Christmas of ’67: The Real Grinch

They say some Christmases should never be remembered. In a small town, sixty-nine children

wrote letters to Santa. They all asked for the same thing. Hope.

But something else was listening. Something that hated joy. On Christmas Eve,

the Grinch came. Not the cartoon. Not a story. A real one. He didn’t steal

the gifts. He destroyed them. Ripped wrapping paper. Snapped toys.

Crushed dreams. Sixty-nine gifts. Not one survived. The next morning, the trees were filled

with empty boxes, torn and hanging like warnings. No footprints. No explanations.

Every child said the same thing. “I heard breathing in my room.” Christmas of ’67