Not a Creature was Stirring

This Christmas, the only gift is vengeance.

The radiator usually clanked at 3:02 AM. It didn’t tonight. Joe had bled the lines. He needed absolute silence.

He sat in the armchair. The Persian rug beneath him was lost under heavy plastic. It extended from the hearth to the sofa and crinkled as he shifted his weight.

Joe held the fireplace poker across his lap. He’d filed the poker to a grey edge ten years ago. His grip was loose. His palms were dry.

The walls rippled. The polyethylene sheeting, taped from crown molding to baseboards ten years ago, was still intact. It covered the wallpaper and the photos on the mantle. A woman and a boy. The faces in the frames were smiling. They hadn’t aged.

He looked at the tree in the corner.

It was a skeleton now. The needles were brown. They’d been falling for a decade. A circle of dead pine dust ringed the base. The popcorn strings had gone grey. The candy canes were pale, melted hooks of sugar.

Joe’s eyes lingered on one low branch. Jacob’s handprint ornament. Red construction paper. His name still spelled in glitter. Age six.

A scratching sound started inside the chimney.

Joe stood up. He stepped onto the plastic without making a sound. He walked to the window. The snow on the lawn was unbroken. No footprints or tire tracks. Just like ten years ago. Jacob’s baseball glove sat on the sill.

A black boot dropped into the grate. Gold buckle. Red velvet cuff. Then a leg. Thick. Heavy.

The figure tumbled out. It landed on hands and knees in the ash. It coughed a deep, wet sound. The red suit was real velvet. The white fur was stained with soot.

The man in red pushed himself up. He brushed ash from his sleeve and looked toward the armchair.

“Joseph?” the man said. The voice was like gravel tumbling in a drum. “You’re awake.”

The man blinked. He looked past Joe. He saw the walls. The plastic sheeting caught the streetlamp glare. He looked at the coffee table. No milk or cookies. Instead, a surgical tray sat on a blue towel. A bone saw and a paring knife. A ball-peen hammer was next to them.

The man in red stopped brushing his sleeve. He went still. His eyes tracked from the hammer to the plastic on the floor. Then to the dead tree. Finally to the handprint ornament.

He looked at Joe. His jaw tightened. He shifted his weight back toward the hearth.

“You knew when they were awake,” Joe said. His voice was a low growl. “You heard them screaming. Ten years ago.”

The man in red froze. His eyes widened. “Joseph. No.” The name came out careful. Gentle. “I know this house. I remember your family. I remember Jacob’s list.”

“You looked right at me,” Joe said. “I was on the floor. Zip-tied. Jacob was bleeding. Mary was trying to crawl to him. And you... you went back up the chimney.”

“No. I wasn’t here yet.” The man’s voice cracked. He held up his hands and took a step back toward the hearth. “My route goes west to east. I don’t hit the seaboard until after four. It wasn’t me.”

Joe gripped the poker tighter. “I saw you.”

The man’s eyes glistened. His mouth opened and closed.

Joe’s hands trembled. He looked at the ornament. Red glitter. Age six. He clenched his grip and swung.

Iron hit the temple. The skull cracked with a flat thud. The man in red slumped. He twitched once and went still.

Joe stood over him. He checked his watch. 3:13 AM. The exact time the police had arrived that night. Too late.

He grabbed the edge of the plastic sheet and began to wrap the body. The red velvet looked black in the dim light.

Something shifted above him. A soft rustle from the tree. The handprint ornament swayed on its string. It caught a glint of light from the streetlamp. The red glitter shimmered.

Joe stopped. He watched it tremble. Then he went back to his work.

Outside the wind died. The street was empty. The house was silent.

Not a creature was stirring.

THE END

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It’s part of my short story collection, MOTHER, MAY I AND OTHER STORIES THAT DON’T SIT RIGHT. Purchase the twenty four story collection here:

Mother, May I and Other Stories That Don't Sit Right