Ice Cold

“‘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 Clarke Moore

I remember it as clearly as I see you now. Christmas memories tend to stick with you. I was sitting at the top of the stairs peaking down at the tree. It was late. I can’t be sure of the time, but it was well passed my bedtime. That year, I was determined to witness what all children hope for: Santa Claus placing gifts under the tree and drinking that fresh glass of cold milk.

I believe I was eight years old at the time, possibly nine. It was insisted upon that if I wasn’t asleep, Santa wouldn’t come. I’m sure you’re aware of the whole “he sees you when you’re sleeping” premise. But other children in school had claimed that they never caught a wink of sleep on Christmas Eve, and in the morning there were always presents. So, which is the truth? Do I have to be asleep, or must I simply be in my bedroom? I wished to answer this question, not to mention capture proof of Mr. Claus’ existence.

So, there I was atop the stairs hiding in the shadows. The house was shrouded in udder darkness aside from the glowing tree below. I had snuck ever so quietly out my bedroom door and crouched behind the stairwell railings. My parents were well on their way to achieving the deepest sleep they had ever had, considering they had drunk some superb eggnog of my mother’s own design. I was alone…and ready.

Hours ticked by. I recall a sense of doubt as I leaned against the railing. My eyes were starting to droop, and my bed was looking cozier by the second. That is until it happened. A bump overhead stirred me back to the sentry position. At first, I feared it was my parents, but the noise came again, and not from their bedroom. A distant jingle floated from above my head toward the other end of the house; above the fireplace.

This was it. The moment every child, every person, hopes to witness. The house was silent, the bells had ceased, and the bumps had vanished. But then he came. Two leather-strapped boots landed in the soot, blowing an ashen cloud out onto the carpet. I pressed my face against the railing, squeezing my cheeks as deep between the poles as I could without hurting myself. My eyes were glued to the fireplace as he coughed, then stepped out. It was him. It was Santa. The smoke cloud settled to reveal the burgundy suit, velvet sack, and glowing white beard. Oh. My. God.

Before setting to work, he took in the lay of the land, peering across the room. Every move he made was delicate and purposeful. He seemed to glide over the carpet without so much as a creek from the floorboards and placed his sack down beside the tree. But instead of retrieving any gifts, he shimmied his way between the coffee table and couch and sat down with a plump. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he retrieved a scroll of parchment and unfurled it across his lap. It was undoubtedly the famed Naughty and Nice List, and without tearing his eyes from it, his fingers retrieved a cookie from the nearby plate. The treat was gone in a flash, and before I could blink there was another cookie in his hand, then a third. It was…surprising to see him eat with such gluttony. He savored no flavor, nor fancied any critique of the baking. He just ate and ate, and- wait!

Santa tossed his list aside and began hacking hysterically. He was coughing- no, choking! He pounded his fist against his chest hoping to dislodge the sixth cookie. My eyes grew wide with worry as he violently grabbed the glass of milk and began to chug. But this, too, provided no aid. He hacked and hollered as he desperately made way for the fireplace exit. But just as he reached the hearth, a deep gulp protruded from his tummy. Has he done it? No. A soft wheeze slipped through his lips, and he fell straight back onto the carpet. His legs threw themselves upright, and his motions ceased.

I was frozen solid. What just happened? I forced myself to stand. My eyes were stuck on Santa…motionless. I turned to look at my parent’s bedroom door, still dark and snoozing. Should I wake them? I decided against it. I had to investigate for myself first.

Walking down the steps was the most frightening thing I had ever done in my life. And to make it worse, that fear was immediately out-ranked when I walked up to Santa and saw that his face was as blue as the night sky. He’s- he’s..! Guilt set in. I began to convince myself that my sneaky behavior had caused this catastrophe. Look what I’ve done! My body began to tremble. I had ruined Christmas and, more importantly, killed Santa Claus.

Knock knock knock. The sound at the door made me leap out of my socks! I was too petrified to move. The most I could do was turn my head to look upstairs. My parents had still not stirred despite the tragedy occurring beneath them. I didn’t know what to do. I was eight years old, and I had just become a murderer. I had nowhere to run. Knock knock knock!

The door flew open with a pop along with a breeze so cold it froze my nose hairs. I tripped backward, falling to my butt right beside Santa’s corpse. The breeze vanished as I heard the front door shut. The intruder was wiping their feet on the rug as they let out a few huffs and sighs. I gazed up, waiting for their footsteps to reveal a face…I got my wish, but only to unleash a slew of other horrors.

The man was taller than anyone I had ever seen. His skin was a snowy grey with flakey texture, and his hair was slick with icicles. A steaming chill emanated from his clothes: a midnight black coat atop a matching pair of noir shirt and trousers. He was ghostly, sucking away the light around him, even from the shadows. I remember the weight that followed him as he walked throughout the room, but what I recall in most detail are his eyes. They were the eyes of terror, an unnatural amber color that glowed, mixed with flickers of gold. Each pupil stared with such scrutiny even a chair would weep if glanced upon. The retinas had a warmth to them that contradicted his frozen physique, and displayed an emptiness that could make a grown man cry. He towered over everything, even the tree, as he delicately strode toward me. Upon further inspection, his coat seemed to stretch and morph as he moved, as if the night itself was going to engulf the entire house. I remained on the floor, and as he approached I chose to close my eyes as tightly as possible. This is just a dream, I told myself. I’m going to wake up in bed, and it’ll be Christmas morning.

“Open your eyes.” A voice like winter thunder fell down on me. I could swear frost began to form on my cheeks. Tears swelled in my eyes as a cold hand placed itself on my shoulder. The deep voice spoke again. “Benjamin.” This time, the voice was warmer, and for some unknown reason, I felt more at ease. “Open your eyes.” With newfound confidence, I did as I was told. I slowly unfurled my eyelids to look at the man again, but he was different. The massive midnight cloak had shrunk to befit his stature, which had also shortened to a less menacing height. His icicle hairs had thawed and now laid softly on his head, albeit a deep blue color. And his burning ember eyes had smoldered into a soothing brown. He was kind and comforted me with a subtle smile. He beckoned for me to stand, and as I took his hand I realized it was still ice cold, and his skin remained as pale as snow. I looked back down to see that Santa, still lying on the floor, was now covered by a black sheet.

“Benjamin, I’m a detective. Do you know what that is?” I nodded. I had seen such people on television. “I’m here to conduct an investigation, and take care of St. Nicholas. Do you think you can help me?” I nodded again, but this time I glanced up at my parents' bedroom door. The detective followed my gaze. “I don’t think it’d be wise to wake them. Do you?” I didn’t respond. “I’ve always found children to be more understanding in situations like this. Like you. Which is why I need your help.” He walked me over to the couch where the Naughty and Nice List still lay in a crumple. The Detective rolled it up and had me take a seat.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked. It was certainly unclear. Is it my fault? Is it karma? Did I break the rules? I started to cry. “I swear I didn’t do it,” I began. “I only wanted to see him! I only wanted to watch!” Sobs took over every word. “I must’ve overbaked the cookies!” The Detective crouched down beside me.

“Benjamin, no. You aren’t in trouble” he said. I wiped my eyes with my sleeves, and my nose too. “Did something happen with the cookies?” And with that, I spilled my guts on everything. I told him what I had heard at school, how I had wanted to prove Santa was real, and how I had hidden at the top of the stairs. Then I told him about the cookies, and how Santa overate.

“It’s my fault,” I admitted. “I should’ve stayed in bed! I should’ve never made cookies!” The Detective offered me a handkerchief, allowing me to compose myself. He stood, turning to face the scene of the crime. And, like a real officer, began to jot some notes. He observed the plate of cookies, the ash on the carpet, and the placement of Santa’s body. He even walked over to the stairs to imagine my perspective on it all. I calmed myself to a steady breath as I watched him pace through the room. He left frosty footprints everywhere he stepped, but they disappeared before long. He held the Naughty and Nice List in his palm, turning over his thoughts.

“I see,” he stated. As he took some final glances around the room, I could see his eyes shimmer. I’ll never understand who this man was, but I knew he was sad. The eyes that had sparked such fear, and then such comfort, now hung with mourning. He walked over to Santa, grabbed the black sheet, and lifted it off. My heart skipped a beat as I prepared to face the deceased Santa, but he was gone. The sheet lifted to reveal nothing but the living room rug. The Detective shook the black sheet in a fanciful fashion, and it, too, vanished into thin air. He strode over to the sack of gifts still stagnant beside the tree and untied the ropes. “You’re a good kid, Benjamin,” he said, lifting a present out from the sack. He placed it underneath the tree, then heaved the sack up over his shoulder. He turned to face me, then he patted his hand against his breast pocket with a smile. “You’re on the nice list this year. Let’s try and keep it that way, hm?” He waved his hand, motioning for me to stand. “Go on up to bed now.” I took my first step upward, then turned back.

“Who’s going to deliver the presents?” I asked. “Will you do it? What about next year?” My mind began to swirl again. “Is Christmas…dead?” The look in the cold man’s eyes couldn’t hide his sorrow, but he smiled anyway. 

“Christmas will never die, Ben. But it can never come unless you go to sleep.” He motioned again for me to continue on, and I did. When I reached the top, I looked back one last time to see the Detective walk to the fireplace. He looked up at me and winked. I waved goodbye, but as I did, he morphed slowly back into the tall shadow and went flying up the chimney, leaving the house empty and cold. I curled back in bed and closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. I never slept again on Christmas Eve night.