Yule Wraith — Fexingo Horror

In December of 2019, a woman named Clara inherited her grandmother's empty farmhouse on Snowberry Crossing Road, a dead-end lane off Route 9 in central Vermont. She went alone on the winter solstice to pack a few belongings, planning to list the place in January. But the house had other plans. From the moment she stepped onto the porch, a brass sleigh bell, tied with a red ribbon, began ringing on its own—sometimes once, sometimes in a frantic rattle—whenever she drew near the upstairs bedroom. The bell had been her grandmother's, and it had never rung before, not once, in thirty years. What Clara found in that room changed how she thought about the word 'waiting.'

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A quiet Christmas Eve on Starling Lane in the town of Millbrook, 1963. Luna remembers the year the snow came early and a man in a brown coat knocked on every door at dusk, asking for a girl who had been dead for twenty years. No one answered. No one opened. But the knock kept coming, from house to house, until it reached the last porch at the end of the lane — where a candle still burned in the window. A story about cold, silence, and the one door you must never open on the longest night.

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Christmas Eve, 1987. A boy named Peter watches from his bedroom window as a figure in a red coat and hood walks from the dark woods toward Lambert's Barn—the abandoned hayloft that burned down three years ago, killing a man inside. The barn has no roof, no walls, just a stone foundation and a charred crossbeam. But the figure walks through the snow as if it knows exactly where it's going. Peter follows. Luna unravels a story about an old promise, a lost sheep, and what waits for the ones who never came home. No gore. No jump scares. Just a boy alone in the cold, learning that some fires never go out.

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In the small town of Millbrook, Vermont, on a frozen December night in 1983, a woman named Cora watched a light appear in the abandoned St. Agnes Orphanage—a building that had been dark for forty years. She saw it from her kitchen window, just a single flicker in the third-floor window where the nursery used to be. She told herself it was a reflection, a branch, a trick of the snow. But the light stayed, night after night, and she started to remember things she had tried to forget: the cold, the crying, the door that wouldn't open. This is a story about what we leave behind, and what waits in the dark for us to come back.

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It was the last night of the year, and Luna found herself on Old Mill Road, a gravel lane that dead-ends at the ruins of a grist mill burned down in 1919. She had gone there to see the bonfire the town kids built every New Year's Eve, but the fire was out when she arrived. Instead, a single candle burned on the mill's remaining stone wall, its flame unnaturally still. Beside it sat a woman in a coat too thin for the cold, her hair moving in a wind that Luna couldn't feel. The woman spoke of a debt — a promise made a hundred years ago, renewed every year on that night. She asked Luna to take her place, just for an hour, so she could walk up the road and see her own house one last time. Luna agreed, and sat in the dark, holding the candle, watching the flame. The hour passed. The woman did not return. But the candle never went out. And as dawn broke, Luna saw what the woman had seen: her own house, through a window that should not exist, with her own face looking back. A quiet, unsettling story about promises, thresholds, and the cost of keeping a vigil.

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In the small town of Millbrook, Vermont, Christmas Eve is marked by a tradition as old as the town itself: the lighting of the yew tree at Evergreen Cemetery. But this year, something is different. The tree, which has stood sentinel over the dead for centuries, is not just a symbol of remembrance—it's a conduit. Luna recounts her encounter with an old woman tending the grave of a child lost over a hundred years ago, and the chilling realization that the yew does not only guard the dead. It keeps them. As the candles flicker and the snow falls, Luna learns that some gifts are not meant to be unwrapped, and some lights are better left unlit. A quiet, lingering horror about the thin places between Christmas joy and the dark that waits beneath the frost.

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December 23rd, a car breaks down on Pendelton Road outside the tiny town of Millbrook. The woman who stops to help wears no coat, speaks in riddles, and keeps asking about a child Luna never had. The snow keeps falling. By the time help arrives, the road has changed. A story about longing, loss, and the things we mistake for mercy in the dark.

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December 2022, Birchwood Path, New Hampshire. A narrow gravel road that cuts through dense pine forest, three miles from the nearest town. Luna's car breaks down just after sunset, and she walks toward a solitary light she sees through the trees. The light belongs to a small house that shouldn't be there — the county survey maps show nothing but woods for another ten miles. The woman inside, elderly, wearing a faded green cardigan, offers her tea and a place to wait for a tow truck. But the phone doesn't work. The clock on the wall is stopped at 11:47. And the woman keeps asking about a girl named Cora, a girl who went missing from this road forty years ago. Luna tries to leave but the road outside is gone — just trees, unbroken, dark, pressing in. A quiet, chilling story about what happens when you follow a light that was never meant for you.

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December 1987, a few days before Christmas. A heavy snow has fallen on the town of Millbrook, and the power is out across most of the county. Luna's neighbor, old Mrs. Harlow, asks her to check on a light she sees flickering at the top of Windfall Ridge — a place where nothing has stood for thirty years. The ridge is a long, treeless spine of land where the wind never stops, and where a farmhouse burned down in 1957, killing a family of six. No one goes up there. But this year, something is marking the spot. Luna hikes up through the drifts, following a pale, wavering glow that seems to pulse like a heartbeat. What she finds is not a house, not a fire, not a person. It is a star — a single, perfect, eight-pointed star woven out of dead twigs and frozen wire, hanging from a rusted hook that was never there before. The light comes from inside it, from something that burns without heat, without sound, without end. And as she stands there, the star begins to turn.

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December 1997. A small Christmas tree farm called Mistletoe Hollow, off a winding road in upstate New York. Luna's family has been buying their tree there for years, but this time something is different. The owner, old Mr. Kettering, seems anxious, almost apologetic. He warns Luna and her father to stay out of the back field, past the last row of firs. That night, Luna walks the field alone and finds a patch of ground where no snow falls—just bare, frozen earth, perfectly square. And in the center, a single, fresh grave. No marker. A story about what gets buried to keep the rest of us warm.

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