The noise came again. A scuffling sound, like the roof was being raked. Or reindeer hooves, a voice in the back of my mind said.
The scuffling sounds moved. From above our heads to over the living room. To the fireplace.
My heart was pounding now. I knew this was no normal noise. I also knew it was no burglar. Something was up there which I was afraid to acknowledge. Something in a red and white suit.
This was crazy. There was no such thing as Santa Claus. Santa was a myth, a joke played on little kids by their parents and reinforced by the marketing powers that be. He was a fictional figure, a cartoon character. Like Paul Bunyan or Bugs Bunny. I was letting Patty’s childish talk get to me. I was starting to imagine things.
The sound came again.
I was not imagining it.
Oh God. The sound of those pawing hooves on the roof is something we wait for our entire child lives. The sound of presents arriving. The happiest sound in the world. But when you hear that sound as an adult it is no longer so cheerful. You no longer want to hear it. And when you do, it scares the shit out of you.
I was tempted to hide my head under the covers and plug my ears and wait for morning. I could feel the fear rising in my body like bile, causing a wave of cold to travel from the soles of my feet, through my arms, to the top of my head. I started to shake; not just small trembles, but huge, wracking spasms.
But I didn’t hide. I ran over to the switch, turned on the bedroom light and stood there listening. Patty was still asleep.
There was a sudden, jarring, growling sound, and I jumped. It moved from the roof, down the fireplace and into the living room. I didn’t know what to do. “Patty!” I hissed. “Patty!” but she wouldn’t wake up.
I thought of calling the police, but quickly discarded the idea.
Something—or someone—was definitely moving around out there now. I could hear its heavy footsteps moving from the living room to the dining room/kitchen area. The refrigerator was opened, then closed.
The noises moved back to the living room by the fireplace, and I heard several small, thudding sounds followed by several small crashes. Then came a whistling. My God, the thing was whistling a song to itself! I listened carefully: the bastardization of a popular Christmas carol.
What was out there? I wondered. What the fuck was it?
There was only one way to find out, I knew, but I wasn’t ready yet. I stood next to the light switch, trying to gather up my courage, trying to formulate some sort of plan.
My feet started moving without my consent, carrying me through the door and out into the hall. The hall light was on—I always kept it on—so I stayed close to the right wall, moving slowly. I didn’t want him to see me.
Like the hero in Clement Moore’s story, I peeked around the corner and saw a red suited figure stuffing things into a stocking. Patty’s stocking. He had thrown out all my presents and they were strewn over the living room floor, crushed, apparently stomped on. He’d left my stocking alone.
I said nothing, but watched him work. He did indeed have a large canvas bag with him, just like everyone said. It was filled with all kinds of goodies—mostly toys. He was also fat, just like expected.
Then he turned around. And I gasped.
His skin was dark green with mottled brown splotches all over it. He had no beard. His eyes, beady and close-set, were yellow with no iris or pupil. His mouth, set below a large, hooked nose, was filled with several hundred infinitesimal baby teeth, all pointed and the same color as his eyes.
But I hardly noticed the face. For underneath the red coat he was nude; his skin the same green and brown all over his body. And sticking straight out was a large priapic penis.
He looked toward me, hearing my gasp, and he smiled. His dimples weren’t merry. “Happy holidays,” he said. His voice was a whiny squeak, barely human at all. His eyes bored into mine and the world disappeared in a yellow haze.
I could not have been out for more than a few minutes, but when I awoke he was gone. His bag was still there, though, so I assumed he must still be in the house. I shook my head, trying to get rid of that drugged-out feeling. I tried to stand up. My body was heavy. It felt like I was suspended in water.
“Yes! Yes!”
I heard the whiny voice coming from our bedroom and, with a puking feeling in my guts, started staggering through the hallway.
Patty was kneeling on top of the bed, ass up, her nightie flipped over her back. Her head lolled to one side and her eyes were closed. She was still asleep, somehow, though her body appeared to be animated.
The creature was on his knees directly behind her, his oversized organ shoved all the way into her. “Yes!” he chanted. “Yes! Yes!”
“No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, but the sound came out a whisper. He looked at me and my body froze as if paralyzed. But I remained awake, conscious, and I realized as he moved in and out of my wife that he wanted me to watch. He grinned, his yellow teeth glowing strangely.
NO! I wanted to yell. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! But my mouth would no longer work. My face muscles were frozen. The tears rolled silently down my face.
He pulled out of her, and I realized as he positioned his massive cock a little higher that he was going to fuck her in the ass.
Names, curses, obscenities assaulted my brain as I was forced to watch. He leaned onto her back and grabbed her large breasts from behind; squeezing them, kneading them, fondling them. My frenzied mind planned innumerable deaths and exquisite tortures.
He came, his whole body suddenly jolted by a series of shudders, and once again he pulled out. I saw sickening yellowish liquid dripping from the tip of his penis.
Patty rolled onto her back at a whisper from him, and opened her mouth. He shoved the entire organ into her mouth, balls included, and I could see her cheek muscles moving and bulging. Her eyes, however, were still closed and I knew that, somehow, some way, she had not awakened. He was doing this to her without her knowledge, probably against her will, and he was able to keep her asleep.
He came again and hopped off the bed, cackling. He put a finger aside of his nose and ran out of the room. A minute later, I heard the strange growling sound, now moving up the chimney. After that, the shuffling noises reappeared on the roof and then disappeared. From far off, on the wind, I heard the whistling of Christmas carol travesties.
SHE AWOKE IN THE morning happy and refreshed and rushed immediately to the fireplace to look at her presents. She laughed and squealed with delight as she sorted through the contents of her stocking.
I felt like hitting her across the mouth, like beating the shit out of her. I blamed her. I knew that what had happened was not her fault, but the feeling remained, irrationally, that she had been unfaithful to me, that she had fucked someone—something—else.
At the same time, I realized that this was the logical extension of Christmas—the grown-up version. This was what took the place of candy canes and small toys. This was what Santa brought to adults.
I looked into her innocent eyes. She was so happy, so ecstatic, so full of holiday joy.
But Christmas had been metamorphosed, for me, to hell.
I thought about it all day. And I knew that I had a year in which to convince her that Santa Claus was not real, that first her parents and now I filled her stockings with presents. I had a year in which to shatter her faith. I had a year in which to transform her into a normal, well-adjusted unbelieving adult.
It seemed like plenty of time.
BUT NOW IT IS March. And after three solid months of attempted brainwashing, her faith in Santa is still unshakable as ever.
And lately, she’s been talking about the Easter Bunny.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.
HUNG WITH CARE
by Ty Schwamberger
The newly fallen snow crunched under his black boots as he walked towards the next house. This one wasn’t quite as nice looking as the previous residence he had visited, but he
was sure there would still be some nice little boys, or maybe even girls, that had been good enough all year to deserve a bountiful helping of Christmas presents. He disappeared for a moment behind a large pine tree nestled beside the house and paused. He looked through the pointy, green needles of the tree and out into the street.
Not a creature is stirring… He smiled and then continued on his way.
Ducking into a deep shadow by the side of the house, he rose up on his tiptoes and looked through the snow covered window. No, it wasn’t real snow. He could tell that easily enough. It had come from one of those aerosol spray cans that contained that fake, white sticky stuff that clung to windows during the season of ever-lasting joy. At first it was hard for him to see in, so he took one mitted-hand off the big, red sack he was carrying on his back and gently placed it upon the window. He slid his hand back and forth a few times until the condensation on the outside of the window disappeared and he was able to gaze inside.
The stockings are hung by the chimney with care… He then repeated the next line, silently this time, deep inside his soul, then smiled. God, did he love this time of year.
As he pushed the window up into its frame, smiled, and wondered if it was a Christmas miracle that this particular house’s window hadn’t been secured as all the others. Not that it really mattered; by chimney, by magic key through the front door, or climbing through an unlocked window he had never been denied getting into a house on the Eve of the most wondrous day of the year.
He flung the heavy sack off his back and tossed it through the open window.
He then pushed himself up and onto the window sill, then followed the sack full of goodies into the nice, warm house.
AFTER STRUGGLING TO PICK his rotund self up off the floor, he huffed a few times, and went to the open window and dropped it back into place. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but then reached up and slid the lock into place. He then turned around and took a nice, long look around the cozy living room.
The first thing he noticed was that the fireplace still had some glowing embers. He slowly walked over, bent down, and stuck his still-mitted hands under the hearth. Even though the fire wasn’t roaring anymore with hot delight, it still provided enough warmth to seep through the heavy, black gloves and reach his almost-frostbit hands.
After all, it had been a hell of a long night already and just the thought that he was really just getting started made him feel exhausted. But, this was his chosen profession, one he had made many, many years ago, so he felt like cold or no cold, it was his duty to carry out what he promised himself oh so long ago.
After crouching by the almost-dead fire for a few minutes, he slowly stood up and stretched his red, fur covered arms over his stocking-covered head. He then turned around and took a long look at the rest of the room. The decorations included: snowmen, igloos, polar bears, angels, and even a figurine of himself. Santa. His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly, but he didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t. Oh, no.
Not with the children nestled all snug in their beds…
He smiled, again. Then hoped against hope his hunch was right.
Leaving his already full sack on the floor, he proceeded out of the living room, towards the staircase leading upstairs to the family’s bedrooms, but not before picking up a gingerbread cookie from a Christmas tree plate, and biting the little man’s head off.
He wanted to laugh through his cookie filled teeth, but knew he couldn’t.
He didn’t want to wake anyone, especially the parents…
Who had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
The word ‘nap’ made him laugh, again, but this time he couldn’t keep it in.
As pieces of cookie flew out of his snapping jaws and hit his boots, he started up the stairs.
He paused for a moment at the top, pulling out a long, curved knife from the sheath buckled to his wide, black belt and then started down the dark hallway.
His first stop was the parent’s room.
Then, no matter if they had been good or bad, it was off to the kid’s room to slice and dice them and make himself all glad.
“JERRY…JERRY. WAKE UP. I think I heard something.”
The balding father rolled over onto his back, stifled a last snore and mumbled, “Huh. What. What did you say, dear?”
“I said, I think I heard something, or someone, downstairs.”
“Ah geez, Helen. It’s probably just the long limbs of the pine hitting the side of the house. I promise, first thing tomorrow morning after the kids have opened their presents that I’ll bundle up and finally go out there and cut a few limbs back, okay? Now, please, let me get some more sleep. You know as well as I do that the kids will be up at the ass-crack of dawn and running in here to jump on the bed to wake us up.” Then, still half asleep, the husband and father rolled back onto his side and started snoring again.
The wife and mother mumbled, “But…” then stopped from saying anything else. Sure, her husband was a kind and loving man but even he had his limits. Especially if she woke him in the middle of the night, like she often did, for a noise that she ‘heard’ downstairs or outside the house. Each and every time in the past that she had nagged until he had gotten out of bed and went downstairs or out into the cold to investigate—it turned up nothing. So, this time, since it was Christmas Eve and all, she decided to keep her mouth shut.
After deciding not to bother her husband any longer, she lay back down onto her pillow and closed her eyes. She was about to drift off when she heard something, again, closer this time than before. For the life of her it had sounded like it was coming from the hallway outside their bedroom door. Helen knew she if she didn’t have her husband take a look, pissed as he might get, she would never be able to fall back asleep and it would ruin her chances of being rested enough for a day full of opening presents, the kids running this way and that around the house while playing with their multitude of new toys, or cooking their annual Christmas Day feast. Finally, after thinking about it for another minute or two, and ‘hearing’ another sound out in the hallway, she rolled onto her left side, placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and gave it a soft shake.
He rustled in his sleep but didn’t wake.
She leaned over, knowing one sure fire way to stir him whether he was sleeping or just acting dead, and started to nibble on his ear. Just as she expected, he let out a soft, low moan.
“Hummm… Well, now. I think I can be persuaded to get up for something like this, dear.” He then rolled onto his back again and reached for Helen’s…
He heard the creaking of the bedroom door being opened.
“Damn kids,” he mumbled, giving his wife a quick kiss and then quickly sitting up in bed. Through the dark, he said in a deep voice, “I told you kids to stay in bed, if nothing else, until the sun is above the horizon.” He paused, looking at the clock on his nightstand and seeing it wasn’t even 3:00 am, yet. He then turned back to the fully-opened door and shouted, “Hey! What did I tell you damn kids, huh? I told you to…”
His words were cut short as a sharp blade was quickly and precisely drawn across his neck. Blood spurted onto his attacker and his wife.
Helen began to scream, but it was only for a moment, as a giant shadow suddenly leapt through the air, smashing on top of her, making the air in her lungs burst out.
Helen lay under the rotund man and thrashed this way and that. She felt something poke in between her legs, but the thoughts of being raped quickly dissipated as she felt something cold and sharp against the side of her neck. She wanted to scream, again, but the large man had already placed a large, smothering glove over her mouth. Finally, not that she wanted to, but knowing she had to, she opened her eyes…
And said to herself, Oh my God, it must be St. Nick!
Helen started to repeat a line in the famous poem over and over again to herself, Now dash away! Dash away!
Above, she saw Santa start laughing. Then he said, “Dash away all!”
>
Then he slashed Helen’s throat and her fright was never more.
He then sawed off both the husband and wife’s hands, stuffed them into the deep pockets of his big, red coat and walked out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him.
WALKING DOWN THE HALL towards the sleeping girls’ room, his eyes twinkled with delight and he could feel his dimples, his cheeks full with merry. And, yes, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry, but that was from the blood that had splattered upon his face from Helen and Jerry (not that he knew or even cared to know their names). As he wiped the dripping knife blade off on his fur covered right leg, he brought up his other arm and mopped up his face. He smiled, again, knowing he had just done the world some justice—teaching people, especially the ones that acted like good model citizens, with their expensive cars and homes (not that this particular family had either of those luxuries, but that really didn’t matter in his faltering mind at this point), when they were anything but. Besides, he was St. Nick, Santa Claus, goddammit, and it was his job to check off on his list who was naughty or nice.
Coming up to the girls’ room, he slid the now clean, shiny blade back into the sheath on his belt and then slowly reached out with the same hand and grasped the doorknob. He gave it a quick wiggle back and forth, making sure the door was indeed unlocked, then twisted it all the way to the left and slowly eased the door inward. He then tiptoed into the dark room, shutting the door behind him.
DRESSED IN HIS TRADITIONAL holiday garb, he stood at the side of the girls’ bunk beds, his head throbbing with naughty images and his mouth watering with want. No, he wasn’t a pedophile, never even had the slightest inkling to be one. What he wanted, craved, more than anything was to teach all the bad boys and girls in the world, more realistically the city he resided in, that no bad deed goes unpunished. Especially when it was supposed to be the season of giving and all he ever felt like the world ever gave him every Christmas was a lump of coal in his stocking. But not this Christmas. Oh, no. This Christmas, he was going to show the world; house by house, adult by adult, child by child, that this old St. Nick was someone to not be fucked with any longer.
A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous Page 22
