The Evolution of Claus by Nick Ozment |
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Stealthily, like a special forces soldier on a secret mission, Tommy crept down the hall in his pajamas. His mission: spy on Santa Claus.
Like thousands of boys and girls before him, Tommy was not content with "visions of sugar plums dancing in his head"--he wanted to see with his own eyes.
Because of the timing involved, few have ever been successful in this Christmas quest. Santa comes late and stays less than a minute, a very small window of time to catch him in the dead of night. Drooping eyelids usually don't hold up that long. Soon, Tommy would be one of the few who knew the awful truth.
Flannel pressed to rug, he peered out from behind the banister. He was focused on the fireplace, its once cheery Christmas Eve embers now cold--the jolly old fellow's alleged point of entry.
Tommy had the benefit of caffeine--and lots of it--but an hour had come and gone, the caffeine and sugar rush had worn off, and he was struggling to keep his eyelids at half-mast. The wall clock ticking off the minutes had a strange, hypnotic effect that would have lured a less determined child right into Dreamland. Tommy began to drift off into a light sleep then jerked awake. Perhaps a quick dash down to the kitchen for a pop and a snack would help.
But what if Santa arrived while he was downstairs? He might turn around and leave! Tommy didn't want to frighten Santa off! After wavering for another five minutes, he gave in to his suddenly revived sweet tooth. He slipped down the stairs on slippered feet.
He opened the fridge, releasing the light and a pent-up waft of chilly air. He grabbed a cold pop and some candy from a jar then quietly started back through the kitchen, his eyes readjusting to the dark.
That's when he heard the noise--a slurping, plopping sort of noise, like someone pouring a full jar of jelly onto a tile floor.
Oh no! Santa was here, and Tommy was trapped in the kitchen. But he couldn't pass up this opportunity, not when he'd held out so long, and have to wait another year.
Quickly dropping to the floor, he wormed forward and peered cautiously around the archway into the living room. What he saw, by the wan glow of the multicolored sparkling lights of the tree, was not human. Nor, for that matter, was it elfin.
It had come in through the fireplace and stretched over the hearth like a giant slug. Its length he could not guess because part of its body was still backed up the chimney. The visible part was elongating toward the tree. It was a slimy, gelatinous mass with no apparent limbs or eyes or sensory organs.
Tommy stared mesmerized, his scream choked up in his throat. He couldn't force out more than a rasping wheeze that no one would be able to hear--except maybe that thing in the living room.
When the slug-like creature was within a few inches of the tree, it began to disgorge something. Tommy strained to make it out and realized with horror what the square objects were--presents being left under the tree!
Two tentacles snaked out from the thing up to the stockings on the hearth and began filling them like a snail depositing its eggs. Then the tentacles withdrew, and the whole creature retracted like a night crawler into its hole, back up the chimney.
A moment passed, then suddenly a black shape slid back down into the fireplace. It had not left. One slimy edge, like the head of a slug, protruded from the fireplace now, wavering, as if sniffing the air with an unseen nose. Tommy's heart pounded so hard in his chest, he was afraid the thing would hear his heartbeat. A slimy tentacle emerged with a sucking orifice at its end. It whipped forward and hovered over the table near Tommy. Then it dived down onto a plate of cookies and glass of milk. It sucked up the milk and cookies like a vacuum, then curled back up into the body crammed in the chimney. The thing shot up the chimney and away.
Tommy lay there a long time, numb to the cold kitchen tile. Was Santa some sort of alien?
The following morning, Tommy was the last to get up. His parents thought it an odd reversal that they were the ones who had to coax him out of bed. His mother felt his forehead. He said nothing about staying up half the night, or about what he saw. The only reminder came when his mother picked up the empty milk-glass. "Oh, I hope we didn't leave a dirty glass for Santa," she said.
"Why's that?" his father asked.
Holding up the glass to the light, his mother answered, "There's some dried-on jelly or something on the lip. Tommy, be sure you rinse off the dishes before you put them in the sink." Tommy didn't reply.
Tommy opened his gifts with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Even though he got many of the things he'd asked for--a Dr. Creepy Edible Slime Lab, the Roach Motel game and a Gamma Gore-Master action figure with removable limbs and exploding chest--he seemed somewhat ambivalent toward them all.
Tommy was never quite sure if it had only been a dream. He later learned that in the past, St. Nicholas had been a real person. Whatever the case may have been, Santa is now a bloated, amorphous mutation, Tommy will tell you with a hint of anxiety in his eyes.
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