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Every year, I play a game of life and death with Santa. And All I want for Christmas this year is to stop playing.
They say the average child stops believing in Santa around the age of eight, maybe eight and a half.
But not me.
Cause I’m not like other kids.
You see… I’ve actually met Santa. Many times.
Now, I know what you’re thinking… That's not possible. Santa ISN'T real. Well... you're both right... and wrong... at the same time. And for that very reason, I stopped telling people the story after I turned ten.
But it goes something like this.
I remember loving Christmas. The lights, the sounds, the decorations, the stockings, and most of all, like any young child, waiting for Santa to come down the chimney to give me my presents!
One Christmas Eve, when I was four years old, I remember insisting to my Mom that we leave just the right amount of cookies on the table for him. For some reason, my four-year-old self had decided that he only liked the oatmeal ones, and not those made with chocolate chips, like we actually had in the kitchen. So, my Mom and I cooked up a batch just to leave for him. A batch, that she helped me bake with love, knowing they would go to waste.
That night, I remember putting myself to bed extra early, knowing that the faster I went to sleep, the faster I would wake up in the morning, to the presents that always awaited me on Christmas morning.
I had been fast asleep that night, when I was suddenly awoken by the sound of rustling on the roof above me.
*This was it!* I thought to myself. *It’s Santa! I’ll finally catch him in the act!*
So I snuck out of bed, tiptoed downstairs, and, as expected, spotted a man with a white beard, all dressed in red, standing in the living room by the Christmas tree.
I ran to my parents’ bedroom in excitement, and tugged at their sheets.
“Mommy! Daddy! Santa’s here! Santa’s here!”
My Dad rolled over, eyes still closed, and humored me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! He just came down the chimney!”
“That’s nice. Now go to bed, Bobby.” My Mom added, before they both returned to their slumbers.
I did as she said, and went back to my room. But as soon as I heard my Dad begin snoring again, I carefully made my way back down to the living room, to catch another glimpse of Santa.
I peaked my head around the corner, and there he was. *It’s really him! It’s really Santa!*
I kept staring at him, not wanting to miss a moment of his visit, when he finally noticed me. He seemed puzzled for a moment, before he waved me over.
“Hi, Sant-!” I began to excitedly call him by name, but he quickly placed one finger over his mouth.
“Shhh, Bobby.” He whispered, before picking up one of the cookies we had left on a plate for him, dipping it in the glass of milk beside it, and taking a bite.
Eventually, he reached into a large, green velvet bag, which was filled to the brim with packages, and removed one.
He then proceeded to place the wrapped box on a rocking chair beside him, and patted the seat, gesturing for me to join him.
*Who was I to disobey Santa?* I thought to myself, as I ran over to the chair, picked up the package, hopped onto the seat, and opened the gift in a scurry.
“Hmm?” I muttered, as I unwrapped it, and removed it from its packaging.
It was a humble wooden box, with a surface like a chessboard, containing several small pieces, each resembling festive objects like a reindeer, a candy cane, a snowman, and a Christmas tree.
“It’s a game.” Santa said with a smile, before explaining the rules. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane beats snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats reindeer.”
We played the game for hours and, as the night went on, I gradually learned how to play.
That first year… he let me win. I know that for sure.
After the third game that night, he smiled, and told me I was good at the game. He then tipped his red cap, stood up, and let himself out the front door.
As soon as my parents woke up the next morning, I rushed to tell them everything that had happened. But they laughed off my story, likely dismissing it as a child's fantasy, and we went about our Christmas day traditions, just as we always had.
Looking back on it, from a kid’s perspective, there was nothing unusual about it at all. I was just playing a game with Santa.
And so, I couldn’t have been more excited when he returned a year later, with the same game. We played it again, and I won again, which Santa seemed to be impressed by, laughing aloud, as he scarfed down his cookies.
It wasn’t until the third year, where things… changed.
That year, I was once again excited to play the now annual game with Santa. And just as he always did, he reached into his bag. But this time, he pulled out a different game. Not unlike the first, but this board was larger, with more pieces, and far more complex.
“Ok, Bobby. Now that you’re old enough, we’re going to play for real.”
I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but I agreed to play anyway. He explained the new rules, which were a bit more difficult to follow, and we began to play.
And this time… Santa won.
Letting out a soft chuckle, he removed two items from his pocket. A piece of charcoal, and a scroll. He then unrolled the paper, revealing the words, “Naughty List.” Below them… was a list of names.
He then proceeded to take the piece of charcoal and scratch it across the first name on the list, until it was completely crossed out. And then, he simply left, just as he always did, through the front door.
Truth be told, I didn’t think much of it at the time. Or the next year. Or the one after that.
And every year that he won, he would do as he always did, and scratch a name off the “Naughty List.”
Now, around this time, it just so happened that in my town, there came to be known something that the locals referred to as, the Christmas Murders.
For three years in a row, three people had died on Christmas. We all knew their names well. Daniel Jones, Sarah Anderson, and Michael Taylor.
By now, I was just old enough to be suspicious of the correlation, so the next year when Santa came around again, I paid careful attention to the first name on the list, and memorized it before Santa crossed it out. David Miller.
And sure enough the next day, the headline of our newspaper read. “Christmas slayer strikes again. This year, David Miller.”
That’s when I realized… that every time I lost the game to Santa, an innocent person died. That's when I realized... that this... was NOT Santa. This... was someone else.
After that, I stopped looking forward to his visit. I tried everything. Locking myself in my room. Hiding in the attic. Even running outside.
But every year, Santa found me. Every year we played the game. And every year that I lost, someone died.
But last year, was different.
Last year… I refused to play the game.
“But you have to, Bobby.” Santa insisted.
“Or what?” I shot back.
“Well, let’s see who’s on the list this year.” He said, as he removed the paper from his pocket, unrolled it, and lowered his glasses. “Ah, yes, just as I thought.”
He pointed to the first name on the list…
It was mine.
“I don’t want to!” I cried out, as I began to walk away.
“If you don’t play, then you get scratched off the Naughty List, Bobby. And what do you think happens then?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I shouted, “I wanna know! Now!”
He belted out a laugh, just as Santa always did, in all of those children's Christmas stories and movies. With his eyes closed, and holding his belly, seemingly charmed by my reaction.
“You know me, Bobby. I’m Santa.”
“Get the fuck out! I’m calling the cops!”
“Then you forfeit.” He said, menacingly, as he removed the piece of coal from his pocket and was about to scratch off my name.
“Wait!” I called out, as I stopped at the door and turned back to him.
“Alright, fine.” I said, defeated, agreeing to play the game.
And so, sitting there, across from Santa, and looking down at the wooden pieces, I began to think about everything he had ever taught me about the game, starting at the beginning. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane beats snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats reindeer.”
But he was good at the game. Too good. And nearly lured me into a false move. But this year, I was playing more carefully. I thought about every possible move, what his maneuver might be in return, and how I could counter. Somehow, I got the feeling that I was about to make the exact move that Santa wanted me to make. But I was resilient. No matter what, this year… I had to win.
And so I did.
“Christmas tree beats reindeer.” I said defiantly, as I moved my Christmas tree piece forward, knocking his reindeer to the board.
“Good job, Bobby.” Santa congratulated me with a smile, before standing up and walking away.
“Maybe next year… I won’t go so easy on you!” he said, before walking out the door, just as he always had.
That… was last Christmas. Coincidentally, the first year our town didn’t see a Christmas Murder.
And since then… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. *Who is he? Why does he make me play the game? Is he doing this to anyone else? And will it ever stop?*
To this day, I still don’t know the answers.
But what I do know is… Christmas is now just seven days away.
And all I want for Christmas this year is to stop playing the game.
#entertainment
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They say the average child stops believing in Santa around the age of eight, maybe eight and a half.
But not me.
Cause I’m not like other kids.
You see… I’ve actually met Santa. Many times.
Now, I know what you’re thinking… That's not possible. Santa ISN'T real. Well... you're both right... and wrong... at the same time. And for that very reason, I stopped telling people the story after I turned ten.
But it goes something like this.
I remember loving Christmas. The lights, the sounds, the decorations, the stockings, and most of all, like any young child, waiting for Santa to come down the chimney to give me my presents!
One Christmas Eve, when I was four years old, I remember insisting to my Mom that we leave just the right amount of cookies on the table for him. For some reason, my four-year-old self had decided that he only liked the oatmeal ones, and not those made with chocolate chips, like we actually had in the kitchen. So, my Mom and I cooked up a batch just to leave for him. A batch, that she helped me bake with love, knowing they would go to waste.
That night, I remember putting myself to bed extra early, knowing that the faster I went to sleep, the faster I would wake up in the morning, to the presents that always awaited me on Christmas morning.
I had been fast asleep that night, when I was suddenly awoken by the sound of rustling on the roof above me.
*This was it!* I thought to myself. *It’s Santa! I’ll finally catch him in the act!*
So I snuck out of bed, tiptoed downstairs, and, as expected, spotted a man with a white beard, all dressed in red, standing in the living room by the Christmas tree.
I ran to my parents’ bedroom in excitement, and tugged at their sheets.
“Mommy! Daddy! Santa’s here! Santa’s here!”
My Dad rolled over, eyes still closed, and humored me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! He just came down the chimney!”
“That’s nice. Now go to bed, Bobby.” My Mom added, before they both returned to their slumbers.
I did as she said, and went back to my room. But as soon as I heard my Dad begin snoring again, I carefully made my way back down to the living room, to catch another glimpse of Santa.
I peaked my head around the corner, and there he was. *It’s really him! It’s really Santa!*
I kept staring at him, not wanting to miss a moment of his visit, when he finally noticed me. He seemed puzzled for a moment, before he waved me over.
“Hi, Sant-!” I began to excitedly call him by name, but he quickly placed one finger over his mouth.
“Shhh, Bobby.” He whispered, before picking up one of the cookies we had left on a plate for him, dipping it in the glass of milk beside it, and taking a bite.
Eventually, he reached into a large, green velvet bag, which was filled to the brim with packages, and removed one.
He then proceeded to place the wrapped box on a rocking chair beside him, and patted the seat, gesturing for me to join him.
*Who was I to disobey Santa?* I thought to myself, as I ran over to the chair, picked up the package, hopped onto the seat, and opened the gift in a scurry.
“Hmm?” I muttered, as I unwrapped it, and removed it from its packaging.
It was a humble wooden box, with a surface like a chessboard, containing several small pieces, each resembling festive objects like a reindeer, a candy cane, a snowman, and a Christmas tree.
“It’s a game.” Santa said with a smile, before explaining the rules. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane beats snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats reindeer.”
We played the game for hours and, as the night went on, I gradually learned how to play.
That first year… he let me win. I know that for sure.
After the third game that night, he smiled, and told me I was good at the game. He then tipped his red cap, stood up, and let himself out the front door.
As soon as my parents woke up the next morning, I rushed to tell them everything that had happened. But they laughed off my story, likely dismissing it as a child's fantasy, and we went about our Christmas day traditions, just as we always had.
Looking back on it, from a kid’s perspective, there was nothing unusual about it at all. I was just playing a game with Santa.
And so, I couldn’t have been more excited when he returned a year later, with the same game. We played it again, and I won again, which Santa seemed to be impressed by, laughing aloud, as he scarfed down his cookies.
It wasn’t until the third year, where things… changed.
That year, I was once again excited to play the now annual game with Santa. And just as he always did, he reached into his bag. But this time, he pulled out a different game. Not unlike the first, but this board was larger, with more pieces, and far more complex.
“Ok, Bobby. Now that you’re old enough, we’re going to play for real.”
I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but I agreed to play anyway. He explained the new rules, which were a bit more difficult to follow, and we began to play.
And this time… Santa won.
Letting out a soft chuckle, he removed two items from his pocket. A piece of charcoal, and a scroll. He then unrolled the paper, revealing the words, “Naughty List.” Below them… was a list of names.
He then proceeded to take the piece of charcoal and scratch it across the first name on the list, until it was completely crossed out. And then, he simply left, just as he always did, through the front door.
Truth be told, I didn’t think much of it at the time. Or the next year. Or the one after that.
And every year that he won, he would do as he always did, and scratch a name off the “Naughty List.”
Now, around this time, it just so happened that in my town, there came to be known something that the locals referred to as, the Christmas Murders.
For three years in a row, three people had died on Christmas. We all knew their names well. Daniel Jones, Sarah Anderson, and Michael Taylor.
By now, I was just old enough to be suspicious of the correlation, so the next year when Santa came around again, I paid careful attention to the first name on the list, and memorized it before Santa crossed it out. David Miller.
And sure enough the next day, the headline of our newspaper read. “Christmas slayer strikes again. This year, David Miller.”
That’s when I realized… that every time I lost the game to Santa, an innocent person died. That's when I realized... that this... was NOT Santa. This... was someone else.
After that, I stopped looking forward to his visit. I tried everything. Locking myself in my room. Hiding in the attic. Even running outside.
But every year, Santa found me. Every year we played the game. And every year that I lost, someone died.
But last year, was different.
Last year… I refused to play the game.
“But you have to, Bobby.” Santa insisted.
“Or what?” I shot back.
“Well, let’s see who’s on the list this year.” He said, as he removed the paper from his pocket, unrolled it, and lowered his glasses. “Ah, yes, just as I thought.”
He pointed to the first name on the list…
It was mine.
“I don’t want to!” I cried out, as I began to walk away.
“If you don’t play, then you get scratched off the Naughty List, Bobby. And what do you think happens then?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I shouted, “I wanna know! Now!”
He belted out a laugh, just as Santa always did, in all of those children's Christmas stories and movies. With his eyes closed, and holding his belly, seemingly charmed by my reaction.
“You know me, Bobby. I’m Santa.”
“Get the fuck out! I’m calling the cops!”
“Then you forfeit.” He said, menacingly, as he removed the piece of coal from his pocket and was about to scratch off my name.
“Wait!” I called out, as I stopped at the door and turned back to him.
“Alright, fine.” I said, defeated, agreeing to play the game.
And so, sitting there, across from Santa, and looking down at the wooden pieces, I began to think about everything he had ever taught me about the game, starting at the beginning. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane beats snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats reindeer.”
But he was good at the game. Too good. And nearly lured me into a false move. But this year, I was playing more carefully. I thought about every possible move, what his maneuver might be in return, and how I could counter. Somehow, I got the feeling that I was about to make the exact move that Santa wanted me to make. But I was resilient. No matter what, this year… I had to win.
And so I did.
“Christmas tree beats reindeer.” I said defiantly, as I moved my Christmas tree piece forward, knocking his reindeer to the board.
“Good job, Bobby.” Santa congratulated me with a smile, before standing up and walking away.
“Maybe next year… I won’t go so easy on you!” he said, before walking out the door, just as he always had.
That… was last Christmas. Coincidentally, the first year our town didn’t see a Christmas Murder.
And since then… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. *Who is he? Why does he make me play the game? Is he doing this to anyone else? And will it ever stop?*
To this day, I still don’t know the answers.
But what I do know is… Christmas is now just seven days away.
And all I want for Christmas this year is to stop playing the game.
#entertainment
source
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