The Christmas Wreath

The last night of the year was supposed to be a quiet celebration. My grandmother, my brother, and I had just returned to our small farmhouse after midnight mass, the snow crunching under our boots. My brother had been dropped off by his friend’s father, his cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. We stepped inside, and the first thing I noticed was the smell of pine and something else—something metallic and wrong.

The living room was dim, lit only by the pale moon through the frosted windows. And there, sprawled on its side, was the Christmas tree. Ornaments shattered on the hardwood floor, tinsel strewn like silver snakes. The string of lights was still on, casting a sickly yellow glow. My grandmother had turned them off before we left. She never forgot.

A chill crept up my spine, and I shivered. The house felt like a walk-in freezer. My grandmother marched to the thermostat, muttering about the cold. ‘Set to 70, but it’s freezing in here,’ she said, cranking it to 75. She’d call the landlord first thing in the morning.

I was too tired to ponder. I headed to my room to change, but I stopped at my brother’s door. A faint, rhythmic scraping came from inside. I pressed my ear to the wood—it was icy against my skin. The scraping stopped. I pushed the door open.

My brother stood in the center of the room, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. He was muttering something, his voice a low, broken whisper. He turned slowly, and I saw his eyes—wide, unfocused, like he was looking through me. Tears streamed down his face, freezing on his cheeks. ‘The wreath,’ he whispered. ‘It’s in the attic.’

I didn’t remember a wreath. We’d never had one. But a cold dread pooled in my stomach. My grandmother appeared in the hallway, her face pale. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I couldn’t speak.

Together, we climbed the creaking stairs to the attic. The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond. The cold intensified, so sharp it hurt to breathe. We pushed the door open. The attic was bare except for a single object in the center: a wreath of dead, twisted branches, woven with black berries and brittle feathers. It hung from a rusted hook in the ceiling, swaying gently as if in a breeze, though the air was still.

My brother began to hum a disjointed tune. ‘It was my mother’s,’ my grandmother whispered, her voice trembling. ‘She made it the year she died. She said it would keep us safe.’

The wreath suddenly burst into flame, a blue fire that gave off no heat. The light flickered, and I saw my grandmother’s face contort in terror. ‘She’s not dead,’ she shrieked. ‘She’s been waiting.’

The fire vanished. The wreath was intact, but now I saw it for what it was: a trap. A way for her to come back. My grandmother’s body went rigid, her eyes turning black. She spoke in a voice not her own, a deep, guttural growl. ‘You let it in. You brought it here.’

My brother screamed. The lights flickered and died. In the darkness, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, and saw the face of the woman from the wreath—my great-grandmother, decaying, grinning. ‘You’ll keep me company,’ she hissed.

I woke on the floor, my brother shaking me. The wreath was gone. The attic was empty. My grandmother was in her chair downstairs, knitting as if nothing had happened. But when she smiled, I saw the blackness in her eyes. And from the attic, I heard a faint scraping, like twigs against wood.

We never spoke of that night. But every year, on New Year’s, the wreath returns. And she waits, patient, for her next guest.