SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN
By Andrew Monge

Santa brushed crumbs from the corners of his mouth and patted his belly. Now that was a good cookie, he thought to himself as he reached for the glass of milk.

“How was it?”

Santa jumped. His hand inadvertently knocked over the glass, which shattered against the fireplace. Heart racing, he scanned the room, looking for the source of the voice.

“Who’s there?” he whispered.

“Over here.”

The room filled with light. He blinked rapidly, trying to erase the fireworks dancing before his eyes. What he saw when the flashing colors subsided was enough to cause his bladder to release. The stench of urine permeated the room.

“T-Timmy? What are you….” He trailed off; his mouth had failed him. And was he feeling lightheaded?

Timmy Bulger stood in the doorway to the living room, a long-handled axe held nonchalantly across one shoulder. The blade was coated with blood and pieces of flesh. An evil smile played across his lips.

“I…w-what’s wrong with m-m-me, Timmy?”

“I drugged you. I figured you wouldn’t be able to turn down milk and cookies. It is Christmas after all.”

“Drugged? W-w-why?”

Timmy chuckled. “I’m afraid this is going to be a very un-merry Christmas for you, Mr. Claus.”

Santa watched as Timmy hefted the axe and stepped into the room. He tried to walk backwards but his legs were no longer able to support his considerable weight. He fell to his knees in front of the boy, holding up his hands in a pleading gesture.

“Timmy. You were on the N-Nice L-L-List this year. P-Please. Don’t do this.”

“Funny you should bring that up,” Timmy said, axe held in both hands. “Did you ever wonder why I suddenly showed up on the list this year?”

Santa’s eyes widened as understanding flooded them.

“That’s right. I spent all year being a good little boy so I’d get back on your Nice List. I didn’t go to church and pick up trash and visit the nursing home out of the goodness of my heart. I did it because I’ve gotten nothing but a goddamned lump of coal for the past three years! And why, hmm? Because I killed birds and cats with my bb gun? Because I stole baseball cards from the gas station? Because I started smoking cigarettes last year? Tell me you fat fuck, why did I deserve coal when everyone else was getting presents?”

Santa sensed the boy’s growing fury and tried to roll away from him, but it was futile; he’d been immobilized. Sighing, he said, “Mom. D-Dad. T-t-told me. You. B-bad.”

A lone tear trickled down Timmy’s face. “Yeah, I figured it was them. How else could you possibly know? Well, they got what they deserved then.”

Santa closed his eyes, knowing the answer to his question before he asked it. “What. Did y-y-you. D-do?”

“The same thing I’m going to do to you.”

Santa opened his eyes just in time to see the axe fall.

Andrew Monge is a thirty-year-old computer programmer, small-press proofreader, and suspense aficionado. When he was twelve, his mother introduced him to the wonderful world of horror when she handed him a copy of Stephen King’s MISERY. The rest, as they say, is history. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” is his first published piece of fiction. Andrew lives in Minnesota with his wife and three young boys.