Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick

by J. L. Foster

  The elevator eased to a stop, and Jasmine was suddenly thankful that it had not been a janitor going up to the top floor storage. Her head would have been crushed without a doubt.

  She waited a moment until she knew that everyone had cleared out of the elevator, and sliding the metal door off to the side, she peered down into the empty box. Bracing herself, she began to lower her body down, and when she ran out of arm length, she released her hands and dropped the rest of the way. Now, she stood nervously in front of the closed door. That last time she had ventured onto this floor, her nemesis had been waiting. Perhaps he was waiting again now.

  Jasmine had no choice but to take a chance. Nervously, she pressed her quivering finger against the “open” button and held her breath as the door began to move. Her thumb hurriedly jerked over to the “close” button, preparing to press down on the chance that the ice beast was there.

  Although several shoppers strolled through the sixth floor shopping plaza—which was filled with kitchen and bath wares, sporting goods, and various electronics—there was no abominable Santa awaiting her arrival. She allowed herself to breathe as she stepped from the elevator and down onto the floor, which was large enough for her to run on when the occasion arose. Jasmine moved with heavy speed and the knowledge that her husband was not far away.

  "Hey!” shouted one shopper as she pushed him to the side.

  "Watch it!” demanded another who was knocked in the elbow.

  "Ma'am!” cried the department's sales girl, who began to chase after her. “You need to slow down. Ma'am!"

  Jasmine heard none of these people. If she risked stopping to explain, she risked exposing herself and everyone else to grave danger.

  Finally, she found herself in the sporting goods section and turned down an aisle. There, she took a golf club and a baseball bat, unsure of which would prove the better weapon. She knew in her heart that neither would be able to protect her, but she still felt safer with something at her side.

  Stepping back out into the large center aisle of the sixth floor, she watched several children and their parents step off of the elevators. Then, she stared at the children as they began to flee swiftly. Perhaps they were about to be eaten, she thought, having learned from the beast of his hunger for children. But Jasmine saw that she was thankfully wrong. The children had all rushed to a long line that led up to the sixth floor's Santa Claus. Taking a few steps closer, she saw that this particular Santa was Dylan. Even through the Santa suit, she knew her husband. Amongst all of her fear, a smile crossed over her lips.

  She stared at him intently as she neared him, trying her best to remain calm to avoid frightening the children and causing a panic. Then again, who would believe her? Gracy's security surely hadn't—at least not until they saw the monster for themselves. She prayed that wouldn't happen again.

  Jasmine had to admit that Dylan was pretty good at playing St. Nick. He released a perfectly chilling “Ho, ho, ho” as a small boy took the coloring book from his hand and a beautiful ebony girl took the boy's place in his lap. The girl reminded Jasmine of how she had been as a child—long, flowing black hair, an innocent smile, and large brown eyes that would be the envy of all.

  With all of her heart, she hoped this little girl would survive to see Christmas morning.

  "And what is your name, little girl?” she heard Santa ask the child.

  "Amira,” the little girl whispered in a raspy voice as she blushed and turned her head away.

  "That's a beautiful name, Amira,” Santa praised her with an instantly soothing voice. Brightly, the little girl smiled again and turned her eyes back to his. “What would you like for Christmas?"

  "But I just told you downstairs what I wanted,” she giggled, referring to her visits with other Gracy's Santa Clauses. “Three times! I just wanted another coloring book."

  "Oh yes,” Dylan laughed, hoping not to spoil the child's belief in the fantastic mythical creature. “Santa's old, Amira, and my memory gets a little hazy every now and then."

  Again, the girl giggled as Santa handed her a coloring book and sent her on with her mother, wishing her a Merry Christmas. It was then that he noticed Jasmine approaching him in a way that was both cautious and brisk. This was odd, he thought, as she hated the idea of him playing Santa Claus, and she would never have—under any circumstances—visited him at work. But here she was, and the sight brought him worry.

  "Jasmine?” he asked as she broke in line and came up beside him.

  "You've got to come with me now,” she whispered quietly in his ear. “I can't explain here."

  "It's almost the end of my shift,” he said. “Is this something we can talk about shortly?"

  "If we don't hurry, there won't be a ‘shortly.'” Her voice rose a bit with this, and the look of her eyes showed fear.

  "Jasmine, what's going on? Is this about the baby?"

  "Hey!” shouted a mother from behind Santa's velvet rope. “Can we move it along here? I've got shopping to do."

  "Yeah!” agreed several other parents around her.

  "Please, please,” Dylan pleaded in his Santa Claus tone. “Santa will be with each and every one of you soon. Right now, Mrs. Claus is reporting on the status of all of the toys!"

  "YAY!” cried all of the children, each one jumping up and down at the talk of their Christmas morning toys. Leaning back toward Jasmine, he whispered, “What's up?"

  "There's someone in the store trying to kill me,” she said in a huff, spilling out the sentence quickly. “He's after our baby. I don't know why and I don't know who he is. He's dressed in a Santa suit and he's turning everything into ice."

  Dylan couldn't help but laugh. It was perhaps the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. It wasn't April Fool's Day, but he knew she was playing some sort of hoax on him. Perhaps she had come to Gracy's to shop and gotten bored. Whatever it was, it struck him with great humor.

  "Don't laugh at me!” she shouted, straightening herself and no longer caring if she made a scene in front of the children. She didn't have time for such games. “I'm serious. We have to get out of here."

  "As soon as my shift's over,” he remarked, smiling and winking an eye. Knowing his wife, she was eager for a late afternoon quickie.

  "No, now!” she demanded, grabbing his hand and attempting to pull him from his throne. “People are dead already!"

  Glancing over her shoulder, Jasmine saw the looks of curiosity and intrigue that filled the eyes of everyone standing in the line.

  "That's right,” she told them, nodding her head. “The security guards. Dead. All of them, I'm sure."

  "Jasmine, that's enough,” Dylan ordered softly.

  "What's wrong with you people? Haven't any of you looked outside? New York has been turned to ice!"

  In this moment, the store intercom system clicked on, bringing Jasmine to instant silence. She began to shake uncontrollably, and Dylan took this to heart. She was not pulling some stupid prank. She was quite serious.

  "Attention, Gracy's Shoppers,” the voice called over the intercom, nearly causing Jasmine's heart to stop. It was the monstrous Santa Claus speaking in his thick, demonic accent. It was a voice she knew she would never forget—if she survived long enough to forget things. “Thank ye for shoppin’ here today. Ye shall find that all exits have been sealed, an’ there be no way out of the store. Please, enjoy yer shoppin’ an’ have a great death."

  From levels one to six, Gracy's Department Store fell into a deep, thick silence. No one spoke, muttered, whispered, or shouted for what seemed the longest moment Jasmine could remember. Then, she felt her husband's hand clench hers tightly as he stood beside her.

  Sheer panic developed throughout the store. Mothers and fathers lifted their children into their arms and began to flee in all directions. Shopper upon shopper rushed each other, causing many people to fall from the railings of the upper levels, plummeting down to the first floor and their deaths. The screams and shrieks rose and echoed from all around and
those who managed to fall to the ground were trampled from this life and into the next.

  "Come on,” Dylan ordered to his wife, pulling her from the massacre in front of them and to the area behind the Santa display. Leaning into her ear, he whispered, “There's a secret black door on each floor that leads to a stairway out to the street. It's an employee entrance and none of the customers know about it."

  Pushing their way to the kitchenware section, they rushed over to the cashier's counter and pulled aside a twenty foot long Gracy's Department Store flag. Behind this was the secret door, and Dylan reached for the black knob. It opened with ease, and he led his wife into their possible salvation. Shutting the door behind him, he gazed down the railing of the stairwell, noticing that all flights below them were empty.

  "No one's remembered this exit,” he whispered, motioning for Jasmine to follow him as he started down the narrow stairs.

  "Good. Otherwise it would be jammed,” she huffed as she held tight to the baseball bat in her hand.

  "I'm sorry I didn't believe you before when you told me there was trouble."

  "That's okay,” she spoke tenderly, flying down the stairs with hurried speed. “You believe me now."

  On each floor level, the sounds of the screams and cries of terror blared heavily through the wall into the stairwell. Each new whimper and screech made Jasmine cringe more, as she knew what was happening to them. Santa was on a rampage, and they were being turned into ice. She could no longer concern herself with the lives of the shoppers though. She had tried to warn them, but there was nothing more she could do. If she tried to help now, she had no chance of escaping with her life and the life of her baby.

  "Leave my child alone!” she heard one woman scream in anguish, and this caused both Jasmine and Dylan to stop in their tracks. They were now on the second floor landing. “Stop it!"

  "Mommy!” they heard the little boy's voice strain through pain and tears! “Mom—"

  And then his voice fell silent as the mother's screams grew louder, echoing higher above anyone else's. “Stop it! Stop eating my little boy!"

  There was nothing they could do. Jasmine knew that after Santa had finished his small, brief meal, the mother would be transformed into ice. And, just as she had suspected, the mother's scream stopped in mid-note, and then she screamed no more.

  Dylan took Jasmine's hand and pulled her to attention, causing her to move again and hurry down the final flight of stairs. On the first floor landing, they stood in a tiny boxed area between two doors. One was marked “Exit;” the other was labeled “Floor One.” Turning to the exit, Dylan forced himself on the handle of the door, attempting to open it and flee outside. He cursed heavily as he discovered the door was locked.

  "Back up the stairs,” he shouted, turning his wife around to help her in the right direction. Yet, as they took the first step up, the second floor door opened and the large, deathly Santa Claus stepped out into the stairwell.

  "I could smell ye ten knots to the wind,” he growled at her through his fanged smile. “I could smell yer child.” Then, his icy eyes took notice of her companion in the Santa suit—yet another mortal pretending to be him. This was a fine discovery for Nicholas Von Barron. His vengeance and his hunger would both be soothed. He wiped the blood from the other children away from his mouth with his beard and slowly began to cross down the stairs.

  Knowing that their exit from the building was locked, they turned toward the first floor door, opened it with a jerk, and fled from the mammoth monster that approached. Pulling the door closed behind him, Dylan rushed to front of the cash register counter, pushing with all of his might until it was up against the secret “employees only” door. He watched the door intently, waiting to see if this horrifying Santa Claus would burst through it.

  It was all too quiet on the first floor, and turning around, Dylan stared into Gracy's Department Store—a winter wonderland. This was his first glance at the terror the Santa was spreading, and it was enough to take his breath away.

  All around, ice sculptures of people—the shoppers, the Gracy's employees, the other store Santa Clauses—all with panic etched over their faces and in the positions they had been in when fleeing from the icy beast. Looking up at the above five floors—he could see more of the same iced, dead people. There were no sounds or movements anywhere. This monster had very quickly cleared the department store of all life, with only him and Jasmine remaining.

  "This is impossible,” he whispered, holding his wife tight and trying his best to take in the mournful scene around him. “Who—who is that horrible creature?"

  "It's Santa Claus,” Jasmine replied softly, “and he wants to eat my womb."

  "How does he do this, Jasmine? How does he turn people to ice?"

  "When I first saw him,” she began, recalling her final moment with Bailey, “he had been coming toward Bailey's apartment, and he touched everything in his path and turned it all into ice. Bailey told me he had been chasing people dressed in Santa suits, but then he saw me,” she paused and breathed deeply, afraid to remember and continue. “When he saw me, he took some gloves out of his pocket and put them on. He was after our baby, Dylan. He told me he wants to eat it.” Tears ran down her face, and she shook with uncontrollable might. “I think that's why he put the gloves on. If he touched me without them, I would have turned into ice and he couldn't have eaten my womb."

  Dylan held the most disgusted look known to mankind on his face. His stomach churned and he feared that he would be sick. Forcing the feeling away, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tugged his faux beard and mustache down to his neckline.

  "That's the sickest thing I've ever heard,” he admitted, choking on his words.

  "He touched Bailey's building,” Jasmine continued, closing her eyes and shaking her head softly. The tears flew heavily and stung warm against her cheeks. “Bailey ... George ... Toby—they were all in the building. Now, they're all ice."

  "Shit,” he spat, wishing nothing more than to cry. But at the moment, he could not take the time for heartbreak. He had to focus on his wife and unborn child. He had to protect them at any cost.

  "There are some tame but possibly useful weapons in sporting goods,” he grunted, hating the thought of having to return to the sixth floor.

  "I know! I grabbed one!” She grinned proudly, clutching tight to the baseball bat in her right hand.

  "I meant like crossbows and other things that might actually hurt him,” he smiled, looking at the bat and shaking his head. “You'd have to get pretty close to him to hit him with that bat, and by the size of him, I don't think it would do much good."

  "Fine then,” she whispered, nodding her head. “We'll find something else, but I'm keeping the bat just in case."

  Even though she was quite afraid, Jasmine held onto her independent spunk—a trait that Dylan loved. His smile widened and he hugged his wife tightly, kissing her softly on her lips.

  "I love you so much,” he breathed through the kiss, gently closing his eyes.

  "I love you, baby,” she responded, unable to breathe, for she had temporarily been rendered breathless.

  "That all be sweet an’ tender,” the heavy, hellish voice announced from nearby, “but ye cannot make me twins at this stage. So let us not waste the time tryin'."

  Jerking their eyes open and their heads up, they gazed across the store to find the large, beastly Santa standing in front of the exit. Jasmine thought she would faint again—just as she almost had in the elevator—but Dylan's arm around her waist kept her secure and conscious.

  "There be nowhere left to run. Ye be the only ones left, an’ all the exits be sealed.” Slowly, just as if to ensure his statement, Nicholas placed his gloved hands on either side of the doorframe and blew on the door, transforming it into a block of ice. His gloved hands prevented the entire building from transforming along with it.

  When he turned back to Jasmine and the Santa Claus, he saw that they had begun to flee. His cold eyes followed
them as they leaped up the steps of the escalator, passing iced people all along their way. With slow but determined steps, Nicholas began to follow. There was nowhere for them to escape. This had turned more into a game than a vengeance for him now. Nicholas Von Barron was rather enjoying this round of cat and mouse.

  On the fourth floor landing, Jasmine and Dylan stopped long enough to turn around and look down to see how far away the evil Santa was. Much to their thanks and their disappointment, they saw no sign of him. He had not taken the escalators to follow them, but they knew he was on their trail. They decided it best not to waste another moment, and they jotted up the first steps of the next set of escalators. They were almost to the sixth floor, and Jasmine hoped above all else that whatever plan Dylan had, it worked.

  Halfway up the fifth floor's escalator, they could see their destination come into plain view. It appeared just as chaotic as it had been when they retreated from it, but now the people no longer screamed, fled, or trampled each other. Now, they were all ice sculptures reflecting agonizing pain and desperate fear.

  "Come on,” Dylan whispered, taking his wife's hand and quietly leading her through the glistening, transparent shoppers. “Follow me."

  With precisely placed steps, he led her to sporting goods. Taking a duffel bag, he began to fill it with anything he thought they might find useful—arrows, flares, camping matches, kerosene. Gracy's had an antigun policy that he currently hated, but he would have to make the most of what he could find. Next to him, Jasmine continued to clench tightly to her baseball bat, ready to strike when needed.

  "Wants to eat my womb...” she snorted angrily. “Son of a bitch!"

  "Quiet,” he hushed, pressing a finger across his lips. “We don't want to give ourselves away."