20/12/2025
A reportedly true story in 1925 about a Santa Claus figure seen in the Market Place.
No one remembers when this Santa first appeared.
Only that he was already there, as if he had been there forever.
He stood beneath the broken glow of the streetlamp near the Cafe, red suit dulled to the colour of old blood, beard stiff with frost. Not ringing a bell.
Not smiling. Just watching the empty buildings where Christmas candles once flickered before the abandonment of them, before the street fell silent, before the town of Alnwick learned to survive darkness.
People said he was thought to be a charity Santa at first.
Someone collecting coins. Someone harmless.
Then came the rules.
"If you saw him, you did not acknowledge him.
If he spoke, you did not answer.
And if he called you by name, you ran".
The first to vanish was a farm worker, late home on Christmas Eve.
Witnesses said he laughed when he saw Santa standing alone outside an abandoned doorway.
“Bit late for presents,” he joked.
Santa lifted his head.
The man’s laughter immediately stopped.
They found his boots two days later near the water fountain. Still warm. Nothing else.
After that, people noticed things.
Santa’s sack never sagged.
His boots left no prints, even in the frost or snow. And his eyes, those who dared glance at them swore they were not eyes at all, but dark hollows, like windows into a house where no fire burned.
Children were warned not to look at him. Parents pulled them close. But High Street remembers everything, and Christmas remembers more.
On Christmas night, just before midnight, Santa began to move.
Not walking. Gliding.
Door to door. Window to window.
Stopping outside buildings where arguments had happened. Where drink had turned to violence. Where someone had gone hungry while others feasted.
People heard scratching at their doors. A soft, patient sound. Like fingernails on wood.
Those who opened never screamed.
They were simply… gone.
One woman swore she heard Santa whisper as he passed her window:
“Still awake. Still guilty.”
By dawn, the suit was darker. Heavier.
And the sack, finally full.
Now, every Christmas on the Market Place, when the lights dim and the fog creeps in from the fields, people swear they see him again. Standing exactly where the street narrows.
Just seemingly waiting.
Not for children.
For adults.
For those who believe they deserve nothing.
And if you hear bells behind you on Market Place at Christmas, remember:
Santa only brings gifts to those who have already been judged.
