They say it's the most wonderful time of the year, but I loathe Christmas. But not for the reasons you think. I used to adore the holiday season. The smells, the lights, the joy, but especially the food. I loved how easy it was to feel magic in the air. Then it all came to an end; I now shake with anxiety the second the last dish from Thanksgiving is done. And no amount of holiday cookies or cozy movies by the fire can help; I am a ball of nerves. All because of Santa. I hate Santa.
It all began six Christmases ago, on a night when the snow fell softly outside, the stockings were hung with care, and the scent of a dying fire, the Christmas pine tree, and the blown-out cinnamon candle all lingered in the air. I, Walter Whiskers, house mouse and reluctant keeper of sordid secrets, was simply enjoying a crumb of gingerbread from the forgotten cookie tray. Little did I know that night would change everything I knew and loved about this horrible holiday.
Picture it: George and Elizabeth's cozy home straight out of a postcard. They had just moved in during the summer. They were great housemates; no significant renovations to ruin my home, tidy, but not so much that I had to scavenge for food or go hungry. There were always little treats for me to have, I'm not greedy, so they have never noticed. From the outside, they were lovely! They had no kids, but based on what I could hear most nights in their bedroom, it wasn't for lack of trying. This night was different from others.
George, the hard-working and ever-doting husband who had gone to bed early after spending the day stringing lights and hanging ornaments. Elizabeth, however, stayed up to 'wrap presents'—or so she said. As a mouse, I've seen my fair share of weird human behavior, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
The clock struck midnight, and from the chimney came a soft whoosh, followed by the unmistakable thud of boots landing on the hearth. Unable to help myself, I peeked out from under the sofa, excited to see the holly, jolly mythical Santa Clause, a figure I'd only heard about in whispers from other mice. And sure enough, there he was: big, red suit, snowy white beard, and a sack slung over his shoulder. But instead of going to the Christmas tree to place the supposed presents under it, Santa's eyes lit up when Elizabeth appeared at the foot of the stairs, wearing a silk robe that left very little to the imagination.
"About damn time," Elizabeth hungrily purred, crossing the room to drape herself over Santa like a strand of garland.
"Remember, darling, it's a busy night for me," Santa replied, his voice rich and warm like hot cocoa—but with a decidedly unjolly edge.
I froze, my gingerbread forgotten. This was not the Santa I'd imagined. This was Santa, with a secret, a Santa who wasn't here for goodwill or joy but for something far less innocent. As I watched, trapped under the couch, Elizabeth and Santa engaged in what can only be described as a very adult exchange of Christmas cheer. I'll spare the details, but let's just say there was a lot of unwrapping.
I tried to convince myself it was a fever dream from eating too many sweets. Or if it was real, it had to be a one-time thing, right? A lapse in judgment. It could be a mistake from too much-spiked eggnog. How could she be doing this to their marriage? To George? They were the most loving couple throughout the rest of the year. They loved, supported, challenged, and laughed with each other. Seeing this, I was convinced it was all a misunderstanding on my part. Until the next Christmas rolled around, and it happened again. George, snoring away upstairs, peaceful and oblivious. Elizabeth, waiting by the fire in the red silk robe she only seemed to wear on Christmas. Santa slid down the chimney with more than gifts in his sack.
After the third year, I couldn't take the chaos anymore. Watching George put up the tree with such care, humming carols under his breath, and sharing kisses with Elizabeth as she lovingly handed him the ornaments made my little mouse heartache. Someone had to do something, and that apparently was me.
My first attempts to alert George were subtle. A squeak here, a scuttle there, knocking over an ornament or two in hopes he'd wake up and catch them in the act. But George was a heavy sleeper, and Elizabeth was cunning. She'd yell upstairs that the noise was just raccoons or the wind, and George would roll over, none the wiser. By year four, I'd escalated to more direct tactics. I had chewed through the wires of the Christmas lights, thinking a sudden blackout might drive him downstairs. No luck. Like I said, Elizabeth was cunning, putting more than just brandy in that Christmas Eve eggnog for him. With only the crackling fire to light the room now, it gave her and Santa an even more romantic setting to shake up that 'silent night.'
In year five, I grabbed a scrap of her robe upstairs and left it on George's pillow—a tiny silk red flag. He didn't even notice.
Finally, on Christmas Eve of year six, I decided enough was enough. If George wouldn't wake up alone, I'd wake him myself. As Santa and Elizabeth engaged in their annual 'rockin' around the Christmas tree,' I climbed up on the shelf above their bed, found the heaviest picture frame, and pushed it squarely on his head. The resulting thud and George's startled yelp were music to my ears.
"What the...?" George sleepily mumbled, rubbing his head and squinting in the dim light. He looked around the room and didn't see Elizabeth, but he heard movement downstairs. He stumbled out of bed and made his way toward them, his footsteps heavy on the creaky wooden stairs but not loud enough to alert the pair.
What happened next was both satisfying and horrifying. George walked into the living room just as Santa and Eleanor were mid...well, let's call it a 'sleigh ride.' George's face turned a bright Christmas red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he soundlessly tried to process what he saw.
"Elizabeth?.... Santa?!" he finally managed to sputter in disbelief.
To his credit, Santa didn't try to deny anything. Instead, he rose to his full imposing height, his jolly demeanor replaced by something much darker.
"George," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "you've been on the naughty list for a long time now."
Before I could process what was happening, Santa reached into his sack and pulled out a sharpened nutcracker. Yes, you read that right, a nutcracker. And not the kind you smash walnuts with. This one had a finely honed deadly point, a weapon as festive as it was lethal.
"Santa, wait-" Elizabeth started, but it was too late. In one swift motion, Santa struck, and George crumbled to the floor. She let out a scream, but it wasn't a scream of horror. No, this crazy woman sounded exhilarated, as if this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
I watched in stunned silence as Santa turned to Elizabeth, his crimson suit now streaked with actual crimson.
"Pack your bags," he said, "You're coming with me."
She didn't hesitate; in all her naked glory, she got up, stepped over George's still bleeding body, and within minutes, they were gone. Leaving me alone in the wreckage: a bloodstained rug, a toppled Christmas tree, a mussed silk robe, and the cold realization that I'd just witnessed a murder.
In the days that followed, the house grew eerily quiet. No one came looking for George or questioned Elizabeth's sudden disappearance. I'd always heard humans could be oblivious, but this was the next level, and it was apparent Santa's magic went far beyond Christmas and helped cover up his crime. As for me, I kept a low profile. If Santa was willing to kill George, what's to stop him from coming after one meddling mouse?
Still, I couldn't help but wonder what had become of Elizabeth. Had she really gone to the North Pole to become the new Mrs. Claus? Was she happy up there, surrounded by elves and reindeer, and helping build toys for little girls and boys? Or had she bitten off more sugar cookie than she could chew? I'll probably never know. But one thing's sure: this house is much less merry without George. He may have been clueless, but he didn't deserve to go out like that.
So here I am, the last witness to a tale no one would believe. It's been a year now since George was murdered. I can't go near his corpse anymore; it's just too sad. Instead, I light a tiny candle and remember the man he was, not the corpse he became. The man who loved Christmas more than anyone else I've ever known. And I pray that Santa stays far, far away.
Just as I'm about to fall asleep, I hear it. The sound I've feared all year: the reindeer's jingle bells, the chimney's whoosh, the soft thud of boots hitting the hearth.
"Well, a Merry Christmas to me," I say sarcastically, snuggling deeper under my blanket, learning my lesson from meddling last time and hoping I make it through the night unseen this time.
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