NICE

’Twas the night before Christmas and Jack didn’t believe in Santa anymore.

Brad had told him it was all a hoax, a conspiracy, perpetuated by the adults of Donnersville, for their own amusement. Jack didn’t buy it at first. He asked Brad a lot of questions—tough ones, too—trying to stump him. But he couldn’t. Brad was a walking turd these days, but he seemed to know about a lot things, things that only adults knew about.

Brad used to not know about a lot of things. He also used to be a lot nicer. Nice—just like everybody else in Donnersville. Like you’re supposed to be. People would tell him, Brad, you can’t be mean like that, you’re gonna get put on the naughty list, Santa’s watching you.

Usually that stopped any foolishness right away.

Not for Brad, though, not this year.

At a certain point, everybody just stopped trying to help. They also started trying to avoid him as much as possible, even though sometimes he’d tell them about things it seemed like only adults knew about. Brad did about as many things as he could he thought might land him on the Naughty List—that list everybody wouldn’t ever shut up about, his words—but the naughtiest thing he did was to not believe in the Naughty List at all. And not just the Naught List, the whole shebang: the flying reindeers, the magical elves, or The Big Man Himself—Mister Kringle.

The parents all whispered that they’d never seen a child act with such wanton disregard for all they held sacred in all their life. But, in the end, everyone said it wasn’t their’s to judge. Not their’s.

Now, Christmas Eve, Jack was crouched outside his parents’ bedroom, listening to them chatter while getting ready for bed, hoping he’d hear some confirmation of the conspiracy. But they never let on. Apparently that was the fun of it—continuing the ruse even without the children present. That or they knew he’d be outside their bedroom listening and were being clever.

He thought back to making the cookies earlier that night—sugar cookies, his favorite!—decorating them with whites and greens and reds. How he had tried his best to act like he believed Santa would come down the chimney, eat them all up, drink the glass of milk, and drop off all those presents Jack had put on his wish list, addressed to the North Pole, back when he really did believe in all of this nonsense.

Jack tiptoed back to bed.

Laying in bed, snowflake nightlight aglow in the corner, he thought about what all this meant. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad or what this emotion was he was feeling. What it was called, if it had a name already. He wasn’t sure he had felt it ever before in his whole life. Strange to feel a new feeling. Maybe that’s what happened when you grew up—you got a whole batch of new feelings.

That sounded right.

The next morning Jack woke up to jingle bells. That’s how it always went. Mom and Dad standing there in the doorway, in their matching Christmas sweaters, holding a pair of jingle bells.

Jack spent the morning trying to remember how he had acted every Christmas until this one, so they wouldn’t suspect he knew what they knew about this whole situation. At one point he almost told them, but decided against it. They seemed so happy and he figured he didn’t want to make them feel sad. Next year, maybe he’d tell them, but for now—

“You ready for…” Dad said, starting a drumroll on his knees, waiting until he and Mom joined in, then: “PRESENTS TIME!!”

Dad loved ‘Presents Time.’

They all sat down in front of the Christmas tree, a haze of snow falling silently outside, framed in the frosted living room window behind them. The crumb-strewn plate of cookies and the empty glass of milk sat on an end table nearby. The fireplace crackled.

“You first, buddy,” Dad said, smiling bigger than what was normal in the very smiley town of Donnersville, and leaned over to divvy out the gifts.

But then he stopped.

Dad had noticed what Jack and Mom soon noticed as well: Jack’s wish list had contained five wishes—the customary number of gifts kids in Donnersville would request from Santa on Christmas—but four of those wishes were unaccounted for under the tree.

Dad and Mom stared at each other, at a loss.

Jack watched them both try to wrangle their faces back into the appropriate smile-shape, nodding to themselves that everything was okay. Nothing to be concerned about. Just a clerical error. One of Santa’s elves just must’ve made a goof. It happens sometimes. Not to worry, one letter to the North Pole and it’ll all be worked out.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Mom said, nodding. “Just a clerical error. One of Santa’s elves just must’ve made a goof. It happens sometimes. Not to worry, one letter to the North Pole and it’ll all be worked out.” She paused, giving Dad a pointed look. “Right honey?”

“Right honey,” Dad nodded, slowly. “Nobody’s perfect, not even elves.”

They smiled and nodded.

Dad reached over and picked up the box. He held it there for a moment, as if judging whether or not he should shake it, to confirm the contents. But instead he just stared at it.

“Honey?” Mom said, smiling. “Give Jack his present, right?”

“Right. Here you go, bud.”

Jack took the present and set it on his lap. He looked from his Dad to his Mom, then back to the present sitting on his lap. Something about all of this felt wrong. He wanted to say: No, it’s fine. I don’t need a present this year. I believe in Santa. I don’t need a present this year. I really believe.

But he didn’t. His parents acting weird had rattled him, but that didn’t mean he believed in Santa. Brad was right about things. He knew things that only parents knew. Namely, that Santa was a hoax. Brad was a walking turd, but he knew things.

Jack began ripping the wrapping paper off the gift, entering the the same state of blind frenzy he used to get his veggies down, all mechanism and no thought…

…and then the box was open.

Jack looked down into the box.

The box was mostly empty. Mostly—but not quite. There was one thing in the box. Something small, too small for the box. Nobody would have ever put something so small in such a big box. Jack’s parents would never have put such a small thing in such a big box.

“What is it, buddy?” Dad said, brightly-or-trying-to-sound-brightly.

“What’d Santa bring you this year?” Mom added, with the brightness.

Jack just stared down into the box.

Dad and Mom stared at him staring at the box.

Something clattered on the roof and a sheet of snow cascaded down outside the window.

Dad reached over and grabbed the box out of Jack’s loose grip.

Now he was staring down into the box.

“Dennis.” Mom leaned forward, “What did Santa get Jack this year?”

A muted thud—almost like the sound of a dropped sandbag—followed a loud hiss. The three turned, all at once, to where the sound came from as a frigid whoosh of winter air swept through the house, as the fire in the fireplace sizzled out under avalanche of snow.

Silence, then—

“Jack,” Mom said, in a choked whisper, “Please don’t say you stopped believing in Santa.” Jack didn’t—couldn’t—say anything in reply.

Jack stared down at the lump of coal in the box.

“This is all that Brad’s fault, isn’t it?”

Bricks tumbled down the chimney like some apocalyptic hailstorm, down onto the extinguished and buried logs, sending a dark cloud of soot into the house.

They coughed and tried to wave the blackness away. Jack felt a hand reach out and grab his shoulder. He flinched—but then realized it was Mom, trying to find him in the dark.

When the cloud dissipated, they were no longer alone.

A massive figure—stooped and looming—stood in front of the rubble that used to be the fireplace.

“Krampus,” a voice breathed hoarsely. It came from his Dad, but it didn’t sound like his voice. “Jack—RUN.”

Two things happened in the same moment: Jack’s Dad sprung forward and the hand on Jack’s shoulder pulled him back. His Mom was dragging him away, towards the front door. Jack turned, scrambling, trying to gain his footing, still being pulled by his Mom’s hand. Just as they made it through the front door the living room window shattered and the Christmas tree toppled out into the snow. Jack saw a figure splayed out on the tree, bloody and mangled, floundering to get back up.

He watched as Dad lunged forward, shambling, back through the window, towards the creature inside.

Then Jack was pulled away, down the driveway, to the car.

A frantic thudding sound—Mom was trying the door handle. She stopped. They both realized the same thing at the same time: she didn’t have the car keys.

Whizz, thunk!

Mom screamed.

Distant giggles. Mom’s arm was pinned to the car door by a crude metal barb. Blood bubbled out of the wound.

Whizz, thunk!

This one hit her in the thigh and she crumpled. More giggling. A gaggle of cone-hatted creatures skittered in a patch of bushes on the other side of the yard.

“Jack,” Mom said, wheezing, trying to keep her voice steady, “you have to run. You have to get out of here.” She took in a gust of arm, then looks him dead in the eyes: “You have to get out of Donnersville.”

Jack ran.