The Doom That Came to Christmas, Part 3
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be serializing my Christmas horror story, The Doom That Came to Christmas. I hope you enjoy it! Please feel free to share!
Heavy is the head, thought Santa, that wears the fluffy, red and white, bobble-topped crown.
Father Christmas sat on his throne and absently stroked his beard. It was quiet in his chambers, dark, save for the moonlight streaming in from snow-caked windows. At his right hand side, his shepherds crook, carved of white oak and emblazoned with runes of the ancient world, was propped against the arm of his throne. At his left, Anya had left his ledger waiting his infamous second-checking, as well as a plate of her cookies and a glass of (hopefully) rum-spiked milk. He grabbed a cookie and rage-ate it, almost swallowing the treat whole. The cookie deserved better for all the love and care Anya traditionally put into baking for her husband, but stress controlled Santa’s impulses.
As in ages long past, the Crawling Chaos, the Faceless One, the Lord of One Thousand Faces and One Thousand Names had been born again. Santa felt it in his ancient bones. He was messenger of the Outer Gods, a blind idiot court of chaotic, destructive demons. He was tasked with making the Earth ready for his masters, ready to be offered up in sacrifice, and the only chaos and horror would satisfy their desires.
Nyarlathotep.
That’s what he was called when last he visited the mortal realm. In those days, Santa and Krampus had been allies, friends even, and only through their combined efforts had they driven the Crawling Chaos back to its hiding place in the dark, timeless spaces between the stars. Santa still bore the scars—both physical and emotional—of that battle. He still remembered the words Karmpus had breathlessly spoke in victory.
“That sonovabitch hates Christmas.”
Now, like the ache of an old injury, the messenger was back.
In just two days it would be Christmas Eve, and Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick should be focused on preparation. On toys. On magic reindeer. On his list of good deeds and naughty offenses. The children of the world were, after all, counting on him.
But he wasn’t even sure if there would be a world left in two days, not if the Crawling Chaos had his way.
And, so, Santa worried about the apocalypse.
And about Krampus.
Santa finished off two more cookies without even thinking about it and downed the milk. There was no rum in it, he found, which was disappointing but for the best. He needed to keep his wits about him, he supposed, if he was going to save Christmas.
And the world, he reminded himself. Musn’t let tunnel vision get the better of us.
Just as he reached for the last of the cookies, the gigantic double doors of his court were blasted open by a gust of wind. Snow spun through the chamber, carried on gusting funnels of wintery air. If the lanterns that lined the walls had not been enchanted with elven magic, the room would have been cast into shadow. As it was, the flames guttered but held fast to their illuminating life.
Santa left the cookie where it lay.
He straightened in his throne.
Out of the blizzard beyond the door, a figure flew into the room, crashing to the floor and thumping toward the throne.
Santa jumped to his feet. The realization that he was not wearing his boots rang through his mind, as did the notion that his left sock had a hole in it and his big toe was sticking out of this tear in the wool. This suddenly seemed like a show of weakness and vulnerability. He took up his shepherd’s crook and held it at the ready as he approached the small, trembling, snow-caked figure that rolled to a stop at his feet.
An elf. He recognized him but did not know his name. He was covered in snow and ice. His skin was so pale that it was almost white.
“Deerspigot!”
A voice called from outside.
Ah, yes. That’s the fellow’s name.
Two more elves emerged from the snow and ran into the room. One was a girl, blonde and rosy-cheeked. Rosemary, who had served as part of the sleigh preparation team for more than a decade. She fell to her knees next to Deerspigot and helped him sit up. The other was one of Santa’s most trusted retainers—Thistlebud, who had been dispatched to parley with—
“Oh, he’s a wiley one.” Thistlebud shook his head in frustration. “No matter how many times I tell him not to goat-kick poor Deerspigot, he just refuses to stop.”
“You brought him?” Santa said. “He agreed to come?”
Hooves clomped against the floor as Krampus, ducking his horned head low, ambled into the chamber. Over his massive, goat-like body, he wore a long, fur-lined robe. Slung over his back was a large basket, the lid held in place by strained leather straps. He glanced around the room, an expression of distaste on his bestial face.
“How long has it been, Nick?” Krampus growled. “I’m sorry. How long has it been, Saint Nick?”
“Six centuries,” Santa said, wishing more than ever that he had his boots.
“What’s the ceremony here? I’m I supposed to bow? If so, you can shove that notion right up your coal chute. And if you extend a hand for me to kiss your ring, you’ll draw back a stump... and I’ll have a nice late night snack.”
Thistlebud stepped defiantly between Krampus and Santa. His fingers flexed on the handle of his axe. Sporting a hoof-shaped welt on his forehead, Deerspigot stood by the older elf’s side.
Krampus flashed his teeth. “I’m not often in the presence of the sainted.”
“No ceremony.” Santa placed a comforting hand on Thistlebud’s shoulder as he moved past the elf. “No pomp or circumstance. And I was already a saint when last we saw each other.”
“Yes, yes. I remember. But there was a time when you weren’t such a dick about it.”
“See here!” Thistlebud bristled. “You can disrespect us elves all you want—“
“That’s right!” Deerspigot chimed.
“—You can kick us around—“
“Yeah!”
“—but you’ll show some respect here in the presence of Father Christmas!”
Krampus took a step closer to the elves. A blast of steam erupted from his goat-like nostrils.
“Respect, is it? For ‘Father Christmas’? I’m not here to sit on Santa’s lap and beg for toys.” Krampus clasped his clawed hands together and held them to his cheek. His voice took on a high-pitched, mocking, singsong quality. “Dear Santa. I’ve been a very good boy all year long. Except for that time when I nailed the neighbor kid’s new puppy to the fence out back, but I feel really, really bad about that, and I think I deserve a new bicycle for my troubles.”
“That’s enough,” Santa said.
“Whatever you say.” Krampus stomped past Santa, approached the throne, and helped himself to the final cookie. “All hail the great giver of brightly-wrapped gifts! Heed the words of He-Who-Drops-Candy-Down-Your-Socks!”
Krampus rolled his hourglass eyes in the direction of Santa’s imperfect sock.
“His holiness has spoken,” he growled.
“The elves told you what is happening,” Santa said.
“I wouldn’t have come for anything less.”
“The beast of a million faces is waking once more. I can feel it, sense it, being born from nothing but horror and misery, out there in the void.”
“Best to send it back,” Krampus growled, “before it grows too strong.”
Santa dared to let a little hopefulness creep into his voice. “You’ll help me put it back down?
Krampus sneered.
“It’s not like you’ll survive without me.”
I hope you’re enjoying this tale of Christmas adventure and horror! While I have you, I wanted you to know that everything in my web store is now 25% off until the end of the year. All variants. All signed books. Everything. Check it out if you have the time!
Really getting a kick out of this thus far!