I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday. Back then, I was just a little girl of about eight or ten, my wide eyes fixed on the night sky, desperately searching for Santa Claus. My mother cradled me in her arms, her trembling hand pointing at every shadow that slid across the moon's pale face.
We lived in a small town, isolated from the outside world, with only two neighbors nearby. Her thighs trembled from the cold. I remember making those guttural growling noises, pretending to be a fire-breathing dragon.
In truth, it was just warm breaths I was exhaling through my mouth. She would always giggle whenever I did silly things like that. I loved making my mother happy.
The snow had completely blanketed the ground. I'd always been a mischievous child. I stuck out my foot and kicked a flurry into the air, feeling snowflakes catch in my hair.
My mother rubbed her hands together. "I wish your father were here," she said, her eyes glistening. The truth was, they weren't together anymore. My brother lived with Dad, while I stayed with Mom.
They'd agreed to let us see each other during the holidays, but it seemed my father hadn't kept that promise. Running to my mother's side, screaming into the frigid night air, and stargazing together on full moon nights had to be enough for me. I missed my brother - but I wanted to see Santa Claus even more.
When you're a child, the things that matter most sometimes stop mattering at all.
"Mom, do you think Santa will bring me exactly what I wished for?" I kept pestering her with questions like that. She responded with a gentle smile and closed her eyes—the kind of smile that made the snowflakes pause midair.
"Sweetheart, I'm not sure. How good have you been this year?" She teased, that same question that always made me pause. "I've been very very good, Mommy, I promise! All my teachers love me!"
Her arms were strong—like any single mother's had to be. I usually loved being held and cared for. But not tonight. Tonight, I needed to watch! I wriggled free from her grasp. The clock had just struck midnight when I dashed toward the moonlit snow.
"Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice cutting through the frozen air like a knife.
The neighborhood kids playing in the street below could hear me. "Merry Christmas!" they shouted back one by one. I watched them play hacky sack, laughing and enjoying their holiday break. I wanted that too.
I wanted to be surrounded by other children—to play and do childish things without a care. The thought of my brother made tears well up, hot and sudden.
My mother noticed my unusual silence. She approached and grasped my shoulders. "You want to go play with the other kids, don't you? I could ask Cindy," she said. I wiped the tears from my cheeks—but before I could answer, a voice cut through the night.
"Ho ho ho."
The voice was deep and rough, like dry bark scraping against stone. "Merry Christmas, little girl."
Santa! He'd finally come! My eyes darted around, searching for the source of that sound. Then I saw it—a towering figure in red and white lumbering toward us through the snow. My heart leapt.
"Santa!" I cried. "Did you bring my presents?"
As the figure drew closer, the scent of copper and liquor began to saturate the air.
"I have it right here, little one," he rasped.
My mother suddenly yanked me backward, sweeping me into her arms. I squirmed in confusion—why was she pulling me away when Santa had finally brought my presents?
"Get away from us!" she screamed, her voice trembling in a way I'd never heard before. Fear shot through me. My mother never got scared. Her voice never shook.
I looked up. Her eyes were wide with terror, her breath coming in ragged clouds that hung frozen in the air.
"Mommy?" I looked up at her, confused.
She thrust a shaking finger toward him, as if trying to ward off some evil spirit. "You need to leave. Now."
My eyes darted back to Santa—still advancing, step by relentless step. But as the porch light finally illuminated him fully, I noticed something... wrong.
The red stains smeared across his suit weren't part of the fabric. His beard wasn't fluffy white, but matted with something dark. Sunken cheeks framed wild, bloodshot eyes that locked onto mine with unnatural hunger.
My tiny heart hammered so violently I could hear its frantic rhythm pounding in my ears.
"I'm just here to spread some cheer," he rumbled, chuckling to himself in a voice like gravel grinding beneath boots.
Every hair on my neck stood upright.
He was now just ten feet away - towering three heads taller than my mother. In the sickly yellow porch light, I saw his teeth were stained black and brown, like rotten piano keys.
He took one final step and halted. My mother held her breath so completely I could hear the silence.
I was too young to understand this man had come to hurt us.
But just old enough to know true fear.
My mother ran with me still clutched in her arms. He gave chase immediately. My weight must have been draining her strength—I could hear it in her ragged gasps, feel it in the way her muscles trembled beneath me.
Just get us inside, I thought desperately. The little house would be safe.
I screamed.
My mother pitched forward but twisted mid-fall—sacrificing her own body to cushion mine.
Santa's gnarled hand closed around my mother's ankle like a bear trap snapping shut. Yet even then, her only thought was saving me. With one desperate shove, she propelled me toward the house—I stumbled forward several feet before regaining my balance.
"RUN! Inside—NOW!" Her scream tore through the night.
I turned to see Santa yanking at her clothes, trying to flip her onto her back. The porch light glinted off something metallic in his other hand.
"Call 911!" she gasped between struggles. "911! NOW—"
The first punch landed with a sickening crunch. Then the second.
My mother went limp.
Blood bloomed from her nose, a crimson thread snaking down through her eyebrow. I stood frozen, my breath coming in shallow whimpers.
Santa rose slowly from her motionless form, his lips twisting into that same grotesque smile. That same "Ho ho ho" laugh rattled from his throat—now wet with something dark dripping from his teeth.
I spun toward the house.
He cut me off in three strides, his massive body blocking the doorway. Up close, I could smell the rot beneath his cheap cologne. My chest heaved, each gasp burning like I'd swallowed broken glass.
"What will you do now, little girl?" The words slithered from his mouth like oil dripping from a rusted pipe.
I whirled toward the neighborhood kids—their hacky sack forgotten, their faces twisted in identical masks of shock. They'd seen everything.
My legs moved before my mind could catch up. I only recognized Cindy—the neighbor who sometimes brought over steaming dishes when Mom worked late. But it was her husband charging toward me now, his bulky frame cutting through the snow like a plow through dead grass.
Behind me, Santa's boots crunched rhythmically through the ice.
Run.
Don't look back.
The man's arms stretched toward me, still twenty feet away. From somewhere behind came the faintest ho... ho... ho..., each exhale closer than the last.
"He hurt Mommy! Help!" My scream tore through the frozen air.
The man stumbled toward me with uneven strides, his boots kicking up chunks of snow. Close now—so close I could see the steam of his panicked breaths.
I lunged for him, expecting to be swept into safety. Instead, a massive hand sent me sprawling face-first into the snow. The icy wetness shocked my skin as I scrambled up, my pulse hammering against my eardrums.
Cindy's husband was grappling with Santa now. Though broader-shouldered, he was losing.
Santa's fingers—too long, too sharp—dug into the man's flannel shirt as he lifted him clean off the ground. A sickening crack echoed as the man's head snapped backward at an impossible angle.
The world snapped back into focus as my mother's scream pierced the chaos. I hadn't even realized she'd regained consciousness until she was already upon us—her foot connecting with Santa's spine with a hollow thunk that should have shattered bone.
She became a whirlwind of desperation: pushing, clawing, beating at his bulk. But Santa didn't even flinch. His head slowly rotated toward her, that rotting grin stretching wider as Cindy's shrieks echoed from her porch.
"Call the police!" Cindy's voice sliced through the night—likely screaming at her children inside.
Santa's hands closed around her husband's throat like iron vises. I rushed forward, my tiny fists pounding uselessly against the matted fur of his coat. Each blow landed with a muffled thud, absorbed by layers of something far thicker than fabric.
His hat toppled off.
Beneath it—only pallid, hairless scalp stretched taut over unnatural contours of skull. No beard grew there, just... skin.
My mother threw her full weight against him, her nails drawing dark lines down his neck. Nothing. Not even a flinch.
"Stop! Please don't hurt him!" My mother's plea dissolved into the winter air. Santa didn't even glance her way.
Cindy's husband hung limp in his grasp. With one hand still clamped around the man's throat, Santa reached into his coat pocket and withdrew—
—something metallic.
I stood paralyzed as the first punch landed. Not a human punch. Something mechanical, the sound like a butcher's cleaver meeting bone.
My mother collapsed to her knees, her face a portrait of primal horror no child should witness. Blood rained onto the snow, each drop hissing as it vaporized against the frozen ground.
My mother clamped a hand over her own mouth—whether to stifle a scream or vomit, I'll never know—before seizing my wrist with bone-crushing force. She yanked me up, the pain sharp and bright, and ran.
Over my shoulder, I saw Santa.
He stood over Cindy's husband, the thing in his hand dripping black onto the snow. His head wasn't turned toward us.
He was staring at Cindy's house.
Then—thud—the first kick landed on their front door.
My mother dropped me just inside our threshold. I crumpled to the floor as she slammed the door behind us, the click of the lock absurdly small against the violence outside.
Her Christmas sweater—once white with reindeer patterns—was speckled with red. Her hair, usually so carefully pinned, hung in wild tendrils. She still wouldn't look at me.
"Sweetheart, call 911. You know how to use the phone. Please, baby, just do as Mommy says." Her voice was a fragile thing, cracking under the weight of forced calm.
She vanished into the kitchen—the snick of the lock, the frantic slide of the window bolt. I told the operator Santa Claus was hurting people. Gave our address in the steady tones of a child who doesn't yet understand how absurd that sounds.
"Stay on the line," the dispatcher said. So I did, the coiled phone cord stretching taut as I peered down the hall.
My mother moved like a ghost through the house—checking locks, yanking curtains shut. Her hands left smears on the glass.
"What's that noise I'm hearing?" the dispatcher asked.
"Mommy's moving furniture to block the windows," I answered matter-of-factly.
And she was—our bed screeching across hardwood, bookshelves toppling forward, even the refrigerator groaning as she shoved it against the glass. Every object in our home became a barricade.
Then—silence.
Until the screams came.
Not from outside our house.
From Cindy's.
My mother froze mid-step. Slowly, mechanically, she approached the one uncovered window—the sliver we'd missed—and pressed her palm to the glass.
Her other hand snatched the phone from mine.
"He's killing them! Someone please—!" My mother's scream died as abruptly as the distant shrieks had. She dropped the phone and crushed me against her chest.
We lived too far out in the country. Police would take hours to arrive.
Thud.
Santa was at our door now—kicking, pounding. The reinforced frames my single mother had installed after Dad left held firm.
Crash!
Fists came through windows. Wood splintered as he shoved against the barricades—my mother's makeshift fortifications groaning under the assault.
She prayed through tears while I—
—while I wet myself in her lap.
The shame still burns. Not just the accident, but the betrayal: Santa doesn't hurt people. Santa brings joy.
Even the wail of approaching police sirens didn't slow him down.
He hurled his massive frame against our front door—once, twice—the wood groaning like a living thing in agony. Nothing in this world would stop him from reaching us.
When the police finally arrived, he didn't even turn.
Tasers crackled.
He kept pounding.
Gunshots rang out—pop pop pop—sounds I'd later understand were 9mm rounds tearing through red velvet.
Still, the blows came.
I'd heard gunshots before—distant pops during hunting season—but never this close, never this loud. My small hands clamped over my ears as the explosions tore through the night.
The man who attacked us had a name: Charles Stricker. Our neighbors weren't his only victims that night—just his last.
Drunk out of his mind and high on God-knows-what, he'd stumbled home only to be thrown out by his wife. "Don't you dare come back until you're sober!" she'd screamed.
Wandering through our sleepy neighborhood, seeing children laughing in the snow... something in that broken mind must have snapped.
That night, he took seven.
Cindy. Her husband Stephen. Their bright-eyed Peter, who'd just learned to skate.
Then the Wilsons—Demetrius and Cynthia, still in their bedclothes. Their twins, Henriette and Fatima, barely two years old. They'd forgotten to lock their door. Or maybe they'd trusted this quiet street too much.
Seven stockings that would never be filled. Seven names I'd whisper every Christmas Eve for the rest of my life.
To this day, my mother never speaks of that night.
No more twinkling lights. No Christmas tree. No cheerful greetings—she even avoids social media throughout December, as if the very word "Merry" might summon something unspeakable.
Harvey, Cindy's youngest, survived. We talk sometimes, though he often lets my calls go unanswered. Rumor says he's tried to leave this world more than once.
I send no Christmas cards. Not to him. Not even to my mother.
For me, the holidays have become a season of shadows.
Crowded malls send me spiraling—the moment some poor department-store Santa hoists his fake laugh, I shatter. "He's hurting them!" I'll scream, clawing at strangers, "Can't you see? He'll kill them all!" The humiliation afterward burns worse than the panic.
Living alone comes with its own horrors. When winter's first snow dusts the ground, I descend into a private madness: triple-checking deadbolts, hearing footsteps that aren't there. My therapist calls it "complex PTSD." I call it knowing.
I've moved countries twice. Some stains won't wash out, no matter how far you run.
Lock the door properly!