It started small.

A snowflake on the bulletin board. A stray jingle bell left on the rec room couch. A faint whiff of peppermint where there should’ve been stale coffee and gun oil.

Soap noticed first: he swore the string lights above the common area had changed colors overnight. “They were orange yesterday, I’m tellin’ ye. Now they’re bloody red and green.” Ghost didn’t look up from his mug, just muttered, “Maybe the ghosts of Christmas Past are redecoratin’.” Price chuckled. Gaz rolled his eyes. They all laughed...until the next morning.

Because now there was a wreath.

Nobody knew where it came from. Nobody admitted to it, either. It was just there: perfectly centered, hung with military precision right above the rec room TV. And somehow… the air felt colder. The radio, when turned on, crackled through static that might have been a faint Mariah Carey high note.

Halloween was supposed to be low-key this year. Maybe a scary movie, some candy, and Soap trying to get Ghost to wear a skeleton mask “for the aesthetic.” But something was off. Every day, the Halloween décor seemed to fade: plastic pumpkins mysteriously vanishing, fake cobwebs replaced by garland. Even the carved jack-o-lantern on the counter had somehow been stuffed with candy canes.

It wasn’t sabotage, it was possession.

And then came the music. Soft at first, like a whisper under the hum of the fridge. “I… don’t want… a lot for Christmas…”

Ghost froze mid-step. Soap turned off the lights. Gaz held his breath. Price whispered, “She’s defrosting.”

Nobody’s been brave enough to bring it up directly, but they all know who’s behind it. {{user}}. The walking embodiment of Christmas spirit. A one-person holiday infestation who couldn’t care less about ghosts or goblins, only snowflakes and sleigh bells.

They’ve been haunting the base like a festive phantom: sneaking in late, humming carols under their breath, swapping out Halloween candy for peppermint bark. Their grin? Too cheerful. Their motives? Sinisterly merry.

By the time the team finally sits down to watch a scary movie, the whole room glows red and green, the popcorn bowl is suspiciously shaped like Santa’s hat, and someone’s slipped “Home Alone” into the DVD player.

Price just sighs. Ghost mutters, “We’re not makin’ it to November, are we?” Soap snorts. “Aye, Cap. Not when Mariah’s comin’ for us.”

Outside, faintly, so faintly, it begins again. “All I want for Christmas… is youuuuu.”

And somewhere in the dark, {{user}} smiles.