The Other List

Written by: Kaidon (25-I1)

Designed by: Avelyn (25-A2)

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No one noticed when the list stopped being made.

That was the problem.

For generations, the idea had been comforting in its simplicity: be good, be rewarded; be bad, be punished. Coal instead of toys. A lesson, not a sentence. Parents used it as leverage. Children pretended not to believe while secretly hoping it was true.

But belief is a fragile thing. It decays when it’s left unattended.

In the town of Miller’s Creek, December arrived the way it always did - quietly and late. The cold crept in before the winter. Most winters, the snow never even came at all. Christmas lights still went up along the main streets, but they felt more like a habit than hope. People did things because they were supposed to, not because they believed in them.

That year, belief failed first.

The first child went missing on a Monday.

His name was Ben Carter, seven years old, second grade. He walked home every day. It was a ten-minute route past the bakery, across the creek bridge, and down Cedar Lane. His mother usually watched him from the porch until he turned the corner.

That afternoon, he never did.

There was no shouting. No sign of a struggle. His backpack was found later, dry and neatly placed against a fence post, like someone had set it down carefully and stepped away.

The police said it was too early to assume anything.

By Thursday, it wasn’t.

——————————————————————————————————

Luke Harris didn’t believe in Santa Claus.

He hadn’t since he was eight and caught his father dragging a trash bag of presents out of the trunk at two in the morning, swearing under his breath because the neighbors’ lights were still on. Luke remembered standing at the top of the stairs, realizing not just that Santa wasn’t real, but that the adults had agreed to lie about it.

That stuck with him more than it should have.

At seventeen, Luke trusted explanations. If something happened, someone caused it. Mystery was just ignorance waiting to be corrected.

When the second child vanished—a girl from Oak Street named Chloe Lee — Luke was in his room, half-studying, half-listening to the local news on his phone. His screen lit up with messages.

Tom: another one

Sarah: cops are at oak street

Tom: people saying it’s not random

Luke: nothing is random

What they didn’t say, at least not yet, was why the police had blocked off the rooftops.

——————————————————————————————————

Sarah Kim noticed the footprints first.

She was the kind of person who noticed things by accident and remembered them on purpose. She’d grown up listening to her grandmother’s stories—old warnings disguised as fairy tales. Don’t go out at night. Don’t answer when you hear your name. Don’t assume something is friendly just because it smiles.

Sarah still believed in Santa Claus.

Not in the way that kids did. In the way people believe in storms or gravity. Something old.

Something with rules.

She took a photo before the police told everyone to put their phones away.

The prints ran along the edge of the roof above Chloe’s bedroom window. Not boots. Not bare feet. Wide, shallow impressions pressed into old shingles, like whatever made them was heavier than it should have been.

There was no snow.

She took a photo before an officer noticed and told her to put her phone away.

——————————————————————————————————

Tom Reyes had grown up three houses down from Luke. They’d known each other long enough that conversation didn’t require effort. Tom was practical to the point of irritation—good with numbers, bad with uncertainty. He worked part-time at his uncle’s garage and believed most problems could be solved if you looked at them long enough.

This one bothered him because it didn’t behave.

——————————————————————————————————

That night, Sarah sent the photo to Luke and Tom.

They ended up in his basement later that night, without planning it, the way people do when no one wants to be alone. The overhead light stayed off. The television upstairs muttered through the floor, a steady loop of concern and reassurance that didn’t convince anyone.

Tom paced, phone in hand, scrolling until his thumb slowed.

“This is getting out of hand,” he said. “People online are losing it. Every shadow’s a suspect now.”

Sarah sat on the arm of the couch, still holding her phone. “They’re not wrong about everything.”

Tom stopped. “You really think this is something other than a person?”

Luke hesitated. “It has to be a person.”

“Then explain the roof,” Sarah said.

“No snow,” Tom replied. “Bad lighting. Someone climbed up.”

“You don’t climb like that,” she said. “And you don’t leave marks shaped like those.”

Luke looked at her. “So what are you saying?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She unlocked her phone and passed it to him again, this time zoomed in tighter.

The red caught the eye first. Too dark. Too dense.

“That was at the edge of the creek,” Sarah said. “On a branch that wasn’t broken yesterday.”

Tom frowned. “Fabric tears like that all the time.”

“Not like this,” she said. “It wasn’t pulled. It was brushed.”

Luke swallowed. The fibers looked thick, layered, like something made to keep heat in rather than look good.

“The police told me to delete it,” Sarah added. “They said it would make people panic.”

“And did you?” Tom asked.

“No.”

Silence settled between them.

Luke leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “There are older versions of the story,” he said finally, surprising himself. “Before it was… cleaned up.”

Sarah looked at him, sharp and steady. “Exactly.”

Tom let out a breath. “You’re both insane.”

“Maybe,” Sarah said. “But something’s using rules we stopped paying attention to.”

Luke didn’t argue.

The image of the fabric stayed with him. Not the color. The weight of it.

Like whoever wore it didn’t need to run.

——————————————————————————————————

By the third disappearance, Miller’s Creek stopped pretending.

Parents started worrying out loud before the authorities did.

It began with small changes. Children were walked to bus stops that used to be safe. After-school programmes doubled down on their sign-out rules. Playground swings sat empty by mid-afternoon, chains clinking softly in the wind.

Nobody let their kids play outside after dark. The woods beside the creek - normally used for dog walks and shortcuts - emptied completely.

By the weekend, parents were taking turns sitting in parked cars outside school, engines idling, eyes fixed on doors. Hardware stores ran out of motion sensor activated lights and padlocks. Forums were created and maps marking the children' s last known locations but were quickly taken down following disputes online.

The police issued reassurances. They asked people not to speculate and to remain calm.

Parents stopped listening. 

Luke noticed it at the grocery store. A woman snapped at her son for stepping one aisle too far. A man stood at the entrance longer than necessary, scanning faces like he was counting them. Conversations cut off when children entered the room.

No one said what they were doing.

But everyone was doing the math.

—————————————————————————————————

The task force arrived on a Tuesday morning.

A task force arrived from the county and then the state. Unmarked cars lined the main streets. 

The woods beside the creek were cordoned off completely. Drones buzzed low over the trees at night. Dogs tracked scents that stopped suddenly, confused.

They called it a coordinated search operation.

Parents called it too late.

The official word: a highly mobile suspect.

Unofficially, people noticed how often the search team paused near rooftops.

——————————————————————————————————

Luke noticed Mr Grindle two days later.

The man stood at the edge of Elm Street, near a narrow house that always smelled faintly of pine, when you walked past. He wore a long green coat, fur-lined and heavy, its hem frayed and patched like it had been repaired many times.

He wasn’t watching the police.

He was watching the woods.

Luke slowed his bike as he passed.

“You’re counting,” Mr Grindle said.

Luke stopped. “What?”

”Days,” he replied. “Everyone does at first.”

Luke frowned. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the man said. “But I know what you’re looking at.”

He turned back towards the trees.

——————————————————————————————————

Two days before Christmas, twenty-three children in total were now reported missing.

Throughout the town, there was screaming.

A mother’s voice, raw and tearing through the quiet evening, carrying down the street until doors opened and people spilled out onto porches. The police arrived quickly. Too quickly.

Luke didn’t sleep that night. 

At 1.12am, he heard a bell.

Not rhythmic. Not cheerful.

He darted to the window. At the edge of the trees, a tall shape, broader than any man he knew. Red cloth hung from it, darkened with age, the fur lining catching what little light was left.

It stopped. Slowly. Deliberately. It looked up.

Luke stumbled back. When he looked up again, the trees were empty. The bell did not ring again.

——————————————————————————————————

The next morning, on Christmas Eve, Luke decided he needed answers. He grabbed his coat and headed towards Mr Grindle’s house, the narrow, pine-scented place at the edge of Elm Street that everyone whispered about but no one visited. Halfway there, he sent a quick text to Sarah and Tom:

“I’m going to see Mr Grindle. Come if you want to understand.”

A few minutes later, they arrived, jogging up the street with worried expressions. Sarah’s eyes were sharp, Tom’s arms crossed, disbelief written across his face.

Luke knocked. The door creaked open before he could step back.

“Step inside only if you’re ready to see,” a deep voice said.

They stepped inside together. The house smelled strongly of pine and something sharper beneath it. Old books lined the walls, their spines cracked. Handwritten journals were stacked on every surface.

Mr Grindle didn’t sit.“There used to be two of us,” he said. “One in red. One in green.”Luke’s stomach dropped. “You mean—”“I’m saying the stories changed,” Mr Grindle said. “But the work didn’t.”He met Luke’s eyes. “He’s making a different list now.”

Mr Grindle gestured toward the edge of town. “The mill,” he said quietly. “That’s where he’ll be tonight. Watch the shadows, the rooftops, the creek paths. They tell the story.”

Mr Grindle pushed the maps and journals aside, letting the room fall silent. The smell of pine and old paper hung thick in the air.

Luke ran a hand over his face. “So… we just watch him?”

Sarah shook her head, eyes sharp. “We don’t just watch. We follow. We see where he goes. We can’t let another child disappear without knowing why.”

Tom leaned against the wall, jaw tight. “This is insane. We’re not equipped to—”

“You’re equipped with knowledge,” Mr Grindle interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “The rules are older than you can imagine. You will not stop him, but you can witness, and you can remember. That matters more than strength.”

Luke swallowed. “So we go to the mill tonight?”

Mr Grindle nodded. “Yes. But stay together. Watch the paths, the shadows. He moves carefully. The list is alive in his hands.”

Sarah exhaled, fingers curling around her phone. “Then let’s go. If we hesitate, it’s too late.”

Tom hesitated a moment longer, then finally nodded. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Mr Grindle watched them gather their jackets. “Remember,” he said as they reached the door, “what you see there will change what you know forever.”

And with that, the three of them stepped into the cold brightening morning, preparing for their confrontation at the mill that night.

——————————————————————————————————

The mill loomed at the edge of town, its broken windows and rusted machinery sharp against the fading sunlight. Shadows clung to every corner, long and jagged even under the fading sun. The wind whispered through cracks in the walls, carrying a faint echo of the hollow bell Luke had heard two nights before.

They entered cautiously, flashlights sweeping over the dusty floor. And there he was—the red figure. Broad, tall, the heavy, fur-lined coat dragging slightly across the ground. Wooden dolls lay before him, each carved with a child’s name, arranged as if in careful order.

Luke swallowed and stepped forward. “Stop! What are you doing with them?!”

The figure turned slowly, his movements deliberate and unnervingly calm. “Remembering,” he said. “What is owed.”

A faint glow appeared behind him. Anya, one of the missing children, stood just out of reach, tugging at his coat, whispering her name. He ignored her completely, methodical in his actions.

Sarah’s voice rang out sharply. “These are children! They’re not—” She stopped, hands clenching around her flashlight. “—toys!” She moved closer to the dolls, her fear overridden by anger.

Tom squared his shoulders, stepping in front of her. “We can’t let you do this,” he said, voice steady. “Think about what you’re doing. These are kids, not… choices!”

The red figure tilted his head, studying them. Then he picked up a doll, raising it into the

light. “They are choices,” he said, hollow and low. “Ignored. Forgotten. Unfinished. That is the cost of disbelief.”

Luke’s pulse pounded. “We know the rules! Stop this now!”

Tom lunged, grabbing a loose piece of pipe from the floor. “Back off!” he shouted. Sarah followed, shouting, throwing her weight into a swing at one of the dolls, trying to break the ritual.

For a heartbeat, the red figure paused, letting their voices and movements wash over him. Then a single, hollow bell rang—deep, echoing, and chilling. The wind seemed to shift, carrying the sound through every corner of the mill. Shadows stretched unnaturally, warning them to stop.

The red figure seemed to grow taller, the fur-lined coat shifting in a way that made it look almost alive, swallowing the light around him. His shoulders broadened, the silhouette sharp and jagged, as if the morning sun itself feared to touch him. The pale eyes glinted like ice, cold and unblinking, scanning the three teenagers with an unsettling awareness that went beyond human comprehension. Each movement was deliberate, a predator’s precision, and the air around him seemed heavier, almost resisting their steps forward. They felt the menace of a being older than whatever stories they had ever been told, older than the town, older than the rules themselves, and it made the blood in their veins run cold.

The red figure’s presence filled the mill, suffocating in its intensity. Every shadow seemed to bend toward him, every sound swallowed in the heavy air. Luke’s stomach knotted, and even Tom, usually so grounded, felt the edge of panic rise. Sarah’s hands trembled around her flashlight, the beam flickering over the darkened machinery and scattered dolls.

And then, from the shadows of the doorway, movement. A presence unlike anything they had felt before filled the room. Mr Grindle stepped forward, his green coat sweeping the floor, brushing aside dust and shadow alike. The aura around him was undeniable—older, stronger, and impossibly vast compared to the quiet man they had met at his Elm Street house. The red figure stiffened, momentarily halted, as if recognizing a force equal to his own, something that could challenge him.

Mr Grindle’s voice cut through the heavy air, calm yet commanding. “Enough.”

The sound reverberated through the mill, vibrating off rusted machinery and broken windows. Even the dolls seemed to tremble under the weight of his authority. The red figure’s posture faltered, its pale eyes flicking toward Mr Grindle with something almost like annoyance and the faintest bit of caution.

Luke, Sarah, and Tom felt the room shift around them, the air itself acknowledging Mr Grindle’s presence. Sarah’s hand tightened around her flashlight; Tom’s jaw was set, but he didn’t move. Even Anya froze, sensing the power radiating from the man in green.

“You will not touch them,” Mr Grindle said, his voice low, resonant, carrying through the beams and rusted machinery. “Not today, not ever.”

The red figure responded with a hollow, rasping laugh, tilting his head. “Rules? What are rules to the one who makes his own?”

Mr Grindle stepped closer, every movement deliberate, weightless yet powerful, as if gravity itself obeyed him. “I am the equal of what you are. I am the balance. The children are not yours to take.”

The red figure’s shoulders broadened, the coat shifting like it had a will of its own, shadows crawling up his limbs. For a heartbeat, they were two forces facing one another, old as belief itself. Luke, Sarah, and Tom could feel it pressing down on them—the heat and cold, the immense pressure of two beings older than time, staring each other down.

For a long moment, the red figure said nothing. Shadows clung to him, twisting unnaturally, but he did not advance. Then, with a movement slow and deliberate, he stepped back toward the edge of the mill, melting into the darkened corners as if the evening sun itself could not touch him.

Mr Grindle’s gaze swept over Luke, Sarah, and Tom, sharp and unwavering. “This ends here—for now,” he said, voice carrying the weight of centuries. “The balance will be restored, the list kept in check. You will not see him again tonight.”

Grindle stepped forward, placing a firm, steady hand on Anya’s shoulder. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and without a word, he took her hand. A soft, almost imperceptible shimmer of green light spiraled around them. When it faded, she was gone—vanished, safe, taken somewhere beyond the reach of the red figure. Luke, Sarah, and Tom were left staring at the empty space, the dolls settled, the air heavy with the echo of authority and something ancient that had just passed through.

He moved toward the dolls, touching each one briefly. Where his hands passed, they seemed to settle, shifting slightly, as if returning to a rightful place. “Remember what you have witnessed. Forgetting is dangerous. The rules are older than any of us, and they do not forgive ignorance.”

Then, without another word, Grindle shifted. One moment he stood solid and immense; the next, he seemed to dissolve into the shadows, leaving only the faint scent of pine and old paper in his wake. The red figure was gone, the mill quiet, but the memory of both beings—the predator and the guardian—pressed on them like a weight they could not shake.

Outside, the moonlight felt pale and brittle, and the wind carried a faint echo of the hollow bell. Luke, Sarah, and Tom exchanged glances, each understanding the unspoken command: remember, always remember.

——————————————————————————————————

When Luke reached his front porch, the morning light was pale and brittle. It was Christmas morning. He fumbled with the key, his hands still trembling from the mill. The street was quiet—too quiet—but he didn’t notice.

At the edge of the porch, a small, blackened lump rested against the doormat. He froze. Coal. Not a warning, not a gift, but a statement. The weight of it felt heavier than it should.

He bent down, touching it lightly. Cold. Hard. A reminder. Somewhere out there, the red figure waited. Somewhere out there, the list still existed, rewritten, waiting for failure.

Sarah and Tom arrived moments later, breath visible in the crisp morning air. Sarah’s eyes were wide, still haunted. Tom said nothing, just nodded toward the coal.

“We didn’t stop him,” Luke said finally, voice low.“No,” Sarah agreed. “But we saw. We know.”Tom knelt briefly, studying the blackened lump. “And that… counts,” he said. “At least for now.”

They stayed for a few more moments, staring down the street, imagining the rooftops, the shadows, the trees beside the creek. Then, reluctantly, they turned and walked their separate ways, toward parents and children who would never truly understand what had brushed so close to their lives.

——————————————————————————————————

Miller’s Creek eventually returned to a fragile semblance of normal. The missing children were never fully explained; some returned dazed and silent from the mill including Anya, speaking little of where they’d been. Others were never seen again.

Parents kept a tighter hold on their children, doors stayed locked, and lights burned long into the night. The task force left, leaving only whispers of what they had chased.

Luke, Sarah, and Tom never spoke openly of what they had witnessed. They remembered the rules, the dolls, the red figure, and Mr Grindle’s quiet command. And every year, as December crept into town, they watched.

Mr. Grindle’s house on Elm Street was left empty. Windows dark, doors closed, and a faint scent of pine and old paper lingered in the air, but the man himself was gone, vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared.

On Luke’s porch, coal sometimes appeared again—black, cold, and perfectly placed. A reminder that the list never truly ends. That belief, when it fades, has consequences older than anyone alive.

And somewhere, in the shadowed edges of Miller’s Creek, the red figure waited, patient and deliberate, watching the rules, waiting for the next mistake.