Christmas Eve is a night of two worlds. One is all laughter and twinkling lights, families gathering in warm kitchens, their gift-wrapped parcels waiting beneath decorated trees. The other is older and quieter, and as dark as the longest night.
Once upon a time, this was the night for ghost stories. Gentle ones, that is. The ones whispered around hearth fires when the world outside lay frozen and still. The ones that belonged more to memory than fear.
Our ancestors believed that midwinter loosened the boundary between the living and the dead. And through the stillness, the spirits were said to walk. Some came as wanderers, drawn by the glow and warmth of home. Some came as protectors, watching from the shadows. And some came as mere echoes – the soft repetition of footsteps, a fleeting memory or even a whispered name.
Charles Dickens and M. R. James knew that Christmas is a haunted season. And it’s no wonder. Winter strips everything back. The old year is dying and the new one hasn’t yet drawn breath. We sit in this quiet middle space that’s hinged between endings and beginnings, and all the ghosts we’ve ever gathered rise to the surface.
Lost loved ones feel closer. Old memories tug harder.
Midwinter ghosts aren’t here to frighten us. They come as reminders of who we were,
what we’ve lost and what still matters.
Tonight, when the world grows quiet and the house settles into stillness, you might sense a subtle presence. A thought that arrives like a visitor, perhaps. Or a name that drifts through your mind as if someone spoke it.
If the stories are true, the veil is thin tonight. Not frighteningly so, just enough to let the past sit beside us.
So, whether you’re surrounded by family or enjoying the quiet of your own company, spare a thought for the ghosts who walk softly beside us. The old stories say they mean no harm, only to be remembered.
And Christmas Eve, after all, is the night for remembering.
If a memory taps gently at your thoughts, if a presence feels close, if the night holds a whisper meant only for you – listen.
Merry Christmas 🖤
R. H. DIXON 