Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had problems sleeping, even with every available home and OTC remedy a child could obtain a restrictive parent’s permission to try. Choking down chamomile tea had no effect, lavender-scented sprays didn’t do anything but smell nice, white noise gave me migraines and I seemed to have an immunity to melatonin gummies. With just about every option at the time exhausted, all I could do was sit in a dark room and stare into the red glow of a digital clock showing me just how much sleep I was losing.
Of course, insomnia doesn’t take holiday breaks, so Christmas 2013 was no exception. I was on break from school, I had nothing to lose sleep over, but here I was, laying in bed, once again, watching a clock in hopes that I could zone out enough into it to where I could just finally sleep at a reasonable time. By the time 1:30 in the morning came, I just figured that maybe sleep wasn’t in the cards for me that night; that possibility unsettled me. Even though I was “outgrowing” my belief in Santa at that time, there was a part of me that pondered the chance that he really exists and was really watching me, wide awake, staring at a clock at that very minute.
I attempted to shrug that thought, but it just continued to eat at me. I wasn’t sure why, but the more I tried to get the words, “he sees when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake” out of my head, the more it persevered. To distract myself, I decided I would just go downstairs and get myself a cold bottle of water. After all, if I’m really just going to spend my night wide awake, I may as well keep myself hydrated.
Just before I could open the door to my room, I froze because all I could hear was a loud thud coming from the far end of the living room. Keep in mind, by this time, both my parents were in deep slumber, and I don’t have any siblings; I’d be the only one capable of making any sort of commotion. In my head, I had two different thoughts rushing through my head as fast as adrenaline was pumping in my veins. I’ve known from my parents that the area I grew up in was prone to criminal activity, so for all I knew, a burglar was in my living room, perhaps stealing the gifts under the tree, or other valuables my parents assumed would be completely safe as long as the doors were locked. But on another hand, it was Christmas, and the loud noise came from right around where the little fireplace stood. Either way, being a young teenager, I chose that moment to be stubborn and stupid. I spotted a large, old, hardcover dictionary in my room, and took that with me as my method of defense.
I quietly opened the door to my room and started to get to the stairs. I knew exactly which spots on the floors would make that creaky noise, so I carefully walked to avoid those spots. Once I got to the wall by the stairs, I decided to take a quick peek at who, or what, was in my living room. On a quick glance, all I could see was a tall man in a red and white getup with a black belt, and black boots to match.
thud.
My dictionary, jaw, and heart slammed into the floor all at once. The figure turned to face me, and I was staring right into the face of Santa himself.
Now, one would usually suspect this to be an exciting moment, in which someone’s Christmas spirit goes through the roof discovering the immortal mythical being they’ve learned to love their whole childhood turns out to be real.
This was not that moment.
I can’t say I locked eyes with him, because all that was left of him were void, empty eye sockets. Through the lights on the tree, I could see his flesh was greenish-gray and decaying, to the point where his jaw hung a couple inches open and askew. His beard was heavily matted, but patchy due to areas where insects have taken residence.
I froze again as he began to approach the stairs, dragging one foot behind the other. The closer he got, the more terrifying he was. Now, I could see that his clothing was almost as mangled as he was, allowing me to see that the bones of his ribs were exposed, and his once-elfish ears had flesh hanging on by thin attachments. Each step he took let out a waft of death that turned my stomach, and I was able to hear his heavy, labored breathing.
He slowly raised up his decrepit hand to point at me, crooked his head and let out a single breathy noise, with only one audible word.
“sleep.”
I ran back into my room, heart trying to break free from my chest, and locked my door. Through the thin walls, I could hear prolonged creaking noises, as if someone was walking up the stairs and towards my room. Thoughts scrambled through my head
Suddenly, the words, “he sees when you are sleeping” returned to me, and I ran for my bed.
“Maybe if I just act asleep, he will leave me alone, and everything will be okay.”
I slipped myself under the covers and closed my eyes. Despite being fully conscious, there was high hope in my mind that it would be a convincing enough display for him to be satisfied. It seemed to be that way, considering the sound of heavy treading appeared to cease.
All was peaceful, until I could feel hot air hit the side of my face and could once again hear that shallow breathing. Except, this time, through the heavy exhale, I could hear a full sentence.
“I know you’re awake.”
My eyes shot open and I looked straight at him, mere inches from my face. The smell alone made me want to vomit, but in that moment, I couldn’t do anything; I couldn’t even attempt to re-shut my eyelids in hopes I could just rid myself of the absolute nightmare right in front of me. It was as if my body completely shut down and all I could do is watch as he attempted to form a devious smile and suffocated me. All I can remember after that is waking up that cloudy Christmas morning to my mom announcing, “come down, Vivie, you got a gift from Santa!”
I can’t say my ability to sleep has gotten much worse, but it definitely isn’t better, either. Especially when every Christmas since then, I’ve seen his face distantly watching, gauging whether I’m truly sleeping or awake.