The Dark Somnium - If you see a creature coming down your chimney, you need to read this

Episode Date: December 26, 2020

A cryptid hunters experience with the being known as "The Sleigh Father"--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I need to talk, like, I really need to talk. The trouble is, I don't have anybody I can talk to. My family's estranged, my friends are all gone, and the authorities think I'm a lunatic. It's just a few days from Christmas, and I'm alone, isolated. If I don't get this off my chest, though, I'm afraid it's going to start festering in my mind like a decaying carcass. I'm afraid it's going to sink its teeth in. So, I'll talk to you, all of you.

It's not perfect, but it will do. My name is Terence Sims. I'm sitting in my rocking chair, rifle draped across my lap, in bloodstained pajamas that still reek with last night's piss. I haven't slept in two days, and I might not sleep for two more. Last night something came down my chimney, and I think it's coming back. I'm getting ahead of myself. So let me paint you a picture.

I live alone, up in the mountains, where the pine trees are draped in snow, and the rivers are an icy blue. I could be a bit more specific, but I don't think it's warranted. Besides that, I like my privacy. All of this to say where I am isn't important. What matters is what I have to say. I'm a researcher, or at least I was once upon a time. My funding has long been cut and my job along with it, but I've stayed out here because

I believe in the research my team was undertaking. It was revolutionary. It meant the possibility of bridging worlds, of seeing new forms of life. Now I am terrified that research has found me. You've probably heard of monsters, or urban legends, of things that claw your imaginations and lurk in the dark recesses of our minds. you've even felt one. They wait there sometimes, prowling just beyond our vision, tearing at the fabric that holds

our realities together, desperate, hungry. My job was to study these beings. I was tasked with developing an understanding of not only what they wanted from us, but how to gain access to their world, the place beyond the veil. Needless to say, I wasn't successful. The organization I worked for, the facility, poured millions into my ideas, and wasn't forgiving of my failures. When my theories came up short, they cut ties with me.

He cut ties with me. It's unfortunate, but it's business. Mr. Reed had said, feet on his desk, long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Your failures reflect on me, Terence, and they've become an accounting nightmare. I had begged him, groveled. It didn't matter. matter. I was terminated along with my research, and when you're studying the kind of things I am, they don't want that information leaking out into the world. It's what they call a liability.

I was blacklisted. Facility teams picked away at my reputation, whispering in the back corners of universities and at the water cooler's of laboratories. My name became synonymous with paranoia and madness. I was a laughingstock amongst my peers, a joke. It was the end of my life. Only one person cared to associate with me afterwards, a junior colleague and a brilliant young man named Alexei Asimov. He believed in the research nearly as much as I did, and lucky for him, his name wasn't attached to the project.

When the facility pulled the plug and dragged my name through the dirt, they simply moved him to a new department, and that was that. Despite it, he spent his vacation days returning to the mountain, assisting me with further study whenever he could, until last year when even he abandoned me too. But now I've shown all of them. I've proven they were wrong, dead wrong. It's here. He's here.

I always suspected he lived among these mountains, or at least that his bridge was located within them, but I had given up hope for so long. It had been years, after all, damn near a decade. They called me a bastard. It's insane. Then, last night, everything changed. I was lying in bed, winding down after logging the readings on the temporal measurement equipment when the cabin shook.

At first I thought an avalanche had struck, but then I heard it, a clatter of hooves upon the roof. I shot out of bed, my breath trapped in my chest and my body cold with sweat. I sprinted to the closet and pulled out my hunting rifle. Outside, a blizzard howled, but all I heard was the voice, a menagerie of tone and emotion, high and low, guttural and smooth. It rang out from above. My first thought was to contact the facility, but my satellite internet wasn't functioning

in the storm. Even if it were, I knew better. I was too far, too isolated for help. The mountains I study in our remote, and the cabin even more than, was more than, I was too isolated for help. The mountains I study in our remote, in the cabin even more so, it was chosen for its seclusion as a means of observing the being known as the Sleigh Father, but the circumstances were meant to be different, much different. Above me, the ceiling creaked, and dust drifted down the rafters.

Boots crunched upon the snow-caped roof. You always think you'll know what to do when the moment comes, that your training will kick in and you'll just go through the motions like some kind of pre-procored. programmed robot. I wish that were true. I really do. I couldn't move. I couldn't think.

I'd spent the better part of my career chasing that monster, and now that it found me, I was lost. My fingers played upon the trigger of my rifle, my dry mouth, and my eyes latched open. Inside of me, my body thrummed with terror. My fighter-flight response oscillated between cowardice and impulsive foolishness. I was paralyzed, alone. A chorus of chattering pierced the screaming wind. It came fast and jittery, like a ticking clock marking time in microseconds.

I knew what it was before the hoofbeats followed. It was them. The creatures the slave father commissioned in the first days, when people still feared the night and all the horrors within, eight abominations stitched together by the innets of mutilated children. Their agony acted as his gateway, his bridge between worlds. The souls of the children lived on in the beasts, while their vacant spirits stalked the earth, lost and hopeless, seeking the missing peace that would finally grant them rest.

Their tortured existence was his link to our reality, the slay the abominations drew. His bridge. The thought shook me from my trance. I'd spent years waiting for this, a chance to see the other side. to see other worlds. I had to act, so I lurched forward, moving through the lonely cabin while the Slayfather's footsteps creaked above me. He lumbered toward the chimney while I shivered down the cold hallway, rifle trembling

in my skinny arms. It took me only a few moments to reach the living area, and when I did, I settled there, just behind the corner of the wall. I kept my gun leveled at the fireplace, and my eyes plastered open. A crackling blaze danced within the hearth. It cast the sparse furnishings in an orange glow, throwing shadows across the love-seat and the messy desks. The night became still.

The snowstorm quieted. The hoofbeats vanished. There was no sound of boots, no sound of laughter, only the snapping flames and my heart pounding blood through my skull. My mouth moved, the words spilled out, affirmations. Come on, I muttered. Slide down the chimney, you beast. The fire's waiting for you.

I knew better. Of course I did. I'd spent years researching the Sleigh father, consumed tireless hours reading into his history. All of the monsters the facility had dealt with, the terrors that haunted old email chains, and the urban legends that spread through panicked breaths. He was the anomaly. He was celebrated. Santa Claus, they called him.

It was an error I traced back to centuries. ago, when a young girl witnessed her abusive father taken by the slave father. The creature devoured him and left the man's skull as a parting gift, having taken what he came for, a human soul. To the girl, the beast was a savior, a saint. The words she spoke in the following weeks, months, and years became immortalized. They became history, and then they became legend. A jolly being, laughing and hungry, coming down the chimney and leaving gifts in his wake.

It was as tantalizing a tale as they come, especially to young children, eager to be appeased in their search for comfort and joy. Now he was here with me, looking for another soul to add to his collection. Seconds stretched into minutes as I waited, tucked quietly behind the corner of the wall, rifle in my arms, elbow steadied upon my knee. Once we had contingencies for this, plans in place that provided the means to incapacitate the Sleighfather should he pay us a visit, but those plans involved government agencies no longer in my employ.

They involved expensive technology and complex spells. They were a last resort. A clump of snow fell down the chimney, and the fire responded with a hiss of steam. Its flame retreated for a moment, flickering before lashing back in anger. Something heavy shuffled above. The sleigh father. Emotion swam inside of me. Regret, anger, fear.

Why had I stayed out here? How can I have been so stubborn, so goddamn arrogant? The answer was obvious. My old boss, Donovan Reed, his mockery, his wanton destruction of my life, it left me with no other option. Either I remained on this mountain burning through my life savings and hunting wayward game, or I return home. One meant a chance at redemption, the other guaranteed humiliation and disgrace.

I hated Mr. Reed more than words could say. Alexi had seen it. He'd seen how much my loathing distracted me, and so he recommended methods to help get the snake off my mind. Write a list. He'd said in an email last month. Write a list of all the ways you want to hurt him. Write a list of all the horrible things you want to happen to him.

I think it could help you get him out of your head and free up your attention." It helped, a little. Laugh came high and low, husky and slick. A crunch followed it, like something digging into brick, and panic found its way into my bones. Dust and debris fell into the flames. The Slave Father's legend was explicit in his form of entry. If possible, it was always the chimney. A grunt came down the flume, followed by more pebbles and stones.

Then the cabin shook. It was as if something heavy had jumped from the roof, and what comes up must come down. Polverized and cacophony filled the night like cannon fire. Rubble tumbled into the blazing hearth while the bricks of the chimney bulged outwards, crumbling as something massive shot down it. I barely brought my rifle on aim before a figure crashed into the flames. Burning logs shattered with a thunderous crack, plunging the cabin into inky darkness. splinters ricocheted around the room like blazing shrapnel, their slivers slashing at my face

and tracing my skin in searing agony. I swung back behind the protection of the hallway wall, rifle clutched to my chest. My thoughts raised. This couldn't be happening, I said to myself, it couldn't. I slammed my eyes shut, trying to get my out-of-control breathing back in line. I was hyperventilating, panicking. I had to calm down because if I didn't, I would start making impulsive disqualive. Decisions and impulsive decisions were a good way to die.

I opened my eyes. The fire was gone. I could barely see a thing. A short distance away, boots groaned against hardwood, kicking past broken logs in the hearth. My finger quivered against the cold steel of the rifle's trigger, and I desperately wanted to pull it, but I knew that if I did, then it was over. Either the slave father would die or I would. The odds, I decided, were not in my favor.

So I waited. A piece of me, infinitimally small, wanted to see him, wanted to flick on a light or blinding fire into the darkness. I wanted to witness the monster that possessed my life for so long, if only for a second. But I didn't. It's not worth it. I told myself, it's not worth it. The footsteps stalked the window, dragging something heavy behind him.

Then, against the faint light of the moon, he made out the Slayfather's silhouette. He was tall, inhumanly so. His neck craned forward, pressed against the top of the high cabin ceiling. A cloak was draped across his broad shoulders, and from his head slumped a palm of a stalking cap. Beside him sat a large sack. Noddy. His voice hummed in discordant melody.

I didn't reply. It seemed impossible. But a part of me held on to the belief that maybe he wasn't speaking to me. Maybe he didn't know I was there. It was just a monologue, perhaps, words for the night. I raised the rifle, aiming it towards his massive figure. I could do it now. I reasoned.

I could pull the trigger and hopefully make this nightmare disappear. The silhouette turned, his face masked in shadow, save for a single glint of bobbing light. Careful with that. It said, a cold breeze swept across me, and suddenly my fingers burned with agonizing frostbite. My rifle cladded to the floor while my hands trembled in pain. You? What do you want? I stuttered, stumbling backward.

My feet croaked on the floorboards as I came up against the back of the hallway. My heart hammered, tears filled my visions as I cradled my cold hands against my stomach. Please, I whimpered. Nodding. He sang. Nice. I said. I'm a good man.

I just wanted to learn about you. The word stumbled out of my mouth like lemmings falling to their death. I don't mean any harm, I swear. The footsteps creaked closer, and as they did, the silhouette vanished from the window's moonlight. All that remained of it now was the sounds it made. I listened intently to the burdensome echoes of boots on hardwood and the heavy scratching of coarse fabric being dragged across the floor. Oh.

It was so close, so close. I slammed my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable, waiting to die. Warm piss spilled down my leg, and my face screwed up as I fell to my knees bawling on the floor. But please! I begged. I'm a good man. I told you, but please! The rumble of footfall stopped, and in their place came the sound of rustling fabric, like somebody opening a sack.

Nice. A dim light formed, radiating out of a burlap bag some five feet away. Behind its glow, I could make out a white, single beard hanging over a red suit. The Slave father's face was otherwise indiscernible amidst the suffocating shadow, save for one dancing speck of light. Would you like a gift? He asked. My mind raced.

Was there anything in the mythology that warned against accepting gifts? I couldn't recall. Yes? I hazarded in a small voice. Yes, please. It seemed unwise to refuse the creature. A massive red-jacketed arm reached into the burlap sack. My eyes widened in horror as I realized the sack was moving, kicking like there was something

alive inside of it. Muffled screams followed, and the great arm pulled back, clutching a man by his long, blonde hair. The man thrashed and whimpered. Tears soaked his pale face. Our eyes connected, mine in the man's, and something ran through me. It was a feeling I'd never experienced before, a mixture of dark excitement and absolute loathing. "'You,' I said slowly, the light from the sack was dim, but to the man it was all he had known.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the heavy darkness of the cabin, and as they did he peered toward me. eyelids pinched together to discern the voice speaking to him. Who's there? He whimpered. I gazed forward in stunned silence. Was this real? There was no way. He dangled in the slave father's grasp like the finest Christmas present I'd ever seen.

Hello? His voice called. Please, I have resources more than you could imagine. I'm a powerful man in government. Just get me the hell out of here and I'll give you whatever you want. His voice turned weak, broken. Please, please, I get me out of here. I have a family.

I opened my mouth, but if words were there, I didn't speak them. No, it seemed wasteful at this moment to reply so thoughtlessly. This moment necessitated careful words in a measured tone. It required my best. Noddy. The sleigh father hummed. So. I found myself nodding along.

Yes. Man was naughty. The worst. He was an abomination, fit for disposal. He doubted me, made a mockery of me, and torn apart the life I'd so carefully built. Donovan, I said, doing my best to keep my voice low. Donovan, Reade, isn't it? The light was faint.

So faint. In spite of it, though, I could see Mr. Reed had finally realized who I was, whether because his eyes had adjusted or he recognized my voice. a combination of the two. His expression fell. That voice. You used to work for me. He choked out.

Didn't you? I gazed at him. Something horrible growing inside of me. It ate up all my fear, my regret, my rage, and it left only hunger in its wake. A desperate desire for retribution. I did. A pause. He sensed it there.

In my reply. He sensed the disdain. The hate-red. I'm so sorry, he said at length. You were right. You were right about everything. That's true, I said. And you were wrong.

Yes, I was. He winced in agony as the slave father lifted him higher by his tangled hair, then gently nudged him with a giant clawed hand. Mr. Reed swung like a pendulum. You were right. He continued weeping. He's real. Of course he's real.

Are you... Am I what? I interjected. My hands, still burning with frostbite, became an afterthought in my mind. The warm piss in my pants hardly registered to me. I was beginning to build the puzzle. I was beginning to understand what this was. Are you asking me if I'm going to help you?

Silence. Of course I'll help you. I said, I'm not a monster. Why would I ruin your life all because you made a simple mistake? In the quiet of the cabin, Mr. Reed's shuddering tears struck the floorboard like Gundy. shots. Thank you so much. He hardly sounded like the man I knew. If he weren't swinging in front of me with his obnoxiously long hair and his fitted suit, I'd almost have doubted my own ears. He sounded weak, cowardly. I'll ask the slave father to release you if you can do one

thing for me. What is it? Anything? Your research is back on the table. Of course, it is. You're brilliant. Look at you. You saw this before any of us. You knew it was out there. There and what's my name? I'm sorry? His words, once thundering like a roller coaster, crumbled into a heap. Look, I'm not in a position to remember every employee's name. That was years ago. You need to be reasonable.

I took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked. I understood what the situation was now. It was written in the subtext of the legend, the unspoken and unwritten words that undercut everything about the slave father. A singular concept one still celebrated to this day. Holiday cheer. I reached out a hand, gripping Mr. Reed by his silky black tie. His swinging stopped, and I pulled at the accessory, making him choke and gag.

Are you fucking! He sputtered. You crazy? His face had lost the fear, the concern, the false remorse. In its place was something much more familiar. Malice. I let him go, and he gasped as a. his breath returned to him.

His eyes shifted to the being behind him, the instrument of his destruction. The slave father remained still, clouded by darkness, with only his massive arm and singed white beard illuminated by the dim light spilling from his bag. Noddy. The monster repeated in that discordant voice masquerading his song. My eyes connected with Mr. Reed's, and an irresistible smile crept along my lips. To see him there, helplessly dangling by his hair, and a slave to my whims filled something inside of me I didn't realize I was missing.

It filled a need for power, a need to be respected. Noddy, I said, surprising myself with the tone of authority, Donovan Reed is a terrible man. No! Mr. Reed screamed, even as the great red arm lifted him up to the rafters of the ceiling, his face screwed up in agony as the slave father gripped his legs with the same. The other hand, Please!

He shrieked, horizontal in the air. Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. His words were interrupted by the wet splatter of his intestines striking the cabin floor. It was hard to see in the darkness, but easy to hear. I listened as the slave father pulled Donovan Reed apart, one end from the other, his innards slapping against the ground like spoiled fruit. Why?

Mr. Reed's last word died on his lips as the slave father slammed both pieces of him against the cabin floor, drenching me in an explosion of blood and bone. When it was finished, I sat in warm, wet silence. Donovan Reed's blood dripped from my mess of hair and soaked through my thermal pajamas, something akin to a near-death experience flashed before my eyes, except it was aspects of my life and research. I always believed the slave father to have been little more than a simple reaper, a monster hungry for souls or other forms of mortal sustenance, piecing the veil once a year when

its hunger grew too insatiable to ignore. I had been wrong. Much of the Santa Claus mythology fitted the Slave Father, more than I or Alexe ever expected. He didn't just feed on souls. He fed on people's joy, their mirth. It appeared as though he required both pieces to be fully satisfied, and such a phenomenon provided much more context to the original myth. That girl two centuries ago had been joyous when the sleigh father devoured her father, hadn't she?

And now, I had been joyous when he'd gifted me my revenge. I'd felt ecstatic watching Mr. Reed die. The cabin began to tremble, and soon the very floorboard snapped and the windows rattled. It felt like it was being torn from its foundation. I studied myself against the wall as a blinding light exploded from Donham Reed's skull before quelling to a gentle gleam, it snaked around the cabin, revealing the full extent of the building's disarray. Tables had been upturned, documents littered the floor, and the fireplace had become a little more

than a pile of bricks and a frigid breeze. Shafts of moonlight pierced through the hole in the ceiling the chimney once occupied, revealing Mr. Reed's blood and bones scattered all over. The cabin was soaked in his blood. Then, the floating light passed across the Sleighfather. It revealed a behemoth, clad in crimson cotton with a white trim. Two legs burst from the long red jacket coated in coarse, black fur that ended in leather boots. As the light swam upward, I caught sight of the creature's arm scratching at its barrel chest.

Its fingers were thick, human but decaying. What I had earlier mistaken for claws were actually lost. long, curled fingernails. Thank you. I breathed. Thank you for this. Tis the season. It sang with a laugh.

The orb of light ascended towards its mouth, and for the first time I saw the monster's face. It was human, but mangled. Above its white shock of beard were two pieces of coal seared into its eye sockets. The skin of its face was discolored. A pockmarked mess of swollen. blistered flesh that sagged around its skull, and its nose was little more than two slits, with the faintest impression of bone jutting from beneath. Burns, I realized, this face had been burned beyond recognition.

As the tiny orb of light finished its ascent, it revealed the Sleighfather's red stocking cap. At the end of it was a white palm, and it blinked. It was looking at me. An eyeball twitched where the palm should have been. glimmering like a star in the night. It seemed clear to me that the creature meant me no harm, and so the researcher inside of me took over. Can I ask you?

I began, before being cut off by a roaring sound of wind. The sleigh father had opened its mouth, and within its jaws a blizzard roared, frid and horrible. My hands, anguished with frostbite, became numb and unresponsive. My ears screamed and my nose throbbed. My entire body ached with the stabbing sensation of absolute winter. Then the light orb vanished, sucked up inside the Sleithfather's mouth, and so too did the cold. I heard what sounded like a gulp and a swallow, and then another discordant, tuneless round of...

Darkness returned. The Sleifother turned. His twinkling eye vanished as he did. and began walking away from me. His lumbering footfalls crunched along the cabin floor, snapping pieces of Mr. Reed's bones as he made his way back to the demolished chimney. Merry Christmas to all. The slave father sang.

I heaved a breath, warmth returning to my extremities. I couldn't help but smile. For the first time in decades I felt full of Christmas cheer, so much so that I even finished the rhyme for him. to all a good night. His boots stomped and the floor groaned as he turned back to me, that bouncing eye gleaming in the night. Merry Christmas to all.

He repeated, though his voice had lost its whimsy. I'll see you in two nights. My jaw fell open, the smile dying on my lips. No, that wasn't right. Why would he come back? I already had what I wanted. Mr. Reed was dead. The sleigh father turned around toward the chival.

chimney, chuckling to himself. Hang on! I spat, my voice cracking. You don't have to come back. It's fine. Seeing you was enough. I just needed to know I wasn't crazy, that I was right. Notty.

He hummed. Not understanding. That wasn't the rhyme. Nice, I said. Not naughty. I'm nice. A good person abused and taken advantage of. Just like that girl you saved, remember?

His laughter echoed around the ruined cabin. Noddy and right. He stepped into the remains of the ruined chimney. The shafts of broken moonlight framed him through the broken ceiling. His beard upturned with a smile, and then he bent his great legs and leapt upwards with a grunt. A moment later, the ceiling trembled, and pieces of rafter crashed down around me. Above, I heard the Slayfather's course and his heavy boots crunching on snow. Then came the whip of rains and the rapid chatter of eight abominations preparing to take flight.

Their hooves pounded against the roof in anticipation. Two more whip-cracks and the cabin rafters whined as the sleigh began to move, slowly at first before the monsters broke off into a rumbling gallop. Through the shattered ceiling I caught sight of the godless creatures taking flight. They were monsters in the truest sense of the word. Pieces of children chopped up and reassembled into beasts of burden. Some had six legs and one arm, others three heads and four feet upon two legs. As the last remnants of the slave father's laughter faded in the distance, I idly wondered

if he purposefully designed the beast to be more hideous than himself. I chewed on the thoughts as I stumbled toward the kitchen, grabbing a flashlight from the drawer and flickering it on as I went. I used it to locate a blanket and a laptop, and then took a seat in the old rocking chair. With the blizzard gone, the night was uncharacteristically warm. Whether or not that was a consequence of the Slai father's visit, I couldn't say, but I was thankful for it. It made thinking easier.

I flipped the computer on, and my face was bathed in a blue glow. I noted the satellite connection was back online. Good. My fingers rocketed across the keyboard, sending out multiple emails to my contacts at the facility. I've done it. I told them. I've proven the existence of the Slay Father. Not only that, I added.

But he told me he was returning in two days' time. We can acquire his sleigh, his bridge. I hit Send, exhaling a sigh of relief. I truly had done it. I had redeemed my name. I'd resurrected my reputation and executed the monster that murdered it in the first place. It had been a busy night, an important night. I fully believed the Slayfather would return for me, but with the facility's resources, I suspected

we could handle them. Their warlocks could do wonderful things with spells. My computer pinged with the first email alert, a reply from the facility's hiring manager. I figured why wait? I had a job to return to. The sooner I got paid for my work again, the better. Good evening, Dr. Sims. It read.

Your work for the facility has been greatly appreciated. Unfortunately, we have located another talent that has proven more reliable. Your contract will not be reinstated." I stared at the screen in confusion. What? Have they even read my email? I just told them I located the damn slave father. I had just explained how I found the bridge between worlds. Cursing, I began typing my response.

Two more email alerts pinged in the corner of my screen, distracting me. No matter, I thought to myself, the hiring manager can wait. I clicked on the first new email. It was from an old colleague of mine, Anna Ling, a former team member from the Slavefather Research Project and one with high-level security access. I'm so sorry, it read, Take care, Terry. Sorry. Did she think I was insane?

I clenched my fist, my frustration mounting at the thick-headedness of these idiots. I was sitting on possibly the most significant discovery in the history of man-gusting. kind and they were brushing me off like a common madman. Bitterly, I clicked on the third email. It was from the Director of Research and Development, Mr. Reed's boss. Good to hear from you, Terence. First off, I'd like to say we're recommending you for the Medal of Merit. Your work has been incredible and, dare I say, worthy of certain additional awards down

the line. Can you say Nobel Prize? I paused, a smile forming on my lips. This was more like it. I always found the director of R&D to be shrewd and clever. It was little wonder they saw the potential in this opportunity as soon as I presented it. I continued reading.

Of course, public awards are off the table until the bridge has been put under proper use. We'll have to deal with upcoming conflicts first before spilling the beans on this new technology. But trust me, once we can, your name is going in the hat. I'll personally be recommending you. I imagine you're probably a little upset. It's a terrifying prospect, what's to come, but... I blinked, shaking my head in confusion. Terrifying.

That's an odd way to describe a Nobel Prize. No matter, I continued reading. Unfortunately, it was the only option we saw available. Dr. Asimov has been a huge help in getting all of this set up, and we're genuinely thankful for your cooperation in this matter. What's losing another thirty years of life when you'll be immortalized in history, eh? Dr. Asimov? Alexei Asimov?

What the hell? That couldn't be right. Alexi abandoned the project a year ago. Sure, he'd occasionally kept up with me via email. More for my sanity than anything, but he had nothing to do with this. His mental exercise of listing my intrusive thoughts helped clear my mind some, but that didn't warrant such accolades. I did this.

Me. Furious, I clicked reply. I could finish, the first word of my response, my computer pinged with another email. It was the last contact I'd messaged. Alexie. Terence, I hope you're well. In fact, I suspect you're feeling quite good, if not a little confused. I know how much the Slave Father project meant to you.

To be frank, your obsession with it has concerned me. It isn't healthy. It's damaging. Before I go any further, I'd like to assure you that the facility will be arriving at the mountain later this evening. They'll be monitoring you from a safe distance, and when the slave father returns in two nights' time, they'll attempt to apprehend his bridge." I let loose a sigh of relief.

Good. I knew I could count on Alexey. Even if he was trying to steal some credit for this. I cracked an exasperated smile and kept reading. It was probably a misunderstanding. Earlier this year, I discovered some lore I thought might help both of us, you and I. You see, old friend. I have come to realize that the Slave Father shares more in common with the Santa Claus myth

than either of us recognized. All those weeks, months, and years of study and failed attempts to locate the monster were rooted in a singular problem. We were too focused on the science. The Slavefather is a being that transcends science, of course, an anomaly, a myth. So it was to that mythology I returned. Within it, I found the means to quell some of your suffering and suffering. offer you an opportunity to have a merry Christmas before you pass from this world.

My fingers ached. I realized I was clutching the sides of the laptop hard enough that the plastic shell began to crack. I reread his words before I passed from this world. What kind of phrasing is that? Trust me, Terence, it will be better for you this way. Easier. I know you're probably wondering what I'm talking about, so let me provide you with some background details.

I discovered that lists have the power to summon the Slavefather. They act as a sort of ritual or an offering to it. When one creates a list, the creature will sometimes dain them with their request, providing they want it desperately enough. It is our emotional energy that calls to the Slave Father. It feeds upon our joy and our sorrow, our wishes and fears. Your list to Donovan Reed was drenched in emotion. I suspected that if my theory was correct, given your relative,

proximity to the Slayfather's Bridge and your hatred of Mr. Reed, you could provoke an encounter with the being. I'm happy to hear I was correct in that regard." My eyes scanned his words and my teeth dug into my lip. That son of a bitch. That absolute piece of shit. I made to get up and grab a new piece of paper, one I could use to write Alex's name on it.

I'd listed a thousand times with a thousand different ways I wanted him dead, but the email wasn't finished. Of course there's more to the Santa Claus mythology than simple lists. There are consequences. One such consequence is when somebody requests something selfish or sufficiently deplorable. It is the naughty or nice paradigm, and we see it reflected heavily in the mythology. It's what I was counting on tonight. Your desire for Mr. Reed's death was selfish and frankly monstrous. You'll excuse my dry sense of humor, but it really was. was a naughty sort of thing. I'm genuinely sad to know Mr. Reed passed with such brutality, but I'm happy to know it will pave the way to ending the coming war and saving billions of

lives. When the slave father returns to claim your deplorable soul, please know that it was never something I wanted. If you could have lived, I would have preferred that. Same too with Mr. Reed. Unfortunately, we're running out of time and sacrifices must be made. The other. The Eldridge Horrors are knocking on our front door, Terrence. You know that. You know I had no choice. Just know that you and Mr. Reed will be remembered for what you gave. Carpe diem, old friend.

P.S. If at all possible, please draw the slave father as far from his bridge as you can. Our team will have an easier time retrieving the sleigh that way. Happy holidays. Alexey. I closed the laptop. I didn't even bother writing a reply. What was there left to say?

Screw you, asshole? No, it wasn't worth the energy. I doubted he even cared to read it. He already got everything he wanted, after all. He had me right where he wanted me, and now he would get all the credit. That son of a bitch. I stood in my rage for a long time, long enough that birds chirped overhead, and the golden light of dawn seeped in through the cabin window. Eventually, I decided what would happen next.

You would. All of you. See, the slave father might be coming for me tonight, and it might be true that I don't have a way out of here. The facility is too powerful to all reaching, but not even they can stop the wildfire of public outreach. So here it is. My testament.

The true account of the final days of my life and the research that led to them. I'm not asking to be deified. I'm not even asking for a street in my life. my name. I just want people to know the real story of what happened out here on this snowy mountain. You'll forgive me for not trusting the facility to represent my contributions to this project properly. They've already spoiled my name once. Who's to say they won't keep dragging it through the dirt after I'm dead?

Words are cheap, and I know better than to trust emails from suits, so I'm begging you to spread this far and wide. Tell my story the way it truly happened. and all. I'm not a perfect person, but I'm not a madman either. The sleigh father came to me. I witnessed him. Not Alexey, me. Tonight when the creature returns, I won't even run from my death. I'll lead the bastard away, just like that snake asked. It'll be my final contribution to my life's research. A contribution, I hope, might lead to a better world someday. If they manage to steal the sleigh, then it'll be a

a colossal boon in the war to come. If they don't, well, just be careful what you wish for this Christmas. Some gifts aren't worth the price.