Santa's Gift
By J. L. Thurston
RICKY STOOD IN THE SNOW WITH ONE SNEAKER UNTIED AND HIS BACKPACK HANGING FAR TOO LOW ON HIS BACK. His breath misted in the frigid December air. He shook, but not from the cold. His mother taught him to layer up, making it almost impossible to catch a chill.
No, his shivers were from fear. A fear he had every year. But this year was going to be different.
Ricky was afraid of Santa. Granted, at age ten he realized he didn’t need to sit on Santa’s lap to get what he wanted. As long as his mother would mail his letter to Santa, he’d find what he needed most sitting by the Christmas tree.
But there could be no letters this year.
It was the day before Christmas Eve and it was the last night Santa would be in Walmart. Then he’d have to fly back north to get ready for his big night. Ricky had this last chance to get what he wanted most in the whole world. It was now or never.
Ricky mustered his courage and entered the giant glass doors of Walmart. Instantly, warm air blasted him. A giant fake Christmas tree greeted him at the entrance along with the smell of Subway’s baking bread and the constant background roar of shoppers as they scurried for last minute items. Exhausted cashiers mechanically moved items across the scanner. And, above it all, was the clanging of a Salvation Army bell-ringer.
Ricky ducked his head low, praying none of the guys from school were there. He pointed his wet sneakers toward the Lawn and Garden department and marched as quickly as possible through the crowded store.
The glass doors to Lawn and Garden opened up. He was welcomed with twinkling lights and holiday music. A Christmas display stretched out before him. Fake trees of all shapes and colors lined a mock snowy lawn. Sitting on a throne of Coke-a-Cola cases was the big man himself. He laughed “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and he shook his fat belly. He took a photo with each child whether they be screaming to leave or screaming to stay.
The line was forever long. Ricky stood at the edge of wanting to run, his legs bobbing oddly as he waited behind a lady with five kids. As child after child confessed their wishes and moved along, Ricky’s stomach began to clench. The closer he got to the Santa Claus the bigger the man looked. His “Ho! Ho! Ho!” seemed impossibly deep and loud. The glint in his eye appeared to be more hungry than happy and why did Ricky smell the feint stench of rotten meat?
Ricky was next. Santa had just sat a small boy in his lap.
“Why, hello, little boy! What’s your name?”
Instantly, the boy started crying and reached his arms out to his mother. She struggled with her phone, trying to snap a picture. She grinned impossibly wide and coaxed him into a tearful smile.
Ricky lurched into a sprint. The sidewalk was treacherous with ice. He just knew he’d slip and fall and Santa would get him.
Without even telling Santa what he wanted, the mother took the boy away.
Ricky stood alone. He was the last in line and suddenly he realized what a terrible mistake this all had been. The entire department was empty except for Ricky and Santa.
Santa sat expectantly, his black eyes twinkling through a mass of white facial hair. Ricky stared. All was quiet around them except for the faint twinkling of Christmas music. Santa was breathing loud and long, like a snake’s hiss. No, it wasn’t breathing. He was sniffing. He leaned forward, on hand on his knee, and sniffed Ricky’s scent like a homeless man sniffs a steak dinner. The skin beneath his beard seemed to blacken. His eyes twinkled red. The smell of decaying flesh grew stronger.
“Mmmm, yes,” he said with satisfaction. “Tell me what you want, little boy.”
Little boy came out as a hungry growl.
Ricky spun around and ran out of the department. He pushed his way past holiday shoppers, nearly slamming into more than one overburdened cart. His legs flew, carrying him out of Walmart and down two blocks.
He stopped on the corner, bent over to catch his breath. A broken stoplight blinked red, the flashing like an alarm on a sinking submarine. He looked around, feeling the cold pinpricks on the back of his neck, a warning of someone not far behind.
There seemed to be no one outside. The houses were lit up and outdoor decorations shimmered over the snow. As far as he could tell, he was alone. No, wait. There was a man standing just in the darkness, down the sidewalk, facing Ricky. The man was fat and wore bulky clothing. He began taking long strides forward.
It wasn’t until the flashing red light began to illuminate the man that Ricky’s scream caught in his throat. The shiny boots, the furry beard, and the glimmering red eyes. Santa was following him.
Ricky lurched into a sprint. The sidewalk was treacherous with ice. He just knew he’d slip and fall and Santa would get him.
He veered off the sidewalk and cut through two yards. The alley behind them was layer upon layer of untouched snow. He bounded across, safe from the ice, his ears perked to the sound of crunching snow behind him. Almost there. Almost home.
There it was. His house, his safety. The only one on the block barren of twinkling lights and decorations. Never had Ricky been so relieved to jump up to his front porch. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the knob and turned to look around. There, standing just twelve feet behind him on the street was Santa, looking calm as though he hadn’t sprinted ten blocks to chase Ricky from Walmart.
Ricky shrieked and threw himself inside. His sneakers slipped and he fell in a tangled mess on the floor.
“He’s got me! He’s got me!”
The stomping of boots came in from the living room and Ricky’s dad was standing over him, looking as bewildered and angry as he always had when dealing with his son.
Ricky was sprawled on the entryway in tears, panting and covered in melting snow.
“What is this?” The question was a warning.
Ricky twisted around to point to his stalker on the street but there was no one there.
“Dad, I mean it, he was just there!”
Ricky’s dad’s unshaven face couldn’t even muster the energy to frown. “Shut the door, we aren’t heating the whole neighborhood.”
He stomped away, leaving Ricky to shut the door and turn the bolt. He threw his bookbag and coat in the corner and squished his feet out of his wet sneakers. He was immediately too hot with his scarf, sweater, and double socks. Lots of layers, just like Mom likes.
Dinner found Ricky twitching at the slightest sounds, his eyes flickering to every window in sight, half-expecting to see Santa’s face in the darkness outside.
“Dad. I’m serious,” Ricky tried again.
“What are you even talking about?” His dad didn’t look away from the television screen.
“Dad, I,” he swallowed. “I went to see Santa today.”
This got his father’s attention. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “You what?”
“Yeah, I saw Santa, I had to ask him for-”
The hand shot up. Just a flat palm. An effective silencer. “You’re a little old for this kind of thing, Rick.”
“Dad, that’s not… Dad, Santa followed me home.”
He stared at him. “Run that by me again?”
“The guy is totally creepy, Dad. He practically chased me down the street! I don’t know how he moved so fast but he was right there I swear.”
His father rubbed a hand against his face. “Ricky, I’m too tired for this. I still have to give Annie her bath and put her to bed. I need you to clean up the kitchen and brush your teeth. You need to tuck in early tonight, we have to go to your grandparents first thing in the morning.”
Ricky’s eyes glanced to the window. He could only see blackness. “Dad, please! I’m not making this up! He was really scary, his breath smelled and he looked at me really mean.”
But his father had already tuned him out. Ricky lost all interest in food. He could only stare out the window and wait for a face to materialize.
He was too afraid to be alone so he cleaned up the kitchen as fast as he could and helped his father give Annie her bath. He even put her in clean pajamas and begged his father to read them both a story in her nursery. But when his dad stumbled half-asleep into bed, Ricky was on his own.
He ran down the hall and climbed in bed with his light on.
The red glowing numbers on his alarm clock slowly flicked the time away. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed awake but the next thing he knew his eyes were snapping open at the sound of the front door opening downstairs. He looked at the clock. It was three-thirty.
His bedroom light had been turned off. Ricky lay on his bed, petrified in fear. Footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs, then down the hall. His bedroom door creaked just slightly. Ricky could smell dead meat.
He closed his eyes and held his breath. He’d seen too many movies where loud breathing got somebody killed.
All was silent for just a moment. Then, he heard a long, hissing intake of breath next to his bed. The smell was almost unbearable.
Then he heard Santa’s demonic voice. “What do you want for Christmas, Ricky?”
Ricky’s stomach turned to stone. He swallowed sour bile. His eyes were shut so tight he saw little bursts of light. Somehow, he managed to speak.
“I w-want…”
“Yeeeesss?”
“I want my mom to come back. Please.”
The hot breath on his cheek told him Santa had inched closer. A voice like hot gravel replied, “Granted.”
Cool air whipped around and the smell of rotten meat faded. Ricky cracked his eyes open and saw that he was alone once again in his room. He threw himself out of bed and scrambled into his dad’s room. The large bed seemed so empty with just his dad in it. Ricky waited until he heard snoring before he slid under the covers next to his father. He knew he’d get his hide handed to him in the morning but he didn’t care. He let his father’s deep snores lull him into an uneasy sleep.
✶
THE NEXT MORNING, RICKY’S DAD DIDN’T YELL AT HIM OR EVEN GIVE HIM ANY GRIEF FOR SLEEPING IN HIS BED. In fact, his dad had a tiny pep in his step. He sang to Annie while he fed her breakfast and told Ricky to remember his book because his grandparents somehow broke their Wi-Fi router again.
At Ricky’s grandparents’ the horrors of the night seemed to be merely a bad dream. It was so silly with the sun out to think Santa had nothing better to do than chase him down to ask what he wanted for Christmas. He played Uno with his grandpa, Uncle Dave, and James. They opened a few presents and ate a ham dinner. Ricky fell asleep on the couch. His dad shook him awake and told him to help him carry gifts out to the car. Tomorrow was Christmas morning and they’d have to get up to go to his Grandma Regina’s house.
He remained half asleep the entire way home and nearly asked his dad to carry him upstairs to his bed. When he finally sunk under his covers, he found that he was unable to fall into peaceful slumber again.
Bit by bit he grew more and more awake as acidic fear began to eat at his belly. This was Santa’s night. He would be going from house to house, delivering presents. Would he come to Ricky’s house? Would he come back up to his room and talk to him again? Or did the smell of rotten meat on his breath come from eating children?
Ricky kept his eyes closed but he remained awake all night. He barely moved a muscle under his blankets. He was too afraid to even get out and crawl back in bed with his father. He had a paralyzing fear that Santa may somehow be lurking under his bed, just waiting to grab him.
Slowly, the sun began to come out. Once his room was illuminated enough for him to see clearly, he sat up. He had survived Christmas Eve. It was over, at least for another year.
He stretched and stood. He heard Annie beginning to stir in her crib in the bedroom next to his. His dad would soon slump out of bed to get her out. Ricky wondered what presents had been laid out for him. There was no tree this year because it was always his mom’s job to get the tree out and decorated. He guessed his father would just set the presents out on the floor in front of the television. But… what did Santa bring? He hadn’t heard a noise all night and he had been listening intently.
Ricky stepped out of his room as his dad came out of his. He mumbled a good morning and ruffled Ricky’s hair on his way to the baby’s room.
Ricky took a deep breath and slowly descended the stairs. With each step he told himself there was no present from Santa. Santa didn’t come last night. There will be nothing but gifts from Dad.
The smell of rotten meat told Ricky there was something in the living room, and as soon as he saw it, he knew that Santa had done it.
Rocking in the recliner, still in the white dress she had been buried in, sat Ricky’s mother. Though she had only died last week her skin was sagging inwardly and had sloughed off in some places. Her hair was caked in dirt. Her yellow and milky eyes turned to Ricky and her smile released an earthworm.
“Merry Christmas, Ricky.”
