“Be good!” Mum warns. “Or you’ll get nothing for Christmas!”
The twins ignore her threats. Especially when they notice the huge gift beneath the tree, which rattles enticingly when they investigate. Mum’s busy with endless last-minute preparations, so they sneak the bright wrapping off and open the box.
There’s Nothing inside.
Nothing surges out in a glutinous, inky cloud—enveloping their heads, clogging mouths and nostrils, smothering the frantic screams as eyes melt and faces dissolve. They writhe in helpless agony as it oozes down their bodies: consuming skin, liquefying flesh, digesting bones.
When Mum looks in, there’s Nothing left.
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alt="Lost in Transit by Nissa Harlow"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Postmarked Tomorrow by Rod A. White"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Piecing it Together by Weird Wilkins"
class="motion-reduce"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Vanished by T.J. Gallasch"
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>