Never Fear (37 page)

After a thorough inspection of the
light show, it was shown that everything seemed to be safe.
Tourists from surrounding states poured in, intrigued by the
ghoulish aftermath. Within days, Glen Roberts and his construction
crew had most of the display up and glowing again. It would take
years, however, for the insurance claims to be settled.

“
Look at the people, Glo,”
Roberts smiled at his wife as they watched from their new picture
window. “Hundreds, maybe thousands every night. We’re making a lot
of people very happy.”

“
It’s too bad we had that
catastrophe,” she said, holding his hand.

“
Small price to pay, Glo.
Small price to pay.”

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 11

“
Wow! What a crazy story!”
Nick said. “High body count.”

“
Yeah,” Nick added. “And
it kind of made me hungry.”

Nancy looked at him in disbelief. “You
just ate like half a dozen doughnuts and four eggnogs, coffee and
brandy...”

“
But I can
smell
the turkey.” Nick
stuck his nose up in air and took a long whiff. “Maybe you and Mom
should start getting everything—”

“
Me?” Nancy said. “Why?
Because I’m a girl, I should have to ‘stay in the kitchen?’ I don’t
think so. What’re you gonna do, you lazy—?”

“
Enough,” Dan said
roughly.

Nick and Nancy glanced at each
other.

“
I think it would be nice
if
everyone
helped me with dinner this year,” Judy said, causing raised
eyebrows from Grandpa and Jack.

“
A new tradition,” Judy
said. “I’ll make you a deal, Nick. I’ll let you have one more
eggnog and we can have Grandpa read to us while we fix
dinner.”

“
How come he gets to
read?” Jack asked. “I could do that.”

“
Age has its benefits, my
boy.” Grandpa laughed.

“
Listen, Nick,” Dan said,
rising unsteadily to his feet and stretching. “Let’s read one more
story and then help your mother with dinner. You can even read this
one.”

“
Alright, I guess so.
What’s it called?”

“‘
Tis the Season To Be
Wicked.”

“
Sounds good.” Nick took
the book from his father.

‘
TIS THE SEASON TO BE
WICKED

ED DEANGELIS

’
Twas the day of
Christmas, and all through the Marsh house a creature was stirring,
one much louder and wickeder than a simple mouse.

“
But, Mmooommm!”
seven-year-old Ryan cried out in disappointment. It had happened
again! Ryan stood next to a small, sparsely decorated,
Charlie-Brown-looking Christmas tree. He was a pudgy little boy,
stomach sticking out past the waistband of his white underpants,
his plump angelic face crimson with anger.

“
Please, baby, just calm
down, I’m sorry Santa didn’t get you what you asked for.” His
mother, Julie, sat on a large, brown leather sofa within her small
home’s cozy living room. She was a slender woman, wrapped in an
old, comfy pink fleece robe meant to keep out the frigid
temperatures that came with the ice-cold winters in Pennsylvania.
Blue eyes partly hidden by her brown, unkempt hair were wet from
tears shed at her son’s behavior. Julie was in her early thirties,
though her beautiful face showed signs of stress and age beyond
that number, stress that had begun with joy seven years ago, and
had not yet ceased.

“
I... wanted... a
new
PlayStation 3!
You
promised
if I
was good, Santa would get me what I wanted this year. This isn’t
what I wanted!” The little boy’s voice rose in pitch as his plump
hands hefted the used game system. They shook with anger and effort
as he hurled the refurbished PlayStation 3 toward the fireplace,
the same place through which his terrible gift had
arrived.

“
That’s enough!” a deep
voice called sternly from the kitchen as Ryan’s father, Mark,
stepped in, eyes locked upon his son. His bushy black eyebrows
furrowed. “If you don’t like the gifts Santa brought you, we can
send them back to him, and you can have
nothing
!”

“
It’s not fair,” Ryan
blubbered now, snot running down his small, piggy nose, spittle
spraying from his tiny, sodden mouth. “Santa did it again, Dad!
Last year he didn’t get me anything I asked for. He used to, but
now Santa hates me!”

His father’s threat fell on uncaring
ears, for little Ryan did not want, nor care, about the sorry
excuse for gifts that lay scattered about his bare feet.

“
Ryan Marsh, I said that
was enough. Get your butt up to your room. NOW!”

Ryan let out a little scream of
contempt before kicking a small pile of used video games that lay
in front of him, scattering them across the thick brown carpet.
Some flew far enough that they landed on the small, decorative rug
that the coffee table sat on, where Julie was sitting. He stomped
past his parents, one angered, the other stunned, his small feet
stomping hard upon the wooden stairs before he let out one last act
of defiance. “I hate Santa!” The sound of his bedroom door slamming
followed his shrill declaration.

Downstairs, Mark sighed. He sat down
and reached out to draw Julie close to him for comfort. Mark felt
her tremble as she sobbed silently. A few moments passed, her body
finally stilled before a soft whisper passed her lips. “He’s
getting worse, Mark... I don’t know what to do? We can’t afford
toys like we used to since I lost my job, and no matter what we say
or do, he doesn’t understand or care.”

“
I know, baby, I know.”
Mark‘s words of comfort seemed to have little effect on his
distraught wife. “Don’t worry, baby, we'll figure something out.
Plus, I am positive he’ll grow out of it. You know, I was a rather
rotten child.” Mark chuckled softly at the memories his comment
brought unbidden to his mind.

“
You were never this bad,
and you know it. Your mother told me that you were a brat, but you
were nothing like Ryan. This has to get better, baby. I...
we
need him to grow up.
I love our little boy, but we did wrong giving him everything that
he wanted.”

His thoughts soon snapped back to here
and now at his wife’s response.

“
He will, sweetie, trust
me. Now why don’t we open up our gifts? Maybe we can salvage what’s
left of the day and have a slightly peaceful Christmas.”

As they opened their gifts, their
son—the tiny terror—was forgotten. For a few hours, the parents
celebrated Christmas with love and joy, and not with sadness and
anger.

But for Ryan, there was no joy, only
anger and the festering hate of a spoiled child spurned.

Santa is naughty and he
must be punished
. Ryan fumed while he sat
in his massive bed, surrounded by countless toys, many having only
seen a few minutes of play before being discarded.

“
Next year, Santa is gonna
learn what happens to people who get on
my
naughty list.”

The Year of Lessons

Tonight Santa will learn
his lesson. I got a special trick, just for him
,
Ryan thought, as he skipped around
the tree, delight in his eyes, but delight that was fueled by
cruelty and the thought of retribution. He gathered from under the
tree small bits of cotton fluff, laid there to resemble snow. He
brought the layers of cotton fabric to the fireplace and laid them
gingerly upon the brick. His hand went into the small pocket in his
pajama bottoms. His fingers gripped tightly around a handful of
small white marbles, a crappy gift Santa had brought him two years
ago. They had been discarded at the back of his closet. But now,
one of the very gifts Santa had brought him would be used to
deliver his own punishment. The thought that Santa’s lesson for
disappointing Ryan would be taught using his own crappy gifts
pleased him immensely.

He sprinkled the marbles
in the white cotton, making sure they were camouflaged within the
fabric.
Boy, is Santa in for a surprise
when his fat butt comes down this chimney. This will let him know I
mean business. He better leave the shitty gifts in his bag. Used
gifts are for poor people, not for little princes like me.
A soft chuckle left his little, red lips. It was
not a kind sound; it was filled with the joy of someone who was
sure he were going to inflict pain, and he savored the
thought.

“
Sweetie, what are you
doing?”

Ryan jerked, startled from his
devilish thoughts.

His mother had watched him lay the
cotton faux snow in front of the fireplace from the staircase
leading to the second floor. She made her way downstairs, her body
once again wrapped in her favorite pink fleece robe. A look of
confusion with a hint of concern knitted upon her
features.

Ryan turned and smiled brightly. “I’m
just getting things ready for Santa, Mommy!”

Julie sighed, sadness
creeping into her features. Her head shook, shoulders slumped. The
thought and desire about chastising her son fluttered in her mind
for a moment before they died. It wouldn’t do any good. Her
son
acted
sweet,
but that's all it really was—an act. She loved her child, but she
and her husband, Mark, had spoiled him too much. And in doing so,
they had overlooked what their little boy had become—what they had
molded him into. Julie shook her head. She had to believe Mark. She
had to trust that he had been like this when he was Ryan’s age, and
soon enough her little boy would grow up like his father
had.

“
Go upstairs, my little
prince. It’s late and Santa won’t come if you're awake.”

“
Of course, Mommy. I don’t
want Santa to skip over me. Not this year.” Ryan forced a wide,
disingenuous smile onto his face and nodded his head
enthusiastically.

He scuttled past his
mother, little eyes alight with glee, as thoughts of Santa slipping
and falling danced in his head. Ryan joyfully climbed the stairs,
his enthusiasm showing as he jumped from one step to
another.
Tonight’s the night! No more bad
gifts for me on Christmas. Santa will slip and fall and understand
that he needs to give me what's on my list!

Julie studied her son as he did what
he was told, for once. She looked at his face as he turned at the
top of the stairs. He did not even look at her, but instead stood
staring at the trap he had set. A manic smile spread across his
normally sweet features. That grin, along with her son’s baneful
stare, sent a chill through her body, despite the warm robe that
was wrapped around her. She could not imagine what was going on in
her little boy’s head, and secretly, deep down, she did not want to
know, and was glad she didn’t. Ignorance was a blessing.

Once she heard the door to her son's
room shut, Julie turned and made her way over to the fireplace.
Squatting down, she began to pick through the cotton, finding
marble after marble. She had to really search. Ryan had planted
dozens of marbles that were well hidden. But they needed to be
picked up, otherwise Ryan would probably throw a tantrum, flinging
the faux snow and marbles all over the place. Random marbles upon
the floor, scattered to places unknown, were dangerous. So focused
was she on her task of cleaning up her son’s mischievous antics,
along with the whirlwind of thoughts in her head, she failed to
notice her husband approach her. His calloused hands touched her
shoulders gently. She jerked, releasing a soft squeak of
surprise.

“
Baby, what are you
doing?” Mark’s bewildered tone matched the scrunched up eyebrows as
he tried to process what the heck his wife was doing squatting in
front of their fireplace.

“
Why is some of the tree
basing ripped off and placed around the bottom of the fireplace?”
Mark’s bewildered tone soon changed, filling with a weariness and a
hint of annoyance. He knew who had done it, just not why. “In the
name of God, what is he up to now?”

“
I think he’s trying to
trick or punish Santa for not getting him gifts that he wants. He
tore off some of the fake snow you bought. He placed it here to
hide these.” Julie held out her hand, and small white marbles
clacked together softly.

“
I’m just picking them up
before they get scattered and one of us slips.” Julie reached down,
lifting the faux snow and giving it a shake. Seeing no marbles
rolling here or there, she poured the marbles into the pocket of
her robe and stood.

“
I better throw these away
before—”

“
No, sweetie, give them to
me. I have a better idea. We need to make sure he understands you
can’t fool Santa, or else he might just keep trying. Hold on just a
moment.” Mark stepped away, moving to the family room. He returned
quickly coming back with an old candy dish they had gotten years
ago. It had sat unused, until now.