Santa, Reload

Thanks to our parents' disturbing Christmas lore, kids in town and the world would never dream of being troublemakers. These sick fairy tales were passed down for generations to get children to believe in Santa Claus. And if they didn't, there were no presents and, worst of all, Santa would get you.

My brother Kevin and I didn't believe in Santa Claus, no matter how haunting the tale was. In fact, we laughed because the mere thought of it being anything more than a stupid story was insane.

I mean, think about it: some stranger would take the time to write a note to the parents of a bad seed, telling them that the kid had made the naughty list. Not only could the parents not write him back, but there was no return address—go figure—and they'd board up the doors and windows, forcing their other kids to sleep in bed with them. Then, on the night of reckoning, if the parents fought him, Santa would take all the kids, and sometimes, the parents too.

For the good kids who didn't put their parents through that crap, there were vibrant lights, cookies, cakes, and presents underneath a dying pine tree. The charade was meant to get the kids to forget that little Johnny Bad Seed was gone for good, and maybe, just maybe, all the other children would continue to be good so that Santa would never go to their houses.

Kevin and I laughed at how people believed that ridiculous myth. And the truth was, we didn't have any naughty kids in our perfect little town. When we started questioning the existence of dear ol' Santa, the other kids didn't want to play with us anymore. Kevin didn't care. He carried on with pulling girls' hair and taking his friends' toys without asking.

But one year, he was really bad. He slashed our neighbor's tires after the neighbor yelled at him about riding his bike on the grass, and the next month, Kevin pushed one of his classmates into the nearby quarry, breaking the kid's leg. Later, he cursed at his teacher and set off a Roman candle in the school bathroom, setting the place on fire. Perhaps the worst thing he did was steal money from that offering pan at church. I wasn't surprised to find out that he spent it on more firecrackers.

My parents warned him about his behavior and begged him to be good, or he'd be on the naughty list. But, of course, he laughed at them. Getting into trouble was his full intention. He was desperate to prove that nothing would happen to him on Christmas Eve. Though I agreed with him, I thought he was petty. Why go through the trouble? Didn't he want presents?

I remember looking at the mountain of boxes wrapped in shiny emerald paper, topped with scarlet bows. My name was on most of them. Mom had a few, and even Dad had a couple. But Kevin? Nope.

On Christmas Eve, my parents wanted me to sleep in their room with them. They had Kevin sleep in the living room by the fireplace. Although this request sent Kevin and me rolling on the floor in an infantile frenzy, we went along with it because Kevin was finally going to prove that Santa wasn't real.

"Don't worry, Max," he told me. "If Santa is real, I'll punch him in his fat gut and rip that stupid beard off his face." I nodded and headed to my parents' room.

That night, I lay in bed nestled between Mom and Dad's restless fidgeting. When I heard a gasp from the living room, I decided to check on Kevin. I thought he might be awake, ready to tear into presents that weren't his. Carefully, I climbed over Dad and hopped out of bed. I crept across the fuzzy carpet, then gripped and slowly turned the doorknob. I softly chuckled when I caught a glimpse of the dim light in the living room; Kevin must've been afraid of the dark, so he snuck his night light.

Something else to tease that wuss about, I thought.

I peeped, hoping to find an opportunity to catch Kevin off guard—make him jump in shock.

But I found myself going cold and wide-eyed. The dim nightlight shone on a tall, thin, bald figure that stood over Kevin's speechless, shaking body as he sat upright on the sofa. The creature's misshapen, ivory figure had spindly limbs, and its swollen belly bulged. It stared down at Kevin with milky, golf ball-shaped eyes with no eyelids to keep them from popping out of its wrinkly face.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't breathe. I could only stare at Kevin, who sat on the couch, staring back at the menacing creature.

Santa opened its mouth full of long, fang-like teeth, and slobber oozed onto the floor. It lifted a big hand and flexed its long fingers, threshing its thick red claws. Slowly and gently, it wrapped its fingers around Kevin's torso and hoisted him up. With Kevin's middle secure in its clutch—my brother's arms tight against his sides as the monster gripped him tight—the creature studied him, turning him slightly this way and that. Kevin's face was white as snow, and his breath staggered. Santa brought Kevin close to its face and sniffed him through the small holes above its gnarly maw.

Kevin watched the monster back, whimpering. Something leaked to the floor, making the room smell like piss. Before Kevin could snap out of his stupor and fight to break free, the monster's wrinkly face went taut as its cheeks extended, and its jaw nearly hit the floor. Its mouth widened to the size of a small door, welcoming Kevin to a room full of jagged teeth and slimy drool. It shoved Kevin inside the gaping wet hole, closed its mouth, and chewed, rolling its jaw carefully but greedily. I thought I heard him screaming, but then I realized it was my own shrill voice filling the house.

Oblivious to my cries of dread, the creature continued devouring Kevin without giving me so much as a bat of a milky eye. It trapped every ounce of my brother inside its mouth, swallowing blood and pajamas, not wasting a drop or shred. When Kevin was gone, the monster's jaw rose, and the wrinkles in its cheeks deepened. Led by its swollen belly, the beast turned and sluggishly dragged its long, wide, bare feet toward the fireplace. As it crouched to stuff itself into the fireplace, it let out a groan so deep that the floor shook beneath my feet. Once inside, it stood and planted its feet against either wall of the fireplace and then used its bony legs to propel itself upward. I looked up and listened to it drag its feet across the roof. Then there was silence.

When I found the courage to leave my spot at the door, I turned and found Mom softly weeping as she sat on the edge of the bed. Dad lay there staring at the ceiling.

"Wh―" I began, but stopped. My body shook as I hung my head, lost in my brother's last moments.

"We—we did everything we could," Dad murmured.

"I―" I gasped as the image of the monster chewing Kevin played in my memory.

"I'm sorry," Mom mumbled through her tears. "It was either him or all of us."

"Wha—" I whimpered as the rest of my question caught in my throat.

"P-please don't make us go through this a-again," Dad cried.

My heart crashed into my chest as my mind went in circles, forcing me to relive what I had seen.

"S-Santa." Speaking it aloud set my family's new reality in stone: Santa Claus was real, and Kevin had proven it. My knees went numb, and before I hit the floor, everything went dark.

It's been years since Kevin died, but he was never forgotten. He had become the main character in the modern-day rendition of the cautionary tale of Santa Claus. From that night on, he was known as the bad kid who got a well-deserved visit from Santa—a real face that proved the existence of a not-so-mythical monster. But to me, Kevin was a hero who picked a losing fight. He showed me the true wrath of Santa, and as I open my presents every year, I thank him.