The Truth About Christmas

Dreaming of a white Christmas? I wouldn’t hold my breath. The modern Christmas doesn’t come in a choice of colours; it comes in dank, slush grey. Sure, we try to brighten it up with pretty lights, gaudy decorations, trees coated in tinsel and treats – it’s the season to be jolly, after all, no matter how many times we feel like reaching for the fire axe. I don’t believe it has ever been different though; Christmas has always been this colour, slate skies hanging over the forced air of bonhomie.

I was nine when I met Santa Claus. The year was nineteen eighty-three. A bright-eyed blonde boy in Kermit the Frog pyjamas, pretending to be asleep. I’d reached that age where it becomes harder to believe in magic, where you have to make an effort to not notice the holes in the stories your parents tell you. Nonetheless, I’d dutifully written my letter to the big jolly red man. A mince pie and a glass of brandy waited by the tree to greet him, as well as a carrot – a treat for Rudolph, of course.

In the small hours I heard the whispering, the scuffling noises. Silent as can be, I crept from my bed and to the landing. Lights were on downstairs, and I could definitely hear movement. Step by tentative step, sneaking like a burglar, I approached the living room door. It hung slightly ajar, a chink of light casting a beam across the shadowed hallway.

The rustle of presents, a muffled shushing noise. My mother’s voice. “Quiet, you’ll wake them…” – my fears confirmed. I peered through the crack in the door to see my dad drain the brandy. There were crumbs on his shirt, confessing their guilt.

“Come on, let’s get to bed – they’ll be awake soon enough.”

They turned for the door, and I had to hide – ducking behind the row of coats hung by the front door. I stood, shivering with cold and betrayal, as my parents tiptoed from the living room, and up the stairs. My mother let out a little giggle, as if she delighted in making fools of her children. The thing was, even though this was what I’d suspected, that didn’t make me glad about it. Some things you want to believe even if you don’t.

I waited in my hiding place for what felt like an eternity – listening to the creaks of the settling house, waiting until I was sure all was clear. Then I tentatively moved out of cover and towards the stairs – all the time trying to decide what I should do with this information. Should I wake my sister, tell her what I’d found? I’d never told her about my suspicions, I didn’t know if she’d had the same doubts. I could wake her and blow the whole cruel deception wide op-

A sound from the living room startled me.

I turned back from my course and returned to the door, peered once more through the crack. The room was dark, shadows within shadows. That sound again, a scuffling, scraping like nails against a blackboard. A rasping, ragged breath. I strained my eyes against the darkness, tried to adjust to the gloom.

A darker shadow appeared at the fireplace – accompanied by a stale odour, a tang of soot, an undercurrent of rot or gum disease. Further scrabbling and a muffled curse. Then silence. The moon must have been hidden behind a cloud but now it emerged, casting its cold light through the thin curtains and over the room. For the first time I saw Santa Claus.

From behind I saw a humanoid figure, long of limb and thin as a spider’s leg. It was hunched so its hands almost scraped the floor. In the moonlight it glistened, its skin like that of a slug or snail. It was hard to make out any colour, it just seemed grey in the moonlight. Its head was bent forward as it straightened itself, with a sound like cracking knuckles. Around its bony waist it wore what looked like some kind of tool belt, with a small sack attached to it. Stretching its head, a lumpen ovoid with straggling clumps of hair, it turned to look at the tree.

I was transfixed, frozen in horror as this foul thing moved to the tree, picking up presents in its twisted fingers and sniffing at them – with every present it examined it would judder and twitch, make foul smacking noises with its lips. One by one it studied each gift, running its greasy hands over the corners, caressing the wrapping and sighing little cracked phlegm-filled sighs. It took a step back, reached into the bag at its hip, and pulled out a small book. Then it turned toward the door, and I saw its face for the first time.

It had no nose to speak of, and a mouth like a gaping wound – sharp needle teeth stuck from receded blackened gums like rusty nails pounded through raw meat. The forehead sloped back; slick with the wet grease that seemed to cover its entire naked body. But the eyes were the worst thing – blue and shiny, they gleamed with a predatory malevolence. I clapped my hand to my mouth to stifle the scream, but too late - it heard me, and came for the door like an insect.

It moved as if its limbs were broken, every joint seeming to move the wrong way, but as fast as a striking snake. Pushing the door open it gripped me by the shoulder – the hand was cold and damp, the fingernails broken and caked with wet soot and other grime. The smell was overpowering, a graveyard smell, a smell of disease and a smell of neglect. I couldn’t even scream now, the breath was caught in my small body like a stone. Its face came closer, and I knew those teeth were preparing to catch hold of my bloodless, terrified face and tear it from my skull.

I was paralysed, waiting for the end. Then it brought the notebook in its other hand up to its face and levered it open. It studied it, and studied me as if I was a bug on a board. The breath of the thing washed over me, a fume of sickness as it hissed the word… Nice. The other hand still held me in its iron grip, and it began to drag me up the stairs, still frozen with fear.

We reached the door to my sister’s room, and silently we entered. My eyes were well accustomed to the darkness now, as the creature pushed me into the corner by the bed. It fixed me in its gimlet stare. Silence, boy. My sister slept peacefully, undisturbed by the intruder. Again, it took up the notebook and leaned over the bed, one grimy finger running down her cheek. As it checked the book it made a strange clucking sound, a ticking in its throat like a moth fluttering against a windowpane. Then it reached a decision.

Naughty.

It turned its gaze to me, and brought a finger to those gashed knifewound lips. Shh. Then it reached down to the belt that hung beneath that ragged ribcage. Into the moonlight it raised a small hammer, and turned back to my sister’s sleeping form. Her eyes opened as it pulled back her lips, revealing her teeth and gums to the night air. She didn’t move, or make a sound – gripped by the same paralysis that held me fast in the corner of the room. The hammer went up, and came down, a wet cracking noise. Again. Again. Until the job was done. My sister lay there, eyes staring, body frozen, her mouth wide and bloody.

The thing turned to me once more, and grinned a vicious grin. It held up its right hand and shook its prize like dice. Then it opened up the sack at its hip and dropped them in. The bag sounded full. It stowed its hammer away as it turned away from me, and slipped out of the door. I didn’t follow it. My final memory of the creature was that smell, a dank, damp, mildewy odour of peeling wallpaper and spreading mould.

I realised then that all stories come from somewhere, that all tales have their basis in fact. The fat jolly Santa bringing presents to the nice kids was contrived to make sure we didn’t make the other list, the naughty list. Nobody even knows now where it all came from, why we give each other presents, why the Christmas spirit is important – we don't do this to encourage Father Christmas to come in, we do this to keep him at bay, keep him away, keep us safe from harm.

Then my sister started to scream, and all I could do was join in the Christmas chorus.