Uphill-Town is located at the center of Doshiqi, Feropia, known for its cultural appearance and rich lifestyle, a beautiful place of flowers, pulling in tourists like bees to collect honey. It was a cold night on December 12, 1899—snow started to fall softly on the ground. The place had a minimal number of residents compared to the tourist and hotels, which kept the place alive. It was named Uphill-Town because the place was quite close to the mountains, with many shops for clothes, restaurants, a library, a flower nursery, and a small number of cottages mostly up near the mountains and hill areas since the place wasn't very civilized. There were also many farms and gardens; Doshiqi is mostly known for wheat production, green lands and mountain sights. Christmas preparations had begun with the snowy night; the silver light of a full moon bathed the town in a tranquil glow, reflecting off the frosty streets. Everyone seemed eager for the arrival of winter. But amid the festive air, three burglars wearing black masks covering their entire faces, with only their eyes visible, moved quietly toward a house on the town's edge, very close to the mountains and hills. They had put black inky stuff under their eye circles, which was actually burnt ashes from cigarettes and fountain pen ink, and they wore thick black leather jackets and gloves so no one could recognize them by their eyes or appearance. They also carried a large bag and a few weapons; A large machete, skinning knife and a regular knife. They were locals here, and almost everyone recognized them. They were not good people but were third-class criminals, they were just hated enough for their flirty faces to be remembered. The three of them approached the rich house with a beautiful flower garden of a doctor and his wife; she was a nurse, and they lived there together. They weren't home today for some reason, and the three decided to take this diamond opportunity to rob the house. They planned to break in through the ground-floor window, deliberately avoiding the front door, knowing it might draw unnecessary attention from the night street since their faces were common among the town's criminals, blending easily with the city's underbelly. Their boss was a man with a dull face, in his mid-30s, a buffed guy with sand-color hair and big eyes. The second guy was calm and cunning but physically weak; people called him the 'Cunning Bastard.' Lastly, the third guy had the cold, flat eyes of a killer. He was a drug addict who had killed and raped countless women and children. They slowly sneaked into the flower garden at the backside of the house, knowing that breaking a window would be easier and smarter than breaking a large door—way dumber. The Cunning Bastard pulled out a rusty rod and hit the window glass a few times until it cracked, then pressed hard with all his might. Gradually, after a few moments, the lower part of the glass shattered. He handed the rod to the Addict and tried to fit his hand through the broken glass to reach the lock inside—an old-fashioned handle lock, just needing a grab and a downward pull to open it. The couple wouldn't be back until midnight, off at the wife's mother's place for her birthday celebration, and the Addict had heard this himself, so there'd be little chance of them returning now. This was their diamond opportunity to get rich and leave the town where they were only hated.
"Once we're done here, I'm getting the hell out of this town. I'm not staying anywhere near this place," the Addict whispered, rubbing his hands in excitement; he was a toilet sweeper at the couple's house. He always used the same method to rob people—joining as a worker or servant, then setting traps for them—which explained why he knew the couple's plans.
After a few moments, finally, the Cunning Bastard reached the window handle, an old brass lever crusted with age, pulled it downward, and the window opened. Finally! Both of their faces—his and the Addict's—lit up with the hope of a big score, but their boss remained expressionless; he was actually planning to kill them both after they grabbed the goods, intending to keep every single coin and jewel for himself and slip away into the night. They pushed the window open quietly, its warped wooden frame groaning softly, and one by one, they climbed inside but first, they tossed their canvas bags onto the polished oak floor, then stepped in, pressing their feet on the ground. They had wore heavy boots, but just in case, they removed them to explore without making noise. They looked around. Their eyes widened—the house sprawled before them, vast as a castle abandoned by its king, its high ceilings swallowed by shadow. The Addict laughed loudly; certain no one was home. Emboldened, he yanked the cord of an ornate chandelier—a glittering cascade of crystal prisms dangling from curling brass arms, its dozens of candle-shaped bulbs—and switched it on confidently, illuminating the entire room with a golden glow. The chandelier's light fell upon the lavish furniture, decorative plates, ornate wall designs, picture paintings, and the red-and-gold carpet. It was a heaven for thieves. The Addict, with the rusty rod in his hands, started breaking all the heavy mahogany frames, some gilded, holding oil portraits of the couple's stern-faced ancestors in ruffled collars. The addict continued smashing those frames, splintering the polished wood and cracking glass over faces. But suddenly, a sound—like the heavy boots, running across the floorboards upstairs—rang through the house. All three of them panicked. The boss switched off the chandelier immediately and hid behind the room's grand door—a towering slab of dark walnut, carved with swirling floral motifs and polished to a sheen, its brass hinges gleaming faintly, left wide open to the hall. The other two dove behind the red velvet couch meant for guests, its cushions sinking under their weight as they crouched low. The trio stayed silent for a few heart-pounding moments, breaths shallow, ears straining. "Did you hear that?" the Cunning Bastard whispered to the Addict, his voice tight with uncertainty, doubting his earlier confidence that the house was empty. The Addict had no answer, his smug assurance shaken—he'd been dead sure no one was home. Their boss crawled toward them, dragging the canvas bags across the floor, and slammed the Addict's head against the wall with a thud, hissing, "Didn't you say no one was here?"
The Addict waved him off stubbornly, refusing to admit he could be wrong since he knew the house like his own shadow. He whispered, "Relax, Boss! I'm damn sure the couple's at that birthday party. I work here, I swear! It's gotta be a cat or something else!"
The calm man was rattled. He unzipped the bag and pulled out a sharp knife—one designed for skinning animals, and said, "I've got a knife. If someone's here, I'll slit their throat. Let's just grab what's valuable and get out." They stood up straight and walked toward the hall, moving soundlessly, and began searching for valuables. They rummaged through drawers and cabinets, stuffing their bags with anything that seemed expensive. But once again, another sound of running with heavy boots shattered the silence. They froze. Did the couple have a child or a caretaker left at home? That was a pain-inducing situation. The boss shot the Addict a dead stare, but he had nothing to say. That was a problem now, and taking a risk would be foolish, so the boss told them to abort the plan and leave things as they were, but the calm guy wasn't ready for this. He said he couldn't leave right now; if he did, he would be foolish since he had planned for so long, and it was a once-in-a-lifetime diamond opportunity. He said, "I cannot leave, Boss. We must steal something, even if it's a stag of bronze or just a coin of gold. If I don't, my family will die from the shortage of food and water." The Addict agreed to him too, even though he didn't care at all, he just wished there was a woman upstairs to do unpleasant things with—he had raped women and escaped unpunished. The boss sighed and took out three flashlights from the mini pocket of the bag he brought and handed each one to them. They continued exploring through the hall to every single room of the house, grabbing expensive items, jewelry, and clothes, but they were mainly looking for cash, which they called Daz in Feropia; Daz are Feropian-currency. By now, it had been an hour of searching downstairs in this two-floor mansion, but someone had to go further—upstairs. The Cunning Bastard was uncertain what to do, the Addict was frightened. So the boss had no choice but to get the job done himself. He gripped machete and ascended the staircase, checking each room as he looked for money. His blade was in his hand, ready to strike immediately at anyone. At first, he searched the entire second floor, pushing doors slowly, peeking inside, then walking to the next one, but no one was there. Not even a single life could ever escape his eyesight. When he was done examining the rooms, he sighed with relief and started moving more freely. He began stealing and filling his big fat bag with every single piece of treasure, not even leaving a single Daz. After a few moments, his flashlight's beam landed on a safe under the couple's bed, probably. He dragged it out, which made quite a noise, and the lock was a circular rotation lock, which was nothing but child's play for a professional thief like him who was experienced at unlocking tough doors effortlessly in the most efficient way. He immediately got to work to unlock the safe. But just as he was focused, a thud noise of a wooden object—perhaps the sound of an old person's thick walking stick hitting the wall—came from right behind him. A cold chill ran down his body, and his legs numbed, cold and stoned. He turned around anxiously, frightened. But nothing was behind him; it was more like a horror short film for him. It was his first time experiencing such terror, but the door was wide open, and surely he could see no one from here to the straight hall of the whole floor—not even his own men. Trying to shake off his nerves and calm down, he turned to the safe and worked anxiously—faster! Faster! Faster! Finally, it clicked open, revealing stacks of cash and important papers of the house, maybe documents, which he had no business with. He hastily stuffed them into his bag. The room was like a treasure trove—medals, trophies, jewelry, and priceless artifacts neatly displayed on the shelves—but he didn't have enough space in his bag to satisfy his greed. But he was definitely planning to get at least the real deal, and now the bag ran out of storage too. So he grabbed a stack of cash and stuffed it into his pockets, but he still couldn't get enough of it. His greed only grew and grew. He called his men upstairs to take a view of heaven, but then—a faint sound reached his ears. His pulse quickened as he swung his flashlight toward the noise. Nothing once again. The room was still, silent, and everything was untouched in its place. But the unease remained inside him. He stood up, gripping his knife tightly out of fear, scanned the room, walked the hall again, and looked at every possible object, searching for any trace of movement. Now he started doubting himself, thinking he was out of his mind even though he wasn't drunk at all, yet he felt as if his mind was playing tricks on him.
"Am I imagining things?" he wondered to himself, yet it was strange, he had never met such situations before. Shaking off the fear, he grabbed the cash-loaded bag to leave the house since it had been three hours, and the couple could return at any moment, but the oppressive silence bore down on him. Then—something stirred behind him, and now he could see a shadow cast upon the wall, etched sharply by the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through the window. He thought to ignore it since he was trying to justify his eyesight, but this was his biggest mistake. Just behind him. There was a cloth-hanging stand-rack with a long leather raincoat swaying gently from it. Its hem nearly brushed the floor, but it wasn't just an ordinary raincoat. From beneath it, a figure slowly lifted its head. Shrouded in darkness, it stepped forward, lowering itself from the small table where it had been perched and straightened its back. The leather-clad stranger now stood upright, six feet tall, towering over the intruder. Now he; the intruder could clearly see the shadow from behind him, and even the breathing was clear. "Someone is definitely behind me," he realized. His breath caught in his throat; he wanted to turn, but he was no longer able to think or walk forward as the figure reached for an axe hidden just behind the rack, concealed by the clothes, and started walking soundly toward the boss with heavy boots on, making thud! Thud! Heavy noises with the axe. Now things were crazy. The boss turned swiftly, swinging his machete, facing the torch at the figure, but just when he turned, the figure's axe blade gleamed menacingly at him in the dimming torchlight. Before he could even react, the figure surged forward, swinging the axe with terrifying precision. The blade of the axe tore into his face, from jaw to flesh to bones, cutting and crushing through the skull, dragging and cleaving through bone and sinew, tearing the chest from flesh to bones, splitting his torso in a gruesome display, spilling blood all over his body, filling the gaps of his torn flesh and bone. The pressure of the dragging axe was so immense that when it hit his leg, it went flying off, detached from his body. Imagine the unbearable torment of a goat having its skin peeled off slowly while still alive—the sheer pain would force it to scream in agony. But what he felt, what he endured, was far worse than that—a suffering so intense that even the tortured cries of that poor creature would pale in comparison. And with it came an inevitable. INSTANT DEATH. His scream was cut short as his body collapsed. The smell of blood, like rotten fish and a gutter, filled the room and hall. Downstairs, the other two burglars heard the commotion and, alarmed, grabbed their weapons and bolted upstairs. As they climbed, the axe-wielding figure appeared suddenly. With terrifying speed, it hurled the axe—the blade embedding itself into the Cunning Bastard's skull. He died instantly. His lifeless body collapsing onto the stairs. The remaining burglar, the Addict, screamed in horror, terror filling his voice. But the figure acted immediately, grabbing him by the throat, squeezing with monstrous strength. Then the figure pressed his eyeballs with its fingers and popped his pupils, making him completely blind, then shoved their boss's raw, torn flesh into his mouth, silencing him before he could utter a single noise in pain. Then it took the machete from his hands and cut open his belly—from skin to fat to flesh—and pulled out all the organs from his belly while he was alive and trying to scream and cry. After all the intense suffering for six long minutes. He died. Finally…
The clock struck 2:29 AM when the couple arrived home, unlocking the door and stepping inside with tons of bags and shopping. They had just come from the wife's parents' place, where they had attended her mother's birthday party. The husband, carrying a few bags of clothes, spoke tiredly to his wife as they entered.
"I couldn't buy anything for your mother-in-law. I'll make sure to get something next time." But his wife smiled and kissed his cheek, wrapping her arms around him romantically, saying it's not a big deal. While the lovebirds exchanged their words, the wife's gaze landed on the blood dripping down the stairs from upstairs. Blood stained the wall and the carpet, turning it a deeper red, and the blood was still wet and smelled horrible. She screamed, which made her husband panic; her face paled with visible fear and tension.
"What happened?" the husband asked anxiously, but she couldn't utter a word. He followed her gaze and turned his head. Just when his eyes landed on the sight, the smell of blood reached him. Blood was smeared across the furniture, staining the once-pristine surfaces. The living room was in disarray, drawers left open, and belongings scattered across the floor. The window glass was broken and had been forced open. Yet the most horrifying sight was the dark red trail of blood dripping from the second floor, seeping through the staircase and pooling onto the carpet below. Realization struck them like a hammer hitting a nail into the wall—someone had broken into their house. The wife immediately grabbed the wireless telephone on the cupboard of shoes beside them, shakily dialed the Uptown police station, twenty minutes away from here. Meanwhile, the husband, driven by a mix of fear and determination, set the bags down and reached for a baseball bat from a nearby storage bin. He noticed his golden golf stick was gone too. He was terrified, yet he instructed his wife, "Stay here. I'll check upstairs. If something happens to me, just run for help." As he ascended the staircase, his eyes followed the blood trail smeared across the steps, leading straight to their bedroom. The crimson streaks suggested someone had been dragged inside. With each step, his heartbeat pounded louder in his chest, threatening to burst. The disgusting smell of wet blood made him want to throw up. Finally, he reached the bedroom door, which had bloody hand stains on it. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open slowly, peeking through the narrow gap. What he saw inside made his blood run cold. His scream of pure horror erupted from his throat, echoing through the house to his wife's ears. Hearing his agonizing scream, his wife, despite her fear and instructions, ran upstairs for her husband with the wireless telephone in her grip. "Honey!" she screamed and rushed—she found him vomiting out the upstairs hall window. As he finished, she frantically started checking his body to see if he was injured. "You—you okay?!" She held his cheeks up; he was fine, but disgust was painted on his face. Once again, his mouth filled, and he pushed the window in the hallway and started vomiting again. His wife kept holding him and patting his back, but then she looked at the slightly opened door of their bedroom. Lights on. She wondered what made him; a brain surgeon throw up, who had nine years of work experience. She walked toward their room. She knelt, grabbed the baseball bat, and walked slowly to the room, then pushed the door. And then she saw the exact same imagery of pure violence that her husband had witnessed. Her body froze, her breath stuck In her throat. The telephone and baseball bat slipped from her trembling hands, hitting the floor—thud. Disgust twisted her face as she took in the grisly scene before her. On the call, the police were still on the line. They kept telling them to stay calm and keep talking, but the wife could no longer respond to the officer, nor could she move her arms or legs. She was so disgusted and scared; her body was simply paralyzed. The voice on the line remained calm and said, "Ma'am, please talk to us. We're sending help immediately!"
The couple remained silent, their shallow, panicked breaths the only sound filling the house. After a few moments, the wife's mouth filled with disgust and vomit. She pressed her mouth but couldn't hold it any longer and threw up right there. Minutes later, police sirens cut through the quiet night of Uphill-Town. The flashing red and blue lights reflected eerily against the neighboring houses as officers rushed inside. Even the most hardened detectives faltered for a moment at the grotesque scene. The shaken couple was quickly escorted outside for safety, while the police sealed off the premises. Curious neighbors gathered nearby, whispering among themselves as fear spread through the small town. Soon after, a forensic team and an
investigative unit arrived. Among them was the lead investigator, Mr. Kenzo.
he stepped into the house, and the first sight was blood-streaked floorboards
under his shoes; the blood had reached the downstairs. Dried on the carpet and
the stairs. He climbed the stairs to the second floor in the room. A large
window in the couple's room was opened. Right outside, there stood a tall, Conical
tree. But what made the scene grotesquely macabre were the three lifeless
bodies hanging, nailedto the branches—their
corpses swayed, their skin marred by countless wounds and injuries. Even the
forensic team, trained to handle the most gruesome of sights, felt disgusted. Their death was their greatest freedom.
Just inside, around the square shape of the window, scrawled in large, crimson
letters, was a chilling message written boldly on the wall: MERRY CHRISTMAS,
ominously. A famously known signature wish in history, was left by a serial killer. Kenzo's breath hitched as realization sank in. Turning to the team, his voice was calm but laced with an unmistakable edge of dread, "Mr. Santa did this. No doubt about
it. Get those bodies down immediately." Another murder from the same killer, in
such a gruesome way, was unbelievable since five investigation departments were
after this one case. One of the forensic workers, a friend of Kenzo, muttered
in frustration, "How did he kill them and nail them to the tree? And how did no
one hear or see anything?" Kenzo remained silent, his mind racing through the
possibilities. He knew one thing for certain—Mr. Santa was no ordinary killer.
He was smart, calculative, a monster who had likely planned every detail of
this horror from the very beginning. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Kenzo
imagined the crime scene as it must have unfolded. But the only thing he could
see was a man—a shadowy figure with an unsettling, mocking smile. He was
mocking the officers, or perhaps mocking him. Kenzo could feel his presence in
front of him but couldn't understand him. He was, after all—
THE BLOODY CHRISTMAS KILLER.