A Christmas Massacre

S. Hileman

8/18/2021

Pear Tree Challenge

“...and a partridge in a pear treeeeeeeeee!” Sally sang with real joy for the first time that day. The 12 days of Christmas was a crowd pleaser at the Oakridge Mall, and they ended every shift with it. Sally had been an elf for the night shift mall Santa for two weeks, and already she had begun to hate carols, candy canes and kids. The money was good though, so she showed up on time, and put on the red and green tights and the stupid hat with annoying bells on it. She forced a smile for six straight hours, six days a week. She’d already been spoken to by Randall, the fat bastard playing Santa, for not being ‘jolly enough’. Another couple weeks and she could tell Randall that he sucked, his ho ho ho’s were mediocre and most of the kids were frightened by him. She’d also tell him to get a life, since some days she was convinced that he really believed he was St. NIck. Earlier today some girl of six or seven was chatting up the fat fuck about American Girl Dolls, when suddenly she coughed once and puked all over his synthetic polyester Santa pants. Sally had to stifle the blast of laughter that threatened to burst out of her. She grabbed at some paper towels and feigned concern for Randall, but what she was really thinking was she ought to buy that kid the fucking doll because she had just earned it.

With the mall closing, and stragglers heading to their cars, Sally pulled some old sweats over her ridiculous uniform, dropped the hat in her backpack, and was digging her keys out when Randall stopped her near the camera stand. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted, so she paused, irritated, and rolled her eyes. “What's up Randall?” she asked. Dawn, the other elf on duty, was rushing towards the exit. She was making obscene hand gestures at Sally as she abandoned her in the center of the mall among fake snow and fiber optic twinkle lights. Sally silently promised herself that Dawn was cleaning up after the next puker. Bitch.

Randall, who quite obviously had a speech prepared, removed his beard, hat, and his white gloves and he launched into his spiel. Without his costume, Sally could see that besides being a whale of a man, his skin was blotchy and there were spotty black heads in his hairline. His teeth were yellowed and covered in a thick sweater of schgeg. She was amazed that they were the same age, having graduated together a few years before. He looked a lot older than 21.

“Sally,” he started, she visibly winced at the smell of his breath. “Nice job today, I feel like you are really trying to spread holiday cheer” She wanted to say she was only spreading 17 bucks an hours worth, but she was eager to leave since the weather was worsening outside and she had 3 bald tires and iffy brakes. She’d only taken this mall gig to pay for the repairs on her 97’ Volvo. “Thanks Randall'' she muttered, as she tried to walk away. “Sally?” He wasn’t going to shut up anytime soon. “What?” she asked, impatient. “Well, I was wondering…” he faltered for a second, “Would you like to go with me to see the ice sculptures in Conway next week?” He was blushing, though with everything that was going on in his face, it was hard to tell. Sally was briefly speechless, and completely unnerved. Fuck. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Randall, you know I have a boyfriend right?” she answered, hoping he’d believe the lie. “Really?” He asked, “because I didn’t see one on your facebook profile”.

Shit. Shit. Shit. “Well we just made it official….and I haven’t updated….and well I haven’t changed my status yet…” she trailed off. She didn’t have a boyfriend, not since what's his name made out with her best friend at Kelly Robinsons Halloween party. Still, one lie begets another and she almost cared about letting him down easy. Randall’s face crumbled in defeat, and Sally couldn’t help thinking that he had managed to look even more repulsive at that moment. “Oh, that's cool”, he said, trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t devastated. Sally mumbled another apology and said “see ya tomorrow” over her shoulder as she booked it to the staff parking lot.

The rain was frozen when she stepped outside, and the wind was whipping angrily. She slid a few times, almost falling as she made her way to her car. She caught her balance as she struggled with the key in the frozen door lock. “Come on!” She complained to no one. Finally the lock let go and she jumped in and started the car while cranking the heat at the same time. Her windows were glazed with a thin layer of ice, making it difficult to see. She put the defrost on and toyed with the radio, skipping over all the stations pumping out Christmas music. The frost was slowly melting as the interior warmed up. She was toe tapping to an old Skynyrd song when she heard a resounding thump. It was loud enough to startle her, she turned the radio down and looked around. A second thump, on the hood of her car. She strained to see through the windshield, and as she did a figure took shape. Randall!? Had he followed her to the car? What was his problem? She’d tried to be nice, but this was absurd. Though she couldn’t hear him well, he was calling her name. He looked worried and expectant at the same time. Sally didn’t have the energy to deal with an obese, partially dressed mall Santa. She cranked the window open a few inches, while yelling out to Randall to get out of her way. He was screaming at her now, but his words were lost to the wind. She leaned forward, scrubbing away the fog on the window, it was then she saw the blood. Good old Kris Kringle was bathed in blood, it was in his hair, and on his face, dripping from his chin. Sally was immediately terrified, as Randall hobbled closer to the car door. She panicked and threw the Volvo into reverse, desperate to put space between herself and the lunatic banging on her car. She felt a thump and knew she’d run over at least one of his stupid vinyl boot clad feet. Randall fell, still screaming unintelligibly at Sally. She threw it in drive in time to see him in the rear view mirror limping after her, chasing the car. The crap tires spun uselessly on the ice, she slammed on the gas and the car lunged forward, slamming into a light post. Randall was still coming, his blubber jiggled as he tried to catch up with her. With the blood and gore and still wearing the vomit covered pants, Randall was horrifying.

This time when she tried to put her in reverse, the piece of shit sputtered and stalled. She was crying now, as she tried time and again to get the engine to turn over. She locked the doors, but still Randall was closing in. Pepper Spray! She’d got it at a Yankee Swap last week at the mall “holiday” party. She rummaged through her bag, while rolling the window down, just as the mall Santa reached her. She screamed a primal scream and ficked the trigger on the canister, blasting Randall at close range in both eyes with the spray. He clawed at his eyes and growled in pain. Sally lunged for the passenger side door, she sprang from the car. The storm had worsened, she had no traction on the icy pavement, she fell almost immediately.

She wasn’t able to regain her footing, and so she began to crawl on her now scraped knees, begging the deserted parking lot for help.

When she risked a look back, a clumsy and wet Randall was taking small careful steps towards her. His eyes were raw and almost completely closed, but still he chased. Briefly she wondered whose blood he was wearing. Sally was dragging herself hoping fervently one of the plastic cops would be doing rounds and come to her rescue.

Instead, with her hands scraped and cold she grappled at the ice to keep moving. She turned back once more, Randall had also fallen to the ground. By the light of the lamppost she continued her attempt at escaping. She was out of breath, and her body exhausted when she lifted her head, pushed her sopping wet hair out of her face, and came eye to eye with a pair of brown work boots. Heavy boots, with thick rubber soles, laced tightly.

“Oh thank god” she managed to say before the man wearing those boots bent at the waist, and brutally slammed her head against the pole. She screamed. This was not Randall. Randall had collapsed a few feet behind her. With her skull cracked, she looked up at her assailant, using her arms to cover her face, she could see he was at least six feet tall. He wore a lambskin vest, and blue jeans. Sally had an absurd moment when she thought to herself, this man was strikingly good looking, for an axe murderer. She stared in disbelief as he raised a heavy axe high above his head. He winked at her and smiled. Sally let out a defeated meow as he brought the weapon down with effortless brute force, and the last thing she registered before she succumbed to her injuries without fanfare at the Oakridge Mall parking lot, was Randalls comforting hand around her ankle.

When the sun came up the next morning, it began to melt some of the ice that had accumulated. The volvo, splashed with blood, sat abandoned. The bodies of fat Randall t and Sally the elf were gone. The plastic cops called the real cops, but outside of a blood soaked white elastic beard and an empty backpack, there was nothing much to go on. One of the real cops remarked, in passing, and with no emotion, “Every GodDamn Year”.

Fin