Christmas Eve night was colder than it should have been.
Not just outside—but inside the house.
Everyone had gathered in the sitting room, too afraid to separate. Some lay stretched on couches, others sat upright, coats still on. No one slept properly. Fear had replaced exhaustion.
The television was off.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Emma lay close to the window, her back against the cold glass. Her heart beat fast, steady, loud in her ears. Every few seconds, her eyes flicked around the room—doors, corners, stairway, ceiling.
She checked the time on her phone.
1:00 a.m.
Christmas Day was hours away.
Soft murmurs filled the room. Whispered conversations. Nervous breathing. Someone coughed. A child shifted in sleep.
Across the room, her father sat beside Elizabeth.
They spoke in low voices, heads close.
Emma watched them briefly, then looked away.
Her tension rose suddenly—sharp and insistent.
She sat up.
The diary.
She reached into her bag and pulled it out, the old leather cover rough beneath her fingers. It felt heavier than before, as though it carried more than words.
Emma opened it.
The writing was faint, slanted, old.
She flipped past the pages she had already read.
Then she saw it.
A page she didn't remember seeing before.
Her breath caught.
December 24th, 1979
The promise was made tonight.
Emma's fingers tightened.
She kept reading.
We did not call it evil. We called it protection. A gift. A Christmas surprise.
Her heart pounded.
The winter was cruel. The house was failing. The family was desperate.
Emma swallowed.
It asked for something in return.
Her eyes scanned faster now.
One life. Not now. Later.
A chill crawled up her spine.
We agreed. We promised. But promises are easy when fear speaks louder than conscience.
Emma glanced around the room.
Everyone else was half-asleep. Unaware.
She read on.
The surprise would come when we forgot. When we pretended the deal was never made.
Emma's breath shook.
We were meant to fulfill it. We didn't.
She turned the page.
The handwriting grew frantic.
Christmas remembers.
Emma's chest tightened painfully.
Another entry followed.
It does not take randomly. It takes when the house is full. When laughter is loud. When escape feels possible.
Her mind raced.
Clinton.
The locked doors.
The timing.
Emma flipped the page again.
The first will be taken quietly. To remind us.
Her hands trembled.
Then it will wait.
Emma looked up slowly.
The sitting room.
The people.
The children.
Her father.
Elizabeth.
All of them trapped inside a house built on a broken promise.
Her stomach dropped.
This wasn't haunting.
This wasn't random.
This was payment.
A soft sound made Emma look toward the window.
Snow fell thickly outside, swallowing the world beyond the glass.
She checked the time again.
1:17 a.m.
Christmas was coming.
Footsteps shifted nearby.
Elizabeth looked over at Emma. "What are you reading?"
Emma closed the diary instantly. "Nothing."
Elizabeth studied her. "You've known something all along."
Emma didn't answer.
Her mind replayed the words.
A Christmas surprise.
A gift.
A pact.
A debt unpaid for decades.
Emma hugged the diary to her chest.
The house didn't feel angry.
It felt patient.
She understood now.
This night wasn't chaos.
It was scheduled.
And Clinton was only the beginning.
Emma whispered under her breath, barely audible—
"Who made the promise?"
The diary creaked softly in her hands.
As if answering.