Twas the Night Before Christmas
\"‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, WHEN ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE
NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING, NOT EVEN A MOUSE;
THE STOCKINGS WERE HUNG BY THE CHIMNEY WITH CARE
IN HOPES THAT ST. NICHOLAS SOON WOULD BE THERE\"
— CLEMENT CLARK MOORE
Jake Norton was tired of hearing everyone’s talk about Santa Claus. At twelve, he was pretty sure he’d outgrown the chimney stories—or so he told his parents. But deep down, a flicker of hope refused to disappear. Maybe the jolly old guy was real. Maybe he’d really show up on Christmas Eve, sliding down the chimney and sneaking cookies like some friendly burglar in the night. And Jake wanted proof—one way or the other.
“You better get to bed, Jake,” his father said. “Santa won’t come if you’re up all night.” Jake didn’t mention his plan. His father, who was always excited around Christmas, wouldn’t understand. Any time Jake doubted Santa’s existence, Dad scolded him: “You shouldn’t be worrying about whether some old elf is hauling presents across the sky. You should be more worried about getting to bed before he gets here.” His mother was gentler: “Don’t stay up too late, Jake. You might not like what you see if you spoil the surprise.”
Jake spent the evening setting up what he called a Santa Trap—a cheap, motion-activated camera he’d found in Dad’s garage, positioned to capture the fireplace. If Santa turned out to be real, at least he’d have proof. If nobody came down the chimney, well, that was proof too. He pictured how he’d surprise everyone: Look at what I caught on camera!
He sat on the rug in front of the fireplace for hours, but nothing happened. Eventually, he trudged to his bedroom, convinced the red-suited man wasn’t real. But at midnight, he crept downstairs, his socked feet avoiding the squeaky floorboards. The TV was off, and only the Christmas tree glowed in the corner, its lights blinking green, red, and gold like a lazy rainbow. Wind rattled the windows, and snow smacked against the glass. The living room felt larger in the darkness, the walls seeming to stretch farther apart.
The red light on the camera blinked steadily, armed and ready. It had probably just captured a picture of him. He sat on the floor near the fireplace, legs crossed. “Okay, Santa,” he whispered. “Time to show up and prove you exist . . . or that you don’t.” He almost laughed at himself for talking to nobody, but a strange excitement buzzed in his chest, as if something big was about to happen.
The tree lights shifted colors, over and over, and the stillness made Jake’s eyes heavy. He started to doze. Then, a sudden tap echoed down the chimney. His heart jolted. A cascade of ash drifted onto the hearth. No way, he thought, scrambling to his knees. Somebody’s really up there!
A scratching sound followed, like claws scrabbling for a foothold on the bricks. For a moment, Jake’s excitement swelled. “Santa? Is that you? Show yourself!” He inched back to give the camera a clear view.
The scraping grew louder, more frantic. A shape lowered into the fireplace. Jake searched for the red coat, white fringe, or black boots. “Come on, you old elf. Let me see you!” But what emerged looked . . . different. A heavy weight landed on the hearth, stirring more ash. The smell of burnt wood filled the air, mixed with something else—something foul.
“Santa?” Jake called, his voice quivering.
When the ash settled, he saw feet—but not boots. No. These were no boots. They were two hooves. Cloven and cracked, stomping along the bricks with a clackity clack. Jake swallowed hard. Dad’s playing a prank on me?
A wave of cold swept over him as a bony, twisted hand braced itself against the fireplace ledge. The fingers curled at unnatural angles, skittering along the bricks like spider legs. The shape leaned out, the sickly green and bloody red of the Christmas lights flickering across its face, twisting its features into something unholy. Hollow, gray-glossed eyes stared through Jake, their emptiness seeming to stretch into infinity. Gnashed teeth clacked together rhythmically, emitting a sound like cracking bones. An unkempt white beard, its hairs knotted into a ratty point, swayed with its slow movements. From behind its head, two ram-like horns curled outward, their edges chipped and jagged.
The smell of decay grew stronger, filling the air with a suffocating heaviness. Its gaping mouth twitched into a grotesque grin, revealing a slick, black tongue that darted out and tasted the air. It pointed one clawed finger at him, the motion slow and deliberate.
Jake’s chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gulping gasps.
The creature tilted its head, the movement jerky, as though its neck was held together by threads, and it let out a long, rattling breath that seemed to suck the warmth from the room. Slowly, it reached for Jake, its bony hand extending with deliberate precision, its twisted fingers clawing through the air as though savoring the moment.
Jake tried to scream for his parents, but his voice came out in a silent whimper.