However, it seems Christmas can be rather a strange mix - noting it's the less religious aspects take most of centre stage. Our traditions are oozing with paganism - and other strangeness we now seem to count as the norm. And of course - yes, there's always . . . him.
The man with the bag.
He's the one I want to talk about, and even a bit more, because in the stakes to find the most popular Christmas character, Santa Claus has to win hands down. But just what is the appeal of this philanthropic gentleman who only shows up once a year? Why, out of all the peculiarities in the world, do we trust this now very old man to look after our children's material needs for the scant time of the Christmas season? After all, this dude has just swept in from nowhere on Christmas Eve and taken all the credit for fulfilling every young hearts desire. We don't really know who he is - or what he wants. It's more likely in these dark days to suspect such a man's happy motives might be nestling in the dark and depraved. At least that's what we could imagine to be the case, regardless of our willingness to offer the 'benefit of doubt' - and trust the happy fellow.
It's been made pretty clear he's no ordinary man. We quite easily believe in all of his aspects, also expecting our children to be complicit in the long established fantasy, if they have any expectation of receiving the magical Christmas cheer that goes with such belief. It's all a harmless bit of fun of course, despite the threat from the dreaded 'naughty or nice' list Santa carries with him. Imagine, if you will, an ancient book, stinking of age, bound in some unknown hide that looks too much like human skin - it's pages yellowed and brittle, it's contents the scrawl from a deranged arthritic hand. Woe betide if your name is in the latter half of the book - if you're on the 'naughty list.'
It's amazing how myth gathers weight, eventually becoming part of known tradition. We now accept Santa Claus as part of December's enchantment, encouraging us to embrace a strange fantastical world. A few days out from Christmas, I can feel a strange kind of magic, igniting imaginings - be they dark or otherwise. I can remember when I believed Father Christmas was real, that he would get into the house in the wee small hours, planting presents for no real good reason than the day itself. Yet now, maybe wiser, I still have the belief of wild imagination; that 'what if' - powering story - and the dark prose I take so much delight in.
Film, books, and television have made sure Santa Claus remains alive and well. We know his background, where he lives, what he does for the rest of the year when he's not engaged in his 'one night only' world tour. He has been portrayed so many times across the years that we accept his presence without question. In fact, now, it would be almost impossible to have Christmas without him.
Safe now to say -
I BELIEVE . . .
We'd finally reached Ground Zero. Not the place where the World Trade Centre went down. This was some other, more lonely place. To tell the truth, after all this time, I'd lost track of the exact location. All I knew for sure was that my heart and soul felt weary every day. I ached from loss, from searching too long through cold empty streets that should have been full of life, but no longer were.
Every time I saw a dead child, I wept.
Thank God I still had the glock.
That, at least, might help keep him safe.
I'd used the thing a few times already. Close range. It was hard to believe that stumbling creature from two days back had once been a man, snarling and lolling out his peeling tongue like he wanted desperately to make my acquaintance, or lick the dirt off my face - before taking a bite out of it. I saw right into his eyes, the very second I blew them out of his skull. Dead. Fish eyes. That's when I wanted to puke, because I could smell lingering death trapped inside his skin - like the flesh of a burst, rotting melon.
Damn Saint Nick . . .
"Dad, I'm hungry."
That was my boy. With me in Hell. The only thing left around here for me to love. And I did love him. My God, this was no place for a nine year old boy. Will had seen more shit than anyone should, at his - or any age. Anyway, it didn't take long to find an abandoned store, even though the best I could come up with from its shelves was a stale bar of chocolate. At least it put a fresh smile on his cherubic face. I considered a snack from the dried fruit section before relenting and joining the boy in a sugar rush that was well past its sell by date.
It was strange to see a Christmas tree so long after the event, but I suppose that's what happens when entropy gets to do its thing. The winding drape of lights hanging from its tired branches had long since lost their sparkle. I traced the dead feed wire back, with Will at my heels. It wasn't long before it left ground, crawling up the side of a white painted building like a jungle creeper, to disappear into the fist floor window of some back street apartment.
I knew he had a thing for fairy lights.
But these . . . were as dead as he was.
It still pricked me, made me sling open my bag and look at the ones I'd brought, rolled up inside the pack like a barb wire crown. The only batteries to give them life were old, even risky, nestled deep inside my parka pocket. They were supposedly long life, so I expected they would work.
I hoped they would work.
Life here, was all about acceptable risks.
The moment we got inside the mall proper was when I started to feel really scared. Not so much for myself. I'd done my bit in the world. No. It was for Will. For my son. Like any father, I wanted him to go on. Was that really too much to ask? My wife had died in a screaming fit on Boxing Day, and my beautiful little girl just after the turn of the New Year. She had been older than her brother, but that hadn't stopped some deformed sideshow leprechaun biting a deep hole in her arm - to leave me with the worst decision of all.
So you're a child killer now . . .
"Is it time, Dad?"
I felt a painful sob rise in my throat at the memory of her and the admirable bravery of my son. I held onto it, knowing something about the visceral power of vengeance and its capacity to numb fear. I had no time to celebrate Will's courage, or even berate his foolhardiness. I simply hunched over, smiling as I pulled the roll of Christmas lights from the bag. His eyes widened when he saw them. I put it down to adrenaline rush.
"It's time, son," I said, rummaging for the pack of batteries.
I swallowed. There was nothing to go down my throat. Will was now standing alone in the main walkway of the empty shopping mall, twenty yards from me, hands in pockets, wrapped from head to foot in glowing Christmas tree lights. There was no way I could reach him if something happened. I loosened my grip on the glock pistol in my hand, feeling the wetness of my sweating palm. I flexed pain away from my fingers, then tightened up again, before re-sighting the weapon in the direction of my boy.
Dad, I'm scared! I couldn't see Will's face from where I crouched. I just hoped the voice in my head was paranoia and not clairvoyance. He was alone out there.
Waiting for the man with the bag,
It was a leprechaun turned up first. A zombie henchman. Attracted by the glow of lights., I heard its childish moaning, saw the dead thing sniff the air before tentatively moving out into the open.
Toward Will . . .
The boy, to his credit, kept stock still. I'd have been scared shitless. Probably would have tried to back away. But this young soldier held fast (maybe it was because he couldn't move). Just how tight had I wrapped those glowers around him anyway? He didn't utter a word. Maybe that was how much he trusted my aim.
"I love you son," I heard myself mutter as I squeezed the trigger - and shot that bastard imp clean through the head.
"YOU BETTER WATCH OUT . . . "
What the hell? I literally jumped inside my skin. I bit my tongue; tasted my own blood. The gun's loud report rang through the place like a summer thunderclap. I was glad when it faded.
But what the hell was that?
"YOU BETTER NOT . . . CRY . . . "
"Don't worry son!" I called out feigning confidence. I could see my boy was becoming twitchy. This guy might have been the 'ho-ho-ho' man once, but he was surely a walking corpse by now. A stiff that had infected the whole damn world in one chill night of dark magic. The noise coming out from the mall public address system had been harsh and metallic, like some cheap talking doll -
"BETTER . . . NOT . . . POUT . . . "
"Told you Dad! He's not dead! What did I tell you?
I nodded, absently. I felt anything but calm. It was the same fear that hits when you forget why you went up to a bedroom and find yourself staring at a blank wall. And now. through the fog, I could hear the next part of that suddenly detestable song; the chill dread that it might ring out again. "I'm telling you why . . . "
"He'll bring them back! Mom - and Sophie! He'll bring them back!"
I closed my eyes as Will continued his happy rant. It had been hard enough to accept a nightmare. And then followed the paralysing grief. My eyes burned with tears as I opened them. It was the innocence of my childhood I longed for. There is no magic, David. No Santa Claus. My parents had thought wrong in their cold shattering of my dreams. I could see him - right now, wearing the suit that looked far too much kike the colour of blood.
"Yaaaaay! I told you!"
Will had turned into a dancing Christmas tree, his almost frenzied shouts of glee sounding strangely accusatory in that cavernous space. Lights jangled around his narrow body, drawing the shuffling figure ever closer. One black boot dragged through the sticky mess that was once an elf's head. The other foot was naked, half eaten from the ankle. I could still hear the din of my son's exultation, even as the gun my hand roared and jumped once again. Almost immediately after, Santa's head and his hat exploded in a shining flower of bone and matter. Will fell silent, only able to stare as the ruined corpse folded inside the crimson coat - and collapsed.
For the last time ever.
Yaaaaay! My own heart lifted. I could breathe again. All was silence, like the clam after a storm. The mall public address crackled, just once, and then spoke no more. I knew my son might hate me - for a short while.
"It's okay," I said. seeing he was becoming agitated again. Then I heard him shout for me; the anguished cry of a traumatised child. It's okay now son. For God's sake . . .
I turned at a sudden realisation of shifting weight behind me; the onset of a familiar and nauseating stench.
I'd forgotten you see.
I'd forgotten - about Mrs Claus
