Just in time for summer, it’s a… Christmas story… yeah…

Half of you will remember this from back when we still did those group contests. I just wanted to get it on this site before I lost it. 😛

Plus, it is kinda cool… 😉

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

December 20^th

11:56 pm.

New York City, Apartment Complex.

 

The operation lasted three minutes and thirty seconds exactly.

No mistakes would made; the team was the best of the best. They had never failed, not in twenty years. Tonight would end no differently.

They sat in silence as the black van maneuvered into position. There was no need to check equipment; it was all in place, every aspect of the mission planned, down to the number of steps they would take once they entered the apartment complex.

The van rolled to a halt. The team was on the go in a heartbeat, stepping from the vehicle’s rear exit in perfect coordination. The building’s glass doors fell to pieces under a hail of silenced gunfire. Booted feet ground the fragments into the carpet as the entry team stormed down the hall.

A security guard saw them coming, grasping at his gun and opening his mouth to shout a warning. He was dead before he could get the word out, hollow-point bullets crashing through his neck, forehead, and left eye. Two of the soldiers caught him before he hit the floor, dragging him into the bathroom. The rest of the team continued on up the stairs.

One minute.

Residents peered out their doors as the back-clad men ran past. The citizens were no threat, and thus they were ignored. The white block letters on the team’s uniforms spelled out “SWAT”, but they certainly were not. The uniforms served another purpose; no one would think to call the police, as the group of people clad in body armor were clearly in charge of whatever was going on.

Third floor. The dilapidated hallway would have frightened away all but the most poor of tenants. That made it easier. The only civilian on this floor was their target, a Mr. Elric Jing. The man was well-known to the CIA and FBI, a terrorist wanted for supplying several of America’s most wanted criminals with weapons smuggled into the USA. Two days ago, the operatives tracking him had reported that he was in possession of a nuclear weapon, and was only waiting for the highest bidder to claim his prize. There would be no such claim. Tonight, Mr. Jing would die.

“Four. Lights.” the leader grunted. ‘Four’ was a nickname in this case; their members had no real names, only numbers. Names were a sign of weakness, a sign that the individual in question possessed some aspect of humanity. And humanity only got in the way.

Four nodded, already disassembling the electrical control box beside the staircase door. In exactly five seconds, the level three entry hall went dark. The only sound was the click of night-vision monocles sliding into place.

In a barely audible whisper, the leader said, “Breach in five. Mark.”

“Orders on contact?” whispered someone. It was only a formality, they all knew their orders.

“Target is armed and dangerous. Shoot to kill.”

Two minutes.

“Breach-”

Someone was singing.

The team froze, listening. The tune was a familiar one, a common Christmas jingle, yet sung in a voice one would associate with a funeral dirge.

“…he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good…”

The singer was inside the room, moving towards the door. The soldiers brought their weapons to bear, waiting in the dark. If the target entered the hall, they could shoot him without the tedious process of breaking down the door, saving a whole four seconds.

“…so be good for goodness sake…”

The singer paused, as if listening. The team leader lifted a hand, signaling for quiet.

For a heartbeat, there was complete silence.

Then the door opened.

The man within seemed completely unsurprised to find an armored SWAT team on his doormat. He made no move to run or grab a weapon. He just stood there, a half-smile playing across his face.

The profile matched; white beard, neatly trimmed. A forehead too smooth for his apparent age. Blue eyes that seemed to shimmer from behind a pair of round-rimmed spectacles. All striking features, but they expected that. It was his outfit that caught them off-guard. A long red coat, tethered about the waist with a wide black belt; a red hat, a rather iconic one at that, perched atop greying hair. The costume, coupled with his face and general demeanor, gave the strong impression that Mr. Jing was…

“Santa Clause,” said Twelve. It was meant as a question, but it came out as a statement; when faced with something unexpected, rationalize, then execute. One of the many directives drilled into the soldiers’ heads.

“Indeed, gentlemen,” said Mr. Jing, and smiled. It was a smile that would have cracked the ice off the heart of the most soulless man alive, but the soldiers were not soulless. They had a job, and that was to eliminate any and all threats to their country, their unit, and their families. It was this sentiment that allowed the leader to drop his hand; the signal to shoot.

The clatter of silenced gunfire was still loud enough to rattle the windows of the neighboring apartments, shaking a painting off the wall at the end of the hallway. Mr. Jing was thrown back, twisting like a rag doll. Even as he fell, a sudden wind rushed through the room, rattling the floorboards and buffeting the soldiers.

“Get down!” shouted the leader, a split second before the entire team was buried up to their knees in heavy snow. Freezing air blinded the group, cutting through their uniforms, driving the sudden flurry into their faces.

Then it was gone. The snow, the wind, everything. The apartment was as it had been before the bizarre storm, with one crucial difference.

Mr. Jing’s body was gone.

Three minutes, thirty seconds.

The team got slowly to their feet, checking their weapons for melting flakes, brushing at uniforms that were surprisingly dry.

The leader touched his radio. “Command. Jing’s on the run.”

“Just as expected.”

“Yes. As expected.”

“You get him?”

“Yes. Fifty shots, twenty-one passed through, seven lodged.”

“Good. Where did he go?”

“Tracking data is loading now.”

“Very good. Proceed as planned.”

“Yes sir. He can’t run forever.”

There was no reply.

The team left just as quickly as they had come. All that remained in their wake was the broken glass, the bullet-riddled apartment on floor three, and the dead security guard slowly bleeding out in the bathroom stall.

 

 

 

December 22^nd

6:50 pm.

Vermont, Cabin outside St. Albans.

 

Jason Murray blew lightly on his coffee, then took a tentative sip. Finding it too hot to drink, he set the cup back down on the stand beside his armchair. The table squeaked slightly under the weight, leaning dangerously, and he grabbed for his cup to keep it from falling. He missed the handle, but fortunately for both him and the rug, the flimsy stand remained upright.

Taking the cup gingerly in his hand, he stood, walking to the small kitchen area near the front of the cabin. The log structure itself was brand-new, and still smelled of fresh-cut pine. It had been built as a summer cabin, but he had (wisely) had it sealed and insulated against winter weather. The process had cost him an additional twenty grand, but it wasn’t like he needed the money. The cabin, plus the mountain it was perched on, had barely scratched the surface of his sizable fortunes.

A small fire crackled in the hearth, tossing shadows across the walls and floor. That and an electric heater kept him warm and dry, safe from winter’s icy clutches.

A gust of wind howled past outside, drawing his attention to the cabin’s picture window. Still white as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t too far, considering the virtual blizzard that now assaulted his tiny shelter.

A soft beep from his cell phone reminded him that there were other things to be about. With no reception in the storm, his business calls would have to wait. The paperwork, on the other hand, wouldn’t. His employer would want the contracts all written up and ready to be faxed the instant phone service resumed, although judging from the snowdrifts outside, communications might not return until Christmas.

With a groan, Jason sank back into his chair. He had only wanted a short vacation, a few days to clear his head. Well, from the looks of things now, there was no way he would be able to make it back home in time for the celebration. His mother would kill him.

One last time, he considered trying to find his way through the storm to his car, parked about a mile away at the base of the mountain. The idea had hardly crossed his mind before it was joined by thoughts of wandering endlessly through the snow, of wolves tracking him until he was too weak to fend them off, of freezing death in the bleak winter night…

He took a drink of his coffee, selecting a book at random from the shelf. ‘The Once and Future King’, by Ian Campbell. Looked like a decent read, and he certainly had the time. No sane person would go out in this weather. Not if they had any will to live.

There was a knock at his door.

At first, he thought a tree branch had blown down against the entrance. He listened, setting his coffee on the wobbly stand.

The knock came again, definite and purposeful. Jason lunged out of the kitchen and down the front hall, throwing the door open.

A blast of icy air struck him in the face, so cold and sudden that he lost all pretense of assisting whoever was outside, falling back a step into the warmth of the entry hall. The door slammed shut, almost severing the arm of the old man as he darted inside.

The newcomer made straight for the fireplace, kneeling down and placing his hands as close as he could get them without burning his fingers. He was breathing in ragged gasps, muttering to himself in hushed tones. There was no indication that he had noticed the cabin’s owner.

Jason edged around towards the breakfast bar, never taking his eyes off the man. The poor guy was probably some homeless bum who got stuck out in the weather. Probably harmless. Or he could be on drugs, or a mental case…

As quietly as possible, Jason slid his hand under the breakfast bar. His service revolver, left over from his days as a Vermont State trooper, lay on a hidden shelf, primed and ready for action.

The visitor rose, his threadbare red coat rasping on the hardwood floor, and Jason drew his sidearm from its hiding place, training it on the man.

“Hold it.”

The man froze, slowly lifting his hands. “Now, now, Mr. Murray. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

Jason blinked, then squinted, trying to remember the voice.

“Jason, it’s me. Cole.”

Cole. Cole Ainsbury. Of course. Jason lowered the gun, a look of shocked amazement on his face.

“Cole, what the hell man? I haven’t seen you in five years. What were you doing out in the snow? It’s miles from town. What have you been doing with your life? That coat doesn’t seem very-”

Cole interrupted him with a wave of his hand, laughing. “Slow down, Jason. One thing at a time.”

“It’s just… how have you been? All this time…”

“I’ve been fine, thank you.”

“Just… fine?”

“Yes. Never better.”

“Care to elaborate? I mean, what have you been doing? Do you have a job?”

Cole sighed. “My job remains the same as it has always been. But I did not come here for small talk. I’m in trouble, Jason.”

A feeling of unease coiled in the pit of Jason’s stomach. “What kind of trouble?”

“Well, let’s begin with the small stuff. I’ve been shot. Several times, actually.”

“What?”

Cole pulled up his sleeve. Three red-rimmed holes traced a line up his arm, the wounds surprisingly bloodless.

Jason let out a short gasp. “What on earth…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t… don’t worry about it? It’s a wonder you weren’t more severely injured. That kinda spread is from an automatic, isn’t it? Who the hell was shooting at you?”

“To be honest, I am not sure. Someone from your government. They were dressed as your Special Weapons and Tactics force. Their manner of action suggests they were not.”

“Okay, okay, hold on. Back up. Good Lord, man, I need to get those bullets out of your arm. Is that the only place you got hit?”

“My chest and neck as well.”

Jason, already on the way to the medicine cabinet, froze.

“Wait a minute… just hold the bloody phone. If the shots were to your torso, a full auto would’ve cut you in half. You should be dead.”

“Yes, I should be. Perhaps I should explain?”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, that would probably help. Sit down in that chair while I get a few things. It’s been a while since I treated a gun wound.”

Cole did as he was told, sitting back with some stiffness. Absently, he removed his hat, staring out into the blowing snow. The wind howled over a distant hill, the noise causing the old man to shiver.

Jason emerged from the bathroom, a variety of medical utensils neatly arranged atop a metal tray. He knelt next to Cole, examining his friend’s arm.

“I don’t have anything to dull the pain, but we have to get these out before they become infected.”

“I’ve gone through worse. Do what you must.”

Selecting a small knife, Jason sanitized the blade with isopropyl. “Alright, how about you tell me the whole story. This storm’s not letting up any time soon. We’ve got time.”

Cole sighed. “Not as much as you might think, but I shall tell you everything. Whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

“Try me,” said Jason, and began to work.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

December 22^nd

7:30 pm.

Vermont, Cabin outside St. Albans.

 

“In the first place,” said Cole, “My name is not Cole. It’s Nicholas.”

“Oh? Like Old Siant Nick?”

“Not ‘like’, my friend. I am Saint Nicholas.”

Jason paused. “What, like Santa Claus?”

“Yes.”

“You’re Santa Claus.”

“I do recall saying that you might not believe me.”

With a grunt, Jason returned to his medical efforts. “Okay. You’re Santa Clause. How does that equate to you getting shot?”

“I’m getting to that.”

“Right, sorry. Doesn’t that make you over a hundred years old?”

“One thousand seven hundred and forty two.”

“Oh? Well, you’re in great shape for an old man.”

“Indeed I am. It is due to a rather peculiar… gift, that I have.”

“Do tell.”

Cole winced as Jason swabbed his arm with a cotton ball.

“It was the year three hundred. My work in the church was well underway. I had been granted the title of Bishop, and was happy in the Lord’s work. Through Him, miracles began to happen, and my name became well known.

“It was around this time that I heard of a member of my congregation in need of some assistance. His daughter was of age to be married, but he could not afford a dowry. A dowry is a sort of…”

Jason waved his hand impatiently. “I know what it is.”

“Right. Unfortunately, the man had barely enough to survive, let alone grant money to his daughter. So I, being in possession of great riches, went to his home in the dead of night, and dropped a bag containing a small fortune in gold through an open window. I then escaped undetected.”

“I’ve heard this story! The guy had three daughters, right? And Saint Nick, er, you, gave more money the next night, and then more on the third night. But the old geezer was waiting for you on the third night…”

“Indeed. I heard him making quite a racket in the bushes, and decided to take a more unorthodox route. I climbed a tree, jumped to his rooftop, and tossed the last bag down the chimney. The fire was out, thankfully, and it landed among the ashes. I then attempted to flee, but getting down proved harder than getting up, and in my haste I was spotted by the father.

“The man thanked me with tears of joy, but I told him, ‘It is not I whom you should thank, but God alone’.

“We agreed that this would remain between us, but eventually, word spread of my deed. I cared not for the fame, but the man’s happiness left a mark in my heart. I prayed to God for the opportunity to give gifts to those in need every year. To my surprise, I was granted my prayer. Every year, a large sack of gold coins appeared on my pulpit, and every year I went out and distributed them in secret. Overnight, the gold transformed itself; it became whatever the recipient truly needed, be it a warm bed, a new cart to replace a broken one, or the exact sum of money owed to a debtor. When the people came to me, asking if it was I who gave them the gifts, I told them, “These gifts come not from me, but from my Father in heaven.” And so it was, year after year.

“Then, one year, I found myself in need of finances. Instead of turning to God for help, I kept a single gold piece for myself, hoping for a similar transformation. Instead, the gold turned to coal, and I grew sick with a holy plague, aging at a terrible rate. By the time Christmas came around again, I had grown to be a man of eighty, wracked with pains. The gold manifested once more, and I hobbled out to give it all away. It was only by the grace of God that I did not perish that frigid night, but somehow, I managed to dispense the blessed coins.

“As the last piece fell from my fingers, my youth was miraculously restored, but my curse was not lifted. As long as every piece of the gold was given out, I grew older in number only. I discovered, from numerous accidents, that I could not die, nor did injuries vex me. I felt cold, pain, and hunger, but death ran from me.

“It has been almost two thousand years since then. Seasons come and seasons go, and still I remain, forever suffering for my sin. Ouch,” he added, as Jason drew the fifth bullet from his skin.

“Oh hush, ya crybaby. If you’re immortal, pain’s nothing new to you.”

“That does not mean it does not hurt.”

“I told you it would. So, let’s say I buy your story, which I don’t. How does that get you on the bad side of a hit team?”

“Your government learned of my gift. At first, they were merely curious. They wanted to capture me, to study me, to learn the secrets of immortality. In short, they wanted to dissect me. Then they learned of the gold, and the power it contained. And they were afraid.”

“What? Why?”

“Think of it this way: What if I gave a coin to a terrorist, and it became a machine gun? Or a nuclear bomb? Or a weapon stronger than both?”

“Can it truly do that?”

“No. It cannot. If a person is impure, if he has killed a fellow man, the gold becomes coal in his hands. Only if the person has good intentions will it alter form. A failsafe, to prevent that exact scenario from occurring. But of course, your leaders did not believe me. They seek even now to catch me, to lock me away. Of course, I have other, limited abilities, which until now have allowed me to evade capture. Still they hunt me.”

Jason pulled the final slug from Cole’s shoulder, dropping it on the pan. The wound leaked a single drop of blood, sealing itself with unnerving rapidity.

“Huh. You do heal pretty quick.”

“I have not lied to you.”

“Okay, so, if you’re unkillable, why shoot you up? They must’ve known you’d get away.”

“Indeed. I do not know. Perhaps they are more desperate than I thought.”

“Or maybe there’s another reason.” Jason held one of the bullets up to the light, turning it over. The bullet had something nestled in its core, some kind of circuitry. And he’d seen that circuit before.

“A tracker. They put these things in ankle cuffs. Never seen one this small… Oh hell, Cole! They’re tracing you! They know you’re here.”

“Indeed? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t-”

“Jason, I need you to listen to me. This world has no place for me anymore. The gifts cannot be given to those not truly in need of a miracle. Christmas has become a holiday of greed, of excess. Soon, I will be unneeded, unwanted. I cannot die, but if there is no one left to give my gifts to, I will live for all time in the agony of weakness and old age. The end will come even sooner if I am captured and locked up. I won’t let them take me alive, Jason. I won’t spend the rest of eternity as a lab experiment. I came here for a reason.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I want you to kill me.”

For a long time, Jason stood in silence. After several minutes, he said, almost to himself, “You can’t be killed…”

“I will give you a gold piece. If you want with all your heart to let me die, it will become a weapon capable of ending this miserable existence.”

“But…”

“I chose you for a reason, Jason. I know your soul is pure. That’s why you lost your old job. You couldn’t kill that boy, even when he attacked you, a police officer. Even when he shot your partner, and shot you in the leg. You still carry that wound, Jason! You still carry that memory!”

Jason turned violently, placing his face inches from Cole’s. “You’re right! I failed everyone! I couldn’t kill the kid. I saw his gun, I knew he’d pull the trigger, and I still couldn’t put him in the crosshairs. I can’t kill anybody, so why the hell did you choose me?”

“Because you are the only man alive that I trust. It has taken me two hundred years to find a person like you.”

There was a noise outside, different from the rushing wind. Cole stopped, listened. It was the distant roar of an engine, growing steadily closer.

Jason stiffened. “Snowmobiles. They’ve found us already!”

Cole leapt to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, upsetting the tray of surgical tools in the process.

“Now, Jason. You must end this now! Here,” he drew from his coat a small sack the size of his fist. Reaching in, he brought out a single round piece of gold, offering it to Jason. “Wish, Jason. You must wish, you must need me to die. Please. Please let me go. Help me.”

Jason didn’t move, his thoughts in turmoil. Beyond the snowy hills, the snowmobile’s whine was joined by several more, drawing ever nearer.

“Jason…”

“Hold on. Just give me a minute. I can’t-”

“There is no time!”

The blowing snow cleared for a brief moment, and Jason caught a glimpse of one of the machines, black and sleek, skipping through the snowdrifts about a quarter kilometer out from the cabin.

Cole saw it as well.

“It is too late. Goodbye, Jason.”

Before Jason realized what was happening, Cole was already out the door, running into the blizzard.

“Cole, wait, no!”

Jason raced after his friend, snatching up a coat from the rack as he passed.

The outside air was a frigid twenty-two degrees, and the cutting wind did little to make it better. Jason’s ears were numb within a few seconds of exposure, but he didn’t care. He had to catch up with Cole before the old man did something stupid.

A gust of icy air slapped him in the face, and he stumbled in the deep snow, falling to his knees. His fingers sank into a drift, sapping what little warmth remained. He struggled up again, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he looked around desperately for Cole.

Somewhere behind him, wood splintered with a rending crash as black-suited men stormed his cabin. He didn’t care. He had to stop…

There. A flicker of red fabric as Cole ducked behind an evergreen. Jason ran as hard as he possibly could, overtaking Cole as the man leapt a small gully, tackling him to the white-frosted earth.

“Let… me… go!”

“No!”

“Why, Jason? Why won’t you help me?”

“I’m not going to kill you, man. You’re crazy. You need help.”

“I’ve lived a thousand years…”

“You are NOT Santa Claus!”

Cole stopped struggling, looking directly into Jason’s eyes. “Then how can I do this?”

And the world twisted and bent with a sound like thunder, and both men were gone in a flurry of shimmering snowflakes.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

 

The trip took only seconds, but it felt like forever to Jason. His senses were disoriented, spread between a million particles that somehow formed his body. The two men smashed through dimensional boundaries, slipped between atoms, crossed lightyears of space, yet never left Earth.

“Cole!” Jason shouted, but there was no sound, just a thought that became a rainbow of colors before wiggling away into the fabric of the universe.

Then, with an explosion of light and sound, they were whole again, standing in a snowy field.

“What… how…,”

His eyes locked on the nearest landmark. “The Washington memorial… D.C.? We’re in Washington D.C? But…”

“Leave me!” Cole shouted, and they whirled away again. Reality folded itself into a box, then shattered, mixing with snow and electricity in a storm of impossibilities. They were in midair over the Eiffel Tower, then tumbling down the side of a towering mountain. Cole fought against Jason’s hold every time they became solid, but Jason had his arm in a death-grip, gritting his teeth as they whisked from place to place across the world.

Finally, they came to a stop, right back where they had started from. Cole tried to vanish once more, but whatever power he had possessed was spent.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Holy… What was that? How did you do that?

Cole sighed in defeat, letting his shoulders slump. “This power was granted to me by God, to assist in the delivery of my presents. I can go anywhere with a thought, pass through walls, become a snowstorm and slip down chimneys. And, on Christmas Eve, I can even bend time. Now do you see? I was telling you the truth.”

“So, all this time… you’ve really been alive for a thousand years?”

“Yes. I have been witness to things no man should ever see. I have watched history unfold, I have seen events that you have only read about in text books. I have been shot, stabbed, crushed, run over by a locomotive, and despite the agony, I survived. Imagine it, Jason. A thousand years of suffering, all punishment for such a small sin. If you do not help me, you will be dooming me to another year of anguish. I can’t go on like this, Jason. I will ask but one more time; will you help me?”

And Cole held out the coin once more.

For a long time they stood together in the snow, oblivious to the howling storm. Jason neither took the gold nor turned away, weighing his options.

“If I touch that, it will change immediately?”

“Yes.”

“And it has limitless ability? It will become whatever I need most?”

“Yes.”

Jason hesitated, then reached out, taking the coin from Cole.

The gold let out a soft ringing sound as it expanded, its colors flowing and shifting as it changed. Jason was left holding a neatly wrapped box, about a foot tall. He tested its weight, tipping it slightly as he examined it.

“Well? Open it.”

He undid the ribbon binding the box together, then lifted the top. The wind tore the lid out of his hand, sending it spinning away into the whiteness, but it was already forgotten as Jason reached into the present.

In one smooth motion, he drew out a long red robe, identical to Cole’s. Dropping the box, he spun the coat around his shoulders, pulling its hood over frozen ears.

Cole was in shock. “A coat. You wished… for a coat?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“There!” someone shouted from the house, and a rifle bullet tore a hole in the tree beside them, missing Cole’s head by inches. The old man sighed.

“I don’t have enough energy to jump again. We need to run, Jason.”

Jason smiled, adjusting his sleeves. “No. We don’t.”

And so saying, he grabbed Cole’s shoulder, and slipped sideways through the planes of existence.

The journey was much smoother than the last, and shorter, too. They stepped from the rift, still in the snow, but miles from the cabin. Jason’s car sat nearby, sheltered from the winter weather by a stand of trees.

Cole faced his friend in confusion. “What did you do? How could you know to do that?”

“Easy. I wished with all my heart to take away your suffering. I wished to become you.”

“But… what…”

Jason’s smile widened. He reached into the folds of his coat, pulling out a set of keys.

“My car’s right over there. I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore, so it’s yours now. Merry Christmas, Saint Nick.”

Cole caught the keys, staring at them blankly. A thought struck him, and he felt inside his pocket. “The gold…”

“Oh, this?” Jason held up the bag, shaking it to make it jingle. “Don’t worry about it. From now on, I’ll be taking care of it.”

“My power…”

“I have it now. It wasn’t ever really yours, anyway. You’re mortality has returned. If you want to die, that’s up to you, but killing yourself would be pretty ungrateful, don’t you think? Besides, there’s so much to live for. You’re human again. Go live.”

Cole started to say something, then changed his mind. “Goodbye, Jason.”

“Goodbye, Cole.”

The wind whistled past, and when it was gone, there was only one man in the parking lot.

 

 

Epilogue

 

December 25^th

11:59 pm.

New York, the Leuwman Household

 

 

 

James Leuwman, age seven, was supposed to be sleeping. The household had long since gone silent, it occupants, or at least most of them, sound asleep. But James didn’t want to sleep. It was Christmas Eve. And that meant that Santa Claus was coming.

He had heard his parents discussing Santa. They thought he wasn’t real. They thought that Santa was imaginary. They were wrong. Tonight, he was going to prove it. He would meet Father Christmas in person.

Stepping carefully over the squeaky floorboard, he descended the staircase, his footfalls as quiet as he could make them. The Christmas tree in the downstairs living room was brightly lit, throwing colorful patterns across the walls as James approached.

There was a man there, too, clad in a fluffy red winter parka, with a black belt around his waist. He was placing something on the floor, between the gifts that James’s parents had wrapped. Something that looked like a coin of some sort. It must have been a trick of the light, because when the man stood, there was no coin; only a small, neatly wrapped present.

“Santa?”

The big man turned, smiling at the boy. “Well, hello there! You’re supposed to be in bed, my little man.”

“I just wanted to say hi.”

“I see. Well, hello to you too, James.”

James’s eyes widened. Santa knew his name!

“Come here, James. I have something for you.”

Santa held out his hand. James walked over to him, reaching up and taking the small gift from Santa’s palm. He began to unwrap it, but Santa placed a hand over his. “Not yet, my good fellow. You have to wait until morning!”

“Oh, okay.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, James. I need to be leaving, though. I have a lot of gifts left to deliver!”

“Okay, bye!”

Santa turned, walking towards the fireplace.

“Santa?”

“Yes, James?”

“I thought you had a white beard. Or did you color it black on purpose?”

Jason smiled, stroking his goatee. “I thought it was time for a change of style. What do you think?”

“It looks cool. You look like my dad, except more hair on top.”

With a chuckle, the man who was Santa Claus turned again, stepping into the fireplace.

“And laying his finger aside of his nose

Then giving a nod up the chimney he rose

But he heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night”.
– Clement Clarke Moore