Mystery Under the Tree

We all know that magical feeling when you are six, or even thirteen years old, on Christmas Day. Anything is possible when you run into your living room and see that brightly lit Christmas tree with presents stacked underneath it. The colorful designs of the wrapping paper seem so alluring and make you giggle with glee.
Because then, you believe that anything can be under all those layers of wrapping paper, just waiting for you to discover it. My Christmas story is this experience, like that of any other seven year old child. Normally when you open a present on Christmas Day, you except to find something happy or positive. What I found is impossible for me to explain, even today in my late twenties. I cannot begin to comprehend it.
I woke up, earlier than usual, about 8:00 AM. I ran down the stairs in my Christmas pajamas. My dad and mom were sitting on the couch, mugs of coffee in their hands, smiling up at me. The radio was playing “Jingle Bell Rock,” like it does every year in my small town. On the kitchen counter waiting for me was a freshly baked pan of gingerbread cookies and milk. Just like the perfect Christmas I experienced every year. There was one thing, however. One thing that was different. There was a small box under the tree, roughly about the size of a box of pencils with the same appearance. This present was not wrapped in the same color wrapping paper, which made me curious. Being seven years old, I thought it was simply a “special” present, different from the rest, better.
“I wonder what’s in this one!” I said, picking up the small box. My parents, though, didn’t seem to recognize the present, almost as if they had absolutely no idea how it got underneath the tree. I rolled my eyes at them, believing that they were just pretending not to know what it was to maintain some sort of element of surprise. I took the box and peeled off the wrapping paper, but there wasn’t a present in there. There was a cardboard box with my address written on it.
It was a package. Now, I’m not talking about a package like you would see from Amazon or anything; it was a package, sent to me from an unidentified individual. Oddly enough, there was no return address anywhere on the package, which gave no clue as to who sent it to me. There were, however, in dark red pen the initials “NP” scrawled on the front in signature format. I was genuinely confused at this point, as were my parents. I took a pair of scissors and cut through the tape that sealed the sides of the box and opened it.
Inside the box was a letter. Not the sort of letter that you would expect to come in the mail; there was no envelope. It was a traditional letter with the paper folded neatly in half, a wax stamp seal keeping the letter closed. I broke the seal and opened the letter. It read as such:
Dear Timothy Pines,
I watch you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake, go to sleep tonight Timmy, and please, do not wake up, for your own sake.
Happy Holidays, S.C
I read the letter several times, trying to grasp any sort of meaning in it, but I didn’t realize something until later. I looked at the bottom of the letter and attached to it by a small piece of tape was a small razor blade. I didn’t go to sleep that night. I was hysterical; my mom and dad had to stay awake with me that night and play games with me, try to get me to calm down in any way that they possibly could. I guess perhaps we really don’t know what we’re opening that morning of every year. Now, as years go by, I look at Christmas in a completely different perspective. Happy holidays, whoever may be reading this.
I guess we really don’t know what might be awaiting us underneath those layers of wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
Category:Christmas
Category:Items/Objects