A Christmas Beast

With the transformation of the seven into an eight in the last panel of my digital clock, midnight crept closer. I reluctantly placed my Game of Thrones bookmark in my copy of A Christmas Carol and set it on the coffee table in front of me. I despised the novel, but it seemed appropriate for the time of year, and I hated even more when I had to stop reading for the change. Yet it was almost time, and I would never risk the safety of one of my books. They were the only loved ones I dared to have around me, especially on Christmas Eve.

Tick. My mind filled in the sound from the analog clocks I had lived with for so many years when the digital clock changed to 23:59 New Zealand Daylight Time. My hands clutched at my sweat bottoms. Only one more minute. Trickles of sweat rolled down from my hairline, over my face, and across my chest. I could feel the monster tearing his way to the surface with each passing second. I didn’t need a clock to tell me that there were only ten seconds left until midnight. After centuries of this torture, I had the timing down to an art.

Ten…

I leaped to my feet.

Nine…

I yanked my sweat bottoms and underwear down.

Eight…

I kicked them both off.

Seven…

I ripped off my Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.

Six…five…

I ran to the center of my living room, more than an arm’s length away from all furniture.

Four…three…two…

I tried to relax all my muscles, though I knew that it would be no use.

One.

I screamed through the burning pain. My bones cracked, and my muscles stretched as my limbs and spine elongated. My feet folded in on themselves as they distorted and compressed to become hooves. Claws as sharp as blades grew where I once had chipped, brittle, dirty nails. My nose distorted into a lupine snout. Thick fur sprouted from every follicle on my body. I longed to tear at my flesh to speed up the process, and it took all my willpower to resist. My vision sharpened, and every little sound became excruciatingly loud. Spiral horns like those of a ram sprung from my temples, and my scream deepened into a heart-stopping roar.

The change complete, I had become the most feared beast in all of Christmas: Krampus. And I never hated myself more.

* * *

For centuries, my older brother, Nick, had spent this time of year checking his list and delivering presents to the “good” children of the world. Meanwhile, the names of all the “bad” children were automatically imprinted on my mind, and I underwent the most horrific transformation possible so that I could punish them properly. Every year, I started in New Zealand while Nick took off from his hidden village at the North Pole, taking who knows which route and doing who knows what kind of magic to get all the gifts out in one night. It always took me longer to finish, but with so many children acting out over the past several generations, I expected nothing less.

As usual, I took one of my claws and drew a circle in the air big enough for my ten-foot monstrous body to step through. Where once was nothing appeared a black tear in the time-space continuum. I grumbled, as close to a sigh as I could manage in that form. Even with the beast in control, my thoughts were still audible, and all my brain could say by that point was Please, don’t make me do this. Regardless, I leaped through the portal, allowing its icy cold bite to engulf me.

The first house belonged to the Allen family. Three boys, one girl, a mother, and a father. Each of the boys bore at least the label “at risk” on my mind’s list. Their sister took more after their mother and their maternal grandmother, fortunately, and had a kind heart. The boys took after their father: loud, rude, and, most concerning of all, racist. Yet only one would be getting punished that night. The eldest, twelve-year-old Noah, had been pushing around a Māori boy in his class and calling him obscene slurs. At the thought, my monstrous side growled quietly.

I crept slowly to the back of the house, where the three boys shared a room. The beast despised my caution, but I would not wake up anyone I didn’t need to. The door creaked as I opened it, making me cringe internally. The beast reveled in it, knowing that it would scare Noah more if he heard it. With the boys’ two beds—one bunk bed for the twins and a twin XL for Noah—desks, dressers, and toys, there was hardly any room to move, let alone stalk. This frustrated the beast, but I convinced him to be patient. I managed to skulk to Noah’s bed without running into or stepping on anything. Gently, I placed my palm on his forehead and was instantly transported into his dreams.

At one time, the beast and I had physically punished the world’s “bad” children. At one time, we also only punished boys. That time had passed. Nick and I agreed that physical punishment was going too far. The psychological scar of dream punishments felt no better to me, but the beast demanded some sort of retribution. When I suggested to him that “bad” girls should be punished as well, I didn’t need to do much to convince the monster that girls also have free will and should be held accountable for their actions the same way that boys are. He only comprehended the idea of more justice—more violence.

Inside Noah’s mind, I found his dream self playing football in the halls of his school. Perfect. The beast wanted to attack immediately, but I told him that there needed to be a lesson attached to the punishment; otherwise, Noah would not understand why he was being punished. Discontent but willing to play along, the beast decided to wait.

I conjured in Noah’s dream the image of the Māori boy he had been bullying and made him approach Noah to ask if he could play. With bated breath, I waited to see what Noah would do. To my great disappointment, he started shouting slurs at the Māori boy and shoved him to the ground. The beast growled at the display.

I stalked towards Noah, each step shaking the ground beneath me. Noah looked up and trembled at the sight of me. In his eyes, I could see his mind trying to work out an escape plan, but his legs would not budge. It tore me up inside to see a twelve-year-old so frightened of me, but the beast took pleasure in it.

Noah lifted his arm, as though to protect himself, and I grabbed it in one of my clawed hands. I pulled him off the ground, up to my eye level. I stretched out my free hand, and in it appeared a bundle of birch branches.

“This is what you get for being a racist little shit,” the beast growled through my mouth.

Then the beast began to whip Noah’s dream self with the birch branches, once…twice…thrice…I lost count of how many times. I had to retreat deep into my mind to prevent myself from hearing Noah’s cries and let the beast work.

It’s for his own good, I told myself. It’s for his future.

* * *

So it continued from house to house. I entered the “naughty” child’s dream, created a scenario to mirror their real-life mischief, and punished—or, rather, the beast punished—them for their misdeeds. It was all I could do to maintain my sanity as I heard the children beg for forgiveness and promise that they would behave, yet all the while the beast would not let up until he thought the lesson was learned. No matter how far I receded into the depths of my mind, nowhere was far enough to escape their cries.

Then I reached the home of thirteen-year-old Timothy in Mississippi, USA. Timothy had been bullying another boy in his class, which had caused that boy to start bullying his younger siblings. I had already visited the other boy and punished him for bullying his younger siblings—one of the harder lessons I had ever had to teach. Now, it was Timothy’s turn.

Timothy lived in a two-room manufactured home with his father and grandmother, sharing a bedroom with his grandmother. Why he couldn’t take after his sweet grandmother rather than his drunk, aggressive father, I wasn’t sure. I could tell that the beast was particularly looking forward to this punishment, and that fact caused my insides to crawl.

I snuck up on the queen-sized bed shared by Timothy and his grandmother, ensuring that I did not make a sound so as to not wake the grandmother. The beast wanted to scare Timothy with the creaks of the floorboard, but I assured him that we did not want to get the innocent old woman involved. The beast reluctantly agreed.

When I approached the boy, I reached my hand up to touch his forehead. Just then, a car drove by, and its headlights illuminated the room through the slits of the horizontal blinds. I got a clear view of Timothy’s face. My hand stopped in mid-air, and my eyes widened. The skin all along the right side of his face was purple, brown, and green with bruises of varying ages. Gently, I lifted the side of Timothy’s nightshirt and found bruises all over his ribs as well. Someone had beaten the shit out of this boy.

The beast growled, furious that someone had deprived him of his right to punish Timothy. Internally, I echoed his growl, my own anger growing as I realized who must have done this. I glanced over at Timothy’s grandmother but was too afraid of what I would find to examine her.

My hands tightened into fists. The beast cried out for retribution. Someone had to pay for this. For once, I agreed with him. And I knew exactly who we would punish.

I crept into Timothy’s father’s room, not bothering to be quiet. The floorboards creaked beneath me, and I hoped that they startled him. I wanted him to be awake for what happened next.

After a particularly loud floorboard creaked, Timothy’s father shot up in bed.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. He rifled under his pillow and pulled out a handgun. “Don’t move. I’ll shoot!”

I ignored him and continued toward where he lay in the bed.

Timothy’s father shot off the handgun three times, hitting me with two of the bullets. They stung like being hit by BB pellets, but my body ejected them, and I kept moving. Blood dripped from my wounds, but they quickly healed, leaving nothing but the stains in the floorboards as proof of their existence. Timothy’s father kept shooting. In his drunken and panicked state, he missed all his other shots and soon ran out of bullets.

As I finally stood over him, I wrestled the handgun out of his grasp and threw it across the room. Then I grabbed both his wrists in one of my enormous hands and held them above his head. Even in the dark, I could see the fear shining in his eyes.

I stretched out my free hand, and a bundle of birch branches appeared in it.

“This is what you get for beating up a child,” the beast and I growled together.

As one, the beast and I put all our force into beating Timothy’s father with the birch branches. Again and again, we whipped him bloody. The torso, the head, the legs, not an inch of him was left unscathed. By the time we were finished, he was barely breathing.

* * *

After I finished my route around the world, I went to Nick’s hidden village at the North Pole for eggnog, as I did every year. I was not really in the mood—I never really was—but it was our tradition, and it was the only time I got to see my brother. Besides, I did not want to hear from him if he got worried about me.

We sat in matching red recliners in front of the fireplace in Nick’s living area. Caroline, Nick’s wife, had already gone to bed, so it was just the two of us and our thoughts.

Nick poured generous amounts of rum into my eggnog before handing me the mug.

“Thanks,” I grumbled. I took a sip and cringed. Such a revolting taste, but the warmth that rushed through my veins helped to numb the pain.

“I know you like some eggnog with your rum.”

Nick chuckled at his own joke, and I gave him a pity snort, as I did every year.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, nursing our drinks and warming our aching feet by the fireplace. I didn’t know what was on Nick’s mind, but every time I glanced over at him, he seemed lost in thought, staring so deeply into the flames that one would have thought it was a 4K Ultra HD TV playing the latest Star Wars blockbuster. Finally, I took the bait.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He didn’t look at me. “Kristoff told me you had a…deviation tonight.”

I sipped my eggnog. “You could say that.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shrugged.

“It might help if you did.”

I sighed and set my mug on the nightstand between us. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Are sure?” Nick followed suit and folded his hands over his engorged belly.

“Yes. It’s just the same shit as always. Kids acting out because they’re spoiled, kids acting out because they’ve never been taught any better…” My voice trailed off. It was my turn to stare into the fire as the night’s events—and events of endless nights before it—flashed through my mind. “Kids acting out because other kids are bullying them, kids acting out because their parents or guardians are bullying them…kids acting out because they’ve been dealt a raw deal…”

I cursed under my breath as my voice cracked. I wiped the tears off my cheeks with my fists, hoping Nick wouldn’t notice, but of course he did. He always did.

He reached over and patted my forearm.

“It never gets any easier, does it?” he asked.

I shook my head.

Nick gave my arm a squeeze. “I couldn’t do what you do, Greg. It’s hard enough for me to deliver gifts knowing that there are kids out there suffering, some that I’ll never get to visit because they have no stable home. To have to decide which of them need to be punished so that they don’t go down a horrid path—”

“And even then, it’s not always enough.”

“Yeah. It’s not always enough.” Nick shook his head before burying his face in his hand. “How did the world get this way?”

My head collapsed against my chair, and my eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling.

“I don’t know, Nick. Some days, I wonder if we didn’t do our jobs well enough.”

He hesitated. “Maybe, Greg. Maybe.”

I snorted. “Well, that sounds a little pessimistic for Ol’ Saint Nick.”

“I’d more argue for realistic.” He snatched his mug and seemed to chug the rest in a few gulps. “I hate that honorific. They keep mixing me up with that Nicholas of Myra. I’m no saint.”

“Saintlier than I am. I’m downright demonic.”

Nick chuckled again. The sound brought a reluctant grin to my face.

“You turn into a horned monster with the ability to transport literally anywhere and no world leaders suffered a gruesome death tonight. If that sort of self-restraint isn’t saintly, I don’t know what is.”

I imagined all the ways that I could make the dictators and fascists of the world suffer, all the ways I could make them beg me on bent knee for mercy and promise to change. I could be like Death in A Christmas Carol and teach Ebenezer Scrooge a thing or two about his grim future. I stared inside my mug and sighed.

“That’s not my place,” I said quietly. “It’s just…not my place.”

Nick pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. He looked into his empty mug and heaved himself out of his seat.

“I’m going to go get more eggnog. Need anything?”

I shook my head.

“Be back in a flash, then.”

As Nick left the room, I watched the hypnotic dance of the flickering flames in the fireplace. My heart ached, knowing that there was so much more that I could have done that night, but I had bent the rules enough already. Who knew what the consequences of my transgression would be?

I took a long drink from my mug and cringed. That would be a problem for next Christmas.