The Messenger

A Creepy Christmas Tale

When he hears the dead calling, he runs. Not away from their voices but toward them. They want help in reaching someone on this side, and that’s his job. Connecting the dead with the living.

He’s The Messenger.

His busiest time of the year is All Hallows Eve, but this year, there has been a sharp increase in demands during Christmas. This puzzles him. It’s almost as if there’s an urgency to use his services before the end of the year. He hasn’t had time since December arrived to sort out the cause because he no sooner patches up one relationship for a departed and desperate human when another plea comes in on the hotline.

He’s seated in his office when his cell rings with the special tone for the dead. He quickly picks it up from his desk.

“Yes? The Messenger here. How may I help you?” There is no answer. “Hello? Anyone on this call?” Only static comes through the headset. “Look, this number is for my special clients, so kindly hang up and keep this—”

“Messenger, be still and listen.”

“Who are you and what do you need?”

“It is you who are in need.” The voice is low, almost a growl, not human, neither dead nor alive.”

The Messenger clears his throat. “What…do you…mean?”

“Look at your calendar.”

Click.

With the phone still to his ear, he stares at the house-shaped advent calendar that arrived gift-wrapped the first of the month. Something from one of his satisfied clients, he assumed. He hasn’t opened any of the flaps. He hasn’t had time, but this is the only calendar in the house, except for the digital one on his computer. He pulls that one up and scrolls through the thirty-one days. There is nothing unusual, only the names of those who have called his hotline, along with the dates of their deaths and their requests.

He reaches out and opens December 1 on the small red house. Behind the flap is the number 30. When he opens December 2, 29 glitters back at him.

A strange advent calendar, he thinks. There are no wintry scenes or holiday wishes. Finally, he opens December 3, today’s date, and while the number 28 is there, it’s in a heavy font with ragged edges. In one corner, a skeletal finger points to the 28.

“What kind of joke is this?”

Quickly, he flips through the rest of the days. Each date is darker. Each date has the ominous skeletal finger until he comes to the 31st. He hesitates, but then opens that last small paper door.

RIP Messenger-1965-2024.

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