Last Christmas, I opened our home to a family in need. Their house had burned down just before the holidays, leaving them with nothing but the clothes on their backs. It felt like the right thing to do—offering them a place to stay while my kids and I spent Christmas at my parents’ house.
Arthur, my seven-year-old, and Ella, who’s nine, had a million questions when I told them. “Mom, what about our decorations? Will they bring their own?” Ella asked, frowning. Arthur, wide-eyed, asked, “Do they even have clothes left?”
“They lost a lot,” I explained. “But we’re going to make this Christmas special for them.” Ella’s face lit up. “Maybe we can leave them presents!” she suggested. My heart swelled with pride. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
Before we left, we made sure everything was ready. Our tree sparkled with ornaments, gifts were neatly arranged under the tree, and fresh blankets were laid out on the beds. I left a handwritten note welcoming them to make themselves at home.
A week later, after a whirlwind holiday with my parents, we returned, but something felt off. The house was eerily quiet and unnervingly neat. “Why’s it so clean, Mom?” Arthur whispered. I tried to reassure him. “Maybe they’re just very tidy,” I said, though my own unease was growing.
In the living room, a single red box sat under the tree, wrapped in gold ribbon. My heart skipped a beat. I approached it cautiously, the silence of the house amplifying every creak of the floorboards. I untied the ribbon and opened the box.
Inside were masks—terrifyingly lifelike ones. A decaying zombie, a grotesque gorilla, and a dragon with eyes so cold they seemed alive. At the bottom of the box, a folded note awaited.
My hands trembled as I read:
“We’re so sorry. Our kids found your Halloween costumes in the attic and thought they’d be fun to play with. By the time we realized, they were ruined. We ordered replacements online—hope these make up for it. Thank you for your kindness.”
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