Greetings, readers! Welcome to the fourth story in "Kory's Holiday Pentalogy." I want to make sure you're able to get to the text as soon as possible, so I will make this brief.
Just as "Happy Halloween!" and "The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away" were revamped versions of holiday stories that I wrote when I was eight or nine, "Santa Claws" is a reboot of a story I wrote as a child. The "Santa Claws" story from the 90s had an evil Santa for the sole purpose of shock value, and I had no backstory for his corruption. That's not surprising, considering I was a kid who thought he was being edgy and creative by changing "Claus" to "Claws."
My purpose this time around was not to make Santa corrupt without reason; his malice ties in to the Pentalogy as a whole. I asked myself, "What would happen if this fictitious giver of gifts, who--in all the songs and stories--determines whether a child will get a present or coal, suddenly lost his penchant for mercy? What if his desire to deliver joy was replaced with a desire to deliver judgment? And what if I could bring in the Halloween Friends to lighten the heavy themes and show that mercy triumphs over judgment (James 2:13)?"
The idea of this malicious character actually killing children did not sit well with me, so if you were fearful of reading a story about that, you can lay those fears to rest! Santa Claws is violent, but I purposely toned down the horror. Thus, this is primarily a comedy with some horror elements...all leading to a happy ending (I am a fan of Tolkien's "eucatastrophe," after all). However, I would not consider it a tale for children. Let's just consider it PG-13.
Also note that I am not making any money off this story; it is for my friends, family, and "random readers." I am not claiming that I own any of these characters, and indeed, some characters are well-known and beloved to many. This is purely for fun and to bring the Pentalogy one step closer to its conclusion.
You can view the cover image, created by the ineffably talented Derek Nochefranca, below. Click on it to get a better look.
Happy reading, and Merry Christmas!
Prologue
Thanksgiving Night
The screen came to life, illuminating both the
room and the man’s eyes. He smiled from ear to ear and pulled his seat
closer to the desk. Crawling across the bottom of the screen, the loading
bar seemed to promise that the decrepit construct would function as it should.
He tugged the red sleeves of his sweater to his elbows and touched the
keys of his keyboard in anticipation. Perhaps he would be able to
fulfill his daily duty. After all, he was not blessed with an extensive
life just to suck in the frigid air; he had work to do. However, his
hopes were shattered once the computer released a defiant chirp, shut itself
down, and turned the screen an abysmal black.
“What the—Are you kidding me?” His voice echoed in the
bare room, and he half-noticed that he sounded like a tired, old man.
“Come on, Bessie, don’t give up on me now!”
Bessie did not seem to hear him, or else she did not
care; the computer remained in place, refusing to reboot. With a groan,
he rose from his chair and launched his foot into the tower. Then he
kicked it again, and again. The final strike succeeded in knocking the
computer over and sending a shooting pain into the big toe of his right foot.
He was dancing, cursing, and massaging his toe when she burst into the
room.
“Nick, what’s wrong?” she asked, watching him with
concerned eyes. “And why is Bessie on her side? You know how easily
agitated she is.”
Nick’s eyes flamed. “How does anyone expect me to
get my work done when this is the only functioning computer within several hundred
miles? I have less than a month to finish this up, and this poor excuse for a
machine is deciding to be rebellious. You know how I feel about
rebellion.” He kicked the tower again, this time with his good foot. “I
won’t have it, Annie! Not now.”
She pursed her lips and fixed her gaze on the useless
object. “You know, once upon a time, you didn’t have to use a
computer for work. Can’t you go back to the old way of doing things?
Wasn’t that good enough?”
“It sufficed,” he admitted. It was good enough
for its time, he meant, but he was not in the mood to argue. Annie
was a loving and devoted wife, but she had a tendency to annihilate him in even
the most insignificant dispute; he often wondered if she had been apprenticed
by some long-forgotten magister in critical thinking and debate in the years
before they had met. “It’s just that so much of my work is on there, and
I can’t quite remember where I left off.”
With a tiny smile, she walked past him and rubbed his
shoulders. “It’ll be fine, my dear. How about we sit down to some
hot stew, and I’ll help you figure it out? Here.” She opened a drawer at
his desk and procured a lengthy, yellowing sheet of paper. Then she took
up a quill from a pencil holder and placed both items in his hands. “Just
like old times, Nick. You’ll be done in no time; just watch.”
He was not convinced, but the idea of sitting down to a
steaming bowl of stew forced his feet out of the room and toward the kitchen.
It was always warmer in the kitchen, probably because something was
always cooking. As he plopped down into a stool nearest the hallway, he
took a deep breath and soaked in the room’s heat. But it was not enough
to drive away the coldness completely. It never was. He recalled
the days when he had worn nothing in the house but a thick shirt and trousers,
and that had been enough to leave him content. Now he packed on layer
after layer of jackets and sweats, garbed his feet with the thickest woolen
socks on the planet, and even donned a ridiculous beanie that resembled a
panda’s head—but the shivering never ended. Even his wife’s sweet words
and hearty meals—which seemed to increase with the years—could only remove his
awareness of the cold for so long.
A cast iron pot large enough to deep-fry a turkey and its
family was stationed on the stovetop, grey tendrils of smoke rising from it and
sending an enticing aroma across the room. Annie dipped a wooden spoon
into the pot’s innards and stirred as Nick set down his paper and placed the
tip of the quill at the top. What was the last thing I wrote? he
wondered, tunneling into his memories. He wished he could blame his
forgetfulness on old age, but technically, he had not aged for years. If
only I had a standby computer technician, or if I had found the time to learn
about the intricacies of computers myself! But leaf and quill will have to do,
for now.
“Here’s your stew,” said his wife as she slid a bowl
across the table. “Piping hot, just how you like it.”
The bubbling concoction was red, and was mottled with potatoes.
It tasted far better than it appeared. “Thank you, Annie.”
“Don’t mention it.” She poured a bowl for herself, set it
before her, and took a seat opposite of him. She tapped lightly on the
table, waiting for the food to cool. “Now let’s figure out where you left
off. What do you remember writing down last?”
He attempted to rub his chin, but his fingers ran into
his great beard and went no farther. “I—well, I recall writing about a
boy named …Lebby? Leebo? No, no! It was Leary, that’s right! Ryan Leary.
He’s from Derby, England.”
“Great! And you remember him because….”
“He’s been one heck of a kid; I’ll tell you that much!”
After so many years of this, it was surprising that anyone managed to stick out
at all. “And not in a good way, mind you. Just in the last
three months, he hid behind a bush and then scared an old lady into half a
coma, glued a cat’s tail to a dog’s tail (which turned out to be quite
traumatic for the cat), and convinced his four-year-old brother that he has
syphilis.”
His wife looked appalled. “How old is this
monster?”
“Nine.” He shrugged and let out a sigh. “They’re
getting more corrupt with each generation, love. It’s gotten to the point
where I’m hardly surprised.”
“So
it appears.” Without thinking, she scooped up some of her stew and drew it to
her mouth. When the steam alone scalded
her lips, she reconsidered and plunked the utensil back into her bowl. “But come on.
There has to be one good person out there. Do you remember anyone else?”
He
frowned. “Ledbetter. Toby Ledbetter. He’s thirteen years old, and he invented a
new drug. Apparently, it convinces each
user that he or she is a dolphin. I
know, it sounds harmless, but this so-called ‘fish fry’ has caused general
chaos across the US over the past half-year.
Some terrorist slipped it into the President’s drink before he delivered
a recent address, and the poor guy gets up and books it to the nearest body of
water. Not only did this result in a
belly flop so loud that they heard it in Brazil, but he also ruined a very nice
pair of dress shoes…which I gave him back in ’88. I knew I should have kept those for
myself.”
His
wife was palming her forehead. “And you
consider this Mr. Ledbetter ‘good’?”
“Well,
neutral, which is really something in this day and age. Actually, his drug has indirectly caused a
boom in the dolphin population. I’m not
sure how that happened, and I’m not sure I want to know.”
“OK,
then. And that’s where you left off?”
“Well,
no. There’s also this boy—Jonathan
Legcheese. Just this October, he
reversed the effects of a potion crafted by an evil professor. And as of one hour ago, he stopped a bird the
size of Russia from entering our world, and ensured holiday joy for
thousands—perhaps even millions—of people.”
The
information seemed to please her. “The
boy sounds like a hero. One of the good
ones, then?”
“No. He’s not without some major flaws. In accomplishing such magnificent feats, he
killed two people—a man and his mother.
He also has a propensity for throwing perfectly innocent toys—especially
unicorns, for some reason—at people and random objects. Not only that, but he’s so ugly it should be
illegal.”
His
wife scoffed. “No one can be that
physically repulsive.”
When
he procured a picture of the semi-pubescent boy from a small notebook, her
irises tripled in size. “But you know,
there are always exceptions to rules.”
“You
should see his quasi-girlfriend,” followed the man, shuddering. “I’m convinced that, should they ever have
children, the government will seize them and run various experiments just to
make sure that they are, indeed, from our planet.”
“And
how did his quasi-girlfriend do this year? Was she naughty or nice?”
His
brows furrowed. “You know, it’s the very
essence of irony, but young Awana Humphfree has been rather pure this year.”
“Awana
Humphfree? Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head sympathetically. “I
hope the guy who decided to name her gets what’s coming to him.”
The
look in her eyes told him that she agreed.
“So, this young…Legcheese. It
sounds like he’s striving to do what’s right, but keeps murdering to accomplish
his purposes. Are you going to reward or
punish him?”
“The
reason I brought him up in the first place is to show you that there is one who
did well this year—and that’s Awana.” He offered a sour expression. “But as for Jonathan Legcheese, that boy is
getting nothing but the biggest lump of coal from me.”
“Coal? Really? And so
the good he has done counts for nothing?”
“Those who do well
receive good things, and those who do evil will get what’s coming to them. That’s the way it’s always been.”
“Not to my memory.”
She scrutinized him, her gaze strong as steel.
“I remember when there was room for mercy.”
“I have no time for
mercy; I have a job to do.” He spooned up a weighty potato and heaved it into
his mouth.
“There are some who
would say that the two are not mutually exclusive, dear.”
“I don’t have time
for this, either.” He was grateful for the food, but her nagging was
intolerable. How in the world would he
be able to finish his work without the cooperation of both Bessie and his wife?
He would have to make do. “You know, I
think I need some time alone. I really
need to focus on this.”
“That’s all you do,
Nick!” She threw her arms in the air; her exasperation was sudden but
intense. “You have a community full of
elves who look up to you. The other day,
little Dale came up to me and said that he hopes to grow a beard like you when
he grows up. Of course, he is 54, but
still….”
“You tell Dale to
shut his elf mouth! No one can grow a beard like this. It’s elegant, like a reindeer freshly emerged
from the womb.”
“You might want to
use a different metaphor next time.”
“My metaphor is fine!
My work methods are fine! Dale is fine! Now will you just let me work?”
She groaned under her
breath and glared at him. “My point is
this: you’re surrounded by adoring followers, and yet you cut yourself off from
community. Can that really be healthy?”
“Your stew keeps me
healthy enough,” he muttered, grabbing the bowl before him and rising from his
seat. “Not to mention, I always have
dear old Rudolph to talk to. You know, when
he actually lets me get a word in. Now
I’m going to step outside where it’s nice and quiet. And for the love of Pete, please don’t come
after me.”
Before she could
reply, he snatched up his paperwork and stepped out into the niveous
landscape. The snow surrounding the
large estate felt as hard as dirt beneath his feet, trodden regularly by elves,
reindeer and himself. The arctic wind
chilled him to the bone, but it was not anything new; its familiarity was
comforting. Without expecting to see
anything, he scanned the horizon and observed only the small rising and falling
hills, resembling an endless expanse of whipped cream. Crystals of ice danced in the wind beneath
the cloudless, blueberry night sky.
Somewhere out there was a white and red pole sticking from the ground,
and was, in fact, the reason the region possessed its current name. Or at least that’s what Dale the elf had told
him. He was beginning to think Dale was
a lying oaf.
It did not seem
possible for him to finish his work on time this year, but he had thought that
many times in the past. Something was
different about this time, however. He
was so overwhelmed by both his workload and the heaviness in his mind that he
could not recall why he even needed to do his job. What had prompted him to deliver gifts to the
children of the world in the first place? What was the point of providing boons
to little ruffians who were becoming increasingly immoral? I used to know
the answer to these questions, he realized.
But for some reason, the answers presently eluded him. That they receive coal rather than
something worse is a mercy, even if the wife doesn’t see it.
He came to one of his
favorite benches, a snowless half-log resting beneath the long eaves of the
house. Around the corner was the stable,
housing his eight reindeer. He did not
bother to check if Rudolph was among them; the young sod was likely busy
gallivanting across the icy dunes, annoying an abominable snowman, or singing
that godawful song about himself again.
It was for the best; now he could focus on his work. Awana Humphfree…Jonathan Legcheese….Done. Now who’s next? He scrutinized the list
on his lap and spent several minutes finding where he had left off on his
computer. When he arrived at the name
“Anita Manzanita,” he smacked his forehead and sighed. Who in the snowflake comes up with these
names? Well, I definitely haven’t seen that name until now, so we’ll
start there.
It so happened that
Ms. Manzanita had been a very bad child, and then the next was even worse. By the time he filled the page with names and
gifts, he found that each child had managed to outdo the one before him or her
in evil deeds. Every kid on the page was
to receive the same reward: coal. No
pair of skates for Johnny, nor sled for little Suzy. No storybook for Nellie, not even one that
she has read. No, they will get no
joyous gift from me this year. All that
they will receive is coal. Coal! Coal
for the children of the world! He threw down his paperwork in a rage and
knocked over the bowl of stew that he had placed beside him. The steaming substance hissed upon touching
the snow, and then its contents spread in every direction like blood. The reindeer were now antsy, huffing and
snorting as they stomped throughout the stable.
This isn’t working, he thought.
I need to go back in that room again. I need to recharge.
Rudolph stood on a
nearby hill, watching as the scene took place.
Santa Claus did not bother to pick up his materials, but huffed and
stomped just as loudly as the eight reindeer (he thought that Vixen and Donder
in particular were overdoing it) as he made his way back to the door. The fat man had always been so jolly…that is,
until recently. What could have changed?
When you’re that heavy, you must be eating well, he mused. His wife loves him more than Dale loves
peppermint ice cream, and even more than Blitzen loves pooping on absolutely
everything. So what’s the problem,
Santa? Why so glum? Reindeer were not known for their stealth, but Rudolph
decided that he would follow the plump maniac and do some reconnaissance. He tiptoed—or at least he thought it
was tiptoeing; any viewer would have simply called it walking—down the
frosty dune and along the plain. Santa
turned around one time to check if he was being tracked, so Rudolph hid behind
a conveniently placed snowman that bore an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn
Monroe. When old St. Nick did not spy
anything out of the ordinary, he continued on and disappeared into the
building.
“Keep doing your
thing, Monroe,” whispered Rudolph. “And
by the way, your hair is undeniably smexy this evening.”
She did not reply, to
his chagrin. Typical. But I have no time for this! Deciding
that his target was now out of earshot, the reindeer booked it toward the house
as if his antlers were on fire. Without
hesitating, he crashed against the door and into the kitchen. All looked normal at first, but then he
glanced to his right and found Mrs. Claus sitting on her bum, her back to one
of the cabinets. She was gritting her
teeth in pain, and he noticed a tear rolling down one of her cheeks.
“Mrs. Claus! Oh my goodness!
What happened to you? Did he do this? Is he in here? Where did he go? What has
he done to you? How dare he! Where did he go? Why aren’t you answering
me? Mrs. Claus!”
Her fingers fumbled
along the tile floor for a few moments before they grasped her spectacles. Once she brought them to her eyes, she
blinked several times, and her countenance softened. “Rudolph, my dear. Nick is not himself. He has become corrupt, somehow. I don’t know what’s happened to him.” Her
mouth fell into the saddest little frown he had ever seen. “He hit me, Rudolph. Pushed me out of the way like some door. He has never set a hand on me in anger
before. What—or who—could have done this
to him?”
He shook his head,
baffled, and sauntered over to her. “I
don’t know, ma’am. I just don’t know.”
He lowered his head, and she was able to wrap her arms around his neck and pull
herself up. “But I’m going to find out. I can promise you that.”
He found the door to
Santa’s secret room partially ajar, and once he stepped inside, he could not
comprehend what he was seeing. Claus was
standing off to the side, somehow larger than ever, and long claws extended
from the hands that were at his hips.
Furthermore, he smiled broadly, and his teeth were as sharp as
icicles. He was near a closet on the
eastern side of the room; the closet had no doors, and it was not empty. Inhabiting its space was an object that he
had seen in the storybooks that Santa used to read to him and the other
reindeer. What was it called again? They’re
almost always black, usually made of iron, and witches fancy them….A
cauldron. By all that is holy, it’s a
cauldron. He noticed black wisps
slithering from the bowl, and here and there an oily bubble would rise and pop
in the air. What is this? Who brought
this here?
“Rudolph,” said the
man in a deep, acidic voice, “won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”
Rudolph tried to
avoid his eyes. “Crap,” he muttered.
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