S23 Ep25: NoSleep Podcast S23E25 - Christmas 2025

Twas the day known as Christmas, and all through the valley, the cryptids were stirring and ready to rally.

The night filled with darkness, no candles were glowing.

The children and adults filled with fear that was growing.

The nightmares were coming, no soul could outlast.

So brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast 2025 Christmas Extravaganza.

I'm your host, Sleepless Santa.

No, that's not right. It's me, DC.

No, no, forget that. It's just me, David Cummings.

The voices in my head are leaking into the show.

We're glad you could join us for our annual holiday special, where we fill your stockings with a full-length episode of holiday horror. And it's a time to reflect back on the year that was.

And sure, we could focus on all the the bad things we went through. All the many, many, many bad things going on in our world.
But this isn't a time to focus on those things.

We're here to focus on the nightmares and death and torment of good old-fashioned horror stories. Things to really brighten our Christmas season.
Think about the good things this year has given us.

Like cryptids, Halloween candy, and of course, course, the soul-affirming sound of children playing.

You're welcome.

So there's really not much more for me to say, other than to thank you for listening to our little horror-filled world.

And now, until next year, We invite you to grab a warm mug of cocoa, fill your cheeks with sugar plums, and settle in for festive frights from your no-sleep friends.

In our first tale, we meet James. James is with his family for the holidays, and he's doing what he can to make things festive, at least for him.

You see, in this tale, Shared with us by author Charlie Davenport, James proves that there are consequences to your actions, actions, no more so than what could happen to you on Christmas.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgadio and a very special visitor. So, face the truth: if you're on the naughty list, you're in for a stocking full of coal.

I had just carried the last of the dishes to the sink when I saw it was snowing outside.

The sight drew out a smile for me, and I couldn't help but think how much it would have pleased Grandpa. The old man always loved a white Christmas.

I straightened myself up and groaned, my back aching from the exertions of the day. I decided I could afford myself one glass of eggnog at least before finishing up.

I joined Marjorie at the kitchen table.

Merry Christmas, Midge. I raised my glass in her direction.
My sister said nothing, didn't even lift her face up from the casserole in front of her. Ah,

I exclaimed as the mix of creamy goodness and brandy hit the back of my throat. Say what you will about him, but Ted certainly knows his way around a punch bowl.

Marjorie didn't comment as I downed the last of the nog. I brought my glass down against the table with more force than I'd intended.

Her spoon, still wedged in the casserole, dislodged and then clattered to the floor. Brownish grease splattered against the tiles.

This house had to be spotless before the rest of the family arrived, and here I was making more work for myself. Well, no sense putting it off, eh?

I rose from the table and scooped up the spoon, tucking it into Marjorie's pocket before dragging her off the chair and down to the shore. Hmm, she'd put on quite a bit of weight since the divorce.

Getting her out to the lake took more effort than I'd expected. Still, I counted my blessings the kids were with Perry for Christmas, or I'd have a lot more work ahead of me.

I was drawing in sharp, cold air and expelling gouts of steam as I hauled my sister across the frozen expanse.

Her sweater was riding up from the friction and, despite myself, I felt bad about the state of her. I was so relieved when Grandpa's ice fishing shack appeared in my headlamp's beam.

The water said, as Midge slipped below the surface only moments later.

I rubbed my hands together as I walked back, and flecks of snow splatted against my face. I went over it in my mind, just four to go on my list.

Stephen was out in the woods still, and I debated if I even needed to retrieve him. Certainly there would be questions when they eventually found him, his own hunting knife sticking out of him.

He'd gone on and on about it to me. Top of the line, no-slip grip, something about a Nordic edge?

Well, to be fair to him, it had slid right between his ribs with almost no effort on my part. Ted was still on the roof.
eager for my help with detangling the lights.

He was still whining about why we couldn't hold these little get-togethers somewhere warmer like Cancun when I looped the strands around his throat from behind.

I supposed I could just roll him off once I was back. Dropping three stories onto the frozen ground would likely be the biggest impact he'd ever make in this world.

I laughed out loud and heard the noise echo in the emptiness around me. I am awful, aren't I?

Our grandmother was tucked behind the presents in the cabin's eaves, still wearing her festive hat. A woman 24 years the old man's junior.

Well, she had passed me on her way down the stairs, slurring the words to Santa Baby. It had been quite on impulse that I'd given just the slightest push.

The resulting crack of her neck at the bottom had me freeze in place, until I realized that Everyone else was either asleep with the aid of pharmaceuticals or at the fishing shack splitting bottles of Pappy Van Winkle.

They were all so hungry when they got back and just delighted with the hearty meal I'd prepared for them.

Their taste buds, dulled from the booze, failed to register the odd flavor beneath the pleasant beef and tomato paste.

Caroline had bumped against me as she rose from the table, grabbed onto my shoulders for balance, and said something like, Pappy hits harder than I remember.

Shortly thereafter, they all retreated to bed or the most comfortable, unoccupied couch they could find. Bloop, bloop, bloop, bloop.

I re-entered the house through the front door and fought off a shiver as I closed it behind me. The fire was dying out in the living room.

The orange flames were almost gone, but I could still see the wispy threads of grandpa's hair poking up from the back of his recliner.

He'd refused the dinner I'd prepared and plopped himself right down in his favorite chair with a fresh glass of brown liquor. I never eat on an empty stomach, Grandpa had quipped.

This was greeted with a hearty helping of sycophantic laughter as the rest tucked into their last meal.

I stood by his chair for a moment. Gotten a little chilly in here.
Mind if I borrow that?

The poker I'd used to keep the hearth blazing, at Grandpa's almost constant request, was still protruding from his left eye.

The shocked and dim-witted expression he'd pulled as I'd driven my point home, so to speak, was the best Christmas present he'd ever given me. Well,

besides the inheritance, I was loath to disturb the seam, but still, I was, above all things, a practical man.

The shaft of iron refused to be shifted after a few experimental tugs, and I I had just propped my foot against his recliner, for leverage, you see, when I heard a distinct clink behind me.

I turned, just in time to see something drop down from the chimney, bounce off the stone and onto the carpet at my feet. I turned my headlamp back on, and among the folds of the Persian rug, I saw it.

A single black stone.

I prodded and pulled at it with my foot and watched as it left a black streak streak across the fabric.

Drat.

One by one, more of the black rock spell.

Then I heard scraping sounds from the flu. A cloud of black soot puffed out into the room.
I did wonder who I'd missed and what the hell they were doing up there.

There was no time to fetch a more appropriate tool, so I wrenched the poker free from my grandfather's corpse with a grisly tear.

A moment later, a pair of black black boots appeared from the bottom of the chimney.

The man that followed them was dressed from head to toe in red and white fur, visible even through the ash that streaked his clothing.

He slung the sack on his shoulder down to the floor, where it landed first with a heavy, muffled thud, followed by a sharp, gritty clatter.

He scrubbed his fingers through his white beard and shifted the considerable gut he bore over his broad black belt.

Would you mind?

He spoke in a voice that was all at once familiar, comforting, but gently commanding. Hmm? What? James, would you mind getting the light out of my eyes?

Oh,

I said simply, unable to process the enormity of what stood in front of me. I was so stunned, a moment or two passed before I'd realized.
He'd used my name.

He blinked his sparkling eyes behind the wire rims as I switched off the headlamp. The look on his rosy-cheeked face was one of surprise, almost embarrassment.

Well, believe it or not, this doesn't happen often. But.

The jolly old elf stopped and adjusted his glasses, as though to correct the scene in front of him.

Santa's gaze fell first on Grandpa's body, congealing blood oozing from the ocular cavity, and then to the poker in my hand.

And with a deep, paternal sigh that spoke more of disappointment than accusation, he looked down into his bag and drew out a handful of the black rocks within.

Well, certainly explains all the coal.

But I was already crossing the room, swinging the poker like a Louisville slugger toward the ancient creature's temple. I'd murdered so many close relatives over the course of the last 24 hours.

Twelve, to be precise. What was a baker's dozen?

Do I feel bad about it? Of course.

But I was most certainly already on the naughty list.

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During the holiday season, you might hear the sounds of singing from outside your home. Christmas carolers are there to bring some festive spirit and spread some Christmas joy.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Mason McDonald, when Lucas hears a caroler outside his apartment, at first he humors the man's musical efforts.

But it stops being fun when the singer won't leave.

I pitch in and perform this tale with Jeff Clement and Graham Rowett.

So you might want to run for your fala la life if you hear songs from the caroler.

The following has been compiled by the Mayflower Police Department from a series of online posts made by Lucas Miller under the alias Lil Drummer Boy on the scared shitless message board.

Thursday, December 20, 2007, 10.32 p.m. Atlantic Standard Time.
Subject. A Christmas caroler is outside my house and won't leave.

I can hear him right now. He's singing, Oh, Holy Night.

He showed up about an hour ago and won't leave.

I don't know if the other tenants in the building are deaf or if they just really fucking like Christmas carols, but none of them have come outside.

This guy won't go away and he won't stop singing.

He's not even that good. He sounds exactly like he looks, old man, early 70s, yellow parka with the hood up, big gray beard, round Jeffrey Dahmer spectacles.

Can't sing where there's shit, if you'd even call it singing. Really, it's closer to spoken word with a little jive to it.
And slow. So fucking slow.

Like, these songs are slow enough, you don't have to perform them at half speed.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm I'm worked up.
Annoyed. I have work in the morning.
Let me explain.

I was sitting on my couch, like I do every night. I played some Halo and then threw on some shitty made-for-TV Christmas movie for background noise.

Just, you know, the type city girl inherits a house or shop or farm in a small town.

meets a handsome ranch hand or gardener or shopkeep, falls in love, learns the true meaning of Christmas or whatever.

I was eating a microwave dinner and wanted some equally terrible for my health junk food for my brain. My place is small.
Nothing to brag about.

Single-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of the old brick building I live in. There's a dozen more on this street, just like it.

And inside of them are dozens upon dozens of shitty apartments just like mine.

Shit, this guy won't shut the fuck up.

Anyways,

where was I?

Right.

I was eating my frozen turkey and potatoes and watching a nameless woman kiss a nameless man under a plastic mistletoe when I first heard him.

Initially, I thought it was something in the movie, but then I paused it to bring my trade to the trash bin, and the singing kept going, so I knew it was outside the TV.

I figured maybe it could be my upstairs neighbor Jim. Jim's a cool enough guy, sells me weed occasionally, and we talk about the Jays from time to time.
I'm not much of a baseball fan, neither's he.

But what else is there to talk about with your neighborhood weed dealer? The weather?

It's cold. The end.

So fun.

But I knew Jim's voice. Wasn't him.
And besides, it sounded like it was coming from outside. I went to the front window and peeked out my curtain.

There he was.

Old fucking fart out there, songbook in hand, staring at my door, singing.

Now, listen, I'm not an asshole. I'm not some get off my porch type prick.
Although not one for decorating.

I have a tree that comes pre-decorated in a plastic mistletoe in case some lonely city girl shows up looking for some holiday cheer.

I do like Christmas.

Generally.

And besides, how often do people even go caroling anymore? Have you ever even seen it outside the movies? I figured,

what the hell? Let's just have a listen to the old guy, clap a bit, see him off.

So that's what I did. I went outside, nodded to him, smiled, did the usual thing.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the door jamb like a proud daddy in a family movie.

At first, I made eye contact with the guy, but as the seconds ticked on and he continued that slow drawl, it got really damn awkward. So I started looking around for any relief.

Now this is the part where you could say I started getting paranoid or whatever, but

just hear me out, okay?

There were no cars driving up and down the road.

The only vehicles were the ones like mine that were parked in the snow on the sides of the road, covered in a thin layer of white frost, bathing in the orange light of the arc sodium lights.

It was snowing and late, so I didn't expect to see a crowd or people walking outside, but like,

I should have seen someone, right?

There was nobody, not a damn soul. No cars, no walkers.

I saw lights on in the buildings across from me, and when I craned my neck, I saw Jim's light on, but nobody came to the windows, stepped outside, opened a window to tell him to shut the hell up.

Nothing. There was zero evidence of life save the caroler and me.

After he finished one song, he would simply move on into the next one. No pauses, no breaks.
After a bit, I got tired of standing in the cold.

Besides also feeling awkward, I was starting to get weirded out. I realized the man wasn't looking at me.
He was staring at a single fixed point.

and only met my eyes if I happened to position myself there.

All right, fella, I I said, trying to force an end to it by lifting my hand in a goodbye.

This is fun.

Merry Christmas. He kept singing.
I didn't know what to do. He never even stuttered.
It was as if I wasn't even there.

Buddy, I gotta go back in, okay?

Again, nothing.

I said, Merry Christmas.

Let's call it, eh? I got mad. I'm not a prick, but my patience only goes so far.
And to reiterate, he was giving me the fucking wheelies.

Okay, dude, you gotta go. This is a little much.

He kept singing. Dude!

I swept my arm sideways, motioning up the road. There's plenty of other people to go and annoy.
Fuck off!

I stepped back into my apartment and closed the door. I tried to go back to playing Halo and relaxing, but he wouldn't stop.
Won't stop.

I'm beginning to get seriously creeped out. This shit is spooky, right?

Like, what if he was unhinged or having some sort of psychotic break or something?

Why isn't anyone else bothered by this shit?

I'm going to call Jim, and then maybe the cops.

I don't know if I should because he hasn't actually done anything to me, and I'm not sure singing Christmas carols actually justifies a disturbing the peace charge, but I've got to do something.

He's not right.

He's on silent night now. I'll keep you updated.

Thursday, December 20, 2007, 11.04 p.m. AST.

Subject. Where is everybody?

I'm freaking the fuck out.

Is anybody reading this? If you are, please respond. Call me a paranoid loser, anything, just answer me.
I feel like I'm losing my mind. I tried calling Jim.

No answer. I didn't even get his voicemail.
It just kept ringing. That was pretty weird, but not like freak the fuck out weird.
But this next part is.

When Jim didn't answer and the old guy was still singing, I called the cops. Thought, fuck it.
Best case scenario, they show up and remove him. Tell him to kick rocks.
Worst case, they hang up on me.

Call me the lunatic.

So, I dialed 911.

And it rang.

And it rang.

And it kept on ringing. No answer.
No automated message. Just that damned ringing.

I called my mom. Same thing, just ringing.

I worked my way through the entire list of numbers. Every family member, and friend, and co-worker, and my doctor, and my goddamn favorite pizza place.

The same thing.

Nothing.

No sense. It makes zero fucking sense.

He's still singing.

Thursday, December 20, 2007, 11:40 p.m. AST.

Subject, I can't leave.

I need help.

He won't let me leave. I tried.
I told him to go fuck himself, and then he better not be there when I get back.

He just looked at me with that stupid, blank look on his ancient face.

Snow had built up on the hood and the shoulders of his parka because he hadn't been moving. He was singing jingle bells.

I couldn't get past him. I can't explain it better than I just

couldn't.

Every time I tried to walk around in any direction,

something stopped me. It felt like tens of hands were grabbing me.
Hands I couldn't see, little hands, big hands. I looked all over and I didn't see a damn thing, but I felt them.

They pulled at me and kept me from going. I'd be walking in place, fighting against things that weren't even there.

If anybody was outside or driving by, they'd think I was crazy. But nobody was outside because I was all alone.

I'm dreaming, right?

I have to be. This can't be real.

Are you there?

Is anybody seeing this?

Hello?

Friday, December 21, 2007, 12:13 a.m., AST.

Subject. I think he moved.

I don't know it 100%,

but I think he moved. I've been doing pretty good about keeping an eye on him, not letting him out of my sight for too long.

But I had the piss, so I left for just a second, and when I came back, all the snow had fallen off his jacket, and I swear he was closer. I swear he was.

What should I do? What

can I do?

I read once on this site about this guy down south who thought he was heading out for some work, but in reality, the family that hired him ended up eating him for Christmas dinner.

It always stuck with me about how this guy was just normal, like me, thinking he had some work lined up for himself, and next thing you know, he's getting diced up and munched on.

I can't stop thinking about that right now.

What if this guy is here to hurt me? What if he's here to kill me? Am I already dead? Maybe I am.

Maybe this is the end.

I died a few hours ago.

Took a heart attack playing Halo or choked on a piece of dry microwave turkey. I died.

And this is hell. Endless Christmas carols in a prison you could never leave.
Guarded by the dead.

No,

I can't think like that. I need to find a way out of this.
I will find a way out of this.

If you're reading this, please respond.

Friday, December 21, 2007, 1.21 a.m. AST.
Subject. It's like a lullaby.

I'm going to try to get some sleep. My mind is racing.
Things are spinning.

This is what losing it feels like, isn't it? My mind is leaking out of my ears.

I started banging on the walls and even grabbed a broom and started bashing the ceiling. Neither Jim nor any of my other neighbors responded.
I'm alone. They're gone.

I swear I heard Jim's footsteps a few minutes ago, so I banged again, but nothing came of it. Jim laughed.

I heard it.

Or maybe I thought I did.

Christ, I never imagined I'd be excited to talk to Jim.

What I'd give right now to hear my phone ring and have Jim be on the other end asking me what the fuck was up with the old fella outside.

Speaking of him,

he's singing Deck the Halls.

Who told this guy he could sing? I'd rather listen to a cat caught in a lawnmower.

I unplugged my Christmas tree and all my other decorations. I can't turn off the soundtrack, but the movie's over now.

Fuck this holiday.

Alright.

I'm gonna try to get some sleep now.

I'm hoping one of a few options will happen here.

First is I wake up in the morning, and he's gone, and everything's back to normal. Second, is this is some kind of shitty nightmare, and by going to sleep, I'll in turn wake up.

Third is I die in my sleep, and then this is all over.

I don't really like that option, but something needs to happen here.

What if this lasts days,

weeks,

months, or

years?

Death has to be better than being trapped in a lost mind.

I don't think I'll have trouble sleeping.

It's like he's singing me some lullabies.

Friday, December 21, 2007, 2.14 a.m. AST.

Subject. He's inside.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'm in my bathroom, sitting in my bathtub, hoping to get this out before my laptop battery dies. Please.

Send somebody.

I was in bed. I was asleep.
You know how sometimes you wake up from seemingly nothing?

And some people think it's because a ghost or something is looking at you and you instinctively feel watched so your body reacts?

Maybe I'm making that up. I don't think I am, though.
This was like that.

I was asleep, and then suddenly I wasn't. My bed is against my wall, and when I opened my eyes, I swore that I was blind.

I wasn't. I was just facing the dark wall.
Right away, I heard the singing and thought, fuck, he's still out there.

But before I turned over,

I realized it sounded different.

More clear, louder, too.

It was as if he was right beside me singing up on the housetop.

But it was so agonizingly slow and gruff.

More than right beside me. It felt like he was singing it directly into my ear.

Like he was whispering it directly into my brain.

I even thought I could feel hot breath on the nape of my neck.

He was leaned over me, singing to me, and I knew it without looking.

I couldn't look.

I was too scared. I didn't get off the side of my bed.
Instead, I scrambled out through the bottom, moaning in fear, and I grabbed my laptop from my desk as I ran out of the bedroom into the bathroom.

It's the only room that locks properly.

He's outside the door.

I forgot to hit the light switch. Once my laptop dies, I'll be alone in the pitch black, unable to see anything or hear anything except his awful carols.

My battery is at 3%

now.

I'm scared.

I think the doorknob just rattled. Oh, God.

Did I lock it?

I know I did.

I know I did.

But what if I...

It's opening.

Why did he stop singing?

Why did...

Lucas Miller has been missing for over 30 days. The investigation is ongoing.
The Mayflower Police Department suspects foul play may be involved.

If you have any information regarding Lucas Miller's disappearance, please contact Detective Eastman at 902-574-74

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One of the most beautiful images of Christmas is that of moonlight from a full moon shining across the freshly fallen snow.

The big old moon, the glistening snow, the decorated Christmas trees and homes. It's like a picture print by Courier and Ives.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Luke Pudney, we learn that a full moon and Christmas don't always go well together. Not when you also hear the howling.

Performing this tale are James Cleveland, Jake Benson, Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, and David Ault.

So you'll likely be more than Saint Nick

if you encounter Wernter Claus.

And get out your telescopes. Father Christmas may be possible to see tonight as his journey around the world will be brightly illuminated by the full moon.

My eyes widened in childhood fascination. I looked away from the small television set and out of the window, seeing the brightly glowing orb in the cloudless sky.

The moon was indeed full, and its light eclipsed the glow of any stars within its vicinity, making it the only visible object in the night sky. The perfect conditions for Santa watching.

I turned back towards the TV just as my mum switched it off.

The newsreader was replaced with a screen as black as coal.

Come on, it's time for bed. The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner Santa will get here.

I would have argued and begged to stay up longer, but I didn't want to be seen as naughty in any way.

I couldn't be moved off the nice list, especially not on the eve of the big day.

I had written my letter to Santa, pleaded with him to bring a Nintendo 64, and tried my best to be on my best behavior all year.

I wasn't going to ruin all that work by disobeying my mother's orders now.

I obediently stood up from the beanbag I was relaxing in and began to get ready for the night. With minty breath from freshly brushed teeth, I gave my parents each a kiss good night.

I got changed into the new pajamas my parents had given me. They were emblazoned with a picture of a sleeping father Christmas and the words, Santa snores above it.

It was a yearly tradition for my parents to buy me some corny Christmas-themed pajamas and for me to wear them to bed on Christmas Eve. They even bought matching pairs for themselves, too.

Comfortable and warm, I climbed into bed and squeezed my eyes closed. I had heard that Santa knew when I was asleep, so I wanted to drift off as soon as possible.

I must have fallen asleep in record time because the next thing I remembered was waking up and hearing small bumping sounds accompanied by the occasional grunt and groan.

It was strange to be hearing these sounds on what should have been a silent night. My first thought was that it must have been Santa.

He was probably trying to squeeze down our chimney to deliver my brand new Nintendo console.

There was no other explanation.

Well, not one that my eight-year-old mind would prefer to be true.

My immediate thought was that I might be able to actually catch a glimpse of the jolly man.

If I snuck out of bed, crept down the hallway and towards the noises, then maybe,

just maybe I would actually get to see Santa Claus.

So that's exactly what I tried to do.

Trying to be as silent as possible, I got out of bed and gently placed each foot onto the ground.

Then, tiptoeing across my bedroom and out into the hallway, I felt rising excitement within me, like the moment just before tearing into a wrapped present that was the exact shape of what you had asked for.

I ventured out into the hallway that connected the bedrooms to the rest of the house. All lights were off, except for the one that I could see glowing around the edging of a closed door.

The light wasn't coming from the living room, like I would have expected, but rather it was the bathroom that was illuminated.

My initial thought was that spending all night in the sleigh it would get difficult to hold it in, and before long a bathroom break would become necessary.

But then even my mind, which was desperately hoping to see Santa, came to the realization that it was probably just one of my parents.

Disappointed, I was about to turn back around and go back to bed when I heard a voice from inside the bathroom. Wow, Santa,

Even from just those few words, I knew it wasn't either one of my parents behind the door. The voice was deeper and older.

I crept closer to the door and pushed my ear up against it.

I heard the sound of a cupboard door opening.

Then someone rummaging through its contents before closing it again.

In my childlike innocence, I had come to the conclusion that there was only one one person inside that bathroom.

And possibly, with the whimsy of childlike wonder clouding my judgment, I had decided it must have been Father Christmas. I opened the door.

The opening of the door revealed a wounded man sitting on the cold bathroom floor, one bleeding leg raised and resting on top of the bathtub.

As he heard the creaking door swing open, he looked up toward me, his long white beard dripping with sweat, his eyes widened behind round spectacles.

Oh shit.

He soon realized he was in the presence of a child.

I

mean,

oh, sugar lumps.

He then looked across at his bleeding leg, the blood matching the bright red of his pants. Come over here, kid.

Can you help me?

Can you find me some bandages?

I've cut my leg when I was um.

He thought for a moment about whether he should tell me the truth before deciding that a comforting lie was the better option. Um, I heard it coming down the chimney.

I stood still,

shocked that Santa was here.

Injured, in my bathroom, asking me for help.

Please hurry. I need to wrap this as soon as possible.
Don't worry. For your help, I'll make sure you get a few extra presents this year.

I didn't want to misbehave in front of the man himself and have my name transferred to the naughty list. But when it came to judging good behavior, he was judge, jury, and extra gift bringer.

So I followed exactly what he wanted me to do. I went over to the cupboard that I knew contained a first aid kit.
opened the door and grabbed it out.

I handed it to him and he quickly grabbed it off of me and started fishing through it, trying to find a bandage. Mrs.
Klaus always said I should keep one of these in the sleigh, but did I listen?

No, of course I bloody didn't.

Once he had found a bandage within the kit, he began to wrap it around his wounded leg, blood seeping through the cloth as he wound it around the injury.

Once the bandage was tightly wound around his leg, like a neatly wrapped present, he looked up at me again.

You know who I am, don't you?

I nodded in

And you know that nobody else can know that you have seen me?

I nodded again.

Not even your parents. Do you understand?

Yes, I won't tell them. I promise.

What if they hear us now, though?

Well, we will just have to try and stay quiet, won't we? Parents seem to sleep through most noises I make. They almost never wake up when I'm around.
North Bold magic, I guess.

He then moved his leg from the top of the bath and placed it back onto the tiled floor.

He waved his hand, gesturing to me to come over to him. Help me up, would you?

I took a few steps closer to him and held out my hand, which he grabbed. With as much strength as my eight-year-old self could conjure up, I helped pull up Santa.

He got partway up on his healthy leg. But when he put some of his weight into the damaged one, he collapsed back onto the tiles, crying out in pain pain as he fell.

Son of a Blitzen. Are you all right?

I knew the answer when I saw the blood that was now dripping out of the bandage and splattering red droplets on the white tiles, like fallen hollyperries on snow. What happened?

He turned his head towards me, looking into my eyes. And I noticed that his were becoming bloodshot.

I already told you, kid, I'd sliced it open, cover down your chimney.

Haven't you had lots of practice at that, though?

I knew that I was in danger of my name moving lists.

Okay, okay.

It wasn't from your chimney.

There was a dog a few blocks over that bit me. It was a big, fuck- a big, fairy thing.

I remembered the size of the wound on his leg and knew that he was right. It must have been a very big dog indeed to cause as much damage as it had.

It looked as though it had almost ripped his leg in half.

It bit you?

Yeah.

I know dogs don't like postmen and delivery drivers, but I thought I was different.

No dog has ever tried to attack me before. Normally I give them a little pat on the head and they leave me alone.

Not this thing.

It was in the street, and it saw me land the sleigh in someone's front yard.

And as soon soon as I got out, it went for me. Grabbed a hold of my leg, bit down, and wouldn't let go.
I'm just thankful that Vixen has such powerful antlers.

Otherwise, that might have been it for old Saint Nick.

Then I managed to get back in the sleigh and steered it over here. I somehow shimmied my way down your chimney, and that's how I ended up here.

In your bathroom.

So, where is the dog now?

Not sure.

I guess when 500 pounds of reindeer comes charging at you, pointy and first, you tend to run away with your tail between your legs.

Nah, but I wouldn't worry about the dog. I don't think it'll be back.
What we do need to worry about is getting me back outside into my sleigh.

Otherwise, in the morning, there'll be a lot of disappointed children waking up without any presents, and I don't want to have to deal with those letters.

What did you want me to to do?

I left my sack full of presents out in your living room. Go and grab it.
No doubt there's something in there that I could use as some kind of crutch.

I'm sure some kid has asked for a toy light saber or a sword or something like that that I could use.

I obediently exited the bathroom and quietly tiptoed down the hallway, trying my best not to wake my sleeping parents.

It wasn't the first Christmas Eve that I had sneakily lurked along this hallway in the hope of seeing unopened presents, but tonight it was under very different circumstances and a bit more urgent.

I stepped out into the living room and saw the large red sack that was more stuffed full than a Christmas turkey.

It was filled to the brim with gifts covered in red and green wrapping paper of varying patterns.

I approached the large sack and started to rummage through it, looking for something long and sturdy that could support the weight of Santa.

At the top of the pile of presents were nothing but square boxes or soft presents wrapped in the shape of a tickle-me elmo.

I had to dig through the collection of gifts until I found one that was about waist height on a grown man and cylindrical.

I tore the wrapping paper off in one swift motion, revealing a long green tube. It was a grown tube.

One of those toys that, when turned upside down, makes a long howling noise that sounds like a man falling down a chimney. It wasn't ideal for the situation, but it would have to do.

I carried it back towards the bathroom, making sure I kept it upright so that its sound wouldn't wake my mum and dad.

But when I reopened the bathroom door, waking my parents became the least of my worries.

Because

it was the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

A creature was beginning to stir.

Santa was exactly where I had left him on the bathroom floor, with one foot propped up on the bath. But he was starting to look different.

His eyes, which were already bloodshot, were now completely red where it should have been white. They were also bigger and rounder than usual, bulging outwards like two red baubles behind his glasses.

He raised one gloved hand and stretched it out towards me, almost like he was silently begging for my help.

Silently, because inside his mouth his tongue swelled and stretched, making any kind of speech impossible.

I saw the end of his now enlarged tongue slide out between his lips and hang out of his mouth like a strange ornament dangling from a Christmas tree.

The white glove on his outstretched hand began to stretch as the fingers within it lengthened.

The sound of tearing fabric was heard as sharp claws erupted out of the end of each of the gloves' fingertips.

Then, with the sound like a crackling winter fire, both of Santa's arms grew longer, bones snapping and popping as they grew.

The same happened to each of his legs, stretching the material on his normally baggy red pants to their limits.

Santa's face contorted as his jaw became elongated, making room for his already enlarged tongue.

His longer, almost snelt-like jaw also allowed enough space for the large fangs that sprouted from his gums. The rest of his teeth also sharpened and became longer.

His white beard rapidly grew too and now flowed down to his belt buckle.

The hairs darkened to a shade of black that was the same color as the rest of the hair that was now poking through the skin on the rest of his visible flesh.

I guessed that under his red suit hair was covering the entirety of his body. His transformation into wolf was now complete.

He slowly rose up from the ground, joints creaking and cracking as he did. He stood upright onto his hind legs, the wound no longer preventing him.

He now towered over me and had grown at least another foot from his original size.

His large red eyes spun wildly in their sockets before settling on me.

He sniffed the air like someone smelling the wafting scent of a Christmas dinner as the drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth.

With hunger now in his eyes, he took a step closer to me and let out a long, loud howl.

With a raised claw, he swung his arm at my face, trying to draw the blood that he now craved.

But as his nails, sharp as carving knives, got close to swiping along my cheek, I was yanked backwards by two unknown hands. I saw the claws just skim past my eyes, slicing through air and not flesh.

Stay behind me.

As I fell to the floor, my father took a step in front of me.

Acting as a barrier between me and Weren't took claws, my father stood up as tall as he could, trying his best to intimidate the beast that appeared before him.

He held no weapon, nor anything that could be used to harm, but I don't think attacking was his intention.

Run!

I obeyed my father and ran out of the bathroom, just as I saw the creature lunge towards him, teeth bared and ready to bite.

With my back turned, I heard my dad yell out as the wolf collided with him, as the sound of growling and crashing broke the silent night.

I didn't turn back to look or to help fight, as physically, there wasn't anything I would be able to do. That didn't mean I couldn't help in some other way.

I rushed along the corridor, hoping the werewolf wouldn't deck the halls with any bowels.

The sound of a mirror smashing rang out behind me as I entered back out into the living room. Santa's sack was still on the floor where I had left it.

I ran over to it and began digging through gifts, wildly tearing the wrapping paper off to see what was underneath. It was every kid's dream.

to have unsupervised access to an endless supply of presents. But ever did I imagine that it would happen under these circumstances.

I ripped through the wrapping paper, looking at what was underneath, and like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning, tossed the toy away when it wasn't what I wanted.

I opened a box containing Barbie's dreamhouse and immediately threw it aside. The cabbage patch doll I uncovered was quickly discarded.
I even unwrapped a Nintendo 64.

The gift I had asked for and threw it away from me. It did contain some of what I wanted, but not enough to do any real damage.

As I sorted through the presents, the sound of my father fighting the beast was all I could hear. The sound of his struggle is what spurred me on and made me search faster.

The wolf hadn't come out of the bathroom yet, so I knew that he must have been holding it off somehow. But he probably wouldn't be able to for much longer.
I opened another present.

It was exactly what I was looking for. I picked it up and ran back to the bathroom.

My father was laid out on the ground with the werewolf on top of him, claws dug in and teeth dripping with blood.

It looked up at me as I re-entered the room, its hungry eyes staring at their next meal. It lifted one leg, its claws tearing the flesh on my father's chest where they had been inserted into.

It climbed off his torso and onto the tiles, its long nails clicking onto the hard ground. It slowly took a step closer to me, trying its best to intimidate its prey.

I instinctively took a step backwards, but had to stop myself. With all of the bravery that my eight-year-old self was capable of, I raised the toy I'd unwrapped from Santa's sack.

The werewolf attacked.

The wolf darted forwards, blood and drool dripping off its teeth as it lunged. I could smell meat on its hot breath as it got close to my face, a reminder of what it was capable of.

I thrust the toy forward and clamped down on the lever as I did. The small silver nutcracker soldier that I'd retrieved from the sack bit down on the werewolf's nose.

As soon as the toy made contact with the beast, it made a hissing sound, like a cattle brand as the silver plating on the toy burnt into the flesh.

The werewolf yelped in pain as its nose turned red, reminding me of a famous song.

The jaws of the nutcracker bit down, combining that pain with the agony of the burning, which made the creature desperately try to get away from me.

I could smell searing flesh as the silver continued to scorch into the soft tissue of the werewolf's nose. It stepped backwards, its legs sliding slightly on the tiled floor.

It used one paw to frantically flick the nutcracker off its face, before turning away from me and running. It jumped upwards,

smashing through the bathroom window and out into the cold air of Christmas Eve.

I raced over towards my father, and only then did the extent of his injuries become apparent.

Long, deep scratch marks were carved into his chest, blood flowing out of each one and soaking into his pajamas.

Blood stained into the picture of the sleeping Santa that was stitched into the pajamas, turning his face red and looked as though blood was dripping from his mouth.

By themselves, these wounds may not have been fatal, but the werewolf santa had also bitten into my dad's neck, ripping the skin so deep that I could almost see bone underneath.

He wasn't breathing,

and there was no chance he ever would again.

As I reached his blood-soaked, lifeless body, I heard my mum's screams from behind me,

and outside, far off in the distance, I heard one last howl.

If you've seen the movie The Polar Express, you might understand why some people consider it a Christmas horror movie.

With those cold, dead eyes of the early computer-animated characters, the whole film can feel unsettling. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jules Rowland, we meet Rodney.

He will agree with that assessment of the Polar Express, but for reasons far more serious than bad CGI.

Performing this tale are Jesse Cornette, Graham Rowett, Peter Lewis, Erika Sanderson, Alante Baraket, and Mary Murphy.

So if you're feeling kind of low this Christmas, just stay home. No good can come from riding the Christmas train

Let me remind you we are on a very tight schedule and I've never been late before and I am certainly not death came by train now everybody I'd been watching the Polar Express at the time

If I'd been watching speed, Kiana Reeves might have pulled up in a city bus or John Malkovich would have dropped a prison transport plane on my street if I'd been watching Con Air for the 12th time this month.

But it was Christmas Eve, and the Polar Express was my daughter Lottie's favorite holiday movie.

I sat down in the butt print in the middle of the sofa, chewed on a handful of aspirin, yesterday's hangover still walloping against my temples, and washed down the bitter pills with a slug of whiskey.

Cheap stuff.

I can't afford anything that doesn't claw its way down my throat. And even if I could, I like the burn.

I like the feeling.

Something other than a headache.

This place makes it worse. This hellhole apartment with peeling wallpaper, roaches that scuttle back to their holes when I stumble from the couch to the mattress on my bedroom floor.

And rooms that smell like piss. no matter how many bottles of bleach I dump over the linoleum.

I've only been been a few rungs up the ladder from death for a while now.

The last thing I remember before death's arrival is the TV spinning and the bottle of Tennessee swill dropping from my fingers.

Then an ear-splitting whistle sends me to my feet.

I sway and blink my eyes at the TV, but can't make out the picture. Can barely see the empty bottles on the floor.
Whiskey and aspirin.

I don't remember finishing either one.

My head still throbs despite how many gritty white pills I've taken, and my hands cover my ears against another shrill whistle as white light floods the living room.

I shuffle through pizza boxes and other empty whiskey bottles that have collected around the couch to the room's lone window.

I squint through the frost on the glass at the smoke billowing in the street. When it clears, just like in the Polar Express,

I see it.

The train.

The whistle blares again, and I almost piss myself at the sound.

The train doesn't move, and I get the distinct feeling it's here for me.

I stumble across the room, push my feet into the worn pair of tennis shoes by the front door, and hurry down the stairs and into the snow.

It's freezing out. That part is never mentioned in the movie.
The kids riding the Polar Express are outside at night above the Arctic Circle in fucking pajamas and they never get cold or frostbitten.

While I'm 10 steps into the snow in front of my apartment, and my toes are wet, and the winter air bites at my bare arms and through the thin fabric of my old t-shirt.

However, just like the movie, there's a conductor standing between two cars.

You piece of shit need a ride?

He lifts the lantern in his right hand just enough to show me his face. And I shit you not.

He looks like the Tom Hanks conductor from the movie. Except when he smiles at me in the yellow light, it stretches his features too far.
And his lips peel back over crooked two white teeth.

My own teeth chatter as I ask,

Who are you?

And what is this?

He sneers.

I notice red garlands strung above the windows of what looks like a passenger car and the green and gold bulbs, some intact, others in shattered pieces, clinging to the strand by thin metal hooks.

The conductor pulls a clipboard out of his jacket and holds it out for me to read.

This you?

My heart stutters at my full name, Rodney Allen Cirth, and date of birth at the top, followed by my last employment that ended two months ago, and visits to a rotating list of food banks ever since.

And all the times I've donated plasma for whiskey money.

Farther down the list is the date of my divorce and notes about Christmas four years ago in big, bold, accusing letters. The conductor Tisks.

Being evicted. Livers failing? Unemployed.
Haven't seen your daughter since.

I get the picture.

I hear something dripping and flick my eyes to the garland again and realize it isn't red.

It's actually silver, coated in what looks like blood streaming down to stain the snow below.

A low grumble rumbles from the conductor's throat as he seems to struggle to stay in character.

It seems this is your crucial year. If I were you, I'd get my ass on this train.

I shake my head and expect the train to move when I refuse the ride.

I'm still staring at the garland when the conductor reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders, dragging me up the steps and tossing me into a darkened passenger car.

Sulfur stings my nose, subtly masked by burnt chestnuts, the cloying pine of floor cleaner, and traces of sentiment, as if someone actually tried to make this a Christmas train, but got all the details wrong.

There's music coming from

somewhere. A holiday song sung by children.
When Christmas comes to town, I think.

It's playing quietly, but the lyrics aren't quite right.

Hanging from the tree are friends who come around.

Huh?

No, no.

That isn't how the song goes.

My ears are playing tricks, or it's another detail that has escaped the demented creator of this train.

My left forearm suddenly burns, and I howl in pain.

In the darkened car, I can vaguely make out a rectangular outline as if a strip of skin has been cut and peeled away.

What the fuck?

The conductor pushes me down into a seat. Immediately, the butt of my jeans is soaked with something I can't see in the dark car, but feels cold and slippery against my skin.

Jeez.

I try to stand, but the conductor keeps me anchored, lifting the oil lamp in his hands. At this proximity, I see details I missed outside.
More evidence of this recreation gone wrong.

Pock marks in his cheeks, one eye slightly higher than the other, and his conductor cap tipped over his left ear. That is too far forward and curling in on itself.

We got somewhere somewhere to be and I've never been late before and I sure as hell ain't gonna be late tonight.

Then, as if he forgot this detail from the movie, he shovels back to the opening between the train cars and waves his lantern to signal the engineer.

The Christmas train begins to move.

It sounds like a train puffing and chuffing, but with more creaks and groans, as if the wheels and walls aren't held together by iron and steel, but

bones and mangled human bodies.

No, I don't know why that thought crosses my mind. I don't know why I'm on this fucking train.

Cold seeps deeper into my body. I clench and unclench my fists to keep the blood flow going.

As we pick up speed, the garland on the outside of the train brushes against the windows, leaving red streaks on the glass.

Someone clears a throat. I assumed I was alone, but now that my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, I see maybe five or six other people around me.

There's a woman two seats ahead of me with hair that's wet and matted, as if she's been pulled from the bottom of a lake.

On the other side of the aisle, directly across from me, is a man that reminds me of the know-it-all kid from the movie with his glasses and tight pajamas.

He purses his thin lips and clears his throat again.

At least he doesn't ask me about fucking trains.

Someone near the front sobs.

I shift, and the seat squishes underneath me, releasing more fetid liquid that soaks into my pants. It smells like swamp water decay, bodies decomposing underneath the surface.

Stop.

I can't think like that. I need to focus on something not terrible.
And immediately, Lottie comes to mind. My daughter, who turned 14 this year.

who cried when I asked her if she'd spend the holiday with me.

My guts twist, and I push her out of my thoughts, too.

My eyes adjust further, and I wish they wouldn't.

Now I can see strands of garland hanging across the train car and small round balls dangling from them, unlike the prickly tensile hanging on the outside of the train.

The garland strung overhead moves and shakes like they're gelatinous or soft.

I'm wondering what they are made of when the conductor shuffles past me toward the front of the car, muttering something about suicides at Christmas.

Suicides?

Before I ask what he means, he announces this was our last stop. Doing his best, Tom Hanks, and failing so miserably, I ache for the original version from my piss-smelling living room.

He continues to address the car.

Are there any Christmas train passengers in need of a beverage?

No one speaks or moves.

The conductor raises his lantern to illuminate his grin, and the light reveals the garland strung around the compartment are ropes of bloody intestines. And the round balls?

Oh, they're eyeballs, secured to the strands by nerves and tendons.

There's one bouncing above my head that I notice for the first time.

It's blue and staring straight down at me.

More sobs break out when the door at the front of the car opens and an undead crew of men in waiters uniforms file in and hurry down the aisle to stop by each of the seats.

It's time for hot chocolate, but this is nothing like the movie. The corpse that stands beside my seat has been dead for some time.

I see the bones in his wrist through a ragged hole in his skin as he sets a wobbly table in front of me.

The sweetly sour stench of decay tickles the back of my throat when he leans over me with a mug and pours something black and clumpy from a tarnished silver pot.

I gag on the smell of the corpse and the chunky black glob that bubbles in the cup in front of me.

The bubbles pop, releasing a stink like the smell of a thousand hard-boiled eggs left to rot in the sun. I hear some of the other passengers puking.

I brace myself for the song and dance that accompanies hot chocolate in the movie, but I imagine the corpses will fall apart if they attempt for choreography.

The one beside me doesn't even have a throat. It looks like his trachea has been gnawed straight through by rats or persistent bugs with a millennium to digest a body.

He notices me watching him and smiles. Broken skin where his lips used to be curling back over teeth barely held in place by gums that have dried around the jawbone.

A dark beetle scuttles out of his open mouth and down a patch of flesh still clinging to his neck.

I feel the blood leave my face and my body temperature drops another degree.

With an unexpected flourish, the undead waiters step back from the tables and try to click their heels together.

Some manage it, others twist and fall before jerking back to somewhat standing position.

Mine stays on his feet and waves the bone at the end of his hands in triumph.

Jazz hands.

That's when I know I'm dreaming.

This is all one terrible, disgusting nightmare.

Here we only have one rule: drink the piss or be the fool.

With the undead dance number, I've forgotten about the sludge in front of me.

They

expect us to drink it?

The corpse beside me clicks his heels again.

More jazz hands.

It's like he's proud of his effort.

No fucking way.

He gestures toward the cup, and I shake my head and refuse.

Protests spring up around me, then then I hear glass breaking as if someone's mug has been flung against the wall.

All at once, the undead waiters form a jerky, ravenous mob and descend on the woman who broke her cup and is screaming that she won't drink it and they can't make her.

They don't try.

Her defiant cries turn to screams of visceral pain and agony. In the light from the lantern, the conductor swings back and forth.

I catch glimpses of legs and arms flailing and being completely torn from her body.

The attack drags on until the screams become choked sobs as she fights for breath and then

nothing besides the wet twisting of organs being devoured and teeth cracking on bones.

And when they've had their fill, the corpses return to their tables.

Mine looks down at me with a wild, lipless grin, his face smeared in fresh blood and chunks of something pink stuck in his throat that I can see through the hole in his windpipe.

Here,

we only have one rule. Drink the piss or be the fool.

Takes on a whole new meaning now.

The corpse gestures to the slut still bubbling into my mug.

I understand.

We all do.

What happens if we break the rule? My hand trembles as I force myself to reach for the mug.

And others around me cough and choke, then moan and scream as they swallow.

It's between this cup and death.

And

honestly, death looks pretty fucking good when when one of the bubbles pops its rotten egg funk directly into my nose that I forgot to hold.

Wake up. Wake up.
Wake up.

I beg.

But I don't.

The corpse leans in, overly eager to see if I will fail.

Dream or not, I assume if I can smell death, I'll also feel the mob of undead tear me limb from limb. The woman up front certainly felt her skin rip and tear.

I hold my breath and put the mug to my lips. It's only as the sludge touches my mouth that I realize it's bubbling because it's boiling.

I understand the screams around me now, but I've been drinking bottom-barrel whiskey for months. So I'm used to feeling the burn all the way down my throat.

But even the worst whiskey couldn't have prepared me for the taste of a thousand rotten eggs.

The raw sulfur, the stringy hair that gets stuck in my teeth as I choke it down.

The chunks of

something

that I coax down my throat with my tongue.

I drink

it all.

And when the cup is empty and the hair that snagged on my molars irritates my tonsils, I set the mug down and look up at the corpse, who seems a little disappointed that he doesn't get to eat me.

The undead waiters collect the cups and tables and shuffle in a line back up to the front of the car where the conductor opens the door for them to exit.

The woman in front of me waits until they're gone before she throws up all over the floor.

More gags to follow.

Jeez, lady.

God damn it.

I'm struggling to keep it down. Don't ask me why I don't just let the sludge roll up my throat, too.

Fresh vomit joins the fetid stink of eviscerated organs, pine cleaner, and cinnamon. And I'm beginning to sweat, as if someone is ratcheting up the heat.

I need off this train.

My mind races back to the Polar Express for what comes next in the movie. After hot chocolate, a little girl with a lost ticket is removed from the passenger car, and

a little boy finds her ticket and traverses the top of the train to find her.

He encounters a ghost, I think.

The last place I want to be is on top of this Christmas train speeding through a scene I can't see out the dirty windows.

And the last thing I want is to run into their fucked-up version of that already fucked up ghost.

But I do remember that the last car, the one behind this one, is empty and clean and might be a place for me to hide if I can't rustle up the courage to jump off the back.

When the guy across the aisle from me is bent over puking on the floor, I slip out of my seat and to the door in the back.

The wind that hits me between the cars isn't the frigid winter air I left behind. It's warm and dry.

I cough on it and wrench on the door to the next car until it begrudgingly opens.

It closes behind me without my help, and I realize my mistake the second I hear it slam.

This car is nothing like the caboose in the movie. Instead of walls lined with comfortable seating, it's stuffed floor to ceiling with junk.

I'm squinting at something hanging by four strings like a marionette when I understand what this is.

I'm in the car of unwanted toys.

The scene in the movie was so creepy, full of dirty broken toys and that damned ghost wielding a puppet that Lottie always made me skip it.

I shudder, wondering what the Christmas train has conjured for this car. Probably a bunch of disfigured creations inspired by the bedroom of that dysfunctional little brat on Toy Story.

What was his name?

Sid. Oh, yeah, that's right.
Sid used to scare Lottie, too.

The first time we watched it, I told her to buck up when she started crying when the messed up toys emerged from underneath Sid's bed.

Buck up.

I'd been drinking that night, or I never would have said it.

I didn't drink as much back then, but still enough to say stupid shit to my kid.

Tears prickle in my eyes, and I swear that if I ever get off this fucking train, I'm going to make it up to her. All of it.

Through the cluttered car, I see a faint light coming from what I hope are windows in the back.

I start pushing my way through the toys when the swinging marionette above me knocks into the side of my head. It's furry and wet.
I wipe the side of my face and my hand comes away dark with blood.

I should have known that there would be far worse things than disfigured toys here.

I reach up to stop the thing from swinging and lock on the glassy, lifeless eyes of a dead cat.

It can't be.

I know that. I know this isn't really Murphy, the neighbor's cat from when I was 10.
The one that used to poop on our lawn.

The overfed feline that wandered into our yard for the last time when my old man stuck a firecracker up its...

No,

I can't. It's not Murphy, and I can't go back to that memory.
I spin and collide with a pile of actual toys that fall around me. Stuff from my old bedroom when I was a kid.

Baseball cards, an unused catcher's mitt with my name etched into the fabric. A bike with a loose chain that I never figured out how to fix.

Tangled game controllers attached to a cracked Atari console that dad threw against the wall.

The picture of me and my parents that used to be tacked up beside me before my old man put out a a cigarette over my mom's face.

I spin away from the toys, duck around the hanging cat with the exploded anus, and slip in a spray of vomit covering the wood floor.

Must have been from one of the many, many times my old man didn't make it to the toilet before the day's whiskey rolled up his gullet.

How many buckets of puke had I I cleaned when I was a kid?

Tears stream freely from my face as I catch my footing and try to decide if it's better to press on through the mess of memories to a possible exit or turn around and go back to the train car filled with hanging intestines and whatever else the conductor is waiting to unveil.

I take a few steadying breaths, wiping my eyes, and head for the faint light at the back. It feels like salvation.

I survived my dad's wrath for eight years after my mom died, with the perfectly round cigarette burns on my shoulders to prove it. I could survive a few more minutes.

To amp myself up, I clear my throat and holler.

You don't scare me anymore, asshole. You're dead.
You're fucking dead, you monster.

A cold, hard hand closes around my throat, and my father's face is suddenly in front of me.

He's brought, his gums have pulled back from his teeth, and he's dressed like that damn ghost from the movie in torn beggars' clothes.

But it's him.

I smell the whiskey on his breath, and I recognize the mania in his sunken eyes.

You talking to me, you little shit.

I'm the king of hell.

What is your persuasion on the big man, the devil himself?

He grins, and it's unnaturally wide, stretching the skin on his face until it's tight like a rubber band.

Feeling is believing.

The hand at my throat becomes scalding hot, along with the rest of the car. My terrible memories are suddenly on fire all around me.

The flames catch on my dad's clothes and burn through the fabric before melting his skin. The fingers around my neck flare white hot until they disintegrate.

The rest of my old man's body blowing away as if on a non-existent wind, like the ghost in the movie.

I hunch over, dragging hot air through my swollen windpipe and stumble toward the door while my entire childhood reduces to ash.

I almost make it, but my feet slip on something metal.

I look down at a license plate, bloody and matted with hair.

No,

no, it's too much.

Wake up, Rodney. Wake up.

Wake up.

Don't go back to that place.

Don't go back.

I feel myself toppling out of the train car and into the memory of Christmas Eve four years ago when it was my holiday with Lottie and she was still happy to spend it with me.

But I'd been nervous, so I drank that day.

Not a lot by today's today's standard, but more than I should have. I knew better than to drive.
I ate a burger and popped a dozen mints before picking her up.

If her mom wasn't too busy hosting her new boyfriend's family for the holiday, she probably would have noticed I was drunk and kept Lottie at home.

I would have been pissed and probably made a scene, but...

Maybe.

My little girl would still love me.

If my ex-wife hadn't been so busy entertaining, she might have noticed her dog got out of the house without a leash.

I feel the car swerve on the ice. I hear the tires squeal and Lottie scream.

I barely see the yellow blur before the thud of impact and the unmistakable shift of wheels rolling over a body.

Lottie shouldn't shouldn't have been there that night.

I shouldn't have been driving.

It was an accident.

I apologized a dozen times.

A hundred.

It never

matters.

My little girl will never love

or trust me again.

Get help, my ex-wife said a few days later. She was understandably mad at me, but mostly just heartbroken that I let myself get so bad and dragged our daughter down with me.

Months passed, and then years.

She stopped asking me to get help and told me to stay away.

She didn't understand that I wasn't an alcoholic. No matter how many times I said it.

I didn't belong in AA.

I could stop drinking anytime I wanted to.

I just didn't want to.

It was all I had left.

Then she'd throw Lottie in my face, and I'd remind her that Lottie didn't want to be with me anyway.

I wasn't a bad dad.

I just had a bad night.

Lottie didn't know how bad I could have been.

She didn't know broken furniture and cigarette burns.

Or a blown-up cat.

Didn't she realize... You

are just like me, my friend.

My father's voice drags me from the memory and back to the burning train where my skin blisters from the heat.

I know who you are.

You're a drunk.

He screams until my eardrums threaten to explode and I fall forward.

When I land, I'm outside the burning train car on the platform of the caboose. Hot wind and smoke whip across my face, but don't sear my skin.
There must be fires everywhere.

Is the whole world burning? I cough and reach for the railing at the edge of the platform and immediately pull my hands back from the scorching metal.

My God.

Wake up!

I sob to myself, clutching my red, trembling fingers to my chest. If this is a dream, why does it hurt so fucking much?

I peer through the smoke for something.

Anything beyond the train to tell me where I am.

I doubt we're in Cleveland anymore. We might not even be on planet Earth.
Though, maybe we've entered the bowels of it.

Without touching the railing, I take a tentative step forward to peer over the end of the train and gasp.

There's nothing down there.

Nothing.

No ground.

No, no tracks. Nothing.

Or, if there are tracks, I can't see them through the smoke, but

I think I see something else.

I trip forward as a skeletal hand swipes at my legs from underneath the train, and equally bony fingers land on my shoulder and pull me back.

I turn and find the conductor smiling at the skeletal fingers that slowly retreat into the smoke underneath the train before turning his attention to me.

Ticket, please. Unless you're planning to jump.

He gives me a nudge as if on cue. Dozens of skeletal hands creep out of the smoke and over the floor and the railing.

The fingers tapping like they're waiting for me to be the dumbass my dad always said I was and jump into their bony grasps to be dragged beneath the train where unimaginable horrors awaited.

Didn't think so. Ticket, please.

I know from the movie that there will be a ticket in my pocket. I gingerly reach with the tips of my fingers into the pockets of my sweatpants.
When I find them both empty,

I shake my head at the conductor.

If I don't have a ticket,

does that mean I can get off?

He shakes his head and widens his eyes until I can see myself reflected in the black pits of his pupils. My skin is waxy and white, pulled away from my sunken eyes, rimmed in the dark circles.

My lips are blue, and the outline of four fingers are burned into the flesh on my neck.

And then

I smell it.

Vomit.

Only this time. It's not on the floor.
It's covering the front of my shirt.

I don't know how I haven't seen it or smelled it until now.

My chest is wet with chunks of what looks like pieces of ham from the shitty microwave dinner. My lonely man's Christmas feast that I forced myself to eat before I hit the bottle.

Before I drank a fifth of whiskey in one sitting and swallowed a couple dozen aspirins for a headache that I suddenly feel beating like a bass drum in my temples.

The conductor pulls something grayish-tan from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

Skin.

I'm holding a strip of skin roughly cut into the shape of a rectangle.

The same dimensions as the raw red patch on my left forearm.

My ticket, cut from my very own body, carved in the flesh in jagged lines

are the letters H

E

L

Son, your ticket's been punched ever since you killed your daughter's golden retriever.

I'm back in my seat now. If I squint through the grime on the windows, I see sparks flying past the train and billows of black smoke that I can smell inside.

And if I squint through the smoke, I can just make out structures burning. I can't tell what they are.
That's probably for the best.

Occasionally, it looks like some of them are moving, maybe even running.

People.

On fire.

I stop looking out the window.

The woman in front of me starts muttering apologies.

The man to my left runs his fingers down a rosary and quietly mouths prayers.

When he turns towards me slightly, I see a patch of red in the center of his chest around a small round hole in his pajamas.

Someone up front bangs on the windows. Another bolts past me to the back of the car, either to jump out between the cars or finding salvation in the caboose.

Either way,

they're in for a hell of a reckoning.

The eyeball dangling above me watches all hope leech out of my body.

The music pouring into the car changes from a horrific version of Believe,

where it sounds like Josh Grobin is being physically tortured through every word, to the song that signals the arrival of Santa Claus in the Polar Express.

The wheels squeal as the train begins to slow.

H-E-L.

I know from the movie that more letters are added to the tickets after the kids have seen Santa, and it's always a message the kids need to hear.

Something special to tie the experience together.

I try to think over the children's voices singing the damning version of Santa Claus is coming to town. Once the train stops, I have a feeling the last letter of my ticket will be the final L

that seals my fate.

Would being ripped apart by skeletons beneath the train be worse than eternal damnation?

The person up front starts pounding louder. I think they're banging their head against the glass, probably hoping to kill themselves before we arrive.

So many suicides at Christmas.

That was what the conductor had said.

But

I wasn't a suicide. I wasn't trying to kill myself tonight.
I just drank too much and took too much aspirin.

Even in my own mind, the reasoning feels flimsy. I've been slowly killing myself since the Christmas four years ago when I lost my daughter's trust and traumatized her for life.

When I carried her mangled dog up the steps of her mother's house during a holiday party. When Lottie collapsed crying in the blood-soaked snow.

The music starts to slow until the voices of children grow deep and run together in one deep, gravelly voice beckoning me and the others in the car to our graves

i'm not

a suicide

i affirm it one last time

and stand up

I'll take the skeletons or burning memories over actual hell when I don't belong there.

At the back of the car, where I knew it would be, is the emergency brake. The blisters on my palm pop as I wrap my fingers around it and pull.

I wake up on my couch, covered in vomit. I'm freezing cold, sitting in a puddle of my own urine, and the empty whiskey and aspirin bottles are on the floor by my feet.

I chew on the chunks of puke still in my mouth as I take deep breaths that don't smell like sulfur or burn my lungs.

The Polar Express is still on TV at the end when the little boy watches his parents ring his bell but can't hear the sound because they don't believe in Santa Claus anymore.

The bell that's proof that it wasn't all a dream.

I reach for the remote and with a trembling but unburnt hand to turn off the DVD player

and stare at my reflection in the black TV screen.

I'm alive.

And by some miracle, I'm alive.

The whiskey didn't kill me.

It was all a dream.

Or...

What the fuck is that?

I tilt my head when I see it in my reflection.

The red marks on my left forearm. I swallow and remind myself I'm alive.
Though it suddenly doesn't feel like it, and force myself to look down.

The letters H E L

are carved into the skin in angry red lines.

It wasn't a dream.

I choke back a sob when I see the final letter.

Not the L I was expecting,

but

a P

H

E

L P

Help

It isn't the letter that chokes me up or even the fact that all of it had been real.

It's a swelling of unexpected love in my heart for the one kind thing my old man ever did for me,

which will be permanently branded on my skin.

The P

wasn't carved like the other letters.

It was burned in the tiny perfect circles of the tip

of a cigarette.

In our final tale, we meet Bryce and Sam.

They might be responsible for ruining Christmas, and it's not just because of their carload of stolen presents.

You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Josh Gauthier, the guys have had just a bit of an automotive mishap. And that person they just ran over isn't just crumpled, he's also Krled.

Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Alante Baraket, and Mary Murphy. So it might seem festive to combine snow and blood, but that's not the true spirit of Christmas in white and red.

There was blood on the cracked windshield. A single headlight illuminated each snowflake that fell, glimmering on the bright red pool beneath the man in the Santa suit.

Sorry, kids. Christmas is canceled.

The car sputtered, considering whether to give up entirely after this latest disaster.

Inside the cab, crackling speakers summoned enough oomph to keep playing a rock cover of Grandma Got Run Over by a reindeer. while tumbled packages shifted in the back.

What?

The

fuck?

Each word was a breath from the passenger seat as Sam stared into the swirling snow.

Did we just

kill

Santa?

I shook scraps of lettuce off my sleeve from the half-eaten hamburger that had exploded across the dashboard.

I keep going the naughty list.

Who even uses coal anymore?

He blinked at me.

What do we do?

I...

Snowflakes were melting into the blood.

I don't know.

I really didn't.

The car smelled like cheap beer and burning dust, and I was out of ideas.

Wait,

you know Santa's not real, right?

Sam's eyes were so wide, bloodshot, and unfocused.

What if we call the cops? Tell them we found him like that. Do you want to go to prison?

He found the beer can, drank whatever was left in a single pole.

What's your genius idea then?

I thumbed at the radio until the music stopped, then opened the door.

Sam followed my lead, only as far as the rusted bumper, breathing into his hands and leaving me to do the hard part.

We really were in the middle of nowhere, with only one house visible down a long driveway.

It would be a Christmas miracle if no one inside could see this far in the growing nor'easter.

I guess the naughty list doesn't matter.

You can't get coal if Santa's the one who delivers it.

Or

is that right?

Bryce, who gets out the coal?

Are you serious? Right, right, sorry.

He kicked snow away from his sneakers and rubbed his arms through fraying flannel. This Santa was the whole deal.
The hat was gone, but he had the long white hair and the beard. The suit.

Even the big black boots.

He twisted on his stomach in the roadway, head facing away.

The angle of that neck did not look right from here.

Avoiding the blood, I pushed two fingers to Santa's throat, just like they do in the movies. Nothing.

Without a better idea, I pressed my other hand to my throat to try and figure out where the pulse was supposed to be.

Clearly, I was alive because my vein felt like it might burst.

Anything?

He's freezing.

I stood, rubbing the feel of that icy, rough skin off my jeans.

I think he's dead. Do you become Santa now?

Sam looked manic, shifting from one foot to the other.

Can I come with you to the North Pole? You can put me in charge of the elves. I'll punt those little bastards in the line.

Sam, focus.

Option one

stash the body in a snowbank option two

shit

the car full of stolen goods really limited our options and there was sam fumbling with his phone while his teeth chattered like one of those wind-up toys

what are you doing calling sage

two steps and i snatched the phone from him

Hey!

I didn't have time to babysit through this.

She's fucking Carter.

Would anyone miss the dead guy if we just dumped him in a ditch? What was he even doing out here? There were no footsteps down the driveway.

Sam blinked slowly.

From work?

Do you know another Carter?

I stuffed his phone in my pocket. There was a crack in my bumper.
a dent in the hood. The windshield was a total loss.

How long has she been fucking him? How long have you known?

Everyone knows, man. I thought you knew.

Why would I know?

They were making out at the Halloween party.

She got drunk and thought it was me and

now that I'm saying it out loud,

well

damn.

Who can we call?

Adam? Or what about Mikey?

We're not calling your dealer. Or anyone.

I rub my hand across my face.

Don't you want to tell him? I had a few beers. You're drunk and high.
We got a carload of stolen Christmas presents and we just committed vehicular manslaughter against Santa Claus.

Who wants to hear that right now?

Your mother, maybe?

She can come pick us up and we can get chicken nuggies on the way home. Oh, I could go for some nugs right now.

Now he's being sarcastic. I know that.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Technically, only you committed vehicular Santa Slaughter.
I wasn't driving.

He sat on the hood.

You definitely had more than a few beers.

Please, shut up. Please.

The car sputtered again, and I swear, if it had died, I'd have laid in a snowbank and let the cold take me. Mentally, I ran through the list of every person I knew who didn't hate me.

Could I trust any of them not to gossip or burst into tears?

No good dragging my parents into this one.

Sam muttered something to himself. Was I smelling smoke or just imagining it?

We could leave, sure, but what to do with the car then?

Could I get the blood off?

Tell people I hit a deer?

That was common enough, but it was hard to think with Sam's muttering.

It was so damn cold and.

Sam, I'm begging you. Please just shut up.

Those stoner eyes stared at me while Sam shivered under a coating of fat snowflakes.

I didn't say anything.

You.

But the muttering was still going.

It wasn't Sam.

It wasn't the death rattle of my dented junker.

It could almost have been the wind, if not for the shape of words within.

A stream of speech running together, all harsh edges and grunts tangled with phlegm.

Incomprehensible, but undeniable.

Almost unwillingly, we turned to look at the most festive corpse this rural patch of road had ever seen.

It was moving.

Bryce?

For a moment, I forgot the cold.

Yeah.

You sure he was dead?

Pretty sure.

But pretty sure didn't cut it. As I heard a sickening sound like bone on bone.

Cartilage popped as first one arm, then the other, bent to brace raw and bloody hands against the pavement.

The couple fingers were crooked and a patch of skin was missing from the back of the left hand. But that didn't stop the guy from standing.

Hey man, you probably shouldn't move. You might have broken something.

Snow and rock salt fell off the stranger's back as he rose to an unexpected height,

still facing away from us as wind kicked up eddies on the pavement.

You alright?

I inched a step closer, but really didn't feel like doing more than that.

The vibes of this situation were getting steadily worse.

The guy kept muttering, sounding like he was gargling rocks.

With shuffling steps, mangled Saint Nick turned to face us.

I uh...

I liked it better when he was dead.

One cheek was torn open, while his dislocated jaw hung way too wide, pale tongue thrashing as it tried to form words.

Blood had frozen into his beard and hair.

His nose was mashed and crooked. He was staring at us.
Eyes rolled so far up into his head, they were entirely white. Fighting Fighting not to piss myself, I stepped back.

Sam!

I hated the way the words squeaked. Dead Santa's head flopped to one side, either in curiosity or because half the bones in his neck were broken.
I looked around.

But Sam was already a flailing silhouette sprinting along the driveway.

Road rash Chris Kringle took a stumbling step toward me, that pink worm thrashing in his mouth. I bolted.

I swear a dead laugh chased me up the driveway as I closed the gap between me and my bestest bud, who once swore that we would face everything together.

I was nearly to him when he managed to face plant, bouncing his forehead off the frozen dirt in the process.

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

I grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him along until he found his footing again.

What's it doing?

Against my better judgment, I glanced back at Mort Noel.

It was crouched on the hood of my car, peering inside at what I could only assume was the pile of packages.

Ignoring us.

I kept dragging Sam.

So don't stop.

We clattered onto the farmhouse porch. There was a pickup truck on cinder blocks out front and an old John Deere in the turnaround.

Icicle lights hung from the porch roof.

There were electric candles in the window and a Christmas tree shimmering in dazzling multicolor in the corner of the first room.

Sam wrenched open the screen door to knock. The rat-at-tat-tat loud even in the increasing wind.

Come on, anybody?

He hopped from one foot to the other, tossing looks over his shoulder.

In the flurry, it was hard to be sure, but I didn't see Father Christmas back there in the headlights anymore.

Maybe there's a door round back.

I hadn't taken two steps before Sam screamed.

A high-pitched scream that knifed through my eardrums.

He shoved past me, attention fixed on the drive.

I think I screamed myself.

Dead and bloodied, the dude in the Santa suit was galloping down the driveway on all fours, launching itself through the blizzard like an animal.

I grabbed the first thing I found in my pocket and chucked it through one of the windows, shoving an arm through after to undo the latch.

Ancient wood groaned and flakes of paint joined the snow as I forced the window open.

The moment there was a gap, Sam threw himself headfirst into the room. I clambered after him, turning to slam the window shut and flip the lock, despite the new hole in the wind whipping through.

Santa charged onto the porch, rattling the picture frames when he slammed into the wall outside.

Sam sprawled somewhere behind me.

I stood back from the window, waiting.

Did it die

again?

The white hair came first, a wild tangle soiled with dirt and blood.

Then those white eyes, reflecting back a shifting spray of red, green, and blue lights.

Pale skin and torn muscle and cracked teeth hanging loose in that broken jaw.

That shattered head turned attention from me to Sam.

It raised one hand to drag cracked fingernails over the glass between us,

still muttering.

It tapped on the glass, pushed a bit at the broken edges. Thankfully, it was barrier enough.

Whatever was out there settled back into shuffling movements. staggered along the porch out of sight.

Where's it going?

Hopefully back to the North Pole.

I found myself unable to look away from the streaks of blood left on the window.

Is there one of those in hell?

I heard tinkling glass as Sam moved.

Oh!

The change in his voice was alarming. He was sitting among scattered glass shards, holding out both hands while they dripped blood onto his jeans.

I think I

cut myself.

The sudden warmth was starting to burn as adrenaline shakes made me jittery. The storm raged, but that was all for now.

Distantly, a patch of whirling snow glowed from the light of my car.

Junker wouldn't run forever, especially not in this.

No one came to investigate the ruckus, which was fine by me.

I didn't fancy the night ending at the wrong end of a shotgun.

I dragged Sam off the floor and onto the floral-patterned sofa.

If this was all a joke, you'd have told me by now, right?

Blood dripped on the brown rug and probably on me, but I still cut him a look.

You're serious? A prank?

He looked so wide-eyed and lost as he nodded. If this was a prank, don't you think I'd be laughing at you?

Sam blinked slowly.

I suppose so.

There was snow melting on the floor near the window.

Wicked night for it, too.

Just sit down.

I tried to settle him.

Jesus him!

Sam launched back to his feet. One of the pillows shook itself off.

Staring blearily at us was the stubbiest little round bulldog ever. With a groan and a wheeze, it moved to the other side of the couch and lay down.

Damn thing, give me a heart attack!

Sam collapsed against the embroidered pillows. Christmas lights caught on the dog tag.

You almost squished Martin.

You dropped me on him.

Sam gestured, but cut off in a grimace.

Besides, he looks very squishy. God, you're bleeding everywhere.
Stay put. I'm going to make sure that thing can't get in.

You're bleeding too, you know.

With that, Sam slumped back onto the couch, his hands still dripping on his knees.

It took a second to notice the blood running out from under my jacket. Pulling up the sleeve revealed the long cut that must have come from getting the window unlocked in the first place.

It wasn't deep, but the moment I saw it, passing out felt briefly like a wonderful idea.

Through the lightheadedness, pain started radiating up my arm in waves.

I let myself tip sideways against the clutter of picture frames hanging on the wall. Until I was sure I wasn't about to collapse.
This would be just my luck.

Escape undead Santa only to bleed out under a Christmas tree.

There were so many pictures on display perched over the fireplace, crammed together on every patch of bare wall and continuing up the stairs. They were about what I expected.

A tiny old woman with curly white hair and bright sweaters next to her balding husband, who wore a permanent scowl and had probably never pronounced an R in his life.

The dollar store frames were full of kids and grandkids and animals and trips to who knows where.

Probably far-off exotic locations like Bar Harbor and maybe even Boston if one felt really daring.

Okay, up and at him. Half-bath, dining room, kitchen.
All the windows were locked. So was the back door.
I peered out at the porch, but didn't see anything scurrying around.

In that case, best to get Sam taken care of before he bled out on the dog. I wrapped a stupid amount of paper towels around my arm until I could deal with that problem.

One thing at a time.

Rifling through the cupboards revealed expired spices, patterned plates, and unlabeled mason jars, among other things. One whiff confirmed my suspicion about the jars.
Moonshine.

And damn strong stuff too.

Well, it would have to do since the bathroom didn't offer much else. I returned to the living room with tweezers, rot gut, and some hand towels swiped from a hall closet.

They talked about first aid at work.

This should do, given the circumstances.

What do you think it is?

Sam was sprawled. staring at the ceiling of the dim room.

That's a chandelier.

How much blood could a person lose before it became a problem?

Asshole.

I mean the thing outside.

Oh,

right.

Coming down off the adrenaline was a weird feeling. Part of me was still on alert.

The other part wanted to curl up on the couch and sleep.

Some freak off his head on bath salts, maybe?

Oh, the bath salts bring him back to life, too?

How should I know? Maybe I just don't know how to find a pulse. Now give me your hand.

Martin let out another groan and watched me swirl the tweezers in the jar as I cautiously approached the switches inside the door.

Think somewhat will bring that guy back?

Because it had to just be a guy, right?

If he hadn't wandered off into the blizzard, he had to still be around somewhere. The guy from the road.

The guy we banged up with the car.

Just...

a guy.

Personally, I'd rather you didn't perform surgery by candlelight.

I flipped the switch and harsh white light filled the room. We waited.

No crash. No mangled face at the window.

I crouched next to Sam.

Did you have to dive into it hands first?

Screw you.

He flinched as I reached for him.

Give me a drink.

I tipped the jar to his lips, careful not to drown him.

God damn.

Is that booze or kerosene?

Ugh, both. Probably.

I took a shot myself and felt my entire body recoil.

It tasted like fuel and lit a fire in my stomach.

This was booze for someone who meant business.

Ah, great.

My surgeons are drunk.

I took a deep breath.

If you like, I can call the nurse. He's just outside.

Sam glanced uncomfortably at the broken window.

Just do it.

I tried to keep my hands steady as I plugged the first few shards of glass out of them and dropped them on the carpet.

Put it on the coffee table.

Sam gestured with his free hand.

The dog might step on it. Really?

I eyed Sam, but did what he wanted. He breathed harshly through the pane.

Is she really fucking him?

It took a second to connect what he was asking.

Yeah,

man, sorry. I really did think you knew.

Nope.

No clue.

Happy holidays to me, I guess.

We can toast to that when I'm done.

And

we repositioned so I could treat the other palm.

God,

what a sucky holiday this year.

I paused to look around at the tree, the lights, the decorations overflowing from every corner of the room. Meanwhile, I'd hung a wreath in my apartment and called it good.

My folks had done their usual decorations, but even those were showing their age.

So were my parents, honestly.

I haven't been by to see them much lately. Price?

No, I don't have any more pot on me.

Not what I was gonna ask, but still disappointing. No, Art.

Do you think we're bad people?

For what?

Lifting packages from a pawn shop?

That was your idea.

I know,

I know.

Sam shifted as I gave his hands a final check.

This might sting.

Not sure how else to do it, I splashed a bunch of the moonshine over him, the sofa, and the carpet.

Jesus married Joseph!

Sam thrashed away.

Give a guy some warning next time.

I did.

I put the jar aside and tossed him a couple towels before shrugging out of my coat.

Now, what are you on about?

Of course we're bad people.

But also, the owner's a prick and kind of deserves it. So he's bad people too.

I took a deep breath before pouring some of that liquid fire on my cut. Might as well have stabbed myself for all the pain it caused.

My vision went dim at the edges before I managed to press a towel to the injury and breathe through the agony.

That's all life is.

Different degrees of bad people doing stupid shit to one another.

Seems like a mother, doesn't it?

Sam was awkwardly clasping two towels between his hands, blood already showing in the white fabric.

But who are the gifts for? Does it matter? A little?

What are we going to do with them?

I collapsed onto the couch next to him.

I repeat. It was your damn idea to grab them.

Bad I did not lock Rally Door.

Some bad guys might come along and take all your shit. Too bad he's got alarms on the jewelry.
Could have actually sold that.

Sam twisted toward me.

To who? He's the only pawn shop in town.

Well,

shit.

Yeah, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?

We lay there for a minute, icy wind whipping across us us every so often as the snow piled up against the windows.

It was full dark now.

The world outside reduced to a wash of white against the blackness.

Shit.

What are we going to do with a car full of stolen presents?

I laughed.

What else was there to do?

You'll be able to give your nephew a gift, at least. Maybe we grab something your sister would like too.

Hey, maybe your parents want a new Lego set. I think I saw one in there.
Those things are expensive, you know?

Bet we could sell some online. It'd be nice to have some spending money for a change.

Sam's voice was getting thick, and his eyes were closed.

We'll figure it out.

I shook myself and focused on the pain for a moment. No good falling asleep just yet.
I stood and kicked Sam's sneaker.

Hey, wake up. There's still a freak outside to deal with.

Sam groaned,

but obeyed. Martin let out a soft growl before burying his face in an embroidered pillow.

Don't get snippy with me, sir.

Don't suffocate yourself.

Sam eyed the broken window.

Can we call someone now?

I feel like shit, and if there's some dude high office ass out there, I don't want to be the one who deals with it. Agreed.

I patted my pocket before the next terrible realization settled into place.

Except...

Sam followed my line of sight to the scattering of broken glass still on the floor.

Motherfucker. Is that my phone? Yep.

It had been the heaviest thing in my pocket when we needed to get inside.

Unfortunately, the shattered screen hadn't handled being hurled through a window very well.

Where's yours? In the car.

Silence.

I looked over at Sam, who was glaring back at me.

I'm smashing it when we get out of this.

Hey, maybe we'll get lucky and one of those packages is a new phone. Straight from Santa to you.
We just met Santa, remember?

Sam gingerly got to his feet.

Looked to me like you wanted to eat our faces off. Well, keep watch then.
Old people have landlines, right?

I left Sam grappling the remnants of the moonshine in his torn hands and started poking around.

Nothing downstairs. And the signs of remodeling here and there didn't bode well.

Maybe these were savvy grandparents who had upgraded to smartphones after all.

Upstairs was more of the same. Ruffles and doilies and an aging farmhouse that protested every gust of wind with creaks and groans.

Two of the bedrooms were a mess of 80s band posters, faded Polaroids tacked to the walls and newer toys stuffed in baskets in the corners. The bedspreads had probably been the same for decades.

At the back of the second floor, the master bedroom was a time capsule lifted straight from some vintage home decor magazine. Graham would have loved it.

But there, on the dresser, was the rotary phone I was looking for, dial tone and all.

The 911 operator sounded tired as I tried to explain the situation for the first, second, and third time.

No, I didn't know the address. Could they please just trace the call?

Yes, there was most definitely someone outside.

Yes, he was dangerous. No, we weren't intending to stop here.
The car broke down.

The operator still sounded skeptical, and I braced myself for another round of questions. But the sudden clattering overhead took precedence.
Send help.

Quickly. Gotta go.

I hung up. The wind was howling, but even with the ruckus, there was no mistaking the sound of cracking wood.
I backed toward the door as something heavy thudded into the attic crawl space.

It was only the briefest pause before that tearing sound resumed.

Plaster flakes fluttered from above as a bloody hand tore away part of the ceiling right beside beside the chimney.

In a flash, I sprang from the bedroom, glancing back to see the bloodied white hair descending through the fresh hole. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.
Not just a guy after all.

I crashed down the stairs, picture frames smashing behind me. Sam whirled on unsteady feet.
still clutching those scarlet streaked towels and looking paler than when I left him.

What was that?

Sam's voice was slurred. The second open jar of moonshine on the table behind him was explanation enough.

It relocated most of the stash from the kitchen to the coffee table.

It's time to go.

Sam stared past me. For the moment, I didn't hear any more movement overhead.

Hopefully, we had time.

Half an idea flashed through my mind, and I started patting his pockets. Where's your lighter? Huh?

Your lighter, Sam.

I snapped my fingers in front of his face.

Where is it?

Poget.

Oh, man, he did not sound good.

It was impressive he was standing at all.

I found the lighter in his front pocket. and tucked it into my jacket.

Hey, it's inside. We have to go now.

I tried to drag him away, but Sam reached for the stupid dog.

We can't leave him there.

I hauled him back.

Sam, forget the dog. We need to leave.

Where?

I sure as hell didn't know.

Sam shook me off again, pointing at the stairs.

Does this cause word daddy?

I paused, noticing the muttering sound too late.

Zombie Santa, or whatever the fuck this was, crouched on the banister at the landing on the stairs.

Broken head tilted sideways as it jabbered threats or curses or goddamn Christmas carols for all I knew. For a moment.

None of us moved.

Then it launched itself, pushing off the railing with a force that shouldn't have been possible. I ducked sideways.
There was a crash, a scream, and a splintering of wood as the thing soared past.

The creature had landed on Sam, smashing him to the ground and shattering the coffee table beneath them.

It had its mouth and hands at Sam's throat, tearing into his flesh like something feral.

Bone cracked, and Sam's head jerked to the side. He wasn't screaming anymore.

Those bloodshot eyes were vacant now.

Blood shimmered as it soaked the carpet and pulled across the hardwood.

I felt everything

and nothing all at once.

The thing in the Santa suit kept going, rooting in Sam's torn neck like a hog.

I didn't focus on that. Swallowed back the bile rising in my throat and grabbed two of the mason jars that I'd rolled free.

The tops twisted loose, and the creature didn't even look up from lapping Sam's blood like a parched man finally given a drink as I poured moonshine over its back.

Emptying both jars, I fished through my pocket for the lighter.

This worked in the movies, but here I was praying that wasn't just more Hollywood bullshit. The flame appeared immediately, almost like it was hungry for what came next.

So I leaned forward and touched that fire to Santa's filthy jacket. The fabric caught with a startling whoosh as flames engulfed the creature and started in on the carpet.

It stopped drinking Sam and rose, turning slowly to face me.

Above the gore-stained beard, that flailing tongue, now dripping scarlet, resumed murmuring things I could not make out. Hair burned and dead skin blackened.
The creature didn't move,

just stared at me with the whites of its eyes while it jabbered nothingness.

I don't know why I grabbed the dog, but I did.

Stuffing Martin under my good arm and bolting for the door.

I heard the crackling of Christmas tree branches igniting as I fled into the storm.

I don't know why the thing that looked like Santa didn't follow me.

I expected to die the entire way back to the car.

Junker was dead and refused to start no matter how many times I tried.

It was freezing in the cab, but At least there was no snow.

I dropped Martin in the passenger seat along with the stuffed animal I found in the back.

He huffed his displeasure before curling up with his head on his new toy, leaving a bit of drool across its face.

I locked the doors.

The thing inside was probably, but hopefully dead, but better not to take chances.

My phone was in the center console, right where I'd left it. At least that still had power.
And maybe enough reception for a call.

It took a few rings before my mother answered.

I heard Bing Crosby singing in the background while my pop shouted something from the other room.

Hi, honey.

It's really late. Is everything all right?

I had to laugh. How would anyone begin to answer that question?

Not really, Mom.

Well, is there anything we can do?

The farmhouse was burning now.

Honey?

A dark shape moved in the flames. It shuffled forward, pausing in the doorway only a moment before it shut the door.

One of the windows exploded as fire consumed my best friend and the monster that had taken him from me. Out here in the cold, I waited for the red and blue lights to take me away.

God, it was gonna break my mother's heart.

I don't think so, Mom.

I just...

I wanted to tell you.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
We'll see you soon. We can make gingerbread houses like when you were young.
Would you like that?

Yeah.

Martin was already sound asleep.

The cracked windshield was completely buried in snow, snow, and there was nothing but the storm and the orange glow of someone's entire life going up in flames.

I miss making gingerbread houses.

As we bring this 23rd season and this year of 2025 to a close, we thank you for joining us.

Not just for this Christmas episode, but throughout the year for all the horror stories we've brought to life for your ears and your souls. 2026 is going to be an exciting year for us.

We'll have lots of fun new things coming your way, along with our 15th anniversary celebrations. We hope you'll be joining us and choosing to remain sleepless with us.

So on behalf of the Maestro Brandon, our producers Phil, Jeff, Jesse and Claudius, Our editorial team, Jessica, Ashley, Ollie, and Kristen. Our media team, Alexa and Gemma.

Our illustrators, writers, and me, little Davey Cumcum. Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and all the very best for the new year.

This audio program is Copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media. 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.

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