As little as nine years old, I had already lost all faith in santa. I was sure that all the presents underneath the christmas tree were all my father's plan, and it was all so disapointing. I decided to stay in bed that Christmas eve. When my mom came to my room asking if I wanted to help out making the cookies for santa, i simply said no and covered my head. My mom didn't like that very much and asked if she was certain, because she couldn't really make the cookies herself otherwise it would ruin the whole point. I refused again and pouted asking her what was the point.
Looking back I wish I listened.
She left, gloomy. My father came into my room and sat at the edge of my bed, concerned. "Sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to help out your mother with baking the cookies? Santa won't be very happy if he doesn't have his milk and cookies." My dad gently ushered me, trying to convince me otherwise. When he noticed I wouldn't budge, he sighed and instructed me not to leave my room before 12:00 am. I didn't think about it.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Although I didn't believe in santa, I wanted to have a sneak peak of the presents before christmas. As I got out of bed i thought about the rule my father gave me and looked at the clock. It was 11:43. I didn't want to wait it out and left my bedroom anyway. Seventeen minutes wouldn't make much of a difference. I gently tip-toed downstairs. It was really dark and I could barely see anything. Before I reached downstairs, I heard heavy foorsteps, and ragged breathing.
It didn't sound human.
I was starting to have a bad feeling about all this. Slowly, I peeked into the living room. A tall figure in all read stood right in front of our christmas tree, staring at it with his back arched. That wasn't my father. My eyes lit up. Santa is real! My joy didn't last long. He shifted his gaze to the empty plate beside the tree, and i was starting to get worried that i wouldn't get any presents because we didn't make any treats for him. Suddenly, he turned around and looked straight at me
I was mortifed. Whatever that was, it was wearing Santa's face. It had wrinkly, rotting skin with nails that carried maggots. It salivated at the sight of me. "Santa..?" I cried, the entity stared at me with desire in its eyes. The air shifted. "Little girl, where is my milk and cookies?" it croaked, trying to immitate a man's voice. I was trembling as it started walking towards me, dragging its dead skin on our clean wood floors. The face it had plastered on itself wasn't well attached and hang on its head with dry blood crusting on it. "You know what happens when Santa doesn't get his treats?"
I shook my little head. "He eats something else, something just as sweet." Its voice was rough and strained, it rung in my ears. He took another step forward influencing my fast heartbeat. I tried to run, to scream, but I was glued to the floor. I watched in horror as it slowly walked towards me, lumping every step. Its gaze never left mine. Soon, it was right in front of my face, drool acute at the rim of the face's dry mouth, the face that clearly didn't belong to him. "And you just happen to be daddys sweet girl"