Page 5 of Bad Santas

Without moving so much as an inch, I glance around the near vicinity, noting I’m still on the couch. I must’ve fallen asleep after my Nick-induced playtime. It’s too dark to see much, though. The TV always turns off on its own after thirty minutes of inactivity, and the glimmer of the Christmas lights doesn’t illuminate a whole lot. Listening intently, I’m expecting to hear another squeak…but nothing comes.

Part of me insists I go back to sleep, that I’m only hearing things and it’s all a figment of my imagination. The other half, however, will not relent, tuned in on high alert. I may not be able to see it, but I feel it—a looming presence. Like someone’s watch?—

“I know you’re awake, Noelle,” a decadent purr booms, shooting me upright as a terrified shrill blasts free from my throat and I ball myself up into the cushions.

There, in the shadows, illuminated by nothing but the colorful glow of the Christmas tree, stands not one, but three darkened figures—the only obvious detail being their trimmed crimson cloaks.

Like three bad Santas.

“W-what do you want?” I scrape out, my fear stricken, thundering heart now lodged within the too-tight confines of my throat.

I’d offer them money, valuables,anything,but you know what they say… If someone breaks into your house in the middle of the night, they’re not after your belongings.

They’re after you.

“You don’t recognize me?” that same voice questions. There’s an underlying mirth to his query that strikes a familiar chord, but I’m too frightened to hone in on it for long.

I have no weapon.

Well, at least not close by. My granddad’s shotgun is in my closet and there’s no way I’m running past them to grab a knife from the kitchen. I’ll never make it. Not to my keys, either, where I have a few safety defense items attached.

I’m fucked.

I’m so fucked.

“I…”Please don’t kill me.“I have some money. In my wallet. It’s not much, but my purse is by the front door. Take it, take whatever you want,” I ramble, limbs quaking timorously beneath the shield of my arms.

As if that would actually fend these men off, should they attack.

“We’re not here for money, Noelle. We’re here foryou,”that voice growls back.

And call me fucking crazy, but I swear it didn’t come out in a predatory fashion…

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me,” he continues in wake my silence. “Didn’t you tell Santa you wanted three masked men for Christmas?”

No.

There’s no way.

It can’t be…

“Nick?” I almost whisper it—in complete and utter disbelief.

This time there’s no mistaking the way he chuckles. All darkly and deep-seated. Mildly foreboding. “Mmm. You asked, I delivered.”

Itishim.

He’s…here?

I’m almost too mind blown to speak, but the words somehow make it out of my mouth in a rush. “How…how did you know where I live?”

“I followed you, sweet girl.” He says it so simply, as if it were a completely normal thing to tell someone. “As the night went on and your little request played in a loop, the better it sounded. My mind was racing with the possibilities by the time you said your farewells. I had to see it through.”

He followed me…

He fucking followed me!

“And who are they?” I ask—like a dumbass.

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