Deck the Halls
With blood.
Christmas is in just a few days. The days fly by like time is moving differently.
Amara got her decorations down from the attic, even opened the lids, sifted through the tinsel and garland and stockings, then put them back in and walked away. It’s been weeks of this, she’s avoiding, pretending it won’t come if she doesn’t give it any attention.
Time moves on still, of course and she puts the holidays out of her mind, no interest in gift exchanges, barely an interest in putting up her tree but she manages that much. As she sits on her couch, watching the way the ornaments sparkle in the twinkle lights, she feels a slight pang of missing out on some festivities she’d declined earlier.
As if by design, Amara receives a text from her ex, inviting her to attend a party at a lovely grand estate nestled in the quiet woods on the far side of town. He’s smug, and charming, and claims it’s “just for old time’s sake.” Of course she should say no, she doesn’t even like Christmas or its horrid parties, but as she sits here watching the dance of the flames in the fireplace, she does feel a bit lonely, a bit left out. Maybe this could be her chance to show her ex what he lost, too—a taste of vengeance for their sour breakup.
“Fine.” she thinks to herself and gathers her things to depart. She tucks a blade in her purse, slaps on her deepest red lipstick, adjusts her hair, and firmly secures her wit and lack of tolerance for fake holiday cheer. She’ll need it where she’s going, she thinks to herself, this place will surely be full of arrogant snobs pretending they’re better than everyone else because they have money.
“Disgusting,” she says to herself, thinking on all the rich elites she’s known in her time working for the downtown firm where she met her ex. Amara loathes those who snub others for their lack of good fortune, she can’t stand the wealthy and their pretentious attitudes. As a lover of architecture, though, she is more interested in studying the grand estate and all its lovely intricacies so she’ll brave the fakes.
The estate is hideously festive. Everywhere you look, this lovely place has absolutely vomited holiday cheer upon itself; garland and twinkle lights strewn about everywhere, everything so perfectly installed, not a bulb out of place, the softest velvet ribbons on every pole. Amara turns her nose up at how disgustingly the halls are absolutely decked with faux holiday cheer. There are carolers on the steps when she arrives, smiling their big singing smiles; there’s bubbly champagne flowing, red and green ultra-modern lighting throughout the estate. Much too much money has been put into this lavishing of fake merriment and mirth for mere appearance alone. None of these people are actually happy, and they don’t have reason to be. What they do with their lives, the decisions they make from their comfortable chairs at the top floor of the building, negatively affecting others without a care in the world; they’ve long since felt real happiness.
Just as Amara’s gearing up to remove herself from the bullshit that are these people and their fake smiles, the clocks ring their long midnight ring, and with it, Amara’s ex announces the “game.” Amara looks around at the guests who begin to laugh nervously while she listens on to what is new information to her and her alone. It seems she wasn’t given the full story with the invitation, she glares daggers at her ex as he continues speaking.
Of course this would happen. Of course he would do this. He’s always been an absolute horrible piece of shit and a liar. Why had she even agreed to come here?
Every guest is given a random “gift”: a weapon wrapped in red, velvet ribbon. The rules for the game are simple: last person standing wins.
Amara is handed a hammer. She’s panicking, thinking there’s got to be a way out of this madness.
That’s when the first body hits the floor.
The screaming, the crazed laughter, the scrambling, it’s all so loud and so quiet simultaneously as Amara grapples with what she’s just witnessed while retreating to the corner of the room, looking for a way out, trying to hold onto her survival.
She collides—literally—with Silas, a mysterious guest she’s been rather eying from across the room. He’s got a wolfish grin and blood streaking his cheek. He’s calm in a way that makes Amara unsettled, but he seems very good at not dying.
Silas offers an alliance: “You watch my back; I won’t stab yous. Deal?” and he tosses her a bloodied wooden baseball bat. Amara clutches it and reluctantly agrees, coming to terms with the conditions she finds herself in; she knows full well this will absolutely end in betrayal.
The manor becomes a glittering death trap. Ornaments are rigged to explode, Christmas lights turn into strangulation devices, and every room offers new horrific twists.
Battling their way through competitors, they dodge ambushes from the rich in their tattered suits and evening gowns. Amara and Silas outsmart the traps left and right, even occasionally pause for hilariously dark banter. Smiling warmly at one another will blood-stained grins, their strange alliance is strengthening.
It seems Silas knows more than he’s letting on however, he’s a little too good at what he’s doing, and Amara notices. She finally feels comfortable enough to question him and finds he’s actually the architect of the game, hired by her ex to make the party interesting.
Despite Silas’ role, he’s genuinely charmed by Amara’s ruthless determination—and mildly curious to see how much of his traps she can overcome. And Amara is oddly attracted to Silas, despite every single ounce of her better judgement.
Amara confronts her ex in the manor’s grand, snow-filled courtyard. He’s smug, barely disheveled, thinking he’s won. She is disgusted. Had he orchestrated all of this and then hid away to claim victory? “You’re absolute fucking scum, a goddamn monster, you know that, right?!” Amara yells to her ex.
He smiles and nods. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s always been shit.
Silas switches sides, really wanting to know just how far Amara will go, seeing the fire in her eyes, hearing the rawness in how she speaks. He’s never cared for her ex much anyway, only working for him for the money and the creative freedom of the job. When the ex tells Silas he conveniently forgot to submit that last payment for his work, that’s all Silas needs. He smiles at Amara and clutches his axe a little tighter before looking back to the ex.
Together, Silas and Amara take down her ex in a chaotic, blood-splattered showdown in the now glistening red snow. Silas doesn’t take well to back-stabbing, and Amara has been secretly wanting to do this for years.
Breathing heavily, they step back and lock their gaze on one another. The last two left standing. Silas calmly with his bloodied axe, Amara with her bloodied, dented bat and trembling hands. She looks out over his shoulder at the driveway, where she could escape, avoiding any ill-fate for Silas or herself.
Smiling darkly, Silas warmly offers her a different kind of deal: “Why run? We make a great team. We could make next year’s game.. even better.”
She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no.
Oh no, no no...
Love it!!! 😈🫦