Creepy Collection (Short Horror Stories)

A Creepy Christmas tree

Thwack! Thwack!

The sharp, repetitive noise jolted Jeremy from unconsciousness. His body ached, every muscle and joint screaming in pain. He tried to move, but his limbs were unresponsive, weighed down by a dull, numbing agony. A sharp dryness clawed at his throat as he attempted to call out, his voice caught somewhere deep within.

He turned his head slightly, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The source of the sound lay ahead—someone was rhythmically swinging a cleaver, the blade glinting under the faint light as it came crashing down.

"Why is Dad chopping wood in my room?" Jeremy's foggy mind struggled to make sense of the scene.

As his senses returned, the truth clawed its way into his awareness. The figure wasn't his father. And it wasn't wood beneath the cleaver. Jeremy's vision cleared just enough to see the blade glisten—wet, dark, and unmistakably covered in blood.

Terror rooted him in place. The cleaver-wielding man, cloaked in a tattered hoodie, loomed closer. Jeremy's breath hitched as the figure moved within inches of his feet, raising the blade high. The sickening thud of the cleaver striking sent Jeremy's stomach into freefall.

He turned his head and froze.

Next to him lay a boy, his lifeless eyes staring into the abyss. The cleaver came down again, and Jeremy watched in abject horror as the blade severed the boy's head cleanly from his body. Blood pooled and spread, its metallic tang overwhelming.

Panic surged. Jeremy thrashed, pain shooting through his body as if his nerves were ablaze. His own arms bore deep, jagged cuts, and his clothes were drenched in blood—his or someone else's, he couldn't tell.

The man with the cleaver noticed him stir. Slowly, deliberately, the figure turned. Jeremy froze, too terrified to move, even as his breathing quickened, ragged and shallow.

"Boss," the man called out, his voice gravelly, "this one's still alive."

Jeremy heard footsteps approaching, deliberate and slow. A shadow loomed over him, larger and more menacing than the first man. His heart pounded like a drum as a second figure emerged—a man in a red coat and a knitted red cap.

Jeremy's heart skipped. The man bore a shocking resemblance to Santa Claus, but twisted—his wild, frizzy white beard was unkempt and matted, his eyes burned a deep crimson, and his smile was anything but jolly.

The figure leaned closer, inspecting Jeremy with a cold, calculating gaze. "Then he shall be our Christmas star," he declared, his voice resonating with finality.

Jeremy's mind reeled as the words sank in. Before he could process them, hands gripped his limbs—rough, unforgiving hands. He screamed internally, but no sound escaped. His captors dragged him to a large plywood board, spreading his arms and legs wide.

Then came the first piercing pain as nails were driven through his hands and feet. Jeremy's body convulsed, tears streaming down his face. Hammer strikes rang out, each blow driving the metal deeper, securing him in place.

It didn't stop there. The men began sawing the plywood around his body, shaping it. Jeremy was barely conscious, but the realization hit him like a sledgehammer—they were turning him into a star.

When the grotesque work was done, the plywood, now star-shaped with Jeremy crucified at its center, was carried aloft. As he was lifted higher, a macabre sight unfolded beneath him.

It was a Christmas tree, but no ordinary one. It was decorated with severed heads, fingers, eyes, and other human remains, all glistening with fresh blood. The stench was overpowering.

Jeremy's vision blurred, his chest tightening as his breath faltered.

They placed him at the very top of the tree—the crowning glory, the Christmas star.

His life ebbed away, his final moments consumed by terror and confusion. Jeremy died never understanding the nightmare he had been thrust into or the true identity of the monstrous "Santa" who had orchestrated it all.

In the silence that followed, the Christmas tree stood tall, its grotesque decorations swaying in the wind—a horrifying testament to the darkness that had consumed that winter's night.