I’m a sleazy motherfucker, I’ll be the first to say so.
When I was young, I was the one in the schoolyard stealing Pokémon cards, when I was older: in the carpark leaving dents but never a note. Real slimeball.
God, I hope my two kids don’t grow up to be like me. I hope my kids grow up to be more like Timmy. Or rather, what he could have been.
Alone in my home office, I leaned back on my chair. The best writing that comes out of me is when I hear only the keys of my typewriter, or the sweet, sweet lullaby of whiskey rocks tumbling against my glass.
But on nights like these, I hear a third sound, distant in the recesses of my mind. I hear him scream. And so, I write.
I don’t want my son to suffer like Timmy did.
On an unsuspecting Winter day twenty years ago, I was staying at Tim’s home over Christmas Eve because my parents were busy with the divorce. Hell, I don’t blame them, with a kid like me it was probably my doing.
Timmy-boy pulled a different side out of me than what my parents had come to expect out of my bratty self, though. I loved him for that. He showed me that being a nerd wasn’t so bad after all. And if he hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t be pent up in my office writing this.
We played on his new Nintendo 64 until our mothers called us for dinner. We collected trading cards for games we didn’t know how to play. He was the perfect kid: kind, well-behaved and he had welcomed to me into all his hobbies which we began to share - they made me forget about woes at home.
But… well. Timmy had a fatal obsession.
See, twelve was a bit old to believe in Santa. But there was nothing I could have ever said to persuade him otherwise. He swore to me that the year before when he wished for the Nintendo, it came true. He hadn’t told his parents about what he wanted because he wanted to test the outcome, and, lo and behold, his new game console was wished into existence.
To me, utter hogwash. That was until I spoke to his mother.
“Timmy’s father and I never bought Tim a game... thingy, dearie. We had big bills to pay that year. I suspect Uncle Steve must have snuck it under the tree when we weren’t looking, but he’s never owned up to it.” She said.
His mother paused for a while, before her eyes lit up.
“But, I think we both know who it was, honey…” She pretended to rub an invisible, scruffy beard.
Twelve-year-old me was utterly mystified - I couldn’t wait to get my wish in before midnight. In retrospect, thirty-two-year-old me suspects she was playing the fool to encourage the theory that a bearded old fat man jumps down the chimney to drop off your gifts, neatly wrapped. For God’s sake, Margaret, I was twelve. I would have bullied the kid that believed in Santa at that age had it not been Timmy, or myself. Though, I still don’t know if she was telling the truth back then. Did Tim really wish something into being under that Christmas tree?
That evening was both the best and worst night of my life. We biked around the suburbs for hours in the late afternoon, our parkas blowing in the chilly wind, until we were parked up outside a 711 to drink hot chocolate. It wasn’t the best in the world but getting a blue Slurpee in December would have been bonkers.
“So, what are you wishing for this Christmas, Tim?” I asked.
He had a cheeky, mischievous smile. “I got a plan, Richie.” He said. “I’m gonna wish to be one of those Christmas elves. Helpers, I think.”
I almost snorted hard enough to spit out my drink. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, I read it in a book once. They make things appear from thin air only to wrap them day in and day out during the holidays.” He continued. “Oh, can you imagine! Anything I wanted, any time!”
I was losing faith in Santa – the more he spoke, the more ridiculous everything sounded. “So, you’re one of those kids, huh. I’ll wish for unlimited wishes from a genie.”
“Well, what do you hope Santa brings you?” Timmy said, his pale face sucking at the rim of his cup for any heat to stop his jaw chattering.
My chaste, excited mind raced for a moment and didn’t question Santa, I only questioned the possibilities. “Probably a Nintendo.” I brushed some snow off of my gloves. “Can’t always play it at yours, y’know.”
“Course you can!” He yapped.
My smile fell away like the snow from my hand. “No… I can’t.” I looked into the snowy distance, fixated on nothing but what was happening with Mum and Dad. “Told you I might have to move soon.”
A Christmas elf, huh. Maybe he could wish me happy parents.
“I know…” He sighed. “We should probably get to beating that level, then.”
We laughed for a bit. Yeah, we probably should have got around to that.
When the Sun fell, I realized I didn’t want the day to end. We had played handball until it got dark, played Nintendo until Timmy’s mom wanted the TV back to watch the new Tom Hanks movie Castaway. Hell, we even drew dicks in the snow. I loved Timmy. That was the last time I saw him. At least, what remained of him.
It was midnight when the tickle started.
First a tip-tap of the bladder, then a feather upon my belly. I needed to pee.
Out of bed I went. My food-baby was still round and kicking from Mrs Roy’s marvelous dinner, so it took me a couple wobbles to get to the hallway.
I looked down to find my slippers. Batman’s faces were round and plump on the stretched bit of pajama where the button popped by my tummy.
Moonlight flooded the hall and painted it an azure blue. Distantly, someone was speaking yonder the hallway in the living room.
I yawned - I guess Santa wasn’t real. A couple of adults crawling around for scissors and tape at midnight was the end of the mystery.
Though, something was… off.
Once in the hall, my jaw was already chattering. Winter’s bite had taken the house, it was freezing. Not the cold you would expect from air conditioning left running, but a cold like a snowstorm had broken a window and had come flooding in.
There was popping in the living room. Christmas crackers, perhaps.
“Hello?” I called.
Nothing. Only the muted sound of my voice with no echo, like I had been speaking into snow.
“Margaret?” I kept walking forward, tapping my slippers along the hall.
When I reached the lounge, there he was.
Timmy was facing the tree, the back of his head a messy black mop.
I smiled. “Couldn’t wait, huh?”
He didn’t move.
“Timmy?”
My heart began pounding.
Not even a shiver from him in the frosty room.
He pulled his head back at me slowly.
He looked like a wild dog, his face ghoulish and bearded, breaking into place a canine muzzle and two pointy ears.
Elves are not what you see in books.
His muzzle sought speech, rasp and shrill as if a snake was trying to speak. Though, deep within his chest past one contorted jaw, he still cried out in a little boy’s voice.
Mommy…
Brown barky remains where legs should be slogged under the thing, moving weighted like an unrooted oak. Every slow step it took made its torso contort with a sickening crack as if its bones had snapped and twisted, growing bigger than poor Timmy’s skin could bare. Its mouth had since widened enough that it could fit my sleepy, ripened head inside. Cracking, growing bones that broke through hairy skin made it struggle to chase me.
I sprinted down the hall flailing my arms, knocking against every door I could see in the faint moonlight.
Mommy…
It was looming close, a mere silhouette at the end of the hall. Its torso flailed with a disjointed crack in directions perpendicular to its body with each and every step. One arm bent up backwards, the other bent down forwards, holding a small, giftwrapped box.
Crack. Crack.
My chest bounced up and down until I felt dizzy. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to get out of there.
Every time I heard him wail, I wanted to scream, too.
Floorboards scratched around as it struggled to stand upright on contorted, pawed limbs.
When his parents came running out, he had already gone into the night. Staring outside through the cold wind blowing through the open door, I saw only indents where the thing hobbled away in the blanketed snow.
Christmas had come and Timmy had got what he wished for.
After the police interviews had stopped and I had moved in with my father in Arkansas, I received a neatly dressed package on the doorstep. It was Timmy’s Nintendo. I guess I got what I wished for, too.
Now, thirty-something, I find writing helps most to take the pain away. A story unbelievable to shrinks, a story only for the recesses of my mind. A story for me and my typewriter.
I got up from my chair and stretched. The world around me was spinning a tad. Too much whiskey, man.
I tumbled my glass as I stared at the snowfall out my windows. The ice in my glass had melted, and I was too drunk to realize.
I finished wrapping Jake’s bicycle. It took a couple hours because I was drunk. But mostly because I was wrapping a fucking bike.
I fumbled around in the hallway, trying to find steady footing. I wanted to wheel it to the Christmas tree, but it had to be carried. I knocked the walls a couple times with the handles, and I questioned why I even bothered to wrap it. When he looks at this gift's shape, the hell is he going to see? An Xbox?
Suddenly, I froze.
At the end of the hallway, a silhouette.
Please don’t be Jake. You aren’t allowed Christmas wishes anymore.
There it was again. How it felt to be truly afraid. The alcohol itched at my throat, it wanted to come up.
Mommy…
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Credits
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