I've always hated Christmas. Ever since I was a kid. Ever since that Christmas morning when the obnoxious neighborhood bully who lived down the street was found dead in his room. His mother found him still in bed, his hands clenching the bedclothes, nearly shredding them. His mouth and throat were packed tight with coal. The police thought it was some maniac's sick idea of a joke. I knew the truth though. Santa had put that bully on the naughty list.
Of course my parents had said it was a terrible tragedy. The whole neighborhood turned that miscreant into a saint. It was a rather odd sight on that morning though. Everybody awakened by the sound of sirens racing through the sleepy morning streets. Mothers standing out in the snow in their robes and no make-up, some had their hair up in curlers. The fathers tying the belts of their robes, trying to simultaneously see what the commotion was about and usher the groggy eyed children back into the house. Everybody stood around gawking and gossiping until the cold was too much, or the children dragged their parents towards the tree. My parents ushered me into the house, trying to distract me by pointing out a large package by the tree. I ran over excitedly, wondering what oh what it could be. I reached for the tag, and as I read it, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. A shiver ran up my spine as the tag slid from my fingers. The package was from Santa.
My parents were taken aback by my reaction. I tried to explain to them what had happened. About the bully and Santa's list. That their so called saint had callously killed a boy before breaking into our house while we slept. By that afternoon I was being led into a doctors office. I tried to explain to the doctor what had happened. Tried telling him the awful truth. The entire time I talked he seemed to be listening quite carefully. He would nod and take notes. I actually thought he believed me. When we were done he told my parents that I was just overwhelmed by the death of somebody I knew who lived so close. He gave us some pills and we were on our way.
That was five years ago. Ever since I had been taken to the doctor I realized that I had to stay quiet about things. The adults would never believe me. They would lock me up and force pills down my throat. So I stayed quiet, tried not to say anything on Christmas morning when I got packages from Santa Clause. I would search the internet to see if there were any more kids killed, and there were plenty. All over the world it seemed children would be found full of coal, but the killer was never found. I knew who it was though.
Just last year my parents told me that there was no Santa, that he was just a story to help get kids to be good all year. I just smiled and played along. I've been getting ready these past years, playing peewee football, taking karate classes. I even managed to convince my dad to get me some swords at the renaissance faires we went to last summer. I've stayed awake each Christmas eve, trying to make sure I wouldn't be caught unaware. Most people would call me paranoid, but hey, I am in the boyscouts after all. I've learned to be prepared.
Tonight is the night. Christmas Eve. The house is dark, eerily quiet. The tree casts a long shadow across the floor, it's tip ending near the fireplace. I've locked all the doors, latched all the windows tight. I crouch in the deep shadows of a corner near the open grate of the cold fireplace. The warmth of the evenings fire has long ago been leached away by the winter chill. Waiting in silence, a gaudy Excaliber replica clenched in my fist, straining to hear anything out of place. Hoping and dreading for the tell-tale jingle of sleigh bells.
I was growing sleepy there in the corner. I had propped myself against the wall, fighting sleep as I waited. Suddenly, faintly, there were the sweet chimes of a bell, tinkling in the frosty night air. Footsteps made their way across our roof, a slow and steady thump of a confident soul. I quickly made my way to my feet, the words to an old carol coming unbidden to my mind. "He's making a list....checking it twice.....going to find out who's naughty or nice..." I had broken out into a cold sweat and found myself drying the palms of my hands on my pajama pants. There was a sound in the chimney now. A soft rustling of fabric against brick.
My stomach leaped into my throat as a dirty, black boot crushed the ashen remains of wood in the fireplace. Soon, another boot joined the first. I wondered how the famously fat saint would be able to squeeze out of such a small opening, I had my answer all too soon. Oozing out of the chimney came a red mass, flowing into an oily red and black puddle. This soon became an amorphous blob, growing in size, taking on the rough shape of a man. The surface rippled like the face of a pond during a heavy storm. Slowly the rippling ceased and the figure before me looked more an aged Manson then a beloved grandfather. His red suit was dark like blood, its white fur trim matted and blackened by the soot of countless chimneys. There were stains that looked ominously like dried blood on his mittens. His white beard was scraggly and full of crumbs and chunks of coal. The eyes, my god those eyes. They were fierce and black. The ancient eyes of a madman, and they were turned on me. His deep gravely voice boomed out in the night, "Ho ho ho really? I see I was wrong about you. You've been naughty indeed, slinking around in the dark, playing with things you shouldn't. I suppose it's coal for you after all."
Fear had frozen me, but the awful sound of his voice broke that spell. I lunged at him like a maniac, my shoddy sword held high. The old man laughed as he backhanded me into a wall. I lay of the floor dazed, blood running down my chin, idly staring at a gristly tooth laying near me. A mitten covered hand grabbed me up by my hair, pulling me to my feet. The cloth smelled of sweat and old milk. I frantically swung my arms around, feeling for anything I could use, anything that could help me. Santa grinned widely, showing off his cracked and yellowed teeth, as he brought out a lump of coal. As he brought the coal to bear, intent on jamming down my throat, my hand came across a colored glass ornament on the tree. With all my strength I swung the fragile orb at the fat man's eyes, feeling it shatter and bite into my palm on impact. Santa dropped me, bringing his mittened hands to his face, trying futily to remove the shards of glass in his eyes. The mittens, too clumsy to grasp the tiny shards, pushed the glass further into his now bleeding eyes. I lunged for towards the fireplace, grabbing up a wrought iron poker with both hands. I stared at the howling man before me, dredging up all the years of silence I was forced to endure, all the sleepless Christmases, all the pills. I thought of all the children murdered by this childhood icon, and I attacked. I brought iron poker down on the back of his head with a sickening crack. Again and again I swung, taking out years of fear and frustration. I hit him until my arms could no longer bear to raise the gory iron. Santa Claus, the hero of countless young, lay dead in my living room.
I worked through the rest of the night, cleaning up stains and shattered glass. I had attempted to drag the body towards the door, but as I touched it the surface once again began to ripple. The body began to smoke, giving off a noxious odor. I rushed to open the door to try and get the smell out. The body continued to melt and smoke until there was nothing left but the lump of coal. I brought out a couple of cans of air freshener to try and get rid of the smell but nothing would work. The only signs of Santa's visit were a lump of coal and a horrible odor.
The next morning I managed to convince my parents, sound sleepers both, that the noises they thought they heard during the night was a late night horror movie I had been watching. The smell downstairs was almost gone, but my father still caught a whif of it. Well, instead of opening our presents that morning we all left the house until the fire department had checked the house for gas leaks. I didn't talk much that morning, instead I fondled the tooth in my pocket thinking about what happened the night before. Santa wasn't the only one who breaks into our houses at night. Now I'm sitting in my room staring at the cracked window. I've put the tooth under my pillow, now all I have to do is wait.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
