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You're listening to a morbid network podcast. Listen as I launch a campaign against Christmas cheer, grilling celebrity guests, like chestnuts on an open fire.

They'll try to get my heart to grow a few sizes, but it's not going to work, honey.

Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Talk Show on the Wondria, or wherever you get your podcasts.

November 14th, 1866, Winthrop Falls, Massachusetts.

17 year old Henry Winthrop,

reached deep into a dark corner of his wardrobe,

bringing a shapeless bundle of cloth into the hazy glow of the sun

setting through his window. Sitting gingerly on the foot of his bed, he placed a rumpled pile of old worn fabric on his lap,

where it took on the unbearable weight of a shameful secret.

Motionless, he stared at it, momentarily suspended in apprehension, but finally, cautiously,

he wrapped the blue and white checkered blanket, and within the thing which had become the object of his dread was wrapped tightly in a threadbare scarf.

And after he'd slowly unwounded, Henry was met with the reflection of his rigid tense face,

starting back at him from the mirror.

Its polished surface, once unmarred, was now badly shattered, but somehow not nearly as damaged

as it was when it landed hard on the cellar floor that night. Inexplicably, the glass was repairing itself, little by little.

So slowly though, that most people probably wouldn't have noticed. But Henry did. He was all too aware.

The mirror, recording Rebecca's final moments in its reflection, through some kind of

alchemy, somehow seemed to have captured her essence

as the life left her body.

Henry was convinced of that because ever since Halloween night, he saw a dark, shadowy shape float around behind him whenever he looked into the mirror.

...