Naughty List

By Ethan Ross

NAUGHTY LIST

The perfect corporate retreat. The perfect storm. The perfect judgment.

The employees of a high-powered marketing firm expected a weekend of team-building and forced holiday cheer at the remote, luxurious Silver Bell Lodge. They found a snow-covered battlefield. Trapped by a brutal blizzard, the retreat quickly devolves into a desperate fight for survival when a methodical killer, known only as "The Auditor," begins processing them one by one.

His weapon is a meat hook. His motivation is judgment. His guide is a list of their sins—a Naughty List where office apathy, greed, and selfishness are terminal offenses.

As the body count rises and paranoia shatters the group, intern Mia, the unlikely survivor, must navigate a world where the line between victim and judge blurs. But the game doesn't end when the storm clears. The true horror begins when Mia is brought into the very system that orchestrated the massacre, forcing her to make the ultimate choice: cling to her humanity, or become the newest, most efficient agent of the silent, cold corporate machine.

This Christmas, empathy is a fatal flaw, and the balance must be paid in full.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethan Ross
• Release date: Nov 5, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232191672

Ethan Ross

Ethan Ross is a versatile and prolific author who refuses to be confined to a single genre. While he is acclaimed for his bone-chilling holiday horror, such as the terrifying Santa's Slay List and the short story collections like The December Dark, he demonstrates mastery across the literary spectrum. In addition to crafting relentless tales of winter dread and forgotten folklore, Ross also writes romance that explores the complexities of human connection, high-stakes thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats, and many other genres, proving his capacity to engage audiences with a wide array of narrative styles and emotional depths. His diverse body of work showcases a broad storytelling range that promises something for every type of reader.

Book preview

Prologue

The suburbs of Willow Creek were engaged in a war of festive attrition. Every house on the block seemed locked in a silent competition, a blinding arms race of electricity: gutter lines twinkled with relentless, synchronized LEDs; every patchy front lawn hosted an inflatable menagerie of reindeer, overworked elves, or a grinning, oversized snowman that blocked the view of the street. It was a saccharine overdose of forced holiday cheer, a cheerful mask pulled tight over the quiet despair of the residents.

In house number forty-seven, the lights were conspicuously off.

Kevin, age thirty-four, was not what one might call a functioning adult. He lived a subterranean life in his childhood bedroom, a cave lit only by the harsh, blue-white glare of three stacked monitors. He called himself a content creator and streamer, a noble title for someone who spent his waking hours barking generic insults into a cheap, crackling headset, his existence entirely reliant on the erratic generosity of a few dozen lonely subscribers while his mother worked double shifts at the diner to keep the power on. He was a leach, a user, a proudly selfish human being who treated the world as his personal, perpetually open wallet.

The front door didn't crash open with cinematic flair; it simply unlocked from the inside out. A quiet, oiled click was the only sound it made, lost beneath the tinny, compressed audio pouring from Kevin’s speakers.

Kevin was mid-rant, his face a mask of digital fury. He was deep into a competitive match, screaming at an anonymous player on the other team about their parentage and lack of skill. The room was a biohazard of spilled energy drink cans, fast-food wrappers, and the ambient smell of stale sweat and desperation.

He didn't hear the silent, patient footsteps over the cacophony of virtual gunfire and his own high-pitched shouting.

The figure in the doorway stood perfectly still for several long moments, a hulking, imposing silhouette draped in dark, utilitarian gear that seemed to drink the light. On its head was a mask made of coarse, stained burlap, the kind once used decades ago to haul heavy coal or damp potatoes. Two eyeholes had been cut into the fabric, the right one lined with a cheap, reflective red plastic bauble that caught the monitor light like a malevolent, unblinking eye.

Kevin slammed his fist on the desk, rattling a half-empty mug. "That's it! I'm reporting you! You're banned, you hear me?"

The figure tilted its head infinitesimally, a silent, ancient judgment passed down from a forgotten era of strict moral codes.

The first hint of the intrusion that finally registered in Kevin's tiny sphere of awareness was the smell. It wasn’t a festive scent like pine or cinnamon. It was something cold and oily, like a machine shop or the bottom of an old toolbox—a deeply unsettling, industrial odor that had no place in his mother’s home.

He yanked his headset off, the sudden silence of the room nearly as loud as the noise had been. He spun around in his ergonomic chair, ready to tell his mother off for daring to interrupt his revenue stream.

He stopped. The insult died in his throat, his mouth going instantly dry as he processed the shape standing in his bedroom doorway.

Who the hell are you? he whispered, every last atom of his online bravado evaporating into the stale air.

The figure didn't speak. It simply reached behind its broad back, withdrawing an object with a slow, deliberate movement that spoke of deep patience and familiarity.

It was a large book, bound in dark, pitted leather that looked older than the house itself. The figure held it out, open to a specific, well-worn page. The faded gold lettering on the cover clearly read: The Naughty List.

Kevin stared at the page presented to him, paralyzed by a confusion that quickly curdled into sheer terror. His name was there, near the top, highlighted with a thick, red, marker-like line. Beneath it was a meticulous list of dates, times, and infractions written in cramped, precise handwriting.

The figure took two steps forward, the heavy boots crunching softly on the carpet littered with spilled energy drink cans and greasy wrappers. The figure leaned close to Kevin's ear, the unsettling smell of cold grease overwhelming all others.

For the first time since entering the house, the figure spoke, the voice a synthesized, low growl delivered through a small voice modulator pinned inside the burlap mask. The sound was flat, emotionless, and final.

You've been very, very naughty.

The figure raised the ancient book high, and Kevin saw his name one last time, stark red against the yellowed paper, just before the heavy, leather-bound corner connected with his temple.

(The sound of a desperate, cut-off scream is swallowed by the artificial cheer of the blinking suburban lights outside.)

Chapter One: A War of Festive Attrition

The suburbs of Willow Creek were engaged in a war of festive attrition, but here, miles above sea level, the wilderness fought back with a primal disinterest in holiday cheer. The snow didn't just fall; it attacked. It came down in dense, wind-whipped sheets that turned the winding mountain access road into a chaotic blur of grey and white, effectively isolating the Silver Bell Lodge from the rest of civilization. Inside the cramped, rented luxury coach, the air was thick and stale, a cloying mix of cheap prosecco, nervous corporate sweat, and an overwhelmingly artificial pine-scented air freshener struggling futilely to mask the basic human elements.

Mia stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass as the world outside disappeared behind the impenetrable blizzard. She hated Christmas, hated mandatory corporate retreats, and currently, hated the obnoxious, forced laughter bubbling up from the front of the bus.

Another round for the marketing team's MVPs! bellowed Chad, the Vice President of Sales and a man whose weak jawline was matched only by his even weaker sales ethics. He wore a set of fuzzy reindeer antlers clipped to his thinning hair, already half-drunk and leaning dangerously into the aisle. A few sycophants cheered weakly, raising plastic cups in a half-hearted toast.

Mia just pulled her cheap coat tighter around her, the stiff fabric smelling faintly of mothballs. She was just an intern, a recent hire forced onto this hell-ride for essential team building. The Silver Bell Lodge was advertised in the brochure as a pristine winter wonderland; right now, it felt like a prison transport heading into the arctic circle.

Two hours behind schedule, the bus finally ground to a halt with a hydraulic sigh, its tires spinning uselessly against a freshly formed drift ten feet from the Lodge's elegant iron front gate. The driver muttered a string of impressive curses under his breath.

Well, ladies and gents, Chad slurred, grabbing the bus's microphone with a sloppy grin, looks like we’re walking the last little bit! Character building!

A collective groan filled the bus cabin. No one wanted to trek through a foot of snow in their business casual attire.

Mia was one of the first off the bus, struggling through the deep snow that was already up to her shins. A few yards ahead of her, Kyle, the cocky, perpetually late junior analyst with expensive taste in watches, was already complaining loudly about his luggage getting wet.

Seriously? We can’t wait for a plow? My laptop is in there! I need that for the Q4 presentation! Kyle was exactly the kind of person The Auditor despised—a selfish, entitled figure who had secretly embezzled a small sum from the company's petty cash fund, rationalizing it to himself as an early, self-approved pre-Christmas bonus.

Mia paused near a cluster of snow-covered pine trees that lined the winding flagstone path to the lodge entrance. The wind seemed to momentarily die down to an eerie, unnatural hush, the sudden silence almost more alarming than the blizzard's roar.

That’s when she saw it.

A shadow moved among the dense, snow-laden trees, entirely distinct from the natural swaying of the branches. It was large, hunched, and moving parallel to the path the employees were taking toward the warmth.

Mia squinted, trying to rationalize it as a large animal, perhaps a moose or a bear driven down from the higher peaks by the storm. But then the figure shifted, its form briefly stepping into the weak halo of a path light. For a split second, she caught the dull, disturbing glint of stained burlap and that single, reflective red eye before the blizzard swallowed the figure whole again.

She shook her head violently, the cold making her thoughts sluggish and unclear. Stress, exhaustion, and the beginning of hypothermia were surely making her hallucinate.

Up ahead, Kyle, still whining about his electronics, had broken rank from the main group. He stood alone under the decorative archway made of twinkling white lights that marked the lodge entrance, completely exposed.

He reached into the inner pocket of his expensive designer jacket, pulling out a polished silver hip flask. Screw this, he muttered audibly to himself, taking a long, defiant pull of expensive whiskey. He took one step, slipping slightly on the slick flagstones.

The sound of the wind suddenly gave way to a sharp, pressurized PFFFT.

It wasn't a gunshot. It was too quiet, too contained. It was the sound of air being rapidly compressed and released, almost like a pneumatic nail gun.

Kyle froze mid-step. The silver flask slipped from his grasp, hitting the stone path with a dull clink.

He didn't scream. He just made a small, pathetic choking sound. A perfect, crimson star began to bloom on the chest of his pale blue dress shirt, spreading outward with shocking speed. A thick, razor-sharp object, resembling a large, twisted candy cane made of honed metal, protruded obscenely from his sternum.

He stood there for two full seconds, eyes wide with disbelief, staring at the cheerful, twinkling lights of the archway above him. Then, gravity took hold. He collapsed face-first into the snow drift, his body absorbing the fresh powder, motionless.

Mia was the only one facing him. The rest of the team was still trudging up the path, backs turned, busy complaining about Wi-Fi access and dinner reservations.

Hey! Help him! Mia screamed, her voice thin and high, lost immediately in the renewed howling of the wind.

She began running toward Kyle’s still form, sinking knee-deep with every frantic step. The blood was already a dark stain against the pristine white snow, stark and terrifying.

Just behind where Kyle fell, hidden in the deepest shadows beneath the lodge’s main porch, two red lights blinked in unison. The Auditor had arrived at the Silver Bell. And the first delivery of the season had been made.

Chapter Two: The Stocking Stuffer

Mia's scream was a fragile thing, instantly shredded and carried away by the blizzard’s relentless fury. She ran, stumbling through the deep snow that dragged at her legs like icy hands, leaving the main path and forging a direct, desperate line toward Kyle's crumpled body.

Help him! Someone help him, he's hurt! she yelled again, but the wind was a wall of noise, and her coworkers were still thirty feet away, their backs to the horror, focused only on the distant, warm glow of the lodge.

Kyle lay face down, his expensive jacket a dark lump against the bright snow. The pristine white powder around his chest was quickly becoming a Rorschach test of dark, vital fluid. It didn't look like a simple stabbing. The metal object protruding from his back, a twisted, razor-sharp mockery of a red-and-white candy cane, was driven in deep, impossibly deep. The edges were sharp enough to cut through the heavy fabric of his jacket without snagging.

Mia reached him and dropped to her knees, sinking into the freezing snow. She grabbed his shoulder, turning him over. His face was slack, eyes wide open and staring up at the chaotic sky, already glazing over. There was no pulse. No breath. He was gone. The speed of it was terrifying. One second he was complaining about his laptop; the next, he was a corpse under a twinkling Christmas archway.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, Mia chanted, her mind splintering under the weight of sudden, brutal reality. She looked wildly back toward the lodge porch, toward the shadow she’d seen move.

Nothing was there now. Just the empty space beneath the eaves, the wind swirling snow into miniature cyclones.

What is taking so long? Chad’s voice bellowed, finally breaking the spell of the main group. They had reached the flagstone path near the entrance.

A young HR coordinator named Sarah was the first to look back toward Mia's frantic movements. She stopped short, pointing a shaking finger. Is that... is that Kyle?

The noise and movement finally drew the others' attention. Four people—Chad, Sarah, a nervous accountant named Marcus, and the perpetually exhausted marketing manager, Evelyn—began trudging back toward Mia.

Kyle, you idiot, stop goofing around! Chad laughed, assuming the worst-case scenario was a practical joke. We get it, you hate snow!

Mia stood up, blood freezing in her veins, not just from the cold, but from the sudden, stark realization of danger. She backed away from the body, her eyes scanning the tree line, the porch, the deep shadows where the storm drain met the foundation of the lodge.

He's dead, she said, the words barely a rasp. Someone killed him.

The laughter died instantly. Chad's face went slack, his festive antlers suddenly looking grotesque. Mia, what are you talking about? He slipped.

He didn't slip! Mia shrieked, pointing at the wicked object still embedded in Kyle’s chest. The red and white stripes seemed to mock the scene. Look at that thing!

The group finally arrived at the body. Sarah let out a sharp, choked cry and immediately threw up into the fresh snow. Marcus, the accountant, simply stood rigid, staring at the wound, his eyes wide and unblinking.

A... a candy cane? Evelyn whispered, disbelief battling with the grim reality of the situation. What is that?

It’s not a candy cane, it's metal, Mia said, backing further away. She kept scanning the area. The silence had returned, a heavy, listening silence that pressed down on them harder than the blizzard itself. "We