Christmas Past

Christmas is to be about family and celebration. For Rebecca, this year is different.

Christmas Past

          The soft insistence of a chill wind, rather than the familiar chime of her phone, pulled Rebecca Meyer from the depths of sleep. It was Christmas Day, she knew, marked by the particular blend of joyful anticipation and the lingering scent of pine from her perfectly decorated tree. But as her eyes fluttered open, there was no familiar ceiling, no comforting glow of fairy lights.

          Instead, a rough-hewn beam stretched overhead, dark with age, supporting a thatched roof from which stray bits of straw occasionally drifted. Rebecca lay on a bed hewn from wood, its frame covered with a thick, scratchy wool blanket. The air was cold, damp, and carried the faint, earthy scent of woodsmoke and damp stone. A low moan escaped her lips as she pushed herself upright, the rough fabric of her unfamiliar nightclothes chafing against her skin.

          Her gaze swept the tiny, single room. To her left, a large, crudely built stone fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth cold and empty, though traces of ash suggested recent use. Opposite her, another bed, identical to her own, lay neatly made. A small, sturdy wooden table and two stools sat in the center of the room. A heavy, wooden door, bound with iron bands, offered the only exit to what she presumed was the outside. Her modern cotton pajamas were gone, replaced by a tunic and trousers made of thick, homespun wool, topped by a sleeveless vest of what felt like cured animal hide. A confusing terror began to prickle at her skin. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't her house.

          Rebecca stumbled out of bed, her bare feet meeting a floor of packed earth. The silence was profound, broken only by the rapid thumping of her own heart. She crossed to the other bed, her fingers tracing the rough weave of the blanket. Had someone else been here? Was someone still here? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through her. She was alone yet felt undeniably watched. The air was thick with ancient quiet, the kind that spoke of isolation and the vast indifference of the wild.

          Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she moved to the heavy door. It was latched from the inside by a simple wooden bar. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with it, pushing it upwards and then swinging the heavy timber inward with a groan that echoed in the oppressive silence.

          A blast of frigid air hit her face, stealing her breath. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the grey, diffused light of a snow-laden morning. What lay beyond the threshold wasn't her suburban street. It wasn't even a recognizable landscape.

          Towering, ancient pines, their branches heavily laden with snow, formed a dense, impenetrable wall around a small clearing. The ground was a pristine, unbroken blanket of white, save for a few dark, gnarled stumps that seemed to rise like ancient sentinels. The absence of anything modern--no power lines, no roads, no distant hum of traffic--was staggering. The air tasted of ice and raw wood, sharp and clean, unlike anything she had ever breathed. Smoke curled lazily from a few other similar shacks nestled deeper in the tree line, barely visible against the snow-dusted forest.

          A gut-wrenching realization dawned on her, cold and absolute as the biting wind: she hadn't just gone back a day or a month. She had gone back a thousand years. This wasn't Christmas morning in the 21st century; this was a forgotten age, a land before time, before history as she knew it. The very trees seemed to hum with forgotten lore.

          A faint sound, a rustle in the undergrowth to her left, ripped her from her stunned observation. Her head snapped toward the noise, her heart now a frantic drum against her ribs. She saw nothing but the swaying branches of a snow-laden bush, but the sound had been distinct, deliberate. Was it an animal? Or something else? The silence that followed felt heavier, more menacing than before.

          She felt utterly exposed to a trembling anachronism in a world that had long forgotten her kind. The heavy door suddenly seemed a meager protection against the vast, unknown wilderness at her doorstep. She needed to understand, to find out where she was, when she was, and how to get back to her own time, her own Christmas. But the piercing cold and the unseen movement in the ancient forest whispered a different, more urgent message: survive.

          Another sound, closer this time, a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the frozen air, sent a jolt of primal fear through her. It wasn't human. It was big and near. Rebecca scrambled back inside the shack, slamming the heavy door shut, the wooden bar clattering back into place with a frantic thud. Darkness enveloped her once more, but now it was filled with the terrifying echoes of a world she didn't belong in, a world that seemed poised to consume her. Through a crack in the door, she thought she saw movement in the deepest shadows of the forest, eyes glinting yellow in the dim light, watching her. Her Christmas had become a desperate fight for time itself.


Word Count: 862