Chapter 298

The storm began a week before Christmas. Snow fell in thick sheets, swirling in the wind until it felt as if the world itself had become nothing but ice and white. Mark sat in his small cabin in the northern reaches of Alaska, miles from any other human being, with only his dog, Diesel, for company. A place like this, far from the city and the distractions, seemed perfect for someone who had grown tired of the world.

Christmas meant nothing to him anymore. It hadn't for years. His parents had passed away, and his sister had moved away, taking her family with her. He found no joy in the season—no twinkling lights or cheery music. He preferred the silence. The isolation.

But this year, something felt different. It wasn't the storm outside, howling as if it were alive, clawing at the windows. It was something else. Something worse. A strange unease had settled deep in his chest, gnawing at him, and it had been there for days, building and growing.

Mark had noticed the oddities first, small things he brushed off at first. Diesel's growls at nothing in the dark. Footprints in the snow outside his door—footprints that weren't his own. The sound of something dragging in the night, slow and steady, just beyond the edge of the forest. When Mark tried to investigate, the snow was untouched. The tracks just... disappeared.

"Probably just a bear," he muttered to himself one evening, but he didn't believe it. Not really.

That night, Diesel's barking woke him. The dog was standing in front of the door, teeth bared, body tense, eyes fixed on the space between the trees. Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the grogginess, but the terror in Diesel's voice made his heart race. He grabbed the rifle from beside his bed and shuffled to the door. Diesel stopped barking but didn't relax. He whined, low and uncertain.

Mark opened the door slowly, peering out. He saw nothing. The snow was thick on the ground, untouched by any footprints. The wind picked up, howling, but still no sign of what had frightened Diesel.

"Get inside," he muttered, stepping back into the warmth of the cabin.

But Diesel refused to budge, his growls becoming more urgent. Mark stepped closer to the dog, kneeling down, trying to calm him. And then he heard it—a faint sound, almost imperceptible over the wind. A soft scraping sound, like claws on wood. It came from the direction of the trees.

Mark froze.

His heart hammered in his chest as his mind raced. He could feel it then. The presence. Something was out there. Something unnatural. The kind of thing that lived in stories and nightmares, but never in reality.

He slammed the door shut, locking it. Diesel barked furiously, pacing in circles, but Mark couldn't look away from the small window by the door. He didn't want to see it. But he knew, deep down, that whatever was out there, it was getting closer.

The hours passed, but sleep didn't come. The storm raged outside, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. Mark couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. His eyes darted to every shadow, every corner of the room, but nothing moved. Diesel lay on the floor by the door, quiet for the moment but still alert.

Then, just before dawn, the sound returned.

It was louder this time. The scraping. The dragging. It was close. Too close. Mark stood up, heart pounding, his hand trembling as it gripped the rifle. He didn't know what he expected to see, but he wasn't ready for it when it came.

The door to his cabin burst open, the wind carrying it off its hinges. Mark raised the rifle, but before he could react, the creature was there.

It stood just inside the door, its face a twisted mockery of something human. Its skin was pale, sickly, stretched too tight over bone. Eyes black as coal, empty and hollow. Its mouth split wide, revealing sharp, jagged teeth that dripped with a thick, dark liquid. Its body was small, but that only made it worse—too small, too thin, like a child, but with a presence that could crush a man's soul.

Mark's breath caught in his throat. The creature stared at him with those black eyes, its mouth twitching as if trying to smile, but it was a smile that promised nothing but death.

The elf.

It had been years since Mark had heard the stories. The tales his mother had told him when he was a child—stories of a creature that came from the North Pole every Christmas to hunt. It was said to be a punishment for those who had been bad, for those who had abandoned the spirit of the season.

Mark had always dismissed them as fairy tales, meant to frighten children into behaving. But now, standing face-to-face with the thing, he realized just how wrong he had been.

"Run," he managed to choke out, though his legs wouldn't obey. Diesel growled, but the dog's voice was small and insignificant compared to the overwhelming presence of the elf. The creature didn't move, its eyes fixed on Mark with an eerie intensity.

A low, guttural sound escaped from its throat, and suddenly, the room was colder. The temperature plummeted, the breath coming from Mark's mouth turning to vapor in the freezing air. The elf took a step forward, its sharp nails scraping the floor with each movement, its gaze never leaving Mark's.

"Please," Mark whispered, but his voice cracked, weak. "Please, just leave."

The elf tilted its head, considering him. And then it moved again, faster this time. It was upon him before he could react, claws tearing into his skin, slashing across his chest. Mark screamed, but the pain was brief. His body went numb. His heart raced, but the creature's grip held him in place.

Diesel lunged, snapping at the elf, but the creature just swatted the dog away like it was nothing. Diesel hit the wall with a sickening thud, yelping in pain. Mark's heart sank, and he looked down at the creature, realizing with cold horror that there was no escape. There had never been an escape.

The elf's mouth stretched wide, too wide, revealing rows of teeth as sharp as needles. It leaned down, its hot breath fanning across Mark's face, and then it spoke, its voice a harsh rasp.

"You should have stayed inside."

And then, with a swift, brutal motion, it tore into his neck.

Mark's vision blurred as blood sprayed from the wound, and he felt the world around him fading. Diesel's frantic barking echoed in his ears, but it was distant, muted, like the fading memory of a dream.

His body went limp, his limbs too heavy to move. The elf stood over him, its eyes gleaming with satisfaction as it finished its work.

In those last moments, Mark's mind drifted back to the stories his mother had told him. The elf didn't just kill. It took. It took everything from you—your soul, your spirit, your very essence. And when it was done, it left nothing but an empty husk behind, a hollow shell of a person that could never truly die, never truly rest.

And as Mark's consciousness slipped away, he knew that he would never find peace. He had become just another offering to the creature of the North Pole, another lost soul trapped in its endless hunger. The elf would return next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, always taking, always feeding.

And somewhere, deep in the cold, distant North, it would wait for the next Christmas.