by J. L. Foster
"I look cheap to you?” she asked, grinning coyly and showing a brief glimpse of humor in this time of mortal—and immortal—fear.
Returning her smile, Dylan stood upright and stepped in front of her, ushering for her to follow behind him. If danger lurked ahead, he wanted to make sure that he stood between it and his wife. He would gladly give himself if it would salvage his family.
They stepped out into the large, main aisle of the sixth floor. Aside from the iced shoppers, employees, and the remains of the children, the aisle was empty. Far ahead of them was the Santa Claus throne, and behind that was the big cashiers’ counter with the hidden door behind it. Within that cashiers’ counter was a set of emergency keys that Dylan had often seen used by Gracy's employees. If those keys were still there, they could open the employees’ exit in the secret stairwell. It was their only chance of escape.
"We have to get back to the Santa area,” he announced in a hushed tone, quickening the speed of his pace. “There are some keys by the registers. If we can get those, we can open the exit and get the hell out of here."
"What are we waiting for?” Jasmine questioned and pushed ahead of him, despite his attempts to hold her back. “Let's get the hell out of Dodge."
The Santa Claus sign came into view, and she could see the elaborate throne beneath. Her feet then skidded to a stop and her eyes filled wide with terror. Seated in the red velvet and golden throne was old Saint Nicholas. He laughed heartily at them, holding his gut as it moved about like a bowl full of jelly. In his gloved hand, he held a copy of “T'was the Night before Christmas.” He winked an eye at the approaching couple, placed the tip of a finger to his nose, and wiggled it like magic.
"I haven't got the wiggle part down yet,” he announced grimly, setting the book aside, “but the rest o’ yon folklore be a cinch to copy. No wonder so many o’ ye play this foul version o’ me. It be sickeningly easy."
"Stand back, Jasmine,” Dylan ordered, pulling his wife behind him as he took nervous steps toward the throne and the beastly Santa seated atop. “What do you want from us?” he demanded with limited fear.
"From ye, I just want me vengeance—vengeance for what ye an’ yon other “Santa Clauses” have done to me an’ me name. For this,” he shouted, throwing the copy of the book at Dylan, “ye shall perish.” Nicholas's grin grew even deeper as he glanced to Jasmine. “From the lass, I want her womb. Within it be the ultimate feast an’ it be too pure to resist.” Licking his blue lips, he revealed his tongue for the first time. It was long and black—pointed with bumpy bulges all over. Icy spit dripped down with its appearance.
"You will leave my wife alone,” Dylan ordered, shaking all the while. He could feel the Santa's chill from where he stood. Its iciness burned his blood, but he forced the thought of it away. He had to find a way to distract the Santa Claus while Jasmine sought out the keys and escaped. At the very least, his offspring would have a chance for survival.
Glancing back to Jasmine, he silently mouthed for her to find the keys. When she acknowledged him, he focused his thoughts on distracting Santa. “You know, Santa,” he began afresh and brought a smile over his face. “You come here, turn our city into ice, and eat our children. But other than kill them, you don't do a thing to our women—or even our guys, for that matter. What's wrong? Have a little impotency problem that you would like to talk about?"
For the first time in his life, Dylan was glad to have taken two courses in psychology in college. Perhaps he would be able to buy his wife a bit of time.
"How dare ye?” the beast shouted coldly. “Ye know nothing o’ me."
"Then tell me, Santa,” Dylan challenged with determination as he took a brave step forward. “Who are you? Or better yet, what are you? Do you really live at the North Pole?"
"What am I?” Nicholas repeated the question. It was a question that he loved to answer. From his position at the throne he let out a cool, brief breath, making sure that it was not strong enough to freeze the imposter—only entrance him.
Everything went black and cold for Dylan before vibrantly igniting into the hellish vision that a young captain had recently witnessed. Jasmine watched her husband in his trancelike state, and she turned to the Santa, who also posed motionless. Whatever Dylan said had been the right thing, she thought as she hurried behind the Santa Claus's throne and rushed upon the cashiers’ counter. There, she began to hunt in a ruthless rage for the keys that Dylan had told her about. She had no way of knowing exactly how long she had until they both came back to consciousness.
Finally, her hands fell upon the large, circular key-ring with nearly twenty keys attached. None of the keys were labeled, and each one was different. It was impossible for her to know which key would fit the exit in the stairwell. She pushed the key-ring over her hand and wrist and moved back to the throne and her motionless husband. Wherever the Santa had taken him, they were still there. But they would return—she could feel it.
A fragment of a second later, her assumption proved reality and both Dylan and the beastly Santa Claus began to stir again. Weakly, Dylan fell to the floor, dazed and in shock from what he had seen. He stared out blankly into nothingness.
"What have you done to him?” Jasmine pleaded, rushing down to her fallen husband's side.
"I showed him exactly as he wished,” the monster growled. “I showed him what I be."
The Santa stood from his throne and began to step toward her. With no hesitation, Jasmine brought herself upright and began to run. She knew that there was nowhere to hide—that had been proven to her time and time again. But she had to try. For the sake of Dylan and his unborn child, she had to try.
"Ye shall go quickly if ye stop the running, I assure ye!” Nicholas shouted in his most pleasant of voices as he trailed after her through aisle upon aisle. “I'll even kill ye before I eat yer womb, if that be what ye wish."
"Fuck you!” she shouted, alerting him that she was but three aisles away.
"If ye insist,” he growled humorously. “But what would yer husband say?"
Disgusted, Jasmine continued her run, finding herself in the midst of the bed and bath section of Gracy's. She steadily clutched her baseball bat in her hand, refusing to release it now. With Dylan down, it was her only defense. Her life depended on this baseball bat, as far as she was concerned.
He could not see her, but he could smell her. More importantly, he could smell her child—the fresh, tender morsel that budded within her womb. Hungrily, he quickened his speed, pushing every appliance, display shelf, and frozen shopper out of his way as he moved. Her scent grew nearer and he knew that his feast would be soon.
Facing a large half-wall with shelving and several fancy and colorful towels of the likes he had never seen before, Nicholas stopped and inhaled. She was close—very close. He could almost taste her.
Quietly and in a hunched position, he began to circle around the corner of the wall.
Out of nowhere, the baseball bat took flight and connected with his stomach, sending him tumbling back nearly a foot. Jasmine appeared from the shadows, yielding the bat once again to strike. She landed a second blow to his gut before slicing upward to his chin, connecting with his flesh. She watched the bat begin to transform into ice from the touch of his skin, and she released it just as the ice reached the handle. It shattered into tiny clear fragments upon hitting the floor.
Jasmine looked up to see the Santa as he recuperated from his startled daze. He stared at her with the merciless eyes of a cold, icy hell. Slowly, the vile grin crossed back onto his face, and he breathed in deep, readying himself to strike.
"Please don't hurt me,” Jasmine pleaded, taking slow, nervous steps backward. “Please don't hurt my baby."
"Please don’ hurt me baby!” he mocked with horrifying laughter. Jasmine cringed from its blaring sound. “Yer baby be mine, lassie."
With one more step backward, Jasmine found herself backed up against another wall of towels. Cursing her luck, she closed her eyes, sa
id a prayer, and prepared to die.
"If you're the real Santa Claus,” the voice shouted from behind Nicholas's back, “then why am I the one with the magic?"
Turning around, Nicholas barely had time to blink as the arrow shot out from the crossbow. It zoomed through the air with great speed and penetrated his forehead directly between the eyes. The arrow formed to ice immediately, but it was followed by many more, each piercing into vital areas of the beast's body.
"What can I say, Nick?” Dylan asked as he crossed over to the fallen Santa, who thrashed around the floor in agonizing pain. Black blood poured from his wounds, and he fought to break off and shatter the icy arrows that anguished his body. Taking a chance, Dylan straddled the monster and pointed the crossbow and its final arrow into Nicholas's face. “I know when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!"
"What?” the demonic voice questioned as the final arrow shot out from the crossbow and into his mouth, severing the vertebrae that connected his brain to his spine. The body of Nicholas Von Barron then fell silent and motionless.
"Jasmine!” Dylan cried, throwing the bow to the floor and rushing over to his wife. Jasmine sat in the shadows, holding her knees in her arms and weeping from all she had experienced. The revelation of her husband's voice awakened her from her trancelike moment of panic, and she fell into his arms with heavy sobs. “It's okay now, baby,” he cooed softly into her ear. “It's all over now."
But as Dylan spoke these heavy words, a cold crunching sound summoned from only feet away. Both he and his wife slowly turned their heads to look, and in amazement, they watched as the defeated Santa Claus began to transform into an even icier version of his former self. After a moment, he appeared identical to the numerous objects, buildings, and people that he had turned into ice sculptures. Then quite rapidly and suddenly, the body of Nicholas Von Barron exploded and splintered throughout the air.
Dylan covered Jasmine with his body, shielding her from the spray of the ice. After a moment, he leaned upright and looked behind him to see that nothing at all remained of their nemesis. The monstrous Santa Claus was gone, and they had survived to live yet another day.
Jasmine touched a hand tenderly to her stomach and stared down at the spot where the Santa had fallen. Ever so briefly, she had a curious thought. When a demonic Santa Claus died, where did it go?
* * * *
When Nicholas Von Barron next opened his eyes, he was surrounded by an all too familiar red glow. Lifting himself up from the black ground, he looked around in dreadful fear. He stood before a desk—pine wood, in fact—and behind it sat his master. The devil did not appear happy.
"Look at the mess ye caused up there,” the devil stated unpleasantly. “Ye exposed yerself, turned much of a largely populated city into ice, an’ ye let a pregnant woman an’ her husband paralyze ye an’ leave ye helpless. Had I not brought ye back, there was no tellin’ what would have happened."
"That was most kind of ye, Master,” Nicholas cringed, offering his most stately of bows. Still, he was afraid. He had learned one large lesson over the course of his life. The devil never offered kindness without passing along something evil to go with it.
"An’ don't think I don't know about yer experience with Columbus all those years ago. The villagers that had tracked ye through the woods, the ship ye turned to turmoil, the crate ye hid in when Columbus sent ye to the sea. Ye hadn't even the courage to face me."
Nicholas said nothing now. His expression was of shame and regret.
"An’ after all that, ye became a legend! A saint, of all things! Children, women, men—they all worship an’ love ye—their Santa Claus. Ye managed to take the powers I gave ye an’ not only expose yer abilities to the world, but ye became a legendary character that has brought joy to people for years. I could not be more dissatisfied with ye."
"I beg of yer forgiveness, Master,” Nicholas's demonic voice pleaded as he dropped down to his knees for mercy.
"I have thought of a suitable punishment for ye. When I have decided yer suffering has been sufficient, I will consider reinstating ye to the outside world."
"What—what punishment have ye in mind?” the Santa asked, afraid of his own words.
Standing tall from his desk, the devil grinned wickedly and winked a pitch black eye. Raising his hand high, he moved it in a circular fashion, forcing Nicholas to fall to the floor unconscious.
It felt like only a moment had passed when the Santa Claus came to. As he opened his eyes, he realized that he felt very different than he had before. He attempted to look at his body and hands, but he could not move. He couldn't even blink.
Across from him was a large window, through which he could see his reflection. The sight horrified him, and he wanted to scream but could not. He couldn't make a peep. As his punishment, his master had once again transformed him. Nicholas Von Barron was now no more than a twenty foot tall wooden Santa Claus.
"Welcome to Santa Claus Haven,” announced the greeter as a middle aged couple and their children walked into the building, “where Christmas isn't just once a year—it's all year round! Our newest attraction is the world's largest wood carved Santa! Now, you just let me tell you all about it, and the origin of old Saint Nicholas as well. Nicholas had been a wonderful saint of kind virtue, delivering gifts once a year to all of the children of his village..."
Internally, Nicholas screamed with a rage loud enough to deafen the ears of any god. His punishment had been himself—or at least what culture had made of him. He was doomed to spend his days playing St. Nick.
Epilogue
Jasmine opened her eyes on Christmas morning, still more thankful than ever to be alive. The news of the crazed Santa had spread wide and far, but by the day after the attack, the story had been reformulated by the media in an attempt to keep the image of Santa Claus pure and dignified. Instead of old St. Nick, it had actually been a Russian spy with a type of experimental ray gun that rendered anything it fired upon into ice.
Or at least that was how the newspapers had printed it, the television reporters had told it, and the way that the citizens of America had spread it through word of mouth.
Actually, Jasmine preferred it this way. She hated the idea of bringing a child into a world where Santa Claus was considered a bad person—no matter how much she despised the creature that had tried to kill her and eat her womb.
Sitting up, she saw that Dylan was not resting beside her in the bed. She placed a hand over the spot where his body had once laid, finding that the spot had cooled. He had been up for some time now. Jasmine climbed from the bed and stretched, releasing a heavy yawn. Starting into the hallway, she glanced to the bathroom, saw that the light was off, and then turned toward the kitchen and living room. Then, her nostrils filled with a pleasant aroma. Bacon, eggs, toast—Dylan was preparing breakfast.
"Good morning,” she spoke, stepping through the living room and into the kitchen to kiss him fully on his perfect lips.
"Good morning, love of my life. I hope you like your eggs scrambled."
"Break the yolks again?” she asked teasingly.
"Don't I always?"
"I love your broken yolks."
"And I love you.” Setting the wooden spoon down on the counter, he offered her a more substantial kiss, bringing her close to his body. “Merry Christmas, Jasmine."
"Merry Christmas,” she responded with a smile and gently licked her lip to taste where his had been.
"I went down earlier and got the mail from Saturday,” he continued, moving back to the food that cooked on the stove. “It's over on the coffee table. Check it out."
Curiously, Jasmine turned her head from Dylan and gazed into the living room and at the coffee table where a stack of holiday shopping ads and a single white envelope sat. With slow, wondering steps, she crossed over to the table and stared down at the stack of papers. The envelope was upside down and she could not see the lettering. Softly, she lifted it into her hand and flipped it around. It
was addressed to the both of them, from Mr. and Mrs. Wylde—Dylan's parents.
"Open it,” her husband called to her from the kitchen. He did not need to turn and see her to know that she had found the envelope and picked it up.
She opened the envelope and pulled the card from within. It was a Christmas card—the first that Jasmine and Dylan had received from them since getting married. She giggled at the front image—a teddy bear in a Santa hat, climbing atop a Christmas package. She had to admit that it was cute, even if she hadn't wanted to see another Santa Claus hat so soon. Opening the card, her eyes jotted to the hand-scribbled lettering—"No Strings Attached, Love Mom and Dad"—and then to the check, written for the amount of ten thousand dollars.
"I think we'll be okay for a little while,” Dylan called again, knowing the card had been opened and the check had been found. “I can relax a little during my interviews now, possibly."
"Oh, Dylan!” she cried, tucking the check and card back into the envelope, placing it back on the table, and rushing into the kitchen. In a fit of joy, she flung her arms around her husband's neck and melted into him. He swung her around as he shared in her glee, and their lips met for a long, magical kiss.
When the kiss broke, Dylan smiled and whispered, “Unless, of course, you'd rather me start work immediately after the New Year. I could always play Cupid, The Easter Bunny, Uncle Sam..."
"Don't you dare!” she shouted in laughter and licked his lips, bringing him in for another kiss.
Setting Jasmine back down on her own two feet, Dylan turned his attention away from her long enough to turn the burners off and set the pans on the Formica countertop. When there was no longer the possible risk of a fire, he turned back to his wife and lifted her again into his arms. He carried her into the living room and to the small area where they had set up their Christmas tree just last night. Laying her down on the rug that rested in front of the tree, he persisted to pleasure her mouth with his.
At this moment, there were no more words to be said. They gazed into each other's eyes as they kissed, connecting with the core and soul of their partnership. With their eyes and lips locked, Dylan began to unbutton the nightshirt that Jasmine had slept in, spreading it open wide and exposing her breasts under the colorful blinking lights of the Christmas tree. He clamped her nipples between his fingers, pinching and teasing them until they grew hard and tall. Then he broke their kiss, moving his lips down her chin, neck, and shoulder-line until her reached her breast bone. There, he kissed passionately before turning his attention to her right breast. He continued to tease her left nipple as he suckled on the right one, rolling it beneath his tongue and lips. He sucked it gently at first but quickly moved into a harder speed. Jasmine gasped at this feeling, wishing to let out a scream but finding that her voice had grown hoarse with the release of her breath.