Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick

by J. L. Foster

  Standing now, she stretched with a yawn and moved back to the small kitchen. There, she prepared herself a second cup of coffee, but as it finished its brewing process, she left it waiting in the pot. She was not in the mood for coffee after all. She was exhausted, albeit she didn't know why. She and Dylan had made tremendous love last night, but they had still gone to bed at a decent hour. Although she had woken early, she'd gotten more than enough sleep. Yet, she craved more. Perhaps it was the new life that blossomed inside of her, requiring her to need more rest. Or, even more likely, it was her worry for her husband and how she yearned for him to find a job that would please him. Personally, she could handle living in poverty, but her husband—he had never been this poor. It had been easy for him growing up. He'd had his parents to care for him. Even through college, they had footed his tuition and dorm fees. Dylan had been on his own for only a few years before meeting Jasmine, and even then, he had a steady job. This was the first time that he had not been able to find work as anything but a character from a fairy tale.

  Yes, it was this circumstance that drained her and made her feel tired, and she gave into these urges, softly footing her way down the hall and into the bedroom. Crawling into her marital bed, she pulled the warm, heavy covers up over her shoulders and snuggled deeply into her soft pillow. It was only a matter of minutes before she drifted off to sleep.

  At first, her sleep was filled with blackness. Pure, certain rest. There was nothing at all to distract her—only the ease of oxygen slowly filling her body and giving her life. Then, in a flash, the blackness was disturbed. There was a figure in her dream. She could only see the upper half of him but it was enough to frighten her. There was nothing in this black voided dream but him and her, and he stared at her with icy blue eyes and a black as coal grin filled with jagged fangs. A thick white beard and mustache covered his face, and a red stained hat topped his head. He laughed at her—angrily, hideously—and she could see the crystallized air form from his breath as he exhaled in her direction.

  "Oh,” she gasped, sitting upright in her bed with her hands over her chest. It took her a moment before she realized that it had all been a dream. It had all seemed so real. And cold. She was shivering and goosebumps covered her skin. Glancing to the digital clock, she saw that it was now nearing eleven AM. She had slept for four hours. “It feels like I just fell asleep,” she complained and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  Jasmine briefly considered closing her eyes and falling back asleep, but as her eyes drifted shut she remembered the image of the horrible man. Who had he been and why had she dreamt him? Was he no more than her over-active imagination, induced by worries of her husband and the news on the television? She had dreamed some horrifying things before, but none as awful as this beastly man.

  Deciding it best to stay awake, she climbed from the bed and stretched tall. The popping of her joints reminded her that it had been at least two weeks since she had last performed her morning yoga, but as she considered it now she thought of the child growing in her womb. She became fearful that some of her yoga positions would injure the child and decided that it was best to wait until her first meeting with a doctor.

  "A doctor,” she whispered as the thought entered her mind. “I'll need a good doctor."

  Jasmine Wylde was a pristine display of health. She had not so much as caught a cold since she was in grade school, and she had not needed to visit a doctor since her mandatory gym physical in high school. Through her teens and into her adult life, she'd never had a blemish, a sore throat, and only once or twice had she ever suffered a headache. She took care of her body, and she believed being sexually active had helped her stay in top physical condition. But, with a baby growing inside of her, she had to know what were now the right things and the wrong things for her to do. She only knew one person with a small child, and otherwise, she'd had no contact with children since she had been one. She knew nothing about raising them, caring for them, changing them, feeding them, protecting them, or anything else that a good mother needed to know.

  She felt sick to her stomach.

  Jasmine fled to the bathroom in an ill panic, and once positioned before the commode, she felt as if she was dying. She'd never felt so sick in all of her life. It occurred to her that this was most probably what was called “morning sickness,” but she had suspected that would come a bit later in the pregnancy. Then it dawned on her that it was quite possible she was further along than she thought.

  "I've got to see a doctor,” she mumbled, reaching for a towel to wipe her mouth.

  Now, she had more immediate worries. Had the things she'd been doing in the bedroom done anything to damage the baby? She and Dylan believed in exciting, wild sex as well as passionate love making, and more often than not they combined the two. Since being with him, she had been in more positions than she'd ever known possible, and she had thanked god on many occasions of her flexibility. If this life had been inside of her for more than just a couple of days, who knew what pretzel-like positions it had been twisted into?

  "Bailey,” Jasmine panted as she stood on wobbly legs. “Bailey will know a good doctor."

  Bailey Blake was one of Jasmine's closest and most entertaining friends—she was a B-Movie actress with an A-List smile. She was also the only woman that Jasmine knew in all of New York that had a child. There was a point when the Wyldes and the Blakes shared a complex with their apartments side-by-side to one another. The complex had been in the better part of Manhattan, and best of all, it had been rent controlled. After the sudden success of ScanTronics, Dylan and Jasmine broke their lease and moved into a more desirable penthouse. Now, that apartment was gone and the Wyldes were stuck in a tiny loft with the leaky sink and four connecting apartments—all of which she could hear flush the toilet every time.

  She hated it here. A visit to Bailey's much more relaxing and inviting homestead was exactly what she needed.

  Of course, she would have to take a taxi. If she walked, she would freeze to death.

  Moving to the cordless telephone, she powered it on and lifted it to her to dial. Kennedy Cab was the closest and most affordable, and it was number two on her speed dial. ScanTronics was still first, even though the number was no longer in service.

  Before she could press the button, she heard the beeping from the phone blare loudly. There was no dial tone—only a busy signal.

  "Okay,” she grunted, rolling her eyes. “I know we paid this bill."

  Setting the phone back on its charger, she checked the time on the clock and rushed to the bedroom. She dressed in the warmest, thickest clothes that she could find—some of them Dylan's—and moved back into the living room to put her heaviest boots on her feet. Sitting down on the couch, she flipped the television on for background noise and began to pull on her boots.

  "The scene is horrendous, Chris,” Channel 5 News reporter Jonathan Jenkins cringed through his report. “All around me are cars, buildings, and people—yes, people—that have all been transformed into ice."

  Jasmine jerked her eyes to the television. The picture was hazy and flickered as the reporter spoke.

  "There are no people on this particular street that have not—somehow—been turned to ice. Telephone lines have been taken down, entire iced bodies have been shattered, and worst of all, Chris—we're left with a most difficult question. Where have the children gone? The police say they've received nearly twenty missing person reports this morning, all for children under the age of ten. Parents say they let their kids go out to play in the snow or be with their friends this morning, and they've all seemed to disappear."

  With a nervous hand, Jasmine touched against the life in her stomach.

  "So along with something going around that turns people and objects to ice, we also have an apparent kidnapper on the loose. This will not be a very merry Christmas for New York City, Chris."

  "Horrible thing there, Jonathan,” anchor Chris Logan said movingly. Then, placing a smile on his face, he continue
d, “In other news, what do a parakeet, a clown, and a class of fifth graders have in common?"

  With a click of the remote, Jasmine powered off the television.

  Was what she just watched actually real? How could something have turned all of those people and places into ice? Then she remembered the earlier news report she had watched this morning. The reporter had been amazed at all of the fascinating ice sculptures that had been created over the night, and she had mentioned how lifelike they had been. Jasmine remembered the face of the one they had zoomed in on. The face had been pain-stricken and tortured.

  Although it was warm in the apartment and she was dressed well-enough to survive Alaska, she shivered with a terrible chill reminiscent of the one she had endured when waking from her nap. Slowly, she crossed over the living room carpet and touched against the glass of the larger of the apartment's two windows. Snow covered every inch of the ground, and the wind lapped mercilessly through the air. Nothing in her view had been transformed into ice, however. Still, somewhere out there, there was something very powerful, very deadly, and it frightened her with the same intensity that her dream had.

  In her mind, she could see again his face so clearly. It was as if he was in the room with her, standing only inches away from her face. She could not see his body, only his head from the beard up. Had his eyes not been blue as ice and black as coal, had his hat not been stained red instead of red velvet, and had his mouth not opened up into a black, fang-filled pit, she would have actually thought him to be Santa Claus.

  That was a preposterous idea, she knew, but if not old St. Nick, then who? Who was this large, bearded man with the red cap and the angry smile? Who was he, and why was he in her dreams?

  Bailey's apartment was eleven blocks away. If she left now, she would make it there and back before Dylan came home from work. With the telephone lines down, there was no use in trying to call Bailey to let her know she was on her way, and there was no way to contact Dylan to let him know where she was. She would have to hustle and avoid being turned to ice along the way.

  Chapter Six

  The sign announced the appearance of the city's fattest Santa Claus. Nicholas Von Barron did not know exactly what this meant, but it perked his interest. He had grown quite fascinated with this modern new village. Had this been the New World that the captain of that ship long ago had talked about? Nicholas had never seen such miraculous things in all of his time on earth. Instead of on horses, mortals rode from place to place in monstrous creations of steel that trapped them inside until they reached their destinations. They no longer lived in tiny, mundane cottages. Instead, towering buildings of unusual stones and steels scraped against the skylines. There were not nearly as many trees and wooded areas for him to seek refuge here. Instead, he'd had to take shelter in the shadows of the towering buildings when he needed to keep out of sight.

  But with as much that had changed over time, one thing had not changed at all—the taste of children. He had feasted on the flesh of more children than he could count since arriving here, and still he hungered for more.

  Sniffing the air, he smelled the fresh scent of children grow thicker as he crept through the shadows, remaining out of sight from the public eye. Many of the villagers here had seemed ignorant of him, refusing to have even acknowledged his presence when he had approached him. Many, he thought, hadn't even noticed being turned into ice. Somehow, Nicholas's appearance had not frightened the people of this village nearly as much as it had so long ago.

  What was it about these odd townsfolk of this village named New York that made them so unafraid of his features and abilities?

  Still, he could not risk going in to a large group of people and having them recognize him as an outsider. Although he could easily claim them all, he could not take the chance of angering his master yet again. The devil was a ruthless beast, even to his own minions.

  The scent of the children grew heavier with each heavy step he took. Peering around a rough brick corner, he saw the large cluster of people and heard their rowdy echoes as they moved around a large sign announcing the presentation of New York's fattest Santa Claus.

  "Ho ho ho!” yelled a voice from deep within the crowd. “Did all the good little girls and boys get their present from Santa?"

  "Yes, Santa!” all of the children in the large crowd joyously shouted in unison.

  "Then let's all gather in closely while I tell you a story about me!"

  "YAY!” cheered the children. Their voices carried and echoed loudly into the busy streets.

  Although he could not be seen from Nicholas's current position, the beast could hear the man named Santa begin to tell his tale. Relaxing against the sturdy brick wall, he breathed and waited, admitting to himself that he was most curious to learn exactly what this Santa Claus creature was.

  "T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house,” Santa begin, reciting by memory from the classic Clement C. Moore poem. Nicholas's eyes grew wide as the voice reached the line, “In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there."

  He listened with keen ears as the poem continued to build, and he began to recognize the scenes in the village, only it had not been toys that had been delivered to the children. It had been death. He'd never ridden a reindeer before, but he wondered how one would taste.

  Then, it happened to dawn on Nicholas that this poem was about him—or at least, a version of him. Somehow, Nicholas Von Barron had become legendary during his time undersea. He had become known as “a right jolly old elf."

  And this Santa Claus character, wherever in the crowd he stood, was pretending to be him.

  "What have these villagers done to me?” Nicholas growled lowly to himself.

  From far below, he felt a tug at the hem of his large brownish red coat. He looked down and stared at the face of the tiniest little girl. She smiled up at him with large blue eyes—welcoming and friendly. She was dressed in a red wool coat and her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and hidden under a cap. At the very oldest, she was five.

  "Excuse me, Mista,” she asked through a smile that lacked its two front teeth. “Are ... are you the real Santy Claus?"

  Now, a smile crossed over Nicholas's face as well.

  "Aye, I be, little girl,” he said in his lowest but most humbling voice to avoid scaring her away. He was amazed. It was the first time that a child had not run away from his sight.

  "Will you be bringin’ me a Chwismiss pwesent?” she question sweetly. “I've been a vewy good girl!"

  "Aye, I be sure ye have,” replied Nicholas. “I may even have a present for ye right now."

  Reaching into the deep pockets of his heavy coat, he pulled free a pair of thick, hellish gloves. These gloves prevented anything he touched from turning to ice so that he could feast. It was the only way that he could eat. To Nicholas's fortune, the gloves had been in his coat pocket during his icy transformation. Had the gloves been untouched by the devil's magic, they too would have turned to ice from the beast's touch.

  Tugging the gloves onto his hands, his smile widened even more.

  "Me bag o’ toys be sittin’ way down there,” he said, motioning deep within the alley behind him. “Ye come with me an’ I'll give ye somethin’ special."

  "Chrissy!” a voice summoned suddenly, appearing from the front of the building by which they stood. The young child's mother stepped into plain view. “Get away from that old man. You never know what germs you could catch from him!” Then, leaning low, she added, “How many times have I told you to stay away from bums? Just because they have a beard does not mean that they're all Santa Claus."

  "I'm sorry, Mommy,” the little girl pouted as she began to walk away with her mother. Then, looking behind her, she hollered to Nicholas, “Bye, Santa!"

  He could only wave goodbye. It was the first time in his life that he had ever had a child's mother come up and take their child back from him. Neither the woman nor the little girl had shown any signs of fear and neither h
ad run away. They had walked.

  "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” he heard the Santa Claus exclaim loudly as the group of children and their parents sounded into a heavy roar of excitement.

  Nicholas began to grow angry—terribly so. His name had been tarnished and used to promote festivities and joy. Somehow, he had become the face of this holiday known as Christmas, and this did not please him at all.

  Dipping back into the shelter of the shadows, he stood quietly and waited as the crowd began to break up, disperse, and leave, and he could see the Santa Claus for the very first time. Announced as the city's fattest Santa Claus, the man was remarkably the same size as Nicholas Von Barron, himself. He wore a coat like Nicholas's, except that it was pure red and made of wool and velvet instead of animal skin. His hat was red and white like his, too. Nicholas suspected the Santa's hat wasn't stained that way from blood though. The beard and mustache, the white as snow hair ... they were all Nicholas's. The only real difference was in the personality. This Santa Claus seemed unfit and weak.

  He would have no trouble defeating his impersonator.

  Leaving his gloves on, he stepped out of the shadows and into the bright daylight. Of the dozens of people that had been gathered, only a handful remained, and they had all wandered far from the Santa Claus.

  Rick Henderson sat heavily on the large chair that had been set up as his throne. The amount of children had been exhausting for him, but he only had one gig left for the year. Tomorrow, he would play Santa for a Christmas Eve fundraiser, and then he was through with this costume for another eleven months. During that time, he could happily go back to retirement. Had it not been for his age, weight, and that beard that made him identical to the famed Santa Claus, he never would have started doing this in the first place. But Santa was such a fun loving, jolly creature. In a way, he felt it an honor to portray him, as he had done now for the last seven years.

  Still, it was taking its toll on his body and health. The older he got, the more weight he seemed to put on. And at seventy-three years old, the weight seemed even heavier than it actually was. To move from place to place—even in his apartment—was beyond hard.