“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="Disgruntled by Jim Nemeth"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Nothing for Christmas by Deborah Tapper"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="You Better Watch Out by Kristin Lennox"
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alt="Should've Mentioned Coal by Sloane"
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