Killing Christmas - InkSpot.Com

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Killing Christmas

The receptionist and her gal pal behind the counter probably figured I couldn't hear them from the waiting room because of the Airpod stuck in my ear. But I only had one in. And I wasn't listening to anything.

"Oh, he hates Christmas," the older one said.

"But why?"

"It's a long story…"

I got up and went to lean my arms on the counter.

"You'd hate Christmas too, if your spouse and child died in a fiery car crash because of a drunk driver leaving a party. If there were no Christmas my family would still be alive."

They looked up in surprise.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Thornton," the younger woman said. "Would anything be able to improve your outlook?"

"Nope. It's the most horrible time of the year. People running around like mad buying overpriced gifts and trying to drink away their problems for a few hours. Everyone's stressed out and tired and the sun sets too soon and that idiotic daylight savings time—I'm telling you, they should outlaw Christmas."

"But there's more to it than that," she protested. "It's about love and kindness—"

"What if there's no one left to love?"

A sergeant came up with a folder of paperwork for me to sign.

"You arguing about Christmas with Detective Thornton?" He asked. "It's hopeless. I swear, if he ever met Santa Claus in person, he'd kill him just so he wouldn't have to suffer through the yearly holiday season."

"Wouldn't go that far, buddy," I retorted.

"Yeah, you'd have to go all the way to the North Pole to find him," the sergeant chuckled.

I didn't find the conversation funny at all. Just signed the papers and left before they could offer any more half-baked sympathy or lame jokes.

It was snowing as I drove home, of course. I turned on the radio and quickly turned it off again as the inane words of Let It Snow slipped out. That is one of the stupidest holiday songs: saying "well, I'm all cozy, so I don't give a darn if everyone else freezes to death in a blizzard."

A week left until the awfulness of Christmas itself would be over. But the nightmares of losing my wife and six-year-old daughter never went away: reliving the pain and anguish, the smoldering wreckage, the hollowness of everyone's celebrations during my mourning, the neverending guilt trip of "what-if's" and "if-only's:" if only I'd insisted they stayed home that evening, if only they'd headed out fifteen minutes sooner or stayed fifteen minutes later, if only they hadn't turned down that road at that moment… the fact that there was nothing I could have done to avert the tragedy only made it worse.

As I pulled into the garage I noticed a package on the doorstep. Now who would be dumb enough to send me anything? I expressly told everyone, no gifts. Don't waste your money and make me waste mine sending you something in return that you most likely won't even want.

I went inside and opened the front door to get the package. It was from a distant cousin of mine who lived in California. A bit of a mad scientist. Curious to see what peculiar gift he'd sent, I opened the box at the kitchen table and pulled out… a VHS tape. What? Now how'd he expect me to watch that? I unfolded the enclosed letter and read:

Dear Thornton:

I hope this letter finds you well.

It doesn't.

I have discovered the secret to predicting the future. The VHS I included is what would be called a "snuff video," recording someone's murder, but I haven't produced it for entertainment's sake.

What? He killed someone on video?

This is actually a video capturing a moment which has not yet taken place, as you will see when you watch it. I am sending it to you in the hopes that I can prevent this sad situation from occurring.

Wow. What kind of weed do they smoke in California?

Take care and Merry Christmas,

Sincerely,
Kerry.

I figured my cousin was higher than a kite. But I went up to the attic and unearthed my old VHS player from the eighties, plugged it into my living room TV, popped the tape, and watched. It appeared to be a silent film, but fully modern, with professional panning, zooming and cutting.

I saw myself, holding my Glock and striding towards an Alpine lodge in a snowy forest. The Tudor windows glowed warm in the fading sunlight, and it was decorated for Christmas. There was a snowman standing in the front yard; my video self stared at it for a moment and then kicked it to pieces. Puzzled at such belligerence, I leaned forward to watch closer.

In the video, I approached the main front window and looked in. An elderly man and woman sat on the sofa, holding hands and listening to an old-fashioned radio playing holiday music. They were both wearing red, and though they weren't nearly as silly looking as one would think from seeing him at the mall, it was quite obviously Santa Claus and his wife.

My stomach heaved as I remembered the sergeant's joke and realized what I was about to see.

Mrs Claus left the room, and immediately my video self lifted the gun and fired several rounds through the window at the lone figure on the sofa. He fell sideways, blood staining his white fur neckline as Mrs Claus came running back into the room with an unheard scream.

The video cut off abruptly. I immediately rewound it, examining every detail on my high resolution TV screen. I'm no media forensic expert, but I couldn't detect any signs of AI or CGI in the film.

Obviously I hadn't murdered Santa Claus. At least not yet. It was shocking to see myself doing something so outlandish and uncharacteristic, and yet as I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, it all made sense, somehow. If I did manage to accomplish what the video showed, Christmas would be gone. No more Christmas music, drunken parties, driving in the dark, traffic jams, shopping sprees, car accidents. Everyone would stay safe at home, because what else would there be to do?

Now why hadn't I thought of this sooner? Imagine the heartache that could be avoided. The kids didn't need some old geezer giving them toys—that's what parents and birthdays were for. All that remained was to head to the North Pole. I began making arrangements.

*****

I hiked through the deep snow, many miles from civilization, getting closer to the address I had on my map. Phones were of no use out there. The woods were too thick to see much of my surroundings, and it was getting dark. Stupid short winter days.

I was determined to get the deed over with. Christmas would be cancelled once and for all, and good riddance.

Suddenly my foot sank into a hole in the ground, hidden by the snowdrifts. I fell down, my ankle twisting and sending a sharp pain shooting up my leg. I wallowed in the snow, trying to get back up, but collapsed with a feeble cry for help. My voice slipped away into the wilderness unheeded by any, save perhaps wolves.

Arrgh! What an ignominious end. I lay there wondering how long it would take to die of exposure. No one would know what had become of me. Not that anyone back home cared. Funny, the video hadn't shown this. Fate must've had something else in store for me. Yeah, a miserable death of hypothermia.

I wallowed as deeply in self-pity as I had in the snow. Just as I was ready to close my eyes and wait for the end, an enormous dog began to bay in the distance. Great, just what I needed. I was terrified of dogs. The sound drew closer, mixed with shouts and a jingling of bells.

A huge St Bernard came bounding towards me, churning up the snow. Behind him a sleigh appeared, pulled by a reindeer with a glowing red nose. And in the sleigh, of course, was Santa Claus. I wasn't stupid enough to take aim at him now; all I wanted was to get in out of that dratted cold. And to get away from the dog.

He couldn't have been nicer, helping me into the sleigh, tucking a blanket around me and hauling me home. The place looked exactly as it had in the video. I lay on their sofa with my leg elevated, holding a mug of cocoa. Santa and his wife bustled around me, making sure I was ok.

As things quieted down, Mrs Claus went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. The St Bernard rolled over in front of the fireplace and fell asleep. Santa sat down in a chair beside me and looked me over with a gentle smile.

"Well, Thornton, how are you feeling?"

I felt a flush of shame and embarrassment as I realized he must know exactly what I had come there to do.

"I—uh, much better, sir." I couldn't meet his warm, kindly eyes. Finally I said what had to be said. "I'm sorry. I… can't believe I was really going to…"

"Are you still?"

"No no, I couldn't. You saved my life. But if you knew, why didn't you just leave me out there? Would've served me right."

"Let me tell you a story, sonny. My wife and I weren't always two funny old people running a toy factory. Many eons ago, we were a normal young family, raising a son and a daughter. We had hopes and dreams and plans. But an epidemic spread through the land, and our children grew ill and died within days of each other." He paused as a tear came to his eyes.

"I'm sorry… I didn't know…" I reached out a hand to him, unsure of what to do. He took it and held it in his own.

"We prayed to find some new purpose, some deeper reason to live. After the sickness subsided, there were many orphans and poor children left behind. The Lord led us to use our talents to make them happy. I made wooden toys, and my wife sewed clothing for the kids and their dolls. And that's how this all started."

"Am I supposed to gain some renewed understanding of my own purpose, then?"

"It doesn't fall into place immediately. First, you are allowed to mourn. Have you come to terms with your grief?"

"No… I don't think I have, actually," I stepped back mentally and realized just how much I had been holding in. "I mean, I guess you'd call me hard-boiled. I'm a detective. Not the kind to show feelings."

"It comes out in bitterness. You were ready to take out your feelings on the one person who never did you any harm."

"I thought I was doing something good. Look how many awful things happen during Christmas…"

"Don't awful things happen during Halloween as well? And what about Easter? Would you prefer Jesus remain in the grave so you wouldn't be bothered by the Easter bunny?"

"Religion was never my thing anyway…" I sighed. "Maybe it's time I learned to pray to the Old Man upstairs. I need some serious help."

*****

When I got home the next morning, I dug an electric candelabra out of the attic. I hadn't decorated for Christmas since I lost my family. I felt the need to begin again. With my twisted ankle, I couldn't hang outdoor lights, but I'd keep something lit in the front window.

I brought out a couple of photos of us, celebrating Christmas. I hadn't seen those in years. I sat down and cried my eyes out over them. But I felt better than I had in a long time.

An email came in from the police department. A little girl was missing. Why, she looked just like mine. I knew I had to do what I could to get her home safely by Christmas. Maybe my renewed calling was to focus on missing children. I could almost hear Santa whispering in my ear,

"You can do it, Thornton. Make the world a better place, one child at a time."

It wouldn't be an easy journey. But I was ready to make peace with Christmas.

Word count: 2065.
Written for the December 1st-15th 2023 "SCREAMS!!!"

prompt: A detective receives a VHS tape which appears to be a snuff film... from the future. (A snuff film, snuff movie or snuff video is a type of film that shows, or purports to show, scenes of actual homicide.)

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