The Scissor Claus Massacre

As I reflect on those winters growing up in Roanoke, Minnesota in the eighties, I feel an icy chill on the back of my neck. This story was to remain forgotten not because so many years have passed but because the horror of events that unfolded on Christmas Eve in 1982 was what some would call the ruin of Roanoke and its people, except for one. I am the sole survivor of that night, known as the Scissor Claus Massacre.

Roanoke was a small town nestled on the banks of Lake Vermillion, known far and wide for its walleye fishery. Back when I was a kid growing up there, not only was the economy booming due to the success of the fishery, but Roanoke was booming with happy, hearty people. Summers were especially magnificent on the lake, and I would often be found fishing on the banks, barefooted, with my nose in a Judy Blume book. My best friend, Cal, would go fishing with me most of the time, as we were inseparable from the age of 5. My mom called him her honorary son since he spent more time at our house than at his house. He had a regular place setting at our dinner table, until I got sick, and then those fun dinners became a distant memory. One afternoon while fishing, I was short of breath, then felt an incredible pain and pressure in my chest, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital.

My mom was the surgeon at the local hospital, and she was holding my hand when I came to. She told me that I had suffered a massive cardiac event that obliterated a section of my heart, and I would not survive without a new heart. She was crying and said that I was on a waiting list, and it could take months to find a match. My hospital stay hooked up to an agglomeration of machines went on for what seemed like an eternity. Until one day, my mom came running into my room to tell me that a teenager in the nearby town of Glengarry had died in a car accident and his heart was a match to mine! Truthfully, I felt mixed about the whole thing, about the fact that this kid had died so young, but also, I was elated at the thought of surviving and getting out of this hospital! And now I was to benefit from his misfortune. It just felt wrong! But before I could utter a word about it, I was being prepped for surgery, and because my mom was the only surgeon for hundreds of miles, she would be the one to perform it.

The transplant operation went smoothly I was told, and I was going to be just fine. But that very night, I would see something that ultimately changed the course of my life and everyone’s around me. It makes me shudder to put these thoughts to pen, as if writing this down and telling this story is sure to bring the horror again that defined that night in the hospital. But I must tell the story, I must! In my dark hospital room, dimly lit by the sputtering streetlamp outside my window, I saw a shadow on the wall. It was hard to make out whether this was a man, woman, or creature, as I was completely taken aback by what looked like blades for fingers splayed across the wall and heading towards me! I thought, “Come on, this can’t be real. I’m all drugged up on morphine. I must be imagining this.” My heart monitor began to beep loudly and before I could push the button to get help, my mom showed up and the shadow was gone. I was very agitated, so she gave me a sedative and I drifted off to sleep. Three hours later, I woke up with this feeling that something was amiss. I could not stop thinking about this new heart beating in my chest, and with each beat, I felt more and more unsettled. Who was the original owner? What were they like? Were they a nice person? Were they sad? What caused the accident? Where were they going? So many questions flooded my addled mind.

In time, I grew healthier and stronger and was able to leave the hospital. On the drive home, I was happy to see the neighborhoods adorned with holiday lights for Christmas! And like every year, there was my favorite house with the Island of Misfit Toys recreated with gargantuan inflatables. It was already Christmas Eve and I found it hard to grasp that I had been hospitalized for almost a year. I was feeling so well and for the first time in a while, I was happy about something. As soon as I got home, I called Cal, beaming with excitement. “Cal! Come over for Christmas Eve Dinner! I’m home!!!”

Dinner was just like old times with Cal sitting across from me making his usual jokes. He was catching me up on all the gossip at school when suddenly, we lost power, and everything went dark. There were some heavy winds that night and surely a power line must’ve been down. My mom was always ready with the candles and that night was no exception. Then, behind Cal, on the wall, I saw the shadow, the same shadow that I thought was a morphine dream in the hospital. Only this time, accompanied by the shadow was an actual presence in a Santa suit with scissors for hands! All I could think of was “Edward Scissorhands” only this creature, this “thing”, had a sinister, fiery look in its eye.

I saw him first and started screaming, and before I could get up, the intruder was slashing into Cal’s chest. Then the Santa imposter was heading right towards me, and I managed to escape the downward chopping that was about to ensue. The sharp blades cut my ankle and I felt the gush of warm liquid, bloody and painful. Still, I bolted out of the room, and the creature did not follow. Oh no! It had moved on to my mom and dad. I could hear this low growl, and scratchy voice saying “You did this” as he laid into my mom. Nooooooooo! Then my dad. I squeezed myself behind the couch and the wall in the living room and waited in terror to be found by this monster and get slaughtered. Soon all was quiet though. Where had it gone? Where had “Scissor Claus” gone?! I emerged from my hiding spot only to find a blood bath in the dining room. I had hoped that this was all a bad dream, but it was real, very real. In 60 seconds, all that ever mattered to me had been abolished! My family was gone. I would never again know the healing touch of my mother, the after-dinner tennis games with my father, and those days fishing on the banks with Cal. On Christmas Eve, I spent the whole night in despair looking for help, limping from house to house in Roanoke. Each house I entered was a carbon copy of my house, a mess of bodies with punctured chests. I did not find another single living soul. Surely, I was still to be found by Scissor Claus that night, but on Christmas Day I saw the sun rise.

There is a reason I decided to tell this story after decades of suppressing it. I received an envelope in the mail today. Inside was a newspaper clipping of an article from the Glengarry Gazette describing the fatal car accident of a 17-year-old boy in 1981. He had been coming home from a Christmas party when his car ran off the road. And he was wearing a Santa suit. In big letters across the article, written in red, it said “I want it back.”

Scissor Claus is coming for me.