Oh, Brandy Boy, Snowball said, Brandon now convinced the toy was speaking telepathically. You can throw me in the trash, but I’ll come right back. Hell, you can throw me in the fireplace if you wish, send me into a blaze of glory. But I’ll come back. It might take me a little longer to piece myself together, but I’ll always be back, until you’re nothing but a pile of maggot shit in the ground.
Brandon grinned at the elf, partly delirious, partly embracing his pending lunacy. Real or not, life would never be the same after this encounter.
“I’m okay,” Brandon said to himself, standing from the couch on wobbly legs. “No one is talking to me.”
He shuffled around the coffee table, determined to prove that this was all make believe. The elf was propped out of the stocking, red hat limp, and Brandon crouched over, his face mere inches away from Snowball.
So close I could just reach out and give you a kiss! the elf’s voice said within Brandon’s head, causing him to scream and jump backwards, tumbling over the coffee table that struck the back of his knees. His arms flailed as his body soared over the table, spinning until it collapsed back on the couch he had just evacuated.
“What the fuck?!” he growled at the elf. Sanity be damned, that elf spoke to him, and he could no longer hold back. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The elf didn’t say anything for a moment, and Brandon was ready to check himself into the mental institute, but he finally responded in the cheery, devilish voice. Oh, Brandy Boy. I’m Snowball, and you should know that – you all named me.
Brandon’s chest heaved as he stared at the tiny monstrosity, his mind coping with an unfamiliar crossroads of deciphering reality versus absurdity.
“Fuck you!” Brandon shouted, whipping out his hand to snatch the elf from the stocking, yanking him out and ripping the stocking off the mantle in a swift motion. “Go to hell!”
He hurled the elf across the room, sending his cotton body into the wall with a crash. His entire body trembled with terror, and he felt his face flush a deep red as blood rushed in every direction.
Is that all you got, Brandy Boy? You know I’m a doll—I don’t feel anything. The elf giggled in a cunning way that sent chills up Brandon’s spine. For a brief moment, Brandon feared that Snowball would keep on talking, right until he convinced him to climb on top of the house and jump, breaking every bone in his body from the neck down, leaving him a paralyzed mess.
“Enough!” Brandon barked, storming into the kitchen and retrieving a plastic grocery bag from under the sink. He returned to the family room where the elf remained on the ground, his little legs in the air above his head as he lay upside against the wall.
Brandon wrapped the bag around his hand and crept toward Snowball, his hand open like a claw as he crouched down to pick up the elf like a piece of dog shit in the backyard.
Hehehehehe! Snowball laughed as Brandon picked him up, and turned the bag inside out to seal the elf within, tying a knot with forceful, good measure. “You’re done, you piece of shit,” he spewed through gritted teeth.
With a death grip around the bag, he trudged out of the house, jacketless in the blistering cold, but the rage kept him plenty warm. Most of the snow had melted away, leaving scattered patches where the sun rarely hit the lawn. He flung open the wooden gate on the side of the garage, tossed up the dumpster’s lid, and slammed the bagged elf to the bottom with a hollow thump.
“Rot in hell!” he snarled, stumbling away on legs swollen with adrenaline.
Snowball didn’t speak again, nor did he laugh in his hellish way. Brandon returned inside the house, relieved that it was finally quiet, yet terrified that he now had to deal with his broken mind.
15
December 21
Brandon had spent the rest of Friday brainstorming lies about where Snowball could have gone. Maybe the kids had gotten a hold of him and misplaced him among their toys. Perhaps Nemo’s ghost took it as a chew toy. Maybe he just got up and walked off, because toys came to life, right?
The kids were the only realistic explanation that might work, so he decided to go all-in with that story. “I haven’t seen the elf,” he recited to the empty house, feeling a return to normalcy now that the teasing little toy had finally been silenced. Was it possible to experience a manic episode toward a specific object, and resume life as normal once it was gone? Even if the elf’s voice had been in Brandon’s head, it ceased after he threw it in the trash. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence.
Once the kids arrived home, he had managed to push the elf to the back of his mind, and allowed himself to enjoy the evening. They went out for dinner to a local pizza joint, and picked up a movie and ice cream for Brandon and Erin to watch later that night.
Brandon’s mind felt cleansed from the elf, as if he were a distant memory and not a discarded toy lying at the bottom of the dumpster. His conscience was so clear, in fact, he went to bed at eleven and slept the entire night without interruption.
* * *
He woke up Saturday, not to the banging on the walls or a possessed elf doll, but to squealing kids climbing onto the bed and jumping on him and Erin. He didn’t feel that instant tug of fatigue that had started to accompany his every morning, instead refreshed and ready for the weekend ahead.
A fresh blanket of snow had dumped overnight, only an inch, but enough to make outside a blinding blanket of whiteness. With four days until Christmas, Brandon thought the scenery was perfect for a quiet Saturday at home.
He made breakfast while the kids watched cartoons in the living room with Erin, plugging in his headphones while he prepared eggs, bacon, pancakes, and toast. Once the table was set, the kids rumbled to the kitchen table, Riley climbing into her chair, Jordan standing beside his, waiting for someone to lift him up.
No one had brought up Snowball, and every minute that passed, Brandon grew a little more anxious at the unavoidable question of “where is Snowball this morning?”
The question never came, and by an unfortunate stroke of distraction, Brandon was off the hook for the immediate future.
They settled in, devouring the full course breakfast in a matter of minutes. Once the kids finished and returned to the cartoons, Brandon and Erin stayed at the table, discussing the day ahead, debating if they should head out for last-minute shopping or save it for tomorrow.
A thunderous knock came from the front door, startling Brandon and Erin as the kids squealed and ran back into the kitchen to their parents.
“Everyone calm down, it’s just someone at the door,” Brandon said, sliding off his chair and shuffling through the kitchen. As he started down the hallway toward the front door, he saw two figures swaying side to side through the window. A closer look revealed them as a policeman and policewoman.
Brandon’s stomach sunk, his mind running through thousands of possibilities as to why the police would be knocking at his door on Saturday morning. He pulled it open, hoping for the best.
“Good morning, sir,” the male officer said, brushing his gray goatee, blue eyes beaming at Brandon. “I hope we’re not interrupting your day.”
“No, officer, how can I help you?” Brandon asked, fighting off the tremble trying to creep into his voice.
“I’m Officer Yates and this is my partner, Officer Ramirez. We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Armstrong, if you don’t mind.”
Brandon looked around the neighborhood and felt a lump form in his throat when he saw the county coroner’s van parked next door, a handful of cop cars splayed across the street with their lights flashing.
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“Mr. Armstrong, were you home last night?” Officer Ramirez asked, her wide brown eyes studying Brandon like a hawk.
“Yes, my family and I were all here.”
“Do you have any security cameras on the outside of your house?”
“I don’t. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
Officer Ramirez pursed her lips and looked to the ground b
efore returning her gaze to Brandon. “Your neighbors were found dead this morning.” She nodded her head next door where all the commotion had gathered.
“We’re not sure if it was murder or not,” Officer Yates said. “We found them quite mutilated, almost as if an animal had attacked them. But we found zero traces of animals in their house.”
“The Wagoners are dead?” Brandon asked, his hand subconsciously moving over his mouth. The Wagoners were an older couple, pushing their eighties, who always offered a warm smile and greeting whenever they crossed paths. Lucy Wagoner brought over a fresh pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving, and Donald sometimes shoveled the sidewalk while Brandon was at work for the day. “It’s no issue. I was once young with two little kids, I know you don’t have time to shovel,” Donald had once told him after Brandon brought him a six-pack of beer as a thank you.
The two families always looked out for each other, collecting mail while the others were out of town, borrowing a splash of milk when Brandon and Erin ran out in the middle of the night.
“I’m sorry to say they both passed away,” Officer Yates said. “There will be an ongoing investigation for the next few days. It will take some time to sift through all of the potential evidence.
“You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary last night?” Officer Ramirez cut in, less sympathetic.
Brandon shook his head, sensing Erin and the kids creeping down the hallway behind him.
“Have there been any different people you’ve seen at their house recently?”
Brandon looked up to the depressing gray skies, racking his mind for the slightest memory of unknown people visiting the Wagoner house. He shook his head as he crossed his arms.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Armstrong,” Officer Yates said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a business card. “If you think of anything, or see anything suspicious, please give me a call.” He handed over the card, pinched between two thick fingers.
“Officer, can I ask . . . how it happened?”
Brandon didn’t really want to know, but a distant voice in his head—Snowball’s voice, perhaps—demanded he find out this bit of information. Please don’t let it be what I think.
Officer Yates cleared his throat before speaking in a lower tone. “Between us, it looked like a mountain lion attacked them. Their throats looked like some creature chewed them right out, but there isn’t a single claw mark or anything else on their bodies, and that’s why we believe it had to be a person.”
That chilling, devilish giggle echoed in Brandon’s head, and he wasn’t sure if it was real or part of a lingering paranoia. His brows furrowed and he looked to his feet.
“Is something wrong?” Officer Ramirez asked.
Brandon shook his head. “It’s probably nothing, but our dog was just killed a couple days ago. His throat was shredded to pieces, but animal control told us there have been coyotes in the neighborhood.”
“Interesting,” Officer Yates said. “Have you seen any personally?”
“I haven’t, but I had to bury my dog after finding him dead under our camper. It was . . . a bloody shit show.”
“We’ll look into that, anything is possible at this point of the investigation. Thank you again for your time.”
Officer Yates tipped his hat to Brandon, and Officer Ramirez offered him a nod as they turned and walked away. The screen door fell gently shut as he watched them cross the street to a different neighbor’s house.
He turned around to see Erin with the kids hanging on to each of her legs, tears running down her cheeks. “Are they really . . . ?”
Brandon nodded, causing her hands to slap across her mouth as she let out a sorrowful yelp. “I guess it happened last night,” he said.
“What happened, Daddy?” Riley asked, lunging toward him. Jordan followed behind her, hands held outstretched beside his head as he ran.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wagoner had an accident next door,” Brandon explained. The kids had no experience with death, and he wasn’t quite sure how to talk his way out of this corner.
“Can we go help, Daddy?” Riley asked, her big brown eyes daring her father to say no.
“I’m afraid we can’t, sweetie. The cops are there and are taking care of everything. We just have to wait here and let them do their job.”
Riley’s bottom lip frowned upon the rejection, but she didn’t seem too upset.
“How about you kids go upstairs and play in your rooms for a little bit, okay?” Erin said, inching them toward the stairs. The kids cheered and bellowed before storming up the stairs. Once they were gone, Erin turned back to Brandon and bawled into his shoulder.
He embraced his wife and tried to calm her down, but had a sudden urge to head out back and open the dumpster. All the answers to his questions would be answered with a quick peek under the lid.
16
December 22
The sensation of something crawling over his skin never left Brandon as he slid into bed late Saturday night. He had gone out to the dumpster after Erin collected herself, and what he found nearly made him vomit. After two minutes with his hands resting on the dumpster’s lid, he finally swung it open to find the shredded remnants of the plastic bag he had wrapped Snowball in. There hadn’t been anything else inside when he tossed Snowball in, and now the bottom of the container looked back at him as he peered inside.
Oh, sweet Christ, please don’t let this be true, he had thought, and repeated that same line within his head at least fifty times throughout the day. Their Saturday had been wiped out by the unfortunate news in the morning. Erin lazed around in bed all day while the kids played, fought, and napped in each other’s rooms. The tragedy also led to no one asking about Snowball, providing a sliver of relief for Brandon during these frightening times.
He tended to the family throughout the day, but mostly stayed on the main level, the TV on as background noise as he paced around in nervous circles. As much as the truth demanded to be spoken, Brandon couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was too late, as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t tell the police—or his own wife—what he suspected, because doing so would only make him appear guilty. Blaming a double murder on a Christmas tchotchke didn’t end well for Brandon, regardless of how he tried to phrase it. He’d be seen as a schizoid having a nervous breakdown.
But for him, it was now all clear. Consulting with the calendar hanging in the kitchen, he calculated back to when Erin pulled out their elf on the shelf, and found that’s when everything started to happen. The busted car lines, the slaughtered stuffed animals, the running water. Everything. It was the elf. But it seemed to be coming for Brandon only. Nothing had happened to Erin or the kids, aside from being woken up, but there were also four victims to consider now: the Wagoners and the man who crashed into the front yard. And, of course, Nemo.
Brandon closed his eyes and could hear that maniacal laughter in the shadows of his mind. Maybe I really have lost it. The brain can make things appear as desired. Maybe I’ve officially jumped off the deep end and this is now how I deal with tragedy— I blame it on toys.
But where was Snowball? He did throw the elf in the dumpster, and there was not a way for him to get out. There wasn’t a scenario in the world to explain where the hell Snowball had gone, short of someone rummaging through their dumpster.
Maybe this whole thing has been made up since the beginning. Maybe there never was an elf and it’s been part of my imagination this whole time.
Brandon had many laughs by himself on this Saturday, even when he invited the kids to come downstairs and watch a movie, hoping it would distract him. Erin declined the offer and stayed in bed while he and the kids watched Zootopia for the hundredth time. The distraction never came, and for a moment, seeing the animals in the movie speaking and interacting with each other like humans made him feel queasy. His mind clouded with paranoia and terror, unsure how he’d ever be able to sleep again knowing that fucking elf was out in the wild, possibly wanting to hunt him down.
The thought of this murderous elf roaming the neighborhood ate away at his psyche all day. He needed to tell someone, but doing so seemed too crazy. No one would believe him, not for a second.
Erin came downstairs later in the afternoon, once the kids had finished lunch, and they had a somewhat regular day from that point on. She didn’t bring up the Wagoners—and she wouldn’t, not in front of the kids. They watched more movies as snow continued to fall outside, steady, but heavily accumulating. Brandon let his mind wander a few times, expecting Snowball to barge right through the front door and attack the entire family.
Never in his wildest dreams, he thought.
After dinner and once the kids were in bed, Erin called it an early night, explaining that she was too emotionally drained. Alone in the family room, paranoia swirling like the snowstorm outside, Brandon popped two sleeping pills before grabbing the chef’s knife to take upstairs and stash in his nightstand drawer, sensing a baseball bat might not be enough if Snowball found his way back inside.
He spent the next hour resisting the pills, his mind falling into darker depths.
Look at yourself, he thought as he lay staring at the dark ceiling, the heater humming soothingly in the background. Sleeping with a knife to protect yourself from the little bad elf.
Soon enough he’d have to explain himself to Erin if he kept bringing knives to bed. Surely it was a risk having the big blade somewhere accessible for the kids to grab, but the risk seemed less significant compared to what could happen if Snowball found his way home. Just ask the Wagoners.
It wasn’t until two in the morning when Brandon was woken by Erin’s elbow nudging him in the ribs.
“Check the heater,” she mumbled, not really awake herself.
As Brandon came to, he imagined he saw his breath as he exhaled, then quickly realized it was real, bolting up in bed, head spinning as the pills in his stomach clung to sleep, while every nerve in his body elevated to high alert.
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