TALES OF TERROR

Santa Claws

For most children, Christmas is a celebration worth looking forward to. For thirteen-year-old Evan, it was something to fear.

Evan still remembered his seventh Christmas Eve clearly, an evening that he, like most children, had been looking forward to for a long time. The next morning he would get up early and open all his presents, eager to see what surprises Santa had left him. Evan imagined the restless night ahead and thought, if he listened hard, he might be able to hear Santa come down the chimney.

But this Christmas Eve didn't all go to plan. It wasn't long before Evan's excitement gave away to horror.

Mum had insisted that Santa wouldn't come if Evan stayed up late, and she had just began sending him off to bed when Evan was distracted by a loud, muffled thump on the roof. It seemed to be coming directly above the fireplace. It was like in the Night Before Christmas - "there arose such a clatter", and Evan approached the chimney to see what was the matter. Was it now that Santa had decided to make an appearance?

Ash was falling from the nooks and crannies of the chimney to the bottom of the fireplace, sending out charcoal smoke and a burnt smell. Something, someone, had to be disturbing the ash. Evan was alone. Who else went down the chimney at this time on Christmas Eve?

The chimney rattled, and a deep, rolling voice hit the air. Santa's famous "ho, ho, ho!" echoed down the chimney as Evan watched in delight.

Things were silent for a moment. Evan's mother stood behind him, watching. Then arose the biggest clatter yet.

There was an explosion of greyish smoke as mountains of ash fell to the bottom of the fireplace. The fireplace shook as if there was a sudden earthquake. Then, amidst the greyness, there was a flash of red, and a tremendous thump.

Had Santa made it?

Evan rushed forward, unable to stop himself. He felt a flare of excitement, but Mum was first to the chimney. Evan tried to remember the last time his mother had expressed excitement, and couldn't.

Then the smoke cleared, and the fallen Santa came into view. He didn't have quite the belly Evan had expected, but this was the least of his observations. Evan gasped as he saw that Santa's beard had appeared to slide off during his fall. But there was no blood - the only blood came from Santa's head, and it was just a trickle. The bad thing was that the trickle of blood was coming from what looked like a big dent in Santa's head.

Evan frowned. Santa couldn't die - he was too good for that! He couldn't die, not now. So had somebody played a trick on him?

Evan glanced at the beard that had appeared to slide down Santa's face. Beards didn't move like that, at least not without there being blood. So then if it wasn't a real beard, it had to be a fake one. But if that was a fake beard, then Santa's suit was also a fake suit. This wasn't the real Santa - this was Santa in disguise! Evan glanced once more at the fake Santa's exposed features, trying to figure out who this person could be, and made sense of the face that seemed so familiar to him. He realized, for the first time, that Mum had never been excited. Instead, she had rushed to the fake Santa's body in grief. Sobs racked her body, her tears dripping on the fake Santa's suit.

Evan stood, dumbfounded, and choked out one word.

"Dad?"

Evan woke up in a cold sweat, bolting upright into a sitting position. He glanced at his watch and read the time. 2:19 a.m. Before the light on his watch went off, he read the date. December 20. Only five more days until Christmas. Once upon a time, Evan would have been happy about this, but now he wished that Christmas never came. It was the same dream again, accurate in every detail. That evening was exactly how it had been in the dream. It never ceased to amaze Evan how vivid these dreams were. They got right down to the core and forced Evan to relive the worst moment in his life. Those goddamn nightmares! They got worse around Christmas. He would dream of that fateful evening his father slipped and fell down the chimney, smashing his skull in on the way down, or he would dream of those claws, those razor-sharp strips of polished bone, weapons that could slice through him like butter if they gave so much as a flick.