The House on Maple Grove
I smiled awkwardly. “You’re joking like that again. It’s not funny, Claire.”
But she didn’t laugh.
She just looked at me with those distant eyes and said, quietly, “Go upstairs if you don’t believe me.”
I waited for her to smile again, to say of course she’s sleeping, but she didn’t.
Something in me refused to accept it.
I turned and ran up the stairs two at a time.
“Lily!” I shouted. “Daddy’s home!”
The door to her room was slightly open, her favorite snow-fairy stickers still on it.
I pushed it gently. The smell of lavender shampoo hit me first — faint, lingering.
Inside, everything was the same. The stuffed animals sat neatly on her bed. Her drawings still covered the wall: snowmen, dogs, one of me holding her hand.
But the air was cold. Too cold.
I touched her pillow. It was icy.
Then I saw it: a framed photo on her nightstand — me, Claire, and Lily at last year’s Christmas fair. Someone had draped a small black ribbon over the corner of the frame.
I froze.
From downstairs, I heard the sound of silverware clinking.
Claire setting the table, like nothing was wrong.
1. The Dinner
When I came down, she had already served dinner. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, wine.
Two plates.
“Why two?” I asked hoarsely.
She looked up. “One for you, one for me.”
“And Lily?”
She hesitated. “She won’t be joining us.”
My voice cracked. “Stop this. What kind of sick game is this, Claire? I talked to her before I left Alaska — you both waved me goodbye. I have the video!”
I pulled out my phone, scrolling furiously through the gallery, but the screen showed “No recent videos found.”
“What the hell…” I whispered.
Claire set down her fork. “Please sit. Eat something. You’ve had a long trip.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to see my daughter.”
Her eyes glistened. “She’s everywhere, Daniel. You just have to listen.”
At that moment, a faint giggle echoed from the hallway.
A child’s giggle.
High-pitched. Familiar.
I dropped my phone. “Lily?”
Claire didn’t move. She just whispered, “She’s happy when you’re home.”
2. The Laughter in the Walls
I followed the sound down the corridor. It came from the guest room — the one we used for storage.
The door creaked as I opened it. The room was dark except for the blinking lights of an old snow globe on the shelf.
The globe was playing its tune — Silent Night — though no one had wound it.
I picked it up. The tiny plastic girl inside looked eerily like Lily, spinning under falling flakes.
Behind me, Claire said softly, “You shouldn’t disturb her things.”
I turned. “What’s going on here? Why are you—”
She stepped closer. “You left. You left us for six months in that frozen wasteland. You weren’t here when it happened. You don’t get to come back and demand answers.”
I felt dizzy. “I came back for you both. To spend Christmas together.”
Her eyes hardened. “You can’t spend Christmas with the dead.”
3. The Grave
I don’t remember grabbing my coat or the car keys.
All I know is that a few minutes later, I was driving through the snowstorm, tires skidding, the wipers beating like a frantic heart.
I followed the GPS to the cemetery. Maple Grove Cemetery, two miles away.
I parked crookedly and ran between the headstones, flashlight trembling in my hand.
And then I saw it.
LILY WHITMORE
2017 – 2024
“Forever Daddy’s Little Girl.”
The snow covered most of the stone, but those words cut like glass.
My knees gave out. I screamed into the cold until my voice broke.
No one answered — only the wind and the chime of faraway bells.
Somewhere behind me, footsteps crunched.
Claire stood there, coat wrapped tight, snow in her hair.
“I didn’t want you to see it this way,” she said.
I looked up, tears freezing on my face. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why—”
“You were already breaking,” she whispered. “I thought… maybe if you stayed up there, you’d heal. You couldn’t handle losing her.”
I stared at the grave, then at her. “And you could?”
She didn’t reply. Just knelt beside me, tracing the engraved name with her glove. “She visits sometimes,” she said. “In the house. I feel her when it snows.”
4. The Recording
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in Lily’s room, staring at the empty bed.
The snow globe on the nightstand began to glow again.
Music — Silent Night — soft, steady.
I picked it up and turned it over. There was something taped to the base — a micro-SD card.
It showed the interior of a car.
Claire driving. Lily in the back seat, singing.
The date stamp: August 12 — four months ago.
Then, the screech of tires.
Claire screamed. The world flipped. Metal crunched.
The footage cut out.
I sat frozen for a long time.
Then I noticed something odd — a reflection in the rearview mirror before the crash. A truck swerving behind them… my truck.
No.
I was in Alaska.
Wasn’t I?
I opened my phone’s GPS log. The timeline for August 12 was blank.
No pings. No calls.
As if I didn’t exist that day.
5. The Memory That Slipped
Over the next few days, I felt reality slipping.
Sometimes, I’d hear Lily humming from another room.
Once, I found her small red mitten on the porch — wet, fresh, as if just dropped.
Claire spoke less and less. She barely ate. At night, I’d wake and find her talking to the empty hallway.
“She’s here,” she’d say. “Don’t make her angry.”
I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
Was I losing my mind from exhaustion?
Or was the house truly alive with something else?
I decided to call my old partner from Alaska, Rick. Maybe he’d ground me.
The call connected.
A woman’s voice answered.
“Sir, are you a relative of Daniel Whitmore?”
I froze. “This is Daniel.”
Silence. Then the woman said carefully,
“Sir, I’m calling from Anchorage General Hospital. Daniel Whitmore was involved in an accident six months ago. His truck hit black ice. He… didn’t make it.”
I laughed weakly. “That’s impossible. I’m speaking to you right now.”
She hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir. Maybe this is a prank call.”
I hung up.
The room was spinning. My hands were shaking.
Then I heard a voice behind me — small, clear, familiar:
“Daddy… you finally came home.”
6. The Truth Beneath the Snow
I turned slowly.
Lily stood in the doorway. Same red sweater, same missing front tooth.
Snowflakes clung to her hair, melting into nothing.
I couldn’t move. “Lily?”
She smiled. “You said you’d be home for Christmas.”
My heart hammered. “I am home.”
She nodded. “Mommy was sad. You both forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“That Christmas is when everyone comes home.”
Claire appeared behind her, eyes wide, tears streaming.
She looked at Lily, then at me — and whispered, trembling:
“Daniel… she’s been waiting for you.”
I stared at them both. The air felt heavy, unreal.
The window fogged with breath — mine, hers, I couldn’t tell.
And then I remembered: the crash.
The night before I “left for Alaska.”
The snowstorm. Lily’s laughter from the back seat. Claire’s scream.
I hadn’t gone to Alaska.
I’d died in that crash.
The months I thought I’d spent working up north — the frozen oil fields, the lonely phone calls — were fragments of a dream, a mind refusing to accept death.
7. Home for Christmas
Lily reached out her hand.
“Come on, Daddy. Dinner’s ready.”
Behind her, the Christmas tree shimmered brighter than before. The presents glowed softly, their ribbons moving in an unseen breeze.
Claire’s face softened, no longer pale — just peaceful.
The house was warm again.
I felt the weight of years, grief, guilt… slip away.
I took Lily’s hand.
It was cold — but steady.
She led me to the dining room.
Three plates now.
The candles burned without smoke.
Claire sat across from us, smiling through her tears. “You came back.”
“I told you I would,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Outside, the snow fell silently, covering the world in white.
8. The Morning After
When neighbors walked by Maple Grove the next morning, they noticed the lights still glowing inside the Whitmore house.
The table was set.
Three chairs pulled out.
No footprints in the snow — except three small sets leading toward the woods… then vanishing.
That evening, as the sun set, the house lit up again, though no one had connected the power. From the window, a child’s silhouette could be seen, dancing beside the tree.
And faintly — carried by the wind — came the sound of a man’s voice laughing, a woman humming, and a little girl saying:
“See, Mommy? I told you he’d be home for Christmas.”
Epilogue
Every Christmas Eve, locals say the same thing:
When the snow begins to fall and the wind blows from the north, the lights at 217 Maple Grove turn on by themselves.
No one lives there now — the house was abandoned years ago.
But if you walk close enough, you can smell roast chicken, hear Silent Night playing from somewhere deep inside, and maybe — just maybe — see a family sitting together, smiling forever in the warm glow of a holiday that never ends.
