The beginning of that evening resembled any other Christmas Eve. Shannon McMillan set out the traditional snack in her empty two room apartment for potential overnight visitors—cookies and milk. The cookies were fresh and chewy, left over from the batch she made herself. At nine o'clock, she removed the cookies from the oven, set a few aside for Santa Claus, and retired to her bedroom for the night in nothing but boy shorts to sleep in.
Much against her morals, Shannon awoke just before midnight with the intention of using the bathroom. She walked through the kitchen—that creamy glass of milk taunting her. 'I could just pour another for Santa Claus…' she thought as she closed the bathroom door behind her. 'He wouldn't mind, I'm quite thirsty after all.' Shannon was set on drinking that milk and perhaps just one cookie, but to her dismay, the glass of milk was just a glass. The milk was gone. A cookie had also vanished, leaving only a few crumbs on the counter as well as at the bottom of the glass. A cold bead of sweat trickled down her bare back, forcing a violent shiver down her spine.
That's when she heard it. The most disturbing, raspy voice of an obvious long-term smoker pervaded the room, "Thank you for the milk and cookies. That cookie hit the spot. You know what I'm hungry for now?"
Shannon froze in fear, not knowing where the voice was coming from. She stood leaning against the freezing metal of the fridge in the corner of her kitchen. Through a stuttered voice and a stream of fresh mucus flowing down her face, she replied, "You aren't Santa Claus, are you..?"
"What would give you such an idea? I drank your milk; of course I'm Santa Claus." Just then, the raspy-voiced man stepped through the dark room, into Shannon's sight. She screamed, throwing her arms up to cover herself. He certainly was no Santa Claus, but he dressed like one. His snow-white beard was obviously fake—tied on with a string, as you could see gray stubble on his skin. He didn't have the belly of Santa Claus, nor the holly-jolly plump face. His face was gaunt; his cheek bones jutting. "I have a gift for you." He held out a gift box, brilliantly wrapped in green festive paper with a red bow. It was addressed to Shannon McMillan.
Shannon refused to believe she was still awake, so she held out her arms, accepting the present. The man was intent on staring at Shannon's chest, and no where else. She untied the bow, letting it fall to the floor. She removed the gift paper, revealing a box. Shannon removed the box lid, and inside was a rope. It was a seemingly harmless rope. The man repositioned his eyes upon the box, and he asked, "What did you get?"
Shannon, confused, though still convinced she was dreaming, replied, "A rope? Why did I get a rope?" The deranged man lunged for the box, taking the rope. She let out a deathly scream as the man grabbed her, forcing her chest to the fridge. Her arms were seized and bound together with the rope. He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head away from the fridge, and with his free hand, he opened the freezer, and simultaneously shoved her head in.
He slammed that freezer countless times. Scream after scream muffled by that freezer. Shannon became quiet and limp. Frozen blood covered her face as she fell to the floor. He kicked her body aside, opened the fridge, and took in the majority of the milk in massive gulps. As she lay, he poured the rest on her figure. Before leaving the home, using her blood, he wrote on the kitchen wall: "Merry Christmas, Shannon. I love you."