 Merry Christmas Eve! Well, tonight is the big night. I've loaded up the sleigh, the elves are hooking up the reindeer team as I speak, and my suit is back from the North Pole dry cleaners, ready for me to get a dirty all over again with chimney dust. I am so excited about this year's excursion, because I only have a shoebox full of coal for my naughty list, but sacks upon sacks upon sacks of wonderful things for the boys and girls on my good list. Well, it looks like Krampus is going to have a pretty boring trip with me this year, and that's the way it should be. Oh, by the way, I am often asked what my favorite cookie is. Well, at the end of this episode, I'll tell you and I'll also let you know how to make those cookies, magic cookies. Well, I'm still waiting for Krampus to arrive. He's kind of a late sleeper, so I have enough time to bring you one more spooky Santa before Christmas is over. I'll tell you about a legendary monster who lives in the icy wastes of the North Pole called the Gryther. I have another story called Christmas Tree Decorations. It's a spooky story about a girl who is home alone tonight, Christmas Eve, and has a nasty encounter with a man claiming to be me, but it's not me. Plus, a story called Die Nutcracker Die. Well, this is the last episode, by the way, before my big sleigh ride, so I'm going to make it an extra special episode by making it an extra long episode with a couple of extra stories, just for fun. Remember, if you want to write a scary story of your own, you can email it to letters at spookysanta.com and I can read your story in an upcoming episode next Christmas. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, pour a mug of hot cocoa. It's magic, you know, and come with spooky Santa for another holiday chiller. My first story is called Die Nutcracker Die by Dax Farley. I did a double take as my mom pushed through the front door all smiles. I swear, if her grin had been any bigger, it would have swallowed her nose. Merry Christmas, Tyler, she called out, gliding over to where I had perched on the couch, playing a game on my phone. She dropped her purse on the coffee table and righted the lump she carried under her arm. Look what I got. I looked. Um, what is it? She slumped and did her classic mom eye roll. What do you think it is, silly? Well, I paused the game. Something left over from the Halloween store? Seriously, it was hideous. It's a nutcracker, she said, standing it gently on the floor. Isn't it awesome? If by awesome, she meant a creature from The Walking Dead, then yeah. But weren't nutcrackers supposed to look like wooden soldiers? This one carried a metal sword, and instead of a tall black hat, it wore a gold crown with prickly spikes. Its painted black mustache had a great chip on one side and its teeth were as jagged as the cleats on my track shoes. But man, those eyes. Creepy. A couple of sparkly green gems were set into ping pong ball sockets, and they glared at me like they were alive. Mom knelt gazing all moon-eyed. I got it at that unique shop by my office. It was hand carved in the black forest in Germany. Can you believe the store marked it 80% off? Why, you paid money for that? She swatted my knee. Yes, smarty pants, I couldn't resist. I had no wonder what had come over her. The thing was the size of a toddler and just as gross. I turned it sideways and pulled up the long lever in back, causing the nutcracker's jaw to gape wide. Holy saw-squatch, you could probably crack a coconut in that thing. I let it go, causing it to clap shut its teeth, snapping like a steel trap. Tyler. Mom reached out like it might crumple. Careful. This thing has to be at least a hundred years old. Only a hundred? Those eyes looked much older and eerie like they were lit by some ancient fire. Mom stood and heaved it up. It'll be perfect over here. It'll never be perfect, I thought. She set it by the fireplace, just to the right of our two stockings. As she did, the nutcracker brushed against the Christmas tree, pulling off a long strand of tinsel that dropped over the blade of its upturned sword. It gave me a knowing grin. Shills skittered through me like a thousand sonopeds crawling all over my flesh. On the bright side, it was Christmas Eve. I only had to look at this yuletide terror until New Year's Day. I'm going to change, she said, heading off to her bedroom. I went back to my game, or I tried anyway. My eyes kept straying to the fireplace in that ugly antique nutcracker. It watched me while that single strand of tinsel flickered and swayed under the heat vent. I was losing points big time. My concentration shot. Forget this. I tilted my head toward the nutcracker. You're ruining my Christmas, you know? And then it happened. Its eyes narrowed and its teeth got even bigger. I jumped back, my heart launching into my throat. Wait. I looked closer. Just an afternoon shadow. It was an illusion. Tyler, you goof, get a grip. I did. I got a grip on my phone and I took it into my room where the scariest thing was a poster of Voldemort. I stayed there until dinner time. Our Christmas Eve routine was always the same. For as long as I could remember it worked this way. Mom would have dinner reservations for us at Nick's, the only restaurant open on Christmas Eve, and then we'd drive the neighborhood looking Christmas lights. Being an eighth grader, I felt kind of old for that, but mom still oozed and awed like they were fourth of July fireworks. After that, we'd come home and watch a Christmas movie which she would let me pick. I'd always choose Home Alone until last year when I remembered Die Hard was a Christmas film, too. Well, this year was no different. I scarfed down a plate of Nick's spaghetti, reminding mom that the sauce splattered on my shirt was Christmas red, swept the neighborhood to see who outdid themselves on decorations this year and settled in for some Bruce Willis butt kicking. Mom lit the gas fireplace to set the mood and slumped on the couch like a beach to jellyfish. Of course, my eyes occasionally slid to that stinking nutcracker. I imagined a scenario where Bruce Willis jumped out of the TV and went ballistic on that nubby wooden gnome splinters flying. I noticed mom also giving it an occasional glance. But why is she not repulsed by it? When the movie ended, mom nudged me. The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we get to open presents. I swear, she was like a kid sometimes. We could open them now, I offered. She gave me a shove. Go to bed. Okay, I said, but I've pretty much guessed every gift under the tree, which wouldn't make Christmas morning any less exciting. I hauled myself off the couch and headed to my room. When you've got a belly full of Italian food and chocolate cake, another Christmas Eve favorite, dropping off to sleep is as easy as counting your toes. I was practically in snooze land. The second I crawled under the covers. But during the night, something tickled my nose. I swatted it away, barely breaking from my dream. And then it tickled again. A bug? When I took a peek, my eyes popped wide. The nutcracker who was standing next to me, the tinsel brushing my face. I rolled out of the way, just as he brought the sword down, slicing through the sheet. I flew out of bed and slammed against the wall. What? How? He stood there, green eyes aflame. I squeaked. I meant to yell. And with that, the thing dropped out of sight. My back to the wall, I slid to the corner and picked up the lightsaber that I bought at a comic convention. Not the best weapon, but all my baseball bats were in the garage. On quaking legs, I made my way around the bed, holding the saber over my head. The nutcracker wasn't there. He must have rolled under. And that's when I flew out the door and into my mom's room. Mom! Mom! She shot up from her curled position, a clump of hair plastered to her cheek. What is it? Your nutcrackers in my room tried to kill me. She unstuck the hair from her face inside. What are you talking about? Just come look, I said. She edged forward. Honey, it was only a nightmare. It wasn't, mom. Hurry. I held the lightsaber ready as she followed me back to my room. She glanced around, hand on hips. I thought you said the nutcracker was in here. I pointed and whispered, it's under the bed. She let out another exaggerated sigh. Tyler. Then dropping to her knees, she peaked. Is it under there? Yes. She griped, reaching out her hand. Mom, no! Too late. I heard the snap. Mom's eyes bulged as she let out a high-pitched scream. Mom! I grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back. She fought the demon under the bed, wrestling it into the open. Her fingers were clamped between those vicious teeth. I dropped the lightsaber and grabbed for the lever on its back, forcing its mouth open. Mom backed away. Her fingers bent, probably broken. Tyler. She looked woozy. That's when the nutcracker brought his sword down again, stabbing her big toe. Her scream was so loud, she didn't hear me holler, run! I grabbed her arm and jerked her away, but the nutcracker was quick. It launched at us, slicing the air with its sword. Mom hobbled as I hurried her into the living room, the nutcracker just behind us, snapping its mouth open and closed. It meant to eat us alive. What's happening? She cried. I had no time to answer. I pushed her onto the couch, and then, grabbing a cushion off the back, I turned it just in time to shield me from the nutcracker's foot-long blade. It went swoosh straight into it. Circling, I steered him away from Mom. The creature withdrew the sword and ready to go at me again. I grabbed the corner of the cushion, intending to bat the little sucker away, but just as I reared back, he whipped the sword at my leg, slicing through my pajamas. I stumbled backward, losing my balance and twisting my ankle in the fall. Electric white heat shot through it as I buckled. The nutcracker, his grimace huge advanced. No! Mom lunged off the couch like a mad woman and grabbed for the beast. He spun and went at her. Limping like Igor, I rushed toward him, close enough to get in a few wallops with the pillow. He turned on me again, criss-crossing the sword, making X's in the air. I slowly backed away, cowering behind the cushion and trying to ignore the pain ripping through my ankle. I kept my eyes on that nutso nutcracker, but I could also see Mom. She unplugged the lamp on the end table and threw it as hard as she could. Her right hand being chewed up, she had to throw with her left. It turned out to be more of a lob than a throw. Falling about a foot short of the target, the lamp shattered on Mom's new cell-tillow tile floor. The nutcracker whipped around, but instead of attacking, he grabbed his metal crown and then, he threw it frisbee style, whacking Mom upside the head. She dropped like a bag of bowling balls. That did it. Pain or no pain, I hauled off and booted that savage across the room. He sailed much further than the lamp had, hitting the brick fireplace and bouncing to the floor. His sword skittered from his hand. I wasted no time running toward him, before he could fully right himself. I grabbed his lever and held him at bay. While the nutcracker fought, his legs kicking and arms flailing, I opened the fireplace doors. Then, fast as I could, I shoved him in, shut the glass doors and held them closed with my feet. He pounded and butted his teeth going chomp, chomp, chomp. Ignoring the feverish throb in my ankle, I sat taller and reached for the knob that turned on the gas jets. The nutcracker continued his battle with the doors, gas filling the small enclosure. But I knew it wasn't enough. He was a demon-possessed Christmas decoration, not a living, breathing person. That's when I reached for the matches. It only took one strike. As I drew my feet back, the nutcracker kicked the doors open. I tossed the lit match in and dumped. In a snap, I jumped forward, closing the doors again. Then, stretching toward the Christmas tree, I snatched off the pipe cleaner candy cane from third grade. I twisted it tightly around the door handles, sealing the devil inside his inferno. Without his crown and sword, the thing was nothing but wood, old, dry, antique wood, the kind that catches quickly near a flame. He continued beating the doors, though now he looks like the aftermath of a fiery crash. I hobbled to my room, grabbed my phone and called 911. Hurry, I told the operator as I limped back to mom. My mother's hurt. Try to remain calm, he said. Help is on the way. Now, can you tell me what happened? I looked at mom, unconscious on the floor and then, at the blackened nutcracker, telling what happened. Where do I begin? This next story is called The Gryther. It was Christmas Eve and the family were gathered into living room. The father was reading the newspaper and the mother was knitting a sweater. The children, Jimbo and Stefa, were stretched out on the floor with their crayons and their coloring books. Tell us a story, Stefa demanded. Yes, a scary one, Jimbo insisted. All right, said their father. I'm going to tell you about the most fearsome, dangerous and appalling creature in all the world. It's called the Gryther. Oh, now you've done it, said their mother. You said his name out loud. Who is he? asked Jimbo. He's the world's most awful thing. Their father said he lives in a cave at the North Pole. The coldest, wettest place on earth is where the Gryther makes his home. He sleeps in the wreck of a ship that somehow got squeezed into the mouth of the cave. He doesn't mind the cold and he doesn't mind the wet. But the thing he hates most of all is to hear someone say his name. He has very good ears and they get bigger every time his name is spoken anywhere on earth. Sometimes his ears get so big he can use them to fly. I don't like this story, Stefa whined. It's too late now. Her mother said we've already mentioned his name. The Gryther is probably on his way to our house this very minute. It'll probably take him a while to get here, said their father. If we finish the story before he gets here everything will be fine. Do you know why the Gryther is called the Gryther? Why? the children asked. Because he has fists as big as basketballs and arms as long as boa constrictors, said their father with a grin. Whenever he finds the people who've been speaking his name, he opens up his fists and reaches out his arms and he grithers them in. He grabs them by the head and squeezes them and squeezes them until they pop just like a balloon. Does he look like Bigfoot? Jimbo asked. No, said his father. He's not like Bigfoot and he's not like the abominable snowman either. Nobody knows what he looks like for sure. The only people who've ever seen the Gryther are the people the Gryther has eaten. He's as tall as a tree but he can bend all the way over and touch the ground. His skin looks like a road map because it's transparent and all his blue and red veins show through. The blue is for fear. The red is for rage. Hurry up and finish the story before he gets here. Stefa cried. The Gryther was born on a sailing ship, said her father. It was blown off course by a storm and got lost in the Arctic Sea. They drifted around for weeks and never saw anything but glaciers and icebergs. Some of the passengers drowned. Some froze to death. Some starved and the rest committed suicide. The Gryther was born out of the fear and rage of all those people. But why does he kill people? Jimbo asked. Nobody knows, said his father. He just doesn't like anyone telling his story. Is that all? Stefa asked. Is that the end of the story? Not quite, said her father. There's only one way to protect yourself from the Gryther. Maybe you should stop. Their mother interrupted. I think you scared them enough. Their father chuckled. You don't believe in the Gryther, do you? He asked. No. The children lied. Well, you shouldn't, their father said, because I made it all up. There's no such thing as the Gryther. But you didn't finish the story, Stefa whined. All of a sudden, the front door blew open and the room was enveloped in an icy blast of wind. There was a crash and the sound of breaking glass and then two huge gnarled arms reached in through the window and grasped their parents by their heads. As the children watched in horror, the hands squeezed and squeezed and their parents' heads popped just like balloons. This next story is called Saturn Rising by Ty Drago. Christmas Eve. Not a usual time for your best friend to call you at midnight freaking out and begging you to sneak over to his house. And when you get there, not the sort of occasion where you expect him to meet you at the door holding his dead father's crossbow. Dude, I said, feeling my stomach clench. And he had a weird look at his eye, and he was clenching the big weapons so hard that his knuckles were white. Just to break the sudden tension, which felt thick as soup, I tried a joke. So, um, you afraid somebody's going to steal your milk and cookies? Lame, he replied, his face pale and his eyes twitchy. My room, now. I hadn't seen him lately. My family traditionally spends the week before Christmas visiting my grandmother out in the sticks. Now, I love my mom's mom and all, but, well, it's majorly boring. There hadn't even been any texts. No cell service. We'd only gotten back an hour ago, and my folks had already gone straight to bed. We usually did the presence thing in the morning, upstairs in his bedroom, and he carefully shut the door and went straight to the window. I gotta do something tonight, and I gotta tell somebody about it. Can't be mom because she'd freak, and that leaves you. Tell me what? He started trying to push a heavy bookcase out from under the window sill. Then he asked impatiently, you gonna help me or what? Not till you start talking. First, this. Feeling creeped out, I crossed the familiar room. The ambiance was hardcore 13-year-old, computer, Xbox, bed, clothes pile in the corner, and he was religiously opposed to closets and to honor the season a little ceramic Christmas tree on the dresser. Maybe a foot tall and painted green. It had pointy branches decorated with colorful ceramic ornaments and a gold ceramic star at the top. It was pretty enough, I suppose, in a cheesy sort of way. I'm pushing, I said, shouldering in beside him. After a moment's struggle, the bookcase moved a few feet further along the wall. Now, talk, or did you drag me over here on Christmas Eve just to shove furniture around? The bookcase makes it hard to climb out the window, he replied distractedly, and I gotta go out on the roof. I tried for humor again. Ain't you a little old to be scouting for Santa? The poke didn't even win me an eye roll. Instead, Andy wordlessly lifted the window sash and snatched up the crossbow. It was a big weapon, made out of fiberglass and painted all camo. It even had a laser sight. There wasn't any arrow mounted on it though, which was just as well because it would have fallen out. What with the way Andy kept swinging the weapon around? Dude, I said, you're seriously scaring me. Keep your voice down, my mom's asleep. The world's asleep. It's Christmas Eve, man. What's wrong? Everything. He climbed out the window and undo his lower roof, as if he did it every day. Looking back at me, he said, you don't gotta come. Probably safer for you if you don't, so I'll just say what I need to say now. But then I'd appreciate you hanging around for a while from my mom. She won't understand. I don't understand. I snapped and suddenly I made a decision. We'll both go up there. It's dangerous. Sure it is. It's a roof, but if you're going, I'm going. Move. He almost argued, but then he stepped back, looking both guilty and relieved. I joined him in the wintery darkness. The lower roof angled downward before ending at a rain gutter strong with Christmas lights. All along the street, darkened houses were similarly decorated. Lights attract him, and he muttered to no one. He led me to a ladder that stood propped up against the side of the house. The top roof, I asked bitterly. Yeah. Groting, I followed him up the ladder. It seemed rickety, but it held. The wind cut like a knife, and by the time we'd scrambled onto the upper roof, I was already freezing. And he went straight to the roof's peak near the satellite dish. Once there, he stood the crossbow up on its end and manually cocked it. Not an easy thing to do. I knew for a fact that the weapon had a hundred pound pull, but somehow he managed it. Then he sat down and rested the bow on his knees before producing an arrow from inside his coat and slipping it into the firing roof. Feeling cold and hardcore freaked out, I dropped down beside him. This is nuts, I said. Totally. Okay, spill. Okay, well, I've been having dreams. Dreams? Dreams about Saturn. The planet? No. The wind kicked up. I had my coat on, but shivered anyway. Andy, who wore only jeans and a hoodie, didn't seem bothered by it at all. At least there wasn't any snow or ice up here. So far, the young winter had been a dry one. Weird dreams, he explained, but vivid enough that they made me do some digging. Christmas wasn't always Christmas, you know. It used to be, among other stuff, the Roman festival of Saturnalia, a week-long celebration to honor Saturn, the father of Jupiter, and the Roman god of agriculture. Somebody's been Wikipedia-ing, I muttered. Another failed joke. No, he said, had to dig a lot deeper than that to find out all this stuff over the past week. Why'd you even care, I asked. He looked at me hard and serious. I was motivated, but listen, the festival was a big deal for the Romans. Lots of food, wine, and partying, bright lights to attract the god, seven days all culminating in a gory human sacrifice. Okay, yeah, that's pretty sick. Yeah, later on, when the Romans went Christian, the early popes needed to pick a birthday for Jesus. I mean, nobody really knows what day he was born, so they chose the last day of Saturnalia, figuring that people were already used to celebrating around the winter solstice. Okay, so Christmas isn't really Christmas, I said, completely confused. First a crossbow, and now a history lesson. So what, as long as everybody's happy, who cares what day it gets celebrated? And he laughed bitterly. For the first time, I noticed the bags under his eyes. Saturn cares. That's who. Saturn? The god? Yeah, turns out he's real. I don't know if he always was, or if all those Romans believed in him made him real, but he is real, and he has been ticked off about the Christmas thing for millennia. So he's set up his own private Yuletide celebration. Every year, he picks a sacrifice, some poor schmuck somewhere in the world. He tortures him for a week with horrible dreams, showing him over and over again what's coming, and kind of feeding on his dread. And then a Christmas Eve, he shows up, and he offs his chosen sacrifice along with anybody else who gets in the way. Dude, I know how it sounds, Andy interjected. That's why I haven't told anybody until now. So Saturn's been coming to you in dreams. Andy nodded miserably, seven nights in a row, over and over. I've tried to stay awake, but I can't. And the minute I'm asleep, he is there with his bat wings and burning red eyes and those claws. Oh, dude, the stuff he wants to do with me with those claws. Andy, I pleaded. This is crazy. Let's go back inside and talk to your mom. Get you some help. He shook his head. No point. It's the last night of Saturnalia. He's coming. I wanted to do this someplace else, a park maybe, but he told me he'd kill my mom if I didn't face him here, here on the roof at my house. This makes no sense. I momentarily forgot the wind and the cold. How could this God be killing one person every Christmas Eve and nobody's noticed? Why not? Andy fixed his dark eyes on me. It's a big world and people die even at Christmas. Google it. A guy in rural France gets off in the night. A lady in Tokyo is found mutilated. Who's going to connect them? It's crazy, I said again, a little desperately. Yeah. So what's the crossbow for? Why don't plan on going down quietly? Andy replied. I did my research and I think maybe I know what can kill him. A crossbow bolt can kill a God. Not just any bolt, he said. It's got to be boom. And that's when the light hit us. Blinding light. It threw everything on the roof into sharp relief. Andy was on his feet in an instant. Crossbow ready. He's here. Put the bow down, son. A voice called from somewhere below us, below the light. A cop car idled at the curb. Had one of the neighbors noticed us up here and called 911? The glare was coming from the cruiser's halogen spotlight. Shut that off. Andy screamed. Light attracts him. He'll… The spotlight shattered in an explosion of sparks. The cop screamed. I jumped to my feet in time to see the guy's body being ripped apart by a flying nightmare. It was big, with leathery wings, the size of bedsheets. A vaguely man-like face sported a bushy white beard and hot coals for eyes. Even weirder. It… He was covered with red and white fur in a pattern that almost looked like… Santa Claus. It looks like Santa Claus? With an inhuman hiss, the thing scattered the cop's parts every which way like broken toys and came right at us. Wings spread. His mouth opened impossibly wide revealing rows of yellow fangs. This time, I screamed. But Andy didn't. Instead, he shouldered the crossbow and flipped the switch on its mounted laser pointer. Instantly a red dot appeared on Saturn's broad, furry chest. Even through my terror, I couldn't help but admire the way that dot never wavered. Andy's hands were rock-steady as he fired. The bolt nailed the Roman god. This is nuts, squarely in the chest, piercing his hard furry hide. Black blood rained down. The god roared definitely and crashing against the roof, his wings twitching, his claw-like hands tearing off dozens of shingles. Along our street, lights came on in the neighboring houses. People were awakening to the noise, their sugar plums forgotten. Meanwhile, only a few yards away, Saturn looked up at us, gritting hideously, and that he rose to his knees and pulled out Andy's bolt. But I got him. Andy exclaimed to despair, I know I did. It's just an arrow, I yelled back. Why didn't you get your dad's shotgun or something? You can't kill Saturn with metal. He's a god of the earth, the soil. Yeah, if it appears his heart was stone or clay. A couple of my internet sources said the weapon also had to be ceremoniously significant. But I couldn't find out what that meant, so I hunted around in my dad's stuff and I came up with an old hunting bolt with a real clay arrowhead. I figured that'd be good enough. Well, maybe you missed. But I didn't, I nailed his heart, I know it. Well, then the arrowhead wasn't, I don't know, ceremonial enough or something? It's not working, is it? It wasn't. Saturn had been hurt, but he was recovering fast. Loot up another arrow, I exclaimed. He replied in a small voice, my dad only had the one clay arrowhead. At some point, he switched to steel. Figures. Saturn rose to his feet, teeth bared behind his white beard, eyes blazing. We needed another weapon. Andy's dad had been an avid hunter, but all his guns, knives and bows were either metal or fiberglass. There's never a tomahawk around when you need one. Ceremonial, Andy yelled, a fresh light in his eyes. I'm so stupid, I got an idea. Then he ran down the roof and jumped off. For a half second, it was just me and that bloodthirsty Roman Santa God on top of the house. Then, as Saturn lunged at me, I screamed again and ran after Andy, dropping blindly onto the lower roof. I landed badly, slipped and slid and I would have broken my neck on the driveway if Andy hadn't caught my wrist. Overhead, wingbeats continued to split the air. He's coming. Andy pulled me up and dragged me toward the open window. He dove through first and I followed, just as something heavy smashed down onto the shingles at my back. We tumbled inside, landing in a heap of bruised limbs, knocking over a lamp in all of Andy's soccer trophies. What idea, I demanded. Andy ignored me, scrambling to his feet. He crossed the room in two quick steps, but his steps weren't quick enough. Something ripped through the outside wall, tearing away the entire window. The whole house shook. Saturn reached inside, one massive clog grabbing Andy around the waist. The twisted Santa's eyes flashed in triumph. Elsewhere in the house, I heard Andy's mom scream his name. Andy's hand reached for the dresser, straining. His fingers found the ceramic Christmas tree, and with a clumsy heave, he tossed it my way. I caught it purely by reflex. My brain had shut down a while ago. I cradled the stupid thing, confused, while my best friend met and held my gaze. He tried to speak, but Saturn was squeezing him, cutting off his breath. Nevertheless, his eyes conveyed a desperate message and I suddenly thought, aren't ceramics made of clay? Saturnalia, ceremonial significance. The clay earl head had none, but a Christmas tree was loaded with ceremonial significance. Saturn's huge upper body emerged through the hole in the wall. His bearded mouth was open, ready to rip Andy in half. Flipping the Christmas tree over, I leaped forward and slammed it, pointy star first into the god's unguarded back. Saturn stiffened and roared. I pushed harder, putting all my weight behind it, driving in the tree deeper and deeper. The heart, find the heart. Saturn dropped Andy to the carpet, where my friend laid gasping his eyes wide. I kept pushing. Something inside the monstrous god gave, and with a final inhuman cry, Saturn collapsed, black blood gushing all around me and burning like hot motor oil. Finally, I straightened up, my heart tripammering. Lights flashed outside the ruined window. More cops were coming. This was going to be a long Christmas Eve. I looked at Andy. He looked at me. Merry Christmas, dude, he said. I replied shakily, right back at you. Man, what some guys won't do to swipe your milk and cookies. Lame, my friend said, with a grin. This story is called Christmas tree decorations. It was Christmas Eve, and an 11-year-old girl named Juliette was decorating the Christmas tree. Her mother was working as a nurse at the local hospital, and two of them lived alone in the small apartment in the suburbs of Paris. Late that evening, Juliette's mother called to say that she would not be home until late that night. Juliette continued to decorate the tree with all the lovely things her mother had bought to the shop. She draped some multicolored Christmas lights around the tree and hung beautiful ornaments on the branches. After placing the angel on the top of the Christmas tree, she finally finished decorating and sat down to relax and watch TV. Even though she was all alone in the sixth floor apartment, Juliette felt safe as she gazed out across the lights of the Parisian skyline. From her window, she could see the Eiffel Tower and the Champ de Ma. Most of the other tenants in the building had gone home to spend Christmas Eve with their relatives in the countryside. The apartment building was almost deserted. Juliette was growing bored waiting for her mother to return. Suddenly, she thought she heard a scratching noise at the front door. She turned down the television and listened carefully. There was an eerie silence. Curious, she slowly approached the door and looked through the peephole. To her surprise, she saw a man standing outside, dressed in a red suit with fluffy white trim. He was large and fat with a dirty gray beard and he wore a red hat on his head. He knocked at the door loudly. Nervous and concerned, she asked to the door, who is there? It's Santa Claus, the man replied. Let me in. I'm cold and I'm tired and I'm hungry. At this a chill went down Juliette's spine. She was no dummy. She knew that whoever this creepy man was, he was not Santa Claus. My mother isn't home right now, she said, her voice shaking. Please leave. Peering through the peephole, Juliette watched as the man's eyes filled with anger and his face twisted into a grimace of hate. He began knocking at the door even harder and rattling the doorknob. It's Santa Claus, Juliette. He growled. Have you laid out some milk and cookies for me, Juliette? You know how much Santa loves his milk and cookies. The young girl had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. How did he know her name? Then the man began kicking and pounding at the door. She peaked out again and saw him reach into his coat pocket and pull out a switchblade. He shoved the knife into the keyhole and tried to pry it open. Juliette was terrified. She didn't know what to do. If you don't go away, I'll call the police. She shouted. All of a sudden, the knocking stopped. Juliette stood perfectly still, afraid to move. Minutes passed and she began to think the man may have been scared away by her threat. She slowly approached the door and looked through the peephole to see if the man was really gone. The hallway seemed to be empty. Suddenly, she saw the man running down the hallway with an axe in his hand. Juliette screamed and ran to the closet in a panic. She crouched down and hid behind the coats as tears of fright rolled down her cheeks. She heard the boom, boom, boom, as the man tried to smash down her front door. There was a mighty crack as the door gave way and the man came crashing through the splintered wood. Laughing to himself, he called out, Juliette, my pretty, where are you Juliette? Don't be afraid. We'll have ourselves some fun tonight. Where are you hiding? The crazed intruder walked around the house, searching for the frightened girl. Juliette curled up in the closet, trembling with fear. She dreaded to think what he had planned for her. Suddenly, the handle of the closet moved up and down and then the door began shaking and she heard the man's voice, laughing, oh Juliette, I know you're in there. He said, open up for Santa, open up before I open you up. The man swung his axe and it struck the closet door with a huge bang, tearing into the flimsy wood. Juliette screamed and began crying bitterly. She grabbed a wire coat hanger and twisted it into a point. She waited. Her eyes open wide and her hands were trembling. There was another loud crash and the closet doors gave way in a hail of splinters. The horrible man tore the doors off their hinges and thrust his head in between the coats. He was laughing and drooling like a madman and his huge gnarled hands grabbed at the horrified girl. Juliette held up the pointed end of the coat hanger and bravely thrust it into the man's face. It went straight into his eye. He recoiled in pain, screaming with rage as blood flowed down his cheek. He ripped the wire out of his eye socket and grabbed Juliette by the hair. Then he dragged her, kicking and screaming out of the closet. The man pushed her to the ground and he held her tightly by the neck, leaning over her. Blood spilled out of his eye, splattering all over Juliette's face. His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile and he whispered in her ear, tonight you will be privileged by lovely Juliette. I've got a list and I've checked it twice. I'm here to decide if you've been naughty or nice. You can scream and scream and beg for your life but naughty girls get the axe and nice girls get the knife. It was after midnight when Juliette's mother returned home. She saw the front door hacked to pieces and rushed inside to look for her daughter. Gazing around at the carnage, her eyes struggled to take it all in. Then she began screaming in absolute horror. The Christmas tree was decorated with Juliette's entrails and her severed head was perched on the top. And now my final story. This one's called Machete Santa by Medea Sharif. You can't open your presents now, Richie said, not on Christmas Eve, but I want to. Naldo screwed up his face. You have to wait until the morning. The cousins were in front of the Christmas tree in Richie's living room. Richie admired the brightly lit angel on top while Naldo's eyes were fixed on the presents with their colorful wrappings. I want to know if my parents got me the game I wanted, Naldo said. What game, Richie asked? Machete Santa. Richie frowned. What was the point of a Christmas themed video game? It would only be fun for the month of December. Naldo would probably throw it to the side and forget about it. His parents spoiled him so much their house looked like a toy store. The commercial for Machete Santa looked like great fun though. A bloody Santa ran around scaring people with a machete. A boy had to knock him down using household objects. Foods ready? Richie's mom called from the kitchen where she and Aunt Lucy were preparing roast beef for Christmas Eve dinner. He headed to the dining room, turning around and expecting to see Naldo at his heels, but his cousin was still at the Christmas tree. Now he was bent down, looking at the labels. He picked up a package and shook it. Naldo, no, Richie said. All right, all right. Naldo rolled his eyes. Richie was surprised. Naldo's parents bragged about how perfect their son was. Amazing grades, athletic abilities, musical talents, simply amazing, but well, he was not amazing in the patience department. They sat down for their meal and the talk turned to Naldo. He did the most wonderful diorama for his social studies project, Aunt Lucy said. You should see his report card, Uncle Ray bragged. All A's. He's also excelling above everyone in his karate class. Aunt Lucy gave Richie a sad look because he wasn't athletic in the least little bit. Pale and chubby, Richie was the type of boy who got picked last for sports teams and ran out of breath easily while tan and thin Naldo was good at everything. Richie pressed his lips together. His parents shoveled food into their mouths, having nothing nice to say about him. It wasn't just Christmas Eve, but Naldo's great day. Richie's stomach churned with all of the food he'd eaten. He burped. His parents frowned at him. Meanwhile, when Naldo burped, the adults chuckled. Had a satisfying meal sport, Uncle Ray asked. People slurped coffee and chewed on the assortment of cookies. Richie could take it no longer. He was about to burst. So was everyone else. They all wanted to go to bed early, tired from that huge meal and eager to get up early to unwrap presents. It wasn't even 10 yet, but people were taking turns in the two bathrooms to brush their teeth and change into pajamas. Lights and televisions went out. Lucy and Uncle Ray were in the guest bedroom. Richie's little brother and sister and Naldo's little sister all shared a room. Richie was sharing his bed with Naldo. Richie slid underneath the covers to join his cousin. They'd always shared a bed and get-togethers like these. But now that they were older and bigger, the bed felt cramped. Richie's stomach gurgled, but Naldo didn't tease him about it. Even though everybody treated Naldo like a king, he wasn't snobby or mean to Richie. His eyes were open, and he stared at the ceiling. If you're not in the mood to sleep, you could watch TV, Richie offered. It won't bother me. No, no, I'll sleep now, Naldo said. Okay. Richie didn't believe his cousin because he still had his eyes open. Richie, on the other hand, was a heavy sleeper. But soon after he nodded off, Richie heard the clicks of the door, which was gentle, yet it still woke him. When he turned, Naldo wasn't there. Where was his cousin? His heart pounded with unease. He looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was half past 11. Richie went downstairs, each step creaking under his weight. A light crept up from the stairwell. A faint noise from the TV reached him the closer he got to the ground floor. Richie stood in the living room, fixated on something or someone in an armchair. It looked like a person was sitting there or maybe it was just the shadow of the Christmas tree falling on it. Naldo? In here, Naldo said from the other room. Richie shook his head. He must be seeing things. He walked into the family room. Naldo was on the gaming system. Playing a game Richie had never seen before. A pudgy boy was maneuvering himself around the kitchen, running away from a Santa with a machete. What is this? Richie gasped at the torn red and green wrapping paper beneath Naldo's feet. What did you do? It's not even midnight yet. I couldn't sleep, Naldo said. This game is really cool. Richie picked up the case that the game came in. A machete Santa was at a bloody dripping font. Scenes that he had seen on the commercial were displayed on the back. Advisory, do not open before Christmas. Why would it say that? Naldo had the volume low as not to disturb anyone upstairs, so in the armchair in the other room Crete Richie heard it. A chill ran down his body. If his cousin was here, then who was seated in the living room's armchair? Turning away from Naldo, he walked to that empty space or what should have been an empty space since everyone else was asleep. Dad? Richie called out. Uncle Ray? Oh no, I'm losing! Naldo whispered. Take that Santa! In spite of his cousin's yelps of excitement or failure, depending on whether he was winning or not, Richie made himself focus on the dark lump in the armchair. It wasn't someone's coat thrown over the chair. It didn't look like one of his sister's stuffed animals either. Hello? Richie said. The lump didn't move. It must have been his imagination. He was spooked by Naldo's intense curiosity of the horror game and how he'd opened it before Christmas morning, and then there was that weird message on the case saying not to open it before Christmas. Richie sighed. Oh, came from the lump. No, that had to be from Naldo. He must have lost the game. Richie's eyes widened. The lump shifted and stood up. A red and white cap rested on his head and the rest of him was also in those colors, including the bloody machete in his hand. It was the killer Santa from the video game. Richie screamed. Richie ran through the sliding French doors in the family room and slid them closed. Oh, Naldo, put that controller down and stop playing. What's wrong? There's this crazy Santa out there. Naldo said. Stop playing. Santa's right here on the screen. There was an explosive bang against the glass doors as Santa pounded on them with a fist, the machete in his other hand. Naldo jumped, hearing the booming sound and both boys backed up into the room. Not only was the machete bloody, but so were Santa's face and beard. Blood smeared all over the glass. This Santa-like creature shoved a gloved hand between the doors and pried them open. The boys screamed. They rushed into the kitchen, which joined the family and living rooms and Santa followed. Use one of your karate moves, Richie yelled. I can't. Naldo shook his head, cowering in the corner next to the oven. Do it. Karate chop him. Santa smiled, his teeth full of blood with the machete raised. I don't know karate. Naldo confessed. I just started and I stank at it. Santa brought his weapon down. Richie lunged out of the way and the machete stuck into the cutting board. Richie and Naldo ran again, this time to the living room. Richie was out of breath, but he wasn't going to let Santa stick his machete into his soft flesh. He grimaced his face tight, his chest heaving. He noticed something on the coffee table. It was the plate full of cookies that his little sister had arranged for the real Santa. He reached for the dish and threw it at the monster. The cookies scattered onto the floor. Santa dropped his machete and crouched down, shoveling cookies into his mouth like a savage. Naldo ran off, leaving Richie to fend for himself. How could his cousin do that to him? Aunt Lucy was always boasting about Naldo's generous, helpful spirit. It all came down to Richie. He went under the tree and grabbed a long object that had riven on the end of it. It was a golf club for Uncle Ray. Santa was still eating when Richie whacked him on the back of the head. Santa was unsteady on his feet, but he hadn't fallen down so Richie whacked him again. The heavy thud of his body on the hardwood floor was a blessing. Richie went to the family room where Naldo was hiding under a sofa, cowered, and turned off the video game. It had been frozen on Santa's bloody face. He also pulled every plug, including the ones for the TV, the satellite, and the speakers. There was no time to figure out which one was for the gaming system. Naldo had a phone pressed to his ear. 911, his cousin said, we need help. Santa has a machete. At least Naldo was being useful now. What was that noise? Richie's mother cried from the stairwell. Richie, Naldo, Aunt Lucy said. Richie rushed to his mother, stepping around the fallen Santa. He tried to kill us. Naldo, are you okay? Aunt Lucy held him tight. Did you hurt this crazy man with the golf club? Brave boy. No, it was him, Naldo said. Richie took him down. Their fathers joined them downstairs. Just as machete Santa was stirring awake, his sweeping arms and legs streaking the floor with blood, police lights spun across the windows. There was a knock on the door. When Aunt Lucy opened it, two police officers burst in. They pulled this Santa person to his feet and handcuffed him. He snarled at everyone and then focused on Naldo. You shouldn't have played that game, foolish boy. Machete Santa just bared his bloody teeth. We've had a lot of break-ins from Santa's all over the city, one of the police officers told Richie's father. Naldo gave Richie a meaningful look. He hadn't been the only impatient game-player in the city. That evil game had been in many households. You saved the day, Richie's father said. Yeah, champ, you did, his mother smiled. Richie stood taller. He was brave. He had defeated the crazy machete Santa from the video game. And then there was the other realization. Naldo wasn't perfect. What else about Naldo's image had been a lie? Richie thought about all those years of being compared to Naldo. His relatives would say cutting remarks under their breath and give each other sly, knowing looks whenever Richie didn't match up to his precious cousin. Then he let go of those feelings. It wasn't important now to tell them that they'd been wrong. What was important was that Richie had saved them all before Santa could go upstairs and hurt the family. They were all safe because of him. The clock above the mantel struck midnight. Everyone looked at it, and then they all turned to Santa who was sandwiched between the officers. Richie couldn't believe it. He rubbed his eyes. Santa's massive body was changing. His form flickered as if it were static on a TV. In flashes lasting a second long, Santa's body suddenly wasn't there. Flashed on then it was there but then it wasn't there again and flashed again fainter and fainter and fainter. And then he was gone. Just like in the video games. Poof. The Santa character had been conquered. The pair of handcuffs clattered to the floor. Well, did you like the stories I told? If so, tell all your friends and family members about the Spooky Santa podcast so that they can listen too. Even though it's now Christmas Eve, all the episodes are still there to go back and listen to, in case you missed one or in case you want to share it with your friends. And remember, you can write your own scary story and email it to me at letters at spookysanta.com and I might use your story next Christmas. Now, as I promised, my favorite cookie. I am often asked what my favorite cookie is. Well, as tonight is the big night, I'll let you in on a little secret. It's those cookies and glasses of milk that give me the energy and speed that I need to make it to all of the children's houses in one night. And there's one very special kind of cookie that gives me more energy than any other. It's any cookie that's left for me by a child that has Christmas magic in it. Well, how do you know if your cookie has magic? Well, you can't just buy cookies that have magic in them. No, you have to put the Christmas magic into the cookies. And here's how you do it. You can do this with any cookie you have. Before you put it onto the plate for me, hold it in your fingers with both hands, close your eyes and say out loud, I wish for this cookie to become magic. That's it. There's no more powerful wish than a Christmas wish that you wish on behalf of someone else. Just hold each cookie and say, I wish for this cookie to become magic. If you do that, I would really appreciate it. And if you're leaving out carrots or something else for the reindeer, well, you could do the same for those. That way, the reindeer team doesn't get too tired as we travel through the night. Oh, I see Krampus pulling up in his 57 Chevy, so I gotta go. If you want to learn more about the stories that I've told or the authors who wrote them, you can find links in this episode's show notes. Spooky Santa is a registered trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright, Marlar House Productions 2019. And now be a good little boy or girl and go to bed when your parents tell you to so I can visit tonight. I can't show up if you're still awake. And I love you so very much. I'll be thinking of you not just tonight, but all the year through. Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night from Spooky Santa.