Snowball

by Andre Gonzalez

  Erin’s brother, Matthew, found Brandon in the corner while the kids opened presents. “How’re things going for you, Brandon?” he asked, his black hair and beard perfectly manicured to complement the gaudy silk suit he wore.

  Here we go, Brandon thought, ashamed he had made himself appear too approachable.

  “Oh, I can’t complain. Job’s going well and the kids haven’t burned down the house yet. I’ll call that a win any day of the week.”

  Matthew let out a fake chuckle as he raised his glass of beer in the air. “That’s very good indeed.”

  A brief pause followed as Matthew took a sip, and Brandon braced himself, feeling forced to ask, “How are you doing?”

  “Fantastic. The firm had a monster year—I brought home 800 thou, with another 400 going to the Cayman Islands, if you know what I mean.”

  “Impressive,” Brandon said, stroking his brother-in-law’s ego. Matthew worked for a big law firm downtown, and never shied away from sharing how much they succeeded.

  “It is, and we expect to double those numbers next year. Just might get to take some time off and cruise the world.”

  “I hope you do.” They both knew attorneys didn’t get time off, and shared an awkward chuckle before each sipping from their cups. Brandon chugged what he had remaining, devouring the remains with three aggressive gulps.

  “Well, I need a refill, excuse me.” Brandon nodded to Matthew before disappearing through the crowded living room where a dozen relatives gathered to watch the kids open their presents. He trudged through the kitchen toward the dining room that had been transformed into a bar and snack station. Trays of finger foods scattered across the massive table, and the bar stood in the far corner. Erin’s mom, Donna, leaned against the bar as she poured more wine into her empty glass.

  “Oh, hi, Brandon,” she greeted him, brushing back her short burgundy hair. “Enjoying the party?”

  “Yes, I sure am,” Brandon said, stepping to the bar where a keg was hidden behind the bottles of wine and every hard liquor imaginable.

  “That’s good. Erin was telling me about some of the issues you’ve been having at home. Sounds like some strange happenings.” She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side as if she was reading Brandon.

  Jesus Christ, Erin. You had to bring this up at the Christmas party? Really?

  “Yeah, strange indeed.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, and avoided locking eyes with his mother-in-law, now that she had been let in on their little secret.

  “Have you thought about setting up a camera to record while you’re away or sleeping? Might be a good idea just to see what’s going on exactly.”

  Shit, Erin suggested that weeks ago and I never looked up the damn cameras, Brandon thought, but figured it didn’t matter at this point. What good would it do seeing that little elf floating through the air, hovering above their heads as they slept? He knew it was the elf, and believed after Christmas this would all end. Just like the companion story says: Santa’s little helper returns home to the North Pole after the big man drops off the presents.

  “Thanks for that, Donna, we just might give that a try.”

  She nodded with a grin, sipping her wine. “You let me know. If anything, I have a priest who can come take a look. Erin said she thought it might be some evil spirits.”

  “Did she really? She’s never mentioned that to me.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, okay? She thought you’d think it was a crazy idea.”

  Drunkenly, Brandon let out a childish giggle, his jaw hanging open in a brief moment of shock. This whole time he and Erin shared a similar suspicion, and now he questioned everything. Did she also have these strange run-ins with Snowball? Did she also suspect, or know, it was the damned elf behind all of this? Was it actually possible for her to have had the same experiences as Brandon, only to keep it all to herself to not seem like a total lunatic?

  He supposed it was all very possible. He had done it, and managed to go over two weeks with growing, shifting suspicions. We often think we’re the only ones going through a unique experience, when in reality the neighbor down the street is going through the same thing. Or in this case, his own wife.

  Brandon let out a long sigh of relief. Whether Erin ever came to him with her suspicions or not, he at least knew he wasn’t alone. It was their shared, unspoken secret.

  “It’s not the craziest idea,” Brandon said to Donna. “But I should get back now, the kids were still in the middle of opening their gifts.”

  “Oh, of course. I’ll be right there, too.”

  Brandon left his mother-in-law behind, rejuvenated as he returned to the living room where more people had gathered to watch the debacle of the six child cousins buried underneath spent toys, wrapping paper, and ribbons.

  Matthew had remained in the same corner, so Brandon avoided him, settling behind the couch where some of Erin’s cousins were mid-conversation. Erin knelt on the floor to help distribute presents, and Brandon gazed at her, grateful to have her by his side, knowing he would never find anyone better on the face of the Earth.

  * * *

  When the party died down and the kids fell asleep on the couches, Brandon and Erin finally made it to their car and started to drive back home. Erin drove after Brandon confessed to having six drinks. It was 10:30 when they pulled into their garage and carried the kids up to their bedrooms.

  The cookies for Santa had already been left out, so Brandon ate them, grateful to get something in his stomach before heading to bed. He fought off hiccups and hoped Santa’s glass of milk in the fridge would send them away for good. He debated bringing up Snowball to Erin, the liquid courage certainly made him unafraid to do so, but she had promised him a romantic night in the Mrs. Claus lingerie. Bringing up a haunted toy would surely end that possibility.

  Erin stomped down the stairs after tucking in the kids, four shiny presents held in her embrace, marked as gifts from Santa for each member of the family. Brandon made his way to the living room to help her set them up, but instead stopped to watch her glide across the floor, the Mrs. Claus skirt flowing behind her. His jaw clenched as he gawked at her bending over to place the presents under the front of the tree, her calves and thighs tight and bulging.

  Erin took a step back, examined the gift layout, and turned around to meet Brandon. “Hope you’re not too drunk,” she said.

  If he had been, he sobered up immediately as blood rushed to his crotch. She reached out for his hands, pulling him toward her body, planting her lips on his for a solid five seconds. When she pulled back, Erin turned away, keeping one hand’s fingers interlocked with his as she led him toward the stairs.

  20

  December 25

  Christmas never arrives with a bang. The clock strikes midnight while most are sound asleep, especially the children who most look forward to the holiday, and threaten to stay up late to catch old Saint Nick in the act, only to pass out well before eleven o’clock. There isn’t some magical snowfall that commences to celebrate the official arrival of Christmas. Jesus Christ doesn’t come parading down the street with the three kings, singing carols to wake up the neighborhood.

  The calendar simply flips to the next day, just like all the other 364 days of the year, but on this day, you wake up to presents and family in the warmth of a loving home. And even though no actual magic existed, a magical sensation still filled the air like invisible smoke. Christmas marks the closing of another year, celebrated with relaxation and true time off to unwind and eat and drink whatever the hell you like.

  Brandon felt all of this as he fell asleep, alcohol in his belly and sweaty sheets clinging to his skin. As he nodded off, he knew a heavy sleep was coming, all worries of the elf the furthest things from his mind. He hadn’t seen the little bastard in days, and no one had asked of his whereabouts after distractions seemingly piled upon each other following the Wagoners’ deaths. His bed was a cloud, and he was ready to drift away for the rest of the night on it.
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  However, the night of Christmas Eve played by the same rules as any other night of the year. Any number of things can happen in the middle of the night to ensure you don’t wake up in the morning. While this may seem less likely heading into Christmas day, the same odds applied as always.

  Brandon and Erin went to sleep that night with no worries about evil spirits or sleepwalking. Perhaps they were too distracted by their steamy lovemaking. They fully expected to be woken up by the kids, jumping on the bed to celebrate the arrival of another Christmas, demanding to go downstairs to see what Santa brought them.

  Sure, the gifts from Santa were under the tree, but no one would see them until Erin’s parents let themselves into the house later that afternoon, after a couple dozen of unanswered phone calls to their daughter. The presents would remain untouched, the holiday cookies uneaten, the joy and laughter of the morning forever trapped in some alternate universe where horrific things didn’t happen to happy families.

  Even if Brandon had the flicker of a thought about Snowball, it may have not changed the outcome of the night. After all, can you harm or kill something that’s not alive to begin with? At one point in the last week, he longed to tear apart that elf, cotton limb by cotton limb, but Snowball never returned after his exile to the dumpster.

  Snowball was no longer the direct threat, though. The toy elf had bigger, more elaborate plans. Killing the old people next door provided no challenges. The old lady had zero chance after her husband gargled to death on his own blood. She never saw Snowball coming and likely had no idea what had wiped her off the planet in the middle of that fateful night.

  Brandon had his suspicions about Snowball, and Snowball knew this. The man was getting much too close to actually believing that the elf was indeed responsible for all the bad events happening in and around the Armstrong household. If he told the woman, it could spell bad news for Snowball. They’d at least put up a fight.

  Snowball had kept himself hidden on top of the camper after crawling out of the dumpster, and stayed there, waiting.

  Tonight was the night to make his move, for his powers would vanish once the sun broke the horizon in the early hours of the morning, gone for another year until the next lucky family stumbled across him in the holiday section at the local thrift store.

  The doggy door had been closed up, an unfortunate mistake, as Snowball had taken the dog too soon. Next time he’d play it smarter and leave himself an easier way to get into the house. Next time he’d make sure to not get thrown in the dumpster like some disgusting piece of trash. The thought enraged him and he couldn’t wait to watch the man’s throat get slit. Maybe he’d intervene and do it himself, but watching from a distance might be just as enjoyable.

  For now, Snowball hopped across the camper’s roof, leaping to the house and climbing up the chimney like a stealthy squirrel. Not once during his time in the house did he see them use the fireplace, so he had no fear as he descended into the blackness. He felt no pain, therefore, let go of the chimney’s edge, dropping through the darkness until smacking the brick landing in the Armstrong’s family room fifty feet below. Dust clung to his velvet suit as he climbed out of the fireplace and started for the kitchen.

  He thought he had been so clever tipping over the knife rack, giving the man a hint of what was to come.

  Snowball scuttled toward the counter and leapt upward with unbelievable force onto the counter top, returning to the knife rack, its black handles nearly invisible in the night. He pulled out the chef’s knife, yanking with all of the force in his tiny, cotton body.

  Now the hard part awaited. He and the knife had to get down from the counter without making too loud of a noise. Just because he could jump high didn’t mean he could float. Snowball still abided by the laws of gravity.

  A rug lay on the floor below the sink, an obvious target to toss the knife, avoiding the potential amplified clash of it hitting the hardwood. He chucked the knife off the counter, hoping for the best. It made a soft, faint thud as it hit the rug, but nothing loud enough to be heard upstairs where the man and woman slept. Satisfied, Snowball slipped off the counter and landed on the rug in near silence. He only weighed one pound, mostly of cotton.

  He hugged the knife’s handle in his grip, pulling it through the kitchen, the back side of the blade sliding on the hardwood as he lugged it down the hallway toward the stairs. He had done the stairs plenty of times, but never while toting something as heavy as the knife. Pure blackness swallowed the upstairs as he looked up to it, climbing onto the first step to begin his ascent.

  The furnace clicked on, the whoosh of warm air providing the perfect white noise in the background as he hurried up the rest of the staircase, the knife gently thumping on each step behind him.

  He reached the top after a couple of minutes, the man’s snoring echoing throughout the entire floor. The grin that was permanently painted on Snowball’s face now felt genuine as he approached the end of this journey.

  He peeked into the man and woman’s bedroom, pleased to see both deep into their slumber. Any disruption at this point would throw the entire plan out of place. Snowball couldn’t even lift this knife above his head, meaning he’d have to resort to biting if it came to it. He didn’t enjoy eating the humans’ throats. They had a salty, unsatisfying flavor; the dogs tasted better.

  The little people slept at the other end of the hallway, so Snowball hauled the knife in that direction. He reached the boy’s room to find him sleeping upside down on the bed, splayed across the top of the sheets with his miniature thumb cocked into his mouth.

  Wakey, wakey, little boy, Snowball said with his mind, inching closer to the boy’s bed. Climbing the bed was the last major hurdle to complete before setting the boy into the wild. Santa is here, little boy, do you want to go see him?

  Snowball climbed atop the bed, all but yanking the knife behind him at this point, and plopped down next to the boy’s head. He kicked him in the face with his cotton foot, knowing it wouldn’t hurt.

  Let’s go, we have lots to do. Wake up, dammit!

  The boy stirred, took his thumb out of his mouth, and flipped over onto his stomach in a curled up fetal position.

  Wake up! NOW!

  This internal shouting seemed to do the trick. The boy flipped back onto his back, but now his eyes were open, slow blinking as they looked to the ceiling where a night light splashed an image of the planets.

  The boy didn’t do anything besides stare, but Snowball knew he was getting closer. If he could just have the boy’s full attention, he’d be able to possess him.

  Sit up! It’s time to get out of bed.

  “S’owball?” the boy asked, slowly sitting up.

  Yes! It’s me! Let’s go play a game. Do you want to?

  The boy nodded his head, rubbing his eyes. “I play with S’owball.”

  Yes! Let’s play! Take this knife and go to your Mommy and Daddy’s room. I’ll come help you.

  The boy did as instructed, grabbing the knife from Snowball and climbing out of bed. He wavered once his feet hit the ground, clearly still waking up.

  Let’s go! Snowball edged him on, leading him out of the room as he wobbled into the hallway. Follow me, and don’t drop that knife.

  They shuffled into Brandon and Erin’s bedroom, silence thick in the air between the man’s snores.

  Let’s go see your Daddy first, little boy.

  The boy obliged, walking along the foot of the bed with the knife held upright in his small fist, an arousing shade of evil filling his eyes as the elf infiltrated his young brain. Snowball was no longer a voice whispering in the boy’s ear, but rather pushed his way to the steering wheel of the boy’s body.

  They both tiptoed to the man’s side of the bed, Snowball willing the boy to climb up the side, sure to keep the knife at a distance to not accidentally slice one of his own arteries and send this entire plan down the shitter.

  Okay, little boy, what we’re going to do is simple. We’re going to take
this knife and carve your daddy’s throat like a turkey. Got it? Then we’ll do the same thing to your mommy. When we’re done with your mommy, we’ll take another stroll down the hallway and do the same thing to your sissy. Easy-peasy, and we’ll be out of here in five minutes.

  The boy didn’t say anything, but held up the knife in a steady hand, hovering the blade above his father’s throat, Snowball in full control.

  21

  Epilogue

  The massacre in the Armstrong house remained a mystery long after the tragic events of that Christmas morning. Homicide detectives had no issue connecting the knife as the weapon used in the murders. The mother, father, and daughter all suffered similar fates: slashed throats in the shape of smiley faces. None of those three appeared to have put up a fight, let alone know what had even happened. A forensic team later confirmed that the three had died in their sleep.

  The little boy, however, was the only one of the victims not lying in bed. Instead, they found him face down in the hallway, the knife in his stomach, its pointy tip sticking out of his back.

  Theories swirled across the police department and the community alike. Once February of 2020 arrived, the police deemed it a cold case, not a shred of hard evidence to trace back to a potential suspect. With that announcement, everyone was free to develop their own opinions on what had happened that fateful night.

  Many in the neighborhood were struck with terror at the thought of a loose killer wandering the streets. They dubbed the unknown person as “The Santa Claus Killer,” one of those twisted nicknames that seemed to glorify serial killers in hiding. The popular theory was that the killer had climbed down the chimney to enter the home. There wasn’t a sign of forced entry.