The man got out of his car and watched as a snowplow loomed out of the darkness like some kind of huge prehistoric animal, its glowing yellow eyes illuminating the swirling snow. The driver flipped him a wave from inside the warmth of his cab, and this time the man waved back. He was halfway to the front door of Dunkin’ Donuts when his wrist began to vibrate. Startled, the man looked down at his arm and thumbed a button on the side of his watch, silencing it.
It was midnight.
Christmas.
The man stopped in the middle of the parking lot, oblivious to the cold and falling snow. It had been ten Christmases since he’d last held her in his arms. Ten impossibly long years. She had been pregnant with his child then—with Peter. They had been so excited that they were going to be parents. They had painted and decorated the nursery together. Shopped for outfits and baby supplies. They had been happy.
Six months later, on a routine assignment in Turkey, the man had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time—and instead of helping him, his government had tried to solve the problem by erasing his existence. He’d been on the run ever since. Running from dangerous men trained just as he had been trained, from men he once called his brothers. They would laugh at him now, the man thought. Tired and hungry and crying, sneaking back home like a scared mouse in the forest. They had taught him better than that. They had taught him to be superhuman. Invisible. Immortal.
The man let out a deep breath and watched the vapor fill the air in front of his face. The night was hushed and serene, not even the falling snow hitting the store’s front windows making a sound, and it made the man think of nights like this when he’d been just a kid, sledding down Hanson Hill long after dark with his neighborhood friends, their excited voices echoing across the snowy fields.
The man glanced down Route 40 toward the blinking yellow traffic light. Imagined driving back there and turning left, cruising two miles up Hanson Road to the house he had grown up in. It had been a happy house. Filled with board games and books and laughter. Filled with the love of his parents and his baby brother and the eternal mysteries of three older sisters.
Then he imagined turning left at the intersection, taking Mountain Road until it spilled into 22, following it for twenty minutes or so until it took him right back to the cemetery.
The cemetery …
… where his mother and father had been buried.
… where the United States Government had claimed to bury him with full military honors.
The man stood there alone in the middle of the strip mall parking lot, his hands beginning to shake despite his gloves, his mind betraying him with visions of empty coffins buried in frozen ground and little boys looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, asking, “Are you Santa Claus?”
And this time he couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Sloppy cold tears, equal parts shame and regret.
He should have answered him, the man thought in a panic. He should have told him, “That’s right, son, I’m Santa. My red suit’s in the wash …”
Or at the very least—the truth. He owed him that much. “No, not Santa, son. I’m no one. Just a ghost.”
Instead, he’d said nothing and snuck away into the night.
Out on the road, another snowplow roared by, heading in the opposite direction.
The man blinked, as if waking from a deep dream, turned around and walked back to his car. He got inside and drove away.
Away from the only home he’d ever known.
Away from everything.
“A ghost,” the man whispered to himself in the darkness and drove on toward the airport.
The man wasn’t tired or hungry anymore.
Table of Contents
CHRISTMAS HORRORVOLUME 2
CHRISTMAS AT THE PATTERSONS
Elizabeth Massie
LITTLE WARRIORS
Gene O’Neill
I SAW SANTASteve Rasnic Tem
DECEMBER BIRTHDAY
Jeff Strand
A NOTE FROM SANTA
William F. Nolan
SILENT NIGHT
Richard Chizmar
Christmas Horror Volume 2 Page 7
