Page 4 of Unholy Night

Shit. Not good. Not good at all.

Letting my eyes adjust to the dark, I search my room for anything that can be used as a weapon.

After groping around the bottom of my closet, I finally settle on a high heel shoe, a decision I’m not proud of. But my home security safety has taken a back seat to just trying to keep me and my daughter alive. Some days, more than I want to admit right now, that’s really all I can do. Thank God Mandy’s room is farthest from the living room.

With shoe firmly in hand, I slowly open my bedroom door and begin to creep down the staircase. I realize then that I’m not wearing pants. Just the shirt and underwear. And I wonder at the fact that this bothers me more than possible intruders in my house in the middle of the night while I’m alone with a child.

I don’t often wish for a husband these days. But nights like these I do. It’s a special kind of loneliness to parent alone. To carry the full weight of responsibility for not just yourself but a young, innocent child who didn’t choose this life. To not have anyone to share that profound responsibility with.

Some days it feels too heavy. Too much. Like right now. I can feel myself cracking in the deepest, most hidden places of my soul. I think I can keep the cracks from showing for a little while longer.

But then what?

What happens when I crumble??

I shake my head and push those morbid thoughts out of my mind. I have a more pressing issue. Definitely more pressing.

The voices are getting louder and I pause by the hallway to the living room and listen.

“You’re overstepping your authority,” a male voice says. It’s a full, rich voice that should be pleasing to the ear but… he sounds whiny to me and I take an instinct dislike to him.

“The letter isn’t addressed to you, old man. Go back to your elves. This one is mine.” This man sounds arrogant. Self-assured. His voice is a husky baritone. It sends a shiver down my spine… and not the scared type.

There’s a pause, then the first man makes a disgusted sound. “These cookies are garbage.”

His insult to my admittedly lackluster baking skills still makes the blood run hot in my veins and I feel my skin flush. How dare he break into my apartment, steal my cookies then complain about them! The nerve!

I’m about to barge in against all common sense and give him a piece of my mind when the second man speaks. “These cookies are delicious. If you weren’t such a piece of garbage, you would taste the joy and the tears that went into baking these.” He makes a satisfied sound as if he’s taking another bite. “This realm is so dense. Each visit it becomes more difficult to breathe. To cut through the human slime. Magic is almost dead. But I taste what was and what could still be in these cookies. Now get out. You don’t deserve this family.”

I’m about to make a dash for the kitchen to grab my phone and call the police when a tiny voice nearly stops my heart.

“You don’t like my mommy’s cookies?” Mandy asks.

My feet move on their own and I’m suddenly standing in the living room, breathless and terrified, to find my little girl dressed in her reindeer onesie standing between two men, a look of utter, heartbreaking sadness on her face.

The man on her right is a big man with a large belly, long white beard, wearing a very familiar red suit and hat, with a red velvet bag at his feet.

If you believed in such things you might be tempted to call him Santa Claus.

The man to her left holding the last of the cookies is tall and lean, wearing a tailored black suit, a black silk tie, and a black Christmas hat trimmed with ebony fur. His hair is pitch as night; it is a wild, untamed dark halo around his pale face. His eyes are bottomless pits that I find myself falling into when he turns to look at me. He’s got a very posh, black briefcase with a silver clasp at his feet.

“Mandy, come here right now,” I say in my most stern mom voice as all eyes in the room turn to me. I clutch her to my chest before shoving her behind me and brandishing my shoe at each man in turn. “What the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you, creeps? And why aren’t you wearing masks during a freaking pandemic?”

2

Lucifer

Isnort before I see the anger flashing in her blue eyes, but really, I can’t help myself. Masks? She’s standing there in a t-shirt, brandishing a shoe, and demanding to know why I’m not wearing a mask.

Cute.

Her eyes move back and forth between me and the old elf that has lived far past his expiration date. Surprisingly, the ancient git hasn’t decided to just disappear. That’s his trademark move. I cut my eyes at him and watch as his brows come together and he strokes his beard. What is that walking heart attack thinking?

I look back at the woman, taking in her long legs, light brown bed-tousled hair, and bright blue eyes. Honestly, if I didn’t have plans for Christmas, this night might have taken a different turn. Especially if the fat bastard wasn’t standing there smelling like soured milk.

“If you’re Santa Claus, you should be nicer.” A little voice pipes up and I look into the cherubic face of the reason I’m here.

“You heard her, elf. Straight from the babe’s mouth.” I can’t help the grin that pulls at my cheeks as I wink at the little girl. She has the same straight hair as her mother but hers is blonde, and instead of blue she blinks back at me with bright green eyes.

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