Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  “All right,” she answered, adding that “maybe Old Jack would like to come over and sit with us.”

  “Too old for that, thank you. Besides, I can hear you just fine from— ”

  “Well,” she began before I’d finished, “let me think a moment. There are so many, so many. Any who, here’s one of them. This happened before any of you were born, a few winters after I moved into this neighborhood with your uncle. I don’t know if you ever noticed, but a little ways down the street there’s an empty lot where there should be, used to be, a house. You can see it from the front window over there,” she said, pointing to the window beside my chair. I let my eyes follow her finger out that window and, through the fog, I witnessed the empty lot of her story.

  “There was once a house on that lot, a beautiful old house with more floors and more windows than this one, more of everything. The house was lived in by a very old man who never went out and who never invited anyone to visit him, at least no one that I ever noticed. And after the old man died, what do you think happened to the house?”

  “It disappeared,” answered some of the children, jumping the gun.

  “In a way, I suppose it did disappear. Actually what happened was that some men came and tore the house down brick by brick, shingle by shingle. I think the old man who lived there must have been very mean to want that to happen to his house after he died.”

  “How do you know he wanted it?” I interjected, trying in spoil her assumption.

  “What other sensible explanation is there?” Aunt Elise answered. “Anywho,” she went on, “I think that the old man just couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else living in the house and being happy there, because surely he wasn’t. But maybe there was also another reason,” said Aunt Elise, drawing out these last words and torturing them at length with her muddled vocal system. The children sitting on the carpet before her listened with a new intentness, while the blazing logs seemed to start up a little more noisily in the fireplace.

  “Maybe by destroying his house, making it disappear, the old man thought he was taking it with him into the other world. People who have lived alone for a very long time often think and do very strange things,” she emphasized, though I’m sure no one except me thought to apply this final statement to the storyteller herself. Tell everything, Jack. She went on:

  “Now what would lead a person to such conclusions about the old man, you may wonder? Did something strange happen with him and his house, after both of them were gone? I’ll tell you, because one night, yes, something did happen.

  “One night—a foggy winter’s night like this one, oh my little children—someone came walking down this exact street and paused at the property line of the house of the old man who was now dead. This someone was a young man whom many people had seen wandering around here off and on for some years. I myself, I tell you, once confronted him and asked him what business he had with us and with our homes, because that’s what he seemed most interested in. Anywho, this young man called himself an an-tee-quarian, and he said he was very interested in old things, particularly old houses. And he had a very particular interest in that strange old house of the old man. A number of times he had asked if he could look around inside, but the old man always refused. Most of the time the house was dark and seemed as if no one was home, even though someone always was.

  “Imagine the young man’s surprise, then, when he now saw not a dark empty place, no, but a place of bright Christmas lights shining all fuzzy through the fog. Could this be the old man’s house? Lit up with these lights? Yes, it could, because there was the old man himself standing at the window with a rather friendly look on his face. At least for him it was. So, one last time, the young man thought he would try his luck with the old house. He rang the bell and the front door slowly opened wide. The old man didn’t say anything, but merely stepped back and allowed the other to enter. Finally the young antiquarian would be able to study the inside of the house to his heart’s content. Along the way, in narrow halls and long-abandoned rooms, the old man stood silently beside his guest, smiling all the time.”

  “I can’t imagine how you know this part of your true story, Aunt Elise,” I interrupted.

  “Aunt Elise knows,” asserted one of my little cousins just to shut me up, saving my aunt the trouble. She went on:

  “After the young man had looked all around the house, both men sat down in the deep comfortable chairs of the front parlor and talked a while about the house. But it wasn’t too long before that smile on the old man’s face, that quiet little smile, began to bother his visitor in a peculiar way. At last the young man claimed he had to go, glancing down at the watch he had drawn from his pocket. And when he looked up again . . . the old man was gone. This startled the young man for a moment. He checked the nearby rooms and hallways for his host, calling “sir, sir” because he never found out the old man’s name. And though he could have been in a dozen different places, the owner of the house didn’t seem to be anywhere in particular that the young man could see. So the antiquarian decided just to leave without saying goodbye or thank you or anything like that.

  “But he didn’t get as far as the front door when he stopped dead in his tracks because of what he saw through the front window. There seemed to be no street anymore, no street lamps or sidewalks, not even any houses, besides the one he was in, of course. There was only the fog and some horrible, tattered shapes wandering aimlessly within it. The young man could hear them crying. What was this place, and where had the old house taken him? He didn’t know what to do except stare out the window. And when he saw the face reflected in the window, he thought for a second that the old man had returned and was standing behind him again, smiling his quiet smile.

  “But then the young man realized that this was now his own face, and, like those terrible, ragged creatures lost in the fog, he too began to cry.

  “After that night, no one around here ever saw the young man again, just as no one has ever seen the house that was torn down. At least no one has yet!

  “Well, did you like that story, children?”

  I felt tired, more tired than I’d ever been in my life. I barely had the strength, it seemed, to push myself out of the chair into which I’d sunk down so deep. I brushed up against bodies and shuffled slowly under the stares of remote faces. Where was I going? Was I in want of another drink? Did I have to find a bathroom for my old body? No, none of these served as my motive.

  It could almost have been hours later that I was walking down a foggy street. The fog formed impenetrable white walls around me, narrow corridors leading nowhere and rooms without windows. I didn’t walk very far before realizing I could go no farther.

  But finally I did see something. What I saw was simply a cluster of Christmas lights, innocent colors beaming against the fog. But what could they have signified that they should seem so horrible to me? Why did this peaceful vision of inaccessible and hazy wonder, which possessed such marvelous appeal in my childhood, now strike me with all the terror of the impossible? The colors bled into the fog and were sopped up as if by a horrible gauze which drank the blood of rainbows. These were not the colors I had loved, this could not be the house. But it was, for there at the window stood its owner, and the sight of her thin smiling face crippled my body and my brain.

  Then I remembered: Aunt Elise was dead now and her house, at the instruction of her will, had been dismantled brick by brick, shingle by shingle.

  “Uncle Jack, wake up,” urged young voices at close range, (though technically, being an only child, I was not their uncle. More accurately, I was just a friendly elder member of the family who’d nodded off in a chair. It was Christmas Eve, and as usual I had had a little too much to drink.

  “We’re gonna sing carols, Uncle Jack,” said the voices again. Then they went away.

  I went away too, retrieving my overcoat from the bedroom where it lay buried in a communal grave under innumerable other overcoats. Everyone else was singing songs to t
he strumming of guitars in the living room. (I liked their bland music infinitely better than the rich, rotting vibrations of Aunt Elise’s cathedralesque keyboard of Christmas Eves past.) Foregoing all rituals of departure, I slipped quietly out the back door in the kitchen.

  Though I do not remember very much about it, I must have gone to Grosse Pointe, to the empty land on which my aunt’s house once stood. So many things I can remember so clearly from long ago—and at my age—but not this thing. Leave out nothing, Jack. Remember. I must have gone to Grosse Pointe, to the open land on which my aunt’s house once stood. But I do not remember what it was like that Christmas Eve. Remember, Jack. How thick the fog must have been, if there was fog and not merely a slow descent of snow, or nothing. Would those old lights be there? You shall remember.

  But I must have gone to Grosse Pointe that night, I must have gone there. Because what I do remember is this: standing before the door of a house which no longer existed. And then seeing that door begin to open in a slow, monumental sweep, receding with all the ponderous labor of a clock’s barely budging hands. Another hand also moved with a monstrous languor, as it reached out and laid itself upon me. Then her face looked into mine, and the last thing I remember is that great, gaping smile, and the words: “Merry Christmas, Old Jack!”

  Oh, I’ll never forget the look on his face when I said these words. I had him at last, him and his every thought, all the pretty pictures of his mind. Those weeping demons, those souls forever lost to happiness, came out of the fog and took away his body. He was one of them now, crying like a baby! But I have kept the best part, all his beautiful memories, all those lovely times we had—the children, the presents, the colors of those nights! Anywho, they are mine now. Tell us of those years, Old Jack, the years that were never yours. They were always mine, and now I have them to play with like toys according to my will. Oh, how nice, how nice and lovely to have my little home. How nice and lovely to live in a land where it’s always dead with darkness, and where it’s always alive with lights! And where it will always, forever after, be just like Christmas Eve.

  J.J. Hyams

  SANTA IS THE DEVIL (I HAVE PROOF!)

  IT IS WITH some trepidation that I write this account, for I have stumbled across a most hideous truth, one that threatens to tear our world apart. Once I have finished telling my story, you too will see the most terrible danger that we face, and must do everything you can to spread the word.

  This truth was revealed unto me via a divine revelation, the sort the Bible speaks of, and thus, I am certain of its integrity.

  I had been kneeling and praying, having starved myself of food and sleep for the past three days for looking upon a woman with lust, when a most unusual sensation overcame me. A most beautiful voice whispered in my ears, and I was moved to tears. However, the voice was a bearer of terrible news, and it is my unfortunate duty to pass this information onto you.

  “My Joseph,” the voice spoke, “it brings me to tears to have to force this burden upon you, but humanity has to know the truth, you all have to be warned. My child, the being known as Father Christmas, it is none other than our eternal enemy, Satan!”

  And unto me was revealed six truths that leave me in no doubt as to the authenticity of this claim.

  First, the word Santa floated and danced in front of me, and I watched as the letters hung freely in the air. After a short interval, the letters all began to spin, and swirled in a whirl of energy, and then, without warning, they halted. The letters had rearranged themselves. And thus, I was shown – Santa is little more than an anagram of Satan. How like our immortal opponent to put up such a weak disguise, so that he may laugh at our short sightedness.

  The letters faded, and there was a pause of six seconds, and it was revealed unto me that Santa’s best known colour – red – is an obvious indication of the hate, of the pain and of the raging fires that is an embodiment of Satan. The sharp bursts of flashing red viciously hurt my eyes, and I clutched at my face, begging for mercy from my Lord. Within seconds, it had ended, but the message had been made clear to me.

  Next, before me, I saw a raging fire, burning, consuming all in its path. But then, the fire changed, and it shrunk, and it became the flames of a fireplace. And a figure appeared in the flame, and it stepped out. A dark, ominous laugh erupted from the figure. And thus, I saw just how the Devil enters houses of the innocents – through the fireplace.

  Fourthly, everything around me became black, and I shivered as a breeze overcame me. I looked up, and I saw the stars, woven into the tapestry of the night’s sky. Night, as beautiful as it may be, is the home of evil. I can think of no good being that is associated with night – the night is the time of vampires, of werewolves and of demons. It is little surprise, therefore, that it is during night that Santa does his work.

  Next, I was shown a box, gift wrapped and placed under a tree. The wrapping unravelled itself, and the box opened. My heart froze as out of the innocent looking parcel, a most horrid creature sprung. I stared unto the creature, and it was revealed to me that this being was the embodiment of evil, of the sins of mankind. It was Gluttony – it was Greed.

  And finally, I was shown a large, unravelling tapestry. Upon it was written names: Satan, Lucifer, the Devil, Beelzebub, Samael, Belial, Mephistopheles and many more too terrible to mention. And then, the names warped and changed. And they became: Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, Papa Noël, Babadimri and more, too many to count. The Great Deceiver, no matter what form he takes, will also have many, many names.

  And so, concluded my divine revelation. I was left shaken, and was taken horrible ill for the next six days. However, I am regaining my health, and have strength enough to write this account.

  Please. We have to stop this. It will soon again be Christmas, and contrary to its name, it has nothing to do with our Lord. Nay, tis little more than a thinly disguised Satanic ritual and offering. We have to stop it. I fear the Apocalypse is approaching, and that it may happen on this Christmas day!

  Please. Help me.

  Help me to stop Christmas.

  Jeff Strand

  A Double Feature of Shamelessly Silly Holiday Nonsense!

  HOWARD, THE TENTH REINDEER

  Followed immediately by

  HOWARD RISES AGAIN

  YOU KNOW DASHER and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen, though you’d probably mess up the names and embarrass yourself if somebody asked you to list them. And of course you know the mutant. But there is another reindeer whose story has yet to be told.

  This is the tale of Howard, the tenth reindeer.

  Howard lived up in the North Pole, and had just barely missed the final cut for Santa’s team. During try-outs, he’d choked and let three presents fall out of the sleigh, including a Snotty Susie doll, the second most popular toy that year, which could say one whole sentence if you squeezed its nose for thirty seconds ("I’m calling social services on you, buster!") Fortunately he hadn’t dropped the most popular toy, a Hurt Me Elmer, which said "Thank you sir, may I have another?" when you spanked it, or he might have been banished altogether.

  So he’d been given a job as Comet’s understudy, which meant he’d never get to pull the sleigh. Every once in a while Blitzen would overdo it on the eggnog and be incapable of fulfilling his duties (thus his name), but Comet was always ready for action. The only reindeer who couldn’t be accounted for with any regularity was Vixen.

  This was a terrible disappointment to Howard, because there wasn’t much for a reindeer to do if he wasn’t on Santa’s team, besides watch Bambi for the 79th time. He could give rides to the elves, but they had an annoying habit of tugging on his antlers and shouting "Faster, horsey, faster!" All he wanted was to help make Christmas special, but he didn’t know what he could do.

  ««—»»

  Though legend would have you believe otherwise, the truth is that almost all little girls and boys receive presents from Santa every year. This is be
cause Santa grades behavior on a very generous curve, so even little boys who run over their sisters with tractors generally receive their share of gifts. For a child not to get anything from Santa means that he or she was a terrible, rotten, thoroughly despicable person that year.

  Edward Stinkwater was eight years old and had never received a single present from Santa. He was a truly wicked little boy who took great pleasure in breaking other children’s toys and saying mean things to kittens. His parents loved him very much, but they were delusional. Everyone else ran when they saw him coming.

  He kneeled on his bedroom floor, playing with his coal soldiers. Though breaking their arms and legs off was fun, he had something even more fun planned for Christmas Eve tomorrow night. For the past three weeks he’d been working on the roof, setting a trap for Santa’s reindeer. When Santa came to deliver presents for his brother and sister, Edward was going to hijack the sleigh and ruin Christmas for everyone.

  He smashed the solider with his fist, then laughed and laughed. For he was truly a wicked little boy.

  ««—»»

  "Guess what!" said Cosmo, one of Howard’s fellow reindeer. "Cupid has gone on strike demanding more vacation days per year, and Santa is letting me be a scab worker!"

  "Aw, that’s no fair," pouted Howard. "It’s my dream to pull Santa’s sleigh, but I’ll never get to!"

  "Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but we could perhaps arrange for Comet to meet with an…accident. Those roofs can get pretty slippery, if you know what I mean."

  "No! That wouldn’t be in the holiday spirit! I’ll just stay here and mope, I guess."