Silent Night
Chris Conidis

Silent Night
10/17/24
Chris Conidis


The first flake drifted down like a silent memory, landing on the back porch just as Aunt Laura lit her cigarette and Uncle Phil adjusted his Santa hat. I watched from the window, my breath fogging the glass, tracing absent-minded circles. The air carried the scent of pine, nostalgia, and cinnamon, though it was laced with something else tonight—a faint whisper I couldn’t quite place. The snow drifted down in a slow, deliberate ballet, each flake a delicate dancer pirouetting through the black December sky. It fell with the softness of memory, blanketing the world in a hush that seemed to press its cold fingers against the lips of the earth itself. Our street—usually an ordinary ribbon of asphalt, forgettable and dull—had been transformed by the snow into a vast, white desert, the kind that swallowed all sound and light like the end of a child’s fairytale, when the story fades to silence.

It was the sort of snow that made the world feel like it was standing still, caught between the pages of a half-forgotten book left open in the attic. You could almost feel time slowing down, like a clock wound too tight and ready to snap. The houses stood like brittle gingerbread cottages, wrapped in strings of twinkling lights that glowed faintly through the swirling frost. Inside each one, families huddled together, clinging to their rituals as if the warmth of their holiday cheer could hold back the chill creeping in from the edges of the universe.

At home, the party spun on, a cacophony of laughter and Christmas carols playing on repeat. Aunt Cheryl was arguing with the blender while the kids fought over the last gingerbread cookie.The Christmas tree shimmered under the weight of ornaments that told stories of our family's history—antique glass baubles passed down from generations, fragile tinsel that caught the firelight in ways only old, hand-made decorations could. The scent of pine was thick in the air, mingling with the cinnamon of my grandmother’s cookies, the sharp aroma of Aunt Laura’s cigarette smoke, and the faint, warm promise of my mother’s laughter. Without her, Christmas would have no meaning. She was the heart of every holiday, the keeper of traditions, the one who held all the pieces of our broken family together with her love.

I drifted over to the kitchen, where she was slicing oranges for the cider. She had flour dusting her fingers and a smudge of icing on her cheek. “Can you help me with the garland, sweetheart?” she asked, handing me a spool of red ribbon without looking up. Her voice was soft, but it carried with it the sound of every Christmas we’d ever shared—late nights wrapping presents, her reading The Night Before Christmas in that silly voice, the smell of hot cocoa simmering on the stove as she sang along to Nat King Cole. I could never say no to her, not when she was in her element, weaving magic into the air like she was decorating a dream.

Mom was Christmas. Without her, the holiday would be nothing but a hollow imitation, the empty echo of carols without the warmth of the singer. She was the glue, the spark, the soul of every December. I looped the ribbon through the garland as she hummed, feeling like I was part of something timeless, something sacred. She gave me a wink and a kiss on the forehead, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

And yet, as the evening wore on, something felt off.

It wasn’t the usual charm of the holiday—no, this Christmas felt colder. Not from the chill of winter, but from something deeper, something hidden, like a cold shadow moving just out of sight. There was a stillness in the air, like the room was holding its breath. The laughter, though warm and familiar, sounded distant. The sounds of wrapping paper and the clink of silverware seemed muffled, as if the whole world outside our home had gone quiet, waiting for something.

I stood near the window, watching snowflakes drift lazily down through the darkened night. Each one seemed to carry the weight of a secret. The night was too still, too perfect, too unreal. It felt as though time itself had slowed, and the world was waiting for something to break it.

But then, there was something—an oddness that crept in, unnoticed by everyone but me.
It started with a subtle shift in the air. The warmth seemed to dissipate just a fraction, a coolness I couldn’t explain. I stood by the window for a moment, watching the snow blanket the world outside, a soft, slow fall that made the world seem quieter. And then I felt it—a faint stir in the air, as though the very room had become still, as though everything had stopped breathing for a moment. My chest tightened. I turned toward the fireplace, seeking its warmth, but it was no use. Even standing by the hearth, I felt the cold creeping over me, a chill that wasn’t from the window, wasn’t from the doors, wasn’t from the night. I stood watching the snow gather in soft drifts outside, and it was there that I continued to feel it. A wave of frost that came not from the outside, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere hidden, something not of this world. It was in the air—impossible to explain, like the faintest pressure on your chest. I reached up to adjust my collar as the cold crept over me like a shadow, brushing across my throat.
It was from within.
I could hear the fire crackling, but the heat of it didn’t reach me. The frost was inside the house now, crawling under the floorboards, coiling around my throat, creeping along the walls like something long forgotten. It wasn’t the chill of winter. No. It was something darker, something that belonged to the shadows between moments. I reached up to adjust my collar, my fingers trembling. The air seemed heavier, colder. The warmth of the fireplace was a lie—a cruel trick.
The chill seemed to gather around me like a fog.
I turned my head, seeking the source of the disturbance, but all was still—too still. A brief flicker of unease stirred beneath the joy. I should’ve been able to ignore it, but something felt... wrong. The fire crackled merrily, sending its warmth through the room, but there was an odd emptiness in the air, like something was just out of sight, something waiting.

And then I saw him. He stepped across the yard without leaving a single footprint in the snow.
I caught his eyes. They were sharp. Too sharp.
And just like that, my mind was caught. He wasn’t just a stranger. He was something else, something old and hungry. His smile—an eerie, controlled thing—never reached his eyes. He was waiting, like a predator, for something.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout, to warn someone. But my throat was locked shut, my voice trapped behind a barrier of invisible ice.

I tried to move, but my feet felt as if they were stuck in cement. My eyes followed the strange man as he glided through the snow without a sound, as though he didn’t belong to this place. As though he wasn’t even seen by the others.

At first, I thought he was one of the guests—perhaps a neighbor who had wandered outside unnoticed. But no. His silhouette was different. He wasn’t part of the world we inhabited. His clothes were old-fashioned, crisp and neat, like a costume from another time. His face—pale, gaunt—was framed by a white scarf that seemed to swirl around him even when there was no breeze. But it wasn’t just his appearance that made my stomach churn—it was the emptiness around him. The way the air seemed to bend, just a little, when he walked through it. The air tightened in his presence, and for the first time that evening, I realized something deeper was wrong. This man wasn’t here by accident. He chose to be here, and he had come for a reason.Outside in the snow with a black beret slanted on his head, his face a moonlit mask of painted sorrow and surprise. It wasn’t a grand entrance; he simply appeared, like an old photo pulled from a dusty box. He bowed slightly, as if greeting the yard gnomes, and approached the house.
The back door, which had been locked all evening, creaked open on its own. It was the faintest sound, barely audible over the low hum of the Christmas music, but it was enough to make me turn my head. I glanced toward the doorway, but no one had moved. It was as if the door had opened of its own accord. My mother, still busy in the kitchen, hadn't noticed. No one had.

Curious, I made my way toward the door, my footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. The chill from outside seemed to creep in through the crack, mixing with the warmth of the house. I stood there for a moment, unsure. The house was full of family, yet it felt... different. The warmth didn’t reach all the corners, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was waiting just outside.

I cautiously stepped into the back hall, where the door stood ajar, the night beyond spilling in. That was when I saw him—standing at the edge of the porch, just beyond the threshold. His figure was still, unmoving, like a statue carved from shadow. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but his outline was unmistakable—tall, gaunt, with an odd, exaggerated posture. He wore a tattered suit and a face painted white, with black streaks marking his eyes and mouth. It wasn’t the costume that sent a chill up my spine, but the unsettling sense of recognition.

I blinked, certain it was a trick of the light or a stray thought that had wandered too far. But he reached the door, turned the knob, and slipped inside, as silent as a wisp of smoke.
I opened my mouth to say something. To shout, to whisper, Do you see him? But my voice caught in my throat like a spoonful of cold pudding. Nothing came out.He had slipped in through the back door, unnoticed, as though he’d always been there—this stranger with his painted face, half-smile, and dark, knowing eyes. He wore the classic black beret, white gloves, and black-and-white stripes, like he’d wandered off a Parisian street corner. He caught my eye and tipped an invisible hat, bowing as if I was the only one in the room who could see him. No one saw him. Not Aunt Laura, not Uncle Phil, not even my cousins who tore through the living room like a pack of wild dogs.I blinked, certain it was a trick of the light or a stray thought that had wandered too far.Yet, it was too late he had reached the door, turned the knob, and slipped inside, as silent as a wisp of smoke.
Inside, the party spun on, a cacophony of laughter and Christmas carols playing on repeat. Aunt Cheryl was arguing with the blender while the kids fought over the last gingerbread cookie. No one noticed as he wove his way through the crowd, ducking under hanging mistletoe and tiptoeing past the Christmas tree like a burglar in a silent film. He paused by the fireplace, clasping his hands together in a mock prayer, as if thanking some invisible audience for this absurd little show. I tried to call out to Aunt Laura, to point out this bizarre intruder in our holiday melee, but my voice had vanished into thin air. I tugged at my father’s sleeve, gesturing wildly toward the man, who was now miming the act of sipping a glass of champagne, raising an invisible toast with a smirk that seemed to say, Cheers to the oblivious. My father chuckled, not even looking at me. He thought I was joking — probably making one of those silent movie impressions I used to do when I was a kid.
The mime caught my eye, gave a slow, exaggerated shrug, then mimed patting me on the head like I was the family dog. He turned away, wiping an imaginary tear of laughter from his cheek, as if mocking my helplessness. And as he sauntered on, he mimed pulling an invisible thread from his pocket, teasing it out into the air like a magician revealing a trick. I felt a tug at my chest, a strange, hollow feeling, like something inside me was being drawn away.
But this wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a game.
The stranger placed a gloved hand over his heart and mimed a tear running down his cheek. Then he shook his head and wagged a finger, as if saying, Oh no, no crying tonight. Not on Christmas Eve. He waved his hand like a magician, and suddenly he was pulling an invisible rope, looping it in midair. I watched in horror as he mimicked throwing the end toward me, his movements so fluid, so precise, that I almost felt the tug at my throat.
He caught my eye, his painted smile curving into something that almost resembled pity. Or was it mockery? It was hard to tell with him.
I tried to speak again, but the words wouldn’t come. It was as if he had reached inside my throat and tied a knot with his invisible rope. My lips moved, but I made no sound. I was trapped inside a glass box of my own.
And maybe I was.
I stood back by the window, as the snow gather in soft drifts outside pounded against the seal, and it was there that I felt it again. The wave of frost that came not from the outside, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere hidden, something not of this world. It was in the air—impossible to explain, like the faintest pressure on your chest. I reached up to adjust my collar as the cold crept over me like a shadow, brushing across my throat.

And then, for the first time in my life, I had the urge to scream. To say something simple, something unremarkable—Mom, I love you! Thank you for everything! Just to say it. To make it real. To release it from the confines of my chest, where it had been suffocating for years, tangled up in all the other things I’d never said. I opened my mouth, the words already forming, the warmth of my breath rushing to meet them—but before I could even utter a sound, a cold gust swept through the room. A draft, sharp and sudden, pressed against my skin, stealing the warmth from my lungs. The air seemed to twist, to curl in on itself, and the familiar hum of Christmas festivities disappeared into the background, muffled, as though something had pressed the mute button on the world.

I gasped for breath, but no sound came out. I tried again, my mouth moving, my chest heaving—nothing. The air itself had stolen my voice. The frost had worked its way inside me, locking my words behind a wall I couldn’t break. I felt a trembling at the base of my throat, the sensation of something missing—a hole where my voice had been, and all I could do was stand there, frozen. Helpless.
I looked around, frantic now, and realized no one had noticed. No one had heard my struggle, my desperation. The laughter of my family continued unabated, the clinking of silverware, the chatter, all drowned by the suffocating silence inside my own skull. My mother was laughing with Aunt Betty, her voice warm and full of life, a sound I could never again share.
I clutched my throat, feeling the emptiness, a void inside me, but the cold was spreading, spreading from the outside into every inch of my being, wrapping itself around my heart, squeezing the life out of the words I longed to say. The darkness outside, the winter wind, it had come in through a crack I hadn’t even noticed—and it wasn’t leaving.

I glanced around, but no one seemed to notice. My father, sitting in his worn-out armchair, was laughing with my uncles. My cousins were running around, their giggles blending with the festive chaos. I tried to speak again. Nothing. A dry, choking rasp, but no words.

And then, through the noise, I saw him.

I could see them all from my spot in the living room: Aunt Laura with her lipstick-smudged wine glass, Uncle Phil making his third trip to the cheese plate, and my cousins bouncing around the room like feral reindeer. It was Christmas Eve again, and the annual family chaos rolled through the house like a loud, familiar wave.

I stood there, mouth open, trying to make a sound. Any sound.

But nothing came out.

He glided past the kitchen, where Aunt Cheryl was arguing with the mixer again. He paused only to perform a small bow in front of the Christmas ham, as if to say, My compliments to the chef. I tried to yank him back, to make him stop whatever dark performance he was staging, but my limbs felt heavy, sluggish. I was moving underwater, and he was dancing on air.

Down the hallway, he turned toward the basement door. I felt a cold trickle of dread seep into my chest. He opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking out a protest that I couldn’t voice. He gestured for me to follow, and though every part of me screamed to stay, I couldn’t resist. It was as though my willpower was as silent as my voice.

And then….once again..I caught his eyes. They were sharp. Too sharp.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just staring at him. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a reminder of something old and forgotten. Something that shouldn’t be here. It was like he was pulling the night itself toward him, a gravity I couldn’t resist. The silence deepened as I felt my breath catch, as though something intangible was waiting to pass between us.

And then, as if sensing my gaze, he turned toward me.

I stood frozen, watching him—this figure with the painted face, his smile stretching wider as if he knew something I didn’t. He glanced at me, then slowly raised his hands in the air, as if calling attention to an invisible rope he was about to pull. The room continued to hum with the chatter of relatives, but all I could hear now was the deafening silence between me and him.

The mans’s eyes locked with mine, and then, with exaggerated care, he began to mime pulling something from his mouth. His fingers twisted and wove, as though he was tugging at an endless thread, something invisible, something unreal. At first, I thought it was a joke—an odd party trick—but the way his fingers worked, the way his expression twisted into a knowing grin, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no ordinary act.

I opened my mouth to scream, to shout to anyone—someone—that something was terribly wrong. But as I inhaled, no sound came. My voice, it seemed, had vanished, like a dream slipping through my fingers.

The mime continued, pulling faster now, his hands moving with a strange, fluid grace. He mimed pulling something thick, weightless, endless, from his throat. And that’s when I realized: he wasn’t pulling an invisible string.

He was pulling my voice. Stealing it….


I staggered backward, trying to speak, to call out to my mother, to stop this bizarre performance. But my voice was gone. My throat constricted, empty, as if something invisible had taken residence there, squeezing tighter with every attempt I made.

He paused, his eyes still fixed on me, and with a flourish, he mimed placing the invisible thread into his pocket, giving me a mocking salute, as if to say, It’s all yours. Or perhaps it’s no longer yours at all.

My voice, once mine, once a tool of awkward jokes and shouted greetings, was missing. Stolen, as if I’d swallowed the wrong kind of holiday spirit. I wasn’t sick—my throat felt fine. It was like someone had flipped a switch, cutting off the power to my words. I moved my lips, shaped the syllables of Hello, can you hear me? but there was only silence.The laughter and music filled the house, muffling my silent struggle. I wanted to scream, to grab my mother and shake her, to tell her something was wrong. But when I opened my mouth, it was as if my tongue had turned to ash. I couldn’t even whisper.Desperation flooded me, and I tried again, this time, to yell, to break the silence. My body was shaking with the effort, but the words wouldn’t come. I opened my mouth and gasped, but all that emerged was a hollow sound, a vacuum of silence where my voice had once been..


He was still grinning—his painted smile widening to something sinister now—before he raised his hand in the air and made a gesture that seemed to pull the very air out of my lungs. With a single motion, as if he had plucked something from the ether, the weight in my chest intensified, suffocating me, as if the last of my voice had been swallowed by this silent thief.

I could only watch as he stepped back, taking his bow as if he had just performed the greatest trick of all.

And I? I was left mute, voiceless, trapped in a body that could not call for help.

The house around me seemed to blur into something foreign, distant. The faint murmurs of conversation, the flicker of the fireplace, the laughter of my family—everything felt like it was happening in another world. My body moved through the room, but no one saw me, no one heard me. They were all so wrapped up in their own lives, their own celebrations, unaware that something dark had slipped through the door.

I wanted to scream, to shout, to run to them, but I was trapped in a silence that pressed against my skull like a vice. I tried to pull at my throat, as though I could force the words back, but there was nothing. Not even a whisper.

The mime stood by the door, watching, waiting. I could see his shadow stretch across the floor, warping and twisting as if it had a life of its own. It felt as though the house itself was turning in on me, suffocating me with its unspoken dread.

And still, no one noticed.

I don’t know how much time passed before the basement door creaked open. I felt it, that cold, final invitation, drawing me toward it. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to follow him. But my feet moved anyway, pulled by something I couldn’t name. He was still there, his grin never fading, like he was waiting for me to fall into the last piece of his trap.With a final, mocking bow, he disappeared down the stairs, and I was left in the empty, suffocating silence.

I stood there, frozen, my mind racing as the figure turned, his gaze never leaving me. I opened my mouth, desperate to scream, to warn someone, anyone. But the words wouldn’t come. It was as if my voice had been stolen, locked away in some dark corner of my mind. The silence that followed felt like a thick, suffocating fog, pressing down on me from all sides. I tried again, my lips moving, but the sound—nothing. My throat constricted, but there was no escape. The panic rose like a tide, and for the first time, I realized that I wasn’t just mute. I was trapped.
He stepped further into the room, his eyes glittering with a twisted kind of delight, the smile painted on his face more like a grim parody of joy. His hands began to dance through the air, weaving invisible strings above my aunts and uncles like a puppeteer manipulating marionettes. My Aunt Carol, mid-sentence, suddenly fell silent. The man tilted his head and mimed eating — exaggerated, grotesque bites — and she followed suit, shoveling food into her mouth, her eyes glassy, oblivious to the crumbs trailing down her chin.
Uncle Jack, who’d been laughing with a mouthful of cider, was now gripping an invisible hand to his chest, miming a bear hug. The man’s fingers curled and uncurled as if squeezing a phantom shoulder, and Jack’s laughter faded into a vacant smile, his arms moving in time with the mime’s gestures, embracing someone who wasn’t there. He looked like a child in a trance, clutching at thin air.
His hands fluttered over the head of my cousin Lisa, shaping an invisible phone receiver. Without hesitation, she pressed her own hand to her ear, nodding and muttering words of a conversation that didn’t exist, her face a blank canvas painted only with confusion.
Then he swept a hand over my uncle’s face like a magician performing a vanishing trick, and just like that, the sparkle in his eyes dimmed. He stared forward, his mouth moving in silent pleasantries, nodding at no one, as if he’d forgotten where he was.
Each gesture became a cruel mockery, the man’s actions not just influencing them but controlling them, bending them to his silent will. He moved among them with the grace of a master performer, but it wasn’t a show — it was a demonstration of power. He mimed clinking glasses, and they toasted thin air. He mimed a whisper, and they leaned in to listen, nodding and smiling at nothing.
It was as if he’d slipped inside their minds, making them act out their own mundane motions, but stripped of any awareness. They were puppets now, mouthing words they didn’t mean, embracing ghosts only they could see. And when he turned to face me, his fingers pinching an imaginary zipper across his lips, the room fell dead silent, leaving only the low hum of the Christmas music — and the sound of my own breath, coming faster, as I realized I was the last one left untouched.
The man, now aware that I couldn’t cry out, shifted his focus. With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned from me, gliding through the house with an air of unsettling calm. He moved toward the kitchen, where my mother was still humming as she prepared the cider, oblivious to the shadow slipping closer.I watched helplessly, my body urging me to move, to stop him, but the cold paralysis clung to me like ice. The man’s footsteps were silent, each step measured, as though time itself had slowed just for him. He reached her, standing behind her without a sound, and for a moment, I thought he might simply vanish into the air. But instead, he extended his hand, a cold, gloved gesture, and placed it gently on her shoulder.
My heart pounded in my chest, the panic bubbling up inside me. No!
But still, no sound.
I watched, unable to move or speak, as he leaned in close to her ear. She glanced back, giving him a soft, puzzled smile, but she didn’t see the danger. Her eyes were soft, unfocused, lost in the mundane joy of the evening. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, oblivious. He didn’t answer with words. As I stood frozen, powerless to speak or shout, the figure—the man—shifted his focus back to my mother. My heart raced, but every attempt to vocalize was met with the crushing weight of silence. The only sound in the room was the soft hum of conversation from the oblivious guests, all lost in their own little worlds.
"Seriously, I think I could eat the whole turkey myself," Uncle Phil joked as he reached for a leg.
"Don’t even joke about that! Last year you almost finished off everything before we could even get the first slice," Aunt Cheryl laughed, clearly not realizing how awkward her words had become.
"Yeah, well, it was delicious," he replied, grabbing another plate. "What do you think, Cheryl? Did I finally get the stuffing right this time?"
"Right? Who cares? It’s Christmas, I’m just happy we’re all together," she answered, raising her glass and glancing around at the family. Everyone smiled, nodding in agreement, lost in the hollow joy of ritual.
He slowly turned toward mother, his movements slow, deliberate, and almost impossibly graceful. He didn’t walk toward her with any urgency. No, he approached with the air of someone who knew he had all the time in the world. His hands were outstretched, palms facing her, as though guiding her, not with words but with invisible threads. I could see the faintest twitch of a smile creeping up the edges of his lips—a smile that chilled me to the bone.
He didn’t touch her—no, he never had to. With a swift motion, he made an exaggerated “pulling” gesture, as though tugging on a rope.
My mother, who was talking about the recent weather, suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Her head tilted slightly, as if she were hearing a far-off sound only she could understand. Her eyes flickered, her pupils dilating as she turned toward the mime.
I gasped silently—he had done something. Without saying a word, without any sound at all, he had commandeered her attention. And then, his hands moved again, in an exaggerated, almost theatrical fashion, as though he were pulling on an invisible string. Slowly, as if her body was no longer fully under her own control, my mother’s hand rose, her fingers curling in response to the phantom tug of the mime's invisible rope.
"Mom, don’t—" I tried to scream, but the silence wrapped around me like a vice.
She didn’t hear me. Instead, she took a step forward, following the invisible direction the mime’s hands were pointing. She moved with unnatural ease, her limbs fluid, like a puppet on a string, her expression softening, her mind seemingly detached from the room, from the world. She was no longer the vibrant, sharp-witted woman I knew—she was his now.
The mime raised both hands as if adjusting the ropes tied to her, pulling her gently but firmly in the direction of the front door. She walked forward without hesitation, her face serene, completely unaware of the horror unfolding behind her.
"Wait, what are you doing!” I tried again, silently, my mind screaming for someone to notice, but still, no one could hear me.
My mother reached for her coat with one hand, and with another, gave a soft, almost absent wave to the room, as if saying goodbye to people she had known her whole life, though there was no recognition in her eyes—only the vacant expression of someone who no longer belonged to themselves.
The mime made a final, subtle gesture—a flick of his wrist, as though snapping an invisible leash. The rope of control was firmly in place. My mother turned and took one last, slow step, leaving the house, the warmth of the party, behind her.
She was gone.
Inside, the party continued, the laughter still filling the air. No one had seen it, no one had noticed. The guests raised their glasses in another holiday toast, blissfully unaware that the woman who had been standing beside them just moments ago was now lost, taken by a master of silence.
The crowd, still blissfully unaware, continued their celebrations. No one noticed the two of them slipping out of the kitchen. No one noticed the door creak open, or the soft click as it shut behind them. They were all too caught up in their own little worlds.
"Did you hear that? It’s getting a little chilly, isn’t it?" Aunt Cheryl remarked from the living room, to no one in particular, as she pushed a plate of hors d'oeuvres into the hands of Uncle Phil, who was too busy picking at his mustache to respond.
"Eh, it's probably just the snow," he muttered. "But hey, who’s up for a second round of eggnog?"
"Count me in!" Aunt Laura chimed in, tapping her glass on the coffee table. "It’s the holidays, after all!"
Everyone nodded, agreeing with a mindless cheer. The clink of glasses filled the air as they all drifted back into conversation. The laughter picked up again, louder now, as the music played on—one carol blending into the next, as if the world were turning, spinning, and somehow, the horror unfolding just beyond the door didn’t exist.
Meanwhile, I was still frozen in place, staring at the spot where my mother had been just moments before. The man had taken her, silently, effortlessly. And now, the house was just a stage, the guests were just actors, performing their roles, oblivious to the scene that had unfolded in their midst.
The minutes ticked by like hours as I tried to make my way through the crowd, shaking, panicking, reaching out for someone to notice, to hear, to see. But they were too busy—too wrapped up in their small, meaningless exchanges. It was as though I didn’t exist anymore, as if my desperation, my horror, my inability to speak, were all just part of the scenery.
“Isn’t the fire lovely tonight?” Aunt Laura asked as she wandered by, toting a tray of cheese cubes. “I swear, it’s the perfect ambiance. Really sets the mood for the evening, don’t you think?”
Uncle Phil shrugged. “Yeah, it’s a good thing it’s not one of those fake fires. Those are such a scam. Real wood’s the only way to go.”
The conversation continued, loud and cheerful, their voices growing distant, muffled by the weight of my silence. I tried again to scream, to shout, to run, but nothing came. I was invisible. I was nothing.
They kept talking, laughing, celebrating—oblivious to the fact that Mom was gone. And with her, perhaps, a piece of everything that had ever mattered. The man’s figure faded into the distance. The door shut with a soft click, the world moving on as though nothing had happened at all. And all I could do was stand there—mute, helpless, a spectator in a story I no longer recognized.
Every Christmas feels like a shadow of that night. The laughter rings hollow. The lights flicker just a little too long. And I wonder, sometimes, if he is still out there, watching, waiting for the moment when my voice will slip from my throat again. When our bodies will move at his command. When the strings he left behind, fine as spider silk, will tighten once more, and we’ll all sway like marionettes, mistaking the pull of his fingers for the rhythms of our own hearts. It’s a silent night—but not the kind we sang about. It’s the silence of voices stolen, of words swallowed by shadows, of a song that will never be sung again. A silent night that stretches on forever, echoing in the spaces where our voices used to be.
And no one will notice.