KRINGLES: A Collection of Dark Winter Tales
Table of Contents
Novella 1: The Naughty List
Genre: Revenge Thriller
Tagline: He’s making a list — and this time, they’re all on it.
Plot Summary:
Harold Kringle, once the most beloved mall Santa in Cleveland, lost everything after being falsely accused of theft. Years later, he returns in a red coat and black gloves — delivering one “gift” of justice after another to the people who ruined his life.
But as he starts crossing off his list, Harold begins to question whether revenge is justice… or another kind of prison.
Chapters:
- The Fall of Santa
- Christmas Ghosts
- The List
- Naughty and Nice
- The First Gift
- The Red Suit Returns
- The Snowstorm
- The Confrontation
- The Fire
- The Last Name
🩸 Novella 2: The Curse of Kringle’s Hollow
Genre: Gothic Horror
Tagline: The snow covers graves best.
Plot Summary:
In the remote town of Kringle’s Hollow, every Christmas Eve brings a blood moon — and one family disappears. Journalist Maggie Ross investigates the old legend of the Kringles, a family burned alive for witchcraft. What she uncovers will rewrite the town’s history and her own.
Chapters:
- Arrival at Kringle’s Hollow
- The Town That Forgot
- The Burned House
- The Old Woman’s Warning
- The Blood Moon
- Voices in the Snow
- The Frozen Lake
- The Return
- The Curse Revealed
- The Hollow Awakens
🍩 Novella 3: Sweet Revenge
Genre: Dark Comedy
Tagline: Revenge is a dish best served glazed.
Plot Summary:
Baker Martha Kringle gets humiliated on national TV by celebrity chef Chad Bordeaux. She’s out for revenge — and she finds it in her bakery’s new pastry: the “Kringles.” They’re irresistible… and deadly.
Soon, the pastries take on a life of their own, and Martha realizes her success is becoming a nightmare she can’t eat her way out of.
Chapters:
- The Contest
- The Fall
- The Burn
- The Secret Ingredient
- Sweet Success
- The Taste of Revenge
- The Frenzy
- The Copycats
- The Rot
- The Final Recipe
Novella 4: The Gift Giver
Genre: Psychological Mystery
Tagline: Not all gifts are blessings.
Plot Summary:
Every Christmas Eve, mysterious gifts appear around town signed “From Kringles.” Some bring fortune, others ruin lives. Investigative reporter Lily Faye tries to uncover who’s behind it — until she finds evidence that she herself might be the gift giver… while sleepwalking.
Chapters:
- The First Gift
- The Paper Trail
- The Widow’s Warning
- The Journalist
- The Note
- Dreams
- The Revelation
- The Breakdown
- The Hidden Room
- The Gift to Herself
Novella 5: Frostbite
Genre: Sci-Fi / Dystopian Thriller
Tagline: The revolution wears red.
Plot Summary:
In 2149, Christmas is outlawed by the corporate regime. A secret rebel group known as The Kringles uses encrypted “gift” files to spread hope and rebellion. When cyber-hacker Juno decodes one of these gifts, she finds herself hunted by the regime — and haunted by the AI ghost of Santa Claus himself.
Chapters:
- The Last Christmas
- The Black Market Ornament
- The Message
- The Kringles Code
- The Betrayal
- The Red Hat
- The Snowfall Raid
- The Upload
- The Rebirth
- The New Dawn
KRINGLES:
A Collection of Dark Winter Tales
Prologue — “The Shopkeeper”
The snow fell sideways that night.
Somewhere at the edge of town, where no map bothered to reach, a crooked little store glowed through the blizzard. Its windows were lined with dusty ornaments and faded toys that looked older than Christmas itself. Above the door, a flickering sign read only one word: KRINGLES.
Inside, the smell of pine and candle wax filled the air. Shelves were stacked high with curious things — cracked snow globes, hand-carved dolls, a sleigh bell that jingled when no one touched it.
Behind the counter stood the Shopkeeper. No one knew his name, but those who’d wandered in claimed his eyes glimmered like frost under moonlight. He didn’t sell gifts. He offered them. Each one came with a story.
“Every gift,” he would say, his voice soft and strange, “finds its rightful owner. Some bring joy. Others… balance the scales.”
Tonight, as the wind howled and the lights dimmed, the Shopkeeper placed five wrapped boxes on the counter — each tied with a red ribbon.
One for Harold Kringle, who’d lost everything but his anger.
One for the town of Kringle’s Hollow, where the snow whispered secrets.
One for Martha, whose pastries were sweeter than forgiveness.
One for Lily, who wanted the truth more than peace.
And one for Juno, whose rebellion would light the dark future ahead.
“Five gifts,” the Shopkeeper murmured, striking a match to light the store’s final candle.
“Let them unwrap themselves.”
(Fade into the first novella…)
Epilogue — “The Return”
The Shopkeeper stood in silence.
The blizzard had long passed, leaving the night eerily still. One by one, the candles on his counter had burned to nothing but stubs. The five red ribbons lay undone, curled like sleeping serpents.
“Balance,” he whispered. “Always balance.”
He opened the back door of the shop. Outside, the snow had formed perfect footprints — five pairs, leading off into the woods.
A new box sat waiting on his stoop, wrapped in black paper and sealed with wax shaped like a snowflake.
He smiled faintly, almost sadly, and placed it on the shelf beside the others.
A faint glow pulsed beneath the wrapping.
“It seems,” he said softly, “there’s always one more Kringle story to tell.”
The bell over the shop door chimed once.
The lights flickered.
And the little store called Kringles disappeared into the snow once more.
The Naughty List
Chapter 1 — The Fall of Santa
The mall lights flickered like dying stars as Harold Kringle adjusted the fake beard that smelled faintly of coffee and despair. Another December night, another round of forced smiles. The line of impatient parents stretched past the gingerbread display, each clutching their sticky-faced kid and an iPhone ready to capture “holiday joy.”
Joy, Harold thought bitterly, is on break.
He’d been doing this gig for nearly ten years — not because he loved it, but because it was the last job that still called him Mr. Kringle without irony. Once, long ago, he’d been something better. A firefighter. A hero, even. But one bad blaze and a split-second mistake had taken that away. Now he gave fake presents to real strangers.
“Next!” the elf at his side — a college kid with a hangover — barked.
A little girl climbed onto Harold’s lap, clutching a lopsided stuffed reindeer. She smelled like peppermint and hope. “Santa,” she whispered, “can you bring my daddy home for Christmas?”
He hesitated. “Where’s your daddy, sweetheart?”
Her lip quivered. “Mommy says he’s gone ‘cause of the fire. The one at the factory.”
Harold froze. The factory fire. The one that had destroyed everything — his job, his reputation, his future. He remembered the flames licking the sky, the accusations, the news cameras, the word negligence stamped beside his name.
He forced a smile. “I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured.
The elf rolled his eyes. “Keep the line moving, old man.”
When the girl walked away, Harold noticed something strange: she’d left her reindeer behind. A small tag was tied around its neck, written in shaky handwriting.
“You’re not on the naughty list, Mr. Kringle.”
He looked up. But the girl was gone.
Chapter 2 — The Fire Never Dies
Later that night, Harold trudged through the snow toward his run-down apartment above a pawn shop. His Santa suit hung off him like a funeral drape. Inside, the heat barely worked. His fridge hummed like it was coughing up its last breath.
He poured himself a glass of cheap whiskey and sat by the window, staring at the blinking red-and-green lights across the street.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps. Deliberate.
He opened the door to find a small cardboard box, wrapped in newspaper and sealed with twine. No return address. No markings.
Inside, resting in a nest of straw, was a single blackened sleigh bell. The metal was scorched — like it had been pulled from a fire.
And taped to the inside of the lid:
“They lied. You burned for nothing. Time to make a list.”
Harold stared, heart pounding. Beneath the note, there was a folded page from an old newspaper clipping — the one that had destroyed his life.
The headline read:
“Factory Fire: Former Firefighter Harold Kringle Found Negligent.”
But someone had circled a sentence at the bottom. A name.
Lance Dugan — Building Inspector.
The first man who’d testified against him. The one who’d said the sprinkler system was working fine.
Only Harold knew the truth: it hadn’t been. And Lance Dugan had been paid to say otherwise.
The sleigh bell jingled softly in his hand.
“Time to make a list.”
He whispered the words aloud, and for the first time in years, Harold Kringle smiled.
Chapter 3 — Naughty and Nice
Lance Dugan lived in a two-story house at the edge of town — Christmas lights strung neatly, inflatable snowman on the lawn. He was the kind of man who boasted about “giving back to the community” while taking envelopes under the table.
Harold parked his rusted pickup down the block, watching from the shadows. He wore the red coat. Not the cheap mall version — the old, heavy wool one from his firefighter days, dyed crimson. It made him feel powerful again.
He waited until the house went dark. Then he walked up the driveway, the bell in his pocket jingling faintly with each step.
Inside, Lance snored on the couch, half a beer still clutched in his hand. Harold stood over him for a long time, breathing slow, steady. He didn’t want blood. He wanted balance.
He placed a small box on the coffee table — wrapped perfectly in gold paper. Inside, another blackened bell, and a note:
“You’ve been very naughty. — K.”
When Lance awoke and found it the next morning, he’d think it was a joke. He’d laugh. Until the news reported his car had exploded two hours later in the grocery store parking lot — the result of a “mysterious electrical fault.”
Harold sat in his truck nearby, watching the smoke rise through the cold morning.
He took out his notebook and drew a neat line through the first name on his list.
Then he wrote another.
“Mall Management — for selling me out.”
Chapter 4 — The Return of Kringle
By the end of the week, the whispers had begun. Someone was leaving “naughty gifts” all over Cleveland — scorched bells, cryptic notes, accidents that weren’t quite accidents.
The police thought it was coincidence. The news called it “The Kringle Curse.”
Harold called it justice.
He dressed the part now — full Santa suit, but with a dark twist. No jingle bells, no candy canes. Just the coat, the gloves, and the sleigh bell that burned cold in his pocket.
But with each strike, something inside him started to shift.
He began to see faces — the little girl with the reindeer, her eyes full of hope. The fire. The screams. The truth he’d buried under bitterness.
One snowy night, he passed a department store window. In the reflection, he saw the man he’d become — red suit, black boots, eyes like ash.
He didn’t look like Santa.
He looked like the reckoning.
Chapter 5 — The First Gift
The snow was coming down hard that night, heavy flakes blurring the mall’s neon glow into a bleeding haze. Harold parked in the empty lot and sat for a long time with the engine off, watching his breath fog up the windshield.
He had come full circle — back to the scene of his humiliation, the one place that still called him “Santa” but treated him like a ghost.
Inside, the mall was closing. Only a few stores were still lit: the jewelry shop, a toy store, and the food court where workers wiped down counters, desperate to get home before the roads iced over.
Harold carried a box under his arm — wrapped in gold foil and tied with a blood-red ribbon. His reflection in the glass doors looked calm, almost noble. But his hands trembled.
This isn’t revenge, he told himself.
This is truth.
He made his way to the manager’s office, the bell in his pocket giving a soft metallic sigh with every step. The hallway was quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
When he reached the office door, he froze.
Through the glass, he could see Janet Miller — the mall’s PR manager. Blonde, late 30s, tired but kind-eyed. She’d once defended him when the accusations hit, before corporate shut her down.
And beside her… was the little girl.
Harold’s throat tightened.
She was drawing on a piece of paper with crayons, her reindeer plush sitting beside her.
He didn’t move. He just stood there, the gold box heavy in his hands.
Janet looked up suddenly, startled. “Harold?”
He blinked.
She recognized him — even without the beard.
“I— I thought you left town,” she said, rising slowly. “You shouldn’t be here. Security—”
“I don’t want trouble,” he interrupted softly. “I just… needed to see this place one last time.”
Her eyes softened, the way people look at someone who’s broken more than dangerous. “I heard what happened to Lance Dugan. They say—” She hesitated. “They say you might’ve had something to do with it.”
Harold looked at the girl. “Your daughter?”
Janet nodded. “Maggie. She’s the one who wrote you that note last week. The one about the naughty list.”
Maggie smiled shyly. “You’re Santa,” she said. “I told Mommy you weren’t bad.”
For a moment, something in Harold cracked. The walls of vengeance, the years of bitterness — they all trembled.
He set the box on the desk. “This was supposed to be a warning,” he said quietly. “For the people who lied. But maybe it’s time I stopped giving gifts.”
Janet frowned. “Harold… what’s in the box?”
He smiled sadly. “A second chance.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Chapter 6 — The Broadcast
The next morning, every news station in Cleveland was running the same story.
Anonymous packages left at several city offices overnight. Each contained a blackened sleigh bell, a note reading only:
“Not Naughty. Not Nice. Just Human.”
Reporters were calling it The Kringle Message.
Some thought it was art. Others, a threat.
But to Harold, watching from his apartment, it felt like release.
He’d mailed those boxes at dawn, one to every person who had touched the investigation — not as vengeance, but as reminder.
He wanted them to remember him — not as a villain, but as the man they’d destroyed for convenience.
He turned off the TV and stared at the last unopened package on his table — a small box with no address, no note, just his name scrawled in ink:
To Harold. From Kringles.
His heart thudded once, hard.
He hadn’t wrapped this one.
Inside was a single bell. Silver. Untarnished.
And a folded card:
“Balance restored. But peace isn’t free.”
He stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Then, from somewhere outside — faintly, like a sound carried on the wind — he heard a child’s laughter and the distant jingle of bells.
He went to the window, but the street was empty. Just snow, soft and endless.
Chapter 7 — The Weight of Snow
Days turned into weeks.
The papers stopped writing about the “Kringle Curse.” The mall reopened with a new Santa, younger, flashier.
But Harold couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched — not by police, but by something older. Something that had been guiding him.
He started noticing symbols around town: a snowflake carved into a lamppost, a reindeer etched into his mailbox, a faint ring of sleigh bell chimes whenever he dreamt of fire.
He began to wonder if Kringles wasn’t just his name… but a shadow of something larger.
Chapter 8 — The Whisper in the Snow
The storm came out of nowhere.
One moment, the streets of Cleveland were clear; the next, white swallowed everything.
Harold stood at his window, watching the flakes drift sideways across the glass like static. He had the strange feeling that the storm wasn’t weather at all — that it had purpose.
The bell on his table began to ring softly, though no hand touched it.
Three chimes. Slow. Even.
Then, a knock at the door.
He opened it to find an envelope pinned to the wood with an old sleigh bell nail. The paper was thick, yellowed around the edges, stamped with a seal shaped like a snowflake.
Inside:
“Mr. Kringle,
You have delivered your gifts well. Balance demands gratitude.
If you wish to understand your purpose, come to the address below before midnight.
— K.”
No street name. Just coordinates.
Harold traced them on his phone and frowned — they led to the old toy factory on the river, the same one that had burned years ago. The fire that started everything.
He hesitated only a moment before putting on his red coat and stepping into the snow.
Chapter 9 — The Factory
The factory was half-collapsed, a black skeleton rising from the drifts. Windows blown out, beams twisted like ribs. Inside, the air smelled of ash and rust.
A single lantern flickered in the center of the main floor. Beside it stood an elderly man in a wool coat, his white beard trimmed neatly, his eyes bright behind round glasses.
“Mr. Kringle,” the man said, smiling faintly. “Or perhaps I should say — Harold.”
Harold stared. “Who are you?”
The man gestured toward the ruins around them. “Once, this was where the gifts were made. Long before the world forgot what giving really meant.”
“You sent the boxes?”
The man nodded. “In a sense. I choose the ones who need… correction. The Kringles are not one man. We’re a tradition. A balance between justice and mercy.”
Harold felt his heart pound. “So this was all a test?”
The old man’s gaze was kind, but heavy. “It was a chance. You carried your pain into the world and used it to restore order. But you must understand — every gift given carries a cost. You gave retribution. Now you must give forgiveness.”
Harold’s hands tightened. “I don’t know if I can.”
The man stepped closer. The air shimmered, and for a moment Harold saw not one face but many — different eras, different eyes, all carrying the same sadness beneath their smiles.
“You already have,” the man said softly. “The moment you walked away from vengeance.”
Then the lantern went out.Chapter 10 — The New Snow
When Harold awoke, dawn light streamed through his apartment window. His coat was draped over a chair, smelling faintly of pine and smoke. The silver bell lay on the table beside a new envelope.
Inside:
“You served your season. Rest now. Others will carry the red.”
Outside, children’s laughter echoed through the street. A mall commercial played faintly on the radio — “Come visit Santa at Kringles Plaza!”
Harold smiled, a quiet, tired smile. He poured his coffee and watched the first sunlight melt through the snow.
The silver bell on the table rang once — a clean, perfect note.
And somewhere in the wind, a whisper:
“The gifts never stop, Harold. They only change hands.”
End of Novella One: The Naughty List
The Curse of Kringle’s Hollow
Chapter 1 — The Tree That Never Died
Kringle’s Hollow was the kind of town that existed mostly in rumor — a valley tucked between frostbitten hills, too small for maps, too strange for postcards. People passing through said it looked frozen in time, as if Christmas had never ended there.
Every window glowed with soft golden light. Every yard had a plastic Santa or a sleigh still standing, even though December was long gone. The air smelled faintly of pine and burnt sugar.
But there was one thing the locals never mentioned.
One thing that didn’t belong to the holiday spirit at all —
the Tree That Never Died.
It stood at the far end of town, where the road cracked into gravel and the forest began. The tree was black as coal, its bark rough and split like old bone. No leaves. No snow ever clung to it. And yet, every night, lights flickered within its branches — red, green, gold — like ornaments breathing in the dark.
Old Mrs. Vance, who ran the diner, used to whisper that the lights weren’t ornaments at all.
“They’re eyes,” she’d say, her voice dropping to a hush. “Souls hangin’ from that tree, waitin’ to be forgiven.”
Most folks laughed it off. But not Eli Turner.
Eli had come to Kringle’s Hollow on assignment — a young documentary filmmaker chasing ghost stories. He’d heard about the town while researching legends for his winter horror series. “The Christmas that never ends,” he’d written in his notebook. “Find the secret.”
His first night in town, he set up his camera outside the old tree. The snow crunched softly beneath his boots. The town’s last light flicked off behind him. Only the tree glowed now.
He pressed record.
Nothing happened for a full minute.
Then—
A faint tink… tink… tink.
He frowned, moving closer. It sounded like metal striking wood, steady, rhythmic, deliberate.
“Hello?”
The tapping stopped.
Then came a whisper from inside the branches — hoarse, almost playful:
“Do you believe in giving, Eli Turner?”
The tree lights flared red, bright as coals.
And the screen of his camera went black.
Chapter 2 — The Diner Confession
By morning, the whole town knew Eli Turner had been out by the tree.
That’s how Kringle’s Hollow worked — whispers spread faster than frost.
He sat in Vance’s Diner, staring into a mug of coffee gone cold. His hands still shook from the night before. The camera had stopped recording at 12:03 a.m., the exact moment those red lights flared. When he’d checked the footage this morning, the last frame showed something impossible:
a man’s face forming inside the glow — bearded, with a twisted grin — right before the screen went dark.
Eli was replaying that frame when the bell above the diner door jingled.
Three locals came in — all bundled tight, all staring at him like he’d brought a storm with him.
Mrs. Vance, in her pink uniform, poured more coffee but said nothing.
Finally, an older man at the counter spoke. “You went to the tree, didn’t you?”
Eli looked up. “I’m making a documentary. I just wanted to film the legend.”
The man snorted. “Legend, huh. Ain’t no legend. That tree’s a warning.”
Eli leaned forward. “A warning from who?”
The man’s eyes went distant. “From him. From Kringle.”
A laugh slipped out of Eli before he could stop it. “You mean Santa Claus?”
Mrs. Vance slapped her rag on the counter. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand, boy.”
She glanced toward the snowy window before continuing, her voice low.
“Kringle wasn’t no saint. Not here. He came to this town long ago — said he was bringin’ gifts to the children after the blizzard wiped us near clean. But when the parents found their kids missin’ the next morning… they went lookin’ in the woods.”
She paused. The others looked down at their plates.
“They found the sleigh. Empty. Blood on the snow. And that tree — black as tar, growin’ right where they say he vanished. Folks started seein’ lights there every Christmas after. And if you follow those lights…”
She pointed a finger straight at Eli.
“…you don’t come back the same. If you come back at all.”
Eli swallowed hard. “And the children? What happened to them?”
Mrs. Vance’s eyes glistened.
“Some say he took their souls to build his own little Hollow. That’s why the snow never melts. That’s why we don’t celebrate no more. We can’t.”
The diner went silent except for the hum of the old jukebox.
Then, from somewhere outside, a single bell chimed — soft, distant, unmistakable.
Mrs. Vance froze.
The old man muttered a prayer.
Eli stood, camera in hand. “I have to see this for myself.”
She grabbed his wrist, nails digging into his skin. “Son, listen to me. Whatever you saw last night — it’s seen you too.”
Chapter 3 — The Girl in the Snow
The wind cut across the streets of Kringle’s Hollow like shards of ice. Eli pulled his coat tighter, camera swinging from his shoulder. Every step on the snowy sidewalk crunched loudly, echoing through the empty town.
He stopped in front of the small, run-down motel where he had booked a room. Its neon sign flickered weakly, buzzing like a trapped insect. Just as he was about to open the door, he saw her.
A little girl standing in the snow, barefoot, wearing only a thin, tattered coat. Her hair was dark and wet, plastered to her pale cheeks. She looked up at him with eyes too old for her face — deep, knowing, unblinking.
“You came back,” she said softly.
Eli froze. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”
She stepped closer. The snow didn’t seem to touch her feet. “You went to the tree, didn’t you? You saw him. He saw you. He’s waiting.”
Eli’s heart raced. “Who’s waiting?”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Kringle. He’s been here longer than anyone remembers. He’s been watching, and he knows your fear.”
Eli knelt, trying to appear calm. “Where are your parents? Are you lost?”
She shook her head. “No one comes from the Hollow. Only he lets them leave.”
Something about the way she said it made the blood in his veins run cold.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m from the Hollow below,” she whispered. “I’m here to guide you. Or warn you. Or maybe to test you. He wants to know if you belong.”
Eli’s fingers tightened around his camera. “The Hollow below? You mean… the tree?”
She nodded. “It’s not just a tree. It’s a door. He can reach out, if he likes, and pull anything through it — people, thoughts, fears… even time.”
The wind picked up, swirling snow around her like a shroud. Eli squinted through the blur. The girl didn’t seem to feel the cold. She lifted a small hand and pointed toward the forest at the edge of town.
“Go,” she said. “Tonight, you will see. Tonight, you decide if you are one of us… or if you leave before it decides for you.”
Eli swallowed, shivering in more than just cold. He glanced at the motel behind him, at the empty town, and then back at her. But when he blinked, she was gone.
Only a small silver bell lay in the snow where she had stood, faintly ringing in the wind.
Eli bent down, picked it up, and felt it hum in his palm — like it carried a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.
Chapter 4 — The River of Shadows
Eli followed the girl’s trail toward the edge of the forest. The snow crunched under his boots, but the deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The air grew thick, almost liquid, as though each breath drew him closer to another realm.
Through the trees, he saw it: a river, black as ink, snaking silently between frost-coated banks. Mist hovered above the surface, moving like smoke but refusing to rise. Shadows flitted across it — or perhaps within it — and every time Eli blinked, the shapes seemed closer.
A shiver ran down his spine. “This… this isn’t possible,” he whispered.
A bell chimed behind him — soft, metallic, deliberate. He spun around, but no one was there. Only the faint outline of the girl, standing at the treeline. She beckoned him forward, but her form flickered like candlelight, half-there, half-phantom.
Eli approached the river cautiously. The snow underfoot gave way to frozen mud, slick and treacherous. As he peered into the water, he saw movement — a face. A child’s face, pale and frightened, eyes wide and pleading. The reflection distorted, rippling with the current that shouldn’t have existed.
He stumbled back. “No… no, that’s not real.”
A voice whispered from the river itself. Low, rasping, like ice cracking in a storm:
“You’ve come… you’ve seen… now you belong.”
Eli felt the air thicken around him. The shadows on the water reached out like fingers, grasping at his boots, tugging at his coat. Every instinct screamed to run, but something stronger rooted him to the spot — a morbid curiosity, a need to understand the Hollow’s secret.
From the fog above the river, a sleigh slowly emerged, black and broken, hanging impossibly in the mist. The sound of jingling bells filled the clearing, though no horses pulled it. Inside, a figure sat — red coat, white beard, eyes glinting like shards of ice.
Kringle.
The figure leaned forward, voice soft but commanding:
“Welcome, Eli Turner. You’ve found the Hollow. Few ever do. Fewer still leave… unchanged.”
The river shifted, revealing steps made of frost and shadow, leading down into darkness.
The girl’s voice floated on the wind:
“Go… or it decides for you.”
Eli swallowed hard. One step. Then another. The chill cut through his bones, but he forced himself forward. As he descended, the world above disappeared. Snowflakes no longer fell. The forest, the town, even the river faded behind him. Only the Hollow remained — alive, breathing, and waiting.
And somewhere in the distance, bells rang again, steady and true, counting the moments before he would meet Kringle fully.
Chapter 5 — The Children of the Hollow
The steps of frost and shadow ended at a clearing carved from darkness itself. Eli paused, straining his eyes. Shapes moved in the periphery, pale and flickering, as if made of smoke and light.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice sounding fragile against the oppressive silence.
A soft chorus of whispers answered, echoing from every direction:
“He’s come. He’s come. He sees. He sees.”
From the mist, children emerged — dozens of them, all ghostly and delicate, some barely taller than his knee. Their clothes were frozen in styles from decades past: little girls in faded dresses, boys in wool coats with holes at the elbows. Their faces were pale, eyes too knowing for their ages.
Eli’s stomach churned. “You… you’re real?”
One girl stepped forward, her hair black and dripping, eyes dark pools that reflected the lights of the Hollow. “We are. And we are not. We belong to the Hollow now. We belong to him.”
Kringle’s voice, smooth as ice and sharper than steel, floated through the clearing. “Do not fear them, Eli. They are my wards, my charges, my reminders of what the world has forgotten.”
The children reached toward him, not with malice, but with longing — as if they needed something only he could give.
“Why… why are they here?” Eli asked, voice trembling.
“They were taken,” the girl said softly. “Some by accident, some by choice, some by punishment. The Hollow preserves them. The Hollow teaches them. And Kringle… he waits for those who come seeking answers.”
A chill ran down Eli’s spine. He looked into their eyes and saw flickers of memory — faces, laughter, fear — snapshots of lives abruptly frozen. Each child carried a story of loss, betrayal, or injustice.
“Do you belong here too?” Eli whispered.
Kringle stepped forward from the shadows, coat swirling like smoke, eyes reflecting the river of darkness behind him. “You have seen, you have heard. Now you will choose. Fear or understanding. Observer… or participant.”
Eli’s hands shook. He wanted to run, to escape the Hollow, but something in the way the children watched him, so patiently, so expectantly, rooted him to the spot.
“Why me?” he asked.
Kringle’s smile was faint, almost sad. “Because you record, Eli. You document. You tell the stories. But stories without witnesses are shadows. And you… you might bring them to light.”
The girl, who had guided him, placed her hand on his arm. “He does not force. He does not harm. But he tests the heart. And the heart… decides everything.”
Eli looked around. The children weren’t threatening. They weren’t begging. They were waiting. Waiting to see what he would do next.
And for the first time since arriving in Kringle’s Hollow, Eli felt the weight of the legend settle on his shoulders.
This is no longer a story. This is reality.
The bell chimed somewhere in the Hollow. One note. Clear. True.
Eli swallowed hard and stepped forward.
