The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep7: NoSleep Podcast S17E07 - Christmas 2021

Episode Date: December 19, 2021

It's our 2021 Christmas Episode. Our spells weave some Noel Hell. “A Christmas Letter” written by John E Darclee (Story starts around 00:11:25) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement “The Perfect Gift” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:24:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Shopkeep – David Cummings, Man Bun – Matthew Bradford, Lynn – Nichole Goodnight “Jingles” written by M.J. Pack (Story starts around 00:44:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Mary Murphy, Ava – Danielle McRae “Guess Who’s Coming to Christmas Dinner?” written by Matt Tighe (Story starts around 01:06:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Cat – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Mom – Erin Lillis, Dad – David Cummings, Pete – Atticus Jackson, Scarlett – Mary Murphy “The Christmas Visitations” written by Lisel Jones (Story starts around 01:27:25) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Karla – Jessica McEvoy, Brian – Jake Benson, Klaus – David Ault, Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Dad – Matthew Bradford, Mila – Erika Sanderson “The Naughty List” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 02:01:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Georgie – Graham Rowat, Daddy – Jesse Cornett, Miss Devin – Jessica McEvoy, Mall Santa – Atticus Jackson, Arnie’s dad – Dan Zappulla, Mrs. Claus – Erika Sanderson This episode is sponsored by: Truebill – Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you donít need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you THOUSANDS a year. StoryWorth – StoryWorth is an online service that helps you and your loved ones preserve precious memories and stories for years to come. It is a thoughtful and meaningful gift that connects you to those who matter most. NoSleep listeners get $10 off their first purchase at StoryWorth.com/nosleep. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper’s novel, “Inheriting Her Ghosts” Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda’s new Halloween-themed novel, “Hide the Knives” Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez’ book, “The Rat King: A Horror Collection” Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast’s Twitch channel Click here to learn more about John E Darclee Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about Lisel Jones Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Christmas illustration courtesy of Alia Synesthesia Joanie Beldam performed by: Kelly Bair Audio program ©2021 – 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

It's our 2021 Christmas crampus special. So many festive frights are coming right up. You know, I love the Christmas season. It's a time for families to get together, for good food and drink. Another year, another Christmas. I know what that means. Oh, no. Not another Christmas gift from Cummings.

I'm afraid so. Geez, you remember last year? A subscription to a leg warmers of the month club? Right? Who even wears leg warmers anymore? Plus, we got one month free, then we had to pay for the remaining months. In fact, I'm still paying for mine because it auto renewed. You didn't cancel it?

I made sure my subscription was canceled easily thanks to True Bill. Really? True Bill would have helped me? Oh, absolutely. Do you know why free trials renew without your consent? It's a total business scam out to get you. Don't let these greedy corporations pocket your money, download True Bill, and take control of your subscriptions. I've got a lot of services I could get rid of.

Then you definitely need True Bill. It's the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need, want, or simply forgot about. On average, people save up to $720 a year with True Bill. That's a significant savings. I know how hard it can be to cancel subscriptions. That's because companies make subscriptions hard to cancel. True Bill makes it incredibly simple. Just link your accounts and True Bill will cancel your unwanted subscription.

in one tap. Oh, and your True Bill concierge is there when you need them to cancel unwanted subscriptions, so you don't have to. I know plenty of people who could use True Bill. True Bill has over 2 million users and help them save over $100 million. Like True Bill believer Matthew B, who says, in a matter of seconds, I saved $660 for the year on my Direct TV bill, saved $120 for the year on my Sirius XM bill, and I saved $840 a year on car insurance. How can we get True Bill working for us. Don't fall for subscription scams. Start canceling today at truebill.com

slash no sleep. Go right now. Truebill.com slash no sleep. It could save you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. I'll do it right now and stop getting more of those ugly leg warmers. Shh, here he comes.

Merry Christmas, you two. Here's your Christmas bonus gift. Oh my. A haggis of the month club. Uh, yeah, thanks, David. And thank you, True Bill. My pleasure. And now, let's give the gift of horror to our listeners as we start the show.

The snow has fallen. The tree is trimmed. But the moon is hidden. The lights are dimmed. A season so festive, yet not always bright. The winter solstice beckons. The darkness. long night.

While stockings hang and sugar plums dance. The dark corners hide horrors, not seen when you glance. Such gifts we bear, not wrapped or with bow.

Audio nightmares while red eyes through windows glow. Like children awake on that eve at long last. We warn you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Greetings, everyone. As we all know, it's nearly Christmas, and that means you'd better hope you've gotten your Christmas shopping done.

But if not, then we hear at the No Sleep Podcast have you covered. We've got season passes, we've got merch, and for the first Christmas ever, we have books. That's right. Buy your loved ones copies of Inheriting Her Ghosts by S.H. Cooper. Hide the Knives by Marcus D'Amanda. Or The Rat King by L.P. Hernandez. Tell them Sleepless Sanctuary Publishing sent you by way of the No Sleep Podcast. Links to buy all of these wonderful things can be found in the show notes.

And why not treat yourself to a subscription to our Twitch channel at twitch.tv.tv slash the No Sleep Podcast. There will be terrifying festive fun popping up during this holiday season and some extremely exciting new content, debuting in 2022 on Twitch, but also on all of our platforms. Stay tuned, folks. But now, it's on with the festive frights of the show. Had an estranged skeletal horse costume. And breaking news, there's been yet another hit-and-run death on Windbourne Hill,

close to the site where six months ago, 19-year-old Brian Lemon tragically passed away when an unknown driver failed to stop after knocking the teen off his bike. Let's hope that unlike that case, tonight's killer will be caught. Be safe out there, folks. But for now, welcome to the mid-to-late evening show on CNSP radio with me, Joni Belldom. Tonight we continue our extra special, extra festive Christmas special, with a special edition, of our special mid to late calling quiz. What You Don't Know Won't Kill You, Christmas Special Edition. Give us a call at 304-555-3-286 now.

That's 304-55-3-10. I'm calling in, boys and girls. I hope I get lucky. And we have a caller now. Hello, you've reached Joni Beldom at the Mid-to-Late Evening Show. Welcome to What You Don't Know Won't Kill You. Who do I have on the line? What the deuce?

Who is this? Why did you call me? I've a mind to call the police. Uh, uh, excuse me, sir, but you were the one that called us. Just joking with you, my dear. Just my little joke. I'm Santa Claus, of course. Uh, yes, very funny.

First, that, and now Santa Claus. But seriously, what's your name, Grandpa? Need it for legal. Of course, of course, young lady. My apologies. It's Nicholas Claus Christmas the Third Esquire. But you can call me Nick. Okay, buddy.

Anyway, in case you weren't listening, earlier, our first caller, Rob Chambers, won $1,000, as well as tickets for himself and a special someone to visit Ripley's Aquarium of Canada. Now you, Mr. Nick, the jolly old lad, can you beat out our first caller to win the grand prize? Well, it is Christmas, so I'm feeling lucky. Oh, yeah? I take it you're a fan of this time of year, Santa. Oh, no, can't stand it. Uh, can't stand it. What do you mean?

Anyway, you said something about a quiz. I'm ready to win. My head's full of trivia. Right. So do you know the rules of our What You Don't Know Won't Kill You, Quiz? Absolutely. Great.

Got a nice, easy one to start off with. We're all familiar with Santa's most famous reindeer, but do you know the other... I'm afraid I'm not following. Which one is Santa's most famous reindeer? Well, Rudolph. Like an alcoholic TikTok star. He's got a red nose and merch, therefore most famous. Right. Hmm, never heard of that one. Glad he's not one of the answers. I know all the rest. Well, good, because that's the question. Can you name at least four of Santa's reindeer besides Rudolph?

Well, that depends. Does this include? all of his reindeer or just the most famous reindeer? All of them, I suppose. Right, okay, so there's Cupid. Yes, that's one. And then, uh, DoorDash and Francis, Madonna, Snake Pliskin, Blitzkrig and Blitzwing, and Strasbourg and Victim, Pre-Code Comics and Cupid and Brandon,

Pigboy and Chaos and Eyeball and Random. Stalling and Dunder and Thunder and Cracker, Deadpool and Cheesewheel and sexy pole dancer. Rudolf and Vixen and green eggs and ham, Dasher and Butcher Face and Son of Sam, Decapitation and one giant eye, some kind of... Sir, sir, sir, I'm going to have to very much stop you there. No, quite frankly, no.

None of these are Santa's reindeer. In fact, I don't quite know what they are. Maybe you should... Sorry, hang on. I'm being informed by my producer that you did apparently name four of Santa's reindeer. Five, if we very generously assume that sexy pole and dancer were somehow two different reindeer. Well, congratulations, I guess you're on to the next round. So, question two.

Tonight, a family is going to discover a note addressed to their matriarch. The contents will turn their world... What the hell? Bob, you're the producer. What is this question? Okay, sure, whatever you say. I'll keep going. The contents will turn their world upside down.

To what do I refer? Oh, I know this one all too well. This would be correspondence that was shared with us by author John E. Duck. Jeff Clement recorded a dramatic performance of it. I can play it for you now, in fact. I call it a Christmas letter. Dear Mrs. Cresanto, it's not my intention to hurt this family.

Your family. You have all been nothing but good to me, and I have nothing but the utmost gratitude for the care you have provided me for these past couple of days. You are good people. Mr. Cresanto is a wonderful father and husband, and you and your children are lucky to have him. I've only known him for a couple of days,

but I could already tell he's a hardworking man who would do anything and everything for his family. I could tell because I see a little bit of myself in him. Your daughters, Selena, and Maria, are such wonderful children. They're both compassionate, bright, and caring young women. And despite being only teenagers, they are wise beyond their years. Please thank them for me.

I would thank them myself, but I don't think I could find the courage to hurt them like that, knowing how deeply affectionate they are towards this situation. And finally, there's you, Mrs. Grisanto. You are such a kind, kind soul. You embody everything that is desired of a mother. You love without hesitation, and you are a shining ray of hope even in times of inevitable despair. I do hope, and I do pray,

that you will keep that ray of yours shining as bright as the sun, especially as you read through this letter. I know that Christmas is right around the corner and that this event was the best gift you could have asked for and I'm sorry I truly am for having to take this precious moment away from you dark days will be ahead for your family there's no doubting that

and I do apologize from the bottom of my heart I know apologizing as often as I'm doing right now, makes it seem less genuine, but please believe me when I say that these apologies come from the sincerest places of my heart. As I've said from the beginning of this letter, it is not my intention to put your family through this ordeal. I fully understand that you have just started recovering from a previous traumatic, life-changing event, one that I unfortunately just so happened to be a part of, and that this... This letter is the last thing you'd have wanted to be reading in this very moment.

It's not quite the Christmas card you'd want. But please also understand that I did not ask to be put in this situation, and I sure as hell never asked to get your entire family involved in it either. It's all just some sick, demented prank by the universe, by fate, by God. And despite how hard this may be for you, I just can't accept the way things are, or at least how things are according to you. This isn't the life I know or the one I've always had. Even though I do appreciate the kindness you've all shown me, you are not my family. I just cannot accept, nor will I ever live with this reality.

You've all been convinced to believe. I refuse to share that same belief as you. It just, it can't be real. It just can't. There is no way in hell you can ever convince me that I have been stuck in a coma for the past six months and that I have only recently woken up this past week. I can't, I just can't wrap my head around that.

It doesn't make any sense to me. not one single bit. And the fact that all of you, your family, the doctors, everybody agrees to this lie is what frustrates me the most. But most ridiculous of all is no matter how hard you or the rest of your family tries, you can never convince me that I am who you say I am. I am not Christopher Chrysanto. I am not your son. Never have been and never will be.

I'm sorry, but that's the truth. And even though I can't understand nor explain why, when you made me look in the mirror, I saw a 14-year-old Hispanic kid looking straight back at me. That is not me. It just can't be. It doesn't make any damn sense. My name, my real name, is Bernard Williams.

I am 35 years old, and I am happily married to the love of my life, Maxine Williams. And together we have three beautiful kids of our own, Kayla, Theodore, and Justine. We also own two dogs, a gold. golden retriever named Jacks and a French terrier named Clay. And this is exactly why I snapped the moment I saw you. All of you, surrounding my bed inside a hospital I'd never been to before, in a city I'd never heard of before. One moment I was just about to go to sleep after kissing my kids good night and cuddling

next to my wife as Clay and Max laid down on the bedroom floor. I kissed my wife good night, and I told her I'd love. loved her so much that life was good, that our children were such wonderful little critters, that I couldn't wait to wake up the next day and take everyone on a road trip, just our family together exploring our little piece of the world, embracing life as it was. But that didn't happen. Instead, I woke up in this nightmare, this lie, this bullshit.

of a facade you're trying so hard to convince me to believe. Where is my family? My wife, my kids. I need to see them. It must be worried sick about me. My kids need their dad. Please, I'm begging you to understand where I'm coming from, Mrs. Cresanto. Please.

I'm sorry if I'm getting emotional. But it's kind of hard not to, you know, because the facts remain the same. I am not who you say I am. I don't know how I ended up here or why anyone would pull such a heartless prank on me, but whatever this is, I want out and I want out now. But it seems that no matter how hard I try to wake up, I just keep seeing the same depressing hospital ceiling when I open my eyes. I still hear the same machine surrounding me attached to me,

and I still feel the same stiff hospital bed underneath me. I need to get out of this nightmare, Mrs. Grisanto. I need to wake up and go back to where I belong. I hope, and I pray that by the time, time you finish reading this letter, you understand why I have to jump off the rooftop of this hospital. This reality is driving me insane, and I just can't accept that any of this is true, that my life has been nothing more than a coma dream. That just can't be. It just can't to get back to my family.

My kids are waiting for me. My wife is waiting for me. Jackson Clay are waiting for me. And I pray to God that when I hit that concrete, I can finally wake up and get back to my reality and rejoin my family. And for your sake, Mrs. Crosanto, I hope and I pray that this fall doesn't kill this little body. and that your little Christopher finds his way back home too. And when he does, may your family have a merry Christmas.

Sincerely, Bernard Williams. So, did I win? My, I, my producers are doing a thumbs up. This feels like some kind of prank. Or, I need a coffee. a vacation. No prank, my dear. Just a simple correct answer to question two. Oh, I'm excited for the next one. Okay. Question three. In our lobby, we have a nativity scene. I'm sure you've seen those before. Indeed. I can see it through the window right now, in fact. I see. So my useless intern has not

only failed to bring me a coffee yet, but also forgot to include an important part of the nativity scene when she set it up. We have statues of Mary, Joseph, a donkey, a sheep, and two shepherds, but one statue, arguably the most important one, is missing. Can you identify which statue is absent from our nativity scene? Again, we have Mary, Joseph, a donkey, and a... Oh, yes, I followed it. Well, the answer is obvious. isn't it? We're missing a certain special child from the center of the display, that beloved, iconic Christmas mascot, boy with a bird's head in place of his own head. What? Is that... Is that your final answer? My answer is, a statue of a boy who many believe served as mankind's salvation in an unusual and unexpected way. Yes.

but with a bird for a head. Not a bird for a head, a bird's head for a head. Well, that's obviously correct. My producers are telling me it's correct. One of them is holding up a sign and it reads, We can't actually prove he didn't have a bird for a head, so... No, no, he had a bird's head. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it.

So, congrats, correct answer. You could have simplified things, but whatever. So I got to ask, why? Where did you even hear about this birdhead? Well, that's just how the story was told to me. It was originally shared by S.H. Cooper, who often shares things. It was then recounted to me by my good friends, Aaron Lillis, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Goodnight, and a bystander called Dave.

It really was the perfect gift. Give me something that says, I hope you never speak to me again. The antique store owner gave me a narrowed look, like he was trying to suss out what kind of game I was playing. The uglier, the better. He smacked his lips together and shook his head. That's not very Christmassy of you.

Trust me. The owner scratched. his double chin, gaze shifting from me to the shop over my shoulder while he considered my request. At last, a small grin turned up one corner of his mouth. All right, I think I've got something for you. Wait here. He slid off his stool and ambled away down one of the cluttered rows, leaving me to wait at the counter. I leaned against it, watching his unhurried progress as he picked his way through the aisle. The bell tinkling over the door briefly drew my attention to the hipster dude

complete with man bun coming in, but he quickly vanished into stacks of old books, leaving me alone to wait. The owner returned shortly after with something tucked under his arm. He took his time settling back down on his stool before placing the object on a counter between us. A sputtered laugh escaped me. It's something, huh? It's perfect. It's perfect. How much? $250. For that. The voice from behind startled me, and I half turned to find the hipster standing so close

I could smell the overpriced low-fat soy milk peppermint latte he'd add with breakfast. He had an armful of hard-bound books that look more like statement pieces than reading material. The owner gave him the disparaging once-over of a man worried he's about to lose a sale. Yep, local artist. popular around here. People pay good money for his stuff. Two-fifty is a steal.

I reached for my purse, entering his blustery justifications. I'll take it. Are you serious? Why do you care? It's just a lot of money for... He trailed off and nodded toward the object, his nose wrinkling. His distaste for it made me wanted all the more, and I dug out my payment in cash. Now, you and your... A new friend, have a Merry Christmas, sweetheart. The owner handed off my purchase. I tugged it against my chest with a grin and sidestepped Man Bun who was watching me with that same unpleasant sneer. I heard him muttering on my way out as he dumped his books on the counter.

Some people. More money than brain cells. Once in my car, I laid my new friend on the passenger seat and studied it with a giggle. Only about a foot tall and carved from a. gray stone, it really was interesting. A toddler's plump, diapered body, topped off by the bald head of a vulture, beak open toward the sky as if it were begging for food, or screaming. Great care had been taken in carving out the details, from its beady eyes to the ridges and divots of its bare avian flesh. I ran my finger along the curve of its beak, down its arm to the pudgy fist balled at its side,

admiring how much attention had been put into creating something so ugly. There really was no other word for it, except maybe perfect. I sat the statue upright in the seat and buckled it in for the half-hour drive to the century-old colonial I called home. Passed down through my mother's family, it stood on the last five acres of what had once been a thriving farm. After my great-grandfather had gotten too old to manage the place and no one else wanted to get up at 4.30 with the chickens, everyone agreed it was best to parcel the majority of land and sell it off. After inheriting it from her parents, Mom had gifted it to me in favor of a Florida condo and a third husband half her age. I like to think I ended up with the better part of that particular deal. Pulling up the winding driveway to the house was like something out of a Christmas car.

A two-story white facade, dark red shutters, a little wreath on each lamp post leading up to the door, all dusted with snow from the recent flurry. I folded my hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward to admire the view through the windshield. The sight of it, of the life I'd made there, never failed to send ripples of content warmth through me. You done good. I turned to the statue. I think you're going to like it here. It just stared upward, beak open. Glad you agree.

Inside, I set the statue on the table in the entryway and peeled off my coat and gloves. The inside was as festive as the out, a large tree cut from the property, taking up one corner of the living room, and the stairwell banister spiraled with green tinsel. The air smelled of pine and, more faintly, cinnamon. Perfect for the annual family gathering in only a few days' time. I patted the ugly little birdhead and headed for the kitchen, where a batch of sugar cookies was stacked neatly on a tray and a 30-pound turkey sat thawing in the sink.

Humming a vaguely holiday-ish tune, I cleaned up the remaining ingredients still on the counter and thumbed through the mail left in the basket beside the back door. Hansi sent a card. That's nice. Bill? Bill? Bill. Ah, humbug. I hung the cards I'd received on the fridge and dumped the rest back in the basket to be dealt with later.

While waiting for the oven to preheat for an early supper, I went to my office where I kept my Christmas supplies and grabbed a red and green plaid bow, which was soon after a fix to the tip of the ugly statue's bird beak. Dinner was eaten in front of the TV while the world outside my windows darkened into winter, black. After eating, I left the dishes in the sink and rummaged around in the cupboard until I found the plastic cup I'd been searching for. The Grinch print on it was so faded

you could hardly make him out anymore, but it was the traditional choice for this time of year and I wasn't one to buck tradition. I filled it to the brim with milk and a splash of Baileys, arranged a few of the fancy chocolates my sister had sent from Europe on a plate, and walked both carefully back to the living room, where I set them on a side table beside the fireplace before heading to the entryway. The bow had fallen from the statue and lay at its feet. Oh, no, you don't.

That's stamp-put until Christmas. I slapped the bow back on, this time in the middle of its chest, and carried the statue to the living room where it found a new home on the mantel, nestled between family photos and other small gifts I'd stashed up there. It loomed over the rest, a stone specter of questionable Christmas decisions. The thought made me giggle, and I settled down on my couch, throw blanket pulled snugly around my shoulders, to flip through the channels until I landed on the Muppet Christmas Carol.

Tiny Tim had just entered the scene when something fell in the kitchen. The dull wooden thud and a scattering of paper drew me reluctantly from my cozy nest, and I followed it to find the basket of mail tipped to the floor. All the unopened letters fanned around it. Figuring I'd left it teetering on the edge of the counter, I crouched and cleaned them up to replace them in their customary spot. A quick look around the kitchen and the unlit dining room that opened back out into the foyer revealed nothing else out of place.

I didn't give it a second thought as I walked back to the living room. As I slid back under my blanket, a prickling sense of disquiet snuck off. on me. Not that something was wrong, exactly, but different. My eyes narrowed as they slowly scanned the room, illuminated only by the TV, searching for whatever small change had triggered my lizard brain. I realized immediately what it was when I looked to the hearth. The ugly statue had moved. I'd left it facing forward. I knew I had. The bow had been pointed toward the room to mark it as a definite member of the festivities. Now it lay at its feet, and the statue had been

turned toward the foyer behind me. I shed the blanket and stood again, crossing to the statue with my lips drawn into a tight line. What? The creek of a floorboard cut me off, and then a rush of footsteps from the dark. Before I could turn, I was grabbed by the collar of my sweater and yanked backwards. My yelp was cut short by something cracking against my jaw, sending a burst of white, stars through my vision, and I was lying on the floor, dazed. A high-pitched giggle came from the entryway. I struggled to prop myself up on my elbows, but a weight came down on my chest pitting me to the floor. I struggled against it attempting to push it away with hands, still numb from shock, but it pressed harder until it felt like my ribs might crack under it.

I blinked back the confused, pained tears threatening to fill my eyes and looked around, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. The ugly statue, head thrown back in its silent cry, was the first thing to come back in a sharp focus. The giggle came again, high-pitched, erratic from somewhere by the front door. Shut up. The responding voice was low and slightly muffled, and I followed it from the heavy boot laying atop my chest,

up the black-clad body to the masked face of the man standing over me. on me. Past him, barely visible in the TV's glow, a more petite figure, similarly dressed, was standing in the foyer archway. Like a splash of icy water, it hit me that the weight of the mail hadn't finally sent the precariously positioned basket tumbling. It had been bumped when these strangers let themselves into my house through the back door. Panic flared, blanked out my thoughts, and I looked between them, trying to remember anything I'd ever learned about. trying to deal with home invaders. Who?

He shoved his heel against my ribs again, silencing my question. Where's the money? I stared up at him, confused. Money? The money? There's no money. My answer earned me a kick inside, and I curled up, sputtering. Bullshit.

You said she had the money. She does. I saw it when... He stopped himself short, but not quickly enough. He saw it when I could practically smell the overpriced low-fat soy milk peppermint latte. Man, but you followed me home? You idiot! She recognizes you.

You said she wouldn't. She doesn't. Then he was crouched over me, hoisting me up by my shirt front. You don't. Now tell me where the money is. When I didn't answer immediately, he punched me. me again, this time beneath my eye. Something cracked, and my vision swam. The money. Tell us, bitch. The woman's discount Harley Quinn voice grated against my skull like nails on a chalkboard.

I opened my mouth, trying to form the words to tell them I didn't have any money. Not in the house, now that my Christmas shopping was done, but my tongue felt sluggish and thick. He shoves me once more to the floor and stood, turning to the woman. Start grabbing stuff. Then he turned back to me. You, don't move. He was so preoccupied with trying to figure out if the TV was big enough to be worth anything, he didn't notice the statue turning, little by little, toward the living room.

You don't want to do this. Yeah, shut up. You can leave. You can walk away. said, shut up. That time, something did give way beneath his boot when it connected with my ribs. I scream was breathless and quiet, and I inched away, clutching my side. Don't...

Listen, bitch. He lifted his foot again. The woman's incessant giggling ended in an abrupt gasp. The man paused. Lynn? The silence. that followed wound around us like spider webbing, tingling against my skin, ringing in my ears. When?

The sound of snapping, grinding, crunching, lurched from the shadows, bones being bent, flesh torn, the drip of blood upon hardwood. Man Bun stumbled back with a yelp. I forced myself upright. watching tight to the mantle for support. You never asked... You never asked who the statue was for. His eyes opened wide and shining with terror swiveled toward me. I continued over the sound of something ripping wetly in the darkest corner of the foyer.

Running the farm is hard work. Sometimes if you're lucky, you get a little help. It's an old belief carried over from the aisles. All it costs is some milk, the occasional gift, even if you don't understand their taste, and plenty of gratitude. Even without farm work, they stay busy. They especially like decorating for the holidays.

What? Treat them well. Respect them. And they will bring good fortune to your home. They're hard workers. The hearth spirits. Very protective. As long as you're good to them.

He whimpered at the sloppy popping of sinew. And I... I bared my teeth in a red-tinged smile. Have been very good to mine. Man Bun's scream was soon swallowed up with the rest of them. Once all had gone quiet again, I dragged myself to the couch and laid gingerly upon it. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes,

wincing at all the hurt running through me. Thank you. You really out did yourself this year. Something scraped across the mantle. Ah, ah, what did I tell you? The whole house seemed to sigh. When I could bring myself to lift my head again, I wagged my finger toward the statue,

dragged halfway across the mantel top. If you've still got room, I put out milk and chocolate for you. That, however, you still can't have until Christmas. So hold on. Hold on. You didn't get this right at all, then. I feel like I did. You didn't.

You're forgetting the law of double jeopardy. That's, this isn't, oh, for God's sake. Producers are saying you got it. Wonderful. Let's just do the next question, shall we? Oh, ho, ho, yes, this is. very fun. A welcome break before the busy night ahead of me. Christ, can you stop being so, so jolly? But I told you, I'm Santa Claus. Being jolly is unavoidable. Yeah, well, let's see if you can

avoid losing here. The fourth question is always the hardest. Name the, oh, for God's sake, who wrote these? Even my two-year-old nephew knows this. Name the famous book doll combo, first released in 2005, which is designed to force children into behaving in the lead-up to Christmas by tricking them into believing they're being spied on for Santa. Hmm, there are a few possible options here. Goblin in the crawl space, pixie in the attic, changeling under the bed, six gnomes wearing granny's skin, but I have. I'm going to go for the tried and true classic, the elf on the shelf. Yeah, yeah, that's right, but hang on. Goblin in the crawl space? Six gnomes wearing Granny's skin?

Oh, yep. They flay Granny, then stand on each other's shoulders inside her skin. It's really rather clever. And this is a children's book? What's that? A book? No, no, no. But anyway, that's not important.

If you want to hear more about elf on the shelf, you've come to the right place. And, oh, please note that this isn't sponsored content. But one of many horrifying and violent elf on the shelf crimes was reported on by writer MJ Pack, and dramatized by Mary Murphy and Danielle McCray, whose names have been changed to protect them from the little devils. I know I really should hire better help, but, well tradition you know but i do need to consider letting go of the culprit in this tale at least the vicious little bugger we call jingles gone what day is it i could have sworn it was my day off but that can't be right because eva is at the edge of my bed

shaking my shoulder and this little shit knows how badly i need my sleep on my days off it's still dark out This better be good. What, Eva? I roll away from her grabby little hands. She repeats herself in that insufferable tone only six-year-olds can pull off. Jingles is gone. Who the fuck is Jingles?

Who's Jingles? I ask my pillow. Editing per language. Ava stamps her foot. When I don't turn back to her, she scurries over to her. to the other side of the bed so she can thrust her face in front of mine. He told me, he said he have a special present for me today,

but now I can't find him anywhere. Okay, let's get one thing straight here. I don't do that elf on the shelf bullshit. It's a waste of time. It basically bribes your stupid kids into behaving for a month. And it's just a glorified way for Facebook parents to take ridiculous photos and share for God knows what reason. Do you have any idea how many pictures I've seen on my timeline where a full-grown adult,

someone I smoked weed with in college, has dropped Hershey's kisses into a toilet and pose that idiotic elf over the bowl? Too many fucking times. So you understand my confusion. Where did you get an elf, Eva? I grew up from my phone on the nightstand. 4.02 a.m. I am on the brink of a very, serious time out.

He came through my window last night. She sticks her lower lip out in a pout that sort of makes me want to slap it off of her. I wouldn't do that, of course. I don't hit my kid. But if you have kids and act like you've never thought about it, you're a dirty liar. Why was your window open? I sit up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Yes, a timeout is on the horizon for sure.

The heating bill is going to be through the roof. Because he was tapping, I had to let him in. It's cold outside. Fuck. Now I'm going to have to install those stupid childproof window lock things. You're not supposed to be opening your window, Ava, or telling lies. It's not a lie. I couldn't leave jingles outside.

My daughter's wide brown eyes are filling with tears now. Great, meltdown mode. He was tapping and he was cold And he said he'd give me a present And now he's gone I press my hands to my face I'm running on four hours of sleep And short on patience

We don't have an elf, Eva And mommy needs her rest Lees go back to bed Her lip is quivering now What if What if something happened to jingles Something bad Wonderful

I'm going to have to I a fucking elf now. I draw the line at the Hershey Kiss shit, though. Maybe he's just taking a vacation. I have to slow this train wreck before it gets out of control. I get out of bed and stretch.

Time to lie to my kid. Just like the rest of those losers on Facebook. Where did Jinkle say he would meet you? At the Christmas tree? All right. Come on. Let's go check. If I can stall

for time. Maybe I can go get one this afternoon and put a stop to the tantrum. I know, Eva, she's not going to let this go. Kids got an insane imagination. It is as stubborn as I am. I take her by the hand and she leads me, scampering to the living room. I'm going through all the different bullshit scenarios I can make up for why her new friend won't be there. When I see it, the little body nestled in the branches of our Christmas tree. illuminated by twinkling lights. One leg is crossed over the other in a very relaxed pose, almost as if he's kicking back.

His outfit is white, not red like the ones I've seen on Facebook. His pace is awful. He's sitting next to a monster high doll, a blank-eyed goth Barbie that I recognize as Sarah screams. The doll that Eva put at the top of her Christmas list, I was going to buy it for her. But instead it's posed in our tree next to this repulsive little thing. Just before Ava snatches a Sarah screams doll.

I notice that the elf, jingles, has his hand up Sarah's skirt. Ava hugs a doll tight to her chest. What the fuck? I feel like the thing is staring at me. I don't really want to touch it. It seems like if I touch it, my skin is. might burn, but I move to take it out of the tree, and my daughter shrieks. I jump, almost like the words came from jingles instead of Ava. What? It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room.

If you touch an elf, they lose their magic. Where has she been learning this shit? More importantly, where did jingles come from? And the doll, I keep one eye on the elf. Ava, where did you get these things? She looks at me over the top of her new toy. I told you, Jingles brought it. He came in through the window. Did you take it from a store? I look around for discarded toy packaging and don't see any of it.

Did someone give it to you? Be honest with me. Mommy, Jingles gave it to me. I keep telling you and telling you. You're telling lies again. My daughter looks on the verge of tears, clutching Sarah screams tight. I'm not, Mommy. I can't tell lies because if I do, Santa won't bring me presents and jingles my leave. I consider taking the doll from her, but this will surely cause a tantrum.

Besides, can I really believe that my six-year-old daughter shoplifted it without me finding out? But what's the alternative? That the elf came through her window, like she said? From his pose in the tree, jingles smirks at me. Okay, okay. I usher Ava away from the Christmas tree. Takes our screams and go back to bed. I need to get some sleep.

And so does jingles. She skips off to her bedroom, happy as a clam. When I'm sure she's in bed, hearing the door clicks shut behind her, I pick jingles up by the hat with the very tips of my... fingers, holding it far away from me like something that stinks. I carry the elf to the garage and dump him in the trash can. Jingles is going on a leave of absence. If Ava wants an elf on the shelf, fine, but not this one. I'll get one from Target. But mostly, I'm just hoping she'll forget the whole thing. At least there's only two more days until Christmas. I'm cleaning up the

dinner table when Ava stumps into the dining room. Her new favorite toy is tucked under one arm. She's scowling at me. Mommy, where's jingles? Ah, shit. Is he not in the tree? I stall for time as I scoop uneaten macaroni and cheese down the garbage disposal. No, where is he? I'm rinsing the plates and feeling oddly guilty as my daughter was. for an answer. He disappeared this morning. I offer in a voice that's so cheerful, it kind of makes me sick.

Maybe he's off someplace else again. Getting you another present. The target shopping list is growing steadily. No, you're telling lies, Mommy. Why am I letting my kid make me feel like shit? I'm the parent here. Not her. I turn from the sink and face Eva.

Honey, Jingles isn't our elf, okay? I don't know where he came from, but he doesn't belong here. I bet Santa will send another elf really soon. There's still a few days before Christmas. That's enough time for the North Pole to find someone new. I don't like the way Ava is looking at me. Jingles isn't going to be very happy. She leaves.

Fuck Jingles. Mommy needs a glass of Chardonnay. For the second day in a row, I wake up to the sound of my daughter's voice. She yells right in my fucking ear, jerking me out of a sound sleep. I have no idea what she's talking about. For a second, I can't remember what the fuck jingles is. But as I reach for my phone to see what ungodly hour of the morning it is, I freeze. Sitting next to my phone is that fucking thing.

the elf in all white. The screen of my phone is utterly destroyed. A shattered mess. Chingles is holding a hammer. He's smirking. Ava is in her room, crying. I gave her bottom a good whack after finding out that she'd broken my phone

to get back at me for throwing jingles away. But if the little shit is stealing, because that's what this has to be. She had to have stolen the elf. in the doll. And when I got rid of her new friend, she broke my phone. I should have seen this coming, I guess. She's been whining about how all the other kids in class have an elf on the shelf, and I ignored it. After her dad left, she started acting out, but it was always in little ways, not eating her dinner or trying to sneak into my bed at night. Sarah screams is on the high shelf in the hall closet,

and jingles is in the dumpster by the house. behind Target. I did the rest of my Christmas shopping, but I went fairly light on the presents. And like hell was I going to get another elf. I'm drinking wine and distracting myself with Christmas movies. I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to afford another phone. The holiday has my savings pretty much wiped out. Maybe after Christmas I can get a burner or something to hold me over until I'm eligible for an upgrade. Fucking elf on the shelf. For a moment, I think I hear tapping on the window, but it's probably just the wine. Or the wind.

Right? It's Christmas Eve. Things around the house have been tense. Ava isn't talking to me much, but I gave her back her doll so that brightened her up a little. We're setting up the milk and cookies for Santa. I'm arranging them near the tree when Ava asks quietly, Can I get carrots for Rudolph? I glance at her and my heart aches.

Poor kid. She looks so pathetic. It's her first Christmas without her dad. So I guess I've been pretty hard on her. It's just that times are tough. And I guess I just don't know how to handle myself. The holidays are stressful for everyone. And that goddamn elf.

Yeah, sweetheart. I try to use a nicer tone than I have in the past few days. Rudolph's going to need carrots to make his nose glow so bright. This makes her giggle a little, and I feel better. She runs to the fridge and takes a little longer than I expect her to. But before I go in to check on her, she runs back into the living room with the carrots. When it's all done, there's a plate of cookies. I'll need to take a bite out of each one.

A cold glass of milk. I'll have to drink that too, and a small bowl of baby carrots. Good luck on me imitating reindeer teeth marks. I put Ava to bed and go to the garage to get the presents out of my trunk where they've been hidden. While I'm stacking the wrapped gifts in my arms, something behind me skitters across the floor of the garage. I nearly drop them in freeze and place. Fucking mice.

I've been putting out rat poison for them, but sounds like they're back. I take the presents inside and arrange them neatly under the tree. I take the requisite bite of each cookie and finish one completely. Screw it, it's Christmas. A nibble from one carrot and fuck is my mouth dry. I train the glass of milk in a few quick swallows. It tastes funny, like maybe it's about to turn, but I'm still thirsty.

So I go to the fridge and pour a few more glasses. When I go back to the living room, I give the place a once over to make sure it looks like Santa has been here. That's when I spot the note under the cookie plate. I'd somehow missed it before. Ava must have left a message for Santa. What a sweetheart. I pull the note out and before I can read it,

I see jingles perched in the Christmas tree, smirking at me. What the hell? His white outfit is just as pristine as the first time I saw him. But he should be soaked in garbage juice by now. Not to mention, there's no way he can be here. There's no way. My gut rolls.

I suddenly feel so sick. I look at the paper in my hand. A scrawling child's handwriting and pink crayon. I'm sorry, Mommy. Jingles is mad at you and says this is what I have to do. He says he will take me to the North Pole and I will meet Santa and get lots of presents. I want presents and you are mean, Mommy. Jingles is nice.

He tells me things at night and last night he told me to put the funny powder in your milk. I want to meet Santa. I'm sorry. I will miss you, Mommy. You are not always mean, Eva. I scrambled to the kitchen. to the sink, forcing my fingers down my throat. My first instinct is to call 911, but I don't have a phone.

Ava broke it. Jingles broke it. Some of the milk comes out in a lukewarm rush, but not all of it. Not enough. My stomach is still rolling. And it's starting to get dark in here. I stumble back into the living room, trying to make it to Ava's room. I fall to my knees in front of the Christmas tree.

and vomit again on the carpet. There's blood in it this time. Jingles is on the floor now. In front of the tree, next to the presence. And the last thing I see as I lose consciousness is the three boxes of rat poison he's sitting on. And from somewhere behind me, I hear... Can we go to the North Pole now, Jingles?

I can't wait to meet Santa. Well, that story gives new meaning to jingle all the... the way. Back to the horror in mere moments, folks. David, Mr. Cummings, may I ask, did you ever get a terrible haircut? Did I ever, have you seen my hair lately? Why do you ask, David? I just wanted to remember what it was like. How about this one? What is one of the most selfless things you have done in life? Hmm, there was that time I donated one of my elbows to a, hey, wait a sec. Why all the questions? Well, this holiday season, I want to give a gift to my loved ones that makes them feel special. and unique, just like the relationship we share.

That's why I'm giving everyone I care about Storyworth. Ah, yes, Storyworth. The online service that helps you and your loved ones preserve precious memories and stories for years to come. It certainly is a thoughtful and meaningful gift that connects you to those who matter most. That's why I was trying some of their questions on you. You see, every week Storyworth emails your relative or friend

a thought-provoking question of your choice from their vast pool of possible options. Each unique prompt asks questions you've never thought to ask. Like, what is one of the funniest things you've ever done? Or what's a small decision you made that ended up having a big impact on your life? Right, thought-provoking questions that really allow them to open up about themselves. Then, after one year, Storyworth, will compile all your loved one's stories, including photos, into a beautiful keepsake book that you'll be able to share and revisit for generations to come.

I wish I had a keepsake like that for my own relatives. And you don't even have to wait until the whole book is complete. Reading the weekly stories helps connect you with loved ones no matter how near or far apart you are. I have relatives I don't see often, so this would be a wonderful way to keep in touch and know them better. I know you have relatives in Canada. We certainly are of fascinating people. Ha ha! And informative. Like how you can inform us about how we can make Storyworth a cherished gift this holiday season.

Oh, that's easy. storyworth.com slash no sleep and save $10 on your first purchase. With storyworth, I'm giving those I love most a thoughtful personal gift from the heart and preserving their memories and stories for years to come. That's storyworth.com slash no sleep to save $10 on your first purchase. So, any more questions for me? Yes. What are we going to return to the Christmas horror? Right now. So come, be our guest at a very festive. of Christmas dinner. Ooh, is it Grandma for Christmas lunch again?

Welcome back, folks. If you've been sticking with us through all this, well, I appreciate it. If you're just joining us, then we're currently halfway through the weirdest edition of our quiz. What you don't know won't kill you. Playing right now is Santa,

or so he claims, he's currently three questions away from the grand prize. Are you still on the line with us, Mr. Santa. Santa Nick Christmas the Fourth? Oh, the third, actually. I'm curious.

If you're the real Santa as you claim, but also the third, does that mean there have been two Santas before you? And when did you come into being? Is it true that Coca-Cola invented you or did you exist before then? Goodness me. I called in to play a trivia quiz, but now I'm being barraged with questions. I mean, technically, that's what we're doing. But it's all jingle bells. Don't you worry, little boy.

I'm afraid I can't answer your questions for security reasons. But what I can answer is your questions. Okay, okay, back to the quiz. Yes, Lord, let me end this. Can I end this? Bob the producer says no. Fine. Next question, Santa.

In The Tale, Guess Who's Coming to Christmas Dinner, shared with us by author Matt Ty, and performed by celebrated actors, Sarah Thomas, Aaron Lillis, David Cummings, Atticott's Jackson, and Mary Murphy, who, in fact, is coming to dinner. Oh, that's easy. He's bringing a girl. And? I said he's bringing a girl. I heard what you said. I was hoping you'd elaborate.

Perhaps it would be better to listen for yourself. Now, presented by and starring all those folks you just said, it's time to guess who's coming to Christmas dinner. He's bringing a girl. My mother is standing at the kitchen bench, a light dusting a flower down her apron, the tray of warm cookies almost forgotten in her hands. She is so happy.

Christmas is her thing. The house smells like nutmeg and cinnamon and pie needles. There is tensile and holly, and every year a tree so large it looks like the house was built around it. She has been in a whirlwind of preparation, cooking and wrapping gifts and almost bursting with her news. Dad is still knocking the snow from his shoes in the entrance. He grunts. I said he's bringing a girl. I heard you.

He ruffles my hair as he comes into. the kitchen. He kisses my mother on her red cheek and snags a cookie, ignoring her squawk of protest. He grins at me and sits at the table. I think it'll snow more tonight, kiddo. I'm staring out the window at all the white. I can see the Sheldon kids coming out of their house across the street with their sleds. They'll be heading for Pikes Hill, which is the best sled run on this side of town. For a moment, I think about hurrying to join them. But I want to be heading for a moment. I want to go to the next. to see Pete. He's been at college for just about forever, and listening to him on the phone is not the same. I miss my big brother. Mom slides a hot cup of coffee in front of him, and dad leans back and sighs.

He's off work now. Despite all of mom's crazy preparations, he never really feels like Christmas until dad is on break. He feels it too. He says he can't get into holiday mode until the office is closed. So, kiddo, what did you ask Santa for? Can you not call her a kiddo? She's almost a teenager. Dad rolls his eyes. Oh, God forbid. I don't mind. But dad, you know I don't believe in Santa anymore. That's little kid stuff. Ah, I see. I said he's bringing a girl. Charles, did you hear me? Dad laughs. I like it a lot when he laughs. His wrinkles turn into crinkles. and he looks a lot younger. After a moment, Mom laughs too.

She knows he's been letting her stew. He's good at winding her up. A girl. Our Pete has a girl. Fancy that. It must be serious. Mom is excited, but a little wary. I am too.

How serious can it be if we've never even heard of her? Dad sips his coffee. He doesn't seem that phased. But she's coming for Christmas. Dad grins again. Oh, no, you might run out of cookies. Mom has put Dad to work stirring something in the kitchen, so when the car pulls up, I am the first to the door.

I rip it open just as Pete is reaching for the doork. Hey, it's the little jerk. He steps forward to sweep me up into a hug. He puts me down. You are kidding. too heavy for that. Never. Pete looks good, happy.

He is maybe a bit thinner than when he left all those months ago, and he has a new haircut which is either ridiculous or cool. I can't tell which. But otherwise, he is the same old Pete. I feel a bit of relief, which is kind of surprising.

I didn't realize I was worried that he would be different. He steps aside. Scarlett, Meet the little jerk. Jerk. Meet Scarlett. For a moment, I don't know what to say.

She is beautiful, but nothing like I imagined. Nothing like Pete's few high school girlfriends. She is small, shorter even than mom, but very thin. She is so pale, her skin almost matches the snow. But her hair is a deep, deep red, and her lips are as well. She smiles, and her teeth are perfect. That is not something I've ever noticed on someone before. Perfect teeth.

I realize I am staring. I stick out my hand. Hi, I'm Catherine, Kat. Scarlett steps forward and grips my hand firmly. Her voice is silky smooth. Hello, it's lovely to meet you. I must confess to feeling a bit nervous. Christmas is usually a solitary time for me.

I smile. Don't be nervous. You've met the worst of us already if you know Pete. She laughs, and it's like chiming silver bells. She's delightful. My parents think she is delightful as well. And Pete, well, it's pretty clear what Pete thinks. He keeps touching her, which is cute, but kind of, well, gross as well.

Well, bedroom stuff maybe. Mom serves up a heaping plate of her cinnamon Christmas cookies, and everyone sits at the kitchen table. Pete is telling everyone how he and Scarlet met. I should be paying attention, and I am trying, but for some reason it's hard. Mom and Dad are smiling and nodding, and Pete is laughing, and Scarlet is too. But it feels a little strange. Mom and Dad and Pete all look a little puzzled Like they are having trouble focusing on their own conversation

I take a sip of my milk No coffee for youngsters Like every second thing in the world isn't jam full of caffeine anyway And almost gag I spit the milk back into the glass Cat Sorry mom but the milk is gross What?

Mom grabs my glass and sniffs And then wrinkles up her nose Oh, dear. She reaches for Dad's coffee. Don't drink that, dear. The milk has gone bad. Dad looks down at his coffee, and I glance as well. Even from where I'm sitting, I can see large, yellowish lumps floating on the surface. Funny? Seemed okay earlier.

Pete laughs and hands his cup to Mom. Look at your dirty and dollar in Scarlet. She laughs and smiles, and I can see Mom relax. But it's odd, too. I had thought Scarlet's teeth were perfect. Now, as she laughs, they look a bit crooked and a bit yellow. But she is still a delight. Mom's low-key Christmas craziness presents itself in many ways.

One is the strict routine of Christmas Eve, masquerading as a casual wind-down to a lazy Christmas day. We all know what is expected. While Pete and Scarlett can noodle on the couch, watching his dad tries to light the fire, I put yet more of Mom's cinnamon cookies on a plate. When the doorbell rings, we all converge in the entrance. Scarlet looks curious. What's this?

I'm about to answer when Mom opens the door and the carolers start up with, Oh, come all ye faithful. There are only four of them, rugged up with scarves and beanies and jackets, and there is a light dusting of fresh snow on their shoulders. The youngest one, a pink-faced boy my own age that I kind of know from school, is grinning with embarrassment, but singing anyway. Two things happen then.

One is as expected as the cinnamon and the cinnamon cookies the carolers are about to get. The other is more shocking than the fact that the cookies are sugar-free. Mom claps her hands and exclaims in delight, because Faithful is one of her favorites. although the list is long and not that exclusive. At the same time, Scarlet hisses and draws back from the open door. I glance at her curiously, but I'm the only one that does. Pete and my parents don't seem to notice.

I don't like Carols. She looks at me with a curl to her lip that makes her look, well, not quite like a delight. Her teeth are definitely yellow, and... It must just be the afternoon light, but her skin is a bit sallow as well. She moves back to the lounge room quietly, silently even, and no one but me watches her go. I have my own stocking. Would you mind if I hang it with yours? Mom smiles, and I'm pretty sure Scarlett's stock just went up significantly.

Anyone who brings their own stocking for Christmas must have at least a sprinkle of my mother's craziness for the holiday. Of course, dear. How lovely. Go ahead. We are all sitting in the lounge room. It's dark outside, and mom has the lights turned down, so we can all appreciate Dad's smoldering fire and the flickering illumination that is trying valiantly to span the girth of the tree. Scarlet approaches the mantle and moves the large snow globe with the very inaccurate depiction of a snowy nativity to one side. She pouts a little as she rearranges our stalking slight. and then all of a sudden, there is a huge burlap sack hanging in front of the fire. It is brown and old and dirty, and I have no idea where it came from.

It just kind of appeared. I stare, but Pete and my parents just nod and smile. How lovely! Scarlett smiles and then looks at me. My question about her stalking dies in my throat. Her skin is definitely off-white, a grayish yellow, and I swear her nose is a bit more crooked than I had thought. Her smile fades, and she gives me an odd speculative look before heading back to the couch and snuggling up with my brother. It all suddenly feels a bit less than delightful.

I wake in the night. I don't know why. I've never been one for being overexcited on Christmas Eve. But there is definitely something, a heavy expectant feeling in the air. I slip out of bed and head downstairs, carefully avoiding the riser three from the bottom, the one that creaks like a tired old tabby cat getting stepped on. It doesn't matter. Scarlet is sitting on the couch, watching the doorway as I appear.

The only light comes from the flickering, dying flames around Dad's giant log that he swore was not too large. Hello. Her voice is not as pleasant as it was. It sounds a bit like the creaky stare. Her hair is still red, even in the feeble orange light, but it is hanging in thin strands with lots of pale scalp showing. She smiles at me, and her teeth are long and crooked and kind of sharp.

What are you? It's not what I meant to ask. Actually, I had no idea what I meant to ask. My brain seems to have stopped working. Ah, I thought you might be able to see me. It's a look of surprise, you know, that gives people away. She nods, looking thoughtful as she raises one very long finger and scratches at her bent nose. There always wanes a little around now.

Too long without feeding. I want to turn around and go back to my room. The only thing stopping me is the thought of what this thing might do if I try to leave. Scarlet sighs. Sit. I move forward on wooden legs. I don't want to, but I can't seem to help myself. I sit down opposite Scarlet in Dad's chair.

No one else is allowed to sit in it. But honestly, I'm not that worried about it. one of his grumpy looks right now. I'm not going to hurt you, can't. My kind don't eat children. She makes a face. Well, some do, but not me. I'm a special case.

What are you? Scarlett scratches her nose again, and then smiles. Her teeth look very large and sharp in the dim firelight. And I'm pretty sure her gums are bleeding. I'm a Christmas witch. A silence falls, and she looks at me expectantly. No, not expectantly. Hopefully.

After a long, drawn-out moment, she sighs again. Oh, dear. I was famous, you know. Once upon a time. All through the mountains of the mountains of... flocks, and even in parts of the Byzantine Empire. What do you want? Scarlett smiles again, and I shudder.

She seems about to say something when there is a thumping on the roof. She raises one hand and makes a funny little gesture, and I can't speak, can't even open my mouth. Very quietly, Scarlet gets up and creeps towards the dying fire. Even as she moves, there is another thump from above, and then a shower of soot falls down onto Dad's weak fire. There is a flash of red in the fireplace, and then Scarlet moves so quickly I can barely follow her.

She grabs her huge sack from the mantle and pounces. There is a muffled yell, and then she is tying the top of the bag tight with a piece of rope. The bag heaves this way and that, and then another yell bursts forth. Scarlet starts kicking the bag viciously with one long, thin foot. She kicks again, and there is a low groan from inside the bag. She looks at me and grins a hideous, bloody grin,

and I can suddenly talk again. I draw breath to scream. I wouldn't. She kicks the bag again, almost absently, and then makes a funny gesture at me. I yawn, and then blink a few times. and look around. I'm in the lounge room with my brother's girlfriend.

I think you've been sleepwalking, dear. Off to bed with you. The presents are done. The adults have had their coffee. Black. The new milk has also gone bad for some reason. And we are about to sit down to Christmas dinner. Mom is the happiest I've ever seen her.

And that is saying something. She is usually almost paralyzed. with goodwill and cheer on Christmas, but this is a whole other level, and might have something to do with Scarlet insisting she helped cook. We sit down. The table is almost groaning under the weight of the food.

There is gravy and greens and potatoes and cranberry sauce. They're Dad's favorite pickles, the ones that are made from vegetables that have no right ever being pickled, like cauliflower and carrots. And in the middle of the table, A long-rolled roast. For just a moment, I wonder what it is.

But that doesn't matter. It smells so wonderful, like meat, but also kind of like pudding and cookies and spices and eggnog and, well, all of Christmas. Scarlet smiles as she hands the carving knife to Dad, and I feel my mouth watering as I watch the knife slip into the pink, almost bloody flesh. We all fall silent for a while, and the only sound to be heard is chewing. Finally, Mom pauses. That's just marvelous.

It has a flavor I can't quite put my finger on. Scarlet swallows and nods. It's an old family recipe, a special Christmas treat. My mother smiles a little shyly. Do you think Santa might bring me the recipe? Scarlet laughs, tossing her head back, her perfect white teeth gleaming. I don't think Santa will be dropping by this house next year. My parents and Pete look at me curiously, and I blush.

I don't know why I said that. Scarlet laughs again, and for a moment it looks like her mouth is full of blood. Oh, he will. I'm sure of it. I mean, there must be a lot of Santas to visit everyone in one night. One will pop in. She spears another piece of meat on her plate. Maybe you and I could stay up and wait for him, Cat.

I smile. She really is delightful. Oh, you have to be kidding me. Oh, ho ho ho ho ho! Let me guess. The producers are saying it's a win. Moving on. I can't even remember what question number we're on, but I know it's the penultimate question.

If person A, who lives in England, is cursed at the same time as person B who lives in the United States, and they both set off on round the world tours in different directions on December 1st in order to escape the curse, and person A is traveling at 33 miles per hour, and person B is traveling at 69 miles per hour, and Person A reaches the North Pole on Christmas Day after stopping on the way to hack into Person B's Bitcoin wallet, which caused Person B to also arrive at the North Pole, then which one of them posted the trip reviewer entry for the Hemple Observatory Holiday Rental New York State USA

while en route, and what is their actual name? I knew it. Absolutely stumped, wrecked, failed, lost. You can't answer it. You're done. You're out of here, Santa. Back up the chimney, you jolly red jackass. Don't let the fire burn your butt on the way back up. Say hello to your reindeer blitzwing and cheese wheel and sexy pole dancer Strasbourg and Cupid and butcher face for me.

Down and out. Legal will sort your pathetic prize. Next caller, please. Bish, bash, bosh. Merry freaking Christmas, one and all. I believe that would be all for Lysel Jones. What did you just say? It's Person A, Lissell Jones.

And it's funny that you mention that because Lissell shared a wonderful tale with us recently. I heard it thanks to a delightful performance from Jessica McAvoy, Jake Benson, David Alt, Nicole Doolin, Matthew Bradford, and Erica Sanderson. And you might have other ideas in mind,

but I like to call it the Christmas visitations. I'm a devoted churchgoer at Christmas, but I don't go for the sake of tradition or the atmosphere. I go because it's the only place where I'm safe, safe from the horror that mercilessly hunts this season. Every year it gets closer. Every year it gets harder. to evade. Last Christmas, I sought sanctuary in an ancient church on the edge of a village in

southwest Ireland. As usual, I had researched that it meet my needs. Mushy sleet dribbled from the sky as I trudged towards the grey stone building. It was hardly a Christmas card scene. I flinched as I passed a weather-beaten statue of an angel in the graveyard, but took comfort from the solidity of the walls, the metal meshes that covered the stained glass windows. I slipped inside and settled in an innocuous seat for the service, the usual mix of greatest hits carols and family-friendly sentiments. After it finished, I waited for the congregation to file out and approached the priest standing by the door.

His beard shimmered like frost in the dim moonlight as I shook his bony hand. That was a wonderful service. Thank you, Father. Thank you for coming. I hope he'll see you again. I'm just passing through. I nodded at my backpack. Ah, I see.

Well, I'm glad you found us anyway. He gave a tired smile before starting to turn. Okay, it was time to go in with the big question. It's much easier when they're agreeable, so I gave him my sweetest smile. Would you mind if I stayed a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a question? longer in your beautiful church? I'm afraid it's rather late.

We should lock up and go home. Maybe you can come back another time. It looked like I'd have to try harder. I understand. It's an unusual request from a stranger, especially on Christmas night. But I have my reasons. You see, I've no family, no close friends,

never really settle down in one place for too long. It's become a kind of tradition for me to go traveling solo over the festive season, somewhere off the beaten track. I love to be alone in church after the end of the Christmas service. It's so peaceful, so safe. It brings me closer to him than the actual service, if I'm being honest. Recognition ignited in the priest's eyes. My spiel rarely fails. A smile bunched the wrinkles on his cheeks.

Well, I don't think it'll do any harm if he stayed a little while. Thank you so much, Father. He led me back inside and closed the heavy wooden door behind us, shutting out the world with an echoey thud. It felt good. The priest stood back and looked up at one of the windows. Pearls of clumped sleet slithered down outside. Would you mind if I sat with you?

Well, just for a little while, like I myself have... no one at home either. I'd like that. Ah, grand. The name's Brian. Just because we're in church, it doesn't mean that we can't partake in a little seasonal celebration. He reached inside his gown and produced a pewter hip flask. I usually have a little tea scone to keep myself warm on the walk home, but there's more than enough for his boat.

Nice to meet you, Brian. I'm Carla. We sat on a bench by an old pot-bellied iron boiler that ripped. coupled with heat and enjoyed a pleasant conversation about my travels and the history of the church. One of the stained glass windows was particularly interesting. It apparently depicted a 16th century martyr kneeling before an executioner, his face remarkably joyful as a sword was about to be plunged into his chest. Few of us have that strength of face these days, sadly.

The boiler gurgled and candles flickered as the wind picked up outside. We shared some farmhouse cheese and crackers from my backpack, and after we'd exhausted Brian's hip flask, I took out a bottle of Zinfandel. I laughed when he fetched us a couple of communion glasses. So tell me, Carla, what really brought you here tonight? Well, like I said. Oh, sure, I know full well what you said.

It was a touching story and not without truth-like, unless I'm misreading you. But I know there's more to your. desire to be in the church tonight? I pause to listen. Only the wind outside. It wasn't time yet. You're right. I do have a tale to tell.

And who knows? Maybe someone in your profession might understand better than anyone. I used to love Christmas when I was young. I was a bit of a spoiled brat, to be honest. And my parents always made sure that same. Santa overloaded me with gifts. The only thing that marred the most wonderful time of the year was our annual visit to great-uncle Klaus and great-a-a-and-mila in their stuffy mansion. Klaus especially gave me the creeps. He was a quietly bitter old man. Then, tall and taciturn,

his bloodshot face was masked by rigid glasses and an immaculate beard. Even Mila's obvious affection for him seemed tinged with fear. There were rumors he'd been involved with some esoteric European occult order in his younger years, a group that had dubious political associations, but my parents chose to overlook all that. The possibility of an inheritance was more important to them. You see, Klaus and Mila had amassed a small fortune. They were singers who got a lucky break when one of their recordings was used in a BMW commercial in the 80s. It's considered a classic, so you might remember it. A father safely driving through a snowstorm in time for Christmas dinner?

The calming carol in the background. That was Klaus and Mila duetting. They moved to the U.S. hoping to grow their success. It didn't really work out, but Klaus was stubborn and they stayed. Mom was the only family they had in the States. and she tried to take full advantage of that, hoping it'd pay off in her uncle's will. Anyway, none of us really enjoyed the visits to that creepy old house.

I hated the stilted adult chit-chat, the rules about not getting too close to the weird antiques they had dotted around, the endless Christmas carols they played. I just wanted to be left alone to play with my latest bribe. I especially despised our charade of helping out with their jigsaw puzzles and presenting the childless couple with a gift as if I'd chosen it myself. However, as Mom always reminded us afterwards, we'd lived through the Christmas visitation, and it was over for another year. It got worse after Mila died. The loss tore away the scraps of

conviviality Klaus possessed, and his dark leanings became more apparent. Something he did, Something I saw during our Christmas visit when I was 13 changed my life. Heart sank as Dad drove us through the mansion's Iron Gates that December. It loomed dark and dilapidated next to its brightly lit neighbors. Klaus greeted us at the door. So, you are here. I was not expecting you this year. Nevertheless, I will welcome you inside.

We each formally shook his hand. before stepping into the gloomy hallway. It was decorated with a Christmas tree. I say decorated, but it wasn't exactly festive. A thin, unlit pine that seemed too tall for the space. Its tip lost somewhere in the dark ceiling. A few strands of golden tinsel trailed down from its hidden crown. Mom pulled her face into a smile.

How pretty! How messed up, I thought to my heart. myself. Please excuse the lack of light. There are electrical problems and tradesmen are unavailable during the holiday. He extended his hand towards the candlelit sitting room. He had little idea how to make us feel welcome, but it was apparent to even my insensitive young mind that he appreciated the company at some level. He had also clearly started to rely on alcohol for comfort. My parents struggled to make conversation as they nibbled on the peculiar cured meats and pickles he'd fetched. I'd planned ahead and snuck some candy in my bag.

Mom eventually broke the silence. So how are you finding things? Klaus looked aghast at such a touchy-feely question. He took a gulp from his crystal glass. Of course I missed my meal. I shall. I shall. I find it somewhat difficult. He stared into the glass, and Dad realized we'd exhausted the subject. How about we put on a record? Something festive, perhaps. I groaned inwardly. No, not that, but a song from Mila would be very welcome.

Klaus stood and walked out of the room. After a minute or two, music started to drift from upstairs. New sound system? Mom shrugged. I hadn't heard the song before, and it was a welcome change. It sounded more like a medieval plain chant, peaceful but forlorn, than the usual turgid carols we'd been subjected to. Klaus returned, sat down, and picked up his glass.

The voice of an angel. Yes, she did. She does. Of course. Mom started to reach towards her uncle's hand, but couldn't bring herself to touch him. A true angel. Ah, yes, she was a very beautiful lady. So elegant, a lovely blonde hair.

A real star. Klaus grunted and drained his glass. He sat back and closed his eyes. His head tilted towards the ceiling. Suddenly, Klaus' eyes snapped open. Right, enough for tonight. You will turn in now. My parents stood like obedient children.

Remember you are in the second bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs tonight. Not your usual room. You may take the flashlight from the hallway. We bade him good night and made our way upstairs with our backs. Disturbed by the sight of my parents starting to get changed for bed, I decided to visit the bathroom. I stepped onto the landing and switched on the heavy, dated flashlight. Its yellowish halo barely illuminated the wood paneling and thin carpet.

As I patted towards the bathroom, I noticed sounds coming from the hallway below. I moved to the top of the stairs and looked down, instinctively shutting off the light. Klaus was kneeling on the floor by the towering Christmas tree, singing quietly. His fingers fondled strands of golden tinsel, occasionally bringing them to his lips. I shuddered, guessing grief could cause a strange old man to act even stranger. Then I heard a woman's voice singing quietly. It came from behind a closed door, the bedroom we'd usually slept in, the one above the tree. I assumed it was the same record as earlier, but something wasn't right about it.

The voice somehow sounded like it was responding to Klaus. I couldn't help myself. I tiptoed towards the door and glanced back down. Klaus was still kneeling by the tree, engrossed in song. My heart pounded as I furtively pushed the door open. The delicate singing emerged louder, but the bedroom was dark, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.

A large, dark star shape hung in the middle of the bare room. The voice came from a shadowy movement, at its center. My arm shook as I directed the flashlight towards the base of the shape and switched it on. I only saw it for a few seconds, but the details are branded in my memory forever. The tree in the hallway protruded through a hole in the floorboards and up between a pair of twitching, pale feet. Their toes were roughly stitched to the points of the upright wooden pentagram, Bloodless, translucent skin on the figure's spread legs had been stretched and sewn to the frame. Trembling, I angled the beam further up.

The gruesomely stretched stitching continued all around the pinioned body. Flaps of ivory skin pulled outward like sheets, filling the outline of the star, tensioned so thin and taut that I could see through to the pair of bleached wings on her back. They pulsed limply in time with the song. I gasped and almost dropped the flashlight when it lit the face. Mila, mournful yet tranquil. Her hair was spectrally long and bound around the top of the frame before trailing down through the floor.

As the light hit her eyelids, they jerked open. Cloudy skies swirled within her orbital sockets instead of eyes. Mila's singing grew louder, shriller, dissonant. Her mouth began to stretch and gape as serenity devolved into panic. Her wings convulsed in a desperate frenzy, violently rattling the frame. Stitches snapped, and sections of her distorted skin and face ripped as she tried to tear herself free. Before I could back away, fingers dug into my shoulder. I was wrenched backwards and thrown to the floor.

Flashlight sent spinning. Klaus's furious face flickered above me like a nightmarish cinema reel. Get this light away from us! You get away! He treaded on my hand as he ran into the room. This was followed by a desperate stream of German as he slammed the door. I clutched my hand and tried to get up. Tearing, groaning, creaking noises spilled from the room, followed by a huge crash. No!

As smashed and wings beat. A blast of air shook the house. I glimpsed my parents scrambling towards me as I passed out. Brian drew his black gown closer around his shoulders. Only a few lonely candles remained lit in the church. That was our last visit to great Uncle Klaus. He told my parents I'd broken his sound system and a storage unit he was building in the bedroom.

They didn't like to question him and, of course, disbelieved my story. He died before next Christmas from alcohol poisoning, possibly intentionally. Brian shook his head. I don't know what to say. I'm sure you've questioned yourself about it enough. But surely it could have been sleepwalking or half-dreaming or the like. I've colleagues who've had visions of angels, although nothing as ghastly as yours, and that's always a logical explanation,

whatever they may claim. Babine made a mannequin, or even preserved Meal's body. I've been through all sorts of possibilities, but I know what I saw was real, no doubt. But you were only a child. I have evidence, and there's more to the story,

if you want to hear it. I was certain he would. His kind is always more than intrigued. He took a gulp of wine before nodding. Unsurprisingly, Mom didn't get her inheritance. Klaus bequeathed virtually all his estate to that cult I mentioned. The fraternity of Orpheus, it's called.

My parents were so distraught they didn't pay much attention to what he left me. They'd been informed by Klaus's lawyer that I should expect a package marked SC cheap imports soon after the funeral. It was a cardboard box containing a vinyl record. and a few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle packed with brown ribbon. The record was one of Klaus and Mila's earliest recordings, a collection of traditional German carols titled Every Year Again. We assumed it was some sort of joke or insult.

He must have known that record in jigsaw's bored us senseless. I kicked the box under my bed and left it there for weeks. But I couldn't forget about it and eventually had a closer look. There was an envelope inside the record sleeve, not to be opened until your 18th birthday scrawled on it. I opened it right then, of course. The letter from Klaus contained some sort of explanation of what I saw. I reached for my backpack and pulled out an envelope. Brian looked at it as if it was poisonous.

Shall I? He swallowed, then nodded. I started reading. Carla, being the impatient child I know you to be, I suspect you have not waited until you have come of age to read this. What I have written will destroy your innocence, and so you should not read further until the proper time has come. However, after the ruin you brought upon me, I have no sympathy whatsoever should you choose to do it. Carla, it is no secret that we despised each other. I did not express this whilst alive for the sake of decent family relations.

You have no idea how much your family's visits meant to Mila. I was never one to shy away from trading with forces most cannot understand. I did it once so my dear Mila could gain fame, and I did it again to draw her from heaven. I only wanted to see her again, to sing with her again, for a few days. Someone like you has no idea of the depths of such love, such yearning. And because of your actions, Mila and I will now be separated forever. So I have made arrangements.

Every Christmas night following your 18th birthday, I'll see you again, Carla. Ah, sure, it was just a letter. Your parents must have told him what you thought he saw. It was a cruel joke, Carla, but not more. I wish that were true. Klaus was quite a decent artist, too. I held up the back of the letter to show Brian. He leaned forward and shuddered.

The drawing never failed to chill me either. On first glance, it looks like a picture from a children's book, a nativity scene in a church chancel. But it's a nativity. seen from hell. It repulses me the way Klaus drew me in the crib, a fully grown woman in miniature, grasping at thin air like a baby. A shepherd watches over. He has a lamb's head, not a human's. Outside one of the church's arched windows, there's a classic angel, star-like halo shining around her face, Mila's face, mouth wide open in song. But the figure.

The figure I fear most lurks outside the other window. Again, it looks ludicrous at first sight. A red, winged demon with antlers. Its arrow-tipped tail wrapped around a Christmas tree. But the fury in his eyes is so terrifying, so real, that I can't look at it too long. Pure vengeance pouring from a face framed with Clouse's beard. A madman's drawing. hardly convincing proof.

He was in the throes of grief. He's seen the effect that can have on people. Brian seemed increasingly determined to discredit. He glanced at his wristwatch. Well, it's extremely late. I think we should make a move. Panic shot through me. Too early to leave.

Klaus also made recordings of him and Mila singing when she was in that room. I can play it to you. Ready? Yes. The ribbon he used as packing in the box. It was a tape. It took me a long time to fit it into an old-fashioned cassette, but I managed to record it on my cell phone.

Do you want to hear it? I opened the music app and set the phone down on the stone floor between us. The hissy recording was of two unaccompanied voices. Klaus' raspy whisper-like tones, circled by Mila's celestial soprano. It reverberated throughout the church and our bones. I had no choice but to grow up quickly. Research Klaus and the order to which he'd left most of his money, even learnt German.

The fraternity of Orpheus have been around since the 19th century. Amongst their writings is something called How to Restrain Angels, a magical working intended to do just that. Carla, I'm no expert on the occult, but I can assure you that makes no sense. sense from a theological perspective. It's a misconception that the deceased become angels. As was often the case, the man of God was desperate for a rational explanation. The fraternity's beliefs and rituals are distortions of other traditions. The ceremony involved an evergreen tree, symbolic of returning to life. I even read that tinsel originally

represented angel's hair. They twist things, Brian. Pervert Everything. I'll never be able to understand fully, and there's no chance of the fraternity sharing their secrets with a woman. There was a rush of air outside the window. We both turned and saw a black shadow flying past. Just an owl, like, there's no need to imagine monsters. I wasn't sure if Brian's tone expressed pity or fear. I drew my legs up onto the bench and shifted away from the window. He came back the Christmas after I turned 18, just like he said he would. That first time, he circled above the house, but got closer than next year. The drawing on his letter, it's a code, a puzzle.

I realized the only place I might be safe was in a church. Seeing something like that and an impressional age would give anyone an aversion to Christmas, make one want to hide away in a safe, the holy place. if you don't mind me asking Have you thought about seeking Psychiatric? That really wouldn't help A thud on the roof

Flakes of plaster Patterned onto the floor Oh, bats We literally have bats in the belfry here I shook my head As something started scratching the roof Look Carla, let me help you I can see how events in your past

have given you these fears, but none of it's real. The Lord were not allowed such aberrations. Let me prove it to you, hmm? We'll go outside, together. You'll be completely safe, I promise. No! Outside, a voice began intoning a wordless song, an ethereal female vocal floating above the howling wind.

Must be someone from the village. Someone who's had a few drinks too many to be sure and clearing the head with a thing in a fresh air, that's all. I started hyperventilating and shook my head in the direction of the door. Well, all right, how about I go myself first, hmm? I promise you there's nothing bad out there. It's impossible. And if it's a devil, then I'm the right man to confront it.

He gave a weak grin as he tugged his dog collar. Brian, you don't understand. He ignored me and walked towards the door. Thank you, I whispered to myself. As he stepped outside, the singing faded. You see, nothing out here. He gestured with his hands. Then something caught his attention and the gray sky brightened.

Brian shook his head and headed around the side of the building. The aerial singing returned, louder, more frantic in pitch. As I waited for the inevitable, I ran my fingers over Klaus's letter and finished its final words. I'll see you again, Carla, and it won't be an angel that will visit you. You'll have no choice but to give me a heartfelt gift, your life, or another's. It doesn't matter. Every year until the end. I looked up at the window and saw the sun.

silhouette of thrashing, ragged wings swooping downwards outside, followed by a serpentine tail. Brian's footsteps ran on the gravel as the singing crescendoed. Lord, no, no, this is it. His agonized wales faded to a gurgle. Blood sprayed the stained glass, drenching its martyr's elated face. The singing became subdued and restful, exposing the wet sounds of tearing flesh. I cowered as Klaus took flight to finish his grisly work.

I heard his wings circle a tree in the churchyard and knew he'd be draping it with glistening innards and globules of Brian's flesh, molding obscene bibles studded with fingertips and fragments of Brian's shredded face that waited to shock Christmas morning churchgoers. I have to find somewhere far, far away next time. As the wings and singing subsided, I got up to peer through a clear window pane. Klaus rose from the blasphemous tree,

carrying whatever remained of Brian in a sack. He soared towards a glinting gray star and vanished as the singing fell silent. I blew out the remaining candle and headed towards the door. I'd lived through the Christmas visitation, and it was over for another year. So, what did your producers say?

Oh, shut up, Santa. You have one final question. As per the rules, you have to... Rules? You didn't explain any rules to me. Oh, you rotten, maddening, old man. I did. I absolutely did.

Producers are saying no, but I did. Okay, okay, apparently I didn't, but I offered to. Oh, yes, indeed, you did. And I know the rules I just wanted to remind you that you never explain them to me personally. You're trying to drive me insane. You are actually trying to drive me insane. Question, question for you, oh, Nick, Nick Christmas prick. You, you Santa's sack with claws, claws.

You nasty little man, question. What terrible carmic wrong have I done to deserve having to deal with this bat shittery on the night before Christmas? So, to my understanding, if I get this right, I win the grand prize, correct? No, no, I didn't mean that question. No backs is.

Producers say yes, right, Bob? So here's what you've done. You've been very, very bad this year, haven't you? What? No. No, I mean, sure, I could be in a bit of controversial personality on the radio, but nothing that serious, right? Really? Because I have a tale here that says otherwise.

Sure, you have to read between the lines, but once you see it, it was shared with us by DJ Joni Beldom of CNSP Radio. and it goes something like this. And breaking news, there's been yet another hit-and-run death on Windbourne Hill, close to the site where six months ago, 19-year-old Brian Lemon tragically passed away when an unknown driver failed to stop after knocking the teen off his bike. Let's hope that, unlike that case, tonight's killer will be caught.

Six months ago, that's this year. And that's why you're in Santa's bad books. Okay, so one, I did. didn't kill that kid. But if I did, if I did, then you're Santa, you claim. Santa doesn't punish people. He just, you just, you don't give gifts to the bad kids, right? Oh, sure. That's how it works. For Santa. But I may not really be Santa exactly. Almost, but not quite. What the hell? How did you get in here? Security! Producers! Help! Producers say no, Joanie.

Your face! My God! You're dressed like Santa, but your face! Your teeth! Your tail! Oh, well, yes! Imagine if Santa had to see all the ways people had been naughty, but had no way of doing anything about it. Why it would drive a man mad. That's why he has me. No, no. And now for tonight's weather. Anyway, speaking of being bad, in our final tale, we look at another situation where Santa might be disapproving,

just like with Joni and what she did last. summer. It's a cautionary tale shared with us by author Marcus D'Amanda and performed by Graham Rowett, Jesse Cornett, Jessica McAvoy, Atticus Jackson, Dan Zepula, and Erica Sanderson. And I think by the end you'll understand why Santa needs me when certain folks are added to Oh, the naughty list. Ho, ho, ho, ho. Oh, son, just like I told you. I did as I was told.

Didn't make much sense to me. But then I was only five years old at the time. Now the mama was gone. Daddy was everything to me. Daddy had me believing she'd up and died on us. But there weren't any services. We didn't get any visits to the house. not even from grandma and grandpa.

Now I'm old enough to understand she must have left us. Old enough to wonder why she didn't take me with her. It was Christmas Eve, the first one when it was just the two of us. Daddy had taken one of my long winter socks and put a fish hook in it. I pinched it carefully between my fingers and hung my stocking just under the mantle, where it dangled under a metal ring along with the fire poker. The fireplace wasn't lit. Daddy never lit it anymore, no matter how cold it got.

He just turned on the space heaters and drank his Jack Daniels. On nights when the cold was particularly bitter, now that I was five, he gave me a sip from the same bottle just before bed. He seemed to read my thoughts, taking a long swig and wiping away the runoff from his sleeve. Have no fire tonight, boy? Don't want to burn Santa's ass off. He cackled until he choked on his own cigarette smoke. It wouldn't have been hard reading my thoughts.

I was shivering even under my flannel PJs, even though we were in the living room of our own house. I didn't know what was funny, but I laughed with him to make him happy. Better that Daddy was happy than all pissed off, especially when he was having his Jack Daniels. He put his cigarette out right on the floor, snuffing the cherry with the toe of his boot. I wished he wouldn't do that.

I didn't like the scorch marks they left on the floor. Mama would have hated them. And chances were, my final chore of the night would be to crawl all over the floor and pick them all up and get rid of them. His lighter clicked. The bright orange of a newly flamed Winston briefly lit the shadow of his face.

It was almost dark outside, and we hadn't had any lights for three days. days. It's like this. You hang at their sock up by the fireplace like you just did. And after you're asleep, if you're really asleep, old Santa's going to land his slay on that ramshack roof of ours. And he's going to squeeze his big ass right down our chimney. Like it's some kind of magic and shit. He chuckled in the dark. I waited. I knew who Santa was. Mama had told me, and last year I got two presents,

a tonka truck from Mama and Daddy, and a toy rifle from Santa. Rapping paper was the same on both, but I didn't really notice or care. Didn't think about it till later. The other kids at preschool had told me some things, along with Miss Devon, so I knew.

Kids had to be good to get anything from Santa at Christmas. Therefore, I must have been good, which felt even better than getting the rifle. Good, but not too good. All the other kids got more than I got. I tried to be better this year, even after Mama died. But I'd never heard about the sock on the fireplace arrangement. Just never came up before, I guess.

You've been good this year, boy. I nodded. I'd only gotten in two fights this year, both of them out on the blacktop at school. Last year, when I'd gotten the right-and-year, I've been in a lot more. I hope so. Because if you've been good, Santa gonna fill that sock with presents and candy and all kinds of good shit.

You've been bad. You ain't getting none but a lump of coal. And if that's what it is, Daddy gonna make you keep that lump of coal. Gonna make you take it to school in January and show them other kids. You're going to keep it so you remembers to be good till next Christmas. You got me, boy? I nodded. Daddy didn't like me talking out loud when he had a bottle in one hand and a Winston in the other. I knew that from as far back as my five-year-old mind could think.

He took a knee in front of me, his nose oozing smoke like a sleeping dragon. His breath reeked so strongly of whiskey it made me blink back tears. But I stayed put. I sure as hell didn't cry. Crying didn't cut any ice with Daddy. His voice was low and slow, the way it always was when he said something he really wanted to sink in. I don't think you've been better.

I think you've got much room for improvement in that area, but maybe I'm wrong. We'll see. We'll know in the morning which list you're on. But only the first thing he'd said mattered. What had I done to make him think I'd been bad this year? Daddy didn't care if I got in the occasional schoolyard scuffle. He'd always said that was normal.

When a boy got mad at school, a place he equated to prison whenever he talked about it, he usually didn't bother. But I didn't ask him what I'd done. It wasn't safe to talk right now. Go to bed. He took another pole from the... the Jack Daniels, not offering me any of it. Yet, and make damn sure you're asleep within the hour.

It wasn't even dark out yet, not quite. But I didn't argue. I did everything, Daddy told me, all the time. I retreated to my bedroom, crawled into bed, rolled away from the window, and pulled the sheet right up to my neck. I needed to get myself asleep, not only for Santa. but also because Daddy might check on me. There'd be no point in faking it.

Daddy knew what I looked like when I was really asleep, and I didn't. Nor did I want a repeat of last Christmas. I'd still been awake when the carolers came. I'd heard them when they were still far away, but they'd kept coming closer to the house, getting louder the whole time. The one song I remember was Deck the Halls, which was a total mystery to me since a hall and a deck were two completely different things

that should not have had anything to do with each other. Between songs, they talked, and I recognized Mabel's voice out there, and Erics, and they were in the same preschool group I was. They sounded like they were having such a good time, but I knew I couldn't join them. I shouldn't want to join them. I didn't know any of the words to the songs that I'd never been to two. church. They knocked on doors, laughed with each other, sang some more, but they'd never come to our house last year. They'd skipped our door. It stood a reason they wouldn't come this year

either. Good. I drifted off as the last light still coming in from the window finally faded. Had a funny dream that night I never forgot. In it, Santa himself came to my bedside. But the version of Santa, my uninformed brain created, didn't have a red suit with a matching cap, and he didn't say, ho, ho, or do any festive shit like that. But I had heard from Miss Devon that he was old, that he'd been bringing presents to kids. She never mentioned Cole for hundreds of years. And I knew from Daddy that he was a big man, although Daddy never put it that way. My Santa was bloated beyond belief, a cartoon nightmare,

the wrinkled skin from his cheeks, sagging down so low as to settle over his lumpy shoulders. His protuberant belly and chest too big for his ordinary shirt to contain. He left it unbuttoned, the hair of his body swarming with horseflies. His small eyes were sunken into his ancient heads so far back that I couldn't see them. almost like great-grandpa Joe's right before he died. His teeth were gray. He stank of Jack Daniels. The thump of his feet sounded like heavy boots coming down,

but his feet were bare, massive, floppy pads of flesh that expanded every time they touched down on the floor and made squelching noises when he picked them back up. Santa didn't have one sack. He had two. Each slung over his broad back. I lay in bed, unable to move, unable to do anything other than stare at him. You want for Christmas, boy?

He breathed out smoke with each word, bending at the knees to leer over me. His voice was like daddies, but the words kind of slid into and mashed against each other, like great-grandpa Joe with his false teeth when they came loose in his mouth. I shook my head. I didn't know. The only thing I really wanted was for Mama not to be dead anymore, but even at five I knew I couldn't have that. And I guess to just not get the lump of coal.

But I couldn't speak. I tried, but no words came out. And in that moment, all I wanted Santa to do was to go away. What if you ever fucking... Talk to me. How the fuck am I supposed to know what to do if you don't talk to me? I opened my mouth over and over, but the words wouldn't come. Freak show.

Have it's your way. He stood, turned his back on me. I wanted to call after him, scream the word, no, or wait, or stop at him. But he was doing what I wanted. after all. He was leaving, slowly thundering and squelching out of the room, a mountain of monstrous flesh dragging two massive bags behind him. One of them left a long scorch mark across my floor like a massive cigarette burn.

He paused at the door. Sick of the shit. Then he was gone. In the morning, I got the lump of coal both Daddy and I had been expecting. Daddy painted the year on it for me. Ninety-five. When school came around again in January, I did what Daddy told me to do

and brought the lump of coal with me. Just like I was supposed to, I told Miss Devon I had a show-and-tell for the class. Georgie? Really? Sweetie, what would you like to share with us? I told her it was my Christmas present. I didn't tell her that I didn't want to share it. I had to.

I kept quiet about that part. And her face fairly lit up with happiness. But mine must not have, because then she said, Of course, Georgie, of course. Good for you, hon. And she let me do it. My, but didn't she look surprised when I drew that lump of coal from my pocket with the year on it and held it up for the class to see.

How those kids laughed. and laughed at me. Mabel with her Barbies and her toy kitchenette. Tess with her porcelain baby doll. Arnie with his dinosaurs. Eric and his Godzilla with the movable arms and legs. There were kids in that room, too, who hadn't had anything to show last year either.

But I think those were the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas at all, and they were few enough in 1975. But everyone laughed at me, even them. So what? I challenged them. Remember it clear as day. I made the naughty list. Fuck you. I was mad. I was five. Can you blame me? And that got a right good squawk out of Miss Devon. I could tell you. I fully expected three good, hard paddle swats from the principal after that. But I never got them. Instead, Miss Devon called for another teacher to keep watch on the room and marched me into the hall. Her grip on my arm was very strong. It hurt. But once she had me alone out there, she took a knee in front of me, just like Daddy did. I flinched, tried to draw back from her. She put both hands on my shoulders.

Looked me in the eye. Who gave you that present? She tried to take it from me. I didn't let her. It was mine. I had to keep it. Dumb question, too. It was from Santa.

I didn't answer. Didn't say a damned thing. Georgie talked to me. Did your father tell you to bring it in to show and tell? But that would have been telling. It was none of her business. And I had to be good this year. I couldn't lie to her.

There was next Christmas to think about. Then she hugged me. Until that exact moment, I'd held the tears in. Truly, I did. I'm not sure of everything that happened right after that. Memory is a funny thing. It's not always reliable. For kids living in a world of grown-ups,

the big events of their lives often transpire behind locked doors and shuttered windows. But I do know we had a police visitor that night who spent a long time talking to Daddy and then had me alone in the room. First to talk and then to check me for hurts and boo-boos. He called himself a cop-doc and promised me everything was fine. Daddy was nice to me that night. He even built a fire. And he left the house the same time I did the next day to try to put things right.

But I remained careful. I became wary over time, not only of daddy, but of people in general. At school, other kids, the usual suspects, wanted to share what they got for Christmas, but Miss Devon didn't let them. She shut down, show and tell entirely, which of course only made everyone hate me even more. That was fine. I didn't need to be friends with them. caution, weariness, must be a family trait.

If I was expecting Daddy to be a reformed man after just one visit from the cops, which I wasn't, it didn't last. He did get his job at the quarry back, so we had lights again. We had air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter. He asked me, one night over TV dinners, if I could see he was trying. and I told him yes. It was the truth. He asked me if I was getting in trouble at school. I told him, no, I wasn't.

But he ought to have known. He'd seen my second report card only last week. Seas and up on everything, and all my conduct grades were S for satisfactory. It didn't occur to me, being six, but he probably didn't remember seeing that report card. He was still drinking every night. He was putting his cigarettes out on the floor again.

And it was coming up on Christmas again. We'd get along fine, son. Right? I agreed that we were. We don't need no outsiders poking around in our business. No matter what, son. You understand me? I did.

If things don't go right, with Santa this year, you keep that shit to yourself. That was a mistake. And no fault to you. We all make them. Promise, you've been good this year? I promised I had been. I hoped it was true.

He scooped our tinfoil trays up from the table and switched off the small black and white TV we had on the kitchen counter. You and me going to take it up with the big man himself. Get your coat. At the shopping mall, Daddy spent a lot of time scoping out the small toy aisle in a drugstore, and then again in the Kmart outside, instead of going into the toy shop. He didn't explain what he was doing, and I never asked. Shit, who can afford that?

He lifted a lot of price tags, and I dared to hope something unexpectedly nice was going to happen, even though it wasn't Christmas yet. But he didn't buy anything. anything. Then it was time to go to the food court, which is where Santa was supposed to be. And there he was. The whole center of the food court had been cleared out for him. He would have been unmistakable, even if a line of kids more than a hundred strong didn't wind half the way back out the main concourse, and all just to see him. He didn't look at all like my nightmare, Santa, which was a relief. It was my first sighting of real Santa, and he was everything the phantom who had

visited me in bed wasn't. Red-cheeked, laughing, happy and friendly, and not threatening at all. He didn't seem at all like the kind of man to hand out lumps of coal to anyone, not even to sometimes bad kids like me. You tell him you want to connect four-game. You tell him you want some of that people's drugstore chocolate in your stocking and a set of them. Now, what the hell was it called? The educational magnets. Right, son? You got that?

Say it back to them. I did, but without using the word hell. Go on, man. He pointed. Get in line. Right behind the nice lady with the pink coat holding that little girl's hand. Right there, next to where all that fake snow starts. You wait on that bench over there after you're done.

I'll be back in no time. I looked to the woman I didn't know. Thankfully, I didn't know the little girl either. I looked to the bench. Then I looked back to Daddy. But I only saw his back. He was hurrying away as though on urgent business. Grown-up business, I supposed.

I got in line. The nice lady with the little girl noticed me often enough as the line inched forward, but they didn't speak to me. They drew closer together. Once the woman leaned down to whisper into her little girl's ear, but I couldn't hear what she said. When I didn't move to climb up into Santa's lap on my own,

he reached down with his two massive hands, pulled me up and popped me down on his knee himself. we have next? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Suddenly, I felt as though every eye in the whole food court was on me. My heart felt as though it had gone into slow motion. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. And I was nervous.

No, I was scared. I'd been left alone with Santa Claus. His voice thundered in my ears like a loudspeaker. Oh, ho! Look who we have here. Another good boy. A very good boy, yes? What's your name, son?

I bit my lip, covered my ears. But I told him my name, though I was sure he couldn't hear me. I couldn't hear myself. But he did. Orgy, is it? Where's your mommy? and daddy, Georgie? Hammers in my brain.

Sweat under Santa's mustache and the sides of his head. Big blue eyes staring under bushy white eyebrows. I shook my head, not in refusal, not with any attitude. Mama was dead, and I really didn't know where Daddy was. Santa nodded off to the side. There, plain as day, was a police officer. He took notice right away. Santa's voice boomed again.

Georgie, it's okay. It's me, jolly old St. Nick. Santa's got you. I remember you now. I know all the boys and girls. And I've had my eye on you all year. Ho-ho-ho-ho! George he's been a good boy, hasn't he?

Hasn't he? As far as I knew, I had. But I still wanted to cry. I held it in. Daddy said boys didn't cry unless they were injured, and then only a little. Crying loud, like I wanted to do, was something little girls did.

I wanted to go home. But then he asked the question. What do you want for Christmas, Georgie? I couldn't remember. Santa waited, his knee bobbing up and down, bobbing me up and down. I shook my head again. And even if I could remember, it wasn't what I really wanted. It was a lie.

I couldn't lie to Santa himself. Santa's hand on my face, patting my cheek. A sudden warmth under his white glove, kindness and understanding. Just like that, his voice shrunk back to normal. Whisper it in my ear, Georgie. It's all right. I leaned in, cupping one hand over the side of my face

so no one else could hear. And I told him. Rock'em, sock'em robots. I'd wanted them since I'd first seen the commercial last year. Strictly speaking, it was a two-player toy, like Connect 4, but I thought I could probably handle both robots on my own just fine. When Daddy came to get me, he had to talk to the police officer first. I was on the bench, waiting as I'd been told, but the cop had waited with me until I pointed out Daddy re-entering the food court. Now they looked like they were arguing,

but they were using their library voices, so I couldn't hear any of them. they said. Then he marched me away, walking so fast I had to run to keep up. His fist clenched my wrist so tightly that I soon lost all feeling in that hand. If Daddy had bought anything, I didn't see it. I supposed he could have run it out to the car first, but I didn't see anything in there either. Sitting in the back, all I saw of the front of his face were his eyes in the rearview mirror when he finally spoke to me. He took a breath first. Then let it out. You told Santa what you wanted for Christmas?

I reported that I had. I was honest, though. I hadn't remembered what Daddy had said. So I told Santa I wanted Rockham-Soccom robots, which was the truth. Daddy closed his eyes, let out his breath again. Fine. He started the car.

And that's the last thing I remembered, before waking up on Christmas morning to my second lump of cold. whole. Daddy painted the year on, 1976, and next year, 1977. And the year after, 1978, 1979. It went on until I was 10. By then, most of the kids I knew in school didn't talk about Santa anymore. Daddy stopped talking about him, too. He stopped talking about Christmas altogether.

and things got worse at school. The same kids followed me from grade to grade, from this teacher's class to that one. Most of them, anyway. It was just the way things were at Candlewood Park Elementary back then. I never got close to any of them. And as time wore on, I got into more trouble. I got into worse trouble.

There came a time when I was in fifth grade, and it was the second quarter, that I made a list of my own, just for fun. I called it George Castor's naughty list. It was headlined by Tess, Eric, Arnie, and Mabel. But there were many others. I put a skull and crossbones at the bottom. I smiled at it.

Thought for a minute. And I added, Daddy. Just like that. All capital letters. I prayed over that paper, directly to Santa, since I knew I wouldn't be going to the mall to see him again any time soon. But I didn't ask for anything. I asked him to take Daddy away from me, or me away from Daddy. When I opened my eyes again, I still thought the paper rather empty.

So I began decorating it, just as happy as could be, decking the halls of the paper with bones and limbs and blood. Problem is, I did this. at school, during math class, in fact. I have to believe, looking back, that Mr. Colson must have thought I'd fallen asleep in class again, the way I was bent over that paper. He didn't usually call on me, and he never came to my desk. But that day, at just the worst possible time, he did,

and snatched the paper away. If he expected me to blow up and yell and scream at him right then, I didn't. I let out my breath, just like Daddy did when he had to keep his temper in check. Bad things were about to happen. That much I knew. But what I didn't know was that wondrous things were soon to happen as well. Things that no one would ever be able to explain.

Let me run down the bad things real quick. First, Mr. Colson had to write an incident report and conduct a threat assessment. on me, which led to an immediate suspension from school. And Daddy was not happy when he got called in and saw my list. Much as he didn't give two shits about my education, which was something he'd put no value in from the start, he wouldn't have liked the idea of me having the house to myself while he was at the quarry all day.

But the thing that got his attention straight off was the list itself. The fuck is this? Right there in the principal's office and in front of the resource officer and everything. He jammed his finger at the word, daddy. His face livid with rage, dark with confusion, and... Hurt? You lost your shit or something, Georgie?

What the fuck's the matter with you? I shrugged. I reminded him I went by George now, not Georgie. I didn't look at him. I looked straight ahead. The principal reminded Dad. where he was, asked him not to use language like that in his office. Daddy's response was typical.

Go to hell! You do whatever the fuck y'all gonna do. You don't need me here. I'm taking my son home. Gonna set this shit straight. Come on, boy. Oh, and he did. To the extent he still could. I don't expect any to provide details. The next day, we got a visit.

visit from CPS and a separate one from guidance to discuss my return to learning plan. I don't remember much of it, just that I'd be coming back after Christmas break. Might have been something about me going into classes for emotionally disturbed kids, but that could also just be me remembering it wrong. Pretty sure they'd want to separate me from kids who were on my list, though. It would make sense, I'm wanting to do that. None of it mattered. Everything changed at Christmas Eve.

There's a fine line that separates the age when kids believe everything they're told by the grown-ups in their lives, and the age when they don't anymore. There's a period of questioning and uncertainty. This is particularly true when it comes to Christmas, and at 11 years old, I was, perhaps, more than a little behind my so-called peers. truth is, I may still believe in Santa Claus, at least partly. More on that soon. For days, Daddy made me stay in my room, only letting me out to do my business, or if there was some job around the house that needed attention. But one night, after counting those days very carefully, I knew Christmas Eve had come.

As the sun went down, I dreamed up my own Christmas. tradition. And why not? It wasn't as though I could participate in anyone else's. As the voices of the carolers rose up from the streets outside, I went to my dresser and drew out the bottom drawer. I retrieved my six pieces of coal. I put them under my pillow.

I lay down in bed and stared up the ceiling. I waited for it to go fully dark outside, for the sound of the TV in the kitchen to go quiet. Then, alone in the dark, I prayed again. But only in my mind, and with my eyes wide open. Santa, I don't need no rock'em-sockham robots. I don't need toys, and I don't need no candy in my stocking. If you and Mrs. Claus are real.

You might think about them other kids who won't get the things they asked for this year. But you don't need to worry about me anymore for any of that. I don't have any good reason to think you're real, and I suspect it's been daddy all along been given me that lump of coal year after year, that it was Mama who gave me the toy rifle the Christmas before she died. There is one thing I do want for myself, though.

Just one, and only part of it. I want my naughty list to count. I worked real hard on it, and I don't even have it anymore. That's it. You can forget all about me after. I just want that one thing. Just one name. Next thing I knew, I sat up straight in bed, jolted reflexively from a sleep I hadn't realized I'd slipped into. But I was instantly awake.

And the sound that had woken me up, such a clamor, had come from the roof of my shitty old house. There'd been a thump. followed by a terrible sliding and scraping sound. Followed by, I went to my window, flung it open. It was snowing. Big fat flakes floating in the air, so large you could see them turn end over end on their way to the ground. I'd never seen snow like that before, except maybe on TV.

It was drizzling ice a bit with it, and tomorrow there'd be icicles all over town. As for the town itself, it seemed like half of the people were outside. They were on their porch steps, wandering the street, calling each other, asking questions. I couldn't quite make out what any of them said, since they were all doing it at once, yammering like a confused gaggle of geese and shouting over one another and pointing. Some pointed to freshly unwrapped presents in their hands. One guy noticed me and pointed straight at me.

Several others pointed to my roof. And others still pointed simply up. I hardly registered any of that until later, though, because the part of the noise I had heard was a scream. And it was coming from the same place I'd heard the thump and the sliding and scraping. I hold myself through my window, stepped out into the cold and snow in my bare feet and pajama pants, and undershirt.

I backed up to get a look. The first icicles had already formed under my rooftop. The longest ones, hanging right from the middle like fangs fresh from a kill, ran with dribbling blood that pattered to the snow at my feet. And at the side of our house, our long aluminum ladder stretched all the way from the ground to just under our chimney. The scream, which still echoed in my mind, had come from dad. It hadn't registered at first.

I'd never heard Daddy scream before, but now it played over and over between my ears like... Like an answered prayer. Odd, though. Couldn't think what in this world would have inspired Daddy to go up there in the first place. Stranger still was that he wasn't the only one to have made this decision. Several houses all along my street were currently being roof-stocked by moonlit shadows that stared out into space.

My eyes followed their collective gaze to a shrinking star in the distance that flashed bright once. Twice, then blinked out entirely. I went to the ladder. One of the roof shadows called out, quite clearly. I recognized the voice of Arnie's father. I saw his shadow arm jabbing a finger in the direction. of my roof. I stepped onto the ladder.

I started up, I thought. Name's George, not Georgie. Dimly, I noted that. Below me, my front yard was filling with neighbors. I hummed a tune, just a little

something I'd heard on TV, but didn't know all the words for. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I went up. all the way to the top. It was only a two-story house. Even if the ladder had slipped in the snow,

even if I fell from the highest point, it wouldn't have killed me. I needed to know. I needed to see. And many of my neighbors, it must be said, minus the ones who now stood under the ladder, were rather preoccupied. The accounts, the tales, rumors, stories,

whatever you want to call them, if you refuse to believe, would be plastered all over the Candlewood Chronicle, front page and top of the fold, for weeks. Stanley Archer had finally gotten the Star Wars figures that had been sold out from every store when they came out three years ago. Elizabeth Conway had gotten the three-speed Schwinn

she'd asked for last year. Mr. Franklin, age 40, got the ham radio he'd wanted back when he was 12. more than 20 stories all told. And I do believe most of them be true. Although doubtless a few made up the stories just to feel included in this goddamn holiday miracle, fireplaces all across the neighborhood

had extinguished themselves as one. Some parents, still awake when this had happened, reported seeing the gifts materialize out of nothing more than crackling embers that seemed to swirl out of the fireplace ashes, hopping and twinkling with molten magic, a flame that delivered on forgotten dreams and didn't burn. Each came accompanied by an identical letter. Pardon the oversight, dear.

Nicholas is just beside himself. Couldn't believe it when I told him. But never you mind about that. Merry Christmas, Mrs. C. Of course, my story circulated far and wide as well, although most treated it as some kind of unimaginable tragedy, not as the gift it undeniably was. The magic of Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus, too,

doesn't work the same for everyone. It's different not only for children and grown-ups, but for people of all different kinds all over the world. It may take on other names, happen at other times, and even in the most traditional homes that celebrate Christmas. and the clauses in the most classic sense, it may be that there's a time when they give over their magic for parents to carry on and keep alive in their stead.

It's the spirit of the thing that matters. The magic behind it all may make the occasional mistake, and quite rarely it may become angry. It was an angry magic indeed that thumped over those first few rooftops, several houses down from ours, drawing my father outside, luring him onto the rooftop for a better view. It was an angry magic that bore down on him from the sky. A Christmas sleigh with fell purpose.

And it landed upon him, eight reindeer strong, trampling over him upon our snow-crusted roof. Long runners of steel, shearing his legs off at the knees, leaving him there to bleed out as it went on to the more pleasant business of the evening. I didn't step onto the roof myself. It was slippery with ice and snow and blood. I stood at the top of the ladder until the first hands gently took me around the waist to slowly start easing me back down, one rung at a time to the ground.

I didn't fight them. I'd come up there to see, and I'd seen it. had come late to the Castor house, but it had come. I was free, and insofar as death can make a man free. So was Danny. My story got a lot of attention, naturally. In the midst of all this merriment and magic and mystery, of course it had been the Caster boy to have had the last of his family destroyed on Christmas.

I became a ward of the state that night. Later, when people went into the house to collect what little belongings I had, no one could find the coal I had kept under my pillow. Rather, they brought me a stocking, a proper one, red and white, but they'd found under my pillow instead. Inside of it were six massive bars of chocolate,

each in red wrapping paper, the same kind as my mother had used when I was four. I got letters of sympathy every day. Well wishes I didn't feel like I needed from hundreds of people who probably didn't even know I'd existed until that Christmas. I made my first friends of the tutors who came in to help me get my reading and writing skills back up to grade level, then some more in after-school clubs I was allowed to attend once I turned 12. And before then, after all of the hype and hullabaloo had died down somewhat, eventually to settle into local mythology,

no one but the directly affected now take seriously. The Baileys took me in. It was only foster care at first. We had to make sure they were a good fit for me and that I was a good fit for them. I was sure it wouldn't work. I understood how anonymous people might feel sorry for me. A kid they didn't know,

a boy who made bad lists and didn't cry when his father had died on Christmas Eve. People who knew me kept their distance. Only the Baileys didn't. In December 1981, they took me right on in and had me share a room and split the chores with their 12-year-old son, Rudy. They let me stay up until nine and gave me the same things at dinner Rudy got. And that first night, while I was still kind of soaking this in and hoping it was real and would last, Rudy told me he was glad I was here. He didn't have many friends.

Now he had someone to play with, and a game he'd just been dying to share with someone. Was I up for a match of Rockham-Soccombe robots? He'd gotten it last Christmas and hadn't even opened the box yet. I was more than ready I was raring to go For the first time in my life I had a feeling that I'd finally come home For Christmas

Oh ho! Oh Well wasn't that fun folks Another No Sleep podcast Christmas episode Wrapped up If you're out celebrating this holiday season Then take care to drive safely Behave responsibly Look out for a

others and generally try to get on Santa's nice list. You wouldn't want to end up like the ill-fated shock jock Joni Beldom after all. And in general, take care. It's been a rough old year. All of us here at the No Sleep podcast wish you Merry Christmas. Happy holidays, or a neat normal week, whichever applies to you. Catch us on Christmas weekend for a special feature length, sleepless decompositions episode. But for now, everyone is asleep. All through the house,

not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. And that just won't do. We're off to make everyone sleepless. So, brace yourselves. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us. Embrace no sleep. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. Link.