I went back to bed and crawled under the covers, snuggling against her warm, soft ass.
I was awakened by a noise on the roof.
I sat up and looked over at Patty. She was still sound asleep. The blue light of the digital clock above her head said two o’clock.
The noise came again. A scuffling sound, like the roof was being raked. Or reindeer hooves, a voice in the back of my mind said.
The scuffling sounds moved. From above our heads to over the living room. To the fireplace.
My heart was pounding now. I knew this was no normal noise. I also knew it was no burglar. Something was up there which I was afraid to acknowledge. Something in a red and white suit.
This was crazy. There was no such thing as Santa Claus. Santa was a myth, a joke played on little kids by their parents and reinforced by the marketing powers that be. He was a fictional figure, a cartoon character. Like Paul Bunyan or Bugs Bunny. I was letting Patty’s childish talk get to me. I was starting to imagine things.
The sound came again.
I was not imagining it.
Oh God. The sound of those pawing hooves on the roof is something we wait for our entire child lives. The sound of presents arriving. The happiest sound in the world. But when you hear that sound as an adult it is no longer so cheerful. You no longer want to hear it. And when you do, it scares the shit out of you.
I was tempted to hide my head under the covers and plug my ears and wait for morning. I could feel the fear rising in my body like bile, causing a wave of cold to travel from the soles of my feet, through my arms, to the top of my head. I started to shake; not just small trembles, but huge, wracking spasms.
But I didn’t hide. I ran over to the switch, turned on the bedroom light and stood there listening. Patty was still asleep.
There was a sudden, jarring, growling sound, and I jumped. It moved from the roof, down the fireplace and into the living room. I didn’t know what to do. “Patty!” I hissed. “Patty!” but she wouldn’t wake up.
I thought of calling the police, but quickly discarded the idea.
Something—or someone—was definitely moving around out there now. I could hear its heavy footsteps moving from the living room to the dining room/kitchen area. The refrigerator was opened, then closed.
The noises moved back to the living room by the fireplace, and I heard several small, thudding sounds followed by several small crashes. Then came a whistling. My God, the thing was whistling a song to itself! I listened carefully: the bastardization of a popular Christmas carol.
What was out there? I wondered. What the fuck was it?
There was only one way to find out, I knew, but I wasn’t ready yet. I stood next to the light switch, trying to gather up my courage, trying to formulate some sort of plan.
My feet started moving without my consent, carrying me through the door and out into the hall. The hall light was on—I always kept it on—so I stayed close to the right wall, moving slowly. I didn’t want him to see me.
Like the hero in Clement Moore’s story, I peeked around the corner and saw a red suited figure stuffing things into a stocking. Patty’s stocking. He had thrown out all my presents and they were strewn over the living room floor, crushed, apparently stomped on. He’d left my stocking alone.
I said nothing, but watched him work. He did indeed have a large canvas bag with him, just like everyone said. It was filled with all kinds of goodies—mostly toys. He was also fat, just like expected.
Then he turned around. And I gasped.
His skin was dark green with mottled brown splotches all over it. He had no beard. His eyes, beady and close-set, were yellow with no iris or pupil. His mouth, set below a large, hooked nose, was filled with several hundred infinitesimal baby teeth, all pointed and the same color as his eyes.
But I hardly noticed the face. For underneath the red coat he was nude; his skin the same green and brown all over his body. And sticking straight out was a large priapic penis.
He looked toward me, hearing my gasp, and he smiled. His dimples weren’t merry. “Happy holidays,” he said. His voice was a whiny squeak, barely human at all. His eyes bored into mine and the world disappeared in a yellow haze.
I could not have been out for more than a few minutes, but when I awoke he was gone. His bag was still there, though, so I assumed he must still be in the house. I shook my head, trying to get rid of that drugged-out feeling. I tried to stand up. My body was heavy. It felt like I was suspended in water.
“Yes! Yes!”
I heard the whiny voice coming from our bedroom and, with a puking feeling in my guts, started staggering through the hallway.
Patty was kneeling on top of the bed, ass up, her nightie flipped over her back. Her head lolled to one side and her eyes were closed. She was still asleep, somehow, though her body appeared to be animated.
The creature was on his knees directly behind her, his oversized organ shoved all the way into her. “Yes!” he chanted. “Yes! Yes!”
“No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, but the sound came out a whisper. He looked at me and my body froze as if paralyzed. But I remained awake, conscious, and I realized as he moved in and out of my wife that he wanted me to watch. He grinned, his yellow teeth glowing strangely.
NO! I wanted to yell. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! But my mouth would no longer work. My face muscles were frozen. The tears rolled silently down my face.
He pulled out of her, and I realized as he positioned his massive cock a little higher that he was going to fuck her in the ass.
Names, curses, obscenities assaulted my brain as I was forced to watch. He leaned onto her back and grabbed her large breasts from behind; squeezing them, kneading them, fondling them. My frenzied mind planned innumerable deaths and exquisite tortures.
He came, his whole body suddenly jolted by a series of shudders, and once again he pulled out. I saw sickening yellowish liquid dripping from the tip of his penis.
Patty rolled onto her back at a whisper from him, and opened her mouth. He shoved the entire organ into her mouth, balls included, and I could see her cheek muscles moving and bulging. Her eyes, however, were still closed and I knew that, somehow, some way, she had not awakened. He was doing this to her without her knowledge, probably against her will, and he was able to keep her asleep.
He came again and hopped off the bed, cackling. He put a finger aside of his nose and ran out of the room. A minute later, I heard the strange growling sound, now moving up the chimney. After that, the shuffling noises reappeared on the roof and then disappeared. From far off, on the wind, I heard the whistling of Christmas carol travesties.
SHE AWOKE IN THE morning happy and refreshed and rushed immediately to the fireplace to look at her presents. She laughed and squealed with delight as she sorted through the contents of her stocking.
I felt like hitting her across the mouth, like beating the shit out of her. I blamed her. I knew that what had happened was not her fault, but the feeling remained, irrationally, that she had been unfaithful to me, that she had fucked someone—something—else.
At the same time, I realized that this was the logical extension of Christmas—the grown-up version. This was what took the place of candy canes and small toys. This was what Santa brought to adults.
I looked into her innocent eyes. She was so happy, so ecstatic, so full of holiday joy.
But Christmas had been metamorphosed, for me, to hell.