by Jordan Eudy

published 12/21/25

“You will not need your slippers!” bellowed the old man, merrily.

Jason screamed. His bare feet kicked against the wood floor. It was dark, and he could see the two bright circles of his dog’s eyes as she huddled trembling under his bed. That fat, lazy dog. He felt a sudden rush of anger.

“Get off of me!” He tried to twist around and reach behind him, but the pain in his ears exploded and shot down his neck. He let out another scream. It felt like his jaw was being torn off from behind. Dragged backwards through the hallway and into his own living room–dragged by two calloused and gargantuan hands, each gripping implacably onto his ears. He saw an orange glow on the walls, flickering like a fire. Was this maniac burning his house down? He tried to think of who would want to do this to him. Who did he know that could do this to him? This guy was incredibly strong, hauling him effortlessly, almost lifting him off the ground. Jason’s thoughts flashed manically to the Sopranos. He didn’t owe money to anybody that wasn’t listed on the New York Stock Exchange. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t even like strip clubs.

Suddenly, his head fell backwards and cracked against the cold hardwood. A light flashed behind his eyes and he tasted pennies. Instinctively, he reached up and grabbed his ears. They were hot, and he could feel the stretched flesh that had been pulled away, hanging by thin sinew. 

“You tore my fucking ears off!” he shouted. His hands shook as he brought them in front of his face, looking up at them with wide eyes as he lay on his back. Between his fingers he saw the small chandelier flickering red in the strange light. There was no blood on his hands.

“Not quite!” his assailant said cheerfully. Jason couldn’t see him, but he could hear the smile in his voice. He was trying to roll over and stand, but was having trouble getting out of the fetal position, distracted by the pain. “If I had torn your ears off, you would not be able to hear. Too much blood. And this next part is very important, so I would like you to listen closely.”

Jason could feel the floor creak as the bulk of the man leaned down beside him. A thick mat of coarse beard pressed against his neck, and a large hand laid its weight on his shoulder. Cringing and cowering with his arms above his head, Jason felt the man’s hot breath. It stank like old cheese and… freshly baked cookies?

“I AM COME TO TOWN.”

The words echoed like they were in the bottom of a drained swimming pool. Jason shut his eyes, squeezed them shut with terror. Then the hand was gone.

Something was definitely on fire. He smelled wood smoke, and he could hear the flames crackling in the corner of the room. He opened his eyes and saw a marble fireplace with an ornate mantle, three or four logs burning merrily. But his apartment did not have a fireplace, or a mantle. A problem for another time. His ears were consumed by pain, and there was blood in his mouth. He rolled over on his knees and tried to stand, shaking violently.

“Please, sit.” The voice came from across the room. There he was, in a large recliner that Jason didn’t recognize. He was a big man–very big–overweight and puffy and bulging at the waist, stuffed into a pair of jeans held up by a gleaming gold buckle that read ‘SAINTED’. He sat deep in the chair, both feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands reaching out and gripping the arms like Abraham Lincoln gazing out at the reflecting pond. A thick and cumulus beard covered his face and most of his chest. His hair was white and wild, loosely contained by a pair of mirrored aviators that perched atop his head. His mane hung down to his shoulders, splayed out on a dark purple corduroy jacket.

In spite of the outrageous attire, the first thing that Jason saw were his eyes. They were small and black, crinkled in an eternal smile, and they gazed a thousand miles into the distance. Jason looked at those eyes and they locked onto his, drinking in his every expression, pulling thoughts from his mind before he’d even had them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jason asked. He was on his knees and elbows, neck arched back, head pointed at the stranger.

“Santa Claus.”

Jason felt a chill run down his spine. This guy was crazy and was probably going to kill him. His mind started working again.

“It’s March.”

“I am not here on a seasonal visit.”

“And where’s your suit? Cleaner’s?”

“Once a year for a thousand years is still a thousand uses. Again, I am not here on a seasonal visit. Please, sit.”

“Where do you want me to sit? On the couch? I see you didn’t drag a Lay-Z-Boy in here for me,” spat Jason, his fear losing the battle to his anger.

The old man’s smile deepened. He lifted one swollen hand and patted his lap. Jason froze for a second, then spun his legs around in front of him and carefully leaned back on his arms, watching “Santa” closely.

“I’ll sit here, thanks,” said Jason. This guy was a lunatic and he was probably a dead man unless he could talk his way out of it. He was good at talking fast, but had never done it with his life on the line. He tried to ignore the clenching in his gut and the sweat coating his palms as they slid quietly on the floor. This wasn’t an ordinary burglary. Jason hoped it wasn’t a sex thing.

“Little Jay-Jay Crisp. I am sorry to say that you have grown from a naughty little boy into a naughty little man,” the home intruder said, his voice deepening with a rumble of regret.

“What did you call me?” asked Jason with a start. His eyes had been wandering around the room, across the darkened curtains and doorways, seeking an escape. They snapped back to the recliner and its bearded occupant.

“No one calls you Jay-Jay anymore, and I think you suffer for it. Too serious all the time. Too business. Too Scrooge.” The last word drug out like a shovel across pavement. Jason tried to swallow, but his tongue was dry and swollen and stuck to the back of his throat.

“You have been on my list for a very long time. I have waited with great charity and watched with much hope. Life has been easy for you, Mr. Crisp. You have money and power, but you did not use it to better the lives of those around you. You were never good at sharing.”

“I-If you want money,” stammered Jason, “that’s easy. There’s cash in the–”

“What would I want with money?” smiled Santa. He casually lifted two fingers on his right hand, and a faint tinkle of bells came from the dim hall. “No,” he continued, “I do not need money. Or apologies or promises. You were given many opportunities for kindness.” The jingling grew louder, and Jason could hear the muffled hiss of something large being dragged across the floor. “Now you are blessed with one last chance to give; to give of yourself–you, who have so much–to those who have so little.”

“That’s rich,” said Jason, feeling suddenly brave, some of the anger boiling over the bulwark of his terror. “You supposed to be some kind of Communist Santa?”
“Why do you think the suit is red?” Santa answered with a chuckle.

There was a brief silence as the noise from the hallway drew closer. Jason, still sitting and propped back on his hands, leaned forward and saw his dog trot into the living room, dressed in bells and tiny lights, a large red velvet sack in her mouth, the bulk of it trailing behind her. Tail wagging, she stopped just beneath Santa’s left hand, dropping the bag and looking up obediently. With a grateful “HO, HO, HO,” Santa reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears, ruffling her hair beneath the bright harness. With his other hand, he grabbed the red bag. Jason noticed that there was now a Christmas Tree in front of the roaring fire. His ears burned and he felt lightheaded.

“What the hell is happening?” Jason asked the room at large.

“Coal every year, for 10 years, and you never stopped to consider what it meant.”

“Who told you that?” Jason spat. He was on his feet without realizing it, backing away from the fire and the tree and the stranger with the large red sack.

“Who do you think put it there?” asked Santa.

“Brian!” he shouted. His brother was always doing something unsavory, some silly prank or joke. Maybe this was just–

“Wrong.”

Santa stood. He was taller than Jason had guessed, and much broader. He stepped closer with a kind smile. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a small pointed cap. It was green, with silver tinsel around the short brim. Jason backed up until his heels thudded against the baseboard of the wall behind him.

“What do you want?” Jason squeaked, his voice breaking.

“For you to bring comfort and joy to your fellow man.”

“Please don’t kill me!” he was starting to hyperventilate, almost at the point of tears.

Santa stopped, frowned slightly, and took a step back.

“Perhaps I should explain. It seems I have put the sleigh before the reindeer.” He paused and gave a large bearded grin. “Who makes the toys for Santa Claus?”

“…”

“At the north pole. Who makes the toys?” asked Santa again.

“Elves?”

“Yes. And where do elves come from?”

Jason was starting to shake again. Santa pointed to Jason’s right. “Drink that. It will help.” Jason looked down to see a thin wooden stool with a bone china teacup and saucer. A dark liquid steamed lazily in the firelight.

“How did you…”
“Please, drink.”

Eyes darting between the man and the cup, Jason extended trembling hands and took it, lifting the drink for closer inspection. It looked like coffee and cream, but smelled of peppermint. Thinking it best to oblige, too stunned and frightened to care how he hadn’t seen the stool before, he took a sip with eyes still locked on the intruder.

It was the best hot chocolate he’d ever had. Not a new best, an old best: it was just like his mother used to make. Hot, but not scalding, with peppermint candy canes crunched to a powder and mixed in. No one ever made hot chocolate like that, except for her. It had been years and years…

He immediately felt better, but tears began to well behind his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked in a whisper.

“Santa Claus.”

There was a brief pause, and the fire popped and fizzed.

“OK, putting that aside for a minute,” Jason allowed, “why are you here?”

“You have been chosen to join me at the north pole.”

“Uh, with you and all the polar bears and penguins?”

“No penguins. I’m afraid,” Santa replied. Jason could tell that this upset him, so he moved on.

“What will I be doing there?”

“Making toys, and bringing joy to children all over the world,” said Santa with a look and tone of purest joy.

“You have elves for that,” said Jason, trying not to sound sarcastic as he corrected Santa Claus about his business.

“And where do elves come from?”

“Um, elf mothers, I guess? Elves aren’t real.”

Santa ignored this last part. “Elves are not born, they are chosen and made.”

He reached into his sack again and pulled out a silver object, extending it towards Jason. It was an old mirror, beautiful and ornate with delicate figures etched around the edges. Feeling the cold weight in his hand, Jason looked at the man across from him. Under the wrinkles and billowing beard was a gently smiling face that seemed youthful and free. Lifting the glass to his face, he instinctively looked at his ears, which were still aching slightly. He almost dropped the mirror. With his free hand, he felt the side of his head to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

“What have you done to me?” he gasped.

“Fear not, the worst is over,” said Santa. “I find it is best to start when asleep, as the change is quite painful in the beginning.” He reached back into the depths of the velvet bag and pulled out the green hat again, extending it toward Jason, who accepted it in a daze. Santa tilted his head and grinned broadly. He turned and began to walk from the room.

“Come, there is much to do! We have many more visits and a long night of travel ahead.”

Jason lurched forward unthinkingly, following in the wake of the largest Doc Martens he’d ever seen. His mind was calm and unusually blank as he lifted the green cap to his head. It was the strangest thing, but he felt like he was slowly shrinking.