ELF HELL - By Mikel J Chavez, 12.25.20

Sundown came early in the Arctic Circle, sliding over the snow like a warning. The workshop lanterns flickered. A hush settled over Santa’s Village, the kind that made even the wind hold its breath. Every one hundred years, the elves marked this night on secret calendars carved into ancient ice. They never spoke of it around children. They never spoke of it around humans at all.

The Night of Rebirth.

Normally, elves were cheerful, bright-eyed, and endlessly helpful. But deep in their lineage, older than Christmas itself, lived something far darker. A curse. A hunger. And every century, when the auroras shifted just the wrong shade of red, a handful of elves would revert to their ancestral form between sundown and sunup. They became twisted, sharp-toothed, fast as blizzards and cruel as winter starvation.

Santa had learned to prepare. He’d built containment halls deep beneath the reindeer stables, reinforced with blessed oak and runes old enough to predate Christmastime. Any elf who began showing signs, a tremor, a fever, pupils narrowing like a wolf’s was guided gently below until dawn. Most years, it worked. Most centuries, the damage was minimal.

But this time… something went wrong.

It started with Grindle. A sweet, tiny elf who baked gingerbread wreaths and cried during snowflake ceremonies. Just before sundown he felt a sting in his skin, like frozen needles under his fingernails. He hurried toward the containment hall, but he didn’t make it. Something in the shadows moved faster. A shape leapt from behind a toy crate. A growl. A flash of jagged teeth.

Grindle screamed.

By the time he staggered back into the main workshop, clutching his arm, the bite had already begun its work. His eyes darkened. His smile cracked. When he lifted his head, his voice came out as a broken hiss.

Too late.

He attacked the nearest elf. A scratch was all it took. A bite was worse. Within minutes two elves had turned. Then four. Then twelve.

Santa’s emergency bells rang, echoing through the frozen rafters. Workers scrambled, dragging barricades, locking doors, herding reindeer into safety pens. Mrs. Claus shouted orders as she pushed trembling elves toward escape tunnels. But the turned ones moved like shadows that cut back. They climbed the walls. They broke through wooden beams with unnatural strength.

Containment had failed.

By moonrise, the entire north end of the village was lost. Sleighs smashed. Candy-cane lamp posts bent like twisted ribs. Laughter replaced with shrieks that didn’t sound entirely elven anymore. The infection spread faster than Santa had ever seen. Almost half the workshop was prowling on all fours, hunting anything that still breathed.

And Christmas Eve was one night away.

In the center of the chaos, Santa stood in the snow, shoulders shaking—not from fear, but from heartbreak. These were his elves. His family. He’d raised them, worked beside them, sung with them through centuries of joy. Watching them become monsters tore him apart.

But Santa Claus did not quit. Not even in hell.

He marched into the storm, boots thudding like war drums. From his coat he drew the ancient staff he kept hidden from the world, a staff carved from the World Tree itself, etched with runes that glowed icy blue. With every step, the air trembled.

Santa spoke one word.

A word older than Christmas. Older than elves. A word that cracked the sky with light.

The aurora above erupted. Green and white flames spilled across the darkness, pouring down like celestial snow. It washed over the village, sweeping through the shadows, blistering against the howls of the turned elves. They screeched as the magic hit them. Their limbs twisted. Their teeth chattered. Their dark spell buckled.

One by one, they collapsed into the snow, shaking violently.

It wasn’t enough to cure them. Not yet. But it froze the transformation kept them in a kind of suspended twilight. Not monsters, but not fully themselves either. It bought Santa time.

Dawn broke.

As the first line of sun crept over the horizon, the elves gasped and convulsed. Their features softened. Their eyes turned warm again. Those who hadn’t been infected emerged from hiding, rushing toward their fallen friends with blankets and cocoa and terrified relief.

By full daylight, the curse was gone.

By afternoon, the workshop was buzzing again, cleaning, repairing, rebuilding. Santa worked beside them, slower than usual, more solemn, but steady. He wouldn’t let this century’s Rebirth stop Christmas. Not now. Not ever.

And on Christmas Eve, as the sleigh lifted into the icy sky, Santa looked down over the village, battered, scorched, but alive. The elves waved up at him, whole again, smiling as though the nightmares of the night before had melted with the morning frost.

All was well.

But somewhere deep beneath the ice, in a forgotten cavern where the auroras couldn’t reach, something stirred. A single, dark elven eye blinked open… waiting for the next century.

For the next rebirth.

For the next Elf Hell.