Story-a-day #10: Krampus

Thomas Jones believed – still believed, in fact – in the magic of Christmas. More; he believed in the promise of Santa and his reindeer and a magic sack crammed with gifts of all descriptions. But, according to his sister, Margret, he was too old at the ripe age of seven to still have his head full of such childish nonsense. Nevertheless, when the season came (the month of December always circled in red pen on the calendar on the kitchen wall) his routine was always the same: he sat to the dining table and wrote his wish list in his best handwriting  – after which his mother would take down to the local office and post without fail.

            Sometimes he got most of what he asked for, delivered in brightly wrapped paper with one of those foil bows tied tightly around it. But sometimes, though thankfully not very often, not everything he asked for was realised. This year however, he had a good feeling. Yes, a very good feeling indeed.

            “You’re so weird,” Margret said. “Don’t you think it’s about time you grew up and realised Santa doesn’t exist?”

            “He does too,” he replied. He glanced up; his brow pinched, his nose ruffled. “Leave me alone, Margret.”

            She smiled. It was a sharp and dangerous smile.

“You’re soooo weird. It’s time to grow up, Tom.”

He sighed. It was the same tireless conversation every year. She attempted to spoil his dreams, and he, pushed to the very limits of tolerance, reminded her that Santa only delivered to the good. And if you found yourself on Santa’s shit list then you were apt to be paid a visit by Krampus.

Thomas didn’t know if he wanted to believe in Krampus or not (who really wanted to believe in anti Christmas?), but he supposed if he believed in Santa then, obviously, he had to believe in the other too. You couldn’t have the good without the bad, right? For every positive there had to be a negative.

And so the routine rolled on. Tom wrote his note, his mother posted it, and Margret continued to ridicule and mock.

He got very little sympathy from his parents. Every once and while he would hear his mother say “leave him alone and find something else to do” or “You believed in all that once upon a time. Until you got too old and ugly and lost faith in the idea.” But aside from that there was nothing. They simply smiled amongst themselves, chuckled behind their papers; and remained resolute they would not spur on another disagreement where none needed to exist.

But Margret would not leave him alone. She took great delight in watching her younger brother squirm. Sometimes she knew he was close to tears and poked at him a little more, but tears ever came. Because Thomas knew he would have the last laugh.

“You won’t be laughing when he comes for you,” he said in a low tone of voice. “You won’t laugh one little bit.”

“When who comes?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell me,” she snapped.

“No, I’m not going to spoil the surprise.”

“You’re such a liar.”

Now he only had to wait.

The days passed painfully and slowly. He endured Margret in silence, no longer finding hurt in all she said and did. But waiting seemed like a personal walkway into eternity drawn out just for him. And he hoped, really hoped, in fact, this would be the year he was not unduly disappointed.

And then the first snow of the year came as he marched proudly into the final days of Christmas.

Would he come? He hoped so.

At last Christmas Eve came. He waited into the early hours of the morning; duvet pulled beneath his chin, and listened not only for the reindeer but for the steady tread of cloven feet and the rattle of rusty chains.

Then, sound. It was slight, but getting infinitely closer.

He smiled into the dark of his room, listening as footsteps passed by his door ... towards the only door on this floor of the house: Margret’s door.

There was a brief pause in the footfalls, but his door didn’t move. Not that he expected it would. Not even a little.

So, safe in the knowledge he had gotten at least one of his Christmas wishes, he closed his eyes and slowly fell to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes it was to the sound of his mother screaming and his father sobbing in the hall beyond his room door; their faces pallid, their eyes scorched.

He smiled and smiled and smiled and found he couldn’t stop smiling even long after they’d swept the shredded detritus of his sisters remains from the four corners of her once pink room.

This was going to be the best Christmas yet, he decided. Yes, sir.