The First Time Somebody Said “Eddie” Like a Warning
There are a few names in winter towns that don’t get spoken so much as exhaled. Not because they’re sacred. Not because they’re scary. But because if you say them too confidently, you’ll summon a problem with boots.
“Don’t park there.”
“Don’t trust the cider guy.”
“And whatever you do—don’t mention Eddie.”
Of course, that last one is how you end up mentioning Eddie.
Now, before the legend got all inflated and weird—before tourists started asking for “the Eddie Experience,” before the town gift shop tried to sell “Unlicensed Baubles” mugs and got slapped with a cease-and-desist by someone who didn’t know what joy was—the story started the way most small-town disasters start:
Someone saw something they couldn’t unsee, and then they told someone else, and then it became everybody’s problem by Tuesday.
The first official witness was a woman named Marla Pease, who ran the Frostmarket Row craft co-op and wore the kind of scarves that told you she owned at least one label maker. Marla was the type who alphabetized her spices and felt real emotion when a ribbon roll was returned to the wrong bin. She didn’t gossip because she enjoyed it. She gossiped because she believed in community safety.
Marla’s version begins like this:
“I stepped outside to dump glitter. Like I do every morning. Don’t judge me—glitter is eternal and the trash can deserves to suffer. And I see… this thing.”
The “thing,” as she described it, stood in the soft morning light behind the co-op, in the dead zone where snow went to get stepped on and forgotten. At first she assumed it was a holiday display that had wandered away from the street. A rogue tree. A runaway centerpiece.
Then it blinked.
And the tree leaned forward like it had a spine.
And below the dense, slightly crooked evergreen hat—loaded down with red baubles, pearl garland, and at least one cookie-shaped ornament that looked suspiciously like it had been bitten—there was a face. Rosy-cheeked. Bearded. Smug.
“I thought it was a child in costume,” Marla said later, but nobody believed her, because if you thought that was a child, Marla, then your eyesight was as decorative as your personality.
The figure stood maybe knee-high to a grown adult, stout as a holiday ham, with boots that looked like they’d been through three winters and a bar fight. The beard was long and messy in the way that suggests either (A) wisdom or (B) a deeply committed refusal to wash anything unless it catches fire. One hand held a single red ornament like it was a trophy, or a threat, or a tiny shiny hostage.
And the tree-hat… the tree-hat was not a cute gimmick. The tree-hat was a declaration. A statement. A middle finger made of pine needles.
Perched at the top, lolling slightly to one side like it had been drinking, was a Santa hat—slumped and proud, the way a hat looks when it has stopped believing in consequences.
Marla, who believed in consequences more than she believed in love, did the only reasonable thing.
She called out:
“EXCUSE ME?”
And that was her second mistake.
Because the gnome—if you can call him that, and plenty of people refuse to because “gnomes are usually polite”—turned his head slowly, like a man who’d been expecting someone to bother him all morning and was ready to be disappointed in them.
He looked at Marla with bright eyes that glinted with the exact expression of a person who knows you’re about to tell him he can’t do something.
Then he raised the ornament in his hand and gave it a tiny shake.
The bauble jingled.
It was… almost flirtatious.
Marla said later the sound made the hair on her arms lift. Not because it was magical, exactly. But because it carried the same energy as a stranger calling you “sweetheart” in a hardware store. Familiar without permission.
“You can’t be back here,” Marla said, immediately defaulting to the voice she used on teenagers and badly-behaved decorative wreaths. “This is private property.”
The gnome’s mouth twitched in something that might’ve been a smile if you were generous. If you weren’t, it was the facial expression of someone about to commit a misdemeanor on purpose.
“Private?” he said.
His voice was rough but warm, like a campfire that has opinions. It also had the weirdly calm tone of someone who’d never once been hurried by modern life.
“Everything’s private,” Eddie said. “That’s the problem.”
And then—before Marla could decide whether this was philosophy or drunkenness—he stepped forward, boots scuffing the icy ground, and the whole tree-hat swayed slightly as if it had a gravitational field of its own.
Marla took a step back because she had good instincts when they weren’t busy being judgmental.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The gnome looked at her like the question was cute. Like she’d asked him whether snow was cold.
“People call me Eddie,” he said.
Marla blinked. “Eddie what?”
He shrugged, beard shifting like a living thing.
“Eddie is enough,” he said. “Last names are for contracts and gravestones.”
Then he leaned closer, and Marla swore she could smell pine sap and something faintly sugary—like stolen cookies and bad decisions.
“Now,” Eddie said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me.”
Marla bristled. “I’m not going to—”
“You are,” Eddie said, as if she were already doing it. “Because if you make this a thing, it becomes a whole thing. And you don’t want that.”
Marla opened her mouth to argue. She had a lot of practice arguing. She argued with weather apps. She argued with teenagers who wore pajama pants in public. She argued with the concept of “rustic.”
But then Eddie straightened up and casually adjusted the tree-hat on his head with a practiced motion, as if he’d been doing this his entire life, as if he’d never once been concerned about balance or shame.
And as he adjusted it, Marla saw something tucked inside the branches—half-hidden behind a garland loop.
A little square tag.
White. Crisp. Official-looking.
Even from several feet away, she could read the words printed in bold:
SEASONAL DECORATION PERMIT REQUIRED
Below that, in smaller letters:
ISSUED BY: WINTERFELL TOWNSHIP – DECOR COMPLIANCE OFFICE
And at the very bottom, stamped with smug authority:
VIOLATION NOTICE: PENDING
Marla’s eyes widened, not with fear—Marla didn’t really do fear—but with the particular thrill of someone spotting an infraction in the wild.
“You’re not permitted,” she breathed, horrified and delighted.
Eddie’s eyes gleamed like he’d just heard a compliment.
“Nope,” he said.
Marla, who lived for rules the way other people lived for sex or carbs, whispered:
“I should report you.”
Eddie’s smile finally broke through, full and wicked and weirdly charming, like a villain who bakes.
“You can try,” he said. “But if you do…”
He lifted the ornament again and gave it another gentle shake.
Jingle.
“...you’ll be the one who started it.”
And here’s the thing: in every version of the story, right around this point, the narrator pauses and says something like:
“Now, I’m not saying Marla was responsible for what happened next… but also yes I am.”
Because Marla did what any sensible, rule-loving adult would do when faced with a smug, tree-headed gnome wearing a pending violation like jewelry.
She went inside, grabbed her phone, and called the one office in town that could make this official.
The Winterfell Township Decor Compliance Office.
The DCO.
The people who thought joy needed a clipboard.
Marla’s voice on the call was breathless. Electric. Like she’d just caught Santa doing tax fraud.
“Hi,” she said. “Yes. This is Marla Pease. Frostmarket Row. I need to report an unlicensed… ornament situation.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Ma’am,” the person said, bored already, “what do you mean by ornament situation?”
Marla stared out the window at Eddie, who was now casually strolling toward the alley, tree-hat swaying, boots crunching in the snow like he owned the season.
“I mean,” Marla said slowly, like she was choosing the exact words that would ruin everyone’s week, “there’s a gnome wearing a fully decorated evergreen on his head, and I’m pretty sure he’s not just out of compliance—he’s doing it on purpose.”
Another pause.
Then, in a tone that suggested this office had seen some things and didn’t like any of them:
“Ma’am…”
“Yes?”
“Did he… give you a name?”
Marla swallowed. “He said people call him Eddie.”
The line went quiet. Not dead quiet. Not disconnected quiet. Just… the kind of silence where you can feel someone reconsidering their entire career.
Then the voice returned, lower now. Suddenly not bored at all.
“Ma’am,” the person said carefully, “I need you to listen to me. Do not engage. Do not approach. Do not attempt to confiscate ornaments. And for the love of—”
They stopped, like they were about to say something unprofessional.
“—for the love of the season,” they corrected, “do not make eye contact if he starts talking about permits.”
Marla frowned. “Why? Who is he?”
The person exhaled slowly.
“Ma’am,” they said, “Eddie isn’t the problem.”
Marla’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is?”
The voice on the phone went even quieter, like it didn’t want the walls hearing.
“The problem,” they said, “is what happens when he decides you’re interesting.”
Marla stared out the window again—just in time to see Eddie pause at the alley mouth, turn slightly, and look back.
Directly at her.
His eyes bright. Beard shifting in the breeze. Ornament dangling in his hand like a dare.
And then, very clearly, he winked.
Marla’s stomach dropped.
Not because she was afraid.
Because, against all logic and every rule she’d ever loved, a tiny, traitorous part of her realized something awful:
She was interesting.
And Eddie had just decided it, too.
Somewhere in the branches above his head, the permit tag fluttered like a warning flag.
And the town, still blissfully unaware, kept going about its morning—pouring coffee, opening shops, brushing snow off windshields—like it wasn’t about to be dragged into a folklore-grade nuisance with jingling accessories.
But it was.
Oh, it was.
Because that was the day the legend restarted.
That was the day someone said “Eddie” out loud and meant it.
And legends, like glitter, stick to everything once you spill them.
Everyone Knows a Guy (They Just Don’t Agree on the Details)
By noon, everyone in Winterfell Township knew about Eddie.
Not because there was an announcement. Not because the Decor Compliance Office put out a bulletin—God forbid they do anything efficiently. But because Winterfell operated on the oldest and most reliable information system known to humanity:
People talking while pretending they weren’t.
The story spread the way these things always do—sideways. Through side comments. Through “just between us” whispers. Through exaggerated reenactments performed with coffee cups and half-eaten scones.
And the funniest part?
No one agreed on what Eddie actually was.
At the butcher’s counter, Eddie was a drunk elf who’d escaped from a corporate holiday display and was now freelancing chaos.
At the bakery, he was a forest spirit with a personal vendetta against January.
At the pub—where truth went to get fermented—Eddie was “a gnome who fucked a Christmas tree and won custody.”
No one could say who started that version, but it stuck longer than it deserved.
The only thing everyone agreed on was this:
Eddie didn’t sneak.
He appeared.
One minute you were going about your business, and the next there he was—standing near a storefront, leaning against a lamppost, or perched on a snowbank like it had personally offended him.
Always the same outfit.
The same absurd evergreen crown, branches sagging under ornaments that did not match any known retail set. Some were chipped. Some were cracked. One was unmistakably a novelty bauble shaped like a boot with a middle finger on it.
The Santa hat on top looked worse as the day went on—slouched, damp, and living its own life.
And Eddie?
Eddie looked relaxed.
Like a man enjoying a very specific kind of attention.
The second confirmed sighting came from Gus Henley, who ran the hardware store and had once punched a raccoon for stealing beef jerky. Gus was not a man prone to whimsy.
“He was in aisle four,” Gus said later, furious about it. “Right between the snow shovels and the salt. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t buy anything. Just stood there reading the labels like they owed him money.”
According to Gus, Eddie picked up a bag of ice melt, weighed it in his hands, and shook his head.
“Too harsh,” Eddie muttered. “Ruins the vibe.”
Then he put it back on the wrong shelf.
That alone should’ve gotten him arrested.
Meanwhile, the Decor Compliance Office was having what would later be referred to as “a day.”
Their office occupied a squat brick building with aggressively neutral paint and signage that read “Seasonal Harmony Through Regulation.” No one knew who’d come up with the slogan, but everyone assumed they’d since been divorced.
Inside, the phones were ringing.
Not constantly. Not chaotically.
Just often enough to be annoying.
Each call followed roughly the same script:
“Hi, yes, I’m calling about the gnome.”
Followed by:
“No, I don’t know if he’s licensed.”
Followed by:
“No, he didn’t threaten me.”
And, eventually:
“Well… he smiled at me.”
That last part was always delivered with uncertainty. Like the caller wasn’t sure whether they were reporting a crime or confessing something.
Janice Bellows, senior compliance officer and undefeated champion of laminated binders, rubbed her temples as she listened to the latest voicemail.
“He nodded,” the voice said. “Like he knew me.”
Janice closed her eyes.
“Of course he did,” she whispered.
Because Eddie always did that.
That was his real trick.
Not the ornaments. Not the audacity. Not even the tree.
It was the way he looked at people like they were already part of the story.
By mid-afternoon, Eddie had upgraded from “oddity” to “topic.” People took longer routes just to maybe see him. Shopkeepers lingered in doorways. Someone set up a folding chair near the square and pretended it was for “fresh air.”
Eddie noticed.
He always noticed.
At one point, he climbed onto a bench in the square—no permit for that either—and addressed absolutely no one in particular.
“You’re all staring,” he said conversationally.
People froze.
“That’s rude,” Eddie continued. “If you’re going to watch, at least commit.”
A man coughed. A child waved.
Eddie nodded solemnly at the child. “You’re doing great,” he said.
Then he hopped down and wandered off, leaving behind nothing but pine needles and unresolved feelings.
And then there was the ornament incident.
This is where the stories start to diverge.
Some say Eddie removed a bauble from his tree and handed it to a woman crying outside the post office. Others insist he tossed it onto the roof of City Hall. One drunk claims Eddie swallowed it whole and burped tinsel.
The truth, such as it is, came from three separate witnesses who didn’t know each other and had no reason to coordinate their lies.
Eddie approached the municipal holiday display—a perfectly symmetrical, committee-approved arrangement of lights and bows—and studied it like an art critic.
He sighed.
“It’s clean,” he said. “Too clean.”
Then he reached into his branches, selected a single ornament—red, chipped, slightly cracked—and hung it dead center.
Just a hair crooked.
“There,” he said. “Now it looks lived in.”
And walked away.
That’s when the Decor Compliance Office finally snapped.
Janice slammed a folder shut.
“That’s it,” she said. “We’re issuing a formal notice.”
A junior officer hesitated. “Ma’am… last time we did that—”
“I know,” Janice said. “But we cannot let a gnome with a mobile tree undermine municipal authority.”
She paused.
“Again.”
The word hung there.
Again.
By dusk, Eddie was back near Frostmarket Row, boots dangling off a low wall, humming something that might’ve been a carol or might’ve been mocking.
Marla Pease spotted him from across the street and felt something between dread and anticipation.
Eddie saw her too.
He tapped the ornament in his hand twice against the stone.
Tap. Tap.
“They’re coming,” he said casually, without looking at her.
“Who?” Marla asked, though she already knew.
Eddie grinned.
“The clipboard people.”
Marla crossed her arms. “Good.”
Eddie finally turned to her.
“You really think so?” he asked.
And for the first time, just barely, his smile sharpened.
“Because this part,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the town, the lights, the people pretending not to watch, “is where it usually gets interesting.”
Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed.
Boots crunched on snow.
The Decor Compliance Office had arrived.
Eddie’s ornament jingled once, softly.
Like a countdown.
The Citation, the Crowd, and the Point Where It All Goes Sideways
The Decor Compliance Office arrived the way all authority arrives when it knows it’s about to lose:
In pairs.
Two officers. One clipboard. One high-visibility vest that still had the creases from the packaging. Their boots were practical. Their expressions were not.
Janice Bellows led the charge like a woman marching into a battle she’d already complained about in writing.
“There he is,” someone whispered.
Eddie sat on the low wall like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact inconvenience. The tree on his head swayed gently in the evening breeze, ornaments clicking together like teeth.
He looked up.
“Evening,” Eddie said cheerfully. “You must be the consequences.”
Janice stopped three feet away—close enough to assert authority, far enough to avoid pine sap.
“Sir,” she began, voice clipped, “you are in violation of multiple seasonal decor ordinances.”
Eddie nodded. “That tracks.”
The junior officer shifted nervously. “You can’t… wear that.”
Eddie looked up at his tree, then back down. “Too late.”
Janice flipped the clipboard with the kind of flourish that came from years of pent-up righteousness.
“Section twelve-B,” she read. “Unauthorized display. Section fourteen-A: obstruction of festive symmetry. Section eighteen—”
“That one’s bullshit,” Eddie said pleasantly.
Janice paused. “Excuse me?”
“Eighteen,” Eddie repeated. “Outdated. Written after the tinsel incident. We all regret that year.”
The crowd murmured.
Janice’s eye twitched.
“You will remove the decorations,” she said. “Immediately.”
Eddie considered this.
Really considered it.
He reached up, gently, and adjusted a strand of pearl garland so it draped more evenly.
“No,” he said.
That was the moment.
Not the shouting. Not the gasps. Not even the phone cameras coming out.
The moment was the silence after a calm, unapologetic no.
Janice inhaled. “If you refuse to comply, we will be forced to issue a citation.”
Eddie smiled wider.
“Finally,” he said. “Paperwork.”
The junior officer stepped forward, pen shaking slightly, and began filling out the form.
“Name?” he asked.
“Eddie.”
“Last name?”
Eddie leaned closer. “Seasonal.”
The pen froze.
“Address?”
Eddie gestured vaguely at the town. “December.”
The crowd laughed. Someone clapped. Someone else shushed them and kept filming.
Janice snapped. “Enough.”
She reached—reached—for the tree.
This is the part every version agrees on.
The instant her hand brushed a branch, the ornaments jingled—not chaotically, but deliberately. Like a signal.
And Eddie stood.
Not aggressively. Not fast.
Just… solidly.
“Careful,” he said softly. “Those aren’t yours.”
Janice withdrew her hand like she’d touched a hot stove.
Something shifted in the air.
Not magic, exactly. More like permission.
“Look,” Eddie said, turning to the crowd now, voice carrying without effort. “I know I’m not tidy. I know I don’t match. And I know someone in this town wrote a rule about how joy is supposed to behave.”
He plucked an ornament from his branches and held it up.
“But this?” he continued. “This is used. This is chipped. This survived someone else’s holiday and came back for another round.”
He tossed the ornament gently into the crowd.
Marla caught it.
Of course she did.
She stared at it in her hand—cracked, imperfect, warm.
“You don’t need permission to keep the parts that still make you smile,” Eddie said.
The crowd went quiet.
Even Janice hesitated.
Eddie stepped down from the wall.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, brushing pine needles from his coat. “You’re going to write me up. You’re going to file it. And next year, someone’s going to find the citation in a drawer and pretend they don’t remember why it exists.”
He looked at Janice.
“And you,” he added gently, “are going to go home tonight and stare at your perfectly balanced tree and feel like something’s missing.”
Janice swallowed.
She didn’t deny it.
Eddie tipped the Santa hat at the top of his tree, a sloppy little salute.
“Happy holidays,” he said.
Then he walked away.
Not running. Not vanishing.
Just… leaving.
Pine needles scattered in his wake. A few ornaments swayed and settled.
No one stopped him.
They say the citation was filed.
They say it still exists—unresolved, uncollectible, permanently pending.
They also say that every year, right around the time the town puts up its approved decorations, something goes slightly wrong.
A garland droops.
A bauble goes missing.
A tree ends up just a bit crooked.
And somewhere—just out of sight—someone hums.
Because Eddie never stayed.
He didn’t need to.
He’d already done the important part.
He reminded everyone that rules can organize a season…
But they can’t own it.
Evergreen Eddie and the Unlicensed Use of Baubles isn’t just a story — it’s a seasonal warning label. The artwork captures Eddie mid-defiance, tree proudly unpermitted and ornaments dangling like bad decisions, now available as a framed print or a bold, glossy acrylic print for those who prefer their holiday decor loud and unapologetic. If subtle chaos is more your speed, Eddie also shows up as a greeting card, a gloriously unnecessary puzzle, or a perfectly inappropriate sticker — ideal for laptops, notebooks, or anywhere rules go to die. Own the legend, display it proudly, and remember: compliance is optional, but character is not.
