Don't Get on Santa's Naughty List
A new Holiday Horror short story
Happy Holidays all!
We have a short story for you about a police officer has a run-in with a psychotic Santa, determined to punish someone on the naughty list!
It’s equally disturbing and fun. We hope you enjoy!
It was a cold Christmas Eve, with snow falling lazily from the sky, making everything that much more peaceful. For Detective Mark Cooper, it was just another night on duty. He never understood why people thought crime took a holiday during the festive season. To him, it was just another opportunity for the scumbags to prey on the unsuspecting.
His unmarked sedan rolled down the quiet street, the tires crunching softly on the fresh snow. The houses lining the street were decorated with twinkling lights, their warm glow spilling onto the frosty ground. It was a picture-perfect holiday scene straight out of one of those cheesy made-for-TV movies, but Mark knew better than to be fooled by appearances.
The dashboard clock read 11:30 PM when his radio crackled to life. Dispatch's voice cut through the silence, "All units, we've got a report of a break-in at 124 Maplewood Lane. Homeowner is out of town. Neighbors noticed lights flickering and called it in."
Mark sighed, flipping on his blinker as he turned towards Maplewood Lane. Just another joy of the season - thieves taking advantage of empty homes while their owners were off celebrating with family.
Mark had seen it all before, but tonight, something felt different. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he pulled up to the house. It sat in the snowy night, dark and motionless. The Christmas lights hung on the porch and windows, though no one had bothered to turn them on. To all appearances, the house looked empty.
Mark stepped out of his sedan, pulling his collar tight against the cold. He took a deep breath, savoring the frosty scent of snow and pine, before walking up to the house.
Shining his flashlight in the windows, he approached the house.
This wasn't just any quiet suburban house; it was one of the largest homes in the area. It could almost be considered a mansion. Anyone would recognize the house and its owners.
The mailbox had their name--the Petersons. They were definitely the wealthiest people in town. Why hadn't dispatch mentioned it was this house the call was about?
Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were well-known for their generosity. Just last week, they 'd donated fifteen thousand dollars to the local community center, and followed that up by buying toys for every kid in town.
But with that kind of money, it also made them targets. This wasn't the first time the station had gotten a call about trouble at the house.
Once, he'd been here because someone had reported a strange man hanging around the street outside.
Mark arrived on the scene and began questioning the man: a dirty-looking vagrant, his ragged clothes caked with dirt and grime, and his eyes wild with a drug-induced frenzy.
He'd just been looking for a handout. They'd brought him down to the station and held him overnight.
That was more than a year ago.
Now, the snow was lightly falling on this Christmas Eve, and he had been called to this house again.
Nothing appeared out of place out front. He stepped as close as he could and shined his light through the window. Inside, he saw that the Petersons' ornate living room was in disarray - drawers left open, chairs knocked over, and trinkets strewn everywhere. It was impossible to tell what had happed, but it was clear that someone had destroyed the place.
He fumbled for his radio.
" This is Detective Cooper. I'm at the Peterson residence, and I can confirm a break-in. The suspect has ransacked the downstairs," he reported, already making for the front door. "Better send another unit over here."
The door was locked tight.
Whoever had broken in had gotten in somehow. Mark decided to search the perimeter.There was something deeply disturbing about a break-in at the Peterson's house. Margaret Peterson was not simply a wealthy businesswoman; she was also one of the most loved people in the community. Because of this, he took this break in personally.
As he walked, he looked for footprints in the fresh-fallen snow. He saw only the path his own boots had made from the car to the door.
The back door had been shut just as tightly as the front, and Mark saw no evidence of any broken windows.
Strange.
The stillness that enveloped the house was eerie. It was like a phantom had swept through the house, leaving no trace.
What he did see, as he stared through the darkened glass were brief flashes of tiny lights from inside the house.
"The house is locked up tight, but there is definitely someone inside," he told the radio. "I'm going in."
He checked the time. 11:45 PM. The entire neighborhood was quiet and still. It was as though the area had been frozen in time.
Mark tried to shake off the eerie feeling that overwhelmed him. It was Christmas Eve, after all. A neighborhood like this should be quiet at this time.
He retrieved his lockpick kit and approached the lock carefully. He could kick the door in and rush in quickly, but he didn't want to alert whoever was in there on his presence.
As he worked, he couldn't help but feel that he was being watched, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
In less than a minute, the lock clicked open.
Mark drew his gun before entering. Slowly, he pushed the door open into what appeared to be the kitchen. The mess that greeted him made his stomach churn. Cabinets had been left open, their contents spilled out onto the floor. Shattered glass and ceramic fragments sparkled like ice in the faint light coming in through the window above the sink. It looked like a hurricane had swept through the place.
He paused, listening. There was no sound except for his own heavy breathing and the occasional distant creaking of the house as it settled into the frigid winter night.
Wait, no. There was another sound. Just the faintest whimper coming from somewhere up ahead.
Cautiously he moved deeper into the house, clearing each room as he went. His soft footsteps sounded like thunder as he stepped across the broken glass scattered across the floor. Mark's pulse quickened with every step. He couldn't put his finger on why, but he could feel the presence of the intruder nearby. Every flicker of movement or each passing shadow caused a cold shiver to cascade down the nape of his neck.
The whimpering grew louder - it was definitely coming from upstairs. Mark's grip tightened on his service revolver as he approached the bottom step.
If he didn't already know the Petersons had money, these stairs would have clued him in. Delicately carved from dark, polished oak, they gleamed even in the faint light coming in through the windows. An ornate crystal chandelier dangled precariously above, trembling slightly with every sound.
Mark took each step with calculated care, boots treading silently upon the thick, wine-colored carpet. The whole way up, he listened, the sioence broken only by the occasional barely audible whimper.
As he began his ascent, he couldn't help but notice that the air seemed to grow colder, bit by bit, with each step he took. It was a subtle shift, one that was almost imperceptible at first. But as he continued to climb, the chill became more pronounced, wrapping itself around him like a cold, damp shroud. He couldn't help but wonder if it was all in his head, or if the temperature was genuinely dropping.
Had there been an open or broken window he'd missed?
By the time he reached the top of the stairs , the icy cold emanating through the hallway made goosebumps break out across his skin.
Mark shook the feeling off and followed the whimpers to a partially open door at the end of the hall
He checked the time again--11:50 PM. Backup should be here any moment.
The Petersons gave away so much money, and still they had the money to live like this. The paintings on the walls showcased opulent landscapes, dotted with gold-framed portraits of brilliant abstract artists that would make Mark's jaw ache from envy.
Even the kids' bedrooms were dripping in elegance; their toys sprawled out across plush, royal-blue rugs, the bedding a contrasting minty green.
He reached the door and his whole body tensed as he listened. It sounded like a faint moan, followed by two distinct words. "Please, don't."
Mark would have liked to wait for backup, but he had no choice. Whatever was happening in that room, needed to be stopped immediately. Mark placed his finger on the cold brass doorknob, taking a deep breath to steel himself against whatever horrors awaited him.
He flung open the door and jumped through, his gun raised and ready.
He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.
There, on the bed, was Margaret Peterson, stripped of all her clothes. Her hands were bound above her head. Blood glistened on her skin, and it was clear someone had cut her.
The scent of blood hung in the air, along with the musky scent of sex.
Another person lay at the foot of the bed--a male. His body bloody as well, but he was not moving. What was worse, his genitals had been removed.
At first glance, Mark thought it might have been Mr. Peterson. But this victim was too young to be him.
He was so preoccupied with the scene on the bed, Mark didn't notice there was a third person in the room.
He jumped as the intruder cleared his throat. Standing halfway across the room in the shadows near the unlit fireplace, hidden amidst grand Victorian antiques, was a grotesque man wearing a Santa suit. The suit looked grungy—luxurious red velvet thigh-high boots, hand-stitched with tiny silver buttons, and white fur trimmed around the cuffs and hat, all of it covered in ash and soot. He had a long scraggly white beard.
The man held a long silver knife in his hand--a knife covered in blood.
Mark's brow furrowed slightly as he aimed his gun at the man.
"Don't move!" he shouted. "Drop the knife!"
The Santa-clad figure didn't move. His icy blue eyes held a strange, distant look as they studied Mark. The knife twinkled softly in his grip, reflecting the soft moonlight.
Mark's heart pounded in his chest. "Last chance. Drop it."
But the man didn't budge. "You're one of the nice ones." The man's voice was deep , with a melodic quality that was unsettling. "I give them all a chance, but her...she needs to die."
Mark's trigger finger tensed, the gun quivering in his hand. He had never wanted to pull the trigger more. But there was something about that voice, something that made him hesitate.
"Who are you? What do you mean?" Mark's voice cracked with the effort of keeping his cool.
"Margaret has been naughty."
This man was clearly unhinged. He must have had some kind of Santa Claus fetish, and something snapped. The man, bathed in the surreal moonlight, appeared almost ethereal.
Mark squinted in the dim light of the room, straining to see the man's face beneath the white beard. Could this man be Mr. Peterson?
As if he'd heard the thoughts, the man dressed as Santa said, "Mr. Peterson is with the kids in the Florida Keys."
Fingers tensed, Mark 's grip on the gun remained firm as he tried to piece together what was happening.
"This man is one of Mrs. Peterson's assistants. She told her husband she couldn't join them on vacation because she had to work," the Santa mentioned. "She had a job for her
assistant it looks like. He'd done his job three times tonight before i arrived."
This man was insane. At the very least he'd been stalking Mrs. Peterson, who whimpered on the bed and attempted to pull free of her bonds. He had to be infatuated with her, watching her every move. But how did he gain access to the house with it being locked up tight?
"How?" Mark asked, genuinely puzzled. He had to keep this Santa talking until backup arrived. "How do you know all this?"
A clock next to the bed read 11:57 PM. Where was that other squad car? They should have been here by now.
The man in the Santa suit chuckled, sending down a cold chill to the detective's spine. "I see it all, Mark."
The words took Mark aback. How did this man know his name?
As Detective Mark Cooper stood in the dimly lit room, a sinister chill seemed to seep into the very marrow of his bones. But he refused to let this feeling of unease show.
A sinister chill ran down Detective Mark Cooper's spine. But he refused to let it show.
"I'm going to give you one last chance to drop that knife. Then you're going to give me no choice."
He let the threat hang in the air, but the Santa didn't seem bothered by it at all. He simply extended his arm, the one holding the knife, out towards Mark and pointed towards Margaret.
Just as the eeriness reached unbearable levels, the fireplace flickered to life, casting the room in an eerie orange glow.
"Look at her, Mark. I'm not the naughty one. She is," Santa said, his eerie blue eyes never leaving Margaret's shivering form. "I'm just here to correct her behavior."
Fear pulsed throughout Mark's body as the fire roared to life, casting a faint light across the man's twisted face. The man's eyes sparkled in the dim light, his lips curling into a sinister smile. Sweat dripped down Mark's brow as he inched closer to the bed, making sure to keep the gun aimed at Santa.
"Even if she did cheat on her husband," asked Mark, "what gives you the right to murder her?"
Santa didn't hesitate, his response as calculated as it was terrifying. "Would you rather I give her a lump of coal?"
Mark's fingers tightened around the cold, metallic handle of the gun. The man before him, dressed in a red suit and white beard, was truly pushing the boundaries of what it meant to embody the spirit of Santa Claus. The way his eyes sparkled with a maniacal gleam, Mark couldn't help but question whether this man was even capable of understanding the concept of reason. As he stood there, Mark found himself lost in thought, contemplating the situation before him.
"Listen, Santa," said Mark. "You don't want to do this. There's still time to make things right."
The man in the Santa suit chuckled, the sound rattling through Mark's body. "I am making things right. The naughty don't deserve merciful treatment."
Mark's mind was racing, trying to make sense of the bizarre words that the man in front of him was spewing out. The psycho's ramblings were incoherent, but there was a chilling, unsettling quality to them that sent a shiver down Mark's spine. As he struggled to comprehend the madman's words, he suddenly heard a sound that filled him with a sense of relief.
Sirens--his backup was finally arriving.
11:59 PM. It had taken almost ten minutes for them to arrive--much too long.
"Hear that?" Mark asked, indicating the sirens. "It's over, Santa."
The man chuckled. "Yes. It is," he agreed.
He moved his hand ever so slightly and the knife disappeared.
Mark blinked and stared where the blade had just been. Was this guy a magician too?
"Where'd it go, Santa?" asked Mark as the clock chimed the first chime of midnight.
The screeching of tires outside told him backup had officially arrived. Now he could take care of this crazy bastard.
"Stop calling me Santa," the man insisted angrily.l
Then several things happened at once. The ornate fireplace in the corner suddenly exploded in a burst of bright red and orange flames that danced wildly and illuminated the whole room. The sudden light made Mark close his eyes and jump backward, blinded by the sudden brilliance. His finger reflexively pulled the trigger, firing a bullet directly at the deranged Santa. Then the fire went out altogether, plunging the room back into darkness.
All this happened in the span of one second.
As Mark slowly opened his eyes, the room seemed to be bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. The festive decorations that adorned the room seemed to twinkle with an extra sparkle. Mark's gaze darted around the room, searching for any sign of the mysterious figure. But there was no sign of the Santa. He was gone, like he'd simply vanished into the air. It was as if he had never been there at all. Mark sat up, rubbing his eyes.
There wasn't any possibility that the large man would have been able to get past him that quickly. He would have heard something. He would have felt him rush by. But as he gazed around the room, that seemed to be the case. The man dressed as Santa was gone.
He quickly made his way towards the bed where Mrs. Peterson lay, her body motionless and still. The sight that greeted him was one that would haunt him for the rest of his days. The room was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of his own labored breathing. As he approached the bed, he could see that the knife Santa had been holding was now embedded deep within Mrs. Peterson's chest. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling with a look of sheer terror on her face.
Footsteps charged up the steps.
"In here," called Mark as he backed away from the lifeless body.
Two uniformed officers appeared in the doorway with their weapons at the ready. They surveyed the scene for a few brief moments before lowering their weapons.
"What on earth happened here?" asked one of them, a tall man named Davis.
Mark shook his head slowly. "I'm not entirely sure."
"Did you see who did it?"
Mark stared at the officer. "It was some guy dressed as Santa," he explained.
Davis looked at him incredulously. "A guy in a red suit?"
"Yeah," Mark replied. "He just disappeared. Right after I fired at him."
"You shot Santa?" Davis asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't have much of a choice."
The officers exchanged a quick glance, and Mark knew what they were thinking. The crazy story made him look nuts.
"What did he look like?" Davis asked, trying to hold back a chuckle. "Did his eyes twinkle? Did his belly jiggle like a bowl of jelly?"
Both officers laughed.
Mark felt his gut clench in irritation. "Just secure the scene. Dust for prints, especially near the fireplace." Mark said, his voice low and tight.
Davis held up a hand in apology. "Sorry, Detective."
Mark said nothing more. He pushed past the pair of officers and left the room.
It had been a long night already. And that encounter had been strange. How had the killer gotten into the house? And how had he disappeared so quickly? Mark's mind raced as he descended the plush carpet-covered stairs and made his way back to the half-destroyed living room. He needed answers, and fast.
As he peered through the frosted windowpanes, all he could see was the steady fall of snowflakes against the glass. The overturned furniture looked like the aftermath of a brutal storm. The only things that appeared untouched were the Christmas tree and the Christmas decorations hanging at the mantle of this other fireplace.
No. That wasn't true. One of the stockings lay on the floor. Mark walked over to it.
The stocking was a bright red color, with Margaret's name weaved into it using shiny golden thread. It was heavy, and as he lifted it several small black rocks fell out of the top.
Mark's heart raced as he picked one of the rocks up.
Coal? Had the killer Santa really filled her stocking up with coal? What kind of sick bastard was this? This man was more than disturbed. Mark was beginning to believe that he actually thought he was Santa Claus.
Mark emptied the rest of the stocking, dumping a small pile of coal onto the floor. He checked inside the stocking and found a folded piece of paper nestled within its depths.
It was covered in coal dust, and the paper looked like it was 100 years old and appeared as if the paper had been torn and reassembled--though he saw no tape or glue on it--but he could make out the handwriting.
"You've been a naughty girl, Margaret. And naughty girls don't get visits from Santa. Your husband and children are waiting for you. Change your ways. If you don't, you'll get a visit from me.
Signed,
Krampus Claus"
Mark stared at the paper with widened eyes. The name was slow to register, but as it did, he felt a shudder run down his spine. Krampus was a figure from the old Germanic folklore -- a devilish, horned creature that punished children who had been bad during the holiday season. Was that who the psycho killer was trying to be? Then why dress as Santa?
Suddenly, the fireplace erupted into flames blinding him momentarily again. When he blinked the spots from his eyes, he saw the deranged Santa standing before him once more.
"Do not think that I am the bad guy here, Mark," he said.
Mark's hand reached for his gun, but he hesitated to draw.
"I always give them warning. I am not the monster I am painted to be."
Mark had trouble forming words. He stared at the man dressed as Santa for a long moment before he was able to stammer out, "K-Krampus?"
He nodded. Then slowly reached up and pulled off the red hat. In the white hair, two gnarled horns were visible.
Mark nearly shit his pants.
"That's impossible," he muttered, his eyes scanning the horns. They looked real, the sharp points twisting and turning like a bed of thorns.
Krampus lifted a finger, silencing Mark's further comments. "That note was delivered to her two days ago. She tore it up. If you are looking for the one who murdered Margaret Peterson, I'd start with the woman herself."
The shock wearing off, Mark was about to draw his gun when the fireplace flashed once again. And once again, Santa--no, Krampus--was gone.
The fire died, leaving the room cold and dark once more. Mark, hands shaking, dropped the paper with the Krampus' scrawled note onto the floor where it dissolved into ash.
Had he really seen what he'd just seen? His mind couldn't wrap itself around it all. He wanted to believe that what he'd seen was some psycho who was really into yuletide theatrics. After all, magic didn't exist, nor did legendary monsters of myth.
But, all his senses told him, that what he'd just witnessed was indeed part of a supernatural world only a few ever got a glimpse at.
"Detective?" the voice came from the stairs.
Slowly he turned, facing Davis, who stood halfway up and leaned on the rail.
"Did you find something?" the younger man inquired, pointingat the stocking.
Mark looked down. He hadn't even realized he was still holding it. He shook his head and responded, "Nothing relevant."
How would he explain what he'd seen?
No. It was better if he kept it to himself.
He hung the stocking back where he'd found it. "Continue securing the crime scene," Mark told the officer. "I'm going to call dispatch and have them send someone to take the bodies."
It didn't matter if Mark felt crazy. This was a murder scene, and even if this really was the mythological Krampus who had done the killings, it wasn't going to stop him from gathering evidence.
One thing he was sure to do when he could, he would check the database for other Christmas Eve murders and try and find a connection.
He needed answers.
With a heavy, weary sigh that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul, he slowly lifted his radio, his fingers trembling slightly. The weight of the night's events had taken its toll on him, leaving him drained and dispirited. He felt as though he had been plunged into a dark abyss, from which there was no escape.
He hoped he never saw the Krampus again.
But a dark voice in his head whispered that the crimson-cloaked demon would return.
After all, there was always someone on the naughty list.
The End
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HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!