Snow pressed softly against the windows as the family gathered around the dining table, plates warming beneath the glow of candles. Christmas Eve had always been quiet in the Carter house. No carols, no laughter loud enough to bother the neighbours. Just tradition. Roast chicken. Bread. Silence broken politely.
The knock came just as Margaret lifted the carving knife. Three sharp raps. Too deliberate. They froze.
“Who would that be?”
Daniel said. Charity came easy on Christmas Eve; suspicion did not. He pulled on his coat and opened the door. A man stood on the porch, snow clinging to his boots and beard. He wore a red suit, faded and grimy, the white trim yellowed with age. His hat hung crooked over eyes that smiled before his mouth did.
“Evening,”
The man said cheerfully.
Car broke down a mile back. Thought I’d knock. Smells wonderful in there. Margaret hesitated.
“Are you… Santa?”
The man laughed, long and warm.
“Something like that.”
They should have said no. All of them would later agree on that point. But it was Christmas Eve. They ushered him in, offered a towel, a chair near the fire. He declined the towel, his clothes were already drying, snow vanishing unnaturally fast. He sat comfortably, too comfortably, like someone returning home after a long absence. He knew their names without being told.
“Katie, you grew into your teeth,”
He said kindly to the youngest.
“And Daniel, still can’t forgive your brother, even after all these years.”
Daniel stiffened.
“Have we met?”
The man winked.
“Not like this.”
Dinner resumed, uneasy but polite. The stranger watched them eat, smiling wider with every bite they took. He commented on the seasoning, the tenderness of the meat, the warmth of the house.
“You’ve kept it just how I like it,”
He said. Margaret stood.
“We usually say grace.”
“Oh, please. Allow me.”
The man said, rising smoothly. They didn’t remember agreeing, but suddenly everyone was holding hands. His grip was warm. Too warm. He bowed his head and began to pray. It went on too long.
He thanked no god they recognized. He spoke of winters that lasted decades, of hunger older than calendars, of doors opened freely and debts incurred unknowingly. His voice grew thicker, fuller, like something feeding as it spoke.
“And thank you,”
He concluded softly, lifting his head, eyes gleaming,
“for this family… who will nourish me until the new year.”
The candles went out. The house groaned. Katie screamed. Daniel ran to the door and pulled but it was locked. The windows wouldn’t budge. Outside, snow piled high against the frames, sealing them in. The man straightened his suit, smoothing it proudly.
“Don’t worry,”
He said gently.
“I always finish what I’m invited to.”
His smile stretched impossibly wide as the lights flickered back on. The table was already set for seconds.
