Based on true events.

A scary Christmas story!

The room shimmered with opulence, a vision of Christmas splendour that seemed plucked from the pages of a fairy tale. Every detail of the long oak table was meticulously crafted: tiny ceramic Santas nestled among golden wreaths, miniature merry-go-rounds spun in delicate circles, and snow globes glittered, their flurries swirling with every gentle shake. Silverware gleamed beside crystal glasses, and champagne bubbled endlessly, its golden hue refracting the glow of countless candles. The entire scene was enchanting, almost too perfect, as if reality had been polished into something surreal.

I sat at the edge of the table, my heart still racing from the thrill of being invited to this grand manor. I had met her—our host—only two weeks prior, at another party. She was unforgettable: a woman in her late nineties who defied the passage of time. Her skin was smooth, her hair lustrous, her movements elegant as a dancer’s. Her Viennese accent, lilting and precise, seemed to wrap itself around every word she spoke, making even mundane observations sound like proclamations of ancient wisdom.

"Darling, zis life," she had said that night, clutching a crystal flute of champagne. "It is not always easy eating from a golden spoon."

She had laughed, and everyone around her had laughed too. She attracted people like moths to a flame, and I was no exception. When she invited me to her manor, I couldn’t say no.

Now, seated at her table with ten other strangers, I felt a pang of unease beneath the dazzling surface. Everyone seemed too perfect. The men’s silk suits shimmered under the chandelier, their smiles flawless and identical. The women’s features were unnaturally symmetrical, their faces masks of ageless beauty. They spoke of surgeons with the same casual reverence one might reserve for Michelin-starred chefs.

“Dr. Klein for the chin, of course,” one woman said, her lips barely moving. “But for the eyes? Only Dr. Renault.”

“And for the heart?” murmured a man across from her, his voice smooth as velvet. "Well, that's where it gets tricky."

Their laughter was soft but sharp, cutting through the air like glass splinters.

The sound of crystal tapping drew our attention. Our hostess, radiant and commanding, stood at the head of the table. “The buffet is open,” she announced, her voice carrying effortlessly over the room.

We followed her into the adjoining dining hall, where another long table awaited us, this one made of transparent glass. It bore an extravagant feast: platters of glistening caviar, thinly sliced meats arranged like artwork, and vibrant salads that shimmered with droplets of oil. Every dish looked exquisite, but I hesitated. I had mentioned my vegetarianism to our hostess, but there was little here for me beyond a walnut-cabbage salad. No matter—I filled my plate and returned to the Christmas room, hoping to enjoy the evening despite my growing discomfort.

As I ate, the conversations around me grew stranger. The guests discussed beauty like it was a commodity, trading tips on procedures and results. They spoke of youth not as a fleeting stage of life but as a trophy to be claimed and preserved at any cost.

A man beside me leaned closer, his silk suit rustling as he moved. “Where did you find her?” he asked, his tone gleeful.

Our hostess’s eyes sparkled as she replied, “Darling, you know me. I am very good at finding fresh meat.”

The laughter that followed was loud and dissonant, almost hysterical. I forced a smile, but my pulse quickened. The words felt wrong, heavy with some meaning I couldn’t quite grasp.

As the evening wore on, the mood at the table shifted. An unspoken anticipation filled the air, building with every passing moment. The guests kept glancing at one another, their excitement barely contained. It wasn’t until nearly 1 a.m. that I dared to ask the question that had been gnawing at me.

“So… what’s for dessert?”

The room fell silent. Every fork and knife stopped mid-air, every eye turned toward me. Their gazes were cold, calculating, as if appraising me for the first time.

Finally, one of them spoke. “The fresh meat is ready for dessert.”

A chill ran down my spine as the meaning of their words sank in. The laughter, the comments, the unsettling way they had looked at me all night—it all fell into place. They weren’t admiring me. They were sizing me up.

My chair scraped against the floor as I stood, but no one else moved. Their smiles widened, their knives and forks gleaming in the candlelight.

I was the dessert.

In that moment, I realised the terrible truth: beauty, youth, and perfection were not merely their obsessions—they were their sustenance. And tonight, I was their offering.