Christmas is Canceled by Dan Henk

The North Pole

The life is almost inhospitable. Dark and dreary, a blinding wintry mix obscures the sunlight, transforming the land into a dimly lit world of stinging particles and breathtaking cold. But Santa doesn’t mind so much. Hunching his huge frame against the oncoming turbulence, he wanders out of his cozy, warm den, and into the blanketing snow. Legs buried up to his knees, he steadily slugs towards the shadowy stable harboring his reindeer. Jolly, and whistling to himself, his half open red coat flapping in the wind, he thinks only of the coming holiday. His once a year trip around the world. He’s been doing it for centuries, as long as he can remember. He has always obeyed.
The horses neigh and stir, more out of anticipation for their approaching master, than any discomfort. They were bred for the cold, just like Santa, and it doesn’t bother them so much either.
A hollow of darkness, the stable is only illuminated by the pale lines of sunlight cast by the door frame and a few slivers in the walls. With a jolly cackle, the door edges open, ushering in a cascade of airborne snow, and a slightly inebriated Santa.
He makes the rounds, gently petting submissive heads, mumbling something virtually unintelligible about mission, and duty, and some other bullshit. It’s beyond their comprehension, but they appreciate the affection, and respond with gentle nudges and hoarse breathing.
After a few minutes, Santa, apparently done with the minor pep session, departs, leaving the door mostly closed behind as he stumbles towards the buried entrance to his abode.
Carved of oak, hung by massive hinges of blackened iron, and bearing the faint imprint of strange, hieroglyph looking letters, it’s dark contours emerge in shallow spots through a coat of snow. The actual dwelling tunnels deep into the rock, widening into a large, oval cavern below.
He pauses at the doorway, and glances into the blizzard obscured recesses off to his left. Out there, hidden by the storm, are the barracks of the elves. He couldn’t do it without them. They awaken every year, filing out of their cocoons, and proceed to spend the next several months crafting toys, repairing his sleigh, and getting everything ready for the glorious night of December twenty fourth. He smiles, a nostalgic memory passing through of the way Christmas used to be, in much more violent times, before throwing open the door, and wandering inside.
Down the rabbit hole, a tunnel of crudely carved rock trails through granite lead down into the pale blue of his chamber. Stumbling a little drunkenly, he wanders into the cool light.

Such A Nice Night

The wind whips past, the clouds a labyrinth of hills and troughs below. They look solid, like some deeply contorted landscape, the edges dissolving into the cold winter air. A bright moon illuminates the crests, a million small mountain tops, undulating in a hazy sprawl as far as the eye can see. Maybe he’ll get some of those nice folks, the kind that leave him spiked eggnog. He smiles, his thick lips peeling back to reveal a row of stout, horse-like teeth, glimmering under a faint sheen of yellowish slime. And that’s all he thinks. For miles and miles, the mountainous clouds rising and falling in a twisting landscape below him.
An hour passes, and the mist grows thicker. Icy particles pelt his face, and visibility diminishes. He gently coos to the reindeer, and wriggles the reins, calming them and keeping them in line. The sleigh hits a pocket of warm air an rises abruptly, falling again almost just as it starts to ascend. The reindeers neigh in dismay, but he keeps to the gentle, reassuring sounds, pulling a little tighter on the leather straps.
Suddenly, a rear gust pushes him forward, and the top of his cap flops over in front of his eyes, blinding him. The carriage jolts harshly, and he can feel the reigns twisting in his hands. Desperately pushing back the brim of his cap, the clouds off to his far right brighten into a red glow. No, not one glow, several glows…a row of floating illuminated orbs. Maybe three? The gale is whipping by incredibly fast, darkened thunderheads roiling in front of the lights, clouding their presence. Suddenly, the lights move. Crazy fast, towards him, then backing off, quickly to the right, then shooting over to the left. The reindeer spook, and start to break their forward stride. For a brief moment, everything is chaos, animals headed in opposite directions…then the sound of rending leather. For the first time, panic hits Santa. There is a brief moment, as if before a car wreck, when everything slows down. The cry of dismay-the wild gestures of the hands-then suddenly, he is falling, plummeting towards the earth. The clouds that seemed so solid moments before reveal their true identity as he flies through them like the gauzy remnants of a dream. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Twisting around, a wide expanse of forest and mountain spreads out below him. It’s approaching incredibly fast, and he tries to turn, to gain some form or composure, but it’s like turning in the water, everything is too slow. Twisted visions of the ground, growing ever closer, flutter past him, disappearing in his mad tumble just as he tries to focus. Then something slams into him, impossibly hard, and everything is black.

The Great Outdoors

A cough, a growing reality, and Santa rolls over, spitting up melted snow. Every part of his body aches, and he can feel the cool breeze tearing through holes in his clothing. He sputters again, and specks of crimson decorate the white landscape spread out before him. Groaning, he struggles into an upright squat, his eyesight still blurry and out of focus. Darkened shadows move listlessly before him, and he throws up his hands to ward them off. A subdued neigh, and a tongue licks the side of his face. Startled for a moment, he pulls away quickly, trying to concentrate. The thing moves closer, and licks him again. It’s one of his reindeer! He reaches out and gently strokes the head. A contented murmur, and the creature sways it’s head gently, acknowledging the affection.
Santa tries to rise, making it almost to a full stand, before he falls, stumbling backward into an awkward squat. Cursing, he tries to rise again, spreading his feet out, and moving more slowly. His legs ache, a stinging sensation shooting up his right side, but he manages to struggle over to the leaning trunk of a massive tree. He can feel the hard bark pressing icily through the tear in his jacket, but he leans his weight further in, trying to take some of the pressure off his leg. Hot and throbbing, his foot tells him he must have twisted an ankle in the fall.
Raising his head, and pulling back his cap, he stares around. His vision has started to clear, the vertigo receding a bit, and he blearily surveys the landscape.
Tall trees, with thick trunks resembling contorted pillars, shoot up all around. The tips look like they touch the clouds. A crazy lattice of branches, bedecked with a crust of snow, spread out overhead. Trailing his gaze back down, he notices that the ground slopes on his right, leading up a hill. The apex disappears far above in a tangle of dark trunks. A snort returns his attention to the reindeer. Huddling about in a mass of bewilderment, their skinny legs are buried knee-deep in snow. A couple of them have lowered their heads, and poke at something, sniffling loudly in disapproval.
Straightening himself up, Santa sloshes over, struggling through the thick morass. The top has melted and hardened into an icy crust, and his struggles crack it into a labyrinth of long spiderwebs. The animals draw back, stumbling awkwardly through the deep drifts. All except one, who seems intent on investigating something. As he draws closer, it becomes apparent that one of the reindeer didn’t make it. Leather straps entangle the lower reaches of it’s rear legs, the upper thigh bones unnaturally pushing against the skin. Fuck. That was Prancer. One of his favorites. A lone tear rolls down his cheek, and his thick shoulders sag. A violent snort, and the resting head comes alive, the inquisitive reindeer backing away in panic. A spray of blood flies out of it’s nose, the sheen of scarlet all too prominent on the crisp white. It’s neighs madly, twisting it’s head back and forth in delirium. The sadness grows, and a tear runs out of Santa’s other eye. His breath has become shallow, dying in his throat, and it’s hard to catch a new one. Leaning over slowly, he grips the neck. Steadying his hands, he jerks right One quick, ferocious twist. A load pop, and the reindeer falls silents. He clenches his eyes, tears running freely from both.

Lost In The Woods

Deep and strange, the woods flowed on endlessly. The sun was rising, enlivening the all encompassing blanket with a pale blue tint. Up and over the hills, and down yet again through the valleys it flowed, burying everything in a frozen river of white. Charcoal mounds of rock, pitted and scarred with age, broke the surface in spots, always overshadowed by the endless black sea of trunks. Two days had passed, and Santa was starting to feel the hunger. He ate more than a usual man, storing fat for his year long slumber, and all this activity was maddening. His ankle had almost repaired itself, but that was further burning calories he didn’t have to spare. If he could just find his sleigh, he could tie the reindeer to it, and off they would sail. His masters might be upset that he missed Christmas, but he hadn’t seen them in eons, and surely they would understand. But sadly, the sleigh was nowhere to be found.
He crested yet another hill, and looked out over the valley. Bright and clear, a tint of orange light highlighting the terrain, it looked just like the last hill he had surmounted. An endless flow of trunks, their massive height cut low from his lofty perspective, swarmed out like a sleeping army over the land. Hardened clumps of snow clasped doggedly to the extended branches, the evergreen pines fanning out in a downward spiral, while the leafless branches branches splintered in a labyrinth of slivers of pale wood intermingled with glistening white. A lazy cotton of clouds rolled slowly overhead, their undersides tinged by the same pale orange. A cool gust blew through, rattling the trees, the melted and then re-frozen snow clinging tenaciously to the shifting branches. A hardened crust coated the ground, letting free nothing except the harsh glare of a partially risen sun. The reindeer milled about, shuffling gently in nervous anticipation. The pocketed trail the herd had left, augmented by the heavy tread of Santa’s boots, trailed back down the hill, through the valley, and into the woods beyond.
Santa was starting to feel hopeless. Nothing was alive in this wintery landscape. No nuts or berries, no wildlife, even the trees were deep in hibernation. They had followed a vaguely circular pattern, heading out in wider and wider loops, looking for the fallen sleigh. If much more time passed, the reindeer might be even to weak to attain flight, and then all would be lost. Santa didn’t really know what would happen after that. He had followed the same pattern for centuries, almost as far back as he could remember. His stomach burned with hunger, a gnawing cancerous feeling in his gut, and he felt physically weak. Perhaps if he followed a straight trail back…not the long arc around, but cutting right through the center to where they had first landed. He was getting to far out now, and the sleigh probably wasn’t here. He remembered it being with them much of the fall, a heavy load of presents pelting him in cascading torrents as he pirouetted through the air. He had passed traces of them, cratered pockets of snow enlivened with hints of red and silver tinfoil, but they had all been closer in. Surely the sleigh, being heavier and more centered, had not ventured too far. Surveying the reindeer, huddled loosely about him, staring up with a glossy, fearful look in their eyes, he decided it was their best bet. Screwing up his eyes in a determined resignation, he headed back down the hill.

And Wouldn’t You Know…

The trip back was much shorter than the trip out, cutting directly through the snowy banks and into the darkened recesses of the woods. It was also more defeating. A last ditch effort, much of the initial hope had dissipated. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Three days had now passed. The snow Santa kept eating to keep him hydrated only made him hungrier, and his poor reindeer looked the worse for the wear, moping sheepishly behind him. A couple had tried scraping at the bark of trees, seeing if there was any nourishment, but to no avail. Everything was frozen solid. Santa had lost his hat, somewhere in the woods, and his thick, ropy strings of white hair fluttered off his balding head. His hearty, olive skin had gone a shade paler, more a sickly faded green, the warmer peach colors drained out of it. Little dried reservoirs of ocher had built up at the corners of his mouth, the left one overflowing in a thin stream down his chin. It was growing dark, and he was trucking through in a drudging daze. The reindeer barely kept up, their delicate hooves crunching through the deep snow in a haphazard cadence.
The sun had fallen, the sky a fading periwinkle, as the woods opened up in a familiar clearing. Santa didn’t recognize it at once, the clutches of a foggy memory scratching the edge of his perception. The shadows of the tree trunks crisscrossed the meadow in purple stripes. Dark shapes, some long and thin, some cluttered down in ambiguous hunks, littered the opening. As he drew closer, he realized they were the debris from his initial fall. Jagged tree limbs pierced the ice. Foil covered boxes littered the snow about them. In some cases, the two had mingled, and shafts of splintered wood rent through the brightly colored boxes, tearing out unlucky bits of stuffed animals and plastic toys with them. In one, a stolid shaft of wood ruptured up out of the bowels of a box, holding aloft a delicately painted, life-sized child’s head. The wind whistled through, and the fine strands of hair rose up, fluttering in the breeze. Then Santa’s vision turned, and alighted on the partially frozen corpse of his dead reindeer. The head was still tilted at the awkward angle Santa had twisted it into, the eyes wide and glassy. The gums had peeled back, revealing a row of wide, ivory teeth. Santa’s stomach grumbled, turning over, and he bent slightly in pain. He felt weak, dizzy, and for a moment vertigo almost overtook him. It passed, and he shook his head to clear it. That’s when the unthinkable crossed his mind. He would have to eat Prancer.

Not Such a Good Idea

He thought twice about it. More than twice. It was like eating his friend. But his survival instincts were kicking in, operating a genetic autopilot that turned off all emotion and reason. Only survival mattered.
One of the legs was already bent, and he snapped it off with a sharp crack. The skin was frozen to the muscle, and he couldn’t separate it. He shed his gloves, gripped the fur with his thick, pale fingers, and pulled as hard as he could. A dry, scraping sound, and a tuft freed itself. A small tuft. This was going to take awhile.
An hour later, and he had eaten enough. A cold, hard, repulsive mass had accumulated in his stomach, and he looked down with disgust at the poor beast. It looked even stranger and more out of sorts with one leg missing. He had initially squatted down, buried up to his waist in the snow, but now he felt a cold burning overtaking him. He had become dizzy, and slowly laid back. The reindeer had grown more skittish, and backed away to the edges of the tree line. Santa didn’t notice.
The surroundings were growing dim, but the sky overhead appeared to be brighter than ever, the bellies of the clouds rolling overhead a vibrant orange in the fading sun. The edges shifted and moved, blurring out and making Santa feel drunk. Only he didn’t feel drunk, so much as strangely off balance, like he was just falling into, or waking out of a dream. His eyelids had peeled back more, not blinking at all now, and small flecks of orange had appeared in the irises.
A sharp crack almost broke the reverie, and Santa rose partially out of the snow. A rushing sound, and he sat upright. Then, with a momentous crash, the carcass of the sled descended from the branches, burying it’s front end in a thick drift a few feet off. A few boxes still clung to the back, one finally taking a death plunge of only a few feet, and skidding out across the ice-slick snow.
It had been there all along! If only… but Santa felt week. His vision was fading. The reindeer whinnied and stomped in place. Something was agitating them. But they were starving, and freezing, and Santa was all they had ever known.

Joy To the World

The Henderson house was a rather plain looking two story dwelling, it’s white washed shell nestled snugly beneath roof of black tile. It adorned a descent street in the military housing suburbs of Newburgh, New York. Lofty trees, perfectly equidistant apart, lined the road. The soft glow of street lamps cast circles of pale yellow every few feet, bringing into focus the thick blanket of snow, the air alive in a cascade of white.
A dim light shown through the latticed downstairs windows. Timothy carefully watched the Christmas tree from the safety of his stoop behind the railing of the stairwell. A net of softly twinkling white lights encircled the giant tree, weaving in and out of a myriad of hanging ornaments. Glistening red balls, miniature porcelain depictions of the baby Jesus in the manger, striped candy canes. A smothering conglomerate of competing decorations. The recesses under the tree were stuffed with various colorful presents, but he knew more were on the way. A haughty classmate, a grade above his 3rd year, had tried to convince him that Santa didn’t exist. That his parents really put all the presents under the tree. He knew that couldn’t be possible, and he was here tonight to prove it. He had even laid out the traditional eggnog and cookie, and watched the fireplace with baited breath. It had been over an hour, but he was far too excited to sleep. He jumped at every rustle. So far it had only been the wind, but he kept his ears peeled.

A muffled grating started to emanate, and he anxiously glanced from door, to chimney, to window, trying to isolate it. The scraping sound grew stronger, and started to focus on the chimney. His heart jumped in his chest, and he held his breath. Eyes wide, he hid more of his body behind the cover of the balustrade, peering out between the top rungs.
A clatter and a heavy thump, and something black emerged from the recesses of the fireplace. He slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out, and ducked back behind the cover of the upper staircase. He heard something skid across the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. Bending forward again, he slowly peered around the bend. It looked like Santa alright! A bright red coat, red trousers, and thick black boots. The head was slightly bent over, the back turned to him, but Santa appeared to be missing his hat. A mop of white hairs, greasy and knotted, crested the top of a fur ringed collar. Santa! He stood up, and dared to take a few steps down.

“I knew you were real!”

Santa froze, then turned slowly. Bulging bloodshot eyes, the irises a glistening orange, locked on him. Yellowish-green drool trailed from the corners of his mouth, intermingling with the dark crimson stains garnishing his beard below. His mouth opened, a sea of red, and a deep, guttural groan emerged. Timothy’s jaw dropped, a shrill scream leapt out, and he turned, scampering up the stairs two at a time.
Slamming his door, he fidgeted with the lock. Fixing it in place, he flew over to the closet, hashing though the shoes in search of his snow suit and boots. There was the sound of a door opening abruptly, and his dad’s voice.

“Hey, what’s going on…who are….aaaaaahhh….”

The last was a piercing, almost shrill cry, followed by a sickening snap, and a thick gurgling.

“Oh my god! Pete! Aaaa-no-stay back-”

A second, even more grisly crunch. Then, silence. Timothy pulled on his undergarments, followed by his snow suit. He dug his boots out, and was pulling them on, when he heard a steady scraping. Pausing mid stride, left boot half on, arm still outstretched, he froze and peeled his ears. It was wet, repetitive. He strained his hearing even further. It continued, and a horrible thought gripped him. It was the sound he made when gnawing on a chicken wing! Pulling the boot on, heart beating a million miles an hour, he headed for the window. Then he heard a door creak open, and the sleepy voice of his sister.

“Mom? Who is that?”

A piercing scream, followed by the sound of a door slamming. He held his breath. All was silent for a moment. Then the steady gnawing sound resumed. She was safe. Wendy was as safe as she was going to be. There was nothing he could do…
He was too terrified to head back, to open that door. He just knew that thing would be right on the edge, waiting…but, his sister… help!He had to find help! Gently setting the lamp on the wooden floor, slowly so as to not make any noise, he crawled up onto the desk, unlatched the window, and cracked it open. There was a sharp break of ice, and he froze, listening for that thing in the hall. All was silent. Was it waiting for him? Did it hear the window? A moment passed, and the gnawing resumed. Slowly edging the pane open, a gust of freezing air swooped in to greet him. He peered over the sill. The roof sloped gently down toward a tree just beyond. He had crept out of the house, edging across the shingles, climbing out onto the thick branches a million times. But never over a coat of snow. And never in a situation like this. He held his breath and listened. The gnawing had stopped. Something scraped along the floor, and a new sound greeted his ears. Twitching? It sounded like…sniffing! The thing was at his door! In a panic, he clambered up onto the windowsill, and hurdled over. A soft padding, and his feet started to slide. He desperately grasped at the window ledge, his legs sweeping out from under him. With an awkward thump, he belly-flopped on the carpet of snow. His thick mittens barely held on, slipping away from the metal window railing until only his fingertips still held. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face, tumbling over his cheeks and plunging into the fur lining of his hood.

“NNNNghhhhh….”

A guttural cry, followed by the pounding of fists on his door. Timothy could feel his gloves slowly sliding off the sill. If he freed a hand to get a firmer grip, he was sure the other would give. He glanced over his shoulder, at the dark skeleton on the tree just beyond. Could he make it?

“NNNNNghhhhh”

A splintering sound, and thick, pale fingers pierced through the wood. They quickly withdrew, and stillness returned for a moment. All was dark in the room, the rent through the door even darker. He scrunched up his eyes and peered hard into the depths. Something just beyond the hole in the door glistened. A wave of fear swept over him. He held his breath. The wind blew noisily in a brief gale, and then all was silent. A low, rhythmic sound resounded from within the house. What was that? Squinting his eyes and focusing on the cleft in the door, he could make out a slight gleam…that thing was staring and salivating! Heart pounding in his chest, he lost his grip. Picking up speed, he flopped around desperately, craning his neck to stare down at the fast approaching gutter. A fall of a full story lay just beyond. The tree was too far to his left, he was going to miss it! He started to throw his hands in that direction, but it was too late, too far away, and over the edge he sailed.

The Fury of the Storm

He had made it before, and always been fine. The thick padding of snow was a further bonus, softening the landing. There was none of the jarring shock when he jumped in the summer, but it was a more chaotic landing this time, and he tumbled awkwardly into the snow. Desperation seized him, and he was back up immediately, slogging through the waist high carpet of white. He moved as fast as he could, but it still seemed so slow. Craning his neck, he looked over his shoulder. Santa had made it to the window, and was staring down, eyes focused on him like a dog leering at food.

The downstairs door handle rustled, popped open, and his shrieking little sister came flying out. She had managed the fore site to put on her winter clothes. It looked almost comical, a heavily padded pink body suit with a hood that sprouted bunny ears, white knit mittens outstretched like lobster claws. A thin layer of ice, dusted with a powder of snow, coated the short steps and walkway, and Timothy was afraid she would slip. He rushed across the remaining field of snow, meeting her in the recently shoveled driveway. Grabbing her hand, he turned and headed towards the road.
Their feet kept slipping, almost bringing him to his knees,but they made it through. Only upon reaching the curb did Timothy dare to look back. His little sister stared up at at him, then followed his line of site to the doorway beyond.
The entrance was a black cavity, but just beyond, partially hidden by the shadows, was the lurking form of Santa. No movement, but his eyes were fixed on them. The blood pounded at Timothy’s temples. He tightened his grip on his sister, and fled out onto the road.

The storm was blinding. Soft, powdery drifts gave easily underfoot, the loose snow slithering back in place as he tore through. Big, thick flakes fell from the sky, catching the streetlight in dotted queues of white. The wind picked up, a cold northern gale, biting at his exposed face. He bent his head forward, to fight against it, dragging his sister by her gloved hand. Past the streetlight, up and over the curb, and into the neighbors yard they traveled. The wind whistled shrilly around a bare trunk, it’s hulking form rising up out of a sea of white in the middle of the lawn. The large latticed window of the living room lay just beyond. Only the Christmas tree was aglow, it’s hundreds of little lights twinkling out from a sea of green.

“C’mon…”

He was practically dragging Wendy. The drifts were up to the middle of her chest, her face scrunched in a mixture of anxiety and pain.

“We have to go…faster…”

“I’m trying…I’m trying…”

Across the front lawn, up the snow capped stairs they ventured, Timmy finally letting go of his sisters hand to bang heartily on the door. His blue mittens dulled the sound, the wind drowning out all but the faintest thump. Pulling his hand out, he rapped against it, the cold biting into his fingers, making his skin thin and brittle. The door was a heavy mahogany, a fierce and ice-cold barrier, responding to each blow with a sharp stab of pain.

“Help…help…somebody…please…”

The only answer was the wind. He pounded again, over and over, knuckles growing raw. Nothing. A desperate glance over his shoulder, and he grabbed his sisters hand. With a stumbling leap, he bounded off the steps, rounded the side, and headed for the sliding glass door in the back. His sister was waning, falling behind as her little legs wore down. He couldn’t carry her, at least not very far. Dammit! He paused, letting her wrist go for the moment. Breathes came in sharp bursts of cold, and sweat started to pool in his armpits, freezing almost immediately. His sister stared up at him, her pink hood and bunny ears strangely eerie as it swaddled her terrified face. Her eyes were almost unnaturally big brown globes, her cheeks deeply stained pink. She issued not a sound, just stared in uncomprehending alarm. He strained his ears, listing for any sound. Shrill and arctic, the wind drowned out everything. Gripping his sister’s wrist again, he started back towards the rear of the house.
A drift had piled up against the sliding glass door, and he had to kick some of it free with his boots to reach the handles. The glass was stained with fog, the interior dark and unviewable. Fortunately, the wide metal handle was just below his chest level, and he gripped it tightly, pulling with all his strength. It didn’t budge. Working himself in closer to the glass, he tried to put his weight against it. He pushed forward, his mittens slipped around the L shaped handle, and he flew face first into the snow. Jumping up with a furious sputter, the freezing crystals started to almost instantly melt, streaming in a stabbing cascade of freezing cold down his neck. Panic was starting to dig in, and he bounded over to the door. Pulling his mittens off, the cold wind flaying his cracked skin, he gripped the door handle. It was like ice, the metal a biting into palms. Tears welling at his eyes, he pushed forward. His rubber boots slipped backwards, finding anchor as they slammed into the door frame. Panting out twisting clouds of vapor, the freezing air coursing down his throat, he screwed his eyes tight and shoved. A loud crack, and the seal of ice broke, the door sliding with it. Timothy yelped in pain, skin pulling free from his palms. He lost his balance, and tumbled into the show again, his raw hands burying themselves in the waiting drift.

“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit….”

The tight lipped curses were mouthed silently, Timothy rocking to and fro, tears streaming down well worn salty trails. His vision was blurred, but it was clear enough that he could see his sister standing over him.

“Timmy…we have to go….”

He grew insanely angry for a moment, but quickly calmed. It sounded so innocent. So childlike. But so true. He struggled up to his knees, grabbed his sister’s hand, and headed for the door.

But All That Glitters As Gold

The dark silhouettes of an overwrought couch, a large screen TV just behind, were visible. The neighbors were originally from Alaska, native Minuet? Regardless, the thick shag carpet always retained a slight odor. It was a fishy, slightly spicy smell. Releasing his sister for a minute to close the door, Timothy grabbed her again, and headed towards the carpeted stairs. Holding his finger up to his mouth, in the universal symbol for “keep fucking quiet”, he took a stab at gingerly ascending the steps. It wasn’t much use, his olive snow boots were like giant boats, and the stairs creaked with each step. Every issuance of noise caused him to tense, his ears stretching out in panic. It was nerve racking, but they had no other choice, they couldn’t stay below. His friend Daniel lived here, and his dad was a big guy. He was sure that if he got involved, things would be better. Rounding a wood paneled bend, they entered the wide living room. The Christmas tree was alive in a cascade of light. A few presents, wrapped in lime green and cherry red foil, laid haphazardly stacked around it’s base. A gilded armchair, it’s carved wood adorned with crimson cushions, rested beside. A marble topped coffee table, sporting a contorted metal Victorian lamp, a glass of milk, and cookies, accompanied it. Timothy was sure that arrangement was for Santa, and their not being touched meant he hadn’t been here. Yet. But that was the old Santa. Maybe he wasn’t interested in cookies and milk anymore. Maybe he never had been.

All the houses on the block were built the same. On the left hand side there was a wooden balustrade. It escorted a flight of fourteen steps (he’d counted it many times) upstairs. His alcoholic grandmother had visited one year, and actually passed out on the twelfth step. The two smaller rooms occupied by the children would lie across from each other, with the larger parent’s room just beyond.. Holding his finger to his lips, he led his sister up the stairs. The wet footprints in the cream carpet underfoot were virtually invisible, and Timothy took no notice.
The right hand room was small, harboring just a bed and dresser. In Timothy’s house, this was his sister’s room, and he had been there many a morning. The two of them would stare out at the street, hoping the snow storm would be intense enough to delay the plows, and more importantly, the school openings! They always grimaced when they saw the bulldozers, following like clockwork.
The door was wide open. The small bed had it’s sheets disturbed, but was empty. In his house, his mom made the bed every morning, so he assumed it meant that Daniel’s brother was recently here. The window was tightly closed, the blanket of snow outside casting a pale, creamy light over everything. Unless he was hiding in the closet, or under the bed, he wasn’t in the room. Timothy was far too scared of either of those spots to check them out right now, so he ducted his head out, and wandered over to the other room. The door was open, and this one harbored a bunk bed, probably for both of them when they were smaller, but now only occupied by Daniel.

“Daniel!”

It was a harsh, urgent whisper, and brought no response. This room was a little darker, and Timothy was even more hesitant to enter it.

“Daniel!”

He was a louder this time, but still there was no response. He scanned the premises. The top of the wooden dresser sported a glass tumbler, and Timothy grabbed it. Tossing the contents over the top rail and into the bed, a dull splash told him no one was home. Dammit!
He still hadn’t released the grip on his sister’s hand, and he swiveled back around, pulling her towards the master bedroom. The door to this room was only half open, and beyond was completely impenetrable. He approached it more slowly, slowing to a crawl just as he reached the door frame.

“What’s wrong?”

It wasn’t that loud, but the voice sounded like a bullhorn in the silence, and Timothy jerked his sisters hand, more out of instinct than anything else.

“Owe, you’re hurting me!”

This was even worse, and he spun his head around, giving her a “shut your fucking mouth right now” scowl. She stared back at him with a look that said “I hate you and I’m going to tell mom”. He turned back to the room, and peered in. The bed was taller and wider than the ones in the kid rooms, and whatever rested on it was hidden by the massive oak foot board. Tiptoeing over to the right, he continually stared up at the slowly emerging field of sheets. Just beyond the wood barrier, the bedspread rose in life sized lumps. They were here after all! He was saved!

“Mister Havet?”

It was just above a whisper, and brought no response.

“Mister Havet?”

This was louder, but still nothing. He tugged gently at the edge of the sheet. The thing was stuck, probably folded under his left side. He yanked a little more, and it gave slightly. He paused, holding his breath. That should have been enough to wake them! A minute passed. Two. He gently reached over, and gave the sheet an even stronger pull. It still held, He wrenched on it harshly. The sheet came loose in a wild flurry, a fusillade of crimson and black flying out en mass and pelting him with gooey chunks. He was blinded for a moment, snapping his eyes closed at the oncoming wave. Rubbing them frantically, he opened them a hair, squinting through a blurry haze as the fluid seeped in at the corners in a sharp burn. His vision cleared just enough, and his mouth dropped. Exposed ribs jutted out of fleshy chunks of red, the slippery sheen of pink intestines worming their way through the exposed rifts in the canyons of gristle, flowing out onto darkly stained bedsheets. The arm that usually accompanied the side was gone, the face turned away, but pieces of gristle jutted up from the edges of a caved in skull. With a liquid sliding sound, the head rolled, an eyeball breaking free and descending the cheek, jerking to a halt a moment later on it’s leash of glistening veins. Timothy almost screamed. Almost, but the his voice was gone, and in the few seconds it took to regain it, the sound was caught in his throat. Everything was absolutely silent for a moment, then he heard a liquid slurping sound, followed by a muffled crunch. Oh Shit! Oh Shit! He was frozen, unable to move. He remembered his sister. She hadn’t screamed yet! That means…and just then, an ear piercing scream. The echos of it were still resounding, when he realized that the liquid slurping sound had stopped. Something rose. An enormous, dark figure from the other side of the bed. It was Santa, mouth and chin coated in a never ending flume of blood. A fingerless hand was held aloft, a piece of it’s flesh still stuck like meat gristle in Santa’s teeth. In a complete act of poignant realization, Timothy noticed that it was a child’s hand.
There was no time to think. He grabbed his sister, and darted for the door. She yelped, twisting around gawkily, but followed, her little feet padding in behind desperation. They still couldn’t quite keep up, and Timothy was almost dislocating her wrist. Hitting the bottom of the steps, he scooped her up, twisting her on his back as he headed for the sliding glass door.

Escape into the Forest

Daniel’s house was at the top of a hill, the backyard dropping down a steep slope, only mellowing out for a few yards at the bottom before it hit the woods. They had sledded down it many times, and the snow was packed into two channels of polished ice from their weekly adventures. Timothy scanned around, trying to make out the contours of a sled in the blinding frenzy. The sun must have risen by now, the sky had lightened to a pale ocher, but the fury of the storm buried any hint of daybreak. Even the edges of the house were barely visible, the white planks assaulted by furious barrages of white. Timothy glanced back at the foreboding maw of the rear door, and a renewed shot of terror pierced him. Grabbing his sister, he twisted sideways, and started down the hill at an angle.
The drop was fierce, his feet slipping a few inches with each new stride, but the thick barrier of snow stopped him within a few inches. It was exhausting, and he didn’t even feel tired so much, but more as if the energy in him was burning out. He tightened his grip on his sister, and she let out a short yelp in response. No time fore niceties now, this was life or death, and he was too young to die! The gale beat fiercely against his face, and he gritted his teeth as he titled forward, the wind born flurry drumming against numb cheeks.
As they hit the bottom, the progress grew even harder. There was no sloping angle to help, just a never-ending mass of white. It stretched out across the buried backyard, swallowing up half the blackened trunk of the single tree, and continuing on into the thrust of high weeds that bordered the forest just beyond. Yellowish stalks erupted out of lumpen patches of white, the long dead tops abused and beaten by the harsh winter.
Timothy paused, drawing his sister in close, and tried to catch a breath. He glanced back up the hill, it’s steep incline obscuring the house beyond. Just a blur of yellowish-gray crowned the top, flurries of snowflakes whipping in and out of focus. No sign of Santa. He readjusted his grip on his sister, and started for the woods again. The momentary break had made his legs grow stiff, and they complained with the renewed strain, but he didn’t dare stop now. I they could just get to woods, they might have a chance.

A final fight with the tangle of weeds, the buried recesses snagging his boots, and he was brought to a halt. He fought with an unseen network of roots, the buried tips of his boots entwined in hidden maze . Managing to free himself with a great exertion of force, he broke free and promptly tumbled over into the forest just beyond. He had released his grip on his little sister’s wrist, in moments that seemed like eons ago, and he spun around in fright, half expecting Santa to be there. But Wendy was alone. Exhausted, terrified and confused, but alone. He reached over and took her hand, helping her up and across the matted clump of weeds.
The forest floor was much more manageable, the snow only a few inches high. Timothy and Wendy trudged on in silence, a steady queue of condensed steam escaping their gasping mouths, as if the bellows of some toy locomotive. The labyrinth of dark trunks opened up into dark field, the leafless trunks falling away into a thick sea of ocher. Tall weeds thronged out, intertwining each other as they fought for territory, the bristly pinnacles towering over their heads. Timothy thought about going around it, but the corner of his vision caught a trail cutting through, the trampled vegetation almost unnoticeable. It wasn’t much more than twin tire tracks, but the path looked recent enough that the snow was not that high, the weeds crushed into submission, and most likely it led to a highway at some point. He let go of his sister’s hand and stumbled forward, parting the tall stalks and trying to get a better look. He didn’t know the woods up here that well, but this field probably belonged to the same farmer that had chased him and his friend Dewey out last summer. He was a grumpy old man, holding aloft a shotgun, and threatening to shoot them. They had run for their lives, Dewey streaming tears. It was enough to make him pause, but they had no choice. Surely the farmer would see that, if he was even out in this storm! He headed back to his sister.

“Wendy. We are going to cross this field. I think there is a highway on the other side.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded. He grabbed her wrist, and headed in.

The bottoms of the stalks were buried in a shroud of ice, and he lost his footing more than once. He almost came crashing down once, a last minute flurry of desperate grabs all that saved him. He had managed to stop inches from the ice, his eyes focusing on the blacked shapes frozen below. He couldn’t quite make out what lay beneath, but he had read enough to fill his imagination with all sorts of fantastical horrors. He picked himself up, reached over to his sister, and pushed out into the corridor just beyond.
He was right, twin tire groves. It trundled over the snow packed ground and headed off in enough of an arc that he couldn’t see where it went. It had to lead to the highway. Or a house at least- oh shit, it might be the house of that farmer! No, someone had told him the farm houses were farther away, just a few fields were on this side of the highway.

The curve of the trail led them in a long, sweeping curve around the meadow. The packed ground was treacherous, the going slow. The carpet of snow hid a plethora of shallow pools of blacked ice. Both almost bit it more than once.

“Timmy…we have to stop…I’m tired…”

He was about to argue with her, when he realized it would be easier to just let her catch her breath for a moment. He had no idea how far they had to go, but they had traveled a decent distance, and heard no signs of pursuit. There was a whole neighborhood of much easier pickings to feast on. He shuddered at the thought, but all that mattered right now was getting to safety.
The wind whistled through the weeds. Timothy stared up at the tops, their ocher tips a blur of movement. He craned his head further and looked up at the sky. The storm had abated slightly, and thick clouds roiled by overhead. Timothy remembered the comic he had been reading last night. He was nestled behind his bed, flashlight trained on an issue of Creepy. There was a thing, an evil spirit. It haunted the woods. People disappeared, only scraps of their bones left behind. A fresh wave of terror gripped him, and he jolted upright. Beckoning his sister, he took note of the look of the complaint on her face, yet she rose without a sound, and they started back down the road.

It wasn’t that long before it rounded a bend, took a dive through a thicket of trees, and came to an end at the edge of a highway. A mountain of blackened snow, apparently pushed off the road by the plows, buried the shoulder. The crumbling sides descended in uneven landslides into the trunks. Apparently the trail had been used since the last storm. A break in the grimy slush tore through, twin tire tracks marring the surface. Timothy headed over to these, dragging his little sister behind. Climbing up and through, Timothy stopped just in site of the road, scanning for vehicles. The twin lanes twisted down in a long, sloping curve from right to left. A cliff of granite, topped by the silhouettes of trees, adorned the opposite side. Nothing else. Nothing at all. Just the wind, the soft rustle of snow laden branches, the biting cold. Timothy had a sinking feeling.

Christmas Is Cancelled

They waited almost an hour. He debated going out into the road and heading down it. They would freeze to death if they stayed out here much longer, but going back wasn’t an option. That highway was dangerous. Two small kids, icy roads, trucks moving at high speeds, they might be roadkill in no time.
He threw the options back and forth, and decided they could risk maybe another 30 minutes, then they would need to move on. They would head towards the nearest place he knew of, West Point. It was far though, around the mountain and miles away from where they lived. It took a good thirty minutes by car. In the summer.
A glimmer on the banks of blackened snow caught his attention, and he looked up the road. An eighteen wheeler was coming down the mountain, the twin lights cutting through the frosty mist. He turned and started jumping up and down, screaming at the top of his lungs. The truck looked almost from another world. Far away, separated from them by more than just distance. It didn’t look like it was taking any notice, bearing down at the same speed as when it had first appeared. Timothy peered around desperately. He grabbed a handful of filthy snow, molded it into a snowball, and hurled it at the truck. It fell far short. He quickly bent over, and made a few more, popping up to hurl them at the truck, when he noticed his sister had wandered out into the road!

“Nooooo….”

He screamed, dropping his snowballs and running out to get her. It was almost like she was in a daze, blindly shuffling forward, the truck growing more massive by the minute.
Suddenly, there was the screech of brakes, the mammoth vehicle slowing to a halt as it abruptly angled for the side of the road. A metal groan, and the beast stopped, a series of hisses following in rapid succession behind. Wendy started to head towards it. Timothy bounded after her, almost slipping in the process. Just as he reached her, the door cracked open. A plump looking older man, his face adorned by a straggly white beard, leaned out. He looked like something Timothy had seen in a Norman Rockwell painting. Red and black flannel popped out of the collar of an olive green Carhart jacket, his creased face topped by an off-white trucker’s cap. Then his voice broke out, sounding nothing at all like a Norman Rockwell character.

“What’re you fuckin kids doin’ out here. Get killed in this shit!”

Crusty and slurred with alcohol, the words almost spit out, he instantly reminded Timothy of the gun toting farmer.

“We…a…”

He couldn’t think of what to say. Anything would sound crazy.

“Please, our parents are hurt…”

“What’re you doin’ in the middle a tha road? Get run over by a car. Don’t you know how to work a phone?”

He had to think of something. Had to convince him to take them to West Point. There were soldiers with guns there. That was their best chance.

“The phone’s dead. Please. We need to make it to West Point”

“Fucking…”

And then he seemed to soften, like he wasn’t so bad after all. Just cranky. He climbed down, picked up Wendy, and boosted her in. Timothy hurried over, flew past him, and scrambled up next to her. With a grunt, he pulled himself back up. The truck was still running, rumbling softly, and he pushed it into gear, heading back out onto the road.

“Put yer seatbelts on.”

They snuggled next to each other, Timothy pulling the shoulder strap over them. It just barely cleared their snowsuits, and had to be forced into the receiver with no small amount of Timothy’s fading strength. He needed a nap. Needed this bad dream to be over. If only it was just that…he might wake up at any minute!
The truck picked up speed. The forest on either side rose up under a rocky mien of pure granite. Down and around the bend, they first descended into, then broke out of a channel carved through solid rock. The right side scaled further up, the apex disappearing in a towering wall of granite. The left side dropped away, tumbling down into a cluster of houses and forest far below. A small metal rail guarded the edge of the roadway. This had always terrified Timothy. He constantly imagined them going over, that metal rail not nearly strong enough to stop a speeding vehicle. And the valley floor, so far below. He could barely see the lights of the houses down below, the heavy forest swarming in all around . Surely someone had fallen off. There had to be some wild stories. Harsh Buffalo winters, frozen roads…
This wasn’t helping. He tried to just concentrate on what to tell the people at West Point. And that was another question. Who would he tell? He didn’t even know what was a main building! And it was Christmas! Would anyone even be there? The only answer was the dull thunder of the tires, the swish of the wipers, the constant pattering of the snow.
Minutes had passed, although it seemed much longer than that, and they weren’t even half there! He had traveled this route with his dad many times, and it had seemed much shorter. But this time it was snowing. And the driver was drunk. Well, maybe not drunk, but not perfectly sober either. It would be OK. He just had to keep his mind occupied with something else. Maybe only ten more minutes. It always seemed longer when they started around the mountain, but it was never that long.

Suddenly, there was a loud thump, and blood splattered across the windshield. It was followed by the trailing remnants of a half-eaten forearm, a ragged string of veins trailing behind. White stubs of bone jutted out of a mass of crimson jelly, the shroud of skin around it pale and paper thin and peeling off.

“What the hell!”

The driver’s eyes were almost popping out, his hands jerking desperately at the wheel. Then everything was slow motion. The back started to fishtail. Timothy and Wendy were thrust forward, only the strap of the seat belt holding them at bay. The torn remnants of the arm slid off the windshield as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a trail of gristle. Even through the gore on the windshield, Timothy could see that they were now headed for the cliff. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. It was like a nightmare, one of those ones where you wake up just before you hit the ground. But if you died in a dream, you dies in real life too, right? Timothy tried pinching himself, trying to wake up. The metal guardrail burst, the nose of the truck dived, and just as the view was panning down, the was a faint blur, barely visible in the sky above. He could have sworn it was followed by a jolly “Ho Ho Ho”. Only it was too carefree, too wild, and it could have just been the wind. This didn’t feel like a dream. Usually, at this point, everything was getting all incorporeal and weird. Then his sister started screaming, and it really didn’t feel like a dream. The driver was blubbering something. All Timothy could think, was that he didn’t want to die. But that wasn’t really up to him.