It’s Easter, so I figured why not give away a free story. Since I didn’t have an Easter related story I thought I’d give away a Christmas story. It sorta makes sense when you think about it.
I hope you enjoy it. Please leave feedback good or bad.
Christmas Eve Surprise
The axe cut a path through the snow, staining it red, as the man dressed as Santa Claus ambled towards a quaint suburban house on the corner of 413 South Hilton Street, New York. Carolers were singing Jingle Bells somewhere down the street, their voices a thin whisper on the wind.
A light was in the house ahead. Someone was awake upstairs. They were walking back and forth slowly, meticulously. Blood spotted the white trim of the Santa outfit, and was dripping from the cuffs. Two blocks down an undiscovered horror rested. A husband, and wife lay dead in their bed, bodies hacked beyond recognition. In four hours their eleven year old son would find them. The responding officer, Patrolman Chris Macalister, would go on record saying it was the single worst thing he’d ever seen in his life. He would never forget that night as long as he lived. He would live approximately twenty-two days after the indecent before dying in a single car crash while visiting his parents in Florida.
This wicked Santa wasn’t satiated however, and he wouldn’t be until he could kill just two more people. Only two people, that was all, and he’d go home and rest. Maybe he’d eat a Hungry Man frozen dinner, who knows.
But Wicked Santa should have turned around and went home, called it a night, for inside the quaint 413 South Hilton Street home was a person more wicked than he ever thought of being. Little Abigail Johnson killed her first cat two months ago, snapped its neck and skinned it alive. She killed the neighbor’s dogs two weeks ago, shot it with her brothers pellet gun until it died. Her brother, Jeremy Johnson (aged sixteen) was now in juvenile hall serving a sentence he would never complete. Three days ago he was cornered in the rec yard and shanked for refusing to join the Aryan Brotherhood. Fourteen stabs in the throat ended his all too short life.
To make things worse for our Wicked Santa, little Abigail Johnson happened to be very angry with Santa Clause because last year he sent her the Malibu Barbie when she specifically asked for an MK 14 Mod O Enhanced Battle Rifle. She knew she wouldn’t be able to use it for a few years, but the investment was, to her, wise and worth it. And this year, this fucking year, that asshole had the audacity, the fucking audacity, to ignore all twenty-five of her letters. The letters she painstakingly wrote with a pencil and paper instead of sending a letter out into the ether through those fake ass dear Santa pages.
She used pencil and paper! That asshole had it coming and boy was he going to get it!
The axe clinked and began to grind against concrete as Wicked Santa left the snow, and began trailing along on the sidewalk. Light sparks flew away from the axe and concrete. The light from the upstairs window switched off. Wicked Santa stopped, his dazed gaze moving to the window. Before his eyes could adjust to the darkened window, Abigail Johnson rushed out of sight.
Wicked Santa heaved his axe over his shoulder and put his ear to the door of the quaint 413 South Hilton Street home. He heard nothing. This Santa may have carried an axe, and enjoyed using it, but now wasn’t the time. Now was the time for smaller equipment, a lock pick.
Wicked Santa propped his axe on the door and made to fish out his lock pick, but the door swung open on its own accord. He was forced to grab up his axe before it made a clatter. Was it unusual for a door to be unlocked in the middle of the night? Yes. Wicked Santa knew that, but he had an axe, knew how to use it, and wasn’t afraid of anything.
Entering the house, Wicked Santa closed the door, and surveyed his surroundings. Light from the moon trickled in through the curtains, casting a silver glow over the floor, a lamp, and a leather couch. A kitchen was a little ways off to the right, and our wicked Santa could see everything in it if he narrowed his eyes just a little. It was empty.
“Mother, and father,” Wicked Santa muttered under his breath. He made for the hallway, but a plate clattered atop the kitchen counter stopping him in his tracks. Everything went still, and Wicked Santa held his breath. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Light clinks that were something being dropped onto a plate clipped the air. There was a splash and gulp gulp gulp of liquid filling a cup.
Light flooded the kitchen, and for the briefest of moments Wicked Santa could see the silhouette of what he thought was a little girl, then the fridge closed and the little girl was lost to the darkness. This put Wicked Santa in a tough spot. He didn’t kill children, he thought it was evil, but yet this one could keep him from getting what he wanted.
“I made you cookies,” a sweet voice from the darkened kitchen. “Do try one.”
Wicked Santa blinked, temporarily struck stupid. The girl… she thought he was Santa Claus. But why? Was it the outfit? The one he stole from the man he killed earlier. He knew it was an outfit, but thought it was… what did he think it was? He supposed he really gave it no thought at all, and now that he did consider it, he realized that it was, indeed, a Santa Clause outfit.
“I’m not hungry, little girl,” said Wicked Santa. Christ, he was even imitating Santa now! That threw him for a loop. Where that was coming from he didn’t know. “Come on now, go—”
“Shut your trap, Santa!” barked Abigail Johnson.
Wicked Santa still couldn’t see her. Intrigue prickled in his gut. Surprise too, as his anger wasn’t raging, his need to kill wasn’t attempting to overtake him. Not yet anyways.
“Tell me what you want for Christmas, and then go to bed. I have a long night of work ahead of me,” Wicked Santa said, and pointed upstairs.
“For Christmas, I want you dead.”
Wicked Santa jerked as something hard struck his gut. His hand went instinctively to it, and came away red with blood. Abigail Johnson had shot him, and with a silenced gun no less. A second and third hard thud struck him in the chest and sent him reeling backwards. He hit the ground with a loud thud, his axe clanking to the ground. Blood pooled around his body.
Abigail Johnson stood over Wicked Santa now. Her blue eyes, alit with fury, narrowed. She raised her father’s pistol and shot Wicked Santa in the face.
Two Days Later
Morning had arrived cold and grey, a glimmer of sunlight glinting off the windows of the Johnson family home. Little Timothy Jones, on his Mongoose bike with a front basket loaded with bagged newspapers, slowed, and with careful aim tossed the Johnson family their copy of the New York Times. On the front cover was a picture of a smiling, Abigail Johnson, flanked by two shell-shocked parents. The caption read: Local Girl Singlehandedly Stops, The Jolly Slasher.