Trial Log: Subject ██-███ Recording 12:06 a.m.

“Oh, sugarplum, look at this mess!”

The snow machine’s been smashed—faux flurries choking the vents like dust in a dying throat—and the emergency lights flicker red and green. A wreath burns slowly in the hallway, plastic holly curling inward.

You run. Not toward salvation, just away.

There’s a shadow in the hall.

And in it—Mother Gooseberry. Wearing red velvet and an apron printed with reindeer. Glitter flakes off her gloves like dandruff. Her hair’s curled into perfect golden ringlets and tied with crooked bows.

She’s so close you can hear the wrapping paper crinkle under her boots as she sings softly, though off-key.

“I saw Mommy gutting Santa Claus…”

Her heels click through the gift-wrapped carnage, past mutilated mannequins in elf costumes and candy canes jammed into their eye sockets.

Dr. Futterman, decked out in a dressed in a little Santa suit. In the other: a sack. Something inside it squirms.

“We made you a present, pudding cup!” she chirps. “It wriggled at first, but daddy said he stitched it up real nice.”

She throws the sack down the hall, as it leaves a red trail behind it.

You scramble backward, but she’s already behind you.

“Oh, how I love giving!” she grabs you by your collar yanking you up.