by ALAN TONER
Janice slowly raised her head from the pillow, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and, in a voice still not fully awake, mumbled, “Er . . . what? What you saying, Lucy?”
Her daughter flopped down on the edge of her bed and, eyes bright with joy, repeated, “Santa Claus. He’s been in the night, and he’s left me the present that I wanted so much.”
The mention of Santa Claus seemed to instantly jolt Janice fully awake. Her face became a mask of utter surprise and disbelief. “What?” she said. “You’ve . . . You’ve got to be joking.”
Lucy shook her head vigorously. Her satisfied smile continued to illuminate her whole face. “No, no, I’m not. I’m serious. I’m telling you, he’s been while I was asleep, and he’s left me . . . well, the best Christmas present that any girl could wish for.”
Still visibly stunned by what her daughter was telling her, Janice replied, in a low, quavery voice, “And what was that?”
“The Playstation 3 console I wanted. You know, the one you said you couldn’t afford to buy me this year. That was what I wished for last night when I touched the Santa, and now my wish has come true.” Then she clapped her hands together and rubbed them in a gesture of utter delight. “Wow, Mummy, I can’t believe it! It’s amazing. I’m really made up.” Then she cast her eyes upwards, as if to God, and said, “Thank you, Santa. Thank you so, so much.”
Although Janice was pleased to see her daughter so happy, and afforded her a brief smile to the effect, she was still unable to quite believe all this. It was . . . well, impossible. Just impossible.
“Er, Lucy,” she began, “I . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . . well, I don’t think that was actually Santa who visited you last night and left you that present.”
Lucy’s face fell in surprise. “What? But it must have been. He comes every year and always leave me a present, without fail. You know that.”
“Yes, yes, I do, love. But . . .” She sighed heavily, still finding it somewhat difficult to find the right words to say to her daughter, and shook her head. Should she be honest with the girl and tell her the plain, unvarnished truth that it wasn’t really Santa who came every year to leave presents at the foot of her bed, but really her father secretly dressed up in a Father Christmas outfit which, unbeknownst to Lucy, he’d had hidden away in his wardrobe? Playing the part of the paternal Santa had been an annual ritual in their household, ever since Lucy had started walking. Like most children, Lucy had always been fascinated by Santa Claus – wanted to believe there really was a Santa Claus – and so her parents were only too happy to pander to their daughter’s wishes and fancies, just to keep her happy and inject a little magic into her childhood. Thus, year after year, Christmas had been a constant delight to Lucy, with her father surreptitiously creeping into her bedroom in the early hours of Christmas morning, while she was fast asleep, and leaving her her most wanted present.
Sadly, with her father’s tragic passing, that ritual had all now come to an end this year . . . or so Janice had thought. Because if her husband really had returned from the grave to give their daughter her customary Christmas present . . .
Lucy’s elated smile had now faded, and she was staring at her mother hard. “Mummy, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Janice snapped back from her deep cogitation and looked at her daughter. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
Then Lucy leaned closer to her mother and said, in a pressing, interrogative tone, “It WAS Santa who left me that present, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, of course it was, love. It was Santa all right.”
“Then why did you say – “
Janice held up a hand to stay Lucy’s words as she said, “Oh, take no notice of me. I was still only half asleep when you woke me up. I was still a little dozy, that’s all. So, yes, as I say, it really was Santa. You know he never forgets you at Christmas.” She smiled reassuringly at her daughter and gently touched her hand.
Lucy’s face lightened up again and she reciprocated her mother’s smile. “Good, that’s what I like to hear.” She leaned further on the bed and planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mum.”
“Merry Christmas, darling.”
Lucy slid off the bed and retraced her steps towards the bedroom door. Then she stopped for a moment, as if something had suddenly occurred to her, and turned around to look at her mother. “Oh, by the way, Mum. What exactly did you wish for last night when you touched the Santa?” Then she remembered the old stall holder’s warning not to prematurely divulge wishes, and clamped a hand to her mouth. “Oops, sorry, Mum.”
Janice smiled understandingly at her daughter. “It’s okay, Lucy.”
“Anyway, whatever it was you did wish for, I hope it comes true for you.”
“Thanks, love. I hope so too.”
Lucy left the room to return to occupying herself with her shiny new present.
Janice was actually going to tell Lucy exactly what it was that she had wished for, because . . . well, it looked as if the wish really HAD come true. That is, if the amazing thing that Lucy had just related was anything to go by. However, after some careful deliberation, Janice then doubted the wisdom of telling her daughter her wish for fear of . . . well, scaring her. So she decided to just allow Lucy to continue to believe the harmless childhood dream that Santa Claus – THE Santa Claus from the North Pole – really had left her the present.
So what HAD Janice wished for? Well, when she’d gently placed her hand on that Santa figurine last night and made her wish, there was only one thing that she desired most of all: that her dear, departed husband – who had been so suddenly and cruelly taken away from her by an exploding mine whilst serving his country – could come back. Yes, come back, even if it was just for this Christmas. She had always believed in an afterlife, so this belief gave much weight to her wish.
But the sad thing about it all was, even though it seemed he really had come back, he had never actually appeared to Janice herself, but had simply decided to stick to his traditional Christmas Eve routine of quietly entering his daughter’s bedroom and leaving a present for her. However, as much as Janice was disappointed that her husband’s spirit hadn’t extended its Christmas greetings to her, she was still thankful that at least her daughter had received the present she had been wanting for weeks, but which her mother just couldn’t afford to buy her in these times of austerity. In a way, though, the two Christmas wishes HAD been granted, for Janice’s had come back from the dead, just for one last Christmas, and Lucy had been gifted her Playstation 3. This was certainly going to be a Christmas they would talk about for many, many years to come.
As Janice relaxed her head back on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling with a contented, faraway smile etched on her face, one thought ran through her mind, a thought that was so emotionally heartfelt that it brought tears to her eyes: Thank you coming back to us for one last Christmas, Mark.
Thank you . . .
Once Christmas was over, and all the preparation was well under way for the New Year sales, Janice and her daughter decided to pay another visit to the market stall where Janice had bought the Santa figurine. As well as looking for any bargains, Janice went with the intention of thanking the old woman on the antique stall for selling her an item which had done so much – by virtue of its wonderful arcane powers – to brighten up their Christmas, even if the circumstances in which the yuletide joy had occurred had been a little . . . well, out of the ordinary. She couldn’t wait to tell the woman how right she’d been when she’d told Janice that the Santa figurine really did have magical properties, that it really could make wishes come true at Christmas time.
“I bet she’ll be made up when you tell her,” Lucy said, beaming up at her mother as she walked beside her, hand in hand.
“Bet she will,” Janice replied, smiling back down at her daughter, who’d had an absolutely wonderful Playstation-dominated Christmas, almost to the exclusion of everything else.
As they approache
d the very end of the market, where the old woman’s stall was situated, Janice suddenly stopped in her tracks. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief as she noticed something.
“What’s up, Mummy?” her daughter asked, looking up bemusedly at her mother.
“The stall,” Janice said. “It’s all boarded up.”
“What?” Lucy followed her mother’s disbelieving gaze. “Oh yes, so it is.”
Janice slowly walked closer to the stall. Somehow, she was getting the odd impression that the stall had been boarded up for quite some time. In fact, it seemed to be the only stall in the whole market that was boarded up, all the rest open for business as usual.
The sudden loud masculine voice from behind almost made Janice jump out of her skin. “You all right there, love? You look a bit lost.”
Janice turned round and was confronted by a burly, shaven-headed security guard. “Oh, er, hi,” she said. Then she nodded to the boarded-up stall. “What happened to the antique stall that used to be here?”
“Antique stall?” the man frowned bemusedly.
“You know, the one run by that little old lady.”
Then recognition broke out across the man’s face. “Oh, yeah, I know the one you mean. The antique stall, the one run by old Mrs Fletcher.”
“Yes,” Janice said, “that’s the one, although I didn’t get the woman’s name. We were only here just before Christmas and bought an ornament from the lady. What happened to her? Did she decide to pack in the business and retire, or what?”
The security guard’s face seemed to cloud over with a rather odd expression. There was a few moments’ silence before he finally spoke. “Er, you say you bought something here, from Mrs Fletcher?”
Janice nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“But you couldn’t have.”
Janice looked at the man in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that stall has been closed now for just over a year, ever since . . .” He swallowed hard. “Well, ever since old Mrs Fletcher died.”
Janice’s jaw dropped open in utter disbelief. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“Oh but I am,” the security guard said grimly. “So you see, you couldn’t possibly have spoken to Mrs Fletcher, for how can you speak to somebody who’s been dead for over a year?”
“May I ask how she died?” Janice said, wondering if all this was just some sort of weird dream.
“Well, she . . . she killed herself.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Janice slowly shook her head. “What made her do that?”
“Well, apparently, she became utterly heartbroken over the death of her only son. She absolutely worshipped him, by all accounts. Lost the will to live. Just couldn’t go on without him anymore. She hung herself.”
“Oh my God, that’s awful,” Janice said. “How did her son die?”
“Well, he was a soldier. He was on a military reconnaissance mission in Afghanistan when he was killed by enemy fire.”
With that, Janice’s shocked face went almost as white as Christmas snow, as did her daughter’s.
CHAPTER 2: SILENT FRIGHT
Christmas Eve.
All through the house, the warm and colourful spirit of the festive season embodied itself in various forms: the tall Christmas tree that stood in the corner of the living room, its green branches liberally festooned with gleaming balls and sparkling tinsel; the multi-coloured decorations that spread across the ceiling, in between which hung party balloons and a few glittering angels and stars; a plastic talking head of Father Christmas pinned up on the wall by the light switch, its jovial, mechanical voice wishing everybody a "Merry Christmas" each time anybody passed by it; the antiquated radio on the sideboard, from which emanated the tune Jingle Bells, the tinny sound occasionally punctuated by burst of static.
A house totally redolent with the cosy, comfortable atmosphere of another Christmas Eve.
In front of the big roaring fire, a pretty little blonde girl of seven and her eight-year-old brother were sitting opposite each other, cross-legged, on the mat. They were both staring fixedly at a small glass tumbler in front of them, on which the tips of their forefingers rested lightly, the same tumbler out of which, just an hour before, their mother had drunk a few tipples of Sherry to get her in a merry mood for the party to which she and her husband had been invited in the next road.
The two children seemed to be willing the glass to move, their expressions etched in deep concentration. In a circle around the tumbler, the letters of the alphabet had been cut into tiny strips of paper and placed.
"Hello?" said the blonde girl, whose name was Mandy. "Is there anybody there?"
No response from the glass. It had remained still now for nearly five minutes, and was continuing to show not even the slightest sign of movement.
"Hello?" added her brother, whose name was Billy. "If there is anybody there, please talk to us. Give us some kind of sign."
Nothing. Just an empty, lifeless, upturned glass.
In the armchair by the fireside, Julie, the thirty-year-old babysitter, watched the two kids engaging in their rather strange little game with a mixture of amusement and mild fascination. Just what either of them expected to gain from all this, Julie honestly didn't know. Still, if it kept them out of mischief for a few hours until it was time for them to go to bed to await the arrival of Santa Claus, that was fine by Julie.
On the radio, Jingle Bells had now finished, to be replaced by Elvis's Blue Christmas. Julie smiled wistfully at the opening lyrics of The King's wonderfully deep voice. Julie adored Elvis. Christmas just wouldn't be the same without an Elvis seasonal ballad.
"Please, please, speak to us," urged Mandy, her tone now more insistent, more impatient.
"Yes, come on," Billy added, sounding just as eager for the thing to work as his sister was.
"Look, I'm not being funny, kids," Julie interrupted, laughing a little at their antics, "but I think you are both wasting your time. That glass isn't going to move."
They were too engrossed in their efforts to even acknowledge Julie's words. The babysitter might as well have not even been in the house. Reciprocating their ignorance with a suit yourself shrug, Julie reached towards the coffee table to pick up the Christmas edition of the TV Times. She flicked through its glossy pages until she arrived at the program page for that Christmas Eve. She tutted to herself and shook her head disapprovingly on seeing the utter dross they had served up as the supposed "Christmas entertainment" for that night. Too many depressing soaps and not enough yuletide jollity. Whatever happened to all the seasonal music shows they used to put on? Throwing the magazine back on the coffee table in disgust, she decided that the telly was staying off for tonight, as she certainly wasn't going to watch all that crap. Better stuff on the radio.
"It's moving!"
The sudden shout from Mandy caused Julie to jump in her seat. She shot a look down to the excited girl . . . and then to the glass, on which their two fingers still rested. Slowly, curiosity stirring in her, Julie leaned forward . . . and saw that the tumbler was indeed moving. It was sliding slowly, ever so slowly, along the flat wooden board towards Billy. But how?
"Hey, you're pushing it with your finger, aren't you?" Billy said, eyeing his sister suspiciously.
"No, no, I'm not," Mandy protested, shaking her head vigorously.
"But you must be," Billy argued.
"No, honestly, I'm not."
"Well, let's ask it something then, shall we?"
"Okay," Mandy nodded slowly, unable to tear her gaze away from the moving glass as she proceeded to think of a suitable question. "Who are you?"
The glass slowly responded by moving, first, to the letter S . . . then A . . . then N . . . then T . . . then, finally, A.
It had spelt out SANTA.
Santa Claus?
On the radio, Elvis's Blue Christmas ended, to be followed by Silent Night sung by a church choir. The static on the old fashioned radio seemed to be wo
rsening. Some kind of very bad interference.
Julie's curiosity at the involuntarily sliding glass was growing. She began to recall certain stories she'd heard in the past about these little "party games" involving upturned tumblers. Most of them had proved to be exactly the kind of phoniness that Billy had implied: somebody slyly pushing the glass with their finger. Harmless fun. However, there were other stories - darker stories - that the glass had been manipulated by . . . well, some unknown force. As well as being amusing, these games could also be downright serious. Creepy, even. Perhaps I should have put that glass away in the cupboard once it was finished with, Julie thought. What was the name that people often gave to these "games"? Ouija boards, or something like that. Even so, Julie had always been rather sceptical about the supernatural. She was also very down to earth, and a complete atheist. She would therefore take a lot of convincing that there might, just might, be something beyond this physical world.
"Santa?" Mandy's eyes lit up delightedly. "You mean Santa Claus? You are actually Father Christmas himself?"
Again, slowly, weirdly, the glass slid to each chosen letter of the alphabet: Y . . . E . . . S.
YES.
"Wow!" Mandy gasped. "We're talking to Santa Claus himself!"
Billy frowned. "Santa Claus?" He shook his head, looking totally bemused. "But I . . . I don't understand. How can Santa Claus be in that glass if he's out tonight delivering presents?"
Mandy just shrugged, her attention unwaveringly riveted on the glass that had suddenly seemed to take on a life of its own. "Santa, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
The glass spelt out NO.
"Santa," Mandy went on, her eyes glinting with fascination "are you going to bring me a nice present tonight?"
What the glass spelt out next caused Mandy's excited expression to suddenly fade, her mouth to drop open with shock.
WHY SHOULD I?
"What do you mean, 'why should I'," Billy cut in. "You're Santa Claus, aren't you, or so you say. You are supposed to bring us kids presents every Christmas Eve. It's your job."
