The Curse of Mistlewood
Mistlewood. A small, quiet village nestled in the northeastern woods far away from the chaos of the city. During the holidays, the snow-draped streets came alive with colonial architecture adorned in festive wreaths and twinkling lights. It’s the kind of place that could grace the front of a holiday postcard. A small town that truly comes alive at Christmastime – at least it used to…
Beneath the festive cheer lies a deeper, older history. Mistlewood was founded in the 17th century by settlers who sought refuge from the bustling port cities, carving out a quiet, self-sufficient life in the woods. Its isolation gave the town a certain mystique, and as generations passed, stories of strange happenings and whispered curses began to weave into its folklore. Mistlewood became known for its tales of the uncanny. Ghostly figures were said to wander the woods at night, and more than one person swore they heard laughter echoing through the trees, though no one was there. While the town celebrated its quaint reputation, its people also knew to tread carefully.
The town’s festive traditions date back to its earliest days. Mistlewood prided itself on its Christmas spirit, hosting elaborate yuletide festivals and parades even during the harshest winters. The community’s love for the holiday was unwavering, a defiant warmth against the biting cold.
Mistlewood’s love for Christmas had made it vulnerable, its cheer and music a beacon for something far darker. A holiday reign of terror began in the town in December of 1994. That winter, the world seemed brighter under a blanket of snow, and the townsfolk were eager to fill the air with Christmas cheer. But that joy soured when a single song—her song—played endlessly on the radio, day and night.
Her song became inescapable, bleeding through every station, even those that didn’t typically play holiday music. The song was harmless enough at first—a festive hit people hummed along to. But as December dragged on, the song grew louder, the melody sweeter, more insidious. The people of Mistlewood began waking up to empty beds, missing family members, and, occasionally, bloodstains in the snow.
It was during the annual Mistlewood Christmas Festival held in the town square where she made herself known to the townspeople. Again her song played. Before it ended, a sudden winter storm began to blow through the town. Everyone was rushing about trying to find shelter when they saw her. She descended from the snowstorm as it eased, tall and radiant, her shimmering gown blending with the frostbitten ground. At first glance, she looked angelic—flawless porcelain skin, a smile as wide and glittering as a candy cane. But her beauty faltered under closer inspection. Her smile was wrong, jagged and too wide, like a broken ornament straining to hold together. Her hands were worse—long, crimson-stained claws curved unnaturally, dragging against the ground like the blades of a sleigh. The Mariah had been summoned.
The people of Mistlewood watched in horror as she pointed her claw at a young boy named Peter, who had been softly singing her song as he played with his friends at the festival. Her voice was sweet, melodic, and dripping with malice. “All I want for Christmas,” she cooed, “is yooouuu!”
Before anyone could move, she was on him. The boy’s screams were brief, replaced by the sickening crunch of bones as the Mariah fed. The townsfolk turned away, fleeing in horror. By the time they dared to look back, all that remained was a trail of crimson-streaked snow and the faint scent of peppermint.
After that night, the rules were clear. Don’t sing the song. Don’t hum it. Don’t even think it. But every December, the Mariah returned, lured by the faintest whispers of her melody.
Some years were worse than others. In 1998, the Bozeman family made the mistake of playing her song at their Christmas party. The Mariah arrived before the first verse had finished, gliding silently through the snow. By dawn, the Bozemans were gone, their home filled with the shattered remains of Christmas decorations and a silence so heavy it felt alive.
Over the years, the people of Mistlewood tried to understand what they were dealing with. Some whispered that the Mariah was a cursed spirit, the remnants of a pop star who sold her soul for fame and was doomed to hunger for adoration forever. Others believed she was something older, a demon drawn to the obsessive cheer of the holiday season, feeding off those who couldn’t resist singing along.
But the Mariah doesn’t discriminate. She takes the old, the young, the guilty, and the innocent. She chooses her holiday victims with a single gesture. The screams follow soon after, muffled by the falling snow.
In recent years, the town has taken to gathering in the basement of the old town hall during December, desperate to avoid her notice. They sit in tense silence as her song creeps through the cracks and under the doors. “I don’t want a lot for Christmas…”
Last year, Paul, the new shopkeeper, didn’t know better. He whistled the tune while restocking shelves. That night, the Mariah came. She burst through the town hall door, her gown sparkling in the candlelight.
Paul barely had time to beg before she pointed her claw and said sweetly, “All I want for Christmas is yooouuu!” The room turned away as she struck, the air filling with the wet, sickening sounds of her claws tearing through flesh. When the horrifying noises ceased, she smoothed her gown with deliberate grace, her too-wide smile gleaming in the dim light. “Until next year, my darlings,” she crooned, her voice a syrupy melody laced with mockery, as the faint scent of peppermint lingered in her wake.
The Mariah always leaves, her hunger sated, but the people of Mistlewood know better than to feel safe. The snow-covered valley, with its festive lights and colonial charm, holds its breath in uneasy silence. The townsfolk tread carefully through the decorated streets, eyes darting at shadows, ears straining for a melody that should not be heard. They know it’s only a matter of time before someone hums the tune or plays her song. And when that happens, she will return—claws sharp, smile jagged, her presence a terrible stain on the beauty of their home. In every flickering candle, in every glowing string of lights, the Mariah’s shadow waits, a grim reminder that even the brightest places can harbor the darkest horrors.
Inspired by a twitter comment from four years ago that has obsessed my brain since then. https://x.com/Swan_Corleone2/status/1334548240390381568