“Naughty List my ass. Santa’s list now reads ‘Return to Sender’.” Huffing at his own joke, Burley looked over to share it with Elmore. The older elf was sitting on Santa Claus, his feet dangling off the old man’s rounded chest.
“You know, years ago there was a fellow around here who could help us with this little problem,” Elmore said.
“You’ve watched too many mob movies, we don’t do that anymore. Besides, he’d never fit in the trunk of a car.”
“Not that, you idiot. I mean another man. Voodoo.” Sliding off Santa and climbing into the sleigh, Elmore picked up the GPS. His chubby fingers racing over the touch screen, he zeroed in on his target. “Here he is. Next street over. I swear you can’t throw Jack Frost without hitting a witch or a voodoo priest these days. Ever since Oprah did a segment on them, they’re popping up like candy canes.” Climbing off the vehicle into the snow, Elmore motioned to Burley.
“Come here. Let’s hide the body before some kid finds him and we end up footing even more therapy bills.”
Tired of being on hold, Burley was happy to get on the move again. He disconnected with the North Pole as another Day of Christmas started its loop. Dragging Santa’s carcass behind the reindeer, they hoped no one would get too picky about how many feet the animals had.
“Oh yeah. Like no one has seen eight tiny reindeer on a lawn display in this neighborhood before. Let’s just hope the crazy people are tucked away in their beds already,” Burley said.
Double-checking the GPS unit in his hand, Elmore started off north toward the subway station. “I love New York. Such a diverse and rich… Christmas Holly! I just saw a rat the size of Rudolph back there!” Their small feet sliding in the snow, the elves moved quickly, not wanting to push their luck if one of the rodents got a little frisky.
“He’s over here.” Cocking his head to the right, Elmore’s feet dug into the accumulating snowfall on the sidewalk. Mixing with the dirt on the street and the garbage strewn along the ramshackle yards, the snow turned a dingy gray color that clung to their shoes and clogged the bells.
Neighborhood shops dotted the street corners, most of them were boarded up or littered with paint in a cacophony of symbols meaningless to anyone not privy to the hand that left them. The elves looked away from the misery, remembering the same houses a century before when the promise of new buildings and young families had swelled the streets that were now left deserted of pride and joy.
“This place just gets worse and worse.” Clicking his tongue to the memories, Burley wanted only to escape back to the warm fire he knew waited for him at home.
“There.” The GPS beeped its announcement of their arrival. Walking up the steps of a pristine brownstone, the elves smiled. There, among the ruins of the neighborhood, stood a home devoid of ignorance or rejection. Lights burned in the windows and the smell of cookies wafted from the kitchen vents.
“Get me up to the knocker, I can’t reach it.” Stretching his arms against the painted black door, Burley struggled to grasp the iron handle.
“You have got to be kidding. Use the doorbell, Genius.” Elmore said.
“Right.” Stabbing a finger onto the round plastic button, Burley punched out the tune to Jingle Bells as they waited.
“Oh yeah. They’re going to be thrilled to see us.” Elmore hoped Hyde would remember them from years ago. Elves don’t age quickly, but he wasn’t the same macho tiny man he’d been a century before, when they’d first met. Stroking his gray beard, he wondered if he should have used a little Grecian Formula to perk it up before he’d left. Shaking his head against the foolishness rolling around inside, he waited.
Heels clacked against the wood floors inside. Coming closer to the door, they heard them hesitate before realizing someone was looking out the peephole – and seeing nothing but the dirty street beyond.
“Hey! Down here!” shouted Burley.
“This is embarrassing,” said Elmore.
“Shut up and yell.”
The black door remained shut. The heels retreated …then returned. As the old-fashioned door handle turned, smiles replaced worried frowns on the faces of the elves.
“This is it. Don’t make an ass out of yourself or she won’t help us.” Elmore blew into his hand, cupping the breath to check its freshness against the stale cookies he’d snuck from houses earlier that night.
“I’m never an ass—Hello, er…” Burley stared at the woman before him. His eyes staring at the ridiculously high alligator skin heels dyed red for the holidays and cinched with silver buckles at the ankle. He whistled low in his throat; though only three feet tall, he was still all man. His eyes traveled upward to her eyes but after those shoes, who could remember the rest? Burley was a foot man. It was just easier to sneak a peek at that level than get busted in the chops for anything higher.
“Charlotte. Her name is Charlotte, you moron,” Elmore whispered. Elbowing his way past the other man, he said, “Charlotte, darling, it’s lovely to see you. It’s been what… fifty, seventy years? You don’t look a day over thirty.” Entering her home without an invitation, he quickly glanced into the small rooms off the main hallway where she stood. Christmas decorations filled the walls as a tree rotated on its base in the parlor. Tiny white lights dotting the fake tree snagged on decades old ornaments. He knew the decorations were for show and to keep her visitors from asking too many questions. The voodoo priestess was tired of explaining that she simply wasn’t in the Christmas spirit every year so she gave in to expectations. Luckily in this neighborhood, tenants didn’t stay around long enough to wonder why the stylish woman never aged.
“Boys, it’s good to see you!” Charlotte looked past them to the street, her eyes searching for Santa Claus. “Where is he?”
“We’ve run into a bit of difficulty…” Elmore’s voiced trailed off, not sure how to proceed.
“He bit the big one. We left him parked behind the reindeer,” Burley said. Red frosting ringing his mouth and sprinkles dotting his beard, he swiped another cookie from the plate on the table.
“Listen, Charlotte, we’re in a spot and could use Hyde’s talents to help revive him,” Elmore said. “You can appreciate our time issues, I’m sure.” Bells twitching, he started to pace the room. His nose detected a hint of something other than Christmas cookies, the subtle tones of dried lavender and foxglove for Gris Gris bags the couple sold to clients. Snakes basked under heat lamps along the far wall, their skins treasured to add potency to the spells and he fought the urge to shudder. Zombies didn’t bother him but the thought of snakes gave him the willies.
“I’ll get him, he’s just back from a Christmas party himself. The old fool loves handing out our special ‘dolls’ to the kids.” Shaking her head, Charlotte could only grin at the thought of those dolls being yanked around, resulting in the bumps and bruises of local politicians whose likeness they bore.
“I’m up, I’m here. What’s going on now?” Tiredness edged the voice of the man coming down the staircase. A well-worn red and white velour suit topped his vintage black Doc Martens; the voodoo bokor grinned at the elves.
“Like I was telling the missus, Santa finally keeled over. We need a little help to finish this run. Got anything to get him in the holiday spirit again?” Burley said. Edging closer to a platter of gingerbread cookies, his hand crept toward the little men with the candy buttons.
“Don’t even think about it, Burley.” Charlotte’s voice called from the kitchen. “Those are for the neighbors we don’t like.” Walking back into the parlor, she placed a large red plate of sugar cookies frosted in green. Sharing a look with her husband, Charlotte said, “Those other cookies have a little something extra in them for the holidays. You understand.”
Snatching his hand away, Burley crept back to stand by Elmore. The elves wanted nothing to do with the mischief this couple could create.
“I think I can help you with this,” said Hyde as he crossed to a large armoire near the snake tank. The hinges protesting
with a loud whine as the teak doors were opened, the elves saw rows of tiny antique bottles lining the interior. The priest withdrew a small light blue vial, its label torn at the edges and lettered in cobalt ink.
“Give this to your jolly old elf. Uncork the bottle and wave it under his nose, the soul inside will enter and bring him back to life. Be careful what you wish for, boys, souls can have a bit of an attitude.” Handing the bottle to Elmore, Hyde turned back to shut the heavy doors.
“Enough hair on my butt to weave a rug and he’s calling us ‘boys.’ If I wasn’t…” Burley started.
“Really. You’re going to take down a man by doing harm to his kneecap on Christmas Eve? Lay off the eggnog before we leave the Pole next time, Tiger.” Elmore had had enough. The combination of Santa’s demise, dog-sized rats and the imminent arrival of dawn with a sleigh full of toys were making him cranky. Turning to the couple, he thanked them both and led the way to the door.
“Elmore, be careful. Hyde’s right about the soul, these things are unpredictable. Zombies may be fun at parties but their upkeep is a bitch.” Charlotte opened the front door for them. “Be safe – and Merry Christmas!”
The elves ran down the steps and retraced their path, careful to cross the street when overturned garbage cans revealed rats inside; their mouths busy with discarded fruitcake, spitting out the green chunky bits.
“Fruitcake! That stuff is nasty. If this bottle of old soul doesn’t work, I’m trying that next, it has to be good for something,” said Burley.
The reindeer pawed the snow as they approached. Night was fading quickly and from experience they knew that the early morning light would make their journey more difficult to remain unseen by late night party people and kids hopped up from sugar from the night before. Elmore rushed to the man laying stiff and cold behind Blitzen. Brushing the traces of snow from Santa’s face, he removed the cork from the bottle and held it under the old man’s nose, then waited. Nothing - neither a groan nor a jiggle like a bowl full of jelly from his prone body.
“It didn’t work! They gave us the wrong soul.” Exasperation led to his yelling into the face of the world’s oldest elf.
“Let me do it. You need to work the mojo, dude,” Burley said. Lifting Santa’s head into his lap, Burley took the vial from Elmore. Blowing softly into the bottle held slightly beneath the cold nose of his employer, he roused the soul that had settled to the bottom of the glass. Within the bottle, the men saw a faint light swirl and rise to the lip, then its vapor enter Santa’s nose.
“Stand back, I think he’s going to hurl!” Burley warned.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s not going to – oh my sweet Rudolph!” Elmore quickly danced back into the aforementioned reindeer to get away from the vitreous bile spewing from Santa’s mouth. Hyde had neglected to mention this little tidbit.
Santa’s hand rose from his side to wipe away the last bits of cookie that had accompanied the vomit, leaving a smear of goo running down his face. Dropping Santa’s head into the snow beneath them, Burley jumped up and away from the now stirring Christmas icon.
“Elmore, Burley… what’s going on here?” Santa asked. Rolling to his side, he lifted himself up on one arm to sit to escape the puddle he’d made moments before. His skin turning from bluish to a pale gray, the old man shook himself, dislodging the red toque atop his head. The elves could see veins criss-crossing across his scalp, bulging from the fresh influx of oxygen as they held their own breath.
“Santa, sir, there’s been an accident…” Elmore started.
“Yeah, but we’re all right now,” Burley cut in. Tapping his watch, he warned Elmore with a glance to be quiet until later. “Don’t want that milk getting any warmer, Santa, let’s holly jolly it out of here.” Helping the older man to rise, the elves assisted him into the sleigh. The reindeer were reluctant to move, their intuition sensing something wasn’t quite right about their owner.
“Yes, of course.” Taking the reins into his hands, Santa Claus began to snap the leather to signal the reindeer to move.
“Heeeeeeeeey, whatchudoin’ here?” A voice called out in the darkness. Stumbling toward them came a man dressed in a suit similar to Santa’s though torn and filthy. Dragging behind him a hefty bag full of stolen gifts, he flicked a cigarette at the elves. “This is my territory. I don’t care if you do have ‘reindeer’ for a getaway car.” He squinted at the sleigh in the flickering brightness the lone streetlight offered. “Thems the biggest-ass rats I’ve ever seen.”
Santa quietly dismounted the sleigh. Once hearty, his steps now shuffled slightly, the new soul still getting its feet under him. Stopping inches away from the imposter, Santa said, “Are those my gifts? I didn’t leave them for you.”
“Yeah. Put me on the Naughty List, Santa Claus, I’ve been baaaaaaad.” Nearly doubled-over in laughter, he dropped the bag. Wiping snot from his nose with the back of his hand in a vain attempt to stop, the young man rose to find the rage of a hundred years of bad cookies and spoiled milk in the form of one very pissed off old elf.
Raising his arms, Santa brought down his hands to crush the man’s head between the gloved palms and cracking the skull. The elves looked on in horror as Santa hungrily devoured the thief’s brains and sucked on an eyeball.
“This was a really bad idea,” said Burley. “Who’s soul did we get anyway?” Backing away from their boss, Elmore ran to the bottle, holding it up to a flickering Christmas bulb whose paint had chipped away.
“Attila the Hun. Seriously? A Hun?” Elmore said.
“You tell him.”
“Boys, I think this young man could use a candy cane.” Licking his fingers to remove the last of the brain matter clinging to the glove, Santa’s step was livelier, the glow returning to his cheeks as he climbed into the driver’s seat. Burley scrambled to find space in the back, not eager to cozy up to the monster he and Elmore had created. Elmore made a mental note to put a load of reindeer shit in Burley’s stocking when they returned home.
“Where to next, Santa?” Burley asked as the sleigh rose.
“China, I think. I have the strangest craving for take-out…” said Santa.
Wrapped in dreams of holiday wishes and snuggled in their beds, those below missed the faint call of Santa as he sang into the night, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!”
Story Art Cover
By Scott Cole
http://www.13Visions.com
Dedication
To my husband for his understanding and support
Author Bio
ANGELICA RAENE writes dark poetry, horror, and historical fiction. Her creative use of words to convey the beauty and love within death prompted a fan to name her the “Poetess of Death”. The title has remained throughout her writing career.
Angelica is the author of Lost, Not Found featured in the poetry compilation, A Surrender to the Moon. After her poem was published in the compilation, the International Library of Poetry nominated Angelica for “Poet of the Year” in 2005.
Angelica combines her fascination with horror, and love of history to be a voice for victims of Human-Trafficking and Child Abuse. Her articles have been published on Gameolosophy, AuthSpot, and Socyberty. Though current obligations have meant placing this cause on hold, it has not diminished her passion for raising the public’s awareness.
Angelica is currently working on two historical fiction novels, two anthologies, and preparing her poems for publishing. She lives in Indiana with her husband of 16 years, Jim, and two children – Jim and Shannandoah.
Refuse to Donate
By Angelica Raene
Enormous evergreen wreaths decorated in huge scarlet red bows and wide matching ribbon welcomed holiday shoppers as they approached the front entrance to Meijer. Four foot tall, Candy Canes lined the edge of the large sidewalk spaced ten feet apart. The familiar sights, sounds, and scents unique to Christmas, excited both the young and old. A small group of carolers gathered at the opposite entrance d
oors singing, ’Once in Royal David’s City’ completed the festive ambiance.
I stopped to listen to their bright, cheerful voices. Excluding the crowds and annoying publicity, I enjoyed the Holiday Season. The carolers’ angelic voices rose above the wall-to-wall shopping purlieu. ‘He came down to earth from Heaven, who is God and Lord of all, and His shelter was a stable, and His cradle was a stall, with the poor, and mean, and lowly, lived on earth our Savior holy”
Every year, I reluctantly join my wife in battling the Christmas shopping crowd. She knows that the mere existence of stupid people annoys me to the point where it becomes intolerable, but she ignores this knowledge insisting I join her anyway. I have always found a majority of the population to be extremely irritating. It just so happens that the Holiday Season fuels this unadulterated stupidity. At the end of the day, I am more than willing to relieve the next inherently ignorant individual (unfortunate enough to cross my path) of their menial existence.
Sandra stopped to wait for me next to the entry doors. She made eye contact with me and tilted her head towards the door conveying her wish for me to hurry and catch up to her. She should know - after 16 years of marriage - that ordering me to do something always ends with me doing the exact opposite. I made the decision to walk just a bit slower satisfied that my smart-ass response would irritate her.
An old man stood near Sandra wearing a heavy dark green coat with matching earmuffs. The ankle-length hem of his coat swayed with the motion of his body as he shook a red handled bell held tightly in his hand. A large bright red kettle suspended from a Shepard’s hook - painted the same shade of red - stood next to him. A shield at the top displayed the words ‘The Salvation Army’ in bold white lettering.
The Undead That Saved Christmas Page 20
