Letters to Santa

You better watch out

Transcript

Copy

Your cat always finds new and creative ways to mess up your Christmas decorations. About every other year, he takes down the tree, no matter how well you think you’ve steadied it. He leaves all your usual knick-knacks alone, but the Christmas ones are new and strange and must be batted around. The pinecones and tealights you can put back, but he’s murdered more than one elf on the shelf. This year, it’s the stockings he’s set on taking down. You put them up every year, and he’s never taken an interest; they’re too high up. But this year, no matter where you set them, he keeps getting into them. He rifles through the candy, or rips them off the walls, or worse, he puts his own presents in them. You’ve found three mice so far, and each time you have to rewash the bloody stockings. He finally settles down on Christmas Eve, tired from a long day of playing with wrapping paper, and he’s being quiet enough that you feel safe putting the candy and lotions, and little toys in everyone’s stocking. You chastise your cat before you go to sleep, telling him Santa’s watching. And when you get up to open presents with your family the next day, none of the stockings are on the ground, which is a good start. But when you get to yours, you see blood stuck to the inside edge. And when you push aside the top layer of candy, you see an eyeball staring back at you. It’s hazel and bloodied and looks to be freshly ripped out. It looks human. You hold it up, showing your husband, your kids. And there’s a pause before everyone starts laughing. The kids say, “Dad, again?” And you tell your husband he needs to patch up the holes in his funtime shed. He’s been saying he’s going to do it for weeks now. You shove him playfully, and you go and get yourself a candy cane from the tree. Then you settle in for another perfect Christmas morning with the podcast inside your house. 

Letter 1

Dear Santa, 

I think it’s about to be Christmas. That is, if I haven’t lost track of the tally marks on the wall. I try to be good about marking them everyday. I try to be good about so many things. But I don’t always know when the days pass. There’s no sunlight in here, so I just mark them after every long sleep. That means Santa, that I’ve been down here for almost a year. That means that probably no one is going to find me. 

Except for maybe you.

I know I’m too old to be believing in you. But the thing is, I’ve never been able to fully convince myself that I was just imagining things when I saw you crawling out from my fireplace when I was just a kid. It’s funny, that was so long ago, years even, but I remember it so well. Well, I remember you anyway. 

I couldn't tell you what I asked for, or if it snowed that year. But I can still vividly picture your massive body sloughing onto the still-burning embers in our fireplace.

I remember rushing over to help you then, for just a second, before I heard you sigh in contentment, and I realized the fire didn’t bother you. Then, I just worried about getting in trouble. I wasn’t supposed to be up and out of bed. I was being naughty. But the stairs creaked, and my bed was so far away, so I settled for hiding behind the couch. 

Our whole house smelled like oranges and cloves that night. Mom had done a simmerpot to brighten the place up, and it verged on cloying. But when you sizzled out of the fireplace and onto the floor, all I could smell was a strange, rocky scent. Like when you visit a cave, or when you drive past construction and they’ve cut into the clay deep, deep down, and you get a hint of something strange that rarely breaches the surface of the earth. 

Where do you live, Santa, that you smell like clay? That fire doesn’t hurt you?

I wasn’t scared of you when I saw you. Not like I would be now. As a child, I didn’t understand that when I was looking at you, I was looking at something that didn’t entirely make sense. 

As you squeezed out into the living room, it took a minute for you to lose your rectangular shape. You’d melted your body to fit into the chimney, and you’d made yourself so, so skinny. 

Against the dying flames in the fireplace, reignited by your disturbance, your torso compressed back, and your limbs filled out. It looked like it hurt when you squished back into your human shape. I expected to hear bones cracking, tendons straining. But it was silent, like you didn’t have any bones left. 

As you stood to your full height, I remember recognizing your outfit right away. It was just like the one Father Martin wore at our church. Kind of poofy and pajama-like, but with intricate designs going over the top. Your’s was blood red, and the designs going over it silver. It should have been sooty and dirty and burned from coming down the chimney, but it wasn’t; it was pristine. Like dirt couldn’t touch you. 

Your face, though, that looked like it had seen better days. It was scarred and weathered, like an old fisherman. And you looked so tired, Santa. 

You had a white beard, though, just like I was expecting, and your face was flushed red in the cheeks and nose. And though I was a little bit scared of how you’d crawled out of the chimney, I felt better when I heard hoofbeats on the roof above us. 

I pictured a sleigh then, with Rudolph and his nose glowing crimson. But weirdly enough, I swear I remember hearing whinnying. Like we’d gotten it wrong and you had horses up there instead of reindeer. I remember being shocked by that, like adults thought they had everything figured out, but really, they don’t.

They certainly don’t have you figured out, Santa. 

Once you got your bearings, you went straight for the tree. I watched you pull the presents out of a burlap sack, one that hung limply down, like there wasn’t really anything in it. Like you were summoning the presents out of thin air. And I remember thinking then that all the stories were true, that there really was magic in the world. 

I was so, so happy to see you, Santa. So happy in fact that I’d moved too far out from behind the couch, just to where the edge of the firelight caught me. And when you spotted me, I felt like I did when I was being restless in church or when I was being too loud at dinner with my grandparents. Like I was in trouble, but not really, because no one was ever allowed to get as mad at me as my parents were. Not even Santa Claus. 

You didn’t look surprised, though, when you spotted me, Santa. No, you looked sad. 

“Come here, son,” you said, and your voice sounded younger than you looked, but so so tired. 

And I walked up to you, and I didn’t know what to say. But I remember what you said.

“I’m going to tell you what I want for Christmas, son.” You said. “I want you to be good, this Christmas, and all the other Christmases you’re going to have.”

“Okay, Santa,” I said. And I meant it then, I really did.

“It’s very important you listen to me, son.” You put your hand on my shoulder then, and it was so very cold. “Because if you don’t stay on the nice list. If you decide to be naughty, I’ll come back for you. And I don’t want to do that, okay?”

“Okay, Santa. I’ll be good, I promise!”

But your eyes studied me like you didn’t believe me, and you looked so sad. Like you knew I couldn’t keep my word. And that disturbed me so much more than watching you constrict and twist and slough back up the chimney. It was like you could see ahead, and you knew I wouldn’t be good. 

But the thing is, Santa, I have been good all these years. I know I’m still young. I know I have a long way to go. But I have kept my promise, so I’m asking you to break yours. 

Come back for me, Santa, and get me out of this place. 

I’ve tried every way to get out. But the door here is made of some heavy metal, and it’s unlockable only with a fingerprint. There are no windows. The walls are cement. 

It’s a place built to be a prison, only so much worse because I’m the only one here. Well, except for the man who put me down here. If you want someone to punish Santa, I’m telling you that no one deserves it more than him. 

You’re the only thing in this world that can help me, Santa. Because there’s no way for me to get out of here, but there is a way for you to get in. I’m in some kind of a basement, but there’s an old fireplace down here. And I’ve looked up into it, and I can’t see the sky, but I can see light coming through. 

It’s too narrow for me to even think about crawling out. Right now, anyway. Give it a few more months, though, and I might be skinny enough and missing enough pieces that I can fit through. 

But I don’t want that to happen, Santa. I want to get out of here while I’m still mostly in one piece. 

So Santa, I’m asking you to break your promise. Come after me. Crawl down this chimney. Punish the wicked and get me out of here. Because I am telling you, I’ve been good. And all I want for Christmas this year is to get out of here alive. 

Letter 2

Dear Santa, 

It feels like a lifetime ago now that I first wrote to you. I wish I could remember what I said in my very first letter, the one that summoned you when I was a kid. That one’s left me now, and it’s funny I don’t even remember writing to you that year. 

But I still remember the second time I wrote you a letter. The one I wrote in that vile dungeon decades ago now. Really, I was still a kid back then, too. 

But not now. Now I’m all grown up, Santa. And I still remember you so vividly. From both times I saw you now. 

The second time was even more magical. I couldn’t believe my eyes when you started sliding out of that chimney. I was so happy. My captor couldn’t believe his eyes either, and he just watched as you put your body back in its proper shape. I’d never seen him shocked before. 

Only when you came towards us did he try to stab you. And you let him, Santa, but all that came out was sand. 

He bled through. When you grabbed him back and started crunching his body up, and his bones started breaking through the skin, he bled just like a normal man. Even though I’d always thought of him as a monster. 

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things since you helped me escape from there, Santa, things I’d never appreciated before. I cherish the sky now, the clouds, the stars, the sunset, so many things I never thought I’d see again. I’ve traveled the world since then, and I’ve seen wonders from all over the globe. 

But nothing has ever been quite so lovely as the sight of you stuffing that man's body into the chimney, and setting him alight. His screams were the sweetest thing I’d ever heard, sweeter even than birdsong. Sweeter even than the sound of the metal door to my prison being ripped from its hinges. You’re much stronger than you look, Santa, quite spry for a man of your age. 

Seeing my captor die and witnessing your fearsome strength was inspiring. It reminded me of what I’d known as a kid but had since forgotten. 

That there was magic in the world.

And I’m sure you must be wondering why I’m writing to you now. Or maybe you aren’t wondering because you can see into my heart. 

Do you remember when you stopped me from going out that dungeon door? When you asked me if I was sure that freedom was what I wanted?

You told me I could come to your workshop instead, I could climb up on your horse with you, and go to your home. And there you’d watch over me. You’d make sure I was always on the nice list. You said that if I went out into the world, I’d be naughty. 

And I told you I wouldn’t. I promised you I wouldn’t. And I haven’t Santa, not yet. 

The doctors were able to fix me all up. I've got a wife and a house and a dog, and I’ve been good damnit. Even though that place changed not just my body but my mind. Even though it made me sick in the head. Or maybe I already was, and you saw that in me so, so long ago when I was just a child.

But the thing is, Santa, I’ve never given in to those bad thoughts I have. Not once. But this Christmas, things have changed. 

My wife has her family staying with us, and Santa, you can’t understand the agony it’s been to ignore those thoughts. With her family sleeping in our house, under our roof, so close, so helpless. They would never see me coming. They’d never expect the things I think about doing to them. 

I’ve come so dangerously close to leaving the nice list, Santa. And I don’t want to do that. 

So I’m writing to you tonight to tell you that I’ve changed my mind. I want to come to your workshop after all. I want you to make me stay on the nice list. I want you to help me, because I’m not strong enough to do it myself. And if this letter finds you too late and I’m on the other list, then I want you to take care of me the same way that you take care of all of the other monsters out there. 

Because I’m trying, Santa, I really, really am. But someone needs to stop me soon because I don’t know how much longer I can stop myself. 

I think you’re the only one who can help me now, Santa. If you don’t, I’m afraid that any day now, any hour now, any minute now, I’m going to lose control. I fear that before this Christmas is over, Santa, I’m going to be naughty.

Thank you for tuning in to this episode of the podcast inside your house! To hear every tale of terror as they are released, subscribe to our show on your podcast app or on Youtube or follow us on Instagram and Bluesky.

Until next time, remember that he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, and he has a thirst for blood that only the naughty can sate.