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By Nick Aucoin
John Willaby Sr. was more than happy to spend the holidays in his cabin up in the woods. His day job was exhausting, his kids were with his ex-wife this year, and the recent spam of hate comments he had gotten on his social media pages made him want nothing more than to hole up with some eggnog and action films to forget it all. It was perfect.
The cabin had been in his family for years. It was decent sized. A few bedrooms, which allowed for him and his brothers to stay there comfortably when he was a kid. The land around it was perfect for hiking and hunting - two of his father’s favorite activities.
Learning to hunt was just a part of the Willaby life. John knew how to unload a gun and check the safety at a fairly young age. He knew not to use it unless his father was with him or until he was old enough to be allowed. He knew how to stay quiet and recognize the prints on the ground. He knew how to aim.
Taxidermy was something he did not learn from his father. Samuel Willaby had preserved a few hunts by hiring someone else to handle it. Most of the decorations in the cabin had been bought though. John wanted to learn how to preserve his own, so he did.
The cabin currently held both the usual decorations and a few sparse holiday ones. Without the presence of his children or other family, John didn’t see the point in decorating up too much for the holidays. He had plugged in a small artificial tree and strung some lights across the fireplace mantle though. That, paired with the eggnog and some Christmas cookies a coworker had given him, was the extent of his holiday spirit.
He held great pride in the rest of the cabin though.
Warm wood from top to bottom, with the exception of the stone fireplace. A black leather couch with a knit blanket draped over the back. A bear skin rug in front of the fire. A taxidermy goose by the doorway, next to his boots and the coat stand. A bookshelf filled with old classics and some board games. The racoon pelt over the doorway and the various deer heads and antlers around the room. It was just right for him.
His favorite piece, however, was one that wasn’t finished yet. While out deer hunting one day, he had shot a reindeer. He almost couldn’t believe it when he saw it. Reindeer weren’t known to show up in his area, so he had no idea how it got there, but he did know two things: it was gorgeous, and he couldn’t wait to display it.
He had to take a photo with the kill. Then he brought it home with the goal of preserving and mounting the head. The piece wasn’t finished yet because taxidermy takes time. It takes more time than many realize. Still, he was excited.
When he posted the photo of him and his kill to social media, people were much less excited. John had told the first few to man up and get over it. He had a variety of hunting photos on his page. He was used to writing comments calling out ‘soyboys’ and ‘whiny liberals’ who didn’t mind their business. This seemed the same at first. It became clear soon after that the amount of people who were upset were more than John wanted to deal with though. Turns out that reindeer fall into the category of protected animals in his country, as many commenters were sure to let him know. He had removed the photo soon after that and made his account private, but he still got angry messages sent to him.
The reindeer head was still going to be mounted in his cabin, though. The only people that came up here were family and a few close friends. They’d all surely appreciate the sight of the kill.
With that in mind, John Willaby set about getting drunk on eggnog and watching one of the handfuls of sequels to his favorite Christmas action movie, despite the fact that the one currently playing on his old television set was not actually set during Christmas. The fire was on. He was feeling warm and buzzed. He was even considering eating some of the Christmas cookies - would they taste good dunked in eggnog? - when there were several loud bangs on his door.
No one was supposed to be up here. Not unless his ex-wife had changed her mind about keeping the kids away from him for the holiday. Or perhaps his brother had decided to stop by, despite his bizarre dislike of the cabin.
Getting up, John found it to be neither option.
He had opened the door to a large man dressed up as Santa Claus.
“Ho, ho, ho!” the man exclaimed, “Merry Christmas! Have you been naughty or nice?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you been naughty or nice?” the man repeated.
John was deeply confused then. What the hell was this? He racked his brain for some kind of explanation. It couldn’t be a Christmas caroller, since it was only one man. Perhaps a singing telegram of sorts? Those still existed, right? But who would send him one? The question the man had asked made him almost wonder if the guy was a stripper...
“Uh, I think you have the wrong address,” John said, moving to close the door.
The door got stuck part way through closing it. Looking down, John saw that it was because of the man’s black boot being in the way. The man’s voice came from behind the mostly-closed door. It didn’t sound jolly anymore. Instead, it’s almost a deep growl.
“I asked: Have you been naughty or nice, John?”
The hunter felt his stomach churn. He stomped on the man’s foot and slammed the door shut quickly. The locks went in place again right after.
Backing away, John tried not to flinch when the banging on the door started up again.
“Get the hell off my property!” he yelled, “I have a fully loaded Winchester rifle and I’m not afraid to use it!”
The banging stopped. Thank God.
John kept an eye out for the man while he watched through the rest of his movie. The surrounding woods looked empty, though. No cars other than his own truck. No people. Certainly no man dressed as damn Santa Claus.
When he dozed off on the couch, the encounter had already started to slip away from his mind. It was probably a prank or some oddball looking to mess with people. John had already forgotten that the man knew his name. ‘John’ was a common name, after all, and the eggnog was doing its job.
It was completely dark when he woke, other than the dim light from the television screen that he had accidentally left on.
And it was completely quiet when he woke, other than the thuds coming from his chimney.
The fire had burned out. He wondered vaguely, while rubbing the crust from the corners of his eyes, if a raccoon had gotten into the chimney again. He got up to relight the fire.
Bending down over the wood proved to be a mistake when suddenly, there was a large weight bearing down on him.
John stumbled back. He tripped over the head on the bearskin rug and felt his own head hit the side of the coffee table when his body fell backwards. Raising a hand to the back of his head had him feeling a slight wetness.
The hunter’s eyes moved slowly up when dark boots walked into his eyeline.
“Hello John,” the Santa said, “I have a secret for you. Would you like to hear it?”
John’s head felt hot and his vision was swimming slightly, but he nodded.
“I asked you a question earlier, but I already knew the answer,” the Santa said, “You’re on the naughty list! And naughty boys get coal for Christmas. However, you aren’t a little boy anymore, are you, John?”
John shook his head slowly.
“No, you’re a big boy now!” the Santa said cheerfully, “And you did something very mean to Santa, so your punishment will be a bit... more creative.”
John just blinked at him in confusion.
Then, the Santa was kneeling, closer to John, getting in his face.
“You see, John, Christmas is a beautiful time of year. It’s for thankfulness and family,” the Santa said. “I love my family. I love them very dearly, but, this year, a member of my family was taken from me, John. You should know what that feels like.”
John was still confused. The Santa patted his face a couple of times. The man got closer. Uncomfortably close. Opened his mouth to speak...
“You killed one of my reindeer.”
Then there was a sharp pain in John’s abdomen. He screamed and kicked at the Santa, shuffling away from the man and trying to get up. There was a hard, decorative candy cane sticking out of his stomach. Grabbing the curved end, John yanked it out and whined as the blood dribbled out of the wound.
There was a whoosh of air and the window next to John cracked from the impact of the fireplace poker that the Santa had swung. John staggered as fast as he could to the front door.
He slipped on ice when he was on the steps, but he didn’t fall to the ground this time. He was barefoot and bleeding and he just needed to make it to his truck. His phone was dead on the kitchen table in the cabin still, but his keys were in his pocket. He just needed to get to the truck.
The first thing his brain managed to take in was that there’s a word carved into the side of the truck. He didn’t focus enough to read it. The second thing he noticed was that his tires were slashed.
The car was still driveable, though, so he went to unlock the door.
Pain in his scalp. A gloved hand gripping his hair tight and yanking him backwards. John’s body hit the ground and it was cold - so, so cold.
In the Santa’s hands was John’s hunting rifle.
“I had plenty of ideas on how to do this,” The Santa said, “This is one of the quicker ways, but - in the end - it felt the most poetic.”
John didn’t have time to scream before the bullet went through his skull and out the other side.
Less than a week from then, the former Janet Willaby - now Janet Dane - will drive up to the cabin when her ex-husband doesn’t pick their kids up for New Years. She will have already called their mutual friends after getting her ex’s voicemail repeatedly. She’ll drive through the long road to the cabin, listening to the Christmas CD that she forgot to take out of her car. She’ll admire the trees and the beautiful pure whiteness of the snow on the ground.
She’ll only wonder if something’s wrong when she sees the slashed truck. The blood will have already been covered by fresh snow. The body will have already been moved.
She’ll truly know that something is wrong when she peeks through the window of the cabin and sees John Willaby’s body on his leather couch, surrounded by Christmas lights... and the remains of his head resting on top of the mantle.
