Twas the Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. And yet, you find yourself waking in a cold sweat, your heart beating fast, little do you know, this Christmas will be your last.



Morning has come, you think, and with the dawn comes the opening of gifts long awaited. Then you notice the moon's baleful silver glow cascade through the gaps in your superhero adorned curtains. No gifts to tear open just yet, you realise as you cast a glance at your illuminated bedside clock. The clown grin stretched across the clock face, pulsing slime green, as the hands tremble slowly forward.



12:05am. He may still be here, you realise with glee.



You slide out of bed, onto the soft carpet, and step into your superhero slippers. Mustn't let Him hear me sneak up on Him, you think. To your bedroom door you tiptoe, before reaching up the handle and pulling it open into the darkness of the landing.



On the landing, you look left and right, not a mother, father, or sister in sight. They are going to be so jealous that you got to see Him tonight. Now on the landing, you hear a faint rustling from downstairs. Loud enough for you, mother's favourite, but clearly not enough to wake up lazy sister.



You catch your breath in your mouth, with one small hand clasping it shut, and strain to keep your ear fixed on the commotion below. For a time the thud thud thud of your heart overtakes the sound of His duties below, but you focus it out and again the crunch of Christmas wrapping paper is back at the forefront of your mind. A smile creeps across your face.



Moving towards the stairs, you slide your feet over fluffy beige carpet. You are soon bathed in the green and red glow of flickering lights on strings entwining the staircase. They pulse rapidly, matching your heartbeat as you descend the stairs. One step at a time, your slippered feet meet at each step and pause to keep track of what you hope is the crackling of further gift wrapped presents, being pulled for a sack full to the brim with joy.



Halfway down the stairs, you peer through the gaps in the poles of the staircase railing, out through the open door of the lounge. Someone big, jolly, and red, is moving back and forth in there. From left to right he plods with heavy feet, his gargantuan body shrouded in a red cloak. On reaching the left, where you know the chimney sits, the figure disappears out of view, before returning cradling various boxes, wrapped in sparkling material. You can see that he is hunching down from the ceiling as he lurches to the right, where the Christmas tree stands tall, just out of sight. When he returns from the right, the glittering present, for you know what it is now, is gone.



Pressing your face up against the poles of the staircase, your tiny hands grip them until they turn white. This is all you need to see, you tell yourself. You should run back upstairs, wake your sister, father, mother, tell them what you have seen! But no, you feel yourself back away from the columns in the staircase, and gently pad down further into the barely illuminated gloom of the downstairs hall. You're now covered in the sickly red and green incandescence of the lights on the stairs, as well as those pulsating from the tree in the lounge.



As you approach the open door to the lounge, He inside shows no sign of slowing down his march of gifts. You shuffle up to the side of the door, taking extra care to keep yourself just out of view. Now you can hear His breathing: long, heavy, rattled, and strained. Like a dragon from your favourite books. Your back against the wall, heart beating so fast, you suddenly find yourself frozen by fear. Fear that your heart is pounding out of your back, across the walls, vibrating and sending its thump of dread up and down the walls and across the floor, to your father, mother, and sister. What if they wake up and scare Him away? That's your fear. That this gift will be stolen from you.



Slowly you steady your heart, as you start to turn in towards the lounge. And then you are in, maybe two metres away from Him, He continues His duty. Now you can see just how tall He really is. Even stooped as He is, His red hood brushes against the ceiling, the dirty white bobble drooping down from a red peak. He's also bathed in the red flashing lights of the tree on the right. He's just started to kneel down before what you thought was a pretty big tree yesterday, but what now looks like a mere weed before Him.



As He bends low, you see His gigantic dark and dirty hands, with long and ravaged fingers, release their grasp from a large sparkling wrapped box, placing it before the tree with great care. His face is turned away from you, as you only see Him side on, face shrouded by his hood. But you can see His breath. Emerging like bloodied mist in the glow of the Christmas lights.



You're frozen in fear now.



Slowly He begins to turn, and you wish to as well. But you cannot. Now you hear the clink of chains that you can see are intertwined around his red cloak, and wrapped around His thick and muscular arms. His breath is ragged and jagged, and yours is barely escaping your mouth. Now he extends Himself to almost full height. He is still a metre or two away from you but His shadow is cast long over your pathetic and fragile body.



Suddenly His breathing stops. The house is truly silent now save your hammering heart and wheezing breath.



You stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, His two red eyes blazing in the darkness of his hood. Then a jagged smile, full of shark like teeth opens up. Some of the teeth seem to be flecked with redish bits of something.



With one last effort you gasp "Santa?" before He is upon you, red in tooth and claw, and you are no more.



When your family wakes they found only a trace of you. For in the lounge, a puddle of crimson memory stains the carpet, with drops leading to under the tree, to a solitary gift poorly wrapped.



Your family rip it open, look inside, face to face with what remains of their firstborn child.