the hallway and started vomiting again. Patting his back, she eyed the creaking bedroom door. What could sicken an experienced brain surgeon? How horrible the sight must be! she thought.
She knelt, grabbed the bat, and walked slowly to the room, then pushed the door. Witnessing the exact same imagery of pure violence that her husband had witnessed. Her mind froze, her breath stuck in her throat. She was so disgusted and scared; her body was paralyzed.
The policeman on the telephone called out for them, "Ma'am, leave the scene! We're on our way! Ma'am…"
Minutes later, police sirens cut through the quiet night of the town. Even the most hardened detectives faltered for a moment at the grotesque scene.
The couple was safely escorted outside, while the police sealed off the premises. Curious neighbors gathered nearby, whispering among themselves as fear spread through the small town. Soon after, a forensic team and an investigative unit arrived. Lead Mr. Kenzo stepped into the house, and the first sight was blood-streaked floorboards under his shoes. He climbed the stairs to the second floor in the room. A large window in the couple's room was wide open. Right outside, there stood a tall, conical tree. But what made the scene grotesquely macabre were the three lifeless naked bodies hanging, nailed to the branches—their corpses swayed, their skin marred by countless cut wounds and injuries, organs removed from their bellies and ribs exposed. Their bodies were rigid, frozen solid due to heavy snowing. Skin had turned a waxy, bluish-gray. Their bodies were decorated on the tree, enchanting its beauty…
Even hardened forensics winced. Death had freed them. Inside, crimson letters scrawled around the window: Merry Christmas. The infamous Santa Claus signature of a serial killer. Kenzo turned to the team; his voice was calm but laced with an unmistakable edge of dread. "Mr. Santa did this. No doubt about it. Get those bodies down immediately," he said. Another murder from the same killer, in such a gruesome way, was unbelievable. Another forensic worker, a companion of Kenzo, muttered in frustration, "How did he kill them and nail them to the tree? And how did no one hear or see anything?"
Kenzo remained silent. As his companion looked at his face, he couldn't decipher what kind of emotion Kenzo was expressing. It was an ambiguous emotion. His eyes widened; his mouth curved downward in a subtle way. It was neither disgust nor anger, nor fright, nor contempt. It was complicated to elaborate such emotions, though such expressions were—Common…