SILENT NIGHT

Content Warning: This story contains themes of supernatural horror, ghostly visitation, psychological terror, and ancestral curses. It contains scenes that may disturb sensitive readers. All characters are 18+. Reader discretion is advised.

Intro:

Jessica was just trying to finish a deadline at 2 AM when her screen went dark and three words appeared: YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN. She told herself it was a glitch. She was wrong. What followed her home that night — through empty streets, blank-eyed strangers, and a mirror that should not have moved — was not a hallucination. It was a message from a grandfather she never met, and a debt she never agreed to carry. This is a supernatural horror story about ancestral sins and the marks the dead leave on the living.

Random People

Jessica hunched over her computer on the 50th floor, racing a deadline that had piled up like unpaid bills. Exhaustion clawed at her eyes, but she had to finish. Then the screen blinked out. White text flared across the void: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”

A heartbeat later, the desktop returned—spreadsheets, cursor, coffee rings. Jessica froze, shook her head. Hallucination from too many late nights. She glanced at the clock: 2:00 a.m. The office was empty; she hadn’t noticed anyone leave. She slammed the laptop shut, stuffed papers into her bag, and bolted.

She locked her office and jabbed the elevator button. Fifty floors down, the night doorman stared without blinking—eyes pure white, like polished marble. Jessica opened her mouth to ask what was wrong; the question died in her throat. She fled past him.

Outside, a lone cab idled. She raised a hand, then saw the driver’s face—same blank stare, meter glowing: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.”

Jessica ran. The street was silent, storefronts dark—except her regular coffee shop. Its neon sign now read: “YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN JESSICA.”

The Man 

She veered left toward Dave’s building. At full sprint, she rounded the corner and crashed into a man. Strong arms caught her before she hit the pavement. He was unfairly handsome—dark eyes, silk-smooth skin, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Shoulder-length hair spilled forward as he steadied her.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, amused.

Jessica flushed. “Everything’s wrong. I—I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Feels like you tackled me on purpose.”

“Sorry. Who are you?”

“You really don’t want to know, Jessica.”

Her head snapped up. “How do you know my name?”

He laughed softly. “I sent the message.”

“You?”

“Not me. My father.”

“Who are you?”

“Can’t say. But listen: keep moving forward. One step back and they take you.”

“Take me where? By who?”

“Not who—them.” He tilted his chin behind her.

Jessica whipped around—nothing but empty sidewalk. When she turned back, he was gone. Her pulse hammered. She sprinted again, faster, refusing to stop. A frail voice drifted from an alley: “Mark! My son, where are you? Please, Mark—it’s Granny. Don’t leave me alone!”

Jessica skidded to a halt. Everyone she’d met tonight had those blank eyes. Maybe the old woman was trapped too. Maybe together they could figure it out. She doubled back.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

“My grandson Mark—he stormed out. Night’s not safe. I have to find him before the others do.”

“I’m heading to the next street. If I see him, I’ll send him back. Stay here.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Jessica rounded the corner and spotted a figure ahead. “Mark?”

The silhouette turned—early twenties, lost expression. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Jessica. Your grandma’s looking for you, two streets back.”

“I’m new here—got turned around. Can you walk me?”

“Sure.”

They retraced her steps. Fog rolled in, swallowing buildings. Streetlights dimmed to candle glow. A wooden bridge appeared ahead, arching over black water that hadn’t existed minutes ago. Jessica stopped.

“This is wrong.”

“Why? Feels like home,” the young man said.

She looked at him—and saw the handsome stranger again. Same dark eyes, same half-smile. He raised a finger to her lips; her scream cut off mid-breath.

“I told you not to step back.”

She woke gasping, sheets twisted, alarm clock blinking 2:00 a.m.

Is Dream A Reality

Jessica woke up with her heart beating like a drum. She knew that wasn't a natural dream, and she had a premonition that something bad is about to happen, but what, she can't put her hand in it. She lay there in the bed not daring to stand up; she had read a book titled The Dead Don't Rest by Douye Soroh.

She know it was all fiction, but she wonder if he was right about the mirror stuff. She wonder if she look in the mirror, would she see a ghost? Does the mirror show the other side? She lay there thinking and trying to dare if she could look into the mirror. She had read where he said the dead are restless and they envy the living; she hadn't offend anyone, and she don't want the dead to envy her.

She take a peek at the mirror and avert her eyes. "Silly me," she mutter, "I'm getting paranoid from a story I read online."

The Visitor

She was just about to force herself back into sleep when she notice the mist. At first, she thought her eyes is playing trick on her. She thought it was the lighting flashing from the street lamp, but no—the street lamp is yellow, this one is gray. She shift so she could better see if it was just her imagination, but no, it wasn't. She could see the mist now getting thicker and she look at the time. It is now 3 AM, and she remembers the dead always visit by that time, according to the author in the book The Dead Don't Rest.

She watch as a hand materialize from the mirror, gropping about until it hold the edge, then a leg appears. She could see it was made of mist with claw as long as her middle finger. She sat upright and try to bolt from the room, and then she find out she couldn't move again. She remembers the author had said always keep salt near you; the spirit are afraid of salt.

She sat there immoveable, breathing hard, as the full body of the ghost or person, she can't say, pop out. She saw no eyes in the face but just an hollow hole and a jaw with rotten teeth.

"You Have Been Chosen," the ghost or spirit rasp.

"Chosen by whom?" She finally find her voice.

The thing move slowly toward her. She could see how it struggle like it had never walk for a long time. She saw a few things falling from the body and shudder as one of such things land on the foot of her bed.

"I'm just a messenger sent to pass a message to you, daughter of the trouble maker."

"What do you mean?"

"Here is your message," the thing said. "Your grandfather was the one who banished me and send me to hell. We were good friends, but he betray me and took everything from me. I wait, I remember as I suffer, and now you Have Been Chosen to pay the price."

She sat there stunned. How can they chose her? She hadn't meet her grandfather, and he has sons who bear him grand children apart from her father—why she?

"I can't accept the message," she said. "This most be a mistake."

"There is no mistake. I could smell the blood of the trouble maker on you," the thing said.

"I'm not his only grandchild," she said.

"That maybe so," the thing said, "but I was sent to mark you."

And the thing use a claw finger made of mist to draw a straight line on her palm. It was hot and burning and she was screaming as she raise her head up. She could see what looks like a grin on the face of the thing or spirit, she couldn't tell. She watch as the line fade and a gray line appear on her palm. And as she sat there baffle on what was happening, the thing return back to the mirror and vanish inside.

The Shattered Mirror

The first thing Jassoca did when the sunlight hit her window was to use a hammer to shatter her mirror. She remembered what she had read in the online story The Dead Don't Rest by Douye Soroh. He had claimed the mirror is like a monitoring device the dead used to watch over the living. The mirror is like a veil between two worlds and she didn't want anything to do with it. She cried as she saw the mark on her hand. What had she done to deserve such a thing? No, this is not what she wanted in life. She couldn't stay there alone.

She stood up and moved to her closet and started packing clothes into a box. She needed to get to her family home to unravel this mystery. She had done nothing to warrant such visitors.

The Empty Kitchen

An aroma of scrambled eggs wafted through her window. She inhaled and her mouth watered. She dropped her box on top of her bed and entered her kitchen to make breakfast.

"I can't face the day hungry. I need my strength to move on."

Her kitchen was empty except for coffee and a box of cereal. She remembered stuffing the pantry and buying groceries. How come everything is gone? She paused in her coffee making and took a look at her cupboard, hoping she had mistaken, but no. There was nothing there — just a note that read: YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.

She shuddered and backed out of the kitchen, forgetting her coffee.

"No, I can't wait any more," she thought as 

she carried her box and ran out of the house.

The Cursed Journey

It was a sunny Saturday morning. You could smell the fresh weed on the lawn that had been mowed and stuffed in the corner waiting to be packed to the bin. You could hear the twittering of birds as they sang and hopped from tree to tree, and you could hear the kids laughing and playing with water guns as their parents shouted and raised fists at them for the disturbance.

She watched all this as she walked to the end of her street, hoping to see a cab. But it seemed like every cab was occupied. The ones she tried to stop always developed a fault when she entered, and when she got out, the cab would start just fine. This scenario kept playing for about five cabs. The way the drivers looked at her made her wonder what was going through their minds as they sped off. One even did the sign of the cross at her before he sped off.

"What is really going on?" she asked herself. This was really getting out of hand — from a bad night to a worse morning.

The Bird's Message

She kept walking along the road, dragging her box. She thought, Even if I have to trek, I will, and nothing can stop me. She walked on, entering the highway, watching the cars speed by. No matter how she raised her hand to hail any, none stopped. She grew tired, sweaty, and hungry. She saw a tree by the roadside and dragged her box toward it. Panting, with her throat dry, she sat down, resting her head on the tree. She could feel the rough bark biting at her skull. She was too tired to even adjust her head.

Then something soft hit her forehead. She woke up, not remembering when she had fallen asleep. She raised her hand to her forehead. The thing seemed sticky. She brought it down to her nose and smelled it. When the smell hit her, she gagged. Her eyes opened wide and she spat out. Looking up, she saw a big eagle sitting on a branch with a sealed envelope in its beak. It dropped the envelope at her and flew away.

"What crime have I committed that a bird will wake me with its defecation?"

She pulled out a sock from her box and wiped her hand, then opened the sealed envelope and read:

Dear Jassica,

I'm sorry I can't help you, because I'm a prisoner. You can survive this if you pull off your shoe and walk barefoot, and when you hail a ride, stand on your toes. The dropping from the bird is part of a protection, but you are on your own when you reach your destination.

The Trapped Soul.

Jassoca read the note about three times before she stood up.

"Who is this trapped soul?" she wondered. What sort of things is going on? I have really had a bad night and now I'm having a bad day, all for reasons I know nothing about.

The Strange Ride

She shook her head as she started pulling off her shoes. When she was done, she stuffed them in her box, then dragged the box to the road. As she stood on her toes with a raised hand hailing a ride, a car stopped by just like that. The window slid down. An old man with skin as wrinkled as squeezed paper, piercing black eyes, hair as dark as midnight with no hint of grey, and a perfect set of white teeth peeked out and said, “Hop in.”

She nervously looked right and left of the road, not sure what was going on, but she eventually entered. As soon as she sat down, the man put the car into motion.

"Name is Fred," the man said. "I'm at your service."

"Eh... I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I'm grateful for the ride and all, but I want to know why you stopped?"

"I thought after knowing my name, you will tell me yours. That is how conversation starts," the man said.

"I will tell you if you tell me why you stopped," she said.

"It is not a big deal. There is a sun shining on your forehead. It is a sort of beacon for people like me to render help when we see it."

"People like you? I don't understand," she said.

"I have answered your question. The deal is for you to tell me your name."

She paused, weighing the man, and after a few minutes of silence, she said, "Jessica."

"Nice to meet you, Jessica."

"And this beacon you were talking about?" she asked him.

"I'm one of the people of the Infinite Man, and you have the sign of him on your forehead."

"Infinite Man? Never heard of him before. And where is he?"

"I don't know," the man admitted, "but I can't stop hoping that one day he will come. Seeing the beacon on you just made my hope stronger."

Moral of the Story

This story is part fiction and part reality. I wrote this story to educate the general public that curses are real and that generational curses are also real. As you can see in this story, Jessica is the one the spirit chose to pay the price — not her father, nor her mother, but her. The Bible even says the consequences can last till the fourth or fifth generation. We need to understand that our actions have consequences, and we must tread the path of honesty, loyalty, and faithfulness. We may think we are having fun doing the evil we commit, but know this: those we commit evil against will curse our children, and they will be the ones to pay the price. I hope this story opens your eyes to mind your actions and live an honest life.

Outro:

Jessica sat in the dark with a gray line burned into her palm and no way to remove it. Her grandfather's enemy had found her — not because she had done anything wrong, but because blood remembers. Some inheritances are not money or land. Some are debts, and the dead are the most patient collectors of all.

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