Chapter 4: Good Morning, Christmas

Chapter 4: Good Morning, Christmas

The only building in Solenvol that seemed to welcome outsiders was the one with a simple, hand-painted sign that read ‘Guesthouse’. It was as unnervingly pristine as every other structure, its windows gleaming in the perpetual golden twilight. As Tamara stepped onto the porch, the front door opened before she could knock.

A woman stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a crisp white apron. She was perhaps in her late fifties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun that allowed no stray strands. Her smile was a perfect, practiced curve that did not touch the watchfulness in her eyes.

“Lost, dear?” she asked, her voice pleasant but without warmth.

“I… yes,” Tamara stammered, the lie feeling flimsy in the strange, still air. “I’m a folklorist. Researching isolated communities. My car broke down a few kilometers back. I was hoping I could stay a night or two, until I can arrange for a tow.”

The woman, who introduced herself as Marta, considered this for a long moment. Her eyes scanned Tamara from her sturdy boots to her worn leather jacket, a silent inventory of her foreignness. “We don’t get many visitors,” she said, not as an apology, but as a statement of fact. “But the Merry Man teaches us to be generous. We have a room. The price is simple: a willingness to share in our celebration.”

The phrase sent a cold spike of dread through Tamara. This was it. The price of admission to this nightmare was participation. “Of course,” she said, forcing a polite smile of her own. “I’d be honored to observe your traditions.”

Marta’s smile tightened. “Observe? My dear, you will partake. It is impolite to be a guest and not receive a gift.”

The room was clean, cold, and utterly impersonal. A narrow bed with a scratchy wool blanket, a small wooden desk, and a single, ominous fixture on the nightstand: a potted Christmas Begonia, its blood-red leaves seeming to drink the golden light from the window. Tamara dropped her pack and sat on the edge of the bed, her body thrumming with adrenaline. She felt like a spy, a trespasser whose disguise was about to be torn away at any moment. She had found Solenvol, breached its impossible wall, but now she was inside the cage, and the door had just locked behind her.

Sleep was a shallow, restless state. She woke hours before dawn to a profound stillness, the entire town seemingly in a state of suspended animation. Then, precisely at what her watch told her was 6:30 a.m., Marta knocked on her door.

“It is time,” she said, her face grimly cheerful. “It would be improper for you to have your first morning alone. You will join the Ivanov family. They are pleased to host you.”

The walk through the pre-dawn streets was surreal. From every house, families emerged, moving with a silent, synchronized purpose toward their own front doors. There were no greetings exchanged, only the soft shuffling of feet on the immaculate cobblestones. The Ivanovs lived three doors down. Mr. Ivanov, a man with a hollow-chested stoop, opened the door and ushered them in with a jerky nod. His wife stood behind him, her hands clenched at her waist, a fixed, brittle smile on her face. Their two children, a boy of about eight and a girl a few years older, stood by the hearth, their faces pale and their eyes enormous.

The inside of their home was a mirror of the guesthouse—impeccably clean, smelling of pine cleaner, and dominated by the presence of the Begonia plant on a central table. Beneath it sat five packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with coarse red string. One was slightly smaller than the rest. Tamara’s.

They stood in silence, a tableau of forced domesticity, waiting. Tamara’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at the young girl, who stared at the packages with an expression of quiet dread that felt achingly familiar. This is how it started for Lucinda, she thought. With a silent protest in a room just like this one.

Then it came.

CRACK.

The sound of the 7 a.m. bell was not a peal, but a physical blow. It shattered the silence, a command that vibrated in the bones. As the last echo died, Mrs. Ivanov drew a sharp, whistling breath.

“Good morning, Christmas,” the family chanted, their voices thin and reedy.

Mr. Ivanov led them to the table. “You must smile,” he whispered to Tamara, his own lips pulled back in a grimace that looked more like a snarl of pain. “He is always watching.”

He gestured for her to pick up the small package with her name—somehow—already written on it in a neat, looping script. Her hands trembled as she took it. It was light, soft. She watched as the Ivanovs picked up their own gifts. The father’s hand shook so badly he almost dropped his.

“Now, the prayer,” the mother said, her voice a high, tight wire.

Together, they recited the words Tamara knew from her grandmother’s laptop, the words that had been a distant horror and were now a suffocating reality.

“Thank you for your bounty, Merry Man. We are pleased with your generosity. Keep us in your festive heart.”

One by one, they opened their gifts. Tamara’s fingers fumbled with the red string. Inside the brown paper was a pair of thick, woolen socks. They were a hideous clash of puke green and a jarring, electric orange. Beside her, the little boy unwrapped a pair of mismatched socks, one a dull grey, the other a startling magenta. He looked at them, his lower lip trembling, before his mother shot him a look of pure terror, and he forced his expression into one of vacant gratitude.

The father’s socks were the color of dried blood. The mother’s, a sickly mustard yellow. The young girl, Lucinda’s ghost, slowly unwrapped hers. They were a dull, bruise-purple. She stared at them, her small face a mask of resignation.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Ivanov said, his voice cracking. “So warm. Thank you, Merry Man.”

“They are lovely,” his wife added, her eyes darting nervously around the room.

Following their lead, Tamara forced the word out. “Thank you.”

“Put them on,” Marta commanded from the doorway, her voice leaving no room for argument. “The old must be burned.”

Tamara sat on a stool, her stomach churning, and pulled off her own comfortable grey hiking socks. She pulled on the garish, scratchy things, the wool coarse against her skin. They felt wrong, like wearing a piece of a costume from a play she wanted no part in. The Ivanovs did the same. Then, the father collected their old socks—Tamara’s included—and threw them into the hearth, where they quickly caught fire, the scent of burning wool filling the silent room.

The ritual was complete. A collective, unspoken sigh of relief passed through the family. They had survived another day. The father’s shoulders slumped. The mother’s frantic eyes softened just a fraction. They had performed their parts perfectly. The monster was appeased.

As Marta led her back to the guesthouse, the unnatural golden sun was beginning to climb in the sky.

“Now you understand,” Marta said, her placid smile back in place. “It is a simple life. We are a grateful people. All the Merry Man asks in return is our gratitude. It’s important to be a good guest, dear. Very important.”

Back in her room, Tamara locked the door and leaned against it, her body shaking. She looked down at the hideous orange and green things encasing her feet. They weren’t just socks. They were shackles. And every single person in this town was wearing them. Her grandmother’s story was not a memory. It was a bulletin, a live report from an ongoing hostage crisis. And now, she was one of the hostages.