The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E07 - Christmas 2017

Episode Date: December 24, 2017

It's episode 07 of Season 10 and time for our 2017 Christmas special featuring stories about frightening festive fears. "The Carolers"¤ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Atticus Jackson & Elie Hirschman & Erika Sanderson & Addison Peacock & David Ault & Jeff Clement & Nichole Goodnight & Alexis Bristowe & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 00:06:00) "The Nutcracker Town"¤ written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Jeff Clement & Elie Hirschman & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:24:50) "Underneath the Mistletoe"† written by Manen Lyset and performed by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy & Addison Peacock & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:44:30) "I Still Believe In Santa Claus" written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson & Elie Hirschman & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:13:40) "Christmas with Mr. Strings"‡ written by Henry Galley and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:33:45) "Tinsel"† written by Meg Molloy and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Dan Zappulla & Addison Peacock & Kyle Akers & Elie Hirschman & Erika Sanderson & Mary Murphy & Erin Lillis & Matt Bradford. (Story starts around 02:24:10) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the NoSleep Live Tour 2018   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ & David Cummings Christmas 2017 illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham Audio program ©2017-2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Oh, Artie. Oh, Lizzie, just let me... Oh, darn, girl. You're not wearing the underwear I got you last Christmas. Well, gee, they were kind of... Oh, no, they were granny panties, weren't they? Gosh, darn it. I've messed up again. But, hey, I like the panties you're wearing.

They're swell. Say, it wasn't Roger who got you them, was it? Artie, here's the thing. Every year, millions of people receive the least liked gift of all time. Underwear. It's true. Underware never goes down well, but we still give it to our family and loved ones who just don't want it. Exactly.

But you see, Artie, maybe it isn't the underwear that's the problem, but the type of underwear. Well, this underwear sure is a class act. Who got it for you? What is it, you ask? Well, let me tell you about me undies, the only underwear that makes for an amazing gift. Check out the material. Isn't it just divine? It's three times softer than cotton.

You're telling me, and that waistband, it's so flexible. Look how much it stretches. You watch your hands, Artie. But yeah, even you with your six-pack would be comfortable getting in Miantis. Lord knows, I've been trying for years. You just behave, Artie Anderson. Appreciate the natural, sustainably sourced fiber. I'd like to sustainably source your fiber, Lizzie.

But tell me. Who did get you these? Oh, Artie, don't be sour, but it was Roger last Christmas. I'm hoping for more this year. Roger, huh? But let me get this straight. Mey undies made underwear the perfect gift that everyone is going to love you for. So why don't you open this year's gift?

From me. It's a goddamn holiday miracle. Meundies! Thanks, Artie, you Joker. You're the best. Ah, this year, don't give underwear. Give me undies. Artie, why does it say love from Roger on the tag?

That's just a little joke, Lizzie. A caper. Say, Artie, did you hear that? Sure didn't, Lizzie. Hey, sorry Roger skipped town and won't be taking you to the Christmas dance. May I take you instead? Artie, sure thing.

Excellent. I'll pick you up at seven. I'll be in my dad's car, though. I gotta drop mine off at the tar pit. This holiday season, to get your exclusive 20% off the softest underwear and socks you will ever wear, free shipping, and 100% satisfaction guarantee, go to meundies.com slash no sleep. That's meundies.com slash no sleep. Oh my, my, it's so late.

I'd better lock up the cozy Christmas cottage and go to bed. Oh, what's this? Why is his light on? Surely he can't still be up. Probably just passed out in a drunken stupor. I'll go check on him just to make sure. Oh, you're awake, are you? Why are you up at this hour? Oh, who can sleep when everything's going to hell in a handbasket? Helena who? No, not Helena? Oh, forget it. Listen, I don't know what I'm going to do. It's time for our annual Christmas episode and we have no voice actors. What? How can that be? Haven't we got a gaggle of them trapped?

I mean, luxuriating in their quarters in the cellar? No, they all escape. I mean, they left. Someone, likely, some tottering old fool, left the gate unlocked and they all took off into the night. So we're sunk. No Christmas episode this year. What? They've all gone?

Oh, well, I suppose that explains the lack of noise from down there. And I must say the smell has improved markedly. I should have guessed they'd flown the coop, the malodorous lot that they are. Yes, well, enjoy the quiet and fresh air, because that's the only benefit to all this. And it was going to be such an exciting show, so many stories, so many big announcements. Announcements? Like what? I was going to announce that our tour next February now has a theme. You see, the main script has been written by Elias Witherow, and we're calling it Escape the Black Farm.

You remember our infamous story called Feed the Pig, right? Oh, indeed I do. Gastly tale, but so bloody well written. A bit dark, no? Well, here's the thing. The script we're doing on the tour takes place in the same universe as Feed the Pig, but it's not quite as dark and gruesome. But we once again return to the farm and face the pig

and all the other dark creatures in that netherworld. Oh, it's going to be a cracking good experience as a live show. Oh, it sounds scintillating. So, just that story, then? Oh, no, no, we'll also be doing shorter scripts by Michael Whitehouse and Jimmy Giuliano. And in some cities, we're going to have opening acts featuring other audio drama podcasts,

like Darkest Night in L.A. The White Vault in New York City, and John Grills' creepy podcast in Minneapolis. And get this, at every show we'll be featuring a preview of an exciting new audio drama coming out in January called Congeria. I tell you, it's going to be a fantastic show. Well, I'm glad to see you're excited about that. It's taking your mind off the crushing defeat of losing all your voice actors. Well, yes, it did do that until you mentioned. it again. Oh, woe

is me. There, there, old boy, chin up now. There's always next year. Next year, there might not be a next year. Wait, do you hear that? It sounds like singing, like carolers. Oh,

at this hour? Oh, tell them to go away. I'm in no mood to be festive. Good heavens! Come, come look. See who it is! The carolers! are the nose sleep voice actors.

I'll be. It's a goddamn holiday miracle. But why did they come back? Oh, they must love you, you rotund old fool. You should talk. They couldn't resist performing in a Christmas episode.

So let's raise our nog-filled glasses in good cheer and prepare ourselves for the Christmas episode. Indeed. Do you realize we have six tails planned for this year? Why, it will probably take more than three hours to perform them all.

Well, I'll get everything ready. Another log on the fire. More rum for the nog. A festive, red and green protective mask for Peter, so he can't bite anyone. Ha ha! Such fun! Oh, I'm as light as a feather. I'm as giddy as a schoolgirl.

If you put a skirt on, I'm leaving. Now, stop messing around and get the show started before a lump of cold bounces off that bald melon of yours. Okay, okay, let's see. Well, it seems our voice actors singing Christmas carols is the perfect way to start the show,

because our first tale is from the pen of author S.H. Cooper. In it, a single father and his two boys encounter some Christmas singers who are wishing them a Merry Christmas, but this holiday for them will be anything but merry. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Ellie Hirschman, Erica Sanderson, Addison Peacock, David Alt, Jeff Clement, Nicole Goodnight, Alexis Bristow, and Jessica McAvoy.

So enjoy the music. Just watch out for The Carolers. Week before Christmas. The home stretch. I should have been feeling all holly and jolly, filled with the spirit of the season. But it was hard when I was stuck trekking through a crowded department store filled with other last-minute shoppers, trying to keep up with my two boys as they bounced from display to display, often in opposite directions. Usually, I wouldn't have minded so much. I enjoyed seeing the way my son's little faces lit up with excitement every time they saw some reminder that Santa was coming to town. But that night, we were there shopping for the boy's mother, my ex-wife, Haley. We have to get her something, Daddy.

Nathaniel, my seven-year-old, was displaying his token generosity. I'm sure Gus, we'll get her something. I was trying hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Gus. Mr. Perfect. Haley's boss turned boyfriend only one short month after we'd finalized our divorce. I still wasn't sure how I'd missed all the bright red flags raised by her increasingly frequent late nights at the office and the way she started being more protective over her phone. It seems so obvious after the fact. But it won't be something from us. We always keep. get her something from us. Yeah.

Dylan was a year and a half younger than his brother, and always eager to win his approval. Santa doesn't get grown-up's presents, so we gotta get something for mommy, so she has presents to open, too. I was really beginning to regret telling that particular fib about Santa and his kids' only policy. It had seemed like a good idea when I'd come up with it after Nathaniel had caught me wrapping gifts for Haley a couple of years before. Now it meant I was trapped pretending to be happy about spending more money I didn't have on a wife I didn't even have before I dropped them off at her house. Merry Christmas indeed. After an hour of scouring each row for the perfect gift, the boys finally settled on a rather gaudy, overly bobbled bracelet that was just their mother's style. We had the saleswoman wrap it up without a bow.

Dylan was the designated bowman, a job he took very seriously. And I accepted the shiny silver package with a forced smile. All right, guys, let's hustle. We'll stop for a burger on the way to your moms, okay? I tried to corral them in front of me. I don't want pickles on mine. Nathaniel made a face over his shoulder. Me neither.

Dylan, who loved pickles, matched his brother's expression. You got it. We just about made it out to the parking lot when my phone went off from my pocket. I told the boys to hang tight while I wrestled it out. Daddy, look. Dylan jerked at my jacket sleeves so hard that I almost dropped myself. Carolus! Can we go look? Yeah, fine.

I barely glanced towards the small group of singers gathered in front of the store. They had their backs to us, but I got the impression they'd look right at home in a Dickens novel. I couldn't quite hear what they were singing, but it sounded generically seasonal. Everyone else seemed to be passing them by without so much as a pause. Go with them, Nathaniel. But I don't want to. Just do it, okay? I shooed them off in the direction of the carolers and answered my phone.

Haley greeted me from the other end with her usual frostiness. It was almost enough to make me remind her that she was the reason for our divorce. But I didn't want to risk having the boys over here, so I kept it civil, but clipped. What is it? Can you keep the boys tonight? Gus and I are having guests over. What? They were really looking forward to going over.

They said you were decorating the tree tonight. We did that yesterday. We needed to, so it would be ready for tonight's party. Damn it, Haley. I lowered my voice and made sure the boys still had all of their attention on the carolers. You can't do this. They were excited. I'll make it up to them next year.

Just tell them I'm sick. They'll be fine. In the background, I heard her doorbell chime faintly. People are arriving. It's got to go. Tell the kids I love them. She'd hung up before I could respond. I flipped my phone shut and shoved it roughly back into my pocket, fuming and furious. If it wouldn't have upset the boys that had have chucked the box with that ugly bracelet into the parking lot

and let all the happy Christmas shoppers run it over until it was nothing but dust. Instead, I took a few deep breaths. and called over my shoulder. Come on. Time to go. It took another couple attempts before they scurried over. They looked weird. Dylan giggled as he slipped his hand in mind. Yeah, their costumes look cool, huh?

I grit my teeth into another fake smile. Hey, change of plans. Mommy's not feeling well, so you guys are stuck with me for another night. But the tree. Dylan's grins started to fade. Can we bring her her present? Maybe it'll help her feel better. Seeing how much they wanted to go to their moms broke my heart,

especially knowing the real reason they couldn't. Sorry, she was really bad. Maybe tomorrow, okay, buddy? Now, how about those burgers? I loaded the boys up and turned the radio on low to help fill the disheartened silence that had fallen over the car. I tried to cheer them up by asking if they'd written to Santa and what they were hoping for in Christmas morning,

but their answers were dull and unenthusiastic. I dropped it after a few, and we drove a few blocks in almost complete silence other than the radio. The song! It's the one the carolos were singing. I nodded, glad that he was getting distracted by something, and turned the radio up in time to hear the tail end of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Is not, the words are different. It sounded the same.

They were dumb anyway. You dress up for Halloween, not Christmas. Hey now, they'll be like that. I looked at them briefly in my rearview mirror. A lot of carolers dress up when they go singing. Not like that. Come on, buddy. I know you're disappointed, but let's not act like a little Grinch, okay?

He huffed and looked pointedly out his window while Dylan stared down at his lap. Their moods improved a little when we got to the fast food restaurant, and I let them go run around in the player. while I ordered. Nothing like some greasy comfort food to take your mind off your troubles. It wasn't until I was setting our full tray down at our table that I realized the boys weren't scampering around and shouting after each other. Instead, they were standing side by side at the far end, faces pressed against the chilled window. Guys? I walked over to see what they were looking at. All I could see was my own reflection in the dark glass. We saw them again

Who? Dylan fogged up the window in front of his face when he spoke I doubt that guys For real, I heard them No, I did They went back and forth for a bit Until I stepped in and asked what happened next We looked outside and there they were

Across the street It was probably someone else No, uh, they were singing the same song Well, it sounded the same It was hard to hear because they were far away But aside in, this was a pick-your-battles moment and conceded that maybe they'd seen another group of carolers before directing them to our table to eat dinner before it got cold. I figured they were still just acting up a bit to cope with not seeing their mom, and it made me more lenient. Throughout the meal, Dylan would hum a rather tuneless rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas while chewing.

Once we got home, I had the boys go hang up their coats and change into their pajamas while I built a fire in the fireplace. I seriously thought about using their mom's gift to feed the flames, but it ended up tossed carelessly under our tree, where it would sit until Haley decided her sons were more important than some party. After I had a cozy little fire crackling away, I flipped on the TV and found a Christmas movie for me and the boys to enjoy. They came stampeding back in and jumped on the couch on either side of me. There was some blanket arranging and pillow flubbing.

thing that had to happen, but once they'd gotten comfortable, I settled in with a kid under each arm. It wasn't long before Dylan was dozing with his head against my chest, and Nathania was completely caught up in the Muppets guiding Scrooge through Christmas's past, present, and future. It was suddenly very hard to remember I'd been angry at anything at all in that moment. Hey, Dad, can we have a hot chocolate? I think Dylan's too tired for a hot chocolate. With the sound of his name, Dylan's head popped up and he rubbed his eyes. I'm not.

I laughed and got up to go to the kitchen, leaving them cheering on the couch. It was short-lived, though. And when I went back into the living room with the water boiled, I found them sitting upright with the TV muted. What's up? Shh, shh, sh. I waited a moment and then tried again. What's up, guys? Don't you hear it, Daddy?

Hear what? The carolers. I frowned a bit, bemused. Our house was on a large piece of wooded property and set away from the road. Not exactly the kind of place that Christmas carolers tend to go. At first, I thought they had to be mistaken. But the longer I stood there in the quiet, the more certain I became that I, too, heard a faint singing coming from outside.

I crossed the living room and opened the front door just a crack. From somewhere out in the dark, coming from the direction of the driveway, I heard a mumbled but distinct chorus of voices. Although I couldn't quite make out the words of their song, the tune was clear enough. I shut the front door and slid the deadbolt into place. Did you hear them, Daddy? He was smiling, delighted. I did, buddy.

I leaned against the door. It was probably harmless, I thought. probably just some neighbors. But why that song? The chill was slowly weaving itself around me. Uh, hey, boys, uh, why don't you guys go upstairs to my room and get comfy on my bed? I'll bring hot chocolate up and we'll finish the movie there.

But I want to see the Carolas. Is it the same ones from the store? Nathaniel started for one of the windows. They were weird. Just do it. Come on. Dylan whined all the way to the steps, and Nathaniel trailed slowly behind him.

He lingered at the top of the stairs. Nothing. Go on. I'll be up in a minute. I waited until they had disappeared into my room before shutting off the living room lights and pulling back the curtain just enough to look outside. Five figures were outlined against the darkness.

They were closer now, halfway up the drive. One of them had a lantern in their hand, and I could just make out bonnets and top hats, the kind of clothes that would have been at home in a Dickens novel. While the words were still too muddled to make out, the tune was the same. They were still singing.

I let the curtain fall back into place and paced in front of the window for a moment, debating what to do. It didn't take long to convince myself that a group of carolers following me and my kids, all the way home was worth a call to the police. I grabbed my cell phone off the end table and flipped it open, but the screen remained blank. It was dead.

I tossed it aside with a muttered curse and hurried to the kitchen where the landline phone was. I picked up the receiver and instead of a dial tone heard what sounded like wind whipping through the line and a craft broken up chorus of voices. They sang before it became too garbled to understand. I slammed it down, my heart hammering in my throat, and I bowed my head for a moment, trying to calm and collect my thoughts. When I looked up and across the kitchen, to the window that overlooked our backyard, I was horrified to see a face looking back at me.

His skin was pale, white as snow, and he was staring at it. me from beneath the tattered brim of a tall top hat. His eyes wide and lined with icy lashes were fixed on me, unblinking. I scrambled back a few steps and fell against the wall. Another face, white and drawn and framed by a threadbare bonnet, appeared in the next window over. I yelped. The only sound that I would allow myself to make to keep from scaring the boys, and I ran from the kitchen and straight up the steps. I forced myself not to look out any windows. I didn't want to see any more of those terrible frozen faces. They had looked weird, Nathaniel had said. More like Halloween than Christmas. He'd said they'd been singing, we wish you a Merry Christmas, but the words had been

different. I knew what he meant now. Even as I reached the second story, I could hear the chorus singing after me. skidded into my bedroom, desperate to get my kids and lock us all into the window of those bathroom. But my bed was empty. Nathaniel, Dylan, come out. I'm not playing right now. Boys! The only response I got was the carolers singing below in my yard. My stomach sank and panic. Cold and fear started to take hold. I ran back down the steps, through the hall and into the living. room still hoping, still daring to believe that everything was all right. The TV still muted, continued to play its movie. The blankets and pillows were still carefully arranged on the couch.

The fire was still casting its warm glow over the room, but the boys weren't there either. From outside the front window, blocked off from view by the closed curtain, the carolers sang to the tune of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. With trembling hands, I reached forward and tore the curtains back. The five carolers in the ratty Dickens garb were lined up outside the window, completely still, except for the movement of their lips. Their eyes fixed on me. We wish you would come and join us.

We wish you would come and join us. Two smaller figures, just as pale, just as wide-eyed and frozen, but dressed in pajamas were standing in front of them. I pressed my hands in my face to the cold window, and I screamed while they sang. I'm not sure I'll hear that song the same way ever again. Well, it's a good thing you're not a singer. I'll have you know I have an excellent voice. My version of Oh Holy Night brings people to tears. I'm sure it does, but they stop crying once you finish, right?

How dare you? Relax, Poverati. I'm just busting your balls. Well, that's a perfect segue into the next story, isn't it? Well, aren't you clever? Yes, it is appropriate for this story by author Rona Vassilar. You see, around this time of year, her hometown is decorated with all sorts of giant wooden nutcrackers. but this year it turns out the townsfolk don't find the nutcrackers sweet. Performing this tale are Alexis Briscoe, Jeff Clement, Ellie Hirschman, and Nicole Doolin.

So enjoy the sugarplums, but stay well away from the Nutcracker Town. It all happened overnight, it seemed. One day, everything was normal. The town was putting up tinsel and lights and spider-infested evergreen trees, about two months too early for Christmas. And then the next day, they were everywhere. In front of shop windows, restaurants, the city museum, and it didn't look like they were going away anytime soon.

If you're looking for an old-fashioned mom-and-pop Christmas, look no further than rural Minnesota. That's where you'll find your carved wooden toys and your giant Christmas trees adorned with popcorn garland. We have Christmas carolers no matter how cold it gets, and in Minnesota, it can get down to 50, below zero. The kids steal hats and scarves and carrots from their parents so they can have their own version of Frosty the Snowman in their front yard. There's an annual fruitcake competition that

Mary Sue Bethel wins every year, and of course, none of those cakes get eaten. Seriously, is fruitcake even edible? Yes, I've always liked having a traditional Christmas in our quaint little town, until the nutcrackers showed up. Apparently, the city council, who just can't help but stick their knows isn't everything, it seems, decided that Christmas in our town just wasn't special enough. In the age of domestic tourism, our town had to have some sort of unique claim to fame. And for some godforsaken reason, they settled on nutcrackers. Now, here's the thing about tourist attractions. You have to build something that people want to see.

I can't imagine anyone who would want to see giant nutcrackers, but hey, what do I know? Oh, yeah, that's the other thing. These things are huge. Each one is at least eight feet tall, and the city spent an exorbitant amount to commission our local woodworker, Mr. Stanton, to make them. They are all made of good, sturdy wood, and are fully functional.

So, you know, if you can find them not as big as your head, they could crack it. The first one appeared in front of our courthouse. It was dressed as a judge, antiquated white wig and all, and had a gavel stuck in its right hand. At first, people thought it was kind of cute, a bit funny. You would see parents taking their kids to see the nutcracker and get the photo-op.

People would work the wooden lever and watch its jaw drop open. It was all good fun. Unfortunately, that fun encouraged the city council, which really never needs encouraging, and another nutcracker appeared. And another. And another. In front of the pizza place was a chef nutcracker tossing a wooden pepperoni pizza, The local library had its own nutcracker that had a finger held up in front of its face in a shushing motion.

Our librarians really love that. The elementary school got two nutcrackers. One, a teacher, and the other a student with rosy cheeks and dead expressionless eyes. Aren't they so lucky? The novelty of these nutcrackers started to fade pretty quickly. The kids didn't want to go near them. They weren't cool anymore. They were creepy.

The adults started to roll their eyes every time a new one popped up. Complaints started pouring into City Hall, which were pointedly ignored. The council made it very clear that the nutcrackers were here to stay. Now, most people would expect that to be the end of the story. Horribly tacky nutcrackers appear in the streets. People complain, nothing is done. They stick around forever, the end. Just like every other poorly conceived tourist attraction that's ever existed.

Except that isn't where our story ends. If it was, you wouldn't still be here, would you? The first incident occurred about a month after the nutcrackers had taken over the town. Since our arrival, a few of the nutcrackers had been vandalized, which is to be expected. I mean, in a town of a few thousand people, what else are the bored teenagers supposed to do? They get drunk in the park, they throw eggs at people's houses, and they tried to destroy anything they can get their grubby little hands on. That year, it was the nutcrackers. So it happened that a gang of teenagers was in the park, one of the park.

night, drinking a bottle of fireball that one of them had filched from his parents. At one end of the park was another nutcracker. This one fitted with a jump rope that the Minnesota wind had already stripped bare of paint. Once the teenagers were sufficiently inebriated, they decided that it was time for the nutcracker to go down. Really, it probably would have been for the best. The kids were, by this time, so terrified of the nutcrackers that the park had been basically deserted. These teenagers would be doing all of them a favor by taking it down. It's hard to tell exactly what happened that night after they approached the Nutcracker with malicious intent.

Here are the facts of the case. One of the boys, a 14-year-old named Thomas Belfaree, was attacked and killed. His head was crushed in such a way that he was unrecognizable. They had to check his dental records to make a positive ID on the body. It is unlikely that any of his friends were responsible for the death because they contacted the police immediately,

after it happened. His body wasn't even cold when the town ambulance arrived on the scene. Of course, in this case, the ambulance was unnecessary. They may as well have called a hearse. Now, each of the boys with him that night was interviewed by the police. None of them were really suspects, especially since it was quickly determined that none of them would have been strong enough to wreak that kind of destruction on Thomas's head. But it's standard procedure for witnesses to a crime to be separated and questioned individually. The first to go was the leader of their little group, a boy by the name of Andrew Lyceum. Although the other boys gave the same testimony, it was his that became legend in our small town. If you could get

access to the tapes of the interview between Officer Tooley and little Andrew Lyceum today, which is impossible because they likely have been destroyed, it would go a little something like this. Tell us what happened, Drew. Nobody, nobody will believe me. I know it, but I know it's true. I saw it. I swear to God, I saw it. We went over to fuck with the nutcracker. We were just screwing around, you know? And Tommy, he got close to it. He was going to draw something on its face with a marker.

But before he could, the thing's eyes started to glow. They glowed so bright, I thought it would blind me. And then it reached out and grabbed Tommy, and it... Go ahead, Drew. It grabbed Tommy, and then what? It just fucking cracked his head open, like a goddamn nut. It put his head in its mouth, and it shut on him, and it made this horrible sound, this crunching sound. And then his blood started oozing down the wood.

We tried to pull him out, but we couldn't. I swear we didn't kill him, please. It was the nutcrackers. Something's fucking wrong with the nutcrackers. You're cursed or something. I swear to God. Officer Tooley later said that he thought Andrew had suffered some kind of mental breakdown. You know, from the stress of watching his best friend's head get smashed in.

But then Dylan Toil said the same thing, and so did Oliver Thunt. And nobody knew what to make of that. Of course, nobody believed that the Nutcrackers were both sentient and homicidal. But how was it that all three of these boys suffered? from the same delusion. The police just didn't know what to make of it. It didn't help that the mouth of the nutcracker did, indeed, have blood on it, Thomas's blood, and some bits of brain matter and other assorted gore.

The police department decided that somebody must have used the nutcracker to murder Thomas, or more likely some bodies. At least four people must have been involved. One to hold him still. Three to operate the nutcracker within a force to cause that kind of damage. At one point, the police department estimated that at least a judge. dozen people were involved, but of course, that was all conjecture. With the only witness to the crimes sent off to a mental hospital to recover from their shock, the department had very little

to go on. After that, a curfew was imposed and parents were warned to watch their children when they were playing outside. There were murderers on the loose, and everyone would have to exercise extreme caution until they were caught. So everybody was careful, but apparently they weren't careful enough. A week later, a young girl's body was found in front of the school nutcrackers. Her name was Lisa Lynn, and she was seven years old. Just like the previous incident, Lisa's head had been smashed in, her brain and blood soaking the sidewalk. A smear of blood was found on the mouth of the school teacher Nutcracker. There were no witnesses to the crime. The police insisted that this was the work of some Nutcracker-obsessed lunatic, which, in my opinion, implicated all of the city

counselors who decided the city needed those goddamn nutcrackers in the first place. The townspeople, however, weren't so short. Now, when they passed the nutcrackers on the street, they kept their heads down, as though afraid to make eye contact with those monstrosities. They dragged their children away from them, shielding them in case the wood came to life and decided to go on an impromptu rampage. It's a small town with big imagination. It didn't take long until everyone believed that something sinister had taken up residence

within those wooden bodies. Something that craved human blood, especially as the kill count increased. By the 10th murder, practically nobody was willing to leave the house anymore. Nobody, that is, except for me. I was in my early 20s at the time. That's the time in your life

when you think you have everything figured out. And I was certain that I had this figured out. Of course there were no sentient Nutcracker Monsters. It was, instead, some maniacs with a nutcracker fetish that were preying on innocent civilians like the sick, twisted fucks they were. I took what I considered to be reasonable precautions when I went out by myself. I carried mace and a handgun. I let my friends know where I would be and when. I carried a small flashlight on my keychain. Anyone that was itching to bash my head in was going to have a

terrible time of it. I knew that much. I was overconfident, as you can see. It was Christmas when I caught the attention of sinister forces that be. I was walking home from my grandmother's house, having helped her all day with preparations for our big Christmas dinner. She'd offered to give me a right home, but it was icy out in my house was only a few blocks away. I was sure I would make it just fine. I was walking down the main highway that runs through town when I happened on a nutcracker. This one had been set up at the only intersection in town that used traffic lights. It was dressed as a policeman, which had seemed funny once upon a time. Now, people avoided this intersection at all costs, just in case. I have to admit, my steps faltered as I got close to it. It was standing right

under a street light, and the way the light shone down on it made it appear as though it were climbing out of a puddle of murky shadows. Still, I steeled myself and marched forward. I would not be intimidated by a stupid nutcracker. I was smarter than that. I approached the intersection and checked for cars, pointedly ignoring the nutcracker, until that is, I heard a grinding sound. I turned back and saw that the nutcracker was no longer facing the road. Instead, it had turned on its platform and was facing me. My heart skipped a beat and my breath froze in my throat. I was certain, absolutely certain, that that nutcracker hadn't been facing me before. I turned back around and jogged across the street, telling myself that I was only running because

it was cold. When I reached the other side of the street, I turned back around just to make sure the nutcracker really had been facing me, that it wasn't my eyes playing tricks on me. The nutcracker was still facing me, all right, but this time it had moved from the sidewalk to the middle of the road. Its platform still stuck to the pavement several yards away. My eyes bulged in terror, and I didn't hesitate a second longer. I turned on my heels and sprinted the last few blocks home. My gun clutched in my hand the entire way. I didn't look at it. look back again until I had finally reached my door. When I looked back, I saw it marching right towards me, its jointless legs kicking high in the air

as it lunged forward, moving at such a terrible speed that I was certain I wouldn't be able to unlock the door in time. I stopped fumbling with the keys and raised my gun, pointing it square between the wooden nightmare's eyes. It stumbled backwards as half its face was blown off, falling to the snowy ground in the resounding thud. While my policeman parody stalker sprawled on the ground and struggled to regain its footing. I managed to open my door and throw myself inside the house. I locked the door and put the chain on just to be safe. Then I stood back and waited. My gun still trained on the door. The sound of something heavy pounding against my door. I screamed, hoping my neighbors might hear me. Then, realizing how stupid that was, I grabbed the

phone off the side table in the hallway and dialed the police. I could barely sob out my address to the dispatcher, but I managed it in the end. A few moments later, A piercing siren could be heard in the distance. I heard a shuffling sound near my door as the sirens drew near. By the time the police arrived, the Nutcracker had disappeared. All that remained of my attack were a few splintered bits of wood scattered on my lawn, and scuff marks on my door, where it had pounded its wooden fist in an angry demand to be let inside. I told everyone who would listen about what happened to me.

It was strange, you see, because I was the only person who had survived a Knock Cracker attack thus far. I was the only one who could give a positive eyewitness account of what those things were capable of. People believed me, of course, and many of them ended up leaving town. Hell, my own grandmother agreed to leave with me, and she'd grown up here her whole life. She's a smart woman, much smarter than her granddaughter, I'll tell you that much. We left the next day. We figured we could have a moving company box up our things and bring them to our new place about a hundred miles away. I was lucky I had some money saved up so that we could put ourselves.

in a hotel somewhere until we found an apartment. The day that we left, I remember feeling so desperately relieved. Every second in that town was now terrifying to me. And only once we crossed the city limits, would I know for certain that I was safe. On the way out of town, we didn't see any knock-crackers. My grandmother spoke. Where do you suppose they all went?

I shrugged nervously. Something about all this didn't seem right. I was sure that the city council wouldn't. have been able to take down all those nutcrackers in just a few short hours. The answer to our confusion revealed itself just as we approached the interstate. Each and every nutcracker, the librarian, the schoolteacher, the policeman with half his face missing, the chef, the judge, and all the rest, were lined up on the side of the road, their lifeless eyes watching our departure from painted wooden faces.

I hit the gas and floored it on the entrance room. By the time we merged onto the interstate, I was already going 80 miles an hour. I had no intention of looking back. Except, of course, I did anyway. And in my rear view mirror, I saw the police man Nutcracker. He was waving at me. It's been 30 years since then, and I haven't been back home since. My grandmother died just a few years ago.

Once upon a time, she would have liked to have been buried in her hometown. As it was, she made me swear not to stick her in that cemetery. Something's wrong with that place. She was buried in Walnut Grove instead. I like to think she's at peace there. I've often thought about returning, just once to see what had finally been done about those nutcrackers, but I was too afraid.

In fact, I've avoided any and all mention of my hometown since the day we left. I still live in fear that one day I'll open the front door and one of those fucking nutcrackers will be standing there, waiting for me. Just a few weeks ago, I was thinking about my hometown again, and I decided that it was time to find out what exactly happened after we left. In the age of the internet, it had become very easy to find out pretty much anything

with a few carefully selected keywords. I was surprised to find that my old hometown has its own Wikipedia page, and according to that page, it has no residence. It says that the town was mysteriously abandoned some 30 years ago, and has since turned into a ghost town. It's a real modern-day Roanoke. Nobody knows what happened to its inhabitants, or why. But perhaps the strangest part of the mystery is all the nutcrackers that still stand on the streets,

as though waiting for some passers-by to take notice of them once again. Nobody knows why they're there, said the page. And nobody has ever stuck around the town long enough to figure out. Once I read that, I shut my computer and poured myself a glass of scotch. I've decided that maybe I don't need to go back to my hometown. after all. I must confess I've never been particularly fond of nutcrackers, and that story

didn't help my disposition one bit. I thought you'd love all kinds of Christmas traditions. You like your spiced eggnog, your Christmas trees, and all the halls are suitably decked with boughs of holly. Yes, it's true. The cozy Christmas cottage is wonderfully

festive. And what about mistletoe? If you try to kiss me, I'll show you another kind of nutcracker. Relax. I'm talking about our next story from author Manon Lyset. You see, it starts with a festive kiss, but it ends not with romance, but with something far more haunting. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Jessica McAvoy, Addison Peacock, and Atticus Jackson. So try to find other ways to steal a Christmas kiss, rather than standing underneath the mistletoe.

Remember my first kiss. Well, my first kiss. Well, my first kiss. real kiss. Antid drunkenly planting her big wet lips over mine on Thanksgiving and calling me her handsome bugaboo doesn't count. Ah, God, I hope it doesn't count. No, my first real kiss was magical. I was 13 at the time, and I'd invited my friends over for a Christmas party at my house. There were about 12 of us total, including my sister and a couple of her friends, which had been the price to pay to be allowed to host my very own party. All night I'd been a nervous wreck wondering if Loretta, my childhood friend and I, would really keep the promise we'd made the year before. If neither of us is dating anyone by next Christmas, we have to date each other. Deal?

That had been her proposal. Okay, but we got a kiss under the mistletoe. I'd replied eagerly without even thinking. She'd blushed. Okay. It was one of those childish things where we were both clearly starting to develop feelings for one another, but were too shy to make the first move. Our arbitrary pact would yield the same result without the risk of rejection.

If neither one of us wanted to go through, with it, we could lie and say we were dating someone out of town or something, and no one would be the wiser. A piano cover of I'll Be Home for Christmas was playing on the radio. Loretta was standing by the punchbowl wearing a green dress and jingle bell earrings. I'd never seen her looking so beautiful before. I approached her cautiously and felt myself tense. So, uh, she looked at me inquisitively. I tugged on my collar and nervously shifted my weight from foot to foot. Remember that deal we made last year?

She blushed and looked away. Yeah. I forced to laugh. That was, uh, that was stupid, huh? She smiled anxiously. Yeah. We were so immature back then. I felt a knot in my throat.

It was getting hot. I wished I hadn't listened to my mom when she told me to wear a vest over my dress shirt. I was sweating. So, um, are you dating anyone? I was trying to make myself sound cool and casual. She paused to think about it and shook her head. No? Yeah, me neither.

I looked at her. I know it's stupid and all, but if you want to, like, keep that deal we made, I guess it wouldn't be terrible. She looked away. I think she was trying to hide her blush. You're only as good as your word, right? I nodded.

And we did promise we do it. Now it was my turn to blush. And besides. She was pointing above me. You're standing underneath the mistletoe. I'd completely forgotten I taped one there before the party. Guess we have no choice. Guess not.

The room disappeared, like a curtain falling on stage, leaving just her and I, the music, and the mistletoe. Loretta stepped closer to me and leaned down. I got on my tippy toes to meet her halfway. Our lips touched and a surge of electricity rushed through me. We lingered for a few seconds and then pulled away. I could feel my heart battering against my chest as my face started burning. Loretta looked just as red and flustered.

That was... Stupid. She looked down and nodded. Really stupid. And that's how we started dating. We lasted a whole week and a half before we broke up right as school picked up. We mutually agreed we'd be better off as friends. Still, we promised if we weren't dating anyone next year, we'd kiss under the mistletoe again. And we did. That year and the year after.

and the next, until it became a weird tradition. It didn't matter if we were single or seeing anyone. Once a year, during the holidays, we'd meet up, find a mistletoe, wait for our song to play, and to kiss. We eventually settled on the perfect spot, a little stone walking bridge near the outdoor skating rink at the park. There was a wooden bench we could sit on under the bridge, isolated from the wind and snow, where we could still hear the music coming from the rink.

The city always decorated the bridge with Christmas lights and put a bushel of mistletoe at the highest point in the ark. It was quiet, secluded, and most of all, romantic as hell. We'd sit there all evening if we had to, waiting to hear the piano version of I'll be home for Christmas playing at the skating rink. It could take hours or it could take days depending on the year. We'd chat, laugh, and drink hot cocoa. It was special. Then I moved away for work. I hadn't planned on flying home, but as the holidays approached, I started feeling homesick.

Beyond that, I found myself pining for Loretta. We'd followed one another through holidays. high school and college, and it was hard being away from her. I guess I finally realized there was more to our Christmas tradition than just two kids being stupid. I missed her. I wanted to be with her. I loved her. Maybe I drank a bit too much or watched one too many Christmas movies, but it was like something inside me ignited. I knew if I went home she'd be waiting for me under that stone bridge. I downloaded our song, transferred it to my MP3 player, and jumped on the first flight back.

I didn't tell anyone I was coming. I took a cab straight from the airport to the park and ran towards the bridge as fast as I could. A rush of energy flowed through me like the first time we kissed, as I imagined us sitting there, talking. laughing and catching up. I'd confess my love, pull out my MP3 player, play our song. She'd smile and we'd kiss underneath the mistletoe. We'd go out for hot cocoa to warm up and see where the night would take us. To explain it, but I felt her. I knew she was there. It was going to be our perfect moment. Then I got to the bridge, but our bench was empty. I was early, I figured. There was

no way my instincts had been wrong. I'd paced around practicing a speech in my head, even though I knew I'd forget every word the moment I saw her. The city had forgotten to put up the mistletoe, but I figured I didn't need to use it as a crutch anymore. I had the courage to kill. I had the courage to kiss her without it. I waited and waited. It was a tough pill to swallow to find out Loretta and I didn't share a special connection. She wasn't coming. I was just a love-sick moron. My rational adult brain understood it wasn't Loretta's fault. I couldn't possibly blame her for not being magically drawn to me that night. But nevertheless, I had bruised my own ego pining over her. So I distanced myself. I never called or emailed her again. Yeah, I was stupid and immature.

It wasn't until a year later that I saw Loretta again, or at least I think I saw her. I was doing some last-minute shopping at the mall when I heard the first few piano bars of I'll be home for Christmas and felt a spark in my guts telling me she was here. I looked around and caught a glimpse of her standing underneath a mistletoe on the other side of the mall. She had her back turned, but I knew it was her. I'd recognize her silhouette and curly brown hair anywhere. Maybe, I thought, she felt the same way about me as I did about her. Maybe she had flown all the way here to surprise me. She was pointing at something, but from my angle, all I could see was a solid wall. I pushed through the crowd and tried to get to her side of the floor, but I kept being swept

away by waves of shoppers. By the time I'd made it over, she was gone. I stood there looking around and waited for her like an idiot until the weight of my shopping bags became unbearable. Then I gave up and went home. Holidays make people emotional, and I wasn't immune. I figured I'd just seen what I wanted to see. I made it my New Year's resolution to move on. We weren't meant to be Loretta and me. I got myself a girlfriend, and we eventually graduated.

from making weekly plans to smore long-term things, you know, planning to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together, that kind of stuff. Things were going well, until I saw Loretta again. My girlfriend, Chrissy, and I were out on a romantic dinner. It was one of those fancy restaurants with live piano and real candles. She wanted to dance, so I reluctantly agree. You've got terrible rhythm. I spun her around. Maybe for Christmas I'll take classes with you. Only if it means you'll stop stepping on my feet.

Ow! Hey, you did that on purpose. I smirked. Prove it. She punched my chest. I grabbed her fist and kissed it before spinning her again. We landed underneath a mistletoe. Chrissy winked at me.

Aha, I've cleverly tricked you into stopping here. Now you must kiss me, no matter how much garlic bread I ate earlier. I wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in for a kiss, but as I did, the pianist started playing I'll be home for Christmas. It wasn't the song itself that gave me pause, but Loretta. She was standing right behind. Chrissy, so close she was breathing down her neck. But Chrissy said nothing. Loretta was staring at me, no, through me as she stretched an arm under Chrissies and pointed straight ahead. There was something

odd about her. Her eyes were blank and her skin had a weird sheen to it, making her look like she was made of wax. Chrissy leaned in for the kiss and Loretta leaned with her. I reacted instinctively pushing Chrissy away with a loud no. She staggered back and gave me a weird look. I couldn't tell whether she was more insulted or hurt. Really? I could feel her glare on me, but my eyes were locked on Loretta. She said nothing as she stood underneath the mistletoe pointing towards the bathroom, maybe. Can't you see her? See who? I'd already killed the mood, but I was about to make it worse. Her? I pointed to Loretta. Chrissy's eyes followed the trail through Loretta, down the dance floor and to one of the more voluptuous servers in the restaurant.

Wow, really? She smacked my arm back down. Pig. She stomped off, leaving me staring at Loretta in shock. I wanted to talk to her, but the words wouldn't come out. I mean, this was kind of a weird, time, place, and way to show up again in my life. you know, I didn't really understand what was going on, until I'll be home for Christmas ended, and Loretta vanished before my very eyes.

Well, shit, I whispered to myself. I hope my health plan covers shrinks. It didn't, so suffice to say, I never booked an appointment. Chrissy and I got into a huge argument about the incident and, broke up. I guess bringing an ex into it wasn't the best idea. I never saw her again. Loretta, on the other hand, I saw many times. I'd be on the bus that song would play, and I'd see her standing under a mistletoe in a storefront, her hand outstretched and pointing at nothing. I'd usually catch passing glimpses of her whenever I heard the song.

I honestly thought I was just feeling nostalgic. It wasn't until years later when the pieces finally started falling into place. It was my first month at a new job. The boss, brimming with holiday spirit, had decorated the office with all sorts of Christmas lights, ornaments, and window stickers. He'd even put up mistletoe near the water cooler by my cubicle, which, honestly, probably wasn't the best idea for an office environment. I imagined HR would have a field day setting up sexual harassment seminars if they saw it. As early as mid-November, he'd blare Christmas songs from speakers in his office. The problem started when he bought himself an instrumental Christmas album.

He'd play it at least once a day. I'm sure I don't need to tell you by now which one song was on that album and what happened when it came on. At least once, every single day, I'd see Loretta appear and point at nothing. As the weeks wore on, she went from looking pale and waxy to gaunt and leathery. Her skin slowly started turning Auburn with patches of yellow. Believe me, I tried ignoring her visibly decaying body, but even if I managed to zone out and focus on my work, Even if I couldn't hear the song playing because I had my headphones on, I'd still smell her.

The scent was disgusting. I couldn't even describe the odor if I wanted to. I'd rather not try because I'm having enough trouble keeping my lunchdown just thinking about it. I think that smell is what finally made me realize I wasn't just imagining her because I missed her. I'm certainly not creative enough to imagine. Imagine someone slowly decomposing before my very eyes, let alone know what that might smell like. One day, I waited for everyone to leave for lunch and ripped the mistletoe down. Problem solved.

Except it wasn't solved. Someone, probably the boss, bought another bushel and put it up the next day. I was back to seeing and smelling Loretta. A few days later, I got a little drunk at a friend's house and told him all about Loretta. He laughed and shoved me playfully. Good one. It's not a joke. Right.

So you're telling me your childhood crush keeps magically appearing to you, and no one else can see her? I blushed. When you put it that way, it sounds dumb. He leaned against his couch and looked at the ceiling. Okay, let's entertain this idea for a second. Let's assume you're not more loco than a locomotive. What do you think she wants? I'd never thought about it.

Up until she started decomposing, I'd always assumed she was just a figment of my imagination and nothing else. I don't know, her replied. There's always something. Has she ever asked you for anything? I shook my head. Does she leave messages in blood? I shook my head again. But she does point to random shit.

Like what? I shrugged. Nothing, really. Blank walls, empty staircases, nothing that makes sense. She's got to be pointing at something. I thought about it for a moment. As work, she only ever points straight to the water cooler. Maybe she's thirsty.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. Funny. Have you ever tried to see what's beyond what she's pointing to? I tilted my head in confusion. Say she's pointing to the wall, right? Mm-hmm. Did you ever check to see what's behind that wall? No, I...

Maybe she's trying to lead you somewhere. Might be nothing, but it might be worth checking out. You're right. I got up, grabbed my bag, and ran to the door. Where you going? I slipped my shoes on and opened the door. To the florist, I'm going to need some mistletoe. Good luck.

The door shot behind me. I bought a bushel of mistletoe and went straight home. In my drunken mind, it all made perfect sense. I had to figure out what she was pointing to. The first step was figuring out whether she had a fixed target, or if it changed depending on location. Was her hand drawn to one specific direction, like a compass, or was it random? To find out, I set the mistletoe over my living room table and played our song on my phone.

She was there, no smooth transition, just boom. There. The stink of rot was just as quick to appear, filling the room instantly. I could smell and taste it even with my mouth and nose tucked under my collar. I tried to ignore it and focus on my experiment. Loretta was pointing to the window. I paused the song. She and her stench immediately dissipated.

I took the mistletoe down and looped it around the light in my bedroom. The song came back on. The stink returned and Loretta was a little bit. pointing at the wall. I followed the path from my bedroom into my living room and straight out the window. Paused the song, took the mistletoe down, put it in my washroom, played the song. She was pointing at the laundry hamper, but if I traced the line through it and a couple of walls, it too led right out the goddamn window. Pause. Move the bushel to the window. Play. Her hand stretched out over empty space pointing to the building across from mine.

I took the stairs out of my apartment two at a time and then ran a few blocks to the east. The Salvation Army Santa probably thought I was a nut job as I climbed on a snow-covered bench and hooked my mistletoe over the bus stop sign. I ignored him and played my music. She appeared, pointing in the same direction she had before. What followed was a weird scavenger hunt around the city, with me buying a map, trying out different locations, tracing the lines. They converged on the same direction, straight out of town. I'd been thinking too small.

If I looked at a larger map, a map of the country, I could clearly see she was pointing right at our hometown. It actually made a lot of sense. For the second time in my life, I took the first flight home, and as I looked out the plane window and stared at the stars, I finally realized this wasn't going to end well. In hindsight, I probably should have figured that out when Loretta started to decay. The plane landed in the early hours of the morning. I hadn't slept, but I fought through the exhaustion and made my way to the flower shop to buy another book. bouquet of mistletoe. There was a feeling in my guts telling me I'd eventually wind up at the park with the stone bridge, but I still set up the bushel in a few places around town and played my music

to see where Loretta wanted me to go. I was right. It was the park. I stood under the bridge, looking at the mistletoe the city always put up in the ark. Dread swept over me. I felt guilty, but didn't understand why. I just did. I played, I'll be home for Christmas on my phone, and watched as Loretta, now leaking a dark, viscous fluid, pointed towards the woods. I'd gotten used to the smell by now.

I took slow, apprehensive steps towards the edge of the forest, the same instincts telling me to keep going. also warned me not to. I clutched the mistletoe in my hands. We'd both seen better days. I walked as straight as I could, occasionally hanging the mistletoe on tree branches to check if I was still on the right path. I knew I'd made it when I came across the large oak tree full of mistletoe, about a mile inland. I pressed play on my phone. Loretta stood. Loretta stood. But under the tree, looking at me as she pointed straight down at a long stretch of soil. Everything around it was covered in a thin layer of snow, but that spot was clear.

She looked at me through empty eye sockets. I could feel her desperation in the air. I knelt down in the snow and started digging up the soil. Rather than being frozen from the cold, it was warm. and easy to scoop out. We all know by now what I found, who I found. She looked just like her phantom. I broke down and started crying. When I ran out of tears, I called the cops and they came to pick her up. Coroner found a bushel of mistletoe stuffed down her throat. Turns out she'd gone missing the night I'd flown home to meet her. They think someone attacked her under the bridge,

probably drunk and irritated she wouldn't kiss him. He choked her, stuffed the mistletoe down her mouth, dragged her into the woods and buried her body. I can't help worrying. I might have been there when it happened. Maybe she was still alive as he dragged her through the forest and I was just sitting there less than a mile away waiting for her under the bridge. I might have been able to save her. Maybe I'm just punishing myself thinking these things. What no one can explain is the impossibly slow rate of decomposition, or how the bushel in her mouth was still as fresh as the night it had been stuffed into her. Seven years earlier.

Well, that certainly didn't leave me feeling merry, nor filled with Christmas cheer. You do realize this is no sleep, right? Horror, frightening, disturbing, all that scary stuff. Yes, but it's Christmas. People should be jolly, wrapping presents, and, or at very least, writing letters to Santa Claus himself. It's funny you mention that. Oh, no. You're not going to corrupt the delight.

Rightfully innocent tradition of young children writing to Santa, are you? No, of course not. I wouldn't do that. But author Marcus Demanda would. You see, in this next tale from Marcus, we meet a man who works at a small town post office. He's in charge of dealing with the letters to Santa. Only problem is, one boy takes things far too seriously. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Erica Sanderson. Ellie Hirschman and Atticus Jackson. So take heart when you realize there are children who can proclaim,

I still believe in Santa Claus. The first few letters were all the same. Standard bright white envelope, licked, shot, and taped over. Three or four stamps plastered onto the corner. The address was written in red and green ink. Santa Claus, North Pole, the top of the world. Inside, there was always a single sheet of paper. folded over in three places for a neat fit.

Unlike the address, the letter inside the envelope was always in pencil. The paper was smudged with erasures, crossouts, and revisions. I got the first one on December 23rd, 2004. Dear Santa, hello, my name is Joseph. There are lots of Joseph at my school, but I'm Joseph. I'm seven years old and in second grade. I'm a very good spella. Can't you tell?

and very smart. I live in the blue house on the corner and have a nice chimney. I've been good this year, except for when I pulled Jenna's hair. Mom says I should always tell the truth, which is why I'm telling you. Jenna said you were fake, and she made fun of me, so her hair got pulled. I do my homework every night. I keep my room clean. I'm a good helper.

For Christmas, I want some hot wheels, especially red ones with doors that open her. I would also like the cranium kuduke. He still believe in you no matter what Jenna says. Jenna is a bitch. Your friend, Joseph. Now, for the record, I'm not Santa Claus. My name is Jeremy Short, and I work at the Aka Kwan Post Office. I sort letters and packages by zip code.

It's a very small town. Small enough, in fact, that I do all the sorting on my own. And so the dear Santa letters always cross my fingers on their way to the shredder. Yeah, it's shitty. And yeah, I know about all those other post offices that actually answer the dear Santa letters. We even have a template in Microsoft Word for it. Type in the kid's name, choose a background, cut and paste a few images, click print, and a customized response goes back to the return address. Anyway, Joseph never wrote his return address. Technically, the law makes opening someone else's mail a federal offense, although the feds do tend to look the other way in the

matter of Dear Santa letters? What made me open that first one? I'm not sure. And maybe it was the odd handwriting, which slanted backward instead of forward. I was probably just bored. On the inside, Joseph had drawn everything, the hot wheels, the game, a hand yanking a ponytail, and in the corner there was a frowning dog, a word bubble that read bark and a collar that read Jenna. Well, I found it amusing enough to hang up on a bulletin board of above the coffee maker and the foot and a half tall Christmas tree. Everyone got a good laugh out of it, but no one had any idea who Joseph or Jenna was. Acaquan is small, but it's not that small.

They were almost definitely town kids, though. Exactly a year later, on December 23rd, 2005, I got the second letter. I recognized the handwriting right away. It read. Dear St. Nick, hi, it's me, Joseph again. How are things at the top of the world? I read about you. I know you were a priest way back in time

and that you used to drop gold down the chimneys of poor people to help them out. That was very nice of you. Do you really work with elves, or is that part made up? Did you like the cookies I made with my mom? Really, she made them, but I put on the frosting. Thank you for the Crenium-Cudu game. I've been very good this year, even though my third-grade teacher is a total shit-eater.

I learn more at home than from her. Mom said I could mail the shit eater, a box of coal as a joke, so I did. Hope she thinks it's from you. The reason I asked about the elves is that I never got the Hot Wheels last Christmas. I don't think you would have forgotten after I wrote you and everything. Anyway, it's no big deal. I'm over Hot Wheels. Can I have a best of Marvel Select Incredible Hulk action figure this year?

I brush my teeth and floss every night. and I had zero cavities when I went to the dentist. I'd go to confession and pray before bed so that I'm all forgiven before Christmas. You're a priest, so I figured you'd understand. I know it wasn't okay when I cut Brian with the teacher's scissors, but he was laughing at me, and I did say I was sorry. Jenna doesn't go to my school anymore.

I still believe in you, even though you fucked up my last order. You're a pal, Joseph. I'm a family man. I've been married 23 years with kids. My boys in college now, and my daughter's supposed to graduate high school in June. But they were both real little when all this started. The point is, I know how family works. Another man might have found something funny, I guess, in the second letter.

I guess even I did. But it troubled me deeply. Part of me wondered if Joseph was real. So much of it sounded like a grown-up trying to sound like a kid. This could have been Marty or even Lisa playing a joke on me. Wouldn't have been hard. I've been a sucker before. I told myself I would not be a sucker this time, though.

But I didn't hang the letter up either. I never said a thing to anyone. I kept it all in myself. And I told myself that if I got another letter like this next year, I'd do something. My wife Candace is the librarian at one of our two elementary schools. I asked her if she knew. a Joseph who was always getting in trouble, a Jenna that had been withdrawn from school, a Brian, who had been poked or cut or slashed or stabbed with a pair of teacher scissors. Turns out she didn't.

What kind of mother tells her kid to mail-bom his teacher with a prank lump of coal on Christmas? I didn't get a letter in 2006. I figured either my friends at the post office had forgotten about their little joke or Joseph didn't feel like writing that year. The third letter came in 2007. Mr. Claus, my parents say I need to stop this. They tell me I'm 10 years old and too old to be writing letters to Santa. Mom promises me you're real, and I believe her, but she says I should stop writing.

She keeps reminding me that you know everything I've done, good and bad, and don't need to be writing it all down. She says I should ask for presents the elves can make in their shop. She says it's not like the elves go to Best Buy. Dad just shakes his head at that. I wanted that Incredible Hulk action figure, though. I worked all year to get it, and you didn't give it to me. I don't have any friends at school.

They all say you're fake, and I'm a baby. A psycho baby, they call me. Mom took me out of regular school after I slammed Wayne's head into his desk. I had to talk to the cops. I had to go to the station. I'm getting homeschooled now. Mom told me the truth. You only become not real to the kids who don't believe in you anymore.

But I still believe in you, Santa. Even though you didn't bother to squeeze your fat ass down my chimney at all last year. I told my mom, See, that's what happens when you don't write the goddamn letter, Mom. She's so dumb sometimes. I hope you get this before Christmas Eve. The thing is, I poisoned the cookie frosting last night. My dad's an exterminator and has all kinds of poisons in the garage.

I wish I didn't do it, but I did. A mom and dad can't find out I did it. If I can, I'll throw the cookies away before you show up, but I don't know where mom hit them. I'll have to stay up real late on Christmas Eve to outlast mom and dad. If you come this year and see the cookies, don't eat them. Maybe take them outside and toss them in the woods. Take that, raccoons.

So you see, I tell the truth. This year, I was hoping for Star Wars Lego construction kit. Something I can play with by myself. It doesn't matter which one. I don't have any of them. I don't have anything to play with. Or anyone. Sincerely, Joseph.

I took that one to the police. Obviously, I did. They identified Joseph within 24 hours. unfortunately, by then, his father had already sampled the cookies. Now, the pesticide wasn't enough to kill him, but he ended up in the hospital and had to get his stomach pumped. As expected, Joseph turned out to be local and had attended the elementary school my wife didn't work at. Everything else he had said about his behavior at school checked out, too. Say what you will, but Joseph was, at least, honest, which is a good thing for his mother.

She'd been brought in for questioning. She might have been charged with attempted murder. Well, when her story made the local 5 o'clock news over the protestations of law enforcement, her last name became public, and everyone learned what Joseph had done. They never said his name, of course. The law doesn't allow for the identification of minors involved in a crime. But it didn't matter. Parents assigned releases, and his classmates talked on TV about how weird he was,

how bad they felt and how they tried to be nice. So did I. The final paragraph in his last letter really got to me. For weeks it was most of what I thought about. Why hadn't I reported it earlier? Could I have reached out to him somehow? Even his teachers, faces blurred and voices distorted for anonymity, got in on the public doxing of Joseph. How sad they were, how they were glad it happened before anyone got killed. they hoped he'd finally get the help he needed. I couldn't help but wonder what that was. I don't know, maybe all he needed were a couple hot wheels, an incredible Hulk action figure,

validation of his beliefs, a gesture from a stranger that showed someone cared about him, someone who wouldn't encourage his dark thoughts and his bad behavior. That's what I told the TV reporter anyway. When it became clear, they wouldn't leave me alone until I weighed in with my two cents. I also expressed my opinion that weanus needed to back the hell off. That he was a little kid.

That he was too young to really be a criminal. My own kids were very young back then, too, so it was hard for me to be objective at the time. My daughter, Carissa, was only eight. He's ten years old, I said. We need to leave him alone. He was never charged. Social services got involved,

and so far as I knew at the time, Joseph Hinkle went away. I had no idea where. But he wrote to Santa again in 2010 when he was 13. This letter, unlike the others, had a formalized return address stamp in the upper left, Manassas Regional Detention Center. But if they screened their outgoing mail, it seemed they didn't do it very thoroughly. Most of it was fluff, rambling, talking about learning to be good. But in the middle of the third paragraph, evidently lost among all the other harmless scribblings he'd surrounded it with, Joseph had written this. To Chris fucking Kringle, I want a gun. Just give me a gun, you ancient Arctic fuckbucket, you asshole, you liar. I've been bad this year, but it could have been worse. I could have been much worse. I still believe.

Joseph. I got the letter on the 23rd, same as always. He would have written it on the 20th or the 21st. When I called the police, I learned that Joseph had tried to kill himself on the 22nd, had attempted to hang himself with his bed sheets. Either he couldn't wait for the gun, or he understood that Santa would never give him such a thing. Or he knew a little bit more about Santa than he used to know. He hadn't addressed this one to the North Pole. Instead, he addressed this one to the post office in Acaquan. Looking back, I can only think he must have seen the TV coverage of his story. He must have seen me. On Christmas Day 2011, he escaped the detention center. While he was on the loose, the media again put aside the protections of juvenile identity, this time with the

full blessings and encouragement of the law. They needed Joseph Hinkle found now. I didn't go into work on the 26th. I stayed home with my family. I kept an eye on the news, secretly monitoring developments online instead of having it on TV for the kids to see. My son, Artie, was a sophomore in high school that year, and by chance of fate, he shared his Spanish two class with a girl named Jenna. Jenna had much to say about Joseph Hinkle, even when he wasn't on the run from the law. And unlike my son, she was popular. Poor Artie spent most of the same. to that year known to his peers as the son of Santa, even after Joseph was picked up wandering in the woods, half starved in the dark hours of New Year's Eve. It's still kind

of stuck after that, particularly after Joseph escaped again in 2013. My son could not shake the nickname entirely until he went off to college. He was glad to go. That's when I got the letter asking me, asking Santa what I wanted for Christmas. He could get me a doll, he said. He said he could get me a pretty one. That letter showed up in my own mailbox at home. What a fool I was. Oh, what a fool I am.

As for Joseph, they still haven't found him. Not even after they found his parents shot to death on December 14th, 2016. December 14th, the second of the 12 days of Christmas. They've moved 20 miles south to Stafford County. Rumor is, he laid the bodies out under the Christmas tree. People say he put down presents, including a set of red hot wheels and an incredible Hulk action figure. His December 13th kill, his first one wasn't located until the 20th, when the 10-inch pile-up of snowfall in the woods finally melted. Jenna's parents identified her right away, told.

There never was any third day of Christmas murder. I'd say thank God, but I'm not feeling especially thankful right now. Joseph has all grown up now. I hope they find him. I hope they kill him. Look, can you just turn that damn thing off and get these fucking letters out of my face too? I don't want to look at them anymore. I want some fucking answers.

I want the letters to stop. I want my dad. daughter back. All of her. The following notes compile all of the most recent correspondences from Joseph Hinkle to Jeremy Short. December 12th. Dear Santa, I didn't know your daughter worked at Potomac Mills. She's such a pretty little elf. I know that wasn't really you, though, sitting in the Santa chair. I've seen you. I've seen you. I've seen. seen you. I know all about you. You're a fraud. But not me. I tell the truth. Shit-eater. Afterwards, Mr. Short received several daily packages from Joseph Hinkle. On December 13th, one note reading,

On the first day of Christmas, my faithful sent to me, and one bright red elf hat. On December 14th, one note reading, On the second day of Christmas, my faithful sent to me, and two bright red boots. December 15th, one note. On the third day of Christmas, my faithful sent to me, and a vest, leggings, and a belt. December 16th, one note.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my faithful sent to me, a sordid clothing, identified as belonging to Carissa Short, four items. December 17th, one note. On the fifth day of Christmas, my faithful sent to me, and five right-hand fingers, positive ID on Carissa Short. This report was updated on December 17th. More updates anticipated.

Investigation ongoing. Have you no shame? Listen, I don't write these stories. I just package them up into delightfully disturbing tales. You've corrupted caroling, nutcrackers, mistletoe, and letters to Santa. What next, Mr. Grinch, kittens, candy canes, puppets? Puppets? And... You wouldn't.

Well, I wouldn't. No. But, author... Henry Galley? How'd you know? Oh. Yes, in this tale from author Henry Galley. We discover a...

delightful puppet who magically comes to life and plays with children. I can't imagine anything more festive than that. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Atticus Jackson, and Erica Sanderson. So lend a hand and an ear as we spend Christmas with Mr. Strings. There'd been a Christmas fair in Arbor Lodge Park for about as long as I could form memories. It was a metropolis of bustling stands set up by local townsfolk and transient carnies alike all in the spirit of the holidays.

They were shilling everything from candy canes to personalized decorations to freshly baked gingerbread cookies with a collection of carnival games played for cheap toy prizes on the side to keep the kids amused. The palimcess of sounds, sights, and scents at the Arbor Lodge Fair

were as much a part of Christmas for me as reindeer or even Jolly St. Nick himself. So it was always the highlight of the season when mom dropped me off on the fringes to let me explore. Old Man Morris had set up a shooting gallery, as always, and Mrs. Figg was selling her famous, homemade Christmas fruit cake, along with all the other familiar faces and their traditional carnival stands. They were fun and all, and the bulk of my childhood Christmas memories were formed around visiting them ad nauseum and enjoying their holiday delights, but

Every year there'd be a handful of new stands to discover. Those were the ones that we were there for. My friend Lucas and I were nine at the time and eager to look around, so we didn't mind being left without adult supervision. If anything, it was kind of exciting. We had $10 allowance each, which felt like a king's ransom back then. And choices for what to piss it away on to our young minds? but almost limitless.

We were given a blank check made out to holiday cheer from the International Bank of Mom, where I had excellent credit. Where you want to go first, Ginger? We tromped down the wet December grass to the first wave of stands, all lit up by vines of red, white, and green Christmas lights. Evelyn.

Evelyn is my name. But one of the downsides of being a redhead is you don't get to do it. choose your nickname. You only get to choose how you feel about it, and so I embraced it and became ginger, even among friends. After the first couple of years, I was finally able to hear it regularly without cringing an embarrassment. I don't know. Let's just explore, see what's new. We entered the sprawling maze of sensory overload-inducing treats like we'd just been invited into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, and we're gazing with a sense of timeless wonder on sights hitherto unimagined.

Of course, we'd been to the Christmas fair every single year since we were both toddlers, so very little, aside from the yearly assortment of wild card stands, was ever new to us. Yet it still managed to capture that same sense of magic as the first time we'd ever laid eyes on it, and we hoped that it never fade. I'm hungry. Mr. Jones has got a corn dog stand. Are you kidding? You've got ten dollars and you want to buy a corn dog?

You can get a corn dog any time of a year. This is Christmas. But I haven't eaten today. So, at least buy some Christmas food. You don't want to waste your allowance. Lucas grumbled and ducked his head, knowing I was right. The kid ate like he was on death row, but you know, never know it from looking at him. He was as thin as an icicle and pretty short, even for our age.

Children can be cruel, so they were sure to remind him of that any time they got a prime opportunity to do so. He had his height. I had my hair. Such strange arbitrary details to be marked for ridicule. Still, the taunting had hardened us, made us the same kind of person, the social reject. probably why we got along so well. Mrs. Grimsy set up an archery range. I pointed to a wooden structure in the distance where a kindly old woman was standing next to a row of crossbows mounted across from various targets.

Oh, that's so rad. His eyes lit up with all the proper intensity of a child ready to shoot a crossbow bolt at 350 feet per second. Let's do it. We both charged for the archer. range, laughing and panting, making a race of it. Our resolve began crumbling when we saw those awful words. Fourteen and up only, written across a placard mounted on an easel next to the crossbows.

No Christmas target practice for us. Aw, no fair. I bet I can shoot an arrow gun just as good as a 14-year-old. It's so stupid. Yeah. It's called a crossbow, but I agree with you. Can we go get something to eat, Ginger? He clutched his stomach for a fact.

It'll be Christmasy, I promise. I'm just not going to have much fun on an empty stomach. My stomach crumbled audibly, as if in response. Well, I think Mr. and Mrs. Bateman are selling Christmas cookies on their stand. They're shaped like trees. Let's go get some. Some of the stands, like the Bateman family's Christmas cookies, were more or less always in the same place.

But all the other stands around them seemed to shift, so it was easy to get lost in the pervasive low hum of carolers and the tinny music of radios and singing Christmas toys. Hey, Ginger, what's that stand? What stand? The black one. Oh, that's... I don't know what that is. Whereas every other stand went from plain to some variation upon red, white, and green, this stand was a perfectly even matte black. perched on the very edge of the fair. There was no awning on this one,

just a pair of gray curtains drawn across the upper half of the stand, whereas the lower half was a pair of three-foot-high doors. It looked more like an oversized Gothic cabinet than a carnival stand. Must be one of the new stands. Let's go check it out. What? I thought you wanted to get something to eat. By the time I'd gotten the sentence out,

he was already halfway there. As we got closer, I realized just how much further away from the other stands this one was. It felt almost strategic the way it was positioned so that no other stands were facing it. It either didn't want to be seen

or was very particular about who was meant to see it. There were words painted across the cabinet doors in the style of an old vaudeville act, seeming to shout, meet the fantabulous Mr. Strings, with its bold capital letters. I don't like this, Lucas, though it was perhaps a little quiet for him to actually hear me. Lucas was already pacing around the stand, trying to see some clue that might tell us what this thing was or who was running it.

We certainly didn't know any Mr. Strings from previous fares. The whole stand just stuck out, like seeing a payphone at the bottom of the ocean. It wasn't necessarily threatening, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it belonged there either. Hello? Anyone there? Lucas tapped on the side of the box with his knuckles. The curtains drew open across the old rail with a screech, and Lucas came running to my side to take a look. Oh there, little boys and girls?

So lovely to see your smiling faces! I don't think either of us were smiling. not when we saw Mr. Strings. As the name suggested, he was a puppet, a marionette specifically, held up by a web of thick black strings, but he was just so horribly large. The parts of Mr. String we could see, like those long bony fingers in that almost blank face with the flapping jaw and deep holes for eyes were made from wood. old, ugly, modeled wood. The rest of him was covered in a tattered suit,

easily four feet across the shoulders, with a thick winter scarf obscuring his neck and a cartoonishly extravagant top hat on his head. He seemed to only just fit into the stand, with those extraordinary long arms of his drooping over the edge of the opening and dangling there. He looked like he'd been cobbled together in the early years of the 20,

century, not cleaned or updated since. Strangest of all was that he was never quite still. The strings remained taught. He was always moving and shifting and fidgeting in space. Not like any puppet show I'd ever seen. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm your new best friend, Mr. Strings. What are your names, children?

When neither of us responded, instead just standing and staring at him, slack-jawed and silent, he giggled and shook his head before reaching out towards us with those oversized hands. It's okay to be shy. I'm sure you'll come out of your shell once you get to know me a little more. His fingers had too many joints. That much was obvious. Where humans have three, Mr. Strings had six. And how the unseen puppeteer was moving them all was a mystery to me. They curled casually into spirals, and then back again as he spoke, getting so close to my face. What's your name, little girl? I love your hair.

It reminds me of sunshine in the evening. Ginger, I said, not wanting this thing to know my real name. And how appropriate, pretty nameful, pretty girl with pretty hair. He ran his overly articulated fingers through my hair, trapping stray wisps between his six joints and accidentally yanking them out at the root. I wanted to collapse onto the ground just to get further away from the hand. And what about you, kid? What's wrong? He pinched at Lucas's cheek.

Cat got your tongue? No, sir? Mr. Strings laughed at this, though I didn't see what he found funny about it. Don't call me, sir, little boy. I'm Mr. Stings. He curled his fingers around Lucas's thin bicep. And what am I to call this strapping young lad? If I had to guess, I'd say, Larry? No. Lionel. No, it's more. It's more.

Lucas. That's it. Lucas. That was exactly what I was going to say next. Clearly, we're all on the same wavelength here, guys. We're going to get along famously. I'm hungry, Mr. Strings. This was a polite way of saying, please let me leave. Even at nine, I knew that. But either by choice or plain ignorance, Mr. Strings seemed to utterly ignore this subtext. I'm hungry, too, Lucas.

For friendship, friendship, friendship, friendship, free. We're hungry for Christmas cookies. I didn't want to let a giant puppet control the conversation. Mr. Strings cocked his perpetually expressionless face to the side, his hat tilting slightly. He seemed almost to vibrate for a moment, like his response was buffering before returning to normal. Christmas cookies. He seemed to feel out every word.

Let Mr. Strings treat you, Ginger and Lucas. I'll make you happy. He tapped on the stand with a clenched wooden fist, and the cabinet door swung open on their own volition. The inside seemed to stretch back. eliminated by strings of Christmas lights, way, way further than the size of the stand should ever have allowed. Come on in to my humble abode. I have toys and Christmas cookies and so much more.

Everything you could ever want or ask for. Mr. Strings has it, and he wants you to have it too. Did we walk in? Mr. Strings was like a tuxedo tailored only from red flags, but morbid curiosity pushed us. It was the same combination of our childlike obsession with fear and the belief of our own invincibility that drove us to ghosthouse and scary stories told in the woods. And I guess on some level, we figured that once we came out the back end of this thing, Mr. Strings would be the best ghost story.

the ultimate playground chiller, to be recounted again and again, scaring generations of children after us. The cabinet door slammed shut behind us, and we looked up to see Mr. Strings suspended in the air on those thick black threads that seemed to allow him to glide freely around the cave we just walked into.

And it was a cave, with jagged sides, stalagmites, and stalactites. The first change, that was immediately evident was that Mr. Strings had retrofitted a roller coaster car and a set of tracks onto the ground, weaving around the first corner into the unknown. Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome. We're going to have such a great time together, guys. Great, great, great, great, great, great!

Mr. Strings had no legs. He was just a giant puppet torso, gliding through the air, fluidly on his cat's cradle of black strings. He hovered over the roller coaster car and gestured down to it. Take a load off, kids. Let me give you the grand tour. Times wasted. Lucas and I shared a glance and started walking towards the little car with only enough space for the two of us.

This car was not designed for adult occupants. Only children. Where's your puppeteer? Nowhere! Mr. Strings laughed, extending his arms like an albatross's wingspan. I'm holding my own strings. No puppeteer here. But how does that work? Mr. Strings paused and started shaking again.

Something in his voice changed. It was a little sharper, a little angrier. He sounded bitter. You'll just have to take my word for it, Ginger. You'll suspend disbelief for the fat man so you can do it for me, can't you? I didn't know what half of that meant, being nine. But whatever state Mr. Strings was in when he said that, he seemed to snap right out of it after,

and ran his freakishly flexible fingers down his face in embarrassment. No, she doodle! That's the old Mr. Strings talking there. You don't need to meet that guy, new leaf. No, me! It's all going to be so much nicer now. Get in the car, kids. We'll get started.

We both silently climbed into the car, not wanting to upset him again. And the safety bar came clunking down on our laps, holding us in place. Mr. Strings was hovering in front of us. Rubbing his hands together. For your own safety, keep your hands, feet, and other objects inside the car for the duration of the ride.

And remember to have a good time. That's the most important part. Say, do you like stories, kids? Yeah. Stories are oodles of fun, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. But I think my favorite types of stories, Stories are fables. The ones that have a message.

Something to take home with you, you know? Do you like fables, Ginger? I guess so. The ride began. We started clanking down the tracks towards the corner at the end of the cave mill. I know so. My favorite is the story of the wolf and sheep's clothing.

It's a lot of fun. But as you get older, you realize it's not true. You know why that is, kids? No. Well, Mr. Strings leaned forward and placed his hands on the front of the car. In real life, the wolves don't dress up as sheep. They dress up as the shepherds. You can't trust anyone these days, kids.

Except Mr. Strings! You can put all your trust in me! We finally turned the corner into the first part of the cave. which looked a little like the It's a Small World Disneyland Rive, if it were designed by John Wayne Casey. Hundreds of puppets suspended in being tugged around by the same thick, black strings. But all, unlike Mr. Strings, unquestionably just puppets. They danced and twitched spasmodically against a bizarre mural of a happy winter town

someone had painted against a wall. Let me go. Tell you my story, kids. Mr. Strings looked fondly upon the dancing puppets. See, Mr. Strings wasn't always the happy, confident puppet you see today. Once I was lonely, an outcast just like you two. I wanted nothing more than just to have some friends to play games with. Friends, friends, friends, friends, but...

No luck. Nobody wanted to play with poor old Mr. Strings. So I had to make some friends of my own. And just like that, I was happy again. Look at them now. All dancing having such a great time! They didn't look like they were having a good time. They looked more like they were in the throes of epileptic seizures, starring at us with lifeless wooden eyes. All of the puppets were children, too.

I was so distracted by the decor that I somehow completely missed the fact that he'd shared a detail of our lives we never told him. Why do you live down here if you want more friends, Mr. Strings? The cart was pulling us mercifully away from the chamber of dancing puppets. Because I'm a little shy. In the past, there have been... We'll say negative responses to my attempts at friendship. But none of that matters anymore. Everyone is going to be happy and have a good time now.

Isn't that right, kids? We were silent. Oh, you must have misheard me. The strings lowered him until his blank puppet face was mere inches from our own. It sounded threatening again, though. I said, isn't that right? Kids. Both of us started nodding frantically, forcing smiles. Good. It's Christmas time. So how about we enjoy some lovely music?

Wouldn't be Christmas without lovely... Out of the puppet frying pan and into the puppet fire. The next chamber in Mr. String's cave was a puppet orchestra. Each positioned at or with real instruments, being manipulated by the same web of black strings that seem to have a mind of their own. It must have taken Mr. Strings' years to build this place. You're awestruck, aren't you? That's why you've both been so quiet. You just can't summon the words.

We nodded again. It seemed like the answer he wanted. While you're thinking of how to think me. Allow me to play you a little something to ease your minds and get you in the spirit for fun. Gentlemen, like we've been practicing. The musical puppets started up into life, and because this situation apparently wasn't surreal enough, Mr. Strings began to sing. Hark to my twinkling and darling, far from the heartless world of me.

Round, wintry wonder on display. Mine is a place of joy and cheer. Out of the pain and dark and cold, every girl and boy in here. Never gross dull or sad. Right, all the fairy lights, blinking, blinking, warm are the candles such joy and cheer. Here is perfection, so love me.

Love me! Look what I've crafted to keep you! One of the puppets fumbled, and its instrument came clattering to the ground, where it broke into a tangled mess of wires and splinter. The puppet band became disoriented, and the music dropped away limply into nothing. No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! Mr. Strings practically screamed. His fists bawled, his body shaking with rage. That's not what was supposed to happen.

You ruined everything! He swung his great arm and knocked the head clean off of the offending puppet in a single stroke. The strings uncoiled from around it and allowed the decapitated puppet's lifeless body to just slump onto the floor. How does he make it look so easy? What does that... Stupid red ape have that I don't.

Why does he get it all when I get? It was almost as though Mr. Strings, absorbed in the disintegration of his performance, had completely forgotten we were even there. Somehow that didn't provide any comfort. It felt like our host was stooping to increasing levels of instability. Can't you see what I'm trying to do here? Can't you see how hard I'm trying to try? lying? More nodding. It felt like anything we said to him would somehow be wrong. Mr. Strings let himself go limp for a second inside before picking himself back up and resuming his weird, tense stance.

Let's not dilly-dally. We've still got the most important place of all to see. My workshop. The car was moving again, but I think Lucas and I both knew we were really. reaching the point of termination. The temperament of Mr. Strings seemed to be getting worse by the minute. And if what we'd seen so far was anything to go by, next time he might not just take his anger

out on one of the puppets. Still, he was hovering right above us. It's not like I could say anything to Lucas without him hearing it. No elves down here. Everything you see I've made myself, all on my own. You don't see.

him doing that, do you? He's got to resort to slave labor to get your love. I'm a self-made man. I've earned it. I'm entitled to it. What are you talking about, Mr. Strings? I don't understand.

Doesn't matter, kid. Just thinking out loud. Of the four chambers, which is to say, the cave mouth, the dancing puppets, puppet band and the workshop, the ladder was without question the smallest. Four work benches arranged into a large wooden horseshoe, covered in half-finished puppet parts and various carvings and woodworking tools.

Stranger than this was an elevated metal platform hanging a few feet from the ground, supported by, of course, those thick black strings that seem to hold this whole place together. It was surrounded by four oversized spinning wheels, like the kind you'd used for sewing. Now this skits is where the magic happens! He gestured grandly to the setup around him. It's where I carve all of my wonderful friends. I think my mom is going to be wondering where I am, Mr. Strings. I wanted to use an excuse to get out of this terrible.

horrible place. You think, huh? Think, think, think, think. Well, how about we just ask her? A puppet descended slowly from the darkness of the ceiling. A pink dress, blonde curls, a pleasant smiling face, and floated next to Mr. Strings.

It was a perfect puppet replica of my mom. And the feeling of the uncanny was so sudden and intense that I swear it almost made me puke. Hey, Ginger's mom. Can Ginger stay out and play with us for a little longer? When the puppet spoke, it didn't speak in my mom's voice. It was Mr. Strings trying to imitate my mom's voice. Oh, yes, Mr. Strings.

I trust you with my Ginger any day of the week. I'm sure she's having an excellent time. She's just too bad. Ashfall to see. This was it. I wasn't having any more of this. Mr. Strings had long since worn out his welcome in my life, and I didn't intend to let him spend any longer in it.

I started trying to push the safety railing off of my knees so I could climb out of the coaster and make a run for it, but the damn thing wouldn't budge. Lucas was crying, ugly crying, child crying. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he blubbered. Mr. Strings leaned towards him, his body exhibiting all the tension and strength of the cables that held the Golden Gate Bridge in place.

Somehow, that almost featureless face perfectly communicated the fact he was locked on the precipice of rage and just needed one more little push to get there. Why ever would you want to leave, Lucas? I'm not sure why it was then, that I noticed this. But behind all the work benches, Mr. Strings had a huge chalkboard,

divided into two halves by a white line down the middle. On the top of one side, it read Mommy, and on the other, it said, Daddy. Below each were hundreds upon hundreds of tally marks.

Because you're scary. And that was the push. Scary. Mr. Strings laughed in a way that told us he found this to be the exact opposite of funny. You think effort I've put into catering to you, kids. Is, am I scary to you, Lucas? Yes. I leaned over and held him, trying to comfort him to calm him down.

There was something in Mr. String's voice that told me something terrible, was about to happen. That's when he started yelling. I wanted to be nice, to be lovable. I did everything I could to suppress the uglier parts for your benefits, not mine. And after all my hard work, you still have the gall to call me scary. You don't know the meaning of the word scary, you petulant little brat. Not yet. But if scary is what you want from Mr. Strings, who am I to stand in your way?

One of those monstrous hands grabbed Lucas by the head, snatching him, manhandling him, and pulling him out of my grasp. Lucas shrieked a high, piercing scream that I don't think I'll ever have the liberty of forgetting. He struggled and squirmed in Mr. String's grasp, but it didn't do a damn bit of good. Let me show you scary, Lucas, since you're so eager to impose it on me. He slammed my friend back onto that elevated metal platform, like a frog ready for dissection in science class, and held him in place with a single finger on his chest. He fought and wriggled, but Mr. Strings was a little bit. in total control the entire time.

Well, first, let's do away with these little shoesies. They'll only complicate the process. With his spare hand, Mr. Strings took off both of Lucas's shoes and socks, giggling while he did so. Let me go, please. Oh, I would, Lucas. But that wouldn't be very scary of me, would it? He didn't mean it.

Mr. Strings began to slowly vibrate again, progressively getting more and more intense, as his flapping puppet jaw fell slowly open into an ugly, fish-like gawk. There were these terrible liquid burglar noises. A stream of thick, black liquid came spewing out of Mr. Strings open mouth. Niscus like tarred, but it stank of vile and death. It just kept coming like Niagara, until Lucas was absolutely coated in it. Strings seemed indifferent to the suffering. He was playing with Lucas's hand,

picking at it with his spiny fingertips until he managed to pull something out of it. The start of a long, black thread. I couldn't believe what I was witnessing, as Mr. Strings drew one of his long, black strings out of each of Lucas' hands and feet. and attached them to the edge of a corresponding spinning wheel. Lucas screamed. I bawled. Mr. Strings just worked.

When he was done attaching the Lucas strings, he gave a satisfied sigh and looked him in the eye. Let's get scary. He began spinning the wheels. My friend started unraveling, right before my eyes, and his extremities inwards. Lucas's hands and feet, seeming almost digested by the black gunk, fell away into masses of string that was quickly spool up by the spinning wheels, continuing onto his forearms, ankles. Soon enough, his body was consumed, falling away into masses of the thick black string.

His eyes turned to me with a final pleading glance, and he weased out pulp before his lungs turned strings. Been a delight. His face came apart, and Lucas was no more. Just several spools of that terrible string, and a gooey, black mess left on the metal platform where he used to be laying. I don't know why he was crying. I'm the one who has to clean up. Mr. Strings had just murdered my best friend in front of me,

and my legs were still being clamped down, the safety bar. All I could do was sit and cry, as he tied off the threadbare ends of what had once been Lucas. I didn't want to have to do that, admittedly. Perhaps that was an overkill, but you can't deny you were both being ungrateful. The insults just really pushed me over the edge. This wasn't the time for words. I opened my mouth to let out a pain cry when a cold, wet hand caught me across the throat and lifted me from my place. Mr. String seemed so huge up close, so terribly, monstrously huge. He slammed me up against the same elevated metal platform that he'd deconstructed Lucas on.

I could still feel the sticky mess that was once my friend tingling on my back. Last time was a little quick for my taste, Ginger. I think I'll do you one limit a dime. Should be more fun that way, don't you think? It was probably so pointless trying to reason with him, with it, with that monster. But I had to try. I had to. I didn't want to go the way that Lucas did.

Mr. Strings didn't listen. He vomited that thick, black stuff. onto my right arm. It was somehow both hot and freezing. And then the burning started. It was like all the blood in my arm had been replaced by molten iron as my skin started fizzing audibly. The pain was too great to even scream. And it was just my arm. Just one arm. This agony was racking Lucas's whole body. and it remained for minutes on end before he finally died. Those needle-tipped fingers fiddled around in the clotted mess of my palm until he wheedled out a loose string and began drawing it from my hand.

The blackness had consumed my arm right up to the shoulder, bubbling, coming loose. He tied the tip of my string to a spinning wheel, and gave it a twirl. Finally, my screaming gained a sense. I could feel it, every bit of it, as Mr. Strings unraveled my arm. But it was worse than just pain. It was the shock of a sudden realization. I could still feel my strings, as if they were suffused with working nerve and then. The strings were still alive, they were still conscious, all of them.

Every single one of them. in some tortured, reduced capacity. It was still alive. The puppets weren't Mr. String's friends. The Strings were the children they used to be. Scream! Scream! Scream!

Mr. Strings cackled, watching my arm falling to pieces before both of us. Oh, it's so much more fun like this, Ginger. This is my Christmas gift, And that stupid fat man had nothing to do with it. It's all me, me, me, me, me. He wasn't going to stop. Mr. Strings would be a puppet of his word.

He'd pull me apart, limb by limb, by limb. If I stayed like this, it might take a little longer, sure, but it was just as doomed as Lucas. My arm had almost entirely unraveled until that single, taut thread was just jutting from the stump on my shoulder. This was my chance. While Mr. Strings was in rapture with my pain, I flipped onto my side, twirling until the string from my arm was laying right next to my face. Before Strings could stop me, I pulled it into my mouth and chomped down on it,

sending another shockwave of pain through me. But I couldn't stop. I squeezed until I felt a pop. and the taste of blood in my mouth, the string finally coming free from the stump. What are you doing? I tumbled off the metal platform with a painful thud, but I had adrenaline on my side now.

Scambling to my feet, I started limping madly towards the exit of the workshop, with Mr. Strings, who was howling with rage, gaining on me from behind. Come back here. You're ruining everything. The clicking of his overly articulated fingers sounded loud and clear behind me, while I gripped at my stump in a feeble attempt to quell the steady flow of blood that was coming from the bitten off end of the flesh thread.

Mr. Strings wasn't yelling anymore now. He was laughing, laughing at my arrogance to believe I was ever capable of beating him alone. I entered the chamber of musical puppets. and Mr. Strings entered after me, gliding as swiftly and smoothly as death itself up above. My adrenaline reserve stopped being useful to me, and my sprint was reduced to a sad, pained limp. The wooden eyes of the puppets around us seemed to stare on, sad and apathetic to my pain. So this is how I die, I thought. Mom would never know what happened to me, and I'd never get to tell you.

tell anyone what happened to Lucas. My face was a scrunched up mess, red, and slick with tears. I wished I could have told her I loved her. Just one more time. That's when the orchestra of musical puppets clattered to the ground, and the strings started whipping free, all moving in one direction, unified in a single mission. But they weren't coming from me. All those thick, black threads were wrapping themselves around Mr. Strings, who looked as shocked as his mostly featureless face would allow. I shared his confusion, but it seemed like the strings were helping me, holding back my crazed pursuer. But of course they were. They were kids once, too, kids who sat in that same little roller coaster car and watched countless others making their way

down those tracks to oblivion. They didn't want to see. it happened anymore, and I intended to honor their wish. I made a run for it, a mad dash, trying desperately to make it out of the orchestra chamber in a single burst. Let go of me. I am your master. You can't do this to me. Mr. Strings liked to pretend he was a friend and a victim. He liked to pretend he was a lot of things. But in the end, the only thing he truly was, and the only thing that every kid like me could identify was just another bully. And like all bullies,

Mr. Strings fell to pieces when he couldn't get his way. It seemed for the first time since I rolled off that platform, I had a fighting chance to escape. This hope sustained me as I cleared the entrance back into the dancing puppet chamber, but it shattered the second I heard something frumbling behind me, followed by a monumental thump. He'd ripped his own strings out of the wall. I'm coming for you, Ginger!

Mr. Strings dragged himself across the filthy ground by his huge, powerful arms. Even without my strings, you can't get away! His arms were longer and stronger than my legs, so he was gaining ground on me quickly. even just crawling along. I was halfway across the dancing puppet chamber when I saw him come clambering after me

at a terrifying speed, huffing and brunting, a new wave of black gunk beginning to drip from his eyes and mouth. But I had to keep going. I was so close to getting out. I knew that if there was even a sliver of a chance, I had to try.

For Lucas. For my mom. for me. I cleared the dancing puppet chamber and entered the cave mouth again, where this nightmare began less than an hour ago. And so much had changed since then. I was permanently disfigured. My best friend was dead or something like that.

And I could say for certain now that monsters were real. They were angry. I couldn't have been more than 20 paces away. from the exit, when Mr. Strings caught my leg and tripped me. My face and chest hit the ground, another spike of dull pain all over. Mr. Strings was looming over me, using the sheer size of himself to suppress me, as his puppet jaw began flapping open. Bye-bye, Ginger!

Can't say you didn't give me a run for my money. Merry Christmas. I could see fear on the horizon. but rage was there first. I'm not Ginger! My name is Evelyn! My leg jutted out in a powerful kick, connecting with strings wooden face with a terrible crunch.

A large crack split across his forehead. But stranger still, his head seemed to go flying off of his body. The back of it, as it landed on the ground, seemed strangely hollow. not a head, just a face, a mask. The real Mr. Strings was underneath. His scar fell off in the scramble along with his mask, revealing the head of a giant black maggot that writhed and squirmed and wriggled,

tripping that black bile from its toothy face. Mr. Strings began to recoil, pulling himself back with one arm towards his mask and covering his giant maggot head at the other. Or at least he was trying to. Now that it was out there, fleshy and terrible.

Don't look at me. Don't look at me. Don't look, don't look! My shot at freedom had just opened up. While Mr. Strings tried desperately to put his mask and scarf back on, I ran for the doors at the entrance, slamming against them with all my string.

They didn't open at first, I slammed and slammed and slammed until my shoulder felt like a loose bag of rattling bones. And finally, as Mr. Strings began the chase again, the doors opened, and I spilled back out into the world. I was crying with relief, sobbing. I dragged myself along the wet crass until I was about 10 feet away from the black stand. And something deep inside me told me that I was finally safe. Mr. Strings was peering from the door, his cracked mask and dirty scarf obscuring his disgusting maggot face again. He sat on the fringe just watching me, furious that I was gone, but satisfied in knowing just how much he'd taken away from me tonight. I'll see you again, Evelyn. Next time you won't be so lucky!

The doors of the black stand slammed shut. The curtains drew tight once more, and the whole thing just sank into the grass like an elevator going down. Until there was nothing left to suggest it was ever even there. What else was there to do but get up and start hobbling back to the Christmas fair, looking desperately for someone to help me? In spite of all that had happened, the loss of my arm, Lucas's death, everything else seemed so unchanged, so indifferent to our ordeal.

The vines of Christmas lights still twinkled red, white, and green. The sense of cookies and cake were still heavy in the air. And as I cried and groaned and limped back to some kind of salvation, tinny Christmas music rang on in the background and would for the rest of the night. You know, you're making me regret celebrating Christmas. Really?

You? You seem to take great delight. light in turning this holiday into something dark and unwholesome. The entire cozy Christmas cottage seems far less festive now. Have you thought about putting up more decorations? Perhaps more garlands and some... Why do I have a feeling that you're leading the conversation into our next tale, Ebenezer? Well, it's not just our next tale, it's our final tale. And Christmas decorations certainly do play a big part in this one. You see, author Meg Maloy knows that plenty of people head to stores like Walmart for their Christmas decorations. Let's just hope their shopping turns out far better than what

happens in this story. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, Dan Zapula, Addison Peacock, Kyle Acres, Ellie Hirschman, Erica Sanderson, Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, and Matthew Bradford. So put up your bobbles and bells, but this year you might want to avoid the tinsel. No decorations this year? I shook my head and tried to look apologetic, but not too apologetic as I continued to bag Mrs. Greeley's holiday shopping. She put her hands on her hips and scoffed, shaking her head in apparent disgust. What is this? I ran?

No, Mrs. Greeley? Still in America. I scanned a gift pack of child-sized socks and wondered which one of her kids they were going to be disappointing in a month's time. She shook her head again, pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, and reached into her purse for her credit card. Mrs. Greeley wasn't the first person to notice the lack of holiday decorations, nor was she the last.

In the past month and a half, The New Hope Commons Walmart had gained a certain level of infamy for being the only franchise in North Carolina that announced it wasn't putting up holiday decorations of any sort and probably wouldn't ever put them up again. And in a town like mine, where our main exports are tobacco and barbecue sauce, and there's an average of about two churches every block,

you can imagine how well a decision like that goes over. Working on the sales floor, I've had to hear every complaint you could imagine. Where's your Christmas spirit? This is political correctness gone bad. And my personal favorite. I thought this was America. Don't get me wrong. I agree with them.

Sort of. I miss when we used to decorate, too. Without that little bit of Christmas cheer that came from all the inflatable snowmen and sparkly garlands, working retail over the holidays had become even more soul-crushing than usual. If I could quit, I would. Believe me, nobody really chooses to work at Walmart. But most of the people who worked here last Christmas have left by now, and I figure that means I have to stay. If I quit, then nobody will be left to remember the real reason why we don't decorate any. anymore. It was November 2, 2016, and I was pissed off because I'd been moved to the early

morning shift for a whole week. Judy, who normally took that shift, had been in a pretty serious car wreck on her way to her sister's house in Wake Forest, and was going to need a week to recover from her injuries. I had been at a friend's day of the dead party while this was happening, and by the time I got the call from my boss asking me to cover her shift at the last minute, it was 10 p.m. and I was already about five margaritas in. So as I got out of my car and stumbled to the door in the pre-dawn darkness, leery-eyed and disoriented, I initially assumed that the big, iridescent star in the store's front window

was some kind of waking dream. The star had four large points and four smaller points. between them, with a huge red circle in the middle, all made from what seemed to be thin, holographic plastic. Placed over the top of the star was a red ribbon emblazoned with curly gold writing that wished shoppers, a very merry Christmas from your local Walmart. It was simple but elegant, not to mention eye-catching, and I probably would have liked it a lot more were I not still recovering from Halloween. I walked through the sliding door, rubbing my eyes, and nodded in the direction of the morning shift manager, Colin, who was

heading towards the back of the store with a roll of tape in one hand. His shirt was clean, his hair slicked back, and he looked way too happy to be here at 5 a.m. That was the kind of person Colin was. I kind of hated him for it. Isn't it a little early for Christmas decorations? I pointed to the star in the window. We've still got Thanksgiving coming up. It's never too early to get into the Christmas spirit. Colin waved his hand dismissively.

Don't you like it? It's pretty cool. But I'm a little too hung over to appreciate all the colors just yet, I think. Colin chuckled in a way that wasn't quite disapproving, but bordered on it. Big night last night, huh? I nodded. We walked in the same direction for a few feet before I turned to walk to the homeware section

where I was supposed to be working that day. I got a strong whiff of pine from Colin, which made me stop and turned to look at him. That new cologne is pretty festive too. You really are getting into Christmas early. Colin smiled and nodded, giving me a thumbs up before disappearing behind a row of shelves.

I didn't see him for the rest of the day. When my shift ended at a round two, I headed to the door and stopped to get a better, less hungover look at the first Christmas decoration of the season. On closer inspection, it seemed like it was some kind of sticker with the same design on both sides. It was nicer than the window stickers we usually put up,

and Colin had somehow managed to get it on the window without creating any air bubbles beneath the plastic. I chuckled to myself. Of course, he would be the kind of guy to meticulously press on a window sticker, inch by inch, until the whole thing was perfect. As much as he annoyed me, he put a lot of care into his work,

which I think would have been more admirable if he were, say, a doctor, rather than a Walmart manager. I went across the same, the parking lot to a nearby salad bar for lunch. I noticed that none of the other stores had put up any Christmas decorations of their own. The next day, when I went back to work at 5 a.m. once again, Colin had put up some more decorations already. I noticed multicolored tinsel garlands along the tops of some of the shelves and around all of the cash registers. Somehow Colin had already managed to cover

half of the store. I was impressed. Either he'd come in hours early to get it all done himself, or he'd managed to convince the people on the previous night shift that November 3rd was the perfect time to start decorating for the holidays. On my way to HomeWares, I walked up to one of the registers and brushed my hand over the tinsel. Do you like it? I turned to look at Colin. He looked as cheerful as ever and still smelled like pine. Not as much as you like that Christmas cologne. He pointed at me and chuckled, nodding. Have you heard from Judy?

Colin furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly. Hmm. Oh, no. No, she hasn't called back since yesterday. You're hoping she'll come back tomorrow and take her ship back, huh? I guess. I'd better get to work. For the second time that week, I walked away from Colin and spent the rest of the day without

seeing him. I spent most of my shift stocking shelves and helping the odd customer find what they needed. It was a slow day. The area had been in an economic downturn lately, so we had a lot of slow days. Business would probably pick up in the days before Thanksgiving, but before then we were understaffed and empty, especially. in the morning. I didn't like the morning shift.

Sure, less customers meant no dealing with ridiculous complaints, no having to pick up after kids who run around throwing stock off the shelves, no trying to stop teenagers from shoplifting, none of the kind of things that make working retail so uniquely horrible, but still, the store was so huge that being there on a slow day could feel positively agoraphobic. The shelves seem to go on for miles, and if you're alone in one of the departments, like I had been for the last two days, you can start to feel like the whole world just stops, and you're the last one left.

The only reminder I had that time was passing was the fact that the music changed. The Christmas playlist that was echoing throughout the store cycled through Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Jingle Bell Rock, Blue Christmas, and a Christmas. Of course, all I want for Christmas is you, a few hundred times before my shift was over. I was ecstatic to get lost once Hector, the afternoon shift guy, showed up to take my place at 2 p.m. When my shift was over, I made to leave. On the way out, I ran into another employee, a large, red-faced white guy with glasses and curly Auburn hair. His name tag said Jack. Can't wait to get out of here either, huh?

He chuckled and held the door open. I laughed half-heartedly and nodded. And can you believe that management's gone all out getting up the holiday decorations already? He nodded towards the star sticker on the window. Barely past Halloween for crying out loud. And that Christmas music, ugh. He pulled a face. I kind of like it.

I mean, it adds a little bit of color. to the store, reminds me that the seasons are changing. Jack scoffed incredulously. If you say so, I'm more of a Halloween guy, actually. He looked at my name tag, then back at my face. You're covering for Judy this week, right? Yep. It's awful what happened to her, isn't it? Yeah. He raised his eyebrows and gave me a solemn look. If you ever get overwhelmed by being over in homewares by yourself, you can come sneak over to sporting goods and hang out with me and Paula. Sounds good. I'll see you around, I guess.

I guess. We parted ways and went to our cars. The next morning, Colin had put together the next part of his Christmas masterpiece. There was a display of plastic trees at the end of one of the aisles, ordered by a little fence and striped plastic collar, topped with fake snow. In the center of the display of trees, there was a happy inflatable snowman,

wearing a green bucket hat and waving towards the entrance with one blue-mittened hand. I saw Jack, with a pale, dark-haired girl, I assumed was Paula, looking over the display and shaking his head in disbelief.

I feel like I need to remind you all that it's the 4th of November. Jack gestured to the display. Last year, he didn't get this shit out until at least the 20th. Where's Colin? This was the first day so far I hadn't seen him right at the front of the store. Who knows? He probably tired himself out, putting all this shit together.

Let him rest. I'm happy I haven't seen him yet. It's always getting on my back about something. I deserve a break from that guy. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and reached for it. It was a text from my dad, asking me if I wanted to come over and help him plan a menu for Thanksgiving dinner. I laughed to myself and rolled my eyes. It seemed everyone around me was way too eager for one holiday or another.

As I walked and texted him back, telling him that a regular old turkey dinner would suit me just fine, that he didn't need to go to too much trouble. I startled myself by almost walking into another holiday display. Just like the one I'd seen on the way in, it featured around four or five trees, some fake snow, candy-striped columns, and a waving snowman. Except this snowman was wearing a Santa hat and black mittens, and it wasn't facing the front of the store. It was facing the direction I'd just come from.

It was facing me. I turned around to look back at the other display, and noticed for the first time that there were multiple tree and snowman displays, about six in total, placed at the cap of every second aisle. I was confused at how I'd missed all of them. It was still so early that my memory might not have been perfect, but I still thought for sure I would have noticed so many garish displays. But they must have been there.

It had only taken me a minute or so to walk in, talk to Jack, and then make my way over to my section of the store. I looked down the aisle, which was right next to the clothing section, and saw another one of my coworkers, rotating a clothing rack and sorting through the blouses hanging from it. Her name was Ruby, and I knew her because even though we usually worked different shifts, we'd come in for job training around the same time. She was the kind of person my mom would call alternative.

She had a septum piercing, a tattoo of an Egyptian eye on her wrist, and very short, bleach blonde hair that contrasted dramatically with her dark brown skin. Her long, sharp nails clicked against the metal clothing racks as she reorganized the blouses by size. They're spreading. She said this without looking up. I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. The Christmas trees? Yeah, feels like it.

I gave a short, humorless laugh. She didn't respond in kind, and that worried me a little. It sounds stupid. She looked at me, then at the display. But they weren't there when I came in. I turned to look at the display and found that the Santa Snowman had been turned around so that he was facing the front of the store, like his brothers who guarded the other aisle. I think I believe you.

I didn't take my eyes off the snowman until I turned around the corner to get to homewares. The Christmas playlist got stuck on a loop of, We Wish You a Merry Christmas for a while that afternoon. Unfortunately, that was right around the time that I realized that Hector was running late, and that I'd have to stay later than usual. Right around the time that business was starting to finally pick up, As I was waiting for him, I spotted Colin fixing up one of the snowman displays. He adjusted the branch of one of the trees, then turned one of the other ones slightly to the side.

At first, I was amused. Typical Colin, going above and beyond the call of duty. But then I noticed that his lips were moving. At the distance from him that I was, I couldn't hear him, but I could clearly see that he, was talking. Customers walked by without noticing. Was he talking to himself? Was the stress of all this obsessive holiday decorating finally getting to him? I kept watching him. He seemed to be talking about something serious. Even at a distance I could see his brow furrowed as if whatever he was saying was of grave importance. He's having an argument with the snowman, I thought. And And then, as if responding to my thoughts, I swear I saw the snowman move.

Colin hadn't touched it. I quickly averted my eyes, just in time to see Hector run through the door and give me an apologetic wave. The fourth and ultimately final day of working the morning shift in the homeware section, I was greeted by the sounds of two people arguing. When I passed Colin, he sternly informed me that they'd been there since 4 a.m. And that he wanted me to go and sort it out. Because, of course, he did. He couldn't possibly have dealt with the matter himself.

He had very important tinsel and ornaments to hang. When I went to go investigate, I found a couple in their 30s screaming at each other in front of the light bulbs. The man was halfway up a ladder that was only supposed to go investigate. supposed to be used by staff, trying to reach stock on the highest shelves. The woman was on the floor, folding her arms and shouting up at him. They were both in their pajamas with thick wool coats on over the top. Jerry, you fucking idiot, you're not supposed to go up there. The woman anxiously twisted a loose lock of her blonde hair. I imagined that she was the one whose idea it was to come to Walmart so early, since she seemed to be the more properly dressed of the

She had a pair of sensible ankle boots on and had tied back her hair and slapped on some simple makeup to make herself look at least a little bit awake and ready to go out. There's nobody here to help me, Charlene. I don't see what the fuck else I'm supposed to do. Jerry wasn't a big guy, but he looked like someone who hadn't been in shape for a long time, if he'd ever been in shape at all. He was balding a little, and even through his legs. sweater and overcoat, I could see that he had skinny arms and a pretty significant beer gut. He reached towards some of the boxes of light bulbs with some grunts of effort that were almost funny. I wondered how he'd been able to get up as far as he did without help, especially in his slippers. I took a few tentative steps towards him and cleared my throat.

Sir, I'd be happy to assist you if you'd just come down from the ladder. I'll do it my own damn self. I'm right in front of the fucking things already. It took us an hour to find the right kind of bulb in this mess. No thanks to you. Jerry, don't be an asshole to the woman. She's just trying to keep you from doing something stupid. I don't care if you think I'm being an asshole.

He grabbed a box of bulbs and awkwardly stuck it under his arm while he held tight to the ladder. There's not enough staff in this place. It's like a fucking maze. You need a map to find anything. He reached up to the place where the type of bulb he needed. was kept. I'm sorry.

We're a little short-staffed this week. I'm sorry, we're a little short-staffed this week. His mocking gecko was just loud enough for me to hear. I took a deep breath in. Sir, I'm just trying to do my job, which is to help you. I used the most angry tone I was allowed to use with a customer. Please get down from that ladder, and I'll get the bulbs. It'll be much safer.

that way. Go do your job somewhere else. He reached for another box. The ladder wobbled slightly, causing Jerry to grip on to the top of the shelf for balance. The silver garland along the edge of the shelf rustled as he brushed it. I exhaled and threw my hands up. All right, fine. You do what you want. The customer is always right. Charlene looked like she was about to get angry with me for a second, but I guess she'd used up all her energy being angry at her husband because she quickly lost interest. I tried to forget about what had just happened and went a few aisles over, where I knew there was a stack of throw pillows waiting for me to give them price tags. About a minute later, maybe less, I heard a huge crash on the sound of Charlene's screaming.

It was then that I regretted being so flippant towards the idiot trying to climb the shelves. I ran back to the light bulbs, hoping that if Jerry was still conscious, he wouldn't decide to complain and have me fired. There were scattered boxes of light bulbs all over the floor of the aisle. The ladder that Jerry had been on had toppled over and stuck underneath it was Jerry, who had managed to get tangled in the tinsel on the way down. I went over to him to see if he was okay. Jerry? I lifted the ladder and put a hand on his shoulder. The tinsel ruffled.

I felt a pit in my stomach when Jerry didn't respond. I grabbed at the tinsel. It was extremely tight around his neck, I noticed. I figured he must have choked and thought that if I untangled him, maybe I'd be able to get him breathing again. Call an ambulance. As I pulled the tinsel away from Jerry's body, I started to notice that it was resisting a little, like it was stuck on something.

I frowned and pulled harder. You should have talked him down. If he hadn't got up there to get those fucking bulbs, then it hit... She started wailing and couldn't bring herself to finish. I turned Jerry's head gently and realized that the thing that the tinsel garland was caught on was his mouth. Somehow, as he had been struggling to stay on the shelf, Jerry had swallowed some of the tinsel garland and gotten the rest of it wrapped around his neck.

It seemed like such a ridiculous way to die, choked by Christmas decorations while falling off a ladder. But if he had slipped and gotten tangled up while the ladder had fallen out underneath him, why had he been under the ladder when I found him? I kept pulling the tinsel just to see if I could clear up his airway. He'd swallowed a lot more than I'd thought. I only stopped when the silver started coming out red.

My stomach sunk even further. He's dead. Charlene took a few shallow breaths and composed herself. I knew that. I could have told you that. I stood up and turned to face her. my eyebrows raised. You knew?

She nodded. He was doing fine. She gestured vaguely to the scene in front of her. It just came off the shelves and pulled him over. I frowned, trying to think of what she meant. The light bulbs? She shook her head. The tinsel.

What? I looked up, and for the, The first time, I noticed that the entire length of tinsel along the top of the shelf was missing, all three and a half yards of it. He must have pulled it off and got tangled in it, and then he... I don't know. When he opened his mouth in surprise, he swallowed the end of it somehow. It sounded silly as I was saying it, but I couldn't think of a better reason.

Charlene just shook her head again. No, no, I swear to God. She started waving frantically towards her partner's corpse. When I turned to look, the tinsel garland was gone. It's moved. Look, I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I'm getting the fuck out. Charlene had already moved behind me. I was still looking at Jerry, looking at the faint serpentine trail of blood leading away from

his corpse. And whatever weird shit you're pulling in the store, I'm coming back to sue your asses. I swear. I heard her shoes squeak on the linoleum. There was a faint rustling sound. Then I heard her scream. I whipped around to see two more tinsel garlands, one green, one gold, slithering down across the floor towards us like cobras at incredible speed.

I didn't even have time to register. the absurdity of what I was seeing, before the gold one was around my ankle and the green one was around Charlene's. We both hit the floor, painfully landing on our backs, and before we knew it, we were being dragged towards the front of the store. I didn't know what I thought was going to happen, or where I thought I was going. I wasn't even convinced I was awake. Maybe the latter had actually fallen on me, and this was my dream after it had knocked me out. Anything seemed more plausible than killer tinsel. My attempts to rationalize what was happening were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps

and the sight of an axe whooshing across my peripherals. I felt myself stop moving, and I sat up to see Jack from sporting goods with a fireman's axe, running toward Charlene. He brought the axe down on the tinsel, which quickly rushed away in whatever direction it had come from, leaving the end that had been twisted around Charlene's ankle to rive and flop around the tiled floor like a lizard's severed tail. What? The fuck. I know.

I was putting some shoes away with Paula and the plastic candy canes from a hanging sign came loose and stuck themselves into her eyeballs. Then I heard you two screaming and I came over here. Charlene and I both stood up. Charlene shrieked with disgust as soon as she saw, the end of the tinsel garland flopping around on the floor. She shook her whole body like her skin was trying to leave to go somewhere else. What the fuck is that? What the fuck?

We have to get out of here now. Come on, Jack, Charlene. I wouldn't. Don't fucking touch me. Charlene swatted me away, even though I hadn't touched her at all, and bolted for the door. I followed behind and wondered why Jack wasn't coming. When I got close enough to the door to see it, I knew why. It was completely barricaded.

The sliding glass was blocked and held in place by a row of trees and what looked like hundreds of strands of tinsel. Standing in front of the barricade like a sentinel was one of the inflatable snowmen. The first one I saw with the green hat and the blue mittens. It was still smiling and waving. I looked down and discovered to my horror that there was a pool of blood at its base, and a few feet away, what appeared to be the remains of another customer?

His face was shredded down to the bone, as if he'd been shoved face first into a garbage disposal. The snowman turns to face Charlene and I, and even though its face never changed, I could feel those little painted on eyes staring at us. I could hear the horrible rustling of tinsel as two of the garlands. Both silver this time came free of the barricade and flew at us, as if they'd just been given the order to attack. Charlene and I turned and ran, the tinsel closing in on us. More strands came in from the tops of shelves and joined in the chase,

funneling us down the aisles towards the back like a pack of wolves hunting a deer. I braced myself against a shelf and struggled to stay upright while two garlands wrapped themselves around my legs. Charlene wrestled with three, which grabbed onto her neck and arm. Every time we managed to shake one off, a new one would swing down from the tops of the shelves and replace it. Eventually, I couldn't see my feet through the layers of multicolored foil that had coiled tightly. around my lower half. I gripped onto the shelf behind me and resisted as the garlands tried to drag me back

to the front of the store. Charlene tried and failed to get a second one away from her neck. I could tell she was struggling to breathe, but she still kept her mouth shut, knowing that if she opened it too wide, she would easily be gagged and choked like her husband. Hey! Hey! Take these! I turned and saw Ruby.

holding up a newly opened pair of garden shears from the outdoor department. She ran over and tossed them to me. She had her own pair tucked under her arm, and she quickly whipped them out. With her help, I started cutting through the garlands. First the ones around my legs, then the ones that were holding on to Charlene. Charlene gasped and raised her hands to her neck, which was covered in red marks where the tinsel had rubbed against her skin. Thank God you're okay, Ruby.

Where's Jack? I told him to go find a place that hadn't been decorated and hole up there. What place hadn't been decorated? Colin must have decorated every inch of this place. There were even decorations in the bathrooms. I don't think Colin did this. Ruby motioned for us to follow her as she started running towards the back of the store. I think he just took credit for it.

Ruby crouched down and started weaving in and out of the clothing racks as we moved further away from the shelves into the clothing section. Charlene and I followed suit. We could see one of the snowmen patrolling the front of the store and had to move carefully to avoid being spotted. Jack went to the loading bay. That's the only place that doesn't have decorations. It's on the other side of the food market, through the back door. She peeked through a row of men's pants to see if the snowman was looking in our direction. What do you think this even is? Charlene positioned herself in between me and Ruby,

since she was the only one without a weapon. Bio-weapons? Secret LSD testing, North Korea? I don't know, but I think it's trying to get rid of us because we noticed it was multiplying. I think they were trying to stay hidden, but they made themselves too conspicuous by accident. Why do you figure that?

We continued to creep through the closed displays. I don't know. I just got a feeling. She motioned for us to stop and pulled us under the nearest circular rack of clothes. There was a faint grinding and whirring sound that got louder and louder as another one of the inflatable snowmen passed us by, its plastic base scraping along the floor as it glided by. There's a fan inside that base, I thought, and that's how it stays inflated. I suddenly felt sick as I realized that the fan must have been what shredded the face of the man we saw earlier.

The snowman passed completely and we emerged from our hiding spot. How much longer until we get to the loading dock? I pointed over Ruby's shoulder at a gray double door between two huge fridges along the back wall. Still clutching our weapons, we bolted to the food market. As we ran, the snowman behind us, the same one that had been patrolling around and had narrowly missed us earlier, turned to face us and started sliding across the floor in our direction. As we ran, the tinsel seemed to respond to the snowman's movements and joined it in the pursuit. Ruby and I fought them off with our shears, snapping off every shiny, foil tendril as they came at us from every direction. We scrambled backwards towards the door to the loading bay.

Charlene used both her hands to bang on the door until Jack opened it and we were able to go inside. Jack pushed a large crate in front of the door, and we heard a series of loud bangs as the snowman rammed its base into the door. Eventually, it gave up and moved on. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. I took a look around the loading bay to see what I could learn about the same. situation. Jack was there, axe holstered in one of his belt loops. Colin was there, too, sitting on top of a box with his knees up to his chest. He had a handgun laying on the box next to him, one which he usually kept in a locked safe in his office. I didn't see Paula anywhere. Jack looked

at me sadly, answering a question I hadn't even asked him yet. All right? This is everyone. Time to get the hell out. Jack took a crowbar in one hand and passed the axe he'd been using to fight off the tinsel over to Charlene. We'll need to stay armed until we can make it to our cars, I think. I don't have any reason to believe those things can't leave the store if they see us through the window. Everyone nodded, and we all started walking through the rows of crates to the large metal doors that served as entry and exit points to the loading bay. What are we going to tell people?

We get out of here, I mean. The truth. I shrugged. Nobody will believe it, but maybe it's better off like that. I mean, what could we say? How else could you explain it? The cops will probably think it was some kind of lunatic mass killer. I could still smell his pine cologne,

but now it was mixed in with the smell of his sweats and blood, and it made me sick to my stomach. I thought about a time when I was a kid and a rat had gotten into the walls of my house and died. We had to wait a couple days for the exterminator, and in the meantime, my mom just tried to mask the smell by spraying Fabriz all over the house. It didn't do anything to help. It just made the place smell like a really pine-fresh rat corpse. That was what Colin was starting to smell like. I took a few steps away from him.

A murderer who bases his kills around a theme. The news is going to have a field day with that. Ruby gave a dark chuckle. Finally, a mass killer who gets creative with his weapons. Thank God we don't have to make this one about gun control. We reached the end of the last row of boxes. All right, we're on the home stretch. He reached for the button to open the door,

but he stopped just before pushing it. Colin was right behind him, pointing his gun right at Jack's head. Don't. His hands were shaking, but his aim never faltered. Jack put his hand up and slowly stepped away from the console. Why not, Colin? Because I can't let you leave. Colin hadn't spoken much since all of this madness started.

And for the first time, I realized that his voice. sounded really hoarse. I can't let any of you leave. Why not? Because nobody on the outside can know about this. We can't be seen like this. The store can't be seen like this. Jack still had the crowbar he'd picked up earlier.

Gripping it in both hands, he swung around and knocked Colin's hand out of the way, just as he was about to shoot. The gun went off, and a bullet went through a nearby crate, causing some uncooked rice to spill out from inside. Colin looked at Jack with an intense hatred. I'd never thought that a person like Colin was capable of. He ran at Jack, arms outstretched as if to strangle him.

Meanwhile, I was trying to think about what Colin had said. I thought about his cologne. I thought about how I'd seen him talking to one of the snowmen. I thought about why he didn't want us to. be seen. I thought about that longer than I should have. Jack took the crowbar and rammed it into Colin's stomach. It should have just winded him and knocked him over, but instead we all heard a horrible, wet, tearing sound as Colin coughed and put his hands on his middle. The pine-fresh rat-corps smell got even worse, and something rippled underneath Colin's shirt. Jack dropped

the crowbar in surprise and backed away, but it was too late. From the bloodless tear in Colin's torso came four green, bushy arms, four Christmas tree branches, which ripped through his shirt and went straight for Jack. The two shorter branches grabbed Jack's arms, while the larger two gripped each side of his head and twisted. There was a crack, then a thump, and a This jack crumpled to the floor, his head twisted to one side and hanging limply on his shoulders. More and more branches exploded out of Collins' body, shredding his skin and clothes to ribbons in the process, and scattering strips of him in bloody piles on the concrete floor. Without thinking, I dove towards the button and tried to hit it before the tree was able to reach it.

I almost got it. but the branches of the tree shot out after me and grabbed me by the neck. I struggled against it, raising my hands to my neck and pulling desperately at the branches that were gripping me. But it was no use. When I opened my mouth to scream for help, three more branches came towards my face. One went into my mouth. The other two went into my nostrils. The branches went deeper in every time I tried to breathe.

I thought about the bloody tinsel I'd pulled out of Jerry's mouth, and I was sure in that moment that I was about to end up just like him. The branches of that Christmas tree were only up my nose for a couple of seconds, but to me it felt like hours. I felt the thing, whatever it was, that had disguised itself as Christmas decorations and taken over our store, pressed up against my consciousness. And while it was there, I saw everything.

I saw the thing for what it really was. It wasn't living tinsel or killer trees, but a mass of horrible, yellow veins, spread out over the store like some kind of meaty kudzu. Some of the veins, the tinsel, I guessed, moved about on their own, while others seemed to be plugged into equal. fully disgusting fleshy blobs that moved around in a way that I couldn't really understand.

I assumed those were the trees and the snowmen. I saw these veins spreading out from some unknowable starting point, controlled by something beyond what I was able to see, and I sensed some distant puppeteer orchestrating the movement of it all. I saw that shimmering gold star with a red center, The first sign of this madness, guarding the store from behind a protective wall of woven yellow tendrils. I saw identical stars in the windows of other stores all over the country. I couldn't see where it had come from.

I couldn't see from where it was being controlled. But in that brief period of connection, I knew for a fact that this was an invasion. Whether it was from another planet, another dimension, or even hell itself, I didn't know. But I knew what its purpose was, and I knew how to kill it. When I came back to reality, I saw Ruby, who had been able to cut me free, still fighting off the tree with her shears. I snorted and spat some bits of plastic pine needle out of my mouth, trying to catch my breath. The star. The star sticker in the window.

That's its eye. Ruby hacked off a branch and turned to me. It's I? I nodded. It's all one machine or organism. I'm not sure, but it's being controlled from somewhere else. When it was in my nose, I think it touched my brain. And I was able to tap into whatever system was controlled.

it. Every time we kill one of these things, it just gets replaced. But if we take the eye out, the connection will be broken up and it can't keep doing things. Just trust me on this. Nobody questioned it. At this point, we were all beyond looking for explanations. Charlene picked up Colin's gun from where it had dropped on the floor. She and I had the same idea I could tell. Ruby twisted off a branch of the tree and pushed it over. It pushed itself back up again, but by the time it was back up on its trunk, I guess, since it no longer had feet now that it wasn't pretending to be human, Ruby had run with Charlene and I to the loading bay door.

As we all got outside, I reached my hand through and slammed the close button before bolting towards the front of the store. I could hear the rustling and thumping of the tree, getting closer, but I didn't stop to look. I just ran. It was still mostly dark as we ran out of the loading dock, past the dumpsters and into the parking lot. A quick look at my watch showed that it was amazingly only 6.30. I felt like we'd been in that store for hours. We reached the front of the store with the tree still behind us. When we got there, we could see the star, the eye, shining through the glass door with all the tree branches and tinsel behind it. The tree came closer. I couldn't

understand how it was moving so fast when it didn't have any legs. I screamed at Charlene to shoot. Shoot the goddamn door right now. She faltered a little, but raised Colin's gun and, with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands shaking, she unloaded it into the window. She wasn't a very accurate shot, but it got the job done. The door was shattered. The tree collapsed onto the asphalt next to us, or at least it used to be a tree. The illusion had melted away, and we saw the thing for what it really was, a formless yellow mass, convulsing erratically without any directions to follow. When we looked into the store, the whole place was like that. The yellowish veins from my vision were covering the place, making it look like some lost city in an alien jungle.

I stepped over the broken glass into the store and pushed past a wall of limp yellow tendrils. We have to burn it. It seemed like a natural conclusion. If we didn't burn it, then it wouldn't really be dead. On the way to the outdoor and garden section, we stopped in sporting. goods. It was Ruby's idea. She wanted to see if Paula was still there. We found her right where Jack had left her, laying under a hanging sign with two bloody holes where her eyes should be. It made me feel sick how all these people had died, because it wasn't just violence. It was

undignified. That morning, I'd witnessed some of the most ridiculous and unbelievable ways of person could be killed, and I couldn't imagine what it would be like to know that someone you loved had gone out like that. Once we got to outdoor and garden, we picked up as many bottles of barbecue lighter fluid as we could carry and started dousing the entire store with it. We went back out the front, stepping over the glass again, and Charlene threw her cigarette lighter through the hole. Happy fucking holidays. The three of us stood and watched. watched the store go up in flames as the sun rose in the sky behind us. I started working again as soon as the remodeling was done.

Ruby never came back. I think she might have left town. I don't blame her. The official public story of what happened is that Colin, driven over the edge by holiday stress and sleep deprivation, brought his gun out that morning and started shooting up the place. One of the shots had a lighting fix. and started a fire. Ruby Charlene and I escaped being shot, but Colin was trapped under a

falling shelf and burned to death. The story that we told the first responders about killer snowmen and deadly tinsel was a shared hallucination brought on by breathing in too many fumes from the burning decorations. Those of us who were there, those of us who saw the bodies, we know the truth. and it was decided on that day that the New Hope Commons Walmart would never again put up a single Christmas decoration. The public can hate us for it, but it's better that they think

we're a bunch of leftist scrooges than it is to risk giving whatever attacked us that day another chance to camouflage itself. In the years since, I've often found myself thinking about everything I went through. I think about how perfectly the thing was able to make itself look and feel like everything it was camouflaged as. I think about why it might have chosen Christmas decorations in the first place.

But most of all, I think about the vision I had when my mind was hooked up to the thing and whatever was controlling it and how I saw the same star sticker showing up in the windows of other stores. Was that something they were planning? Or something they'd already done. And now that the temperature's starting to drop again, and the insanity of Black Friday looms on the horizon, I think about that a lot more. Because more and more stores have put up their holiday decorations now, and pretty soon they'll all have them. So if you're reading this story, and you believe everything I've just told you, the next time you see a tinsel garland or a fake tree you're out shopping and you think

to yourself that it seems a little too early for Christmas decorations be careful because it might not be what it looks like and it might not want to be noticed well that does it next year I'm not going to buy

any Christmas decorations it's nice to know you're planning for next Christmas already for this year's episode is done oh you certainly put a chill into the winter air admit it you love it. Well, of course I do. And I'm so glad everyone could join us for this holiday tradition. Back again in the New Year, is it? Indeed. January 14th, we'll be back with new episodes and plenty more

frights. A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Cummings, and a happy New Year. And to you as well, kind, sir. And to all our wonderful listeners. Best wishes of the holidays to you and yours. Hmm, don't you have to say all that stuff about this audio program being copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media Inc? All rights reserved. No duplication without permission and whatnot? You just did. And visit the no-slatepodcast.com to learn more about our program. Indeed. Now, let's just sit back and listen to the carolers take us into the cold winter night.