Eliot
You can always tell when Sky Rise is close to shutting down for the holidays. The elevators smell like peppermint from someone's cheap body spray, the cubicles hum with the tired buzzing of overworked monitors, and every conversation you overhear carries that same hopeful tone. People want out. They want warmth. They want family, fireplaces, something better than spreadsheets and deadlines.
Me? I just want my friends to stop arguing for once.
Damien has his feet kicked up on the corner of my desk, puffing on a vape that definitely isn't allowed here. Ketty is draped across a nearby swivel chair like she owns the entire floor. Victor is standing with his arms crossed, looking like he's ready to file a formal complaint against the entire human race. Belle is pretending to type something important so she doesn't get pulled into the chaos.
And Marcus, poor Marcus, is hunched over the company's dusty collection of holiday decorations, inspecting each ornament like it personally offended him.
"Man, will you pack that thing away before HR walks by?" I nudge Damien's leg off my desk.
He smirks. "Relax, dad. It's the last day. They're too busy pretending they care about us."
"That is depressingly true," Victor adds, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But also, Eliot is right. Smoking in the office violates subsection—"
"Please don't quote the handbook," Ketty groans. "It makes my ears want to shrivel and die."
Victor sighs. "It's not quoting. It's referencing."
"Same thing," she snaps.
Marcus looks up from the ornament in his hand. "Guys... does this look weird to you? Like... weird weird?"
Damien rolls his eyes. "Everything looks weird to you."
Marcus ignores him. "No seriously. Look at this." He lifts a red glass bulb. Painted on it, very faintly, is a shape that almost resembles a face. A jagged grin. Hollow eyes.
Eerie.
But I can't let him spiral again. It's almost a daily occurrence with him. Something he read online, something he heard, something he sensed.
"It's just scratched paint, man," I say gently. "Probably got dinged in storage."
Belle glances at it, shivers a little, then shakes the feeling off. "Eliot's right. Nothing supernatural about the discount bin."
Marcus tries to believe her. He always does when she speaks. But I know the look he gets when something unsettles him. He's already storing it in that anxious mind of his.
"Anyway," Damien says loudly, clapping his hands. "Can we focus? We need to talk about the plan."
Ketty perks up. "Yes. The plan. The escape from this fluorescent prison."
Victor adjusts his glasses again. "You say that like we're fleeing a crime scene."
"Victor, sweetie," Ketty smiles, "my life is too fabulous to be associated with crime."
"Unless it involves breaking someone's heart," Belle mutters with a playful smirk.
"Exactly," Ketty says proudly.
I chuckle under my breath. These idiots are my idiots. And somehow the thought of the break ahead feels brighter when I look at them.
Damien hops onto my desk again. "So... one last hurrah before the holidays. We need it. You all need it. And I have the perfect idea."
Victor groans. "Whenever you say 'perfect idea,' what you actually mean is 'terrible idea that might land us in jail.'"
"Correction," Belle adds, "or in the hospital."
Damien ignores them both and continues. "There's this town called Mapleford Hollows. Ever heard of it?"
Ketty raises a brow. "Is that the place with the crazy Christmas festival? People go there from everywhere just to see the lights?"
"That's the one," Damien grins.
Belle brightens. "I've seen pictures! They do this lantern release ceremony, right? It's supposed to look like the northern lights."
"Exactly!" Damien says. "Festive, beautiful, peaceful—"
"Expensive," Victor cuts in.
"Not if you know the right places," Damien replies. "And I do."
That's when Marcus stiffens again, like an invisible hand pressed against his spine. "Mapleford... Hollows?"
His voice sounds thin, fragile.
"Yeah," Damien says. "What? Don't tell me it's haunted or cursed or whatever."
Marcus opens his mouth but hesitates. His eyes dart between us like he's weighing whether we'll laugh or listen.
Belle nudges him with her shoulder, gentle. "Just say it. We won't judge."
Damien snorts. "I will absolutely judge."
"Damien, shut up," I snap.
Marcus exhales shakily. "I've read about that town. It's old. Really old. And the legends around it... they're not like the fun kind you tell kids. They're darker. Sacrificial dark."
The office goes strangely quiet.
Then Ketty laughs. Loud. "Oh please. Every town has legends. My grandma says Lagos is crawling with water spirits, and she still goes to the beach every Sunday."
"I'm serious," Marcus says softly.
Victor taps his pen impatiently. "There are no documented cases of—"
"It's not about documentation," Marcus argues, voice trembling. "It's about... patterns. People go there for the festivities, and some never come back."
Belle's expression shifts. Concern. But she masks it quickly.
Damien scoffs, hops down, and slings an arm around Marcus's shoulder. "Buddy. If something bad was really happening, it would be all over the news. Right? So relax. It's just a cute town with holiday decorations and overpriced cocoa."
Marcus swallows hard. "I just... I have a bad feeling."
He says that more often than he should. Yet something in the way he says it now makes the small hairs at the back of my neck rise.
Belle looks at me. I look at her. No one else notices the brief exchange of worry.
But then Damien claps his hands again. "Vote time! Mapleford Hollows getaway. Yes or no?"
Ketty raises her hand instantly. "Yes."
Belle follows. "Yes."
Victor sighs. "It's inefficient, impractical, and impulsive. So obviously you three will do it. And someone needs to supervise." He raises his hand reluctantly. "Fine. Yes."
Damien grins, triumphant. "Eliot?"
I shrug. "I'm in."
All eyes turn to Marcus.
He hesitates. His fingers twitch. His breath shakes.
Then, quietly, he whispers, "...yes."
Damien cheers like we won a lottery.
Marcus looks like we signed a death sentence.
And for reasons I can't explain, something heavy settles in my chest. Like the room suddenly chilled.
Mapleford Hollows.
The name echoes in my mind long after the others head toward the elevator.
Something is off.
Very off.
But none of us had any idea just how off.
Not yet.
***
Marcus
There's a saying my grandmother used to whisper whenever December rolled around. A warning. A superstition. A fear disguised as folklore.
Beware the towns where Christmas never sleeps, because something must stay awake to keep it alive.
Most people would laugh. Dismiss it. Call it old woman superstition.
But I never laughed. I never could.
And as soon as Damien said the name Mapleford Hollows, that whisper echoed in my mind again. A voice from the past, tugging at the edges of my nerves.
I should have said no.
I should have insisted.
I should have fought harder.
But Belle looked at me with that soft, hopeful smile of hers, and everything in me caved. I wanted to be brave for once. I wanted to be someone she could rely on, not the nervous guy who always flinched at the unknown.
So I said yes.
And as I walk toward the elevators behind the others, something twists deep in my stomach.
It isn't excitement.
It's dread.
Pure, ringing dread.
We reach the parking lot and the winter air hits my face, cold and sharp. Eliot locks up the building behind us, humming something soft, trying to lighten the mood. The rest of the group bickers playfully. Damien argues with Victor about directions. Ketty complains about her manicure. Belle tries to keep everyone from getting run over.
I look at them, these people I've known for years, and a cold wave washes over me.
I see them laughing.
Alive.
Warm.
Unknowing.
I wonder how many days we have left like this.
Maybe hours.
Maybe less.
And as we pile into the cars and start the engine, the world around us seems to darken, even though the sky is still pale with daylight.
Something watches from the distance. I can feel it. Like eyes sliding across my skin.
A whisper rises in my mind, unbidden.
You should have said no, Marcus.
I grip my seatbelt with shaking fingers.
We drive toward Mapleford Hollows.
Toward the place where Christmas never sleeps.
Toward the thing that feeds on those who wander in.
And deep inside, I already know something none of the others dare to imagine:
We are not coming back.
Not all of us.
Maybe not any of us.