The Christmas eve Ghost

March 2, 2025

by Willard

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (407 words)

"My name is Emily, and I’m 14 now, but this happened when I was 10. It was Christmas Eve, a night that should’ve been filled with excitement, but something strange happened that I will never forget. That night, my little brother, Noah, came into my room looking scared. He was only six and had this […]"

My name is Emily, and I’m 14 now, but this happened when I was 10. It was Christmas Eve, a night that should’ve been filled with excitement, but something strange happened that I will never forget.

That night, my little brother, Noah, came into my room looking scared. He was only six and had this weird fear of Santa, thinking he’d sneak in and take him away instead of leaving presents. He begged to sleep in my bed, and I let him. Before lying down, I went to the kitchen, said goodnight to my mom and her fiancé, and got a glass of water. Then I went back upstairs and drifted off to sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, I woke up. I wasn’t sure why at first. The room was silent. But then I saw her.

A little girl was sitting on my nightstand, knees on the surface, hands clasped together like she was praying. Her head was slightly bowed, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders. My breath caught in my throat.

You might think I was dreaming. But I wasn’t.

To make sure, I picked up my water and splashed my face. The cold jolted me, but she was still there. I turned to Noah, shaking him, whispering his name. He didn’t stir. He never woke up easily.

I turned back to the girl. “Who are you?” I whispered.

No answer.

She didn’t move, didn’t blink. I felt my stomach twist with something between fear and curiosity.

I pulled the blanket over my head, heart pounding. I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination, but then—

I heard soft footsteps.

Peeking out, I saw her slowly walking toward the door. Just before she left, she turned.

That’s when I saw her face.

Her eyes were hollow, deep black voids that seemed endless. Her dress was white, old-fashioned, torn at the edges. Her lips moved like she was whispering something, but no sound came out.

And then—she was gone.

The next morning, I told my mom and her fiancé. They laughed, saying I was just dreaming. I wanted to believe them.

But a week later, I heard my mom’s fiancé talking in hushed tones. He had seen her too. A little girl in a torn white dress, walking the halls in the middle of the night.

No one laughed after that.

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