Naughty or Nice

It was the holly that ended up being the problem.

Not the placing of it, that was simple. A sprig hung up in each corner of the house with at least three leaves and four berries apiece. No, the headache was getting hold of the right kind of holly. Turns out the stuff they sell at the supermarket isn’t good enough for the job, so I had to go looking in more speciality markets. Cost a pretty getting it flown over from Europe the day before Christmas, but I had no other choice. It needed to be fresh.

The rest I could do myself. The decorations were more about placement than any specific materials. Wreaths on all the doors, pine boughs and ivy strewn everywhere, bound up with red ribbons or strings of bells. The tree didn’t even call for any specifics beyond ‘must be evergreen’ and ‘can’t have anything modern on it’. I’d gone with beeswax candles and folded paper stars, trying not to think about the horrendous fire hazard.

A turkey formed the centerpiece of the feast, the biggest I could find, cooked low and slow with enough spice to make it shine. It sat on the table alongside bowls of mashed potatoes, roast vegetables, homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce, string beans and peas, a basket of baked rolls, two boats of thick brown gravy, and a crockpot of mulled wine to wash it all down. Enough food to feed a dozen people, though I only set two places, one at each end of the table.

With preparations complete, there isn’t anything left for me to do but wait. The time is part of it, at least according to the old manuscript I’m working from. I won’t know for certain if it has even worked until either the sun rises, or my invitation is answered. Until one or the other happens, I must act as if my guest is due any minute.

So I sit, and I wait. I can do little else, partly for fear of disrupting the ritual, mostly for nerves of what happens next. I read and re-read the manuscript a dozen times, pouring over the weathered pages for any detail, any obscure little technicality I missed. I find neither, the instructions frustratingly blunt and concise in ways that make me suspect a trick. Nothing I can do about it now. I’ve come too far to turn back.

Three years. Three years I’ve committed to being here in this moment. Three years of tracking down this ancient spell book older than entire civilizations, three years translating and testing, pouring more and more of my life into this singular ritual. A saner man would have stopped, abandoned this fairy tale and tried to move on with his life. The thought had crossed my mind many times, but I’d always pushed it away.

My daughter’s life depended on it.

They’d told me that I’d eventually get used to the smell of hospitals. That thick, cloying chemical stench that burns the nose and makes your eyes water like broken faucets. Not sure if they were trying to make me feel better or if I’m just special, but I never stopped noticing it. And I’d had ample opportunities to try. When you’re the kind of sick my little girl is, you don’t spend much time anywhere else.

I can barely remember the times before her illness anymore. The times when she was a scamp running around the house raising all kind of mischief. Too smart for her own good, skilled at stopping just before she did something to get in proper trouble. And that cheeky little grin. God, do I miss that grin.

It’s all so much memory now, buried deep beneath the image of her first seizure. I don’t even remember much of what happened next, only that it ended with us at the hospital, getting our first whiff of that smell. Doctors said words to me, only some of which I absorbed. Inoperable. Caught early. Treatable. Uninsured. For life.

That had been the start of the three years.

A sound rouses me from deep memory back to the present. It is faint, barely audible above the creaking of the house but growing steadily louder as I listen. Bells clanging in distance, their song harsh and jagged in the cold winter’s night.

Other things begin to change all around me in kind. The lights go first, flickering, then dying, leaving only the soft glow of candlelight to illuminate the rooms. I pull out my phone but its dead too, the device refusing to rouse despite having been charged not even an hour ago. Except no, it can’t have been that long, I can still smell the food fresh out of the oven. As if no time has passed at all.

More bells, ringing from every direction at once. I turn to look out the window, only to find a thick layer of frost creeping across the glass. It obscures the view outside completely, the scant moonlight hidden behind thick clouds, leaving only shadow behind.

A thud from above, something heavy striking the roof. The bells fall silent, replaced by the sounds of snorting and hooves clattering against the metal tiles. A single pair of footsteps joins them, moving across the roof with slow, deliberate intent. There’s no chimney for them to enter through but I sense that will be of little concern. He will find a way inside, of that I’m certain.

I return to the dining room, settling into my place at the head of the table as the footsteps move through the house with little regard for things like walls or floors. They walk freely between rooms, downstairs to upstairs and back again, never seeming to grow any closer. Is he lost? Or is he just messing with me for some reason? Either is equally as likely and frankly both are possible. He’s not a creature strictly bound by concepts like sense.

Eventually he has enough, and the footsteps appear outside on the front porch. He knocks three times, each blow sounding like he’s trying to batter it down. I flinch away, part of me wants to flee, but I lock that part away behind conviction and memory.

“Come in,” I call.

The door creaks open, swinging wide to let in a blast of cold wind. Near every candle in the house winks out in an instant, plunging the house into near complete darkness. Only the ones on the table are spared, their flickering light just enough to see by as my guest steps inside.

Parts of him I recognize from the songs and the stories, the parts that are human. The beard is there, long and white as snow, albeit far more tangled than anyone probably pictures. The rosy cheeks are present, as are the cherry nose and the twinkling eyes, though I’ve never heard it mentioned they’re also red. But then no one’s ever bothered to say they were goat’s eyes either, so what’s one more fudged detail.

He’s dressed all in furs from head to toe, none his own thankfully, though no tailor has ever touched them. They are ragged and fresh, worn inside out to show off the steaming red skin holding the pelt together. I wonder if perhaps there had been more than just the eight reindeer earlier in the night but elect never to ask.

With heavy steps he clops across the floor, lacking either boots or feet with which to wear them. They are coal black at least, each cloven hoof the same colour as the wickedly curved horns bursting from his brow. The hat seems almost like a joke atop his head, barely held in place by more spines poking through the rim, the dangling tip like a lolling tongue. It’s less disturbing to look at than his actual tongue, peaking out from between his long, needle fangs. The hat, if nothing else, can’t smile.

A chill follows him as he enters, frost spreading across every surface he passes by. I shiver when it reaches me, goosebumps rising across my neck and arms, my breath coming in thick clouds. I do my best not to show my discomfort as he settles into his place at the other end of the table.

For a moment we just stare at one another, his bulk towering over me even from his seated position. He could rip me to pieces if he wanted to, if he were not bound by rules older than humanity itself. Instead, he sits, and he waits, drawing haggard breaths as he watches me with his blood red eyes. I draw a breath of my own, steadying myself before continuing the formalities.

“Please,” I say. “Eat well.”

At my prompting, he descends upon the food like a rabid beast. Manners are a foreign concept as he shovels things into his mouth with both hands, his long teeth eviscerating anything brought near. Meat and bones, vegetable and cutlery, it is all fed into his gaping maw with ravenous dedication. I watch as he downs an entire boat of gravy, then drops the empty vessel into his mouth, crunching the porcelain like rock candy.

Pushing aside disgust and fear, I begin to load my own plate with as little as I can get away with, not wanting to eat anything he’s already touched. I end up with mostly scraps thrown clear by the frenzy, but that’s perfectly fine by me. Sharing the meal is what matters, not the quality. Besides, my appetite has long vanished after watching him unhinge his jaw to devour the turkey whole.

For long minutes we sit and eat, me with my scraps, he with the rest. I watch him out the corner of my eye, looking for any deviation from the descriptions in the manuscript. If he notices he doesn’t care, snapping up the last few morsels before downing the entire pot of wine in several mighty swigs. So far, so good.

When at last he has eaten his fill, he sits back and growls contently. The wreckage of the meal litters the table before us, joined by several claw marks carved deep into the wood. Very few of the dishes remain, most shattered beyond salvaging. The only thing still intact are the candles, one sitting askew as they cast their meager light over the scene.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I ask. “Coffee? Something stronger?”

He makes a show of thinking, stroking his long beard with greasy clawed fingers. Then he shakes his head, flashing me that terrible smile again in a show of appreciation. My voice trembles as I continue to speak.

“Shall we get down to business then?”

He leans forward in his seat, somehow managing to feel closer than he is. He looms large and dark and cold over his side of the room, over the mortal that invited him in. I have no time to consider the implications of that as he speaks for the first time.

“Have you been a good boy this year?”

A shiver runs up my spine. His voice is hollow and splintered, like shards of bone dragged across ice. My knuckles go white as I dig my nails into my palms, fighting down panic. This is my last chance, the final time I can walk away from this with no consequence. If I say no then he will leave, no harm, no foul, try again next year. If I make no claims, then I cannot be judged for them. All I have to say is no.

“Yes,” I say. “I have been.”

Too far to turn back now.

He gives a rumble that might be a laugh, then reaches inside his ragged coat to pull out a heavy scroll. It is stained yellow with age, the haft in the middle made of either bleached wood or weathered bone. He unfurls the paper, letting it roll out along the floor as he scans its contents thoughtfully. I can see some of the markings, angry black scrawl that just about form letters, though in no language I recognize.

I wait, forcing myself to stay calm as he searches the scroll to deliver my judgement. This part the story sort of gets right. Every name is on there and they’re all marked one way or the other, naughty or nice. The good one gets rewarded, the bad one gets punished. A simple proposition on its face, but the part that’s been lost over the years is that its an opt in deal. See, being on the list is mandatory but you’re just one name out of millions, your deeds recorded but not remarked upon. Naughty or nice, doesn’t matter so long as you’re beneath notice.

Its only when you get his attention, when you invite him in, that you start playing for keeps. When you ask him to double check his list, that’s when the little mark next to your name matters. Get a nice and you’ll be showered with gifts, boons, everything your heart could ever desire. A reward for working so hard to be a good little human for the world. Get a naughty though and, well, there’s a reason they say there’s no reward worth getting that is without risk.

That’s why, for the entirety of the last year, I have spent every waking moment making sure I end up on the good one. Every favor asked has been granted with gusto and time to spare. Every slight taken on the chin with a smile and a ‘sorry you feel that way’. Every time someone needed a day off work, I was there to cover for as long as they needed. I don’t think I’ve so much as sworn or squashed a bug since last January. Don’t know if it even matters but I can’t take the risk.

It has been exhausting to say the least. I don’t think I’ve had a full night’s sleep in months. Too much to do, too many people to keep happy, too much need to make sure I get on the nice list. Never able to stop, not for one second. It almost killed me. In some ways it did.

But it will be all worth it in the end if my little girl can be herself again. To hear her laughter, scold her mischief, and see her cheeky grin again.*(imply his absence is why he failed?) For that, I would endure the year a thousand times over. All of this will be worth it in the end.

“Naughty.”

I blink, staring at the creature sitting across from me. He had spoken, his voice just as rumbling and bestial as before. He is still smiling.

“What?” I ask, voice trembling.

“Naughty,” he repeats.

“But-” I say, my voice breaking. “But I did everything right! I did everything you wanted me to do!”

He raises his eyes to look at me, bearing his terrible sharp teeth and wicked intent.

“Naughty.”

I am stunned, wanting to protest, wanting to scream and cry, wanting to run away, wanting to leap across the table with hands outstretched to strangle him. I do none of these things, realizing too late that the shadows have grown deep, the cold seeping deep into my bones.

My hands begin to turn black as soot, spreading from fingers, to palms, to wrist, moving ever more rapidly up my arm. I try to pull back, move away, do something but I am frozen. I cannot even scream as the shadow consumes me, my last glimpse of the world his terrible smile and the deep rumbling that might be a laugh.

END