The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 7

Episode Date: December 26, 2021

A very special Christmas edition of Sleepless Decompositions is presented with festive freakiness. “Up on the Roof” written by Warren Benedetto (Story starts around 00:05:20) Produced & performed by David Cummings “Down on the Bed” written by Holly Dionis (Story starts around 00:07:15) Produced & performed by David Cummings “Derelict Planet Christmas” written by Morgan Wilson (Story starts around 00:11:15) Produced & performed by David Cummings “The Title is a Spoiler” written by Olivia White (Story starts around 00:13:50) Produced & performed by David Cummings “Santa’s Grotto” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:20:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Georgie – Erika Sanderson, Kira – Sarah Thomas, Husband – David Ault, Chloe – Penny Scott-Andrews, Ted – James Cleveland, Jack – Mike DelGaudio, Georgie’s Son – Erika Sanderson, Elf – Peter Lewis, Elf Girl – Nichole Goodnight , Arthur the Donkey – Andy Cresswell, Mrs. Santa – Kelly Bair, Santa – David Cummings This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleep HelloFresh – With HelloFresh, you get fresh, pre-measured ingredients and mouthwatering seasonal recipes delivered right to your door. Skip trips to the grocery store and count on HelloFresh to make home cooking easy, fun, and affordable – and that’s why it’s America’s #1 meal kit!. Go to HelloFresh.com/nosleep14 and use code nosleep14 for up to 14 free meals AND 3 free gifts. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Additional Christmas music for Santa’s Grotto composed by: Myuu “Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull 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

Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 7 is coming right up. We hope it's what you want for Christmas. And this really is the time of year to think about things you want, right? What kind of gifts do you want? Who do you want to spend holiday time with? What food do you want to treat yourself to? But what about the more impactful things you want in life? Do you feel there are things you need help with to make your life better in some way?

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by continuing to recruit more and more licensed professionals every day. With BetterHelp, you'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions so you won't ever have to sit in a waiting room and feel uncomfortable like with traditional therapies. BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's better H-E-L-P.

And join the over 1 million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and no-sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So reach out to BetterHelp and help develop ways to get what you really want out of life. And if you want some creepy, sleepless stories, well, that wish is going to come true right now.

Jolly old David Cummings here. I bet you didn't expect to hear from me today, did you? What with it being Christmas weekend for many of you and all? Ah, but here at the No Sleep podcast, things are a little different when it comes to time and space. Ever wonder how a producer like Phil manages to produce 100 hours of content in 20 hours? Or Brandon releases music using even. instruments that haven't even been invented yet? The multiverse. Yes, you heard me. The multiverse. Multiverses can lead to all manner of different, exciting possibilities. I'm sure none of you

have heard anything about them before, but I can confirm it's the truth. What I can't confirm is the things we get up to using multiverses, apart from this. Basically, as a multiverse hopping, Christmas-ce-ce-ce-celebrating Santa impersonating podcast showrunner, I've hopped to into the same multiverses that allows Santa to deliver gifts to every household in one night. That means I'm able to spend Christmas weekend with you, sleepless, and spend it with my newfound special friend, Radio Shock Jock, Joni Beldom. Then there's a universe where I have the power of flight, so in that one I'm spending Christmas doing elaborate loop-de-loops for the local townsfolk.

Then there's a universe where I actually am Santa Claus, so you can imagine what's up there. A universe where I have the proportional strength of a spider. A universe where spiders have the proportional strength of me. A universe where there's a body pillow that instead of being filled with hundreds of spiders is filled with hundreds of David Cummings. A universe where I have the proportional strength of Jeff Clement. A universe where the podcast is performed entirely in song. A universe where we're a medical podcast about insomnia.

A universe where cheese is elitial. Well, all sorts. How do I know about all of these multiverses, you ask? Well, it's a Christmas miracle. Anyway, the point is, using my newfound multiversal abilities, I filtered my search and looked for universes in which the Santa of those Earths has, or in some cases, had, some kind of horror vibe. The first few are short, anecdotal, whimsical,

but in our final tale, well, that's one which I felt needed to be told in its entirety. But first, allow me to tickle your tongue with an assortment of a peritifes before we tuck into our excellent main course. Remember, all of these stories are true. Somewhere. Up on the roof, transcribed by Time Agent Warren Benedetto. There was something on the roof. The children huddled behind the couch, their tearful eyes glistening in the warm glow of the Christmas lights.

The house shook with each heavy footfall thudding overhead. Plaster dust drifted from the ceiling like snow. A low growl echoed down the chimney, followed by the metallic scraping of a heavy blade. What was that? Annie whispered, her voice trembling. I don't know. Joshua sobbed. Do you?

He directed the question at the fat man in the red suit cowering behind the couch next to them. Santa shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. Multiversal trivia. In that universe, Brandon Boone had a hit Christmas single with a song called Slay-Slay-Slay. The title works better when it's written down. Unfortunately for Brandon,

text doesn't exist in that universe. Now we hop from that one to another. This tale of multiversal madness comes to us courtesy of time agent Holly Dionys, who unfortunately got blown to pieces in a friendly fire incident on her way back from collecting this story. She stood too close to a quantum grenade thrown by content manager Olivia White and ended up in bloody chunks. We hope to see Ms. Dionis back and fully recovered by January.

So settle down and listen to Down on the bed Overhead, gargantuan sheets of ice shift and crack, frozen titans muffled by the deep, clear water. Down below, here my team finally succeeds at prising away the stone face of the tomb. A coffin careens forward from the depths, snapping to a stop thanks to the heavy chain

that holds it in place. I chuckle inside my mask as Denver and Jordan paddle backwards in alarm. A colossal cyclopean whale swims past us as we finish cutting through the final link of the chain. The coffin rises slowly, myself and Danvers holding tight. Secured in the sepulchre, Jordan stares up at us, one dead eye peering through cracked diving glass. Later, I shall return here alone and reseal the charnel. house. No loose ends. No loose lips. We break the surface. It and we get hauled onto the deck by my crew. Denver pulls off her mask and shakes out her wet hair. I do the same. We open the casket.

And there it is. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. A thick, stubby lance with a wicked sharp point. The tip glitters star-like in the bright Arctic sun. I grasp the handle and heath the lance from the coffin with the reverence of one who may wield the legendary sword Excalibur, but this weapon puts that blade to shame. Since the dawn of time, countless men have yearned to kill gods, but there are many ways to kill mere deities. I've always aimed higher. My quarry can only be slain by this lance I hold aloft now. I've spent all my life trying to find it, and here it is. Now, nothing can stop me.

One Christmas, when I was seven years old, I received Milton Bradley's electronic Simon Memory Game. I'd been dying for one all year. I wrote so many letters to the big guy, and of course when I found it under the tree, I was thrilled. That dirty, hateful old man. Oh, sure, he'd given me the toy.

It was what he hadn't given me that has traumatized me all these years. But the past is the past. I'm finally going to get revenge for what he didn't do. I'm going to kill Santa Claus, crush his legacy, take over his empire.

And then, when I'm in charge, when I decide the rules, I'm going to make it a goddamn policy that batteries are included. Multiversal trivia. In this universe, it's not just Santa who can only be killed by a specific weapon. It's any company CEO. Jeff Bezos can only be slain by a green and red crossbow blessed by a tiny frog god. Elon Musk is weak to a hammer forged from the heart of a dead star, and Robert Iger can only be felled by a giant magic key, which just seems ridiculous. This next trans-dimensional tale was retrieved for us by time agent Morgan Wilson,

at great personal risk to themselves. They call it Derelict planet Christmas. The air-locked doors were barred, windows welded over. Everyone huddled in the multiple evax sites across the station. Children sobbed into their mothers, while fathers braced themselves against the doors, pistols ready at their sides. It was the one night they feared. Every other day they were orbiting a frozen rock on the edge of the galaxy,

monitoring for ore spots to dig. Their first year here had been wonderful. So much had just been lying on the surface left to rust. They'd made a fortune. Then, shortly after the longest night of the year for this system, a strange jingling had filled the air. A flash of red and gold blurred past the windows. The system started going haywire as they were bombarded with small glass-like balls covered in glitter. A number of horrifying quadrupedal creatures hammered against the doors until they caved in,

and a monstrous figure stormed through the airlock covered in red and white. He brandished a striped hook that he plunged into anyone who got near and his armor repelled all of their weapons. They lost 18 people that first time. The company called it a fluke. But then it happened again the next year on the same night, and every year after that, the company refused to let them leave.

There was too much money to be had. So now, every year on the red night, They barred the doors and braced themselves for the monster drenched in blood, who flew forth with eight brown beasts. Multiversal trivia. In this universe, there exists a planet made entirely out of human teeth. Nobody has ever visited it because, holy shit, why would you? But its existence is largely tolerated by the Galactic Council

because the tooth fairy's got to put them somewhere, right? Our penultimate tale is brought to us by Time Agent Olivia White. She retrieved it on her first solo mission after accidentally exploding Time Agent Holly Dionis. Therefore, the veracity of this one may be questionable. Olivia called it, The title is a spoiler. Mate, the barhound said, slamming his glass down on the bar hard enough for it to slosh over the rim.

"'Mate, mate!' Santa felt the lush tug on his sleeve. He couldn't ignore him any longer. "'Yes, buddy?' He asked, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. "'Those your reindeer out there in the parking lot, right?' The bar hound leered at Santa with watery, red-rimmed eyes. Santa sighed.

Oh, yes, yes, they're mine. All nine of them. Or didn't one of them used to have a nose? The drunk slurred. Like in a story, a rude boy with the nose red beer had a shiny nose like a drunk. So how it goes, you know, right? Santa rolled his eyes. Yes, he does have a unique nose. Look, come over to the window. I'll show you.

He headed over, gesturing for his shit-faced companion to follow. Ever since the law had required Santa to reveal his secret identity, his life had been filled with constant annoyances like this. Peering through the glass, though, Santa started. All the thoughts now on his beloved rindexam. The barfly had been right. Rudolph's snout wasn't glowing. It wasn't glowing at all, but it was most definitely red. Santa ran outside. Rudy! Rudy! What are you doing, lad? He called, but he already knew it was too late. Rudy was beyond reason,

Rudolf said in a voice that conveyed an insatiable hunger. The other reindeer lay scattered around him, eviscerated. All of their skulls had been cracked open and their brains devoured. Rudolph gazed at Santa. His muzzle would never glow again. In the moonlight, the blood was closer to black. Santa shook his head sadly. A zombie reindeer plague had begun.

Never again would St. Nick's best friend live up to his original name. Because he was now, Rudolph, the dead-nosed reindeer. Multiversal trivia. 98% of the horrors that occur in that universe are based around puns. The other 2% are caused by people lashing out violently because they don't get the joke. So, we've only one more Christmas tale from the multiverse left, folks. But it's a big one. A doozy. A real ho, ho, ho. And before I even begin to tackle it, I need to take a moment, a break, as it were, to compose myself.

Let's see now. Crispy Parmesan chicken with garlic scalyan cuss-cuse and lemony roasted carrots. That sounds delicious. But then again, so does the white cheddar wonder burgers with caramelized onion, special sauce, and old bay fries. Oh, gosh, you caught me going over my food prep for the week. And let me be honest with you, I have no interest in going to the grocery store these days, holiday crowds, soaring food costs, and, well, the other thing that makes me want to stay away from a lot of public interaction.

That's why HelloFresh is the way I'm keeping my meals tasty and easy to prep without any shopping. HelloFresh offers 50 weekly recipes, featuring a range of flavors, cuisines and ingredients, so you'll never get bored. That's right. You can try something new every week. There's something for everyone, including weekly low-calorie, vegetarian, and family-friendly recipes. By skipping the grocery store and using HelloFresh, you're reducing your food waste by at least 25%.

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So take it from me. Hello Fresh makes sense for so many reasons these days, and we'll make it super easy for you. Just go to hellofresh.com slash no sleep 14 and use code no sleep 14 for up to 14 free meals and three free gifts. Fresh, healthy food delivered right to your door with easy to follow instructions. How can you beat that? That's hellofresh.com slash no sleep 14 and use code no sleep 14 for up to 14 free meals and three free gifts. That's a great offer from America's number one meal kit.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish up my menu for the week, so you head back to the sleepless show and let me drool over these yummy, scrummy, hello-fresh meals. Okay, that's the break. Done, finished. Over. Our final tale was brought to us by Time Agent Gemma Amour. It's a fearfully festive tale in which an extended family take their children, children to visit the jolly old big lad in a commercial Christmas village. And they get far more than they bargained for. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Sarah Thomas, David Alt, Penny Scott Andrews, James

Cleveland, Mike Delgado, and Peter Lewis. With Nicole Goodnight as the distressed elf girl, Andy Cresswell as Arthur the Psychotic Donkey, and special guest star Kelly Bear as Miss. This is Santa. So wrap up warm, strap yourself in, and get yourself down to Santa's Grotto. Let me introduce you to my family. Well, strictly speaking, it's my husband's family. But I don't have much of a family of my own, and so what's here's is also mine, because that's how marriage works.

You don't just marry the man. You marry his blood, too, for better or for worse. That's how it goes, or at least how it's supposed. to. Sometimes the worse outweighs the better, but we make it work, somehow. Perhaps we're just stubborn. A lot of married people are. So here we are at a strange sprawling place called Missile Toe Farm, nestled into the lows of rural Hampshire, six adults, three small children, and one baby. It's one week prior to Christmas, and the children scramble enthusiastically through thick furrows of mud, headed towards a large white canvas marquee that sits at the top of a wide, empty field,

boxed in by twisted hedgerow. The adults trail somewhat less enthusiastically behind. The air is damp. The landscape curiously minimal in terms of colour. It's just brown and grey, brown and grey, as far as the eye can see. England is like that a lot of the time. Different shades of mud and sky that lean on each other. The Marquis, which is ugly and discoloured, offers little relief on the eye.

But we're going anyway, because this, we have been told, is where we'll find Santa's Grotto. The field was ploughed not long ago, and giant trenches of dirt slurped hungrily underfoot as we trudge on. It's not cold enough to have frozen the mud yet, and our once white sneakers are now filthy. They make wet, sucking, squelching noises as we slog through. Around the edges of the field, tractor parts lie abandoned, thrusting bleak silhouettes into the sky like the ruins of an ancient city. Rusty, corroded, and dusted with bird shit, flakes of straw and fake polystyrene snow. Skinny chickens peck apathetically at the wet ground beneath the hedgerow. A steely sky threatens rain from above, but never quite delivers.

In the distance, we can hear muted screams, screams that rise and fall in unison on a stiff, breeze. There are some fairground rides on the other side of the farm we've been told. A ferris wheel, a helter-skelter, a carousel, that sort of thing. We've promised the kids we'll take them if we have time. First, we have to meet Santa. Not that I particularly want to. I stopped believing in Santa, or Father Christmas, if we're going to be all British about it, when I was 11, and now I'm on the wrong side of 39. But for the children, you understand, we have to meet Santa. We have to meet Santa. for the kids. Because they've had a tough year, what with one thing and another. We all have. It's about time we were able to enjoy ourselves after everything that's happened. Even if that does

mean dragging my booze-pickled reluctant ass halfway across the countryside on the promise of enforced festive satisfaction, or organised fun, as the family calls it. My least favourite kind. I swigued a flask of coffee I brought along, hoping the sour taste in the back of my mouth goes away soon. Ugh. This grotto would better be fucking good.

Language, Georgie. The kids will hear. I mumble that I'm sorry, although I'm not. That's Kira, my husband's brother's wife, mother to my niece and one of my nephews.

This place is disgusting, though. They could have at least put a boardwalk down or something. My husband appears behind us, panting. Have you know,

the other footprints. They all head one way. People headed in, but nobody headed out. Should we be... should we be worried? I imagine the exit is to the rear of the marquee, genius. He's right about the footprints, but he's also still in my bad books. Nobody else knows this yet, but it won't be long until they find out why. Bad news always rises to the surface, doesn't it? Like dead matter bobbing up to the top of a pond, like ice cubes in eugen and tonic. I'll stop. thinking about alcohol so much, I remind myself sternly. You're cutting back, remember? After Christmas, that is.

No point trying before. What's up with you today, Georgie? Kira shoots me a look that says, Be nice. I'm hung over to fuck. That's what's up. It's partly the truth. Language.

Well, you've clearly had your fair share of egg-nog and Christmas cheer, too. Don't single me out. I have a strange relationship with Kira. Out of everyone in the family we get along the best, but she can be spiky and hard work at times, and I'm in no mood for it today. Office Christmas party last night. I'd rather be anywhere other than here right now, I'll be honest.

Same. I hate this nonsense. Commercialised festive bollocks. Huge cues, yellowing cottonwall snow, jingle bells blaring out over broken speakers, shitty, cheap, lukewarm mold wine served in cracked styrofoam cups, ding-dong, ding-dong, silver bells, yada fucking yada with tinsel on top. Same crap every year, isn't it?

Yeah, except Christmas was cancelled last year, wasn't it? My husband, panting a little with the effort, catches up to me again and elbows me in the ribs gently. Maybe we should think about that before we get too grinch on everyone? I swallow what I was about to say, grudgingly acknowledging that he has a point. I can be as bar humbug about this as I like, but the fact is, Christmas was cancelled last year, and it was awful. And now we all feel doubly motivated to make the most of it for the children because they deserve it.

And no matter what we think, they love all that stuff, don't they? Fine, I'll play. Let's just get in line and eat the stale mince pies and jig along to the godawful carols while we wonder how long it will take for the mass manufactured plastic gift, Santa Pals, for his mantial sack to break, and think about how many days it is until Christmas and we have to go through the same old rigmarole all over, again. Hurrah! Can't fucking wait. Oh, shit! I say this last word with a grunt, as my right

shoe becomes stuck in the mud and I nearly fall flat on my face. My son calls out from up ahead. Mommy, stop saying shit, it's rude. He's right, of course. It comes to something when your four-year-old has a better attitude to life than you do. Oh, piss off. I stopped short of saying what I really wanted to say to him, because it wouldn't be fair. not in front of his family. Good night last night, was it? Ted grins at me, trying to diffuse the palpable tension. Maybe they'll have more hot coffee inside.

Or mulled wine, hair of the dog? Ted often goofs off to lighten the mood. He's got middle child syndrome, and that makes him the peacemaker, the diplomat. I see what he's trying to do, but I'm a little too raw to appreciate it. Why do they have to put this place in the middle of a field, though? Seems stupid to me. I'm determined not to enjoy myself if it kills me. Eh, I suppose farmers have to make money in the winter somehow.

Let's just hope they don't have a serial killer penguin this time. Chloe is my husband's little sister, the youngest of the three siblings, and she is not hungover, but she is sleep deprived. She looks like she can barely remember her own name. My heart goes out to her as she slogs awkwardly. through the mud with the baby Billy in her arms. Small children are nothing more than ravenous, merciless energy vampires, really. That's why they're so cute.

Because if they're cute, you can't be mad at them. Clever. The adults laugh, remembering our Santa experience from three years back, which amounted to nothing more than a badly constructed giant cardboard sleigh in a darkened garage with a few stuttering fairy lights slung across it for effect. Inside that sleigh, motionless and silent, a large man sat dressed as a penguin. That was the sum total of the experience.

This man, in a penguin suit, shoulders hunched, head down slightly. He didn't dance or sing or hug anyone or give out presents. The fucker just sat there. We high-tailed it out of there so fast you could almost see the smoke in the air behind us. But we never forgot it. There wasn't even a Santa. Just the room and sleigh. the weirdo penguin man. It won't be difficult to beat that. Suddenly, after what feels like years of

trudging through the mud, we're there. This flusters me because the last I looked, the marquis was quite a distance away. It's as if it waited for me to look elsewhere, picked up its skirts, and ran to close the gap. The words, Santa's grotto loom out of the earth above us, picked out in neon lights fixed to a lopsided sign, and the children are gathered underneath, impatiently moor. for us to hurry up. More like Santa's grotti, if you ask me. Ted's joke falls flat, and none of us laugh. Chloe's husband Jack breaks the awkward silence.

What is a grotto exactly? I don't think we have those in America. It's not where I grew up. Hold the phone. You don't have Santa's Grotto? We have Santa's Village, I guess. Cute decorations and stuff. Like a Christmas theme park.

But I don't know what a grotto is. to me honest, sounds suspicious, like pasta. What do you mean like pasta? What the fuck is wrong with pasta? It's not suspicious. It's just a place where kids go and meet Santa and get a gift. They usually decorate it to look like the North Pole or the woods or some Tweed Victorian street scene or something. Like a winter wonderland on a budget.

Oh, huh. I was kind of expecting more than that. Well, you might be in luck. This place is massive. Bigger than massive, in fact. Way bigger than it looked when we were marching towards it. Almost supermarket-sized. Christ, it's enormous.

We'll be in there for years. Don't say that. I've got another party to go to later. It looks a bit sinister, doesn't it? Not very festive. They haven't even got a tree decorated outside. And... Huh.

I can't hear anything from inside. Can you? Kira screws up her face as she surveys the intimidatingly blank marquee face. Must be soundproofed or something. Anyway, it's so huge. No wonder we can't hear anything. It's probably got its own government and solar system. And where do you even buy a tent this big? My husband, always interested in logistics. Can we get on with it? I can't hold these all day.

Jack is carrying a bundle of coats and scarves and hats that. children have dumped on him. Who's got the tickets? I thought I had them, but... Chloe is rummaging through her pockets. Me. Ted pulls a long string of red perforated paper slips out of his own pocket, ripping them apart and handing them to us one by one.

Don't lose them now. We take possession of our tickets from Ted and our respective children's clothing from Jack, try our best to knock the mud off our shoes, and set out the rules for the kids. No running off, no screaming, no talking back, and most importantly, no touching of anything, especially not Santa, unless he says it's okay. I'm adding this last rule in for the benefit of my son, who accidentally head-butted Santa in the balls one year whilst trying to give him a hug. I've never seen a grown man turn

purple so fast, and I never wanted to again. And remember to say thank you when Sander gives you a gift. We are polite in this family, aren't we? The kids ignore a. rushing off through the large double doors of the marquee. Oh, well, I tried. Turns out she needn't have bothered. Inside we are met with two things. Tinny Christmas music trickling out of speakers, rigged up high on poles, and a tinsel-smothered check-in desk.

The marquee, I quickly realise, is subdivided into a series of compartments or rooms, and this is the first. The integrated compartment walls are built of thick, shiny canvas, and UPVC double-glazed doors, robust and impenetrable. I feel a little like I'm in a biohazard tent, like Henry Thomas in E.T. The Christmas Edition. E.T. phone ho-ho-ho, I think, wildly exhausted already. According to the laminated sign on the desk,

this is Santa's Flight Departure Lounge. It reeks of a marketing student's university project. How about if we make a trip to see Santa more like, I don't know, boarding a cheap flight to Malaga? Cool, cool, yeah, yeah, let's do that. Between us and the desk, a six-foot-tall, three-foot-wide plastic replica of a security scanner, the type you find in an airport. The flimsy frame is wrapped in more tinsel with flashing green and red lights stuck to the top.

I assume we'll have to walk through it at some point, or else why would it be here? All part of the schick, I realize. Good grief. The desk is manned by a slight smiling person dressed in a tattered red flight attendants outfit, replete with a little red cap and embroidered epaulets on his sleeves that are in the shape of sprigs of holly. His buttons, I realise, are little plastic candy canes. He has scuffed black shoes and very sharp, dirty fingernails. His ears are longer than average, and ever so slightly pointed at the tips,

and his earlobes are almost non-existent. When he smiles, his teeth are yellow, and there is something wrong about them that takes me a moment or two to figure out. When I do, I double take. His teeth are filed at the ends to make points. His canine teeth in particular protrude over his gums like two yellow daggers. I'm not a judgmental sort of person, but I do find his appearance a bit off-putting. Not exactly jolly.

I whisper this to Kira from behind one hand, and she shoots me a warning look. Is that an elf, mummy? I don't answer, because truthfully, I'm not entirely sure. Welcome to Santa's Grotto. The flight attendant elf has a distinctly unwelcoming voice. Behind him is a small door in the partition wall, which I assume leads into the grotto proper. All you could dream of and more. A stooped pale girl in a drooping elf hat and curled slippers with bells stitched onto the toes

who's been standing off to one side approaches us, bearing a tarnished silver tray. On it are nine steaming styrofoam cups, six of mulled wine, and three filled with hot chocolate, upon which some pallid marshmallows float univitingly. Drink these. The girl offers the tray around. She jingles quietly as she moves. A little festive cheer. Her voice is so flat, featureless and void of cheer as she says this that I almost laugh, but managed to keep it in.

Chloe tiredly waves the tray away. I don't want any thanks. I don't drink. Take it. I can't help but think the elf looks like. a beaten dog. I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you. Inexplicably, the elf's eyes fill up with tears. Please, if you don't drink it up.

She shoots a nervous look at the other elf, who seems to outrank her, judging by her subservient stance. Santa's rules. Chloe, who is too tired to put up much of a fight, reluctantly takes a cup, sniffing the drink and then downing it like a child taking medicine. The others do the same as Christmas Jazz marches relentlessly on in the background. I told you there'd be hair of the dog. Ted grins, knocking his wine back in one gulp like Chloe did. The kids slurp at their hot chocolates, digging around in their cups for the elusive melted marshmallows with their pinky fingers. I take my cup, but don't drink.

I sniff the liquid instead. It smells a little acidic. There's an undertone of something faintly artificial cloaked with a nauseating amount of sugar, cinnamon and cloves. And rum? Can I smell rum? The elf girl is watching me closely. I smile at her, feeling uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

Mine's a bit hot. I might nurse it for a bit. The elf's face drops, becoming stricken and once again on the verge of tears. You have to drink it. Please. Santa's rules. She looks so sad and scared that I almost give in,

but I'm saved at the last month. moment by my son, who hands his empty cup back and then gently tugs on the girl's sleeve. Is there any more? While she's distracted, I lower my cup behind my back and pour it onto the floor behind me as subtly and as quietly as I can. Then I move backwards so I can cover the wet patch with my feet. I'm afraid not. The elf turns her attention back to me.

I hold out my drained cup, pleased with my little deception. Mmm, delicious! The elf cheers up immediately. It's clear she feels she feels she's. has avoided some terrible catastrophe. She collects our now empty cups and joys the flight attendant behind the check-in desk. We stand awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what it is we're supposed to do next. Well, come on then.

The flight attendant motions for us to step forward through the scanner. For some reason, none of us move. The flight attendant's body language grows increasingly agitated. Hurry up. Santa hasn't got all day, you know. I noticed that he clutches an old... brass ink stamper in one hand. I understand from this that he means for us to pass through the scanner, and then he will stamp our entry tickets on the other side,

as if we were having our passport stamped pre-flight. Do we really have to? Jack is already bored. Yes, each member of your group has to pass through the scanner to see whether or not you have been naughty this year. He rolls the word naughty around on his tongue like a delicacy. I shoot my husband a hard look, and he bows his head, scuffing his feet slightly. And if we have?

Well, let's just hope you don't trigger the alarm, because if you do, I shall have to put you on Santa's naughty list, and nobody wants that. The elf's yellow teeth flashed briefly. My mummy says we're not allowed to use the word naughty, because it has negative con. Con connotations. The flight attendant elf stares at my child, hard.

I position myself so that I stand in his line of sight, acting as a shield. My husband places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I fight hard with myself not to shake it off. None of us move forward, because something about the scanner feels off. It looks shonky, for want of a better word. Make shift. distinctly dangerous, although I couldn't for the life of me say why exactly. It just gives off an air of threat, is all.

Mommy, can we go and see Santa yet? The older cousins chirp in agreement. The baby, Billy, who is sitting on Chloe's hip, gives out an excited gurgle. Reluctantly, I tell the kids to go around the scanner and meet us on the other side of it. Oh, no, you can't go around it. You have to go through it. Santa's rules. But they're just kids.

They won't mind. They're only here for... Santa's rules. The flight attendant talks over me in a gritty, deep, furious voice that is suddenly too big for his body. His pitch and tone is weird, unnerving. He sounds like a vinyl record on a turntable that slowed to a lower RPM.

The girl standing by his side flinches and cowers. I notice a mark on the back of her left hand that I didn't see before, a deep, red, angry mark that's a very distinctive shape, but she folds her arms and it disappears from view too quickly for me to get a good look at. Kira speaks after a moment's shocked pause. Perhaps you should watch your tone. It's Christmas. There's no need for any rudeness. If you don't go through the scanner, we cannot let you in.

The flight attendant explains in a voice that is all sweetness and light. He grins, a portrait of civility and fun, but his eyes flash flashed. with hate. I blink. What the fuck is this? I turn to my husband. Maybe we should just turn around, find something else to do. This place feels off to me. I know, but we're here now. The kids will be devastated if we leave. Besides, we paid a small fortune for these tickets. Kira rolls her eyes, annoyed. It's always money with you these days, isn't it? You guys earn tons between you. I don't know why you worry about it so much.

I stare at her but say nothing. I'm not sure what there is to say without opening a can of worms, but I can feel a ball of resentment clogging up my guts. My husband carries on as if Kira hasn't spoken. Let's just see how it goes, okay? I'm sure we can leave at any point. He's making an effort.

I can see he is. I feel myself soften just a little as I look at him. After all, it is Christmas, and we've been together for a long, long, time. And people make mistakes, don't they? There's mistakes. And then there's mistakes, my internal voice says. I'm right. I know I am. I open my mouth, try again. And you're sure this is? I don't get a chance to finish my sentence. The children, bored and tired of waiting, take advantage of the fact that for three measly seconds we aren't watching their every single move and rush through the scanner, giggling.

Before I have time to realize what's happening, they've successfully dodged our grass. and made it through to the other side unscathed. Hey, what did we tell you? Kira and Chloe join me in furious chorus. No running off. Stay with mummy. But the flight attendant is delighted. Well done, children.

He stamps their tickets at lightning speed. Bang, bang, bang. He then opens the small door behind the flight desk and ushers them through. Have fun. Then he slams the door behind them with the definitive thunk. I yell at the elf, suddenly panicked. Hey, you can't leave them in there unsupervised. They're tiny. Wait for us, kids! But Kira shouts in vain. There is no reply. We strained to hear some evidence of our children on the other side of the door, but the marquee

swallows noise like a soundproof booth. All I can hear is the bloody awful Christmas jazz. Not wanting to leave them alone in a strange dark room out of sight without an adult for another second, I dart through the shitty makeshift device and burst out the other side. Nothing happens, and I'm wildly irrationally relieved. The flight attendant, who is still holding onto the door handle, smiles. You passed for test. Good for you. He yanks my ticket out of my hand and stamps it so hard he nearly punches a hole clean through the paper. Bang! Then the door opens once again.

Brimming with anger, I shake my finger at him as I prepare to go through. I am going to write the shittiest email I can think. of dual manager, and don't expect a good review on trip advisor either. The flight attendant yawns, examining his dirty fingernails. My husband, seeing things escalate, moves to follow me. I have a weird, inexplicable moment of trepidation as I see him do this. The elf's voice replays in my mind. Whether or not you've been naughty.

Emphasis on the last word. Suddenly I don't feel so good. I try, although I know I'll be too late. Uh, maybe you shouldn't... late. My husband walks beneath the arch and a huge, blaring alarm blasts violently through the marquee. We squeal, clap our hands over our ears and freeze. Billy the baby bursts into surprise tears. The alarm drones on and on like an old air raid siren from World War II. Then it cuts out as abruptly as it started. And my husband, frozen mid-step, looks at the elf wide-eyed while Chloe

shushes the baby to calm him. What was that? The flight attendant has grown very still. That was the naughty alarm, sir. I did warn you. The what now? You've been a bad boy this year, haven't you, sir? My husband stares at the elf, bewildered. How did...

How did you know? A scanner can tell, a Santa can tell, and now, I'm afraid I have no choice. I'm going to have to put you on Santa's naughty list. The fuck? Kira mouths to Ted, and he shrugs. Chloe bounces the sniffling billy on her hip with an increasingly urgent rhythm, and Jack draws himself up to his full height, ready to wade in if he's needed. A thick, foggy tension has filled the air, an atmosphere of expectation, of hunger.

I'm suddenly sweaty. I feel sticky about all of this. It's far too on the nose for me. because my husband has been naughty this year. Very naughty. We're still working through the ramifications of his behaviour, and I'm having a hard time with it. A tiny, ugly part of me that I don't want to admit exists

feels a little smug, a little vindicated that he's been singled out, but I squash it down. My husband squirms, sheepishly trying to remain affable despite his unease. Uh-oh, that doesn't sound very good, does it? It's not. So what now?

My husband offers his ticket, lamely. This. Instead of taking the ticket and stamping it, the elf grabs my husband's hand, pins it against the check-in desk, and hammers down on that with a heavy brass stamper instead. My husband howls. The stamp, suddenly glowing of vivid, hot red,

slams into his skin. There is a faint crunch of bone, followed by a sizzling sound, followed by the distinct smell of burning meat? Are you fucking kidding me? There is a mad scramble for everyone else to get to my husband, who stares at his smoking branded hand with wide, shocked eyes. I watch in absolute confusion as Jack, who is closest,

tries to run past the scanner rather than through it. As he barrels into what should be thin air, he comes up hard with a meaty smack against an invisible barrier. His nose erupts in a fountain of blood. I told you, you can't go around it. You have to go through it. Santa's rules. Meanwhile, my husband is still howling,

and all I can smell is the scent of his sizzling flesh, and in the background, that bloody fucking hideous Christmas jazz loops over and over unceasingly. My husband sinks to the floor in a ball of pain, cradling his hand and moaning. Jack shakes his head, swears, scrambles through the tinsel strangled archway and takes hold of the elf by the collar,

lifting him clean off the ground. The others follow, and although I have more important things to worry about, I cannot help but feel a tug of bitterness that nobody else are set off the alarm. Only my husband. It doesn't feel fair. Not one bit. Why am I married to the naughty one?

Why not someone else? I don't deserve this, my spiteful inner voice whispers as I watch things unfold. Jack kisses through a mouthful of blood. I would not be surprised if his nose is broken. What the fuck is your game, you scruffy-less little shit? What the fuck is this place? Where are our children? What did you do to his hand?

The flight attendant elf blinks innocently. What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with him. We look. Jack sets the elf down slowly. Because he's right. My husband stops moaning and holds out his hand in disbelief. Where moments earlier a raw red burn had been seared into his skin.

Now there's nothing. Not even a blemish. He flexes it. Nothing appears. tears to be broken. Are you sure you're feeling quite all right, sir? What is happening here? I can tell Chloe is frightened. Her pupils look a little dilated too, and I remember a faint odd smell underneath the cinnamon and cloves in the mold wine. More thankful that I poured mine away. I can still smell banning me. Why can't I hear the children?

Fuck, the kids, alone in the dark and unsupervised. Without a moment's further thought, we rush into the adjoining room as a group, struggling through the narrow doorway, a surge of bewildered, angry, confused adults. I hear Jack, who brings up the rear, threaten the flight attendant as the darkness swallows us. Oh, I'll be back for you, you little fucker. No, you won't. Have a nice flight. The door closes on him, and the Christmas jazz cuts off sharply to my immense relief. Then, there is only black. We're in a sleigh. Santa sleigh, obviously. Have a nice flight. Have a nice The elf had said. Sickly glowing bulbs poke through a black fabric sky haphazardly taped up overhead.

They're meant to be stars. They burn weakly as we stand in a huddle, casting just enough light for us to see our hands in front of our faces, but not much more. New Christmas music is playing. Of course it is. I think it's silent night, but the music is warped and warbly, hard to make out.

The sleigh is raised somehow, hovering above a layer of fake fog that swells things. in the air. The type that comes out of a smoke machine, smells artificially sweet. It tickles my nose, makes my throat ache. I can't see the ground beneath it, and this gives me a weird impression of being high up in the air, which I don't like. The sleigh is hooked up to two animatronic reindeer that are each individually bigger than my car. They're in poor shape, like the rest of the grotto. Patsy nylon fur stretches over thin metal bones. Dust, insect casings and cobwebs are slathered thick across their highs like membranous skin.

The reindeer on the left has a red nose. Rudolf. It flickers erratically, the damaged filament making a tired buzzing sound as it struggles to emit light. The other reindeer's antlers have snapped off almost to the root, leaving wickedly sharp nubs of plastic sticking out in front like spears.

On its side, the word Dasher is painted in neon paint. Children? I realise I'm fighting back sudden tears, and my heart is yammering in my teeth. chest. Are you here? Here, mummy. My kid sounds cheerful. He's sitting on a bench in the sleigh next to his cousins. A huge surge of relief washes over me. You're right? I rushed to him and lay my hand on his head tenderly. Can we see Santa now? I have to trust that he is fine, because if I start panicking

about anything else, I might completely fall to pieces, and something tells me I have to keep it together for everyone's sake. I turned to my husband. Are you all right? I think so. He looks confused and muddled and I can't blame him. He looks how I feel. Let me see your hand. I take it, examining the skin as best I can in the poor light. It looks fine, but I can feel something faintly ridged under my fingertips, like a small welt, hardly there at all. But I am uneasy about it nonetheless. What happened back there? He scrubs his hand through his hair,

and I recognise the catch in his voice. He's thinking about the fact that he's been naughty and feeling guilty about it. I struggle with myself. It's the season for forgiveness, right? But it's hard to forgive when there are so many consequences to a person's behaviour. I don't know.

Chloe is looking at him strangely. What did he do? Beads of sweat have collected. on her top lip. It's beginning to dawn on her that things are not right between us. That thing back there said you'd been naughty. What did you do? My husband is not in the mood. Not now, okay? I can't not now. More importantly, how do we get out of this place? Jack pokes gingerly at his bloody nose, scanning around him for an obvious exit.

There are two swing doors, one on either side of the swine. but they are predictably locked. Jack swings his leg over the lip of the sleigh, intending to hoist himself out and down into the fog to explore the dark partitioned room at large. But he stops, one leg in, one leg out, frowning and peering beyond his dangling foot. Ted comes over to squint down into the swirling smoke. What's up? Did you, did you see that? Jack nervously clears his throat and shakes his head, as if trying to clear water out of his ears. I thought I, I, I, I, I thought I saw something moving down there, like wriggling kind, I think. They both stare into the fog, waiting.

And after a moment or two, both of them rear back sharply, hitting in surprise. Did you see it? Yeah. I saw it. I have no idea what it was, though. But it was big, and snake-like? I think I saw a tail. I think I saw wings?

You're scaring the kids. Shut up, would you? I know that what Chloe really means is shut up, you're scaring me. Jack pulls his leg slowly back over the side of the sleigh. I don't think we can get out this way. Oh, there is no getting out of Santa's grotto, especially not that way. A familiar voice comes to us from the front of the sleigh. We jump, swearing.

Sitting in the driver's seat behind the reindeer, where moments before there had been only empty space is a tall, thin figure with pointed ears. You don't know what's down there. None of us do, really. Oh, great. There's more of you. This elf is dressed like an old-fashioned Victorian coach and horse driver, with a long red cloak, a dented scarlet top hat, and a wicked-looking horsewhip made of red leather. He stands up suddenly, and he is enormous,

with an Adam's apple as prominent as the Empire State Building, working up and down on his neck, a little black blob of silhouette moving around on his profile as if it had a mind of its own. Who wants to go to Bethlehem then? The coach driver elf speaks wearily, in the exact same voice as the flight attendant elf. I peer at him in the gloom. Is this the same person?

A brother? Is he wearing heels or stilts? I rubbed my eyes tired. My head starts to pound. It's hot in Santa's sleigh. I want to go home. The children pipe up, my kid among them. No, we want to go visit Santa in the north part.

The coach-driver elf shrugs. Hmm, tough. We're going to Bethlehem. He flicks a switch, and the sleigh shudders and groans like a waking beast. The elf raises his whip high above his head and lashes out at the reindeer's tattered hides. The sleigh begins to move, tipping forward and then back on ancient hydraulics, pistons working clumsily beneath us, the whole contraption listing gently at first, a leaky old boat on a calm sea, then more and more violently, like a bucket of, Bronco ride. The reindeer clunk and clank away painfully, whisking everyone off to Bethlehem,

and all I can think of is, have a nice flight. Have a nice flight. Have a nice. This is not so bad. See? Ted grips the bench beneath him hard in a futile attempt to stabilize himself. His kids and Kira hang on to him for dear life as the slay hurls about us with increasing brutality. I bury my face in my son's soft curls and breathe him in deep, hoping the familiar smell of him will calm me down amidst the turbulence. It does, a little, and he wriggles further into me, shifting on my knees painfully. He is in that sweet spot between fear and excitement. I can feel the tension radiating off of him.

Oh, what it must be like to be four years old, I think to myself. Full of wonder and trust. The motion of the sleigh worsens, and my stomach flutters as we tip dangerously towards what I assume is starboard, sliding around on the benches from side to side like marbles on a polished floor. Chloe starts to moan and shift about on her bottom. Billy makes unhappy noises on her lap. Oh, I feel sick.

I want to get off. No stopping. We will arrive when we arrive. No sooner, no later. Jack puts his arm around Chloe. Santa's rules, right? It'll be over soon. Chloe hands the baby to her husband.

She groans. holding her stomach. You don't understand. I feel sick. She slowly pushes herself to one side of the sleigh, lurching about like the drunken sailor of law. Chloe, sit down, it's not safe. I have to...

I have to... She leans over the edge of the sleigh, suddenly heaving. She's slay sick, I realise. My own stomach churns again as she makes violent retching sounds. I'm sorry. My husband says this suddenly, out of the blue. It is so unexpected and out of context that it shocks me,

especially because he actually sounds sorry this time. It's the first time that he has. I'm sorry for what I did, Georgie. What? I can't focus on what he's saying. The sleigh clunks on and on, throwing us about like a child throwing a rag doll around. The music cycles through carol after carol,

swelling in intensity and volume, battering me with its banality, and I close my eyes because my senses are overwhelmed. The music, the clunking, percussive grind of the sleigh, the buzzing lights, the smell of the fog and the lingering signature of mulled wine and overly sweetened hot chocolate. The darkness, the twinkling stars, the taste of fear in my mouth. It's all too much, and I start to shake. My son strokes my hand affectionately in the dark.

It's okay, mummy. Santa soon. And the sleigh, as if sensing our vulnerability, tips so far to one side that we're almost horizontal. Chloe, who is roundly puking over the side of the sleigh, her whole body taught with convulsions, loses her balance. Her watch helplessly as slowly and gracelessly she slips over the side, hands desperately scrabbling for purchase. It's like watching a magic trick in slow motion. One minute she's there, the next to not. She screams as she falls, and the fog swallows her hungrily. The scream goes on for a long, long time, fading with distance.

and all I can think of is that she sounds like how a person would sound as if she'd fallen from a plane, thousands of feet up in the air. But that can't be right, because we're in a shitty marquee, in a shitty field, in a shitty farm in rural Hampshire, and the floor should only be a few feet below us. And the scream keeps going and going until it is cut off suddenly. And the sleigh finally shudders to a halt. Glory? Unsteadily we rushed to the side, look down.

There is no trace of Chloe. Only more lazily writhing plumes of fake fog. Where is she? Jack clutches the baby as he begins to make agitated, unhappy baby sounds. The elf crosses the sleigh, opens the right-hand side swing door and presses a button. A long gangplank rises from the smoke wondrously. Nobody knows where they fall.

It's best not to question these things, really? Everybody out. The passengers disembarked drunkenly, in a disorderly fashion, arms and legs flopping about without much thought into what should go where. I expect Jack to make a fuss, put up more of a fight, but he shrugs, moving as if hypnotised. I can see a uniformly glazed look in my family's eyes that hadn't been there before they drank the mulled wine and hot chocolate. A slow and insidious feeling of helplessness takes hold of me. Helplessness in the face of events unfolding beyond my control. The elf points at a thick dark curtain that is now visible across from the gangplank.

That way, go carefully. But we're way beyond careful now. Is this? What is this? Ted's tongue sounds too big for his mouth. There is a faint mulled wine stain around his lips, just like the children's hot chocolate stain. It looks like dried blood. Bethlehem, I assume. Kira's right.

battered, whitewashed buildings made of fiberglass lined sandy streets that stretch out in a grid-like pattern to either side of us. Arabian-style rugs and lanterns are strewn beneath dusty palm trees made of water-stained paper and more fiberglass. A sunset has been painted onto the partition walls behind the buildings, lurid purples and oranges and pinks, like a beach towel from Florida. As I scan our surroundings anxiously, I see plastic dolls and statuettes of elves, gnomes,

and other assorted monstrosities that have absolutely fuck all to do with anything hidden amongst the houses. An Easter bunny replete with a yellow bowtie and wicker basket. Mickey Mouse, a nutcracker doll, a dinosaur. They watch us with empty, moulded eyes, eyes that have had the paint rubbed off of them, so you're never quite sure what any of the horrid little things are focusing on. No immediate obvious threats, though. The music is also blissfully absent in Bethlehem.

Thank fuck for small mercies. Footprints in the dust betray that we have not been the only visitors to this attraction, nor I suspect will we be the last. The grotto gives off an energy, like that of a trapdoor spider preparing to strike. It is a trap, I realise, this grotto. A lair. Lure them in with the promise of Christmas. What happened to all the other visitors?

Footsteps in the soil, but only in one direction. I look down at my mud-splattered feet. A shattered pair of spectacles lie in the sand nearby. The lenses smashed beyond repair. Is that a spot of blood next to them? I don't want to look too closely in case it is. What's that lie up ahead? Ted squints, pointing.

At the end of the main concourse, a bright glow glares out. I'm reminded of the star of Bethlehem. Oh, this. Is this the nativity? The realisation drops heavily like a brick on my toe. I think I know what lies waiting for us at the end of the street, beneath the light. Looks like it. I think the only way out is through. I have a horrible idea that my husband is right.

I have a horrible idea that if we try to escape, there'll be consequences. I can still hear Chloe screaming, on and on, falling forever. Towards the light? Towards the light. As if nothing happened to us back there. in Santa Slay. The group makes to move, but I block their path, holding out my arms as if holding back a crowd.

I spread my hands in a pleading gesture. Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait, wait. Are we just going to ignore what happened to Chloe? Shouldn't we go back or at least look for her? The others stare at me as if I've grown an extra head. Who is Chloe? I feel cold. Chloe?

Your sister? Billy's mother? Chloe! Kira frowns as if I've stepped in something smelly. Literally no idea what you're talking about. I put a hand on Jack's arm, squeezing it hard, desperately hoping to see some recognition in his eyes. Chloe! Your wife! Red hair, about yay tall, green eyes,

tits you can balance a pint on. That's what you always said, Jack. I'm aware I'm babbling, and tears have gathered in my eyes. I dashed them away angrily. They're all silent. shooting nervous glances at each other like I've gone rabid. Come on, guys, this isn't funny. I'm exasperated and genuinely, thoroughly scared.

Kira tiredly rubs her face. Georgie, whatever this is, can we move it along? I kind of want to get out of here. It dawns on me that they aren't messing around. They simply have no memory of who I'm talking about. Their eyes remain unfocused, masked with an odd, filmy vagueness. Chloe no longer exists. Why am I the only one who remembers?

And it hits me then. I'm the only one who did not drink from the cups we were offered at the entrance to the grotto. What the fuck did they put in those drinks? Mommy, can we see Santa now? My son tugs at my arm. Speechless, I feel the fight go out of me. Together we move down the main concourse towards the burning glare of the artificial star, which grows brighter by the minute.

There, we find a nativity scene spread out before us like a huge Christmas card, just like I thought we would. All the usual suspects are present, but not correct. Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus lack facial features. Their painted eyes and noses and mouths having flaked away at some point in the long, distant past. The figures are vintage wax clothing store dummies, repurposed and costumed. Someone has clumsily redrawn their pupils, eyebrows and smiles on with a marker pen. Their cartoonish features grinnitus from the strange chaotic tableau. Joseph has been left too close to heat while in storage.

The whole right side of his waxen body is melted, softened and now sags. He leans unsteadily over the manger, staring at the baby Jesus with pinhole eyes. Mary has fared no better. She has become a home for mice. They've chewed her feet and lower legs into tattered, waxy shreds, so that only bare wire sticks out from behind her customary blue robe as she kneels in prayer. There is a makeshift bamboo stable framing the whole display. On top of the stable, a glaring security light with a tinfoil star attached lopsidedly to the top.

It blinds us with artificial starlight. Two camels lean tiredly against each other in the background, and the king, shepherds, a cow, a goat and a donkey complete the scene. Something about the donkey feels immediately wrong, more so than the rest of the hellscape before me. I sense movement and stare at it intently, waiting. The donkey's eyes are closed, long lashes drooping against its fuzzy cheek. Its jaw hangs slightly open, lopsided. The donkey is supposed to be sleeping.

A rotting sign hanging on the wall gives the donkey's name as Arthur. None of the other animals seem to have monikas. The dubious donkey is, I assume, the main character of this mottled, moth-eaten menagerie. My son scowls at the thing, for it truly is grotesque. He walks up to it. I hate it. I grab at him. Come back here.

Too late. The kid slaps the donkey hard across the face. Horrified, I haul him backwards by the scruff of his neck, and we all hold our breaths. There is silence. My heart is in my throat. I can hear the pounding of my own blood in my ears. Then Arthur the donkey wakes up. Slowly his eyes open.

His head jerks about in a horrible, uncomfortable parody of life, a Jim Henson creation gone terribly, terribly wrong. His mouth sags and then slaps shut, and then opens again, and a miserable, floppy tongue made a felt flips and flaps about inside. The animatronic is trying to talk. Eventually, a pre-recorded voice comes out of his mouth. It is a cheese-grater voice, nasal, braying like a man with a cold pretending to be a donkey. Goose bumps pop up on my skin. We all take a step back. Not really. I think we just want to get the fuck out of here. The donkey jerks his head in Kira's direction, eyes fixing on her, lower jaw flapping around madly.

What? Nothing. I said nothing. The only way out is through. My husband reminds us all of what we know is the truth. Maybe we should listen. The donkey nods his head, pleased. I wanted to see Santa. I squeeze him tight.

I figure I can deal with the donkey if I have to in a fight. I tense my body, waiting for something awful to happen. Because this is Santa's grotto after all. All you can dream of, and more. His tail swishes in a deranged arc behind him, back and forth, back and forth, as if he has a trapped nerve. Arthur's head lulls as he begins to drawl, his horrible tongue flopping about.

You were a young woman who lived in the town of Nashville. Is this really happening to me, I think to myself, and not for the first time. Can I see blood on the donkey's snout? And are those droppings on the floor over there? Donkey shit? How is that possible? This is a machine, isn't it? I'm so confused it paralyzes me.

The woman Joseph. And Mary was a faithful, good woman who won't. Understood the virtue and sanctity to be found in matrimony. And Joseph was a hard-working, reliable, honest. With that, Arthur the donkey stares at my husband, who once again bows his head. He's been doing that a lot lately, and I hate it. What good is feeling sorry now?

It doesn't undo what he did. They catch a glimpse of his branded hand before he once again stuffs it into a pocket, ashamed. The faint waltz I thought I felt earlier seem more pronounced and are a deeper colour. I think I can make out an outline of something, but not well enough to say with any definitive clarity what it is exactly. The donkey drones on. The angel said, do not be afraid. Sore afraid. Unable to focus, I look at my family, wondering if I can persuade them to run with me, run as fast as we can, because if we all go in a

group at the same time we stand a chance. But there's something wrong with them. They're swaying gently back and forth in time to the terrible cadence of Arthur's voice, and I realize I have no hope of corraling them. None at all. Arthur, the donkey talks, and I'm reminded of a piper, hypnotizing a snake. Yes, that's exactly it. Did the drugs make people susceptible to hypnosis? Suggestion. When Joseph and Mary is somewhere to stay. There is a faint creaking noise, and Arthur takes a slow, unsteady step forward towards us. His eyes are two glowing holes in his fur.

I carefully lean down to my son who is gazing through the donkey, as if he can no longer see it. Sweetie, get ready to run, okay? My son doesn't answer. I'm now the only lucid one. I'll have to pick him up, is all. He can't be that heavy. The donkey takes another step, still chewing out his story.

Was with the people often kept animals in the house. Another step. Then another. The fucking robot donkey is stalking us like a lion stalking prey through long grass. Guys. Guys, we need to go. Nobody moves. The donkey inches closer.

His eyes are hungry. In the place where the... The animals slept. Jack is the furthest ahead. The donkey is only a few feet away from him now. Jack! Jack! I can see the donkey shifting its weight about on its hind legs.

That tails swish-swashing around. Billy the baby gurgles and coos in his father's arms. I have to act. I close the gap between us and drag Billy from Jack's arms shaking him. Jack, wait the fuck up! But it's too late, and I know it. sensing movement I run. Behind me, with a horrible, precise, deadly lurch,

Arthur the donkey headbutts Jack to the floor. He places one metal hoof upon the man's chest, pinning him to the ground. Jack blinks into the present moment. Oh, now he wakes up, I think, knowing what's coming next. What the fuck? Jack is staring up into the horrible mess of mechanics and synthetic fur looming above him. And in the background, music starts to start to start. swell. Little donkey, little donkey. I don't want to look, but I can't stop myself. Arthur the donkey

lowers his head, opens his dislocated jaw as wide as he can, bears his metal teeth and rips out Jack's throat. I scream in horror, covering Billy's face with my hands desperate to shield him from the sight of his father's dripping trachea dangling from the jaws of the beast. Blood sprays across us in sheets, and Jack's body twitches and trembles as the donkey feasts. Run. My husband is looking at the scene before him in slowly dawning horror. The hypnotic effects of the nativity story are wearing off, and gradually the others begin to rouse themselves,

only to be confronted by a bloodbath. Children, close your eyes. I begin dragging my son along the floor with one arm, clamping Billy tight to my body with the other, and running back along the main concourse as fast as my legs can take me. I have to trust that the others will follow. The light of the star of Bethlehem snaps off as we leave the blood-soaked nativity behind,

plunging us into darkness once again. I keep running. Convinced the hideous creature is lolloping down the concourse behind us, eyes on the kill. But he is happy with his meal. His shrieks sound from somewhere in the black, and the words disintegrate into madness as Arthur the donkey braze,

a full, loud, excruciating he-ho. A sound filled with triumph and blood and raw, predatory glee. My son tugs on my hand. Run, mummy. Run really fast, okay? And I do, because we need to get the fuck out of Bethlehem. The light changes. We're in a different section of the marquee, another part of the grotto. Gone are the sick, fluttering stars of Bethlehem. In their place, a weird, purplish glow hangs over everything,

punctuated by the ubiquitous strings of multicolored fairy lights that seem to proliferate by the minute, wrapping themselves around every available surface like strangling vines. There is, of course, music. Silent Night, a Cassio keyboard version dribbling out of speakers poorly concealed inside polystyrene rocks. It lends the forest the same air as an abandoned shopping mall. A sad, rotting, underused space that exists on the fringes of things. A liminal playground for the lost and the lonely. There is fake snow all around, so thick it comes to our knees.

It reminds me of the mud outside, although anything to do with the outside world feels like a fever dream now. Ranks of plastic fir trees stick out of the synthetic white at regular intervals. They are bent, misshapen things. Some garlanded with tinsel and fairy lights. Others are dawned with baubles and greasy glass snowflakes that spin lazily on fishing wire and fail to catch the light. Glitter has been liberally sprayed everywhere like vomit, and there is an abundance of crusty dried moss stuck to the tree, trunks and branches and patchy clusters in a vague attempt to soften the forest scene into something more realistic. The whole place feels like a mockery of life. It stirs something ugly in me.

As Good King Wencesless transitions morbidly yet seamlessly into silver bells, I start to laugh. Quietly at first, and then loudly, huge bubbles of mirth exploding out of me like fireworks. It's all too much. The forest is a static tapestry of death, a yule-tied entree, to hell. I'm over Christmas. Well and truly. So is my kid. He pinches me hard to get my attention. Mommy, stop it. I don't like this place anymore. Can we leave now? We're trying, sweetie. Hot tears roll down my face. I think it's like Daddy says. The only way out is through. Stay close to me, okay? I don't want to go home. I don't want to see Center anymore. He's stupid. I agree. But don't let anyone hear you say that, okay?

My husband is frowning at the skin on the back of his hand. It hurts. He shows me. I gasp. The skin on his hand is now clearly branded, the outline of the brand raised up in angry red ridges that form a single capitalised letter. N, it says. N for naughty.

I can't think of anything to say to that. Let's move. Staying put is not a good idea, not in this place. Kira gazes at me with hollow eyes. Wasn't there someone else with us before? I feel like there was. I hoist the now orphaned Billy higher up in my arms. There was?

But we don't have time to talk about it now. We need to find a way out of here. I'm sure there's somewhere else we're supposed to be. She trails off, mesmerized by a patch of it. snow off to one side of the path. All right? I thought I saw. She can't finish the sentence.

Let's walk. The family seems happy to let me lead. Families always work better when there is one designated leader. More than one, and it gets complicated. Too many cooks and all that. I can no longer tell what time of the day it is, or how long we've been inside the grotto. All I know is I'm stuck.

Stuck in this nightmarish land of forced festivity. I have one priority and only one. Get the kids safely out of here no matter what. I don't know how yet, but I didn't drink the wine. If I keep my wits about me, I might just make it out the other side. At least I tell myself that as I move ahead. Ted catches up with me. Georgie?

Yes? Are you sure you know where you're... There is a rushing, surging, hissing sound. A snowdrift behind Ted erupts, violently, showering me with thousands of tiny polystyrene. Irene beads. Something long and white and sinuous rises up above us, stretching its thin snake-like body high into the air. It reminds me of an eel, except it has a round, bulbous head and a pair of stick-like arms, and looks exactly like... exactly like... Oh, that's fucked up! I begin running for my life for what feels like the hundreds time. The snowman snake, with its button eyes,

red scarf, demented smile made of fragments of coal and wicked, sharp pointed carrot nose, rears up, towering over Ted like a giant cobra. And then it plunges down, racking itself around my brother-in-law, who doesn't even have time to scream as he has folded in half like a calzone pizza, bones splintering, innards spraying over the branches of trees and hanging there like decorative paper chains. Ted is dragged back into the fake snowdrift, his head kissing the muddy souls of his feet, and if I were to look back, I might see his eyes and his feet slowly disappearing into the white. I might see red blood, splattered across the forest floor. But I don't look back, because I'm not a fucking idiot, am I? The music changes to Frosty the Snowman, just to spite us.

The forest gives way to cobbled streets, cute gingerbread houses with fluffy cotton wool roofs, false gumdrop door handles, and white icing trim around windows made from bubbled, warped sheets of sugar. Ranks of Christmas trees line the streets like soldiers on parade. A sign hanging from one of the buildings tells us this is the North Pole. Where Santa lives? We made it, mummy. His cousins trail forlorn and traumatised behind him, and Billy the baby coos and gurgles in my arms.

The only adults left alive are myself, Kira, and my husband. I can see the other two have forgotten about Ted already, and that's just fine by me. Less fuss, more speed. We can mourn later when we're out of here. For now, I've got four kids to take care of. A toy train rattles past us on a little track, its miniature steam engine giving out delicate puffs of acrid smoke.

It disappears around the corner, but not before it lets fly a single, mournful whistle from its chimney turret. The rest of the North Pole is curiously, eerily quiet, which I don't like. Not even any music, which makes me extra twitchy. The grotto weaponises Christmas music wherever possible I've noticed. The absence of it can only be deliberate and calculated. This way.

I head for a large central building that looks like a town hall, positioned in what looks to be the town square. It has a giant wreath of holly mounted on its roof, the red ribbon tying it there easily wider than my queen-sized bed at home. Our wager Santa is in there. We reached the hall unscathed and find the front doors thrown wide open. Inside a foyer, a long trestle table stands. Behind it, in a miserable line, underfed elves are at work,

listlessly decorating Christmas cookies with icing, marshmallows and edible glitter. Behind them, leaning over with a huge splintered and dirty wooden spoon is who I can only assume is Mrs. Santa. She is enormous, built like a brick shit house with massive muscled forearm. covered in tattoos of snowflakes, candy canes and holly. She watches the elves, who all look like the flight attendant elf and the sad drooping girl that served us the drinks right back at the start of things at the entrance of the grotto, like a hawk, watching for the slightest error.

When she spots something she doesn't like, her spoon cracks out, spanking a hand or an arm or a cheek with vicious practice precision. Help us, the elves' eyes plead, but we cannot. Mrs. Santa waves us past the table with her giant spoon. He's waiting for you. She's gesturing to another set of double doors at the end of the foyer. But why don't you try a cookie first? She grins and offers an icing smothered cookie to Kira,

who is staring at them with a greedy expression on her face. I am hungry. Can I try one? Of course you can, dear. The elves shift from foot. to foot, leaning forward, breath spated as Kira takes the cookie and raises it slowly to her lips. Are you fucking serious? I slapped the cookie from Kira's hand before she can take a bite. Are you actually fucking serious right now?

After everything we've been through today? Do you actually want to die? Because you're going about it the right fucking way? I swear to God, you're a stone-cold, brainless, idiotic, certified practical! That's what you are! Now stop drooling over this shit and let's go. Can we? Kira whines, lovingly stroking another cookie on the tabletop with the tips of her fingers. But, but they look so good. Just one bite.

How many fucking times? No! I grab her at the elbow and try to drag her away. Get off of me! With a huge wrench, Kira frees herself and snatches another cookie before I can stop her. Furious, I watch as she stuffs it into her mouth in one single ravenous movement. Her eyes roll back in her head as sugar hits her tongue, and I am reminded that I have no idea how long we've been in the grotto. Who knows when we last eight? Hours, days, weeks ago?

I'm hungry too, and saliva fills my mouth. But I have other priorities. Fine, fine, if that's how you want to end it, then that's your fucking problem. Because I've had just about enough of this shit. I really have. Let's go, I tell the others. But my son is staring at his aunt with a stricken. look on his face.

What's happening to her, mummy? Exactly what she deserves if you ask me. It's... Oh, God. Kira splutters, coughs, and then chokes on the cookie. Although I could have probably told her that would happen. More than this, her neck starts to swell, as if she's having an allergic reaction.

The swelling moves to her face, and then her arms and legs. Then her belly starts to bloat. Mrs. Santa looks on in satisfaction, whacking her spoon against her. massive spade-like hand impatiently. The elves drool in expectation. I can see dozens of rows of yellow sharpened teeth, bared and ready to work. Kira squeezes the strangled words out, but they won't do her any good. Not now. Anyway, I tried to help her earlier, didn't I? Can't help someone that won't help themselves? Best not look, darlings. Even as I say this to the children,

I wonder how I've become such a cold, pragmatic person. Maybe that's survival for you. It strips the soft, easily manipulated parts of yourself away and leaves only the steel behind. I don't know about that, but I do have an inkling that I know what's going to happen next, and I don't want to be close to it when it does. Should we go and stand over there where it's safe?

Kira is starting to make wild, panicked noises in the pit of her throat, and I think she knows what's about to happen too. Her clothes split and rip loudly as they can no longer contain her tumified body. I'll miss you, Kira, I think to myself. And I mean it. I really do. I turn my back on the table and move the sorry remains of my family towards the final pair of doors at the end of the foyer. Thirty seconds later, there is a horrible pained squeal, a dull pop and a wet splattering sound followed by the horrendous chorus of a line of starved carnivorous elves

feasting on Kira's exploded remains. If I were to make an educated guess, I would say they were using their bare hands to scoop skin and guts off the trestle table and straight into their mouths, cutlery be damned. It had clearly been a long time since they'd feasted too, judging by the orgasmic sounds of pleasure that now echo around the hall.

Something floppy and blood-stained lands on the tiles not far from my right foot, and I grimace. It is a hand, a single, solitary hand, with fingernails painted in turquoise. Kira's favourite colour. Nearly there, darlings. I tell the children this as I hustle them along, but I have no idea if it's the truth.

Yes, baby? I changed my mind. I don't want to see Santa anymore. I don't think we have a choice now, sweetie. Just stay close to me, okay? Georgie. My husband has found his voice. What?

Before we go in, I need to apologise for what I did. I don't... I haven't apologised. Not properly. I round on him, and the children look up at me, startled. No, no, you haven't. And you know what?

Now it's not the fucking time to start feeling sorry. It really isn't. My husband shuffles from foot to foot. You know I only did it for the best of reasons, for the house, for school fees, for... I did it for us. You did not embezzle hundreds of... of innocent old lady's pension scheme funds for the good of your family.

Give me a fucking break in a biscuit, would you? I wasn't born yesterday. I just... They trusted you with their money. What kind of person steals from old people so they can buy a new house, a new car? What kind of person? You deserve that hand stamp. My anger is a huge, malignant force spilling out of me.

You deserve everything that's coming to you. I can't believe you did this to us. Your own family! You torpedoed my life, you should. selfish, greedy bankstay. My husband has the audacity to look shocked. Georgie, please. I said I'm sorry.

The children huddle together, uneasy. I couldn't give two seconds and had shit whether or not you're sorry. Have you been asleep for the last few hours? Can you not see I'm a little distracted with the small matter of staying alive? He falls silent, then. I just wanted, I just wanted you to know. Before we meet Santa, I love you, Georgie. Well, isn't that nice?

I come up short in front of the two giant red double doors that are flanked by more bloated over-decorated Christmas trees. Over the top of the doors, the word Santa is embossed in gaudy gold lettering. Below that, there is a small green sign that gives me hope. On it, a little white stick man runs through an open portal. Underneath are two words. Emergency exit The only way out really was through, I think. Doesn't that mean anything to you?

Finally. We have finally made it to see Santa. Stay behind me, kids. I haven't got time for my husband's nonsense. Not now. I have to get these children out. Out where it's safe. I push open the double doors.

This time the music is a heavy panpipe rendition of eyesore mummy kissing Santa Claus. Or is it jingle bells? I can't tell anymore. Christmas music is all the same to me now. My eyes seek out the emergency exit, and I find it at the back of the hall, a tiny green door with a push bar to open. Between that and us, lies Santa.

Or, should I say, Santa's nest, because that's precisely what we see. A heaped, papery mound, as tall as a bus and half as wide. It stinks of bile and rotting half-digested things, and I gag, covering my chest, mouth with my free hand to mask the smell. The other hand holds Billy tight to my hip, where all babies sit, because our bodies have evolved to be furniture for others until we're

too old and frail to stand steady anymore. On top of this mass of chewed, regurgitated wrapping paper, which has been hollowed and moulded into a slimy, phlegm-coated den, a den that looks not unlike a wasp's nest, sits Santa, raised up high like a hideous cake-topper. Naked, he reclines on his bed of crushed boxes and masticated parcels and festive paper, the tired, ruined remains of gifts and presents usually left beneath the tree. My eyes slowly struggle to process what I'm seeing. When I eventually figure it out, my knees almost give out in fear. Almost, but not quite. I'm better than that sea. I've got balls, unlike some. What the fuck? For once, nobody pulls me up on my language.

This is largely because there aren't many people left alive to chastise me, but let's gloss over that. Santa's body doesn't make sense. At first I think he's humanoid, part of him at least. I can make out a head, legs and arms, and a shiny broad torso. But as he moves around in the nest, I'm suddenly not sure about his proportions at all. I think there might be more of him that I can't see buried under the paper scraps and gifts,

although his nest is an impossible mess of clashing patterns and shapes, glittering stripes and motifs, decorative bows, strings, labels, tinsels, and it's all muddled together to confuse the eye, I realise. Like camouflage. But there are things moving about in the midst of it all, things that belong to Santa, appendages, fleshy protuberances. Is that a tail curled up over his back? I think so.

It looks like a scorpion's tail, bristled with white hair, the wicked curved stinger at the end striped in alternating bands of red and white and green, like a candy cane. A pulsating, throbbing movement catches my eye. Underneath Santa's curling lethal tail, ballooning out behind him and pulsing slightly in time with his laboured breathing, is a large, membranous brown sack. Inside, I can just about make out the individual shapes of dozens of round, globular.

objects. Eggs, I realize. Santa is sitting on a giant egg sack. I take a half step closer, hypnotised by the grotesque nature of what sprawls before me, because I want to see. I want to make sense of it. My husband grabs my arm and stops me from going further. Didn't you hear me? I think he's about to cry. I said, I love you. Are you seeing this? I feel him trembling. Yes, but I wish you'd answer me. Mommy, who is that? That's Santa baby. My eyes travel along the egg sack and upwards.

Santa is covered in boils, great clusters of shiny, taut pustules that look like they're about to explode and shower us with pus at any given moment. If I squint, the boils shine with an iridescent mix of colours, of purples, of greens, of silvers and golds, like the thorax of a dragonfly. And if you were to be creative about it,

if you could use poetic license, if you squinted really hard and tried your best to ignore the rest of him, you might be forgiven for mistaking those boils and postules as Christmas baubles, the type you hang from a tree, if only for a split second. Hello, children. Santa speaks, and it is a terrible voice filled with mucus and hate. and hunger. It is a sick man's voice, with a thin, whining insectoid edge to it. His eyes are milky white, all white, no pupils or irises, so it looks like they're rolling back in his head.

Long, straggly white whiskers droop along the jowls of his face. I have never seen anything as terrifying and revolting in all my life. Have you been good children this year? A thick stream of yellow saliva dribbles down his shapeless chin as he says this. I jab my husband in the ribs and jerk my head in the right direction. The door is over there. If we hug the wall, we might be able to go around him. Slowly, we start to wedge backwards and then sideways in a series of slow, shuffling steps.

My husband holds his branded hand behind him, hoping against hope that Santa won't spot it. The children do exactly as they're told, creeping along like kids. cat burglarers in a museum at night. Santa's head cranes around on his neck as his question is met with silence. I'm not entirely sure, but I have a feeling that he cannot see out of his thick cataract-crusted eyes and uses other senses like sound and scent to locate his prey. Either way, he's angry at being ignored. I said, have you been good children this year?

My son bursts into tears. overwhelmed and frantic with terror. He stumbles over the word, which doesn't roll easily off his childish tongue. Mercedes! Shut up! I slapped my hand over his mouth, a futile gesture.

Our cover is blown. Santa's head whips around so that he is facing us. He licks his lips lasciviously. Is that so? And at that moment, the man I married all those years ago, for better, for work, for richer, for poorer, gives up.

Right there and then, on the spot, with the emergency exit not ten feet away from him. It's true. Santa's tongue flickers, eyes like saucers on his face. He sniffs the air with a red, swollen nose covered in broken veins and angry yellow scabs. His body stiffens, like a hound scenting a cat or a bird,

and he suddenly lets out a huge, satisfied sigh that fills the entire room with his fetid, hot, stinking. breath. A bony, cankered arm lifts up out of the nest and points at my husband. I can smell you now. You are on the naughty list. My husband holds his trembling hand up in front of his face, which crumples in on itself as he starts to cry. The livid, angry end for naughty blazes brightly against his otherwise smooth skin. Santa grins, enjoying his distress. Keep moving, kids. We continue to shuffle around the room, even as we watch, appalled.

The nasty ones always taste the best. Santa rears up from his nest, leaning forward violently. His stinger whips out across the room and stabs my husband square in the chest. I see him writhe, his mouth open, a wide o. The stinger quivers and sinks further into his body, and then the tail begins to vibrate. inflating in and out like a straw in a cocktail. Fluid is sucked along the length of the tail, for all the world as if Santa is sucking on a diet coke.

Only instead of his mouth, he is using his ass appendage. And instead of Coke, it's the blood of my husband. I like them so much better when they are naughty. Santa slurps, wriggling in glee as the man's juices slide in. his belly, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, and I'm reminded of a tick-sucking blood through a cow's hide. They taste so good when they are full of sin. I'm sorry.

My husband's eyelids droop. My husband, once a good man. Perhaps still a good man beneath his mistakes, but a stupid one. He made a choice, a choice to defraud and steal, to confuse and mislead. And I know I should forgive him. And maybe I will, later. But for now, I've got kids to think about. I start to edge along the wall again, quicker this time,

for Santa is feasting and distracted. We almost make it to the door, before Santa lets the desiccated husk that used to share my bed tumble to the ground, spent like a discarded water bottle. If I wanted, I could probably make a suit out of him. that sewing has never been my forte. The Christmas music is now God-resty-mery-mery gentleman, which is a level of irony I do not appreciate in my current state,

although the line, to save us all from Satan's power, does stir something in my mind. Is the thing in the nest a demon, maybe? But that doesn't make sense. Isn't Santa supposed to be a saint? Is there a difference? I don't know. My Christian demonology is a little rusty these days.

"'Does it really fucking matter?' I ask myself "'as I look upon the remains of my husband. "'The green door gets closer by the minute. "'By the second, we're so close I can see a strip "'of natural, honest to goodness daylight around the edges of it, "'and I know this is the rear of the marquee, "'right where I told my husband the exit would be. "'If only people would listen to me!'

"'I sound like a madwoman. "'I know I do. "'Santa lifts himself up from his nest once more with a wheeze. His sack is now three times what it was before his meal, and I can see more of the round, slimy eggs glopping around inside it. At the end of the sack, a puckered opening gaits. It looks suspiciously like an anus or cloacal opening. I've been listening to you all year, Georgie.

I listen to all the boys and girls all day, every single day of the year. I know who's been naughty and nice. You ready for your presence now? He groans, and I can finally feel insanity tickling at the edges of my endurance. Just keep going, kids. We're almost there, okay? Santa's egg-sax starts to shudder and quake, and his face turns redder and redder as if he is straining.

Lovely present. Gifts for the children. But I don't care anymore, because the emergency exit is finally within reach. I throw myself against the pushbar with all my remaining strength, and behind me another contraction rips through Santa's quivering, spasming mass. Lovely presents for all the good. Children! With a roar, Santa passes an egg,

expelling it through the air like a cannonball, where it splatters into the door above my head and explodes in a shower of soft shell casing and amniotic fluid. The newborn thing alive inside the egg lands on the floor, squeals, shakes itself, and looks up at me. It is a miniature, larval version of the thing in the nest. And if I thought I'd reached my limit before, I was wrong.

I was so... Fucking wrong. Without a moment's thought, I bring my foot down on it, hard, squishing it flat. I sweep all four kids up into my arms and hustle them out the door. Let's get the fuck out of here, shall we? Behind me, Santa quakes and groans giving birth to fresh abominations, fresh nightmares. But honestly, I don't have time for it. I really don't.

In the field, all is quiet. It is colder. much colder than it was when we went into the grotto. The air tastes crystalline and feels as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for snow. No birds tweet. No living thing moves. Not even the branches are far off trees, but there is no breeze. No living thing except for one woman, three children and a baby, who trudge along through the mud in a daze. Mommy.

My kid is tearful. There is mud on his cheek, and I wipe it away gently. We don't ever have to meet Sunder again, right? Never. Never, ever, ever. Tears well up in my eyes and spill down my face. Billy the baby touches one solemnly with his finger, then licks it to see how it tastes. There is a faint sound behind me, like an exhalation,

slow and soft, and the air carries it to me, enticing. and it would be tempting to look back if I didn't know better and see what I suspect I will see. The marquee, gone. The only signs it was ever there before, a trail of footprints in the mud, leading in one direction only. There, but not back again. But I don't look back and never will, because I know better now. I've got shit to do, places to be, kids to look after. family to feed, for better, for worse, although that doesn't apply anymore.

And sometimes the worst will outweigh the better, but I think I can make it work somehow, because I'm stubborn, you see. I went to Santa's Grotto and survived. Santa's Grotto, all you can dream of and fuck that for a game of tennis. Multiversal trivia. The story you just heard took place in our universe. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a sleepless night. Ho, ho, ho, I made it into this episode right at the end.

Can't keep the jolly old elf away. Therefore, I get to say, this audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All those blessed rights are reserved. All the copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Oh, my, yes. No duplicational reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc. And Santa.