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You’re lying awake on Christmas Eve, staring at the ceiling.
One question is stirring in your mind ‘Is Santa Claus fake?’
Obviously.
Think about it—some morbidly obese man breaking into billions of homes in one night? Even if magic did exist, the government would’ve snatched him up decades ago and locked him up and interrogated on how he figured out instant travel and—more concerning—how he mutated perfectly normal deer into flying abominations.
You sigh.
Another Christmas, another existential spiral.
Eventually, you close your eyes, thinking you’ll wake up to yet another Christmas of pretending to be surprised Santa ate the cookies downstairs.
And then—
KRRRRRSH—BOOM.
You jolt upright as your entire bedroom starts shaking.
Your first thought? Is this World War Three!?
You scramble to the window, heart pounding, fully expecting fire, bombs, or at least a mushroom cloud.
Instead…
A train.
A whole train.
On your street.
On the pavement.
Just rolling in like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to happen.
Naturally, you have to go outside. The air is freezing, the train is enormous, and it smells faintly of coal, peppermint and tobacco smoke.
Then the train door swings open.
Out steps a man—no.
A demon.
He’s impossibly tall and thin, dressed in a blue conductor’s uniform that fits him far too well. His hair is a violently ugly red bob, his ears are pointed, with little deer antlers alongside them.
He smiles impossibly large.
A smile that suggests he has never had good intentions.
You’ve imagined Santa’s reindeer countless times before. You never imagined they’d ever look like this.
Then a voice booms out, smooth and crackling like an old radio:
“ALL ABOARD! ALL ABOOOARD!”
You freeze as his glowing red eyes lock onto you.
“Well?” he says impatiently. “Are you planning on making me stand out here in the cold all night, or are you getting on the train?”
You stare.
This feels like a kidnapping.
Granted, a kidnapping involving a full-sized train is rather bold, so you tentatively rule that out.
“…Where?” you ask.
The demon sighs dramatically, a cigarette between his fingers. “Oh, do people not read anymore?”
He gestures to the side of the train, where the words ‘THE POLAR EXPRESS’ are painted in festive lettering.
“The North Pole,” he says. “of course."
You blink. “That’s impossible.”
“Oh, it very much isn’t,” he replies cheerfully. “Inconvenient? Absolutely. Personally, I’d much rather be heading to New Orleans—but nooo, I get stuck running this nonsense.” He clicks his tongue and continues, clearly warming to his rant. “As if that weren’t insult enough, they tried to stick me on some loud, rattling modern train.” He shudders dramatically. “Diesel. Can you imagine? Obviously, I refused. I told them steam trains only. Besides they have character. Soul. It's the proper medium for pulling trains.” He gestures broadly to the towering engine behind him. “This—this is how one pulls a train. None of that flimsy, flashy technology. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “it looks far more impressive, wouldn’t you agree?” You just blink at him, staring, unsure how to respond—or if you’re supposed to. The demon hums to himself, then produces a clipboard from seemingly nowhere and squints down at it. “…Ah. Is this you?”
You look.
It has your name.
You nod, slowly.
“Well then,” he says, tapping the clipboard. “It says here you didn’t write a letter to Santa this year. How positively rude of you.”
He clicks his tongue. “You recent children have no manners. You know, in my day, we apologized for that sort of thing. Luckily for you, this train allows a second chance. So—” he gestures grandly “—get on, or don’t.”
You hesitate.
The demon glares at you, waiting for an answer, puffing lazily on his cigarette./p> “Mon dieu! It’s absolutely freezing,” he grumbles, smoke curling from his grin. “How anyone survives in this climate is beyond me.” He flicks the ash away and straightens, clearly enjoying himself. “Now listen closely, child. Santa gets exceptionally cranky when I’m late—which is every year, without fail. A perfect record, if I do say so myself.” His grin sharpens. “One hundred years of punctual disappointment. Truly a legacy.” He leans in just enough to be unsettling. “So I suggest you decide quickly. Either you get on the train… or you don’t. I’d hate to add lingering to my list of delays.”
You take a step back.
He shrugs. “Hmm. Suit yourself”
The demon turns, steps back onto the train, and it starts moving.
Panic spikes, you decide that you must get on that train. You must find out if Santa is real.
At the last possible second, you sprint, leap, and grab the railing, barely hauling yourself aboard.
Behind you, the conductor chuckles.
“Damn,” he says. “I was hoping you’d fall. Like the last boy.”
You whirl around. “Excuse me—what?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he waves dismissively. “Anyway—Alastor.” He tips his hat. “Not really a pleasure to meet you. Please take your seat.”
You step inside.
The car is full of kids your age.
But something is off.
They are all silent.
All pale.
All staring straight ahead like they’ve already made peace with their fate.
You sit down in one of the stiff velvet seats as jazz music crackles from hidden speakers—too cheerful, too wrong for the mood in the car.
You glance around.
Every kid looks terrified. No one is talking. No one is moving.
You turn to the girl beside you and whisper, “Hey, are you… okay?”
She shakes her head immediately. “No.”
Her voice trembles. “Ju—just before we picked you up, Alastor threw a boy off the train.”
Your stomach drops. “He—what?”
“The boy said the music was boring, and requested that he play ‘Moonbeam Ice Cream’ by Benson Boone” she continues, eyes wide. “And then—” she swallows “—Alastor just… threw him off the train.”
Another kid leans in, panic spilling out of him. “Yeah, and before that, a kid lost his ticket. He got thrown off too.”
A cold uneasiness sinks deep into your bones.
You should’ve stayed home. You should’ve stayed in bed and let Santa stay a myth. But you just had to know if he was real. God, you're so stupid.
The train rattles onward.
No one speaks.
After some time, the train slows. You peer out the window and see Alastor outside again, smiling as he speaks to another kid standing on the sidewalk.
Your heart jumps.
You shake your head desperately, waving your arms, silently begging the kid not to get on.
It works.
The kid backs away.
The train starts moving again.
Relief floods you—until the kid begins running after the train, just like you did.
But he’s too slow.
A kid near you panics. “W—we have to stop the train!”
“Why?” you whisper. “Let him go. Let him escape this nightmare.”
The kid is shaking now. “No! You don't understand. At one of the first stops… this happened. A kid tried to catch up and got sucked under the rails. I can’t— I can’t watch that again.”
Before anyone can stop him, he leaps up and pulls the emergency brake.
The train screams as it skids to a violent halt.
The doors fly open. The kid jumps on, collapsing onto the floor.
Then—
Footsteps.
Alastor steps into the car.
“WHO,” he asks furiously, “IN THE BLAZES PULLED THE EMERGENCY BRAKE!?”
No one answers. Even the boy who’d just stepped aboard backs off the train and flees home.
Slowly, every child points to the kid who pulled it.
Alastor grins sharper.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “And why would you do such a thing?”
The kid is sobbing. “H-he was running after the train. I didn’t want him to get sucked under the rails—”
“Ohhh,” Alastor hums. “I see.”
He tilts his head. “But how exactly is that your concern, little child?”
The kid freezes. He has no answer.
Alastor snaps his fingers.
The train starts moving again.
Then—something changes.
Shadows stretch. Alastor’s form twists. Black tendrils snap out, wrapping around the kid.
Before anyone can scream, the kid is yanked through the door and thrown off the train like discarded luggage.
After, Alastor smooths his coat like nothing happened.
“All right, children,” he says brightly. “Is anyone parched? I know I am.”
No one moves.
No one breathes.
“…Hot chocolate?” he offers.
Silence.
Then the doors burst open again.
A massive kettle is walked in, carried by a winged demon cat who looks like he hates everyone and everything. His name tag reads HUSK.
Behind him, shadow demons crawl out of the ceiling, clutching mugs. Kids scream as the shadows pour hot chocolate into the cups and shove them into trembling hands.
A warped, creepy version of the ‘Hot Chocolate song’ plays through the speakers.
Your heart pounds.
Maybe—just maybe—you can get help. And get off.
You lean toward Husk. “H-hey. I need your help. I need to get off this train.”
Husk takes a long swig from a bottle. “Kid,” he mutters, “I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
He gestures vaguely toward the door. “Do I look like I wanna get thrown off the train?”
“…No.”
“Exactly.” He takes another drink. “You’re on your own.”
Once the drinks are handed out, Husk and the shadow demons disappear.
No one drinks the hot chocolate.
The cups sit untouched, steaming in the silence as the train rattles onward.
The train rattles on through the night.
No one is enjoying it.
Some kids are crying quietly into their sleeves. Others stare straight ahead, eyes glassy, like they’ve mentally checked out. You sit frozen in your seat, hands clenched in your lap, every rattle of the tracks sending a fresh jolt of dread through you.
Then the lights flicker.
Footsteps echo down the aisle.
You already know who it is.
Alastor steps into the car, grin sharp, eyes glowing faintly red.
Every child stiffens.
“All right, all right,” he says cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “Tickets out! Let’s make this quick—I’m on a schedule.”
He holds up the puncher. It gleams.
A kid near the aisle fumbles, hands shaking, and holds out his ticket.
Punch.
The boy looks down.
“…It says ‘ugly,’” he whispers.
“Correct,” Alastor replies, moving on.
Another kid.
Punch.
“‘Annoying,’” she reads, voice cracking.
“Precisly.”
Another.
Punch.
“Nuisance.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Another.
Punch.
“…Adopted?”
The kid bursts into tears.
Alastor hums pleasantly as he continues down the aisle, leaving devastation behind him like confetti.
Then he stops in front of you.
“Well?” he says, holding out his hand. “Your ticket.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
You reach into your pocket.
Nothing.
Your breath catches. You check again. Deeper. Faster.
“I— I don’t have it,” you stammer. “I don’t know what happened! You just invited me on the train!”
Alastor tilts his head, smile widening. “Did I?”
“Hm.” Alastor taps the puncher against his palm. “Why don’t you check your other pocket?”
With shaking hands, you do.
Your fingers slide through fabric—and then straight out into cold air.
The pocket is ripped.
Your ticket is gone.
Alastor’s grin stretches impossibly wide.
“Well, well,” he says softly. “Looks like you’re on here, illegally.”
The other kids watch in horror.
“Please,” you gasp, scrambling to your feet. “Please don’t—”
“Oh, no, no—stop your whining,” he cuts in smoothly, fingers snapping around your arm. His grip is iron. Painfully firm. “Rules,” he says pleasantly, tightening his hold, “are rules.”
He drags you down the aisle as you kick and claw, your shoes screeching against the floor.
“Wait!” you cry. “Please! I’ll do anything!”
“I’m sure you would,” he says not impressed.
He hauls you to the door and throws it open.
The wind roars. The winter ground blurs beneath you.
With one sharp motion, he throws you off the train.
You scream—
—and somehow grab onto the ladder at the last second.
Your fingers burn. Your arms scream in protest. The wind whips against your face as the train barrels forward.
Alastor leans out, looking down at you.
He sighs.
“Well, aren’t you just a pain in the neck.”
You don’t waste time answering.
With every ounce of strength you have left, you climb.
You haul yourself up, scramble onto the roof of the train, and start running.
Behind you—
A laugh crackles through the wind.
Alastor steps onto the roof.
And he starts chasing you.
You run.
Your boots slip on the icy metal as the wind howls in your ears, sharp and stinging, stealing your breath with every step. Behind you, you hear it—footsteps that are far too fast.
Alastor is gaining on you.
Black tendrils snap through the air, whipping past your legs, your arms, your head. You duck, twist, stumble, somehow avoiding every one of them by pure panic and luck.
“Stop moving,” Alastor calls out. “You’re making this very inconvenient.”
You don’t stop.
The front of the train is so close now. The engine lights glow ahead of you like a promise. Like salvation.
“STOP THE TRAIN!” you scream, voice ripped apart by the wind. “STOP THE TRAIN!”
Nothing happens.
The train barrels forward.
A shadow falls over you.
A hand clamps around your collar and yanks you back so hard your feet leave the roof.
“Finally,” Alastor says, breathless—but smiling. “You are a very naughty child.”
He lifts you effortlessly, dangling you over the rushing tracks below. The ground blurs. The cold air claws at your lungs.
Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.
“P-please—” you gasp.
Alastor hums thoughtfully, as if deciding whether to toss you or comment on the weather.
Then—
You see it.
“WAIT!” you scream, pointing wildly. “Look!”
Alastor pauses.
Slowly, he turns his head.
His eyes widen—just a little.
Blocking the tracks ahead is a massive herd of reindeer, antlers clacking together, hooves skidding, eyes wide with panic.
“Well,” Alastor says, genuinely surprised. “That’s… festive.”
He sets you back down on the roof.
Then he cups his hands and calls casually, “Niffty, dear? Stop the train.”
The brakes scream.
The train shudders and jerks to a halt—just short of plowing straight into the reindeer.
Wind rushes past you as everything goes still.
Alastor straightens his coat, glances at the herd, then looks back at you.
“…You’re on thin ice,” he says.
You stare at the herd of reindeer blocking the tracks. Their big, confused eyes blink at you, their antlers rattling together.
Alastor steps off the train with unnerving grace. You follow, hesitantly, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The locomotive cabin is a chaotic nightmare: levers, pipes, and strange whirring machinery everywhere. And there, crouched on a pile of cables, is a tiny woman with a horrifically huge single eye, roaches crawling across her back and arms like a living crown.
“Hello, Alastor,” she chirps, her voice unnervingly cheerful. “Do you want me to run them all over? Please!”
Niffty practically launches herself forward, bouncing on her heels, eye wide and gleaming. “Ooo! Or—or—I could ram forward, then reverse, then ram forward again! And again! We could just squish them with the train—over and over!” She clasps her hands together, vibrating with joy. “Oh! That sounds so fun!”
You step back. Way back. You feel your stomach turn. Mortified doesn’t begin to cover it.
Alastor, however, is completely calm. “No, my dear, there’s no need to dirty up the train,” he says, voice smooth and menacingly cheerful.
Then, with a flourish, he pulls out a shotgun. You blink. This can’t be legal.
“I have… a different idea,” he continues, strolling back outside.
Before you can even process it, the shot echoes across the snowy night. A single deer drops dead, a perfect shot, right between the eyes. The rest of the herd panics, scattering in every direction, hooves clattering on the frozen tracks. The path is clear.
Alastor returns to the cabin, casually draping the dead deer over his shoulders like it’s a holiday coat. He grins at you, teeth gleaming, eyes gleaming even brighter.
“Well,” he says cheerfully, “I know what I’m having for Christmas dinner.”
You stare. You know that’s cannibalism, right? But you don’t dare say it. You just nod stiffly, pretending you didn’t just witness this, your stomach twisting in protest.
Niffty claps her hands. “Oh! Can I PLEASE help skin it, Alastor?!”
Alastor waves her off. “Later, my dear. Later.”
You take a step back, silently questioning every life choice that has led to this moment.
Niffty’s hands fly over a cluster of levers, eyes sparkling with manic excitement.
With a jolt, the train lurches forward.
“Uh—” you start, but Alastor strides past you, smooth and unbothered, clearly used to this nonsense. “Follow me,” he instructs, flicking his coat over his shoulder.
You follow, heart hammering as you move through the twisting, shadowed train carts.
Each one is worse than the last.
In one, animal skulls hang from the ceiling like some kind of grotesque mobile, their empty eye sockets staring into your soul.
In the next, blood splatters every surface, glossy and fresh, still dripping in some spots. You gag quietly.
Alastor, completely unfazed, hums a little tune as he leads you forward, every step echoing ominously on the metal floors.
Then you notice it.
The train is speeding up. Way too fast.
Alastor notices too.
He opens a window “NIFFTY!” Alastor shouts, voice cracking over the roar of the tracks. “SLOW DOWN!”
Nothing. The train just keeps barreling forward.
Alastor sighs and facepalms dramatically. “I should have just let Husk drive this year,” he mutters.
He glances at you, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Last time I let Husk drive…” He shudders for effect. “…he got too intoxicated at the North Pole. Let’s just say… no one made it back home that year.”
You swallow hard.
“…No one?” you whisper.
Alastor smiles faintly, teeth glinting in the dim light. “Precisely”.
The train continues to speed on, shadows flickering across the walls of the carts, and you realize—the train is not slowing down.
You end up having to follow Alastor back to the head of the train, boots clanging against metal floors, ready to tell Niffty to slow this insanity down. But when you arrive… she’s tied up. Tiny arms pinned to the levers, eyes wide—but still radiating manic energy, bouncing in place like she’s thrilled by the chaos.
Before either of you can react, a deep, static-filled laugh shreds through the shadows.
A figure steps forward. A man with a TV for a head, flickering with angry static.
“Well, hello, Alastor,” the screen-man says, voice distorted and mechanical. “Seems you can’t catch a break! Or your brakes!”
He laughs again, low and grating, and your stomach flips.
Alastor tilts his head, grin stretching impossibly wide, red eyes glowing like hot coals.
“Oh, Vox… how disappointing.” He hums thoughtfully. “Was I meant to laugh at that?”
Vox shrugs, static flaring violently across his screen-face. “Whatever. But your precious train? Your little passengers? Your friends?” His voice distorts with spite. “They’re about to wish I stayed gone.”
Alastor lets out a soft, amused chuckle. “Friends? Oh no, no, Vox. There are no friends on the Polar Express.” He taps his cane against the metal floor. “I assumed you understood that.”
Vox’s static pops and screeches. “Well—well, you’re all going so fast you’ll probably crash and die!”
You’re watching this unfold in stunned silence, but you can’t help yourself.
“…Right. But you’re on the train too,” you say carefully. “Wouldn’t you die as well?”
Vox freezes for half a second—just long enough to betray him—then snarls, screen flickering wildly.
“As long as I wipe that grin off Alastor’s face, I don’t care what happens!”
The air changes.
You stand frozen, caught between awe and terror, as Alastor and Vox begin to circle each other like predators. Sparks spit from the icy rails below, and the wind lashes your hair across your face.
Vox hisses, static crawling over his screen. “You’re so pompous! You think you’re clever, but really—”
“Really, Vox?” Alastor interrupts smoothly, tilting his head again. His smile sharpens. “Is that your best attempt at vexation? I expected more from you.”
Vox snaps his mechanical claws together. “Your voice—annoying! Your hair—ugly! Your—”
He keeps going. On and on. Insult after insult.
And somehow… none of it lands.
You feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy for Vox. Alastor doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t even blink. He stands there, utterly composed, as if Vox is nothing more than background noise.
Then, with a cruel smirk, Vox fires the line that changes everything:
“You know what? Your cooking sucks.”
Alastor freezes, eyes flaring red, tentacles lashing out like whips. “How dare you insult my Cajun cuisine,” he hisses, voice low and dangerous, every syllable vibrating with rage.
And just like that—the fight ignites.
Then the train lurches violently, skidding on icy rails. Sparks leap like fireworks as metal screeches beneath their feet. Alastor and Vox stumble but do not fall. Their bodies twist, contort, and glow as they shift into full demon forms—tentacles snapping, teeth bared, energy crackling.
Vox lunges with mechanical appendages, claws striking the roof with deafening clangs. Alastor flips, twisting through the air, tentacles whipping around him.
“Really, Vox? That’s all you’ve got? Is this supposed to hurt me?” Alastor teases, voice dripping with venomous amusement.
Vox growls and summons Shock Wave, his robo-shark, metal teeth snapping. Alastor sidesteps, tentacles wrapping around the shark like it’s a pesky insect.
“Really, Vox?” Alastor laughs. “You can’t fight me one-on-one, so you bring a pet shark? How sad!”
The train careens wildly, swerving left and right. Sparks fly, wind howls, and every step teeters on the edge of disaster. Each blow sends vibrations through the train, rattling seats and splintering wood.
Vox snarls, static crackling furiously. “I’ll get you! I’ll—”
Alastor cuts him off, lashing a tentacle across Vox’s chest. “Oh, Vox. You try so hard. It’s almost adorable.”
Vox snarls in frustration, leaping through the roof of the train. Alastor grins and follows, landing with supernatural grace.
As the fight rages on above you, you notice Niffty, still tied up, flailing her tiny arms. Acting quickly, you untie her.
“HEY! I like being tied up! Hands off!” she shrieks, glaring at you. You stumble back, hands raised. “Sorry! Sorry!”
Then the fight spills back into the locomotive you're still in.
Alastor shoves Vox toward the doorway, blocking the exit. Your heart hammers—you know this is your one shot.
You summon all your courage and strength, and with a desperate push, shove Vox.
He wobbles. Arms flail. With a final, high-pitched scream of static, he tumbles off the side of the train, swallowed by snow and wind.
Alastor is now beside you with, tentacles flicking lazily. His grin is wide, teeth glinting in the moonlight.
“Well… seems this child has initiative,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
The train roars on, still swerving wildly, sparks flying from broken levers. Shock Wave tumbles off the roof with a scream of metal. Niffty finally is untied and regains control of the train, giggling maniacally and the brakes are restored.
Alastor makes the executive decision that you can live.
He walks you back to the cart with all the other children. You stumble, knees weak, heart hammering, still shaking from the chaos you just survived.
The kids stare at you. Wide-eyed. Awed. “Wow… you’re still alive?” one whispers.
Another pipes up, voice trembling. “What… what happened?”
You just sit there in silence. Your body feels like it’s made of lead, your mind replaying every second of the nightmarish ride.
After some time, the dark blur of the world outside begins to change. Tiny points of light flicker in the distance. City lights. The North Pole.
Excitement and relief bubble faintly inside you—you might make it through this alive, and this nightmare might finally end.
The train rumbles through the North Pole town. You catch glimpses of little shops decorated in garish Christmas lights, candy-cane striped awnings, and wreaths hung crookedly in the snow. Christmas music plays softly from some magical unseen source, tinkling and cheerful in stark contrast to the horrors of the ride.
The train stops in the town square. A massive Christmas tree dominates the center, lights twinkling. But something is off. There’s no one around. The streets are empty.
You and the other kids step out, eyes wide, hearts still racing. Nervousness clings to everyone like frost.
Alastor glances at his stopwatch, tapping it impatiently.
“Oh dear,” he says, voice dripping with faux concern. “We’re late. Santa left... three houses ago!”
Some of the kids start crying, overwhelmed.
Alastor throws his head back and laughs. Deep. Musical. Terrifying.
Without another word, everyone is ushered back onto the train. There’s no lingering, no chance to explore. The surviving children are eager to go home, their tiny faces pale, shaken—but somehow relieved.
In the chaos, you find yourself bonding with the other survivors. The shared trauma forges a strange camaraderie—you’re all trampolined together by fear, confusion, and disbelief.
You sit there quietly, still processing. You went through so much. You saw horrors no child should see. And yet… you never even got to meet Santa, never got an answer to your question of whether he’s real but, now you don’t really care.
Alastor’s method of dropping kids off becomes apparent as the train nears your neighborhood: he slows the train just enough that when he throws you out, you survive. It’s efficient, terrifying, and oddly meticulous.
Finally, it's your stop.
“Well,” Alastor says, tone light, smile wide and unsettling, “I can now say it was a pleasure to meet you. Pushing Vox out was… very handy.”
You bite your tongue. You cannot say the same, and you keep it to yourself.
The train slows, careening into your street. With one swift motion, you’re hurled onto the snow. You land hard, heart still racing, and glance back. The train is already gone, a dark blur melting into the night.
Shivering, you trudge back to your house. The familiar warmth of home is almost comforting. You climb back into bed, still trembling, and eventually, exhaustion wins.
Then the morning comes.
You tell yourself it didn’t happen. That it was just a dream, it had to be.
Downstairs, Christmas morning sunlight spills across the living room. Toys are scattered everywhere, glittering and cheerful. You unwrap presents mechanically, but something in you feels… off. Your parents notice, but they chalk it up to a bad night’s sleep.
Then they gesture toward the tree. “There’s one more gift for you,” your mother says.
You open it carefully.
Inside… a deer skull. Freshly skinned.
A note rests on top, in elegant, looping script:
“You are invited to my Christmas dinner. –Alastor”
Your stomach twists. The world tilts just slightly. You clutch the skull, heart racing
You thought this nightmare was over, but maybe, it's just getting started.