S22: NoSleep Podcast Holiday Hiatus 2024 #1

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The following is a special rebroadcast of a show originally released on Christmas Day 2023.

We hope you're fully braced for this presentation of the No Sleep Podcast.

Merry Christmas to all the good and the naughty kitties out there.

Live from the North Pole, it's Santa Day Night Live.

Tonight, Santa welcomes his guests, Jill Benson, Charlie Davenport, and Marcus Damanda.

And now, lube up your chimney, because here he comes: the fat man himself,

Santa Claus!

Hello!

Hello, everyone!

Hello!

Thank you, everyone.

What a festive night.

Thank you for joining us at Saturday Night Live.

It's wonderful to see you all.

And it's Christmas, so of course, I'm the only one working.

Am I right?

Well, that's not entirely true.

I have my trusty sidekick with me tonight.

Why don't you introduce yourself?

Happy to, Santa.

Of course, my name is David Garrett.

Oh, I was only kidding.

We don't have time to hear you chatter on.

Gee, thanks.

Well, how have you been, Nick?

That's Saint Nick to you, sonny.

Sorry, Saint.

Have you been extra busy this year?

You know, I really have been.

The workshop has been a buzz with non-stop production.

Do you have any idea how many Christmas presents this year were inspired by that tall blonde woman?

Oh, sure.

Barbie was the hottest thing this year.

Barbie?

I was talking about Taylor Swift, you knucklehead.

I should have known.

All right, let's move past this.

In fact, let's shake it off.

If you say shake it off, it's going to be a cruel summer and winter for you, Bucko.

Point made.

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Now, I think it's time we start this show.

People didn't tune in to hear us talk about taytay.

That's right.

They came for horror.

They want to hear about people being terrified and killed.

So, less taytay and more slay-slay.

Oh my.

The only thing you slay is the fun around here.

All right, let's bring out our first guest.

She's a gifted author, and one we've had on before.

I can't wait to hear about her latest story.

Would you please welcome

actually, Santa, I have something to tell you.

Did you just interrupt me?

I did.

You you see, Miss Benson couldn't make it here tonight.

What?

Why not?

I don't know.

Something about a tragic mistletoe accident.

Well, doesn't that, as the kids say these days, suck a heap of donkey balls?

If you say so.

Well, what are we going to do now?

Fear not, Santa, because Jill sent us a copy of her story.

We can listen to it and enjoy it even if she's not here.

Well, that will have to do, I suppose.

Who's in it?

It's performed by Peter Lewis, Aaron Lillis, and Graham Rowett.

Oh, you mean Petey Lou, Aaron Aralike, and the Growman?

That's them.

All right, put your hands together and welcome Christmas Santa by Jill Benson.

My father died when I was 12 years old, December 21st, just a few days before Christmas.

That was the day that life, as I had always known it, ended.

A week earlier, we'd had one of the biggest snowstorms in Kansas City history since the blizzard of 74.

I remember waking up that morning, the snow coming down fast and heavy, and watching the school closings earnestly on on TV along with my younger sister, Rachel.

When we finally saw our school on the list of closures, the city schools were always last to give up the goose.

Rachel and I jumped for joy and promptly donned our winter clothes to go outside and play.

Dad joined us a little later, and we played in the snow all that morning, with only a brief reprieve to come in for a mug of hot chocolate, heavy flakes coming down all the while.

I remember how much fun that was.

Me, my little sister, and my dad.

Mom stayed inside, proclaiming it too cold for her, but still watching from the kitchen window.

Rachel lay in the soft blanket of snow making snow angels while dad and I made a snowman.

The snow was nice and sticky, and we'd made the perfect snowman.

A couple of round stones for the eyes, sticks for the arms.

My dad's blue, red, and green scarf wrapped around his frozen ball of a head, and, I swear this is true, a carrot for the nose.

The snow finally stopped late that evening and the snow-covered town looked like something right out of a postcard.

School was closed the next few days because of the bad weather.

And since winter break was supposed to start the following week, we got the rest of the year off.

My sister and I were thrilled and could barely wait for Christmas.

On the day of the accident, the sun had come out, warming things considerably, and the snowman my dad and I had made melted.

By midday, all that remained was one large, deformed ball of snow, a carrot in its melting center, and my dad's soggy scarf lying forgotten and dirty in the wet slush below.

When the knock at the door came, mom was making dinner and my sister was upstairs in her room.

I was downstairs watching TV, one of those claymation, made-for-kids Christmas shows we always watched year after year.

Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer.

Our Christmas tree was decorated with red and green balls, tinsel, candy canes, and a handful of shrinky-dink Christmas ornaments Rachel and and I had made the previous year.

I was especially proud of a toy race car I had hand-drawn.

Multicolored Christmas lights blinked on and off, lighting the tree in the magical colors of Christmas.

The string of lights consisted of solid incandescent bulbs, not the mini lights everyone seems to use nowadays.

And they were always a little hot to the touch.

I remember one strand had gone out, leaving a dark patch right smack in the middle of the tree.

Mom said Dad would fix it when he got back, but of course, he

never would.

My mother went to answer the door, probably thinking it was our Uncle Mark and Aunt Audrey come to join us for dinner, or maybe cousin Jimmy, who was always looking for a free meal, but it wasn't any of them.

Curiously, I peeked around my mother, seeing the two officers, one holding his his hat in front of him with both hands, and looking uncomfortable as hell.

It was the other one, a lady police officer, who said the words I would always remember.

Ma'am, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.

There had been

an accident.

A collision involving a blue Ford Taurus and a semi.

And she told us my father was dead.

My mother had shrieked and then sobbed uncontrollably, and that had frightened me more than the news about my dad, because I had never seen her like that before.

My sister cautiously came downstairs, wondering what was wrong.

I watched as mom collapsed into a nearby armchair, the one my father usually sat in after dinner, and broke down.

Rachel stood at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed.

I was frozen to the spot.

We glanced at each other, both of us frightened, neither of us with a clue in the world about what we were supposed to do next.

Then the police officer, the one with the hat in his hands, asked if there was anyone they could call for us.

On Christmas Eve, the police returned my father's belongings to the house.

The few things that had been in his car the day of the accident.

A gym bag full of clothes, some tools, jumper cables, and an old toy gun of mine I had forgotten about that had been lying on the back floorboard.

And

Santa.

You know, I'd always had a Mr.

and Mrs.

Santa, the kind that glowed when you plugged them in.

And even at the young age of twelve, I had already had fond memories of them.

The friendly pair standing together on the front porch, all lit up, ready to greet any guest that happened to arrive.

Just seeing them and all the lights and decorations always made me feel warm and Christmassy inside.

A few years earlier, Santa had gotten lost during a move, leaving only Mrs.

Santa.

My mom and dad still set her out on the front porch every Christmas and lit her up.

And she would stand there, solitary and alone, a frozen smile on her face, looking strangely strangely like a cheerful Christmas widow.

When I thought back on that, years later, I realized what an odd thing that was for my parents to do.

Almost as if they thought it would be a crime to leave her all wrapped up and alone in the attic year after year.

The day of the accident, she had been standing, as usual, on the front porch when Dad called to say he'd found Santa.

Her exact match in a cozy, off-the-beaten path antique store.

He was was old and faded, but with a new bulb inside, he would light up just like she did.

He was a deal, too, only $5, and would mom like to have him?

She had said yes, of course, proclaiming how wonderful it would be to have the pair again.

And

the crash must have happened shortly after that.

Even though the plows had cleared the streets, the grey-packed banks on either side looking more like roadside debris than snow, there were still plenty of slick spots on the roads, especially as the day gave way to evening, and the news had warned drivers to take care.

A slick spot on the road.

That's what the police said had been the culprit.

Dad must have hit one and then lost control of the car, swerving into the lane of an oncoming semi.

According to the driver of the truck, Dad had veered in time to avoid a head-on, but not to avoid a crash altogether, and his car had struck the right corner of the semi's front engine compartment, then jagged off sharply across the lane, slicing right into the guardrail.

I was spared most of the grisly details, though I overheard my uncle later say that the guardrail had barreled into his chest, skewering his body to the seat like one might skewer a chunk of beef.

He had died instantly, and as horrible as that was, it brought me some sense of relief knowing he had not suffered.

I didn't know then, of course, what I know now.

After the officers left, all we could do was stare at all the things from my dad's car that sat on the kitchen table, Santa included.

I can remember thinking he looked freaky and even a little scary, nothing like the cheery Santa we'd had before.

He was discolored and worn, his coat and hat a washed-out reddish, almost pink color, his belt grey, his face dull and cheerless.

He looked less like a jolly elf and more like a

Christmas ghost.

Only his eyes seemed to have any life in them, a sharp blue that stared out from beneath a storm of hectic eyebrows, and I wondered what what on earth ever possessed my dad to buy it.

Uncle Mark must have been thinking the same thing because he picked up the figurine, peered into its face, and said, Kind of a creepy Christmas, Santa, isn't he?

My aunt chided him for the remark, telling him it was neither the time nor the place.

Uncle Mark just shrugged, but I didn't mind.

He always just called it like it was, and there was nothing wrong with that.

But I didn't have long to ponder his words.

No sooner had he sat Santa back down on the table than my sister came running into the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks, and threw herself into my aunt's arms.

Mom had lost it.

Just lost it.

We hurried into the living room, and I watched, stunned, as she pulled down the tree with all the lights and decorations and hauled everything outside.

My aunt tried to stop her, but my uncle put a hand on her shoulder.

No.

Let her be.

This was her grief, and it needed to be played out.

That night, everything went out that door and onto the curb.

Everything, that is, except Santa.

Even Mrs.

Santa went, leaving our new Santa oddly single and alone.

My aunt and uncle did at least save our Christmas presents.

The next morning we opened them, a neighbor there to help, my mother upstairs sedated with valium.

To this day, I couldn't tell you a single thing I got that year.

I only remember my sister opening up a doll she had wanted so badly and then bursting into tears.

The next few days were blur.

My uncle Mark and Aunt Audrey stayed with us, taking care of me and my sister and mom the best they could, making funeral arrangements.

The funeral was held two days after Christmas, and it was so strange, having family come in not for the joy of the holiday season, but to mourn.

And stranger still, sitting somberly in a church that had been gayly decorated for the holidays, bright Christmas tree in one corner.

The Sunday school kids had decorated it with strands of popcorn and handmade decorations.

Shiny coffin near the pulpit up front.

When we returned home, I climbed the few stairs that led to the front door, and then I stopped dead in my tracks.

Santa was standing on the porch in the same spot where Mrs.

Santa had stood only two days earlier.

In spite of the cool temperatures, the sun that shone brightly in the late afternoon afternoon sky reflected off the snow, practically blinding me.

I blinked, for a moment unsure of what I was seeing.

I shielded my eyes and stared at the miniature elf, wondering who on earth would have set him out on the porch.

And then I had the strangest thought.

I imagined Santa creeping out of the hallway closet where he had been put, sauntering silently across the hardwood floor, then somehow opening the front door to step out onto the porch, ready to greet us.

It was that thought, more than the cool temperatures, that made my flesh break out in goosebumps.

No one who came to our house on that cold afternoon commented on the one remaining Christmas decoration that stood on our porch.

And to this day, I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle even saw him as they climbed the front steps, or if he was invisible to everyone but me.

The next thing I knew, Uncle Mark had slipped on the icy walkway, his feet going out from underneath him, and he fell hard to the ground.

I heard, clear as anything, the back of his head smack against the concrete.

Sounded like the clack of billiard balls, and I remember suddenly feeling sick to my stomach.

Aunt Audrey and another relative I didn't know so well rushed to his aid, helping him up.

For a moment, it was all in question.

My Uncle Mark was a hefty man, but he was soon on his feet, grinning sheepishly, embarrassed by his clumsiness.

And as the rest of the family gingerly guided him inside the house, I stood frozen to the spot, gazing at Santa.

His plastic lips had somehow curved up and

he was smirking.

I know that sounds crazy, but I swear it's true.

Before that day, only a hint of his lower lip was exposed beneath beneath his mustache, but now, now, by God, his lips would twist it up into an awful smirk, as if he was, oh, so thrilled with the recent chain of events.

I know that some might think this was just the imaginings of a grief-stricken kid, but I can only tell you that it was not.

I saw what I saw.

On legs that were stiff from more than just the cold, I stepped inside the house, deftly skirting the elf as best I could, telling myself it had nothing to do with my uncle.

I felt numb all over and I hardly said two words the rest of the day.

This was not normal for me, as I was usually quite the chatterbox, even with adults, but everyone chalked it up to grief.

Later, Uncle Mark came over to me, scruffed the top of my head, and told me everything would be okay.

But it...

it wouldn't.

A week later, Uncle Mark was at our house reaching into the pantry for a box of lucky charms when he dropped to the kitchen floor.

He was dead in minutes, though it was not a friendly death.

I should know, I witnessed it.

Later, the doctors said his death was the result of a subdural hematoma, whatever that means.

They said he likely never felt a thing.

But I knew different.

I went outside, I stared at Santa, fists clenched, unsure what to do, feeling the anger inside of me almost boil over.

But there was nothing to be done.

My uncle was dead, and that was that.

And so, not two weeks after my dad's funeral, we were attending another.

The following month, Aunt Audrey sold their house, packed her things, and moved somewhere back east.

North Carolina, I think.

I miss her terribly.

I still do.

But who could blame her?

We didn't see much of her after that.

The day after my uncle's death, my mother plucked Santa off the front porch, wrapped him in newspaper, and shoved him into one of the large gift boxes left over from Christmas.

Though we never spoke of it, I think she knew something was wrong.

She glanced at me briefly, a look of dull shock on her face, and Santa got moved into the attic, along with the rest of my father's things.

That was the last we saw of him for six years.

I can't really tell you much about that next year.

Each day seemed to melt into the next.

Going to school, coming home, playing video games until it was time for supper.

That was about it.

it.

That year, we tried to celebrate Christmas.

Mom even bought a Christmas tree.

Not a real one, like we'd always had, but one of those fake ones, the kind that came pre-decorated.

I tried to play along, but we were just going through the motions.

None of us felt like celebrating, except maybe my sister, who was just young enough to shake off the grief quicker than the rest of us.

Over the next few years, we slowly put the past behind us, and little by by little, life became livable again.

Still, it was always hard around the holidays.

By the time I turned 18, I was working and driving, but still living at home.

The thought of moving out made me feel like I was abandoning my mom and my sister.

Or maybe I just wasn't ready.

Mom was doing better.

She appeared to have shaken off the sorrow and loneliness and was enjoying life again.

I remember she'd come across a garage sale with what seemed like box after box of Christmas decorations for sale, and she had bought every last one, her face flushed with excitement.

We'd loaded everything into the back of the pickup truck I had at the time, and when we got home, I helped her haul everything upstairs into the attic.

What a hot, sweaty mess that was, but mom seemed happy.

Later that Christmas, she pulled everything downstairs and cheerfully decorated the house.

I remember looking at those decorations and

feeling sick about it, like we were decorating our house with someone else's memories.

Mom said it was really no different than buying decorations in a store, only for a heck of a lot less, and after a while we would build our own memories.

Still,

it was not the same.

That year, she found Santa.

I remember her bringing the box he'd been stored in down from the attic, opening it and plucking out the aged figurine from inside.

She sat in the easy chair, the same one she'd collapsed into, sobbing hysterically the day my dad died, and she just stared at it, her face oddly blank.

Seeing her that way sent chills up my spine big time, and I remember wanting to lunge over to her, yank Santa out of her arms, and pitch the freakish elf through the front window.

Instead,

I simply stood there.

After a while, she got up and stood Santa out on the front porch, plugging him into a nearby outlet.

I thought I could still see that smug look on his face, but I said nothing.

What would I have said?

Christmas morning, after my sister had opened all her presents, By then I was too old for presents, though mom still got me a nice watch.

Mom went upstairs for a nap.

Just an hour or so, she'd said.

I could tell by the dark circles under her eyes that she hadn't been sleeping.

She'd gone upstairs for a little well-deserved rest,

but never came back down.

And that was the day I...

I stomped the living crap out of Santa.

It was my sister, Rachel, who found her.

When a few hours had passed and mom had still not come downstairs, Rachel had gone up to check on her.

She'd rushed back down to where I sat in the living room, tears running freely down her face, and I remember my stomach instantly in knots, because it reminded me so much of how she'd cried the day our mother dragged the Christmas tree from the house all those years ago.

I immediately went upstairs, stepped into the darkened bedroom, and felt my blood run cold.

Mom

was lying in bed, her body tangled in the bedsheets, Santa clutched in her hands.

The last I remembered seeing the figurine, he'd been out on the front porch, yet here he was.

I yanked the hideous thing from her grasp and hurled it to the floor, then turned back to her.

Unsure what to do, I sat frantic at her bedside, calling out to her, shaking her as gently as I could, patting her lightly on the cheeks, trying to wake her.

Her skin was

so very pale, not unlike the grizzly elf himself, her lips colorless.

Only the dark circles under her eyes lent any color to her face, and I remember thinking that she looked like a ghost.

I grabbed her wrist with one trembling hand and I tried to take her pulse, a part of me already suspecting the worst.

And as I squeezed my eyes shut in concentration, desperately searching for that steady throb in her wrist, I heard a soft rustling from behind me.

I turned, startled, sure that Santa had somehow crawled back up into bed.

But it was Rachel standing at the bedside, eyes wide as she stared down at our mother, puffy cheeks red and tear-stained.

Call 911, I told her, as calmly as I could.

As she turned to go, my gaze drifted down to the fiendish little elf at my feet.

And I realized with some surprise that he was no longer faded and dull.

His suit was a vibrant red, his black belt dark and shiny, his cheeks and even his nose were now flushed, blue eyes sparkling.

And although his lips did not move, I swear I could hear a hearty ho-ho-ho come from his upturned mouth.

Without conscious thought, I lifted my foot and I stomped on that smug little face as hard as I could, over and over again, hearing the loud pop as his body was crushed under my foot.

And with each stomp, it felt as if I were not crushing hard plastic beneath my shoe, but bones.

And the sound of those snapping bones brought me more pleasure than I could ever explain.

Twice the figurine shot out from underneath my feet, as if the little guy somehow thought he could escape, his steady ho-ho-hoes ringing in my ears, but I simply kicked him back under my shoe and kept stomping.

Afterwards, I stood there, leering down at the now flattened piece of plastic, damp hair hanging in my face, my breathing labored.

And with tremendous pleasure, I punted the little mess of an elf as hard as I could, and it flew across the room and struck the far wall, the smack sounding flat and hollow.

I turned then, feeling the presence behind me.

Rachel had returned and was standing in the doorway, mouth hung open wordlessly.

I had just opened my own mouth to say

something,

though I have no idea what I could have said when we heard pounding on the downstairs door.

The paramedics had arrived.

Later, after the ambulance had taken my mother away, no need for sirens.

I grabbed the smashed Santa from the bedroom, wrapping him hastily in an old sheet.

Then I went to the garage for a roll of duct tape.

I then drove out to the old Bent River Bridge, flattened Santa lying next to me like a dead body.

When I got to the bridge, I jumped out.

I found a good-sized rock on the roadside, and I wrapped it in the sheet with what was left of Santa.

I then carefully taped the whole mess up with duct tape.

I looked over the side of the bridge and down into the river below.

It was a good 50 feet, maybe more, to the swift-moving water.

Without ceremony, I dropped the thing over the bridge and heard the splash as it hit the water.

I stood there for a few moments, gazing down at the current.

That night, I downed almost an entire pint of wild turkey.

I

did not attend my mother's funeral.

That was almost 40 years ago, and those memories are just as real to me now as when they first happened.

I somehow pulled the pieces of my life together, joined the Navy and later married.

My sister went to nursing school, but eventually dropped out.

She's a teacher now, third grade, and she seems to like it well enough.

Even though life seems normal now, my sister and I did not come out of this unscathed.

Rachel suffers from bouts of depression.

And although I try to keep in touch with her, some days I admit it's...

it's just too much.

I have high blood pressure, and on occasion, I can get the most intense migraines, usually around Christmas.

Last year, I retired, and my wife and I settled in a small town just outside of St.

Louis, where most of her family still live.

I've never been much on Christmas,

as you can imagine.

But after we had our kids, James and Sidney, well, you kind of fall back into the habit.

Still, the holidays for me are very guarded, much of my enjoyment superficial.

It's really for the kids, anyway.

I thought back on those horrible memories of my mom and dad and my uncle Mark more times than I care to count, wondering how the hell it all happened.

One thing I am certain of, it...

it did happen.

And now,

here's the kicker.

You know, the real ending to this insane story.

See, Santa is back.

I know that's impossible.

Yet here he is, the same grim and fated old elf.

I sit on the couch staring at his form on our coffee table.

His Santa suit is dull and cheerless, as is his complexion.

But it's him.

I'm sure of it.

Same blue eyes, same smirk.

And yet even as I sit here, I remember perfectly well stomping the life out of him and then wrapping him in that old sheet and dropping the unsavory package into the bent river.

I pass a trembling hand over my brow, unsure what to do next.

Thoughts of going outside to the woodshed, grabbing the hatchet that I know is there and hacking the thing to pieces come tumbling into my exhausted mind.

But what good would that do?

I wring my hands and I can hear the soft whimper coming from my own throat.

My heart is pounding like a son of a gun.

I need to calm down, get a grip.

For a moment, I entertain the possibility that this is all in my head.

That perhaps my wife just happened to pick up an old Santa from somewhere in town.

And in my mind, I can hear her say, oh, Helen and I stopped into this little jewel of an antique store not far from the market.

I must have driven past it a million times and just never noticed it before.

And well, I picked up this darling little Santa.

And then it happens.

Santa jerks his gaze in my direction and winks.

My heart slams against my ribcage, and I feel my chest suddenly tighten, the pain sharp and excruciating.

Jesus Christ, I have never in my life felt pain like this.

My breathing is now shallow and labored, as if heavy wool socks have been stuffed inside both lungs.

I had collapsed to the floor and have not been able to move an inch these past several minutes.

My cheek is against the polished wood, and the coolness is oddly soothing.

For a moment, there is nothing, no sound whatsoever.

Then, movement from the coffee table above.

The soft rustle of clothing, and I watch in horror as black boots land softly on the floor.

Santa twists his small form leaning in to get a better look at me.

His eyes are two icy chips of cobalt and I watch as his grin spreads from ear to ear.

My chest tightens even more and I cry out softly, one hand to my heart as if I can somehow soothe its savage pounding.

I watch the maniacal elf turn, then saunter across the living room floor and out the front door.

I lay here,

helpless, gazing at that open door.

Santa, I'm quite sure, is standing on the front porch just beyond, waiting for my wife to come home.

And as my world fades,

I can see from my place on the floor that it has begun to snow.

I liked that one.

The idea of a Santa killing everyone really warms my jingle bells.

Really?

I thought you'd be upset at the idea of a Santa who causes such awful ends.

Listen, sonny, leave my awful end out of this.

All that Christmas cake has me plugged up for days.

I guess you could say you're hoping for a Yule log this Christmas.

I guess you could be looking for a new job if you keep making that potty humor, you over-ripe second banana.

Again, I can only apologize, boss.

Say, isn't it time for a commercial break?

No ads necessary, old boy.

This episode is sponsored by the Sleepless Sanctuary.

The wonderful people of that

organization have made this possible.

So, no ad breaks for anyone.

They sound like brilliantly generous people, firm of buttock and rosy of cheek.

Smart, funny, kind-hearted.

They smell good.

Oh, they hate all right.

No need to kiss their ass that much.

But we do love them so for their support.

Now, who's up next?

Ah, yes, the man named after the place I keep my yacht.

You have a yacht?

I do, And I keep it at the Davenport.

Ah,

yes, uh, right.

Uh, uh, Charlie Davenport.

What's wrong?

Well, um,

he's he's not here either.

What?

Why in the blessed name of Rudolph is he not here?

All I heard was that there was a problem with his flight.

What kind of problem?

His flight ended up at uh North Pole, Alaska.

What?

That fraud of a town?

Everyone knows I live at the North Pole, which is in Canada.

You're goddamn right it is.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible.

Financial geniuses.

Monetary Magicians These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

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Now, let's see what else Santa is getting up to.

All right, so what do we do now?

Well, through the magic of digital file transfer protocols, we also have this story in an audio format we can listen to.

Wonderful what they can do nowadays, eh?

What?

Who are the fine folks who will rock our world with this story?

This story is performed by Jeff Clement, Jeffy Clems, Graham Rowett, The Grow Man, David Cummings, who?

Aaron Lillis, Lily Bells, and Mary Murphy.

Merry Christmas!

Delightful.

All right, based on the title, I know I'll like this one.

Let's listen to Old Nick by Charlie Davenport.

Since 1978, the Quabbin Brook Christmas Tree Farm had cornered the market on Halloween as well as Christmas festivities in the town of Hanton.

Every October weekend, they ran the event they called the Terror Trail.

For a reasonable fee, $5 for adults, $2 for 12 and unders, you could walk the winding paths that separated the lots and local folks would leap out at you wearing costumes.

Mostly it was parents decked out in their barn clothes and the same rubber masks they'd worn the year before.

But in the absolute country darkness, with no flashlights provided, the Hanton PTA were transformed into monsters and madmen that made Michael Myers seem like a playful kitten.

Or so I'd been told by the other kids at Perry Elementary.

I was timid by nature.

likely the last one in my grade to see any of the Friday the 13th movies.

Still, every year mom pushed for me to walk the trail.

Each time I'd decline, Grandpa would warn me that folks around town might think I was chicken shit.

The old man had taught me how to shoe a horse, unclog a drain, and change the oil in the caddy.

He was fond of telling me that after he was gone, I'd be the man of the house and would have to take care of such things.

He was an old school Yankee, through and through, and did not believe in complaining, self-indulgence, or cowardice in any form.

So, the year I turned eight, I finally decided to stop being chicken shit.

We pulled into the Quabbin Brook parking lot the weekend before the big night.

Grandpa, mom, and I piled out of the Broham.

Grandma had stayed home, never won for large crowds or long waits.

But I think every other person in town was in line for tickets that night.

A grand arched entrance stood behind the booth, assembled out of bramble wood and underbrush that had been lashed together.

In the low light, it looked like a series of interlocking skeletal hands erupting out of the soil, reaching to heaven in a protest of their fate.

Old Man Escobar, latest in the line that had run Quabbin Brook for generations, had hung signs among the branches, advising turn back and abandon all hope.

We were just entering the simple picket switchbacks that served as crowd control when the first screams could be heard over the tree line, and I could feel my heartbeat quickening in anticipation of what lay beyond.

I'd heard things from other kids over the years.

Descriptions of cemeteries with zombies lurching around them, cavorting clowns bursting out of the bushes, walking right up to you on their hands.

A giant pumpkin monster rearing up to stand as tall as the trees.

A killer family of hillbillies that wanted you to come inside their shack and have a bite.

My overactive imagination gave them a production value and terrible glory they could never have had in real life.

But such rational thoughts were a million miles from me that night.

I started looking everywhere for something to distract me.

Cardboard stand-ups of Freddie and Jason glared fixedly at me from their platform, where the locals posed with them, folks either feigning indifference or miming absolute terror until the flash went off.

Bella Lugosi slid across the side of the barn, an old projector distorting his features across the irregular surface.

There were a couple of stands set up with candy and refreshments, their signs assuring everyone that all proceeds would go to the volunteer fire department and their charitable works.

The smell of fried apple fritters set my tummy grumbling.

I'd refused dinner out of nerves.

I thought that maybe I could convince mom that she would step out of line to grab me something.

But as I tugged on her hand,

she just looked down at me and said,

Here we go.

We passed under the archway and started walking down a solid mile of winding and wooded darkness.

We were just approaching the first bend when I heard a distinct hissing sound, and a thick mist, smelling strangely of cotton candy, came rolling out to greet us.

A strobe light flickered to life, the world around it disappearing, then popping back into existence in shuddering bursts.

I tried to plant my feet, but could offer no resistance against the two adults holding both my hands.

All my efforts managed to do was to plow up shallow furrows of black New England soil and pine needles.

With a sigh, Grandpa stopped.

Are you really scared?

As though there could be any doubt.

I nodded hard enough that my chin bounced off my chest.

Grandpa placed his hand over his mouth and sized up the path in front of us.

How about this?

You stay with your mom, and I'll go check it out.

If there's anything too scary and hairy over there, I'll let you know.

Man, the relief I felt was profound.

I threw my arms around his neck and squeezed for all I was worth.

Grandpa accepted the hug just for a moment and then drew back.

He patted me on the chest and instructed me to look after mom.

Then he strode off into the fog.

Better look back.

Long moments ticked by, and he did not return.

The hiss picked up again, and the sweet-smelling cloud, which had been dissipating, surged back around us.

Mom tightened her grip on my hand.

Tad?

The concern in her voice prickled my belly with a different kind of fear.

It was quickly washed away when a guttural scream caused me to try and literally climb up my mother's arm.

From around the corner, I heard the growl and rev of a chainsaw.

The silhouetted lunatic carrying it roared like a grizzly bear as he ran at us at top speed.

I knew in an instant he'd killed my grandpa and was coming for mom and me next.

I stood frozen in place until I felt the blade of the saw, toothless, I would later be assured, passed over my head.

To hear mom tell it afterwards, I ran so fast that all she could see was the flash of my white sneakers disappearing into the distance.

I stopped just long enough to look back.

The man with the chainsaw was just standing there.

Mom was on the ground in front of him, her hands clutching her belly.

That was all my lizard brain would allow me to take in before reasserting itself.

I ran.

I did not go back up the way we'd come, back to the well-lit field, full of people and fried goods.

Instead, I bolted straight off the trail and into complete darkness.

There, I found monsters.

Monsters with rubbery skin and flashlights held underneath their false faces.

I ran from each one of them, pinballing deeper and deeper into the woods.

I realized the branches were no longer scraping and scratching across my cheeks and forearms.

I was in a clearing.

For the first time since I'd run away from the chainsaw man, I stopped.

I placed my hands on my knees, trying to slow my breathing down, and looked out into the darkness that surrounded me.

Oh God,

I thought as the adrenaline began to leech from my system.

It was just pretend.

The zombie with the eye dripping down past his cheek had been Coach McGregor.

He always told me that one day I'd be able to climb the rope in Jim.

I knew, of course, the werewolf, crouched down on all fours with bloody viscera clenched in its jaws, had been Mr.

Hate.

The entrails were nothing but tripe from pigs on his farm, shoved into his mask for added oomph.

The witch, twisting a gnarly old branch in a plastic cauldron of dry ice vapor, was just Ms.

Vanesca.

Just the nice lady from the video store who called me whenever a copy of Police Academy was returned.

She'd been cackling bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble between threats to boil me alive and crack my bones open for stew.

The man with the chainsaw.

My brain was just processing what he'd been wearing.

Overalls and work boots and a buffalo checked flannel.

It was practically the farmer's uniform around these parts.

Just like grandpa wore just about every day of his life.

In a flash, I could see it.

Grandpa creeping around the corner, gesturing for whoever lay in wait to hand the saw over to him, and they did because everyone in town knew Fred Martell.

Salt of the earth, someone you could trust.

My sense of betrayal knew no bounds.

Why had they all done this to me?

I'd screamed.

I'd cried.

I'd begged them to stop.

All it would have taken was one adult to step out from under the makeup and latex.

To just show me a familiar face and walk me out of there.

Even my mom.

She'd been rolling on the ground with laughter.

This had been funny to them.

I sank down to the wet ground and put my head on my knees.

It is not funny.

It's not funny.

I wailed with my nose pressed against my jeans, my great heaving sobs staining them with snot and tears.

It was then that a deep, calm, and utterly pleasant voice spoke up.

Pete, what's wrong, little buddy?

Maybe if I'd ever been brave enough to rent Friday the 13th or psycho from Ms.

Vanesca, I'd have known not to ask.

But I cried out into the inkiness.

Who's there?

A rich, warm chuckle filled the air around me.

Oh, of course.

Where are my manners?

There was the sound of somebody snapping their fingers, and suddenly the clearing was filled with a milky light.

Sitting less than a foot from me, on a carved wooden chair a hair's breadth away from being a throne, was an old man in a red crushed velvet suit.

with puffy white pom-poms where buttons should have been.

Its collar and sleeves were lined with a gleaming white fur that matched the man's billowing beard.

I've read since that around eight years old most kids have stopped believing.

So I guess I should have had some questions.

But just then the man in the red suit seemed no more out of place out there in the middle of the woods than he did at the Christmas village they set up at the Galleria every year.

Are you sick?

He waved a hand in front of his face to shoo the question away before it could be finished.

Oh, you can call me Nick.

Just old Nick.

Old Nick.

I repeated, and the very sound made me feel better.

He smiled, clearly pleased, but then his features pinched with concern.

What are you doing here by yourself, Pete?

I got lost.

I crossed my arms in front of me.

Oh,

that can be scary, huh?

I'm not scared.

Only babies get scared.

I hadn't meant to shriek at the old man, and he seemed just as surprised as me.

He blinked for a moment, cleared his throat, and then leaned forward in his chair.

I think you'll find that's not true.

He looked over each of his shoulders as though somebody might come up behind us at any moment.

Everybody gets scared now and again?

Even as I wanted to believe that, my lower lip began to to quiver.

Grandpa.

He shook his head sadly.

Fred played a pretty mean trick on you, didn't he?

The man in the red suit patted his knee and gestured for me to come closer.

Come here and tell me all about it.

I moved forward, but then the accumulated hours of Chief Cabral coming into class to warn us about stranger danger kicked in, and I drew back.

Old Nick tilted his head to the side and gave me a sympathetic smile.

Come on now, Peter.

They bring you to see me every year, don't they?

Yeah.

I'm in your house once a year, aren't I?

I suppose so.

And who do you tell what you really want each and every year?

Hardly sounds like a stranger, does it?

While he'd been talking, an iridescent purple box with a gold ribbon around it had appeared in his hand.

He looked at it, seemingly noticing it for the first time himself, and set it spinning on his finger.

The light.

Where was it coming from?

Bounced off the shiny violet wrapping.

It spun faster and faster, and I felt my thoughts drifting and going soft.

Say, do you want to tell me what you want this year?

Cut in line in front of all your little friends?

All around us was damp, lush greenery, the scent of pine mixed in with the cold.

But as I settled down on his lap, his arms enfolding me, a different aroma puffed up.

It reminded me of the scent of fake fog, of cotton candy, but heavier and cloying.

I felt it sliding up my nose.

I looked up into his face.

The jolliness in the smile was still there.

His dimpled cheeks still flushed a healthy red.

It was his eye, the left one, that was wrong.

The skin around it had puckered and pulled away, allowing a view of something underneath the surface.

Something with the shifting color of an oil slick.

It's a mask.

I remember thinking, and then trying to push that thought as far out of my mind as possible.

Nick brought up a single white gloved finger, smoothing out the rumpled flesh, and squeezed a rivulet of plum-colored fluid from it.

The glob perched on his finger as he brought the purple box in front of my face.

Just remember,

once it's asked for,

can't be unasked for.

The top of the box came away, and I looked down into it.

I could see it.

I could see it all down there.

And part of me started screaming.

Chief Cabral, prophet of Stranger Danger, found me in the clearing.

He brought me to mom and grandpa who both gave him their profound thanks and looked embarrassed to tears as we walked to the car.

Oh, they both got a tongue-lashing from grandma when they got me home.

Why would you do that, you damn foods?

She sat with me, cooing over me.

and read me an old hardy boys book until I finally fell asleep.

The next morning, she made me a huge breakfast, and no one in my house mentioned that night again.

School was a different matter.

Sammy Pleasance, the kid who delighted in gleeking into the back of my head during math class, took pleasure in telling me he'd nearly pissed himself laughing when he heard the story.

He got the other kids in school to run by me at every opportunity, mimicking the sound of the chainsaw.

Sarah Cohen, a grade ahead of me and able to turn me into a stuttering mess just by looking in my direction, laughed every time.

It was December 19th.

I will never forget that date.

When I came home from school and found Grandpa still dressed in his rubber clamming boots and winter coat, he spoke with a hopeful smile on his face as he shucked off his work gloves.

I think there's something you might want to see in the dining room.

It was the most he'd spoken to me in weeks.

Now and again, passing by him on my way to the kitchen or up the stairs to brush my teeth, I'd catch him looking at me, and all I'd see there was shame.

Now, if he was ashamed of what he'd done, or just of me, I could never tell.

The juniper tree had looked stately when we'd tied Grandpa's scarf around it back in September.

Full and lush, but with just enough space between the branches for all of Grandma's ornaments.

It was objectively the perfect tree.

Now held tight by the tree stand and occupying the corner by the fireplace, it was different.

You might argue that it was all down to context.

Cut down anything and plop it in your parlor, and you'll see it in a different light.

But it wasn't that.

Looking at it made me sick to my stomach.

Mom's current boyfriend, Ernest, had taken us out on his boat once, and I'd become almost immediately seasick.

Look toward the horizon, he'd told me, assuring me it helped the eyes see the motion of the boat and let my brain know that my inner ear wasn't lying to it.

I spent the better part of that afternoon nearly heaving but not actually puking.

Staring at the juniper, I felt very much the same.

It was as if the world around it moved while my brain believed all should be still.

She's a butte, ain't she?

Didn't want to stay up, I can tell you that.

Grandpa dropped a hand on my shoulder, a tight-lipped grimace on his face.

For the first time in my life, Grandpa looked like he didn't know what to say next.

He let out a sharp exhale.

I was wrong to do it.

A man should be able to admit that kind of thing.

Later that evening, I helped mom and grandma string up the lights, drape the tinsel, and hang the ornaments.

By the time mom put the star on top, the juniper needles had poked into my hands a dozen times.

My fingers tingled with a poisonous numbness.

Six days later, on Christmas morning, I woke up in the dark with a full bladder and a house around me groaning slightly in the winter wind.

I trudged to the bathroom, the bare tile on my feet bringing me further out of my sleep than I wanted.

I peed,

and in the perfect silence that followed, I could just about make out a sound, a low whispering, like an audience anxiously awaiting the start of a performance.

I crept down the stairs and saw the dining room's pocket door drawn half back.

I'd been avoiding going in there for days.

The tree kept changing, even under my eye.

Grandma's ornaments would suddenly be all blue, then red, then gone completely.

The lights had been simple white lights when we strung them on the juniper, but that didn't stop them from cycling from green to red and back to white.

Once they'd turned a shade I'd never seen before or since.

A few times, seen just out of the corner of my eye, The tree hadn't looked like a tree at all.

The sound grew more distinct as I got closer to the door.

Clearly not conversation, but something closer to a tea kettle whistling.

I peeked in, like the tree had been waiting for me.

The lights flared into a momentary brilliance that produced black spots on my vision.

Then, before the glow had faded completely from their filaments, the tiny bulbs blazed again.

Everything in the room seemed to convulse with each flash, granting the tables and chairs, to say nothing of the evergreen itself, a herky, jerky locomotion.

I turned away, blinking to clear my sight.

I knew it was Grandpa, even though everything I could see was still a vaguely defined silhouette.

His footsteps had always been heavy on the floorboards, even in his slippers.

Something's wrong with the tree, Grandpa.

Oh, no, the damn thing has come afire!

Grandpa rushed past me into the room.

He pulled the lapel of his robe over his nose and his mouth.

Pete, fill the bucket and bring it back here.

He pressed forward without giving me a chance to ask where he expected me to find a bucket.

Gee, these things must have shorted.

Older than Methuselah, anyway.

He reached his hand towards the juniper branches, trying to locate the source of the fire he expected to find.

It's not even hot.

His hand remained out in the empty space between him and the Christmas tree as he turned back to the door.

His face splinked in and out of my perception, but I could make out his surprise at still finding me there.

He shook his head, unsure of what to do with me, then gave up on that cause and focused back on the glowing tree.

He sniffed the air tentatively and then deeply.

Am I having a stroke, or can you smell cotton candy, too?

The phlegmy rumble of the two-stroke engine filled any space I might have had to give him an answer.

I could also see on Grandpa's face that he'd registered the sound, perplexed at hearing it in a place that he'd never had any reason to expect it.

For just a moment, I could see the guidebar, comically long and teeth spinning wildly around it, emerge from the tree's branches.

Then the whirlwind disappeared again.

When the next stroke brought it back, the saw had changed position to the other side of the tree, and Grandpa's eyes were wider than I'd ever seen them.

His jaw had dropped almost to the floor, which was where several branches and most of the fingers on his outstretched hand lay.

Grandpa spun back to the tree as the juniper's branches began to writhe and sway, each gesticulation producing a crack loud enough to make you believe the thing was tearing itself apart.

They bent and peeled radially back from the trunk, and stepping forward from it, Sawblade first was a man.

He was wearing overalls and work boots with a simple buffalo-checked flannel underneath.

It was practically the uniform if you worked the fields around those parts.

Except the overalls weren't usually made of red velvet, and their buttons were normally not little white furry pom-poms.

Hiya, Freddy!

Oh,

what's wrong, little buddy?

Without waiting for an answer or giving Grandpa time to scream, old Nick pivoted his shoulders and hips with a swing that would have made a golf ball grow.

The movement pushed the blade through my grandfather's cheek, taking a good portion of it away and sending him spinning to the ground.

The crimson spray hung in the air between the flashes and looked as black as midnight.

Grandpa pulled his ruined lips apart, producing a ruined slur.

There!

Run!

Grandpa!

I dashed forward with no thought of the danger or how pointless the gesture was.

Nick swung downwards, dragging the blade across the backs of Grandpa's knees.

The gory, is the pop of his skin and the yowl it drew from Grampa.

It's something I can still hear in the quiet moments of my life.

No!

I take it back!

I threw myself onto his back, trying to cover as much of him as I could.

I don't want this!

I was wrong!

I take it back!

The man in the red overalls looked down at me, and all on its own, the saw stopped.

The room was absolutely silent, save for Grandpa's whimpers.

I could feel him shiver under me as the shock began to take him.

Old Nick crouched down and moved a lock of hair out of my eyes with a single white gloved finger.

For a moment, I had hope, even as the sickly, sweet smell of him, like fruit rotting at the bottom of a dumpster, filled my nose.

He lifted me off, Grandpa, with one hand, like I weighed absolutely nothing, and held me face to face with him.

The jolliness and the smile was still there, and the beard was the same lustrous ivy white, but I could see beads of that purple sludge gathering at the corner of his eyes like crocodile tears.

I'm sorry, Peter.

Once it's asked for,

can't be unasked for.

With a casual sweep of his arms, he launched me through the air.

The landing should have would have hurt a lot more if not for the Persian rug Grandma had in the living room.

It absorbed enough of the blow that I didn't pass out as the back of my skull made contact with the ground.

My vision blurred, the dining room blinking from two to one, then back again.

My grandfather was sprawled belly down with old Nick standing over him, the one not encumbered with the slumbering saw, and swept the air in front of him.

The dining room's pocket door jumped to his command and slid shut with a resounding bang.

A moment later, I heard the saw wake back up.

I could hear Grandpa make an inarticulate sound from the other side of the door, something like a wounded animal thrashing in a trap.

Oh, Freddy, come on now.

Keep this up and folks might think you're chicken shit.

Then, judging by the noise, the saw met flesh and bone.

It carried on on long after Grandpa stopped screaming.

I screamed for help.

I begged.

I smashed my child's hand against the door with all the force I could muster.

It changed nothing.

After a time, I heard the tree's branches cracking, and at its own pace,

the door slid back in place,

revealing old Nick's work.

That Christmas morning was one that will live on in Hanton's memory for long after I'm gone.

In total, nine of the town's residents went missing.

and seven were never seen again.

Coach McGregor had told his wife he was headed out to their garage to bring in the gifts he had hidden from his children's ever-searching eyes.

When he didn't return, she'd sent the kids to look for their father.

All she found was a single thick rope hanging down from the rafters.

There was no trace of Mr.

Hagg until the following spring.

His wife was feeding their hogs, and her foot collided with a clump of dirt wedged just below the pen's bottom plank.

It crumbled, revealing the simple, dinged, nicked, and chewed hoop of her husband's wedding band.

Ms.

Finesca lived alone, and it was only when her neighbor came over to ask if her power was out too that anybody realized something was wrong.

A quick knock sent the back door swinging open.

The neighbor searched the house and called the police after finding a full bathtub with a radio still plugged into the wall, bobbing around in the water.

Someone had taken the soap from the dish on her sink and written in the mirror, Bubble, Bubble.

Sarah Cohen's parents were relieved when the police said they found her sitting on the swings at school.

But not when they found out her beautiful eyes had been wiped to a clean eggshell white.

Sammy Pleasants left behind only his bedclothes, rough gouges torn all the way down to the mattress.

Every single one of them had gotten their tree from Quabbin Brook.

Grandma found me still staring through the door to the dining room.

She was concerned that when she woke for the first time in her 52 years of marriage, she'd done so alone.

She didn't see the pine needles spread everywhere.

She didn't hear the smashed ornaments crunching under her slippers.

Never noticed the blood and bone that painted the baseboards and walls.

It would be weeks before I worked up the courage to clean up the mess.

The car car is out front.

Did your mom say they had to go somewhere?

The police found mom just before sunset on that grim Christmas day,

wandering around the stumps of Quabbin Brook, barefoot and still in her nightgown.

Even as they wrapped her in a blanket, her shivering never ceased.

All she said, all she would say until the day she died

was.

It's not funny.

It's not funny.

It's not funny.

It's been years, but when Christmas Eve rolls around and I'm waiting for sleep to come, I'll think about it.

I'll think about what I said in the clearing, held in the arms of the thing wearing Santa's face.

My words sliding out, slow and sleepy.

I just want them to know what it's like to be

scared.

And oh god,

did I get

what I asked for?

You know, for someone who's known for being jolly and festive, I seem to inspire a great deal of dark horror, where I'm more of a Krampus than a Kringle.

Well, children do fear falling afoul of you.

But surely a bit of coal in the stocking is less frightful than me slicing and dicing people, all willy-nilly.

Willy-nilly?

Is he our final guest?

No,

but this just may be your final night, and it won't be a silent one.

Sorry, Santa.

I know you don't like sharing the spotlight with anyone, especially you.

So knock it off, or you'll be like Twitter and find your name changed to X, as in X co-host.

Roger that.

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Now, surely you're not going to tell me our final guest isn't here, either?

No, he's here.

He's in the green room.

But

he's.

What now?

Well, it's Marcus Damanda, and he's.

he's Nog going to come out here with us.

Did you say he's Nog going to join us?

Yes, there's been a problem with the egg Nog.

It was made by that awful couple.

Awful couple?

Who do you mean?

Well, you know,

Sam and Ella.

Oh, that's just great.

Is he going to live?

Well, oh, I don't care.

It's our once-a-year Christmas special, and all three guests have bailed on me.

Ugh, what a slap in the face.

Is Will Smith here?

I'm warning you.

Relax, Nikki.

Just as before, we have a splendid audio version of this Marcus Demanda Christmas tale.

I think you'll like it.

More Killer Santas?

Not quite, but you do get to hear the lovely voices of Jesse Cornette, my man JC, David Alt, my second most favorite, David, Atticus Jackson, Addie Jacks, Jessica McAvoy, J-Mac in the Hizzy, David Cummings,

Mary Murphy, Mary Murphs, Aaron Lillis, Lillis Thrillis, and Graham Rowett.

Row it into my harbor, tall man.

You sure are a weird dude.

Don't taunt me, Bucko.

Taunt?

What about Tomti?

What on earth is a Tom T?

Well, they say it's a mythological creature from Nordic folklore, typically associated with the winter solstice and the Christmas season.

Kind of like a little gnome.

And they swear a lot.

A story about a gnome?

Not Santa?

You know what they say.

There's no place like Gnome for the holidays.

Santa.

Let's just roll the story.

Here's Tom T by Marcus Damanda.

Pardon me if I get a little pissed off at Christmas.

There I'll be, either tucked away in the kitchen pantry or just minding my own business under the floor.

But I'll still hear it.

The annual Christmas assault that begins before the Thanksgiving leftovers are even cold.

Christmas music on the radio, Christmas specials playing on TV.

Kids' Christmas shows from the 1970s streaming on repeat out of the damned computer speakers.

It's all ho-ho-ho and deck the halls and hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, fuck this whole holiday.

Christmas is my work season, don't you know?

At least that's when it is for the viewing public.

I work year-round, really.

I'm the protector of the house.

Had this job since, oh, the year 1450 or so.

So many homes and properties, of course.

Spent most of the time protecting farmlands back in the old country.

Then ended up on a boat to America right around the time our leprechaun chasing neighbors across the water got a nationwide case of the terminal shits from potato rot in the late 1840s.

Still, it wasn't hard to find my way onto this farm or that one.

Big state, Pennsylvania.

Lots of horses, lots of pigs, lots of cows, and nice families, too.

Weren't any cats at that first establishment, which was a right shame.

I fucking adore cats.

It's a soft spot.

Still, nice families.

Hardly had to tie any cow tails together or tip over any buckets at all.

Mind you, this was back when I was still learning the new language, so I didn't know for a while if that first farmer and his wife and children were clean-spoken or foul-mouthed.

They seemed like decent, kind people to me, and for the most part, they were.

But swearing was a big no-no to me and my kin.

I used to punish that shit.

I'd prank the fuck out of anyone talking dirty back in the day.

You believe that?

Goddamn right you do.

Anyway, I'm a fast learner, but I learn by doing.

Sometimes I'm doing it before I even know I've learned it.

Had absolutely no idea that first farmer with the man tits and the ugly kids had a potty mouth on him before I inadvertently took on his manner of speech.

Just like that, and no warning.

I'm the foulest-mouthed yard decoration that ever did shit a Christmas porridge.

Speaking of, the missus did make a fine Christmas porridge, and she never did stint on the butter, neither.

So it wasn't the perfect arrangement, but I stayed.

I kept the coyotes out of the coop, kept the horses in the barn, and I made sure the drunk-ass kids who came to tip cows got their dicks good and zippered first time they paused for a beer piss.

I am Taunti,

avatar of justice.

During the day, I keep mostly to whatever closet I've been assigned, but I do get around at night.

In the early days, I had floorboards to cover, but that linoleum shit people use now is even better.

Give me a bit of time and I can dig quite the network of tunnels, not only under the property, but around town too.

And one of my favorite things to do is to get myself nice and quiet and in secret, right up next to some unsuspecting son of a bitch, and just pop the fuck out of the ground, like a prairie dog.

I don't even have to say nothing, just stretch out my arms and shake the dirt off like, hey, Presto, here I am.

And I can make a 300-pound lumberjack scream like Janet Lee with a fistful of shower curtain.

But I digress.

I haven't lived on a farm in a long time.

It ain't easy keeping yourself in circulation with farms going belly up as frequently as they do nowadays.

I'm a Tompty of suburbia now.

I made my way to my latest white picket post via the Home Depot when the wife asked for a nativity scene and the husband brought me home instead.

There is no barn.

There are no fields.

There's only the front yard.

where they cut the grass closer than the hair on my ball sack and where I've become the guardian of...

Christmas decorations.

I've got the lights to look after, for one thing.

Don't ask me why, but the husband always fucks up the lights, and I always end up fixing that shit for him when no one's looking.

And before the missus ever figures it out,

pain in my ass.

Then there's Saint Nick in effigy, along with the creepy ass elves he surrounds himself with.

Then there's lampposts painted like candy canes that serve no practical purpose.

They'll fall over if no one's there to straighten them out time to time.

And there's the nativity scene because the hubby wasn't going to get out of tracking down one of those things just on account of his bringing me home with him.

Hey there, chief.

Got a special trick for you.

Ain't you never heard of Amazon before?

It's the goddamn Home Depot, and he's asking for a nativity scene.

It makes as much sense as giving a baby frankincense, you want my opinion.

So yeah, I'm a garden gnome now.

You got a problem with that?

Well, I admit, I looked apart.

My get-up's gotten a wee bit threadbare over time.

I haven't changed in, well, I want to say 75 years or so, but my boots are still sturdy, my hat's still good and pointy.

And I got me a set of white whiskers that would give Grizzly Adams a serious case of beard envy.

I'm getting a little old and stiff in the joints for farm protection duty.

I don't see so good through the hat no more.

Sometimes gotta pull that shit up to peek out of it.

But I'm not complaining about that.

No,

what really makes my bright red shorts ride high in the crotch is the disrespect from the world at large.

The lack of appreciation, you might say.

I've seen more Christmases than that overgrown niss of the North ever has.

For what I do, I don't need an army of rosy-cheeked child actor elves to get the job done either.

But that's all anyone wants to talk about these days.

Santa this and Santa that, elves, the North Pole, all those goddamned reindeer.

Got a media lock, Santa does.

He's got the shows, the tunes, and a host of portly alcoholic temporary employees who fan out and play the part at shopping malls all over the world.

Seen more than one of them give interviews on the local TV news.

Kinda hard to compete in a popularity contest against a guy who gives away shit for free.

No one talks to the Tompty at Christmas.

But I've got my own job to do, and I'm damned good at it.

You bet your ass I am.

The first thing I do when the fam goes to bed is check on them.

The yard's nice and dark by then.

Most folks are in for the night.

Who's going to notice if a garden gnome's gone missing from the Rosewoods Christmas display for a few hours?

If you answered no one, that's who?

You'd be 100% correct.

But once I'm back in the house, no one's waking up, not until I've finished my rounds.

Let me tell you something about Santa.

He may know when you're sleeping and when you're awake, and if that ain't creepier than the animatronic rats at Chuck E.

Cheese, I don't know what is.

But he don't know Jack about sleeping spells.

Straight up the stairs, no stopping at the liquor cabinet, no plopping down to catch a little Cinemax after dark till I've seen to my responsibilities.

Right past the the bathroom.

Here we are.

Benny Jr., age 9.

Kid thinks he's all grown up, crashed out on top of the covers in his big boy sweatpants and t-shirt.

Nope, that shit is not going to fly.

Not on my watch.

It's the goddamn month of December, Christ's sakes.

I'm going to just pull these covers round and...

and tuck him right the fuck in, like so.

There we go.

He's a good kid.

I mean nothing award-winning but he treats his parents with respect and his report cards got nothing but the first two letters of the alphabet in them.

Haven't had to prank him once, not in the three years I've been at this post.

It's a sad thing though.

He can't see me no more.

Well, not as I really am.

The most kids lose that side at five or six.

But Benny Jr., he made it to eight, though he never made mention of it to his folks.

I could just tell, particularly when he stopped seeing me.

Every now and again, there's a hint, just a quick second look from the corner of his eye, that makes me think he still can.

But,

no,

it's the way of things.

It was only last year, right after when he stopped taking notice of me, that he tried to get in on a game of flashlight tag with the bigger kids on this street.

I didn't approve much, and them other kids are all assholes, if you ask me.

But that ain't my department.

That goes straight to the department of mom.

At least when Benny Jr.

wants a slightly better shot at a yes than he'll have from dad.

He talked her into it, too.

I heard the whole ridiculous conversation from my post in the front yard.

I let out a huff, just a puff of winter mist no one could see except for me.

And the cats, of course.

This neighborhood's full of strays.

What we would have called ferals.

If you go back far enough, one of the best things I can say about this place.

They are nearly as good at staying hid in plain sight as I am, truth be told.

But there ain't any darkness in that world that can keep me from seeing a cat's eyes.

I know their language, too, and speak it fluently.

Anyway, all lit up under the yard lights and the candy cane lampposts just doing my shift.

When Benny Jr.

comes out in all of his darkest threads and with a pair of sea sized flashlight batteries to offer up as his way to get into the game.

And the spoiled bastards don't let him play.

Worst yet, They don't turn him down until after they've taken the batteries, which they asked him to get in the first place.

He don't mind or nothing, but he stays on the porch long enough, probably hoping mom don't come out and see him there, so that he can later report that he had a great time.

He watches them play without him.

It's only after he's gone back inside, and only when I tune in real close, that I can hear him crying in his bedroom.

The spoiled bastards, meantime, are still playing their stupid, stupid game.

Alright, you scabby little shit-stains,

I say to myself, brace yourselves.

Tomte is coming to town.

There's a song all the cats know by instinct, if not by memory.

The Tompti and the cat have been linked since time out of mind.

They will hear the song.

They will answer it, though I've never sung it in these parts before.

But I do sing it now.

The boys running around looking for hiding spaces either between or behind houses only hear it as an extra breath of wind.

But the cats' eyes light right up, blinking their green and yellow glow from behind bushes.

From within the shadows of parked cars in the street, from around unlikely corners.

They do not come to me, not with so many people still out and about, but they listen.

They speak to me.

What

is

it?

Hmm.

Got a hint of the Siamese, that one.

Up in the branches of a pine tree.

Bright blue eyes.

But only one fang.

He speaks for all of them.

He is the one in the tree until some other pussy climbs up there and knocks him out of it.

Human kittens.

I tell him.

The ones making all the noise?

Or the yellow-haired one with the click light?

Yeah.

Them bastards.

Every last one of them.

They're...

Annoying.

I think there are five of them.

Shall we kill one for you?

Does the Tomte want a present?

A trophy?

I don't much consider it, other than at an intellectual level, you understand.

Could ten or twelve neighborhood ferals take down just one of them and kill him?

Maybe, if they all pounced on him at once.

But I don't think they'd get the carcass all the way over to me in the yard.

I'd have to go and collect that shit.

Anyway, I'm not one to abuse my position.

No, no, no, nothing like that.

Keep your tail on straight and your claws in check, my friend.

What I want.

Yes.

I want to hear them scream.

You wish them frightened?

Yes,

but

no killing.

How about

bad.

Like

nightmare fuel bed,

but

no

killing.

If we do this, we shall want a reward.

Then the others chime in, almost like a single entity, like one big cat with a purpose.

For all of us,

all of

For all of us.

Well, time was a friend might just do a friend a favor.

Then,

after some consideration, the missus has some of them hormel pepperoni slices in the fridge.

How would that suit?

Must have suited them just fine.

Because they came out of their lurking places and fanned out, stealthy as shadows, themselves, as quiet and as undetected as a heart attack about to happen.

What went down at 9 o'clock that night is still discussed far and wide across town.

One moment, all was quiet, like not a creature was stirring quiet.

But cats are more sensitive to noise than most critters, particularly humans.

And 10 or 11-year-old boys hiding in the shrubbery ain't a level of quiet that would put a feral cat off the hunt.

Not by a long shot.

The next moment, feline hisses and yowls, then squeals and screams and high-pitched shrieks of terror fill the nighttime December sky like shattering glass.

Those boys all come out of their hiding at once, howling, doing a sort of panicked spider dance, arms flailing and pinwheeling, hands slapping at themselves in an effort to pull them ambushing cats loose.

One of the boys has a Russian blue right on his fucking head, like a Davy Crockett hat.

There's some scratching and biting, too, despite my explicit instructions, especially when the kid reaches up at it with both hands and the determined little monster finally launches himself free.

Thought I'd been crystal clear, but what can you do?

Cats, am I right?

The blonde kid with the flashlight has a black tabby hanging off his ass half the way down Sycamore Street on the way to Seminole.

Hmm.

Satisfying.

Later, though the night of the cat attack would eventually grow into local legend, all anyone would have seen in evidence was a small pile of pepperoni slices scattered at the feet of a perfectly ordinary 100% stationary garden gnome.

Just as though someone had dropped them there.

And a careful observer might have seen the cats, one by one, again emerge from their lurking places in the dark to collect payment, and to rub up against my leg.

Good company, cats.

On to the next room, just before the master bedroom.

Here, we find baby Sarah.

in the plushy pink crib with unicorns and ponies all over it.

There's that whole colorful dangly jungle friends mobile for her to look at and bat around with her tiny hands.

They're so precious.

Sarah's hands.

As for the mobile, well, eh, it's all very cute, I suppose, if I must admit it, but the musical arrangement that comes out of that thing makes me want to club small animals to death.

Not that I would, of course, but bad music makes a Tom T C red if you follow.

And the mobile's worse than an old ice cream truck.

It's not playing now.

Sarah's fast asleep, flat on her back.

I can smell her baby's breath and feel it when I lean in close.

It makes me smile.

And she smiles at me, don't you know?

and sometimes babbles at me in baby language that I can speak right back at her, just like with the cats.

I don't use no poopy-doopy language in her presence, neither.

She's safe, dreaming, whatever secret dreams of babyhood might tickle her imagination, until I lift the spell and the family is again free to wake up.

I couldn't tell you what's in those dreams.

They're secret, just like I said, but I can tell you what isn't.

Sugar plums.

I don't know exactly what went down the first time Sarah got put in the lap of one of Santa's shopping mall temps, but from what I heard when the missus came back with her, Santa ain't nothing but a big red nightmare to her at present.

What's that?

Is that a hint of night air creeping in?

What the blue blazes?

Alright.

Now my patience is sorely tested.

Someone left the window open a crack.

Stupid.

Careless.

But then again, that's what they have me for, I suppose.

I pull the window down and give the whole nursery a thorough once-over, and move on.

I can hear the hubby snoring well before I ever make it to the master bedroom.

I shake my head.

Dumb son of a bitch let the C-Pap slip off in his sleep again.

I hustle on over there, march right up to the bed, and reaffix that plastic wind dildo to his nose before he croaks from sleep apnea.

Eh, he's a good guy, all around.

A good dad.

Treats the misses well, too.

But let's face it, Benson Rosewood Sr.

is kind of hopeless.

Also, he don't even know what he don't know about putting together a Christmas lights arrangement.

But never mind.

I covered that already.

I have no earthly clue what he'd do without me.

As for Lori, the missus, she's sleeping right next to the nightstand with her face turned toward it.

That's where the parental end of the baby monitor is.

Full-color video and audio built right in.

Thinks of everything, Mrs.

Lori Rosewood.

She's got the family finances straight, never skips out on Benny's little league games, and cooks a better-than-average bowl of Swedish meatballs.

Which I know because I keep watching over the refrigerator, too, if you get me.

All of this, and she still holds down a full-time teaching job, too.

She's a good Mama Bear.

No criticism from me.

Never mind that flashlight tag fiasco last year.

I step back from the bed.

I think we're all set.

Dad grunts his agreement.

Mama Bear waves without turning in bed to look at me.

Dead asleep, both of them.

All I know is, if one of you don't make my Christmas porridge this year, I'm gonna go full-on Chucky mode.

Mama Bear gives a thumbs up.

Back when Benny Sr.

picked me up from the Home Depot, I made sure that I came with a copy of the recipe.

As soon as Mama Bear saw it, she googled Tompty and learned all about me and my porridge.

Maybe in her own way.

She believes.

Right now, from deep in her own personal dreamland, she rolls over, yawns,

but never opens her eyes.

They won't remember shit in the morning.

Naturally.

But I'll still get my porridge, I think.

Tradition and all that.

She'll put it right out on the porch and probably come to the conclusion that the cats got it.

That's fine by me.

The fuck was that?

It's the window.

Sarah's room.

The window.

It's opening again.

Oh no.

No.

No fucking way.

Not on my watch.

I'm quicker than I look, given the proper motivation.

There ain't but one thing can open a window on the second story of a house from outside, and that's a human on a ladder.

And when that happens between 11.30 11.30 and midnight on a weekday,

it can't mean nothing good neither.

This wasn't one of Santa's elves.

It wasn't the tooth fairy.

This was a kid snatcher, a cradle robber.

And there ain't but one way to deal with filth like that.

The son of a bitch must have heard me thumping down the hall because I can hear the huffing and scrabbling of a man abandoning all efforts at sneaking and being quiet.

He's forcing his way back out through the window from the inside.

Hopefully, he's slower than the average Joe, because though I am faster than I look, I am also a very old Tomte.

And these knees of mine don't bend like they used to.

The boots are heavy, got iron buckles and clasps on them.

Come on, feet.

Ain't no Tompty worth his porridge ever lost a human child before.

I curse myself for a fool.

How did I not see the signs, the car that had to be waiting for this scumbag with the engine still running right there on the street?

How did I never detect a person scouting this house for days so he could be sure in his predator's heart of the time when the whole family would be asleep?

But in his scouting, he hadn't detected me either.

He'd never imagined that he'd have me running pell-mill after him.

Unafraid for myself and rightly pissed off.

Even more so than I usually am this time of year.

Let him hear me.

The family won't wake.

Not even Sarah.

No matter what.

Not until I let them.

I still have time to fix this.

Let him see the thing coming after him ain't human,

but rather three feet of 570-year-old Swedish justice itching to be unleashed on his ass.

One thing worthy of note here as I kick in the baby's door and head-butt my way through it, the Tomtee has the power of bestowing good fortune to families that treat them well, and bad luck to families who mistreat them.

Just now, I've been spending liberally from my bad luck supply for six solid seconds, which is longer than you might might think when you count it out, trying hard to project misfortune onto the thing in the house making a break for it.

And when I crash back into baby Sarah's room, oh, my prayers are answered.

He's still there, half in and half out of the window frame.

Got his jeans cuff somehow caught up in the window slide jam.

Imagine that.

But he's still got Sarah, too,

lying fast asleep in his arms.

We regard each other.

My eyes narrow as his go wide, like snake eggs about to hatch.

In that moment, I can't hardly help myself.

I slip back into my native tongue before I even know I've done it.

He screams back at me.

The pasty, sweaty skin of his narrow, evil face goes sallower and paler still as I march right up to his pinioned ass.

I look around and find the stepstool the missus uses to put things up on the high shelf in Sarah's closet and place it in front of the window frame.

Step up.

I snatch my charge from him, kiss her on the forehead.

Then I turn the brim of my hat up.

and glare at him for a moment only before I put my back to him, hop down, and return her ever so gently to her crib.

What the fuck are you?

Hmm.

You don't know the family will sleep through his screaming, but evidently he's beyond caring about pedestrian shit like that.

I

am Tom Tia,

protector of the Rosewoods,

Avatar of Justice.

I am the keeper of your last breath.

Once I'm certain Sarah's in a comfortable sleeping position with all of her little airwaves clear, I return to him.

What are you gonna do?

I already told you.

I yank up the window and push him out of it.

Good and hard, so he turns over as he falls to the ground, something like 12, 15 feet below.

And I push the damn ladder after him.

I can see his truck down there, another 20 or so feet from where he lands with a wholesome crunch, right on top of the wise man that brought the gift of murder.

What the hell kind of wise men blow their entire Messiah gift budget on shit most normal people can't even rightly pronounce, I ask you.

Anyway, good.

That'll slow him down.

And what I want to to do can't be properly done inside the house.

Much less with baby Sarah present.

Sleeping or not.

But it's still with a rather frantic hustle and bustle that I get my centuries-old ass downstairs, noting Benny Jr.'s premium slugger aluminum bat outside the coat closet as I go, taking it with me through the front door.

He's bear-crawling himself across the yard now.

Less than half speed from injury, I guess.

Ah, there's a few lights popping on along either side of the street.

Hmm.

I come down from the porch, dragging the bat with me, letting him hear it.

Which was a mistake because as soon as he does, he finds another gear in him after all.

Nearly gets right back up on his feet.

I lurch forward, propelling myself as close as I can to a proper run as he yanks open the door of his shitty brown F-150, hauls himself into the driver's seat, and works his keys with shaking hands into the ignition.

A blast of new age country pop music blares out through his speakers like damnation-made song.

And I'm nearly struck dead where I stand.

Oh, but that's worse than ice cream trucks, too.

That's worse than baby mobiles.

That music, that horrible, indescribable clamor, ought to be reserved for playlists set to repeat in the outermost rings of hell.

Still, I manage a hold on his back bumper with my left hand as the tires burn rubber and the F-150 screams across the otherwise empty neighborhood street.

I keep hold, feeling my coat scraped off from under me.

listening to the aluminum bat clink over the asphalt as the predator floors it down sycamore, first picking up still more speed, then eventually slowing down to something like a normal drive as he begins to think he must have gotten away.

I can hear him talking to himself up in the cab.

What the hell was that thing, Miles?

I'll tell you, nothing.

That's what.

It was a fucking fever dream.

Nothing more.

You were nervous.

You were scared.

You can't do shit right.

right.

There was nothing there, Miles.

Nothing there.

You're just a sick, twisted asshole who can't get shit right.

Never or no time.

He slams his palm down on the steering wheel again and again and again, berating himself.

It's all true.

As I have to admit to myself, managing inch by agonizing inch to pull myself up and into the flatbed while he's good and distracted.

And there's a tarp back here.

Think I'll just slip under that.

Oh, true, Miles.

You have some right mighty powers of self-assessment.

I'll give you that.

I wait for the drive to end.

It doesn't take long.

And a good thing, too.

I ain't much for geography and never have been.

But this guy lives local.

Excellent.

Might have been an hour later when I'm getting on my way back home.

Scratched raw in every inch of me still suffering from being dragged along the street as long as I was.

Ever been dragged along the street by a fecal brown F-150 for two and a half miles in the dead of night in December?

I don't recommend it.

I keep keep to dark places best I can, but I don't waste no time.

I'm already going to miss my Cinemax after dark streaming hour, and I've got some cleanup to do.

First thing I better see to is this damned bat.

Oh my, this thing is a mess.

Eh, couldn't be helped.

I won't get into all the details, but I only used the bat long enough to make sure old Miles wouldn't go anywhere.

Bats are like the handheld sledgehammer I used for similar purposes back in the old country.

Great for knees and elbows, but you don't need to go all that heavy once the threat's good and neutralized.

I prefer sharper objects for finishing.

Serrated tools.

Like hacksaws, don't you know?

Don't ever let it be said old Tompty don't have no Christmas spirit

I decorated the whole ground floor of that bastard's house with his own guts I decked the halls with that shit fall la la la la la la la

I'm tired bone tired

and Here I am, standing post right where I'm supposed to be.

Front yard in front of the nativity scene, just south of them useless poles painted like candy canes, and right near the street.

It's Christmas Eve, and I saw to damn near everything that needed seeing to before I let the family get up at the appointed hour.

I cleaned up the bat.

I couldn't get rid of some of them scratches, but what can you do?

There ain't no blood on it.

And I don't think Benny Jr.

will notice anything amiss.

He'll think he scratched it with a good hit of his own in Little League.

Fixed up the crunched wise man best I could.

Couldn't save the myrrh.

The misses might take notice, but baby Jesus don't care.

Window frame sorted.

That window's good and locked now, too.

Got rid of the ladder before resuming my post, putting it in the neighbor's yard.

Maybe they can use a ladder.

Eh, couldn't tell you.

The only real issue is, I'm standing here right next to the street wearing nothing but a hat, boots, and a bright red pair of garden gnome skibbies that are hanging by a thread just over my unmentionables.

And,

oh, Christ, here comes the missus now.

Yeah, great.

She's laughing.

She's calling over her shoulder.

Honey,

I think someone got us last night.

Oh, someone got us real good.

Come look what happened to poor old Tom Tuck.

Honey, bring your phone.

Oh, this is going on Facebook.

I'd close my eyes from the shame of it if only I could.

Go ahead and laugh, missus.

And here I spoke up for you not seven or eight minutes ago.

Then from Benny Sr.

Oh my god, you have got to be kidding me.

Well, ho, ho, ho.

More laughter.

It's as good a way to close out as I can think of, though.

All things taken into consideration.

Best excuse for my current state there is.

Eh, sure beats the truth.

There'll be some unpleasant business on the news later today, I reckon.

But the Rosewoods aren't the kind of family to let the news run their life.

Neither good news nor bad.

Last thing, I promise.

It's Christmas Day.

Hope you make the most of it.

I did all right, in the end.

I got this new red shirt with a fancy black vest and green pants, nice and roomy and warm enough for outdoor guard duty.

Baby Sarah started up on two feet today.

The Bennies, junior and senior, are doing batting practice with an electronic pitching machine in the backyard.

Dusk deepens toward evening, and and the front door of the house opens.

I hear the bowl being set down on the porch.

I can smell that extra dollop of butter from here.

Well,

Merry Christmas to all you silly, helpless, hopeless people out there.

If it gets too dark, don't you fret none too much.

Old Tompty's got you back.

Bet your ass he does.

And to all a good night.

Oh, now that's a nice story to end on.

Did everyone like our three tales this year?

A rousing success, despite all the problems with our guests.

Well, that's all we have time for.

I have to get back home.

Mrs.

Claus is waiting for me.

Ooh, you naughty little elf.

And what are you going to get up to?

Well, trying to catch the last flight home.

Suppose the reindeer might help me out if I miss my flight?

No one flies in the sleigh other than me, Chuckles.

Make your own way home.

Well, let's hope our wonderful studio audience gets home safely.

Yes, thank you all for joining us tonight.

Watch out for Christmas, Santa, Old Nick, and Tompty on your way out of here.

Merry Christmas, everyone, and a happy new year to all.

That's it for me, Santa.

Good night, sleep tight.

Drop the mic.

Saturday Night Live is a presentation of the No Sleep Podcast, a subsidiary of Creative Reason Media.

Our band leader is Brandon Boone.

Sound and lighting by Phil Michulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cordette.

Our segment producer is Jessica McAvoy.

This show is brought to you by the wonderful support of our Sleepless Sanctuary, the best group of horror-loving people from the North to the South Pole and everywhere in between.

Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and a happy new year to them all.

This program is Copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good

night!

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From Australia to San Francisco, Cullen Jewelry brings timeless craftsmanship and modern labgrown diamond engagement rings to the U.S.

Explore Solitaire, Trilogy, Halo, and Bezel settings, or design a custom piece that tells your love story.

With expert guidance, a lifetime warranty, and a talented team of in-house jewels behind every piece, your perfect ring is made with meaning.

Visit our Union Street showroom or explore the range at cullenjewelery.com.

Your ring your way.

Mike Keppel here, Patriot Software's founder.

My first business startup was in the basement of a factory.

We had no heat, no air conditioning.

Only office visitors were rats, birds, flies, and snakes.

We used blankets as our office walls.

When the floors would flood, we'd have to write software while sitting on top of our desks.

It took us four years to earn a normal paycheck after quitting our corporate job.

We know how hard it is to start a business.

That's why Patriot Software charges so little for our accounting and payroll software.