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Santa’s Claws

Mike Rader

    I haven’t believed in big men with red coats, white beards and black boots since I was a kid, and that was a long time ago. So, when I was midway through my night watch at the department store, I almost burst out laughing.
    There he was, Santa Claus, darting into the accounts office behind the furniture section on the third floor. And what the hell — he even had a big red sack over his shoulder as well!
    My first instinct was to call down for another guard, then I thought better of it. I couldn’t believe my luck. This idiot was too easy to catch. I’d collar him alone, I’d be in line for a big cash reward, and maybe even a promotion.
    Threading my way through the lounge suites and coffee tables, I took up a position in the shadows by the accounts department door. The light came on inside. I saw the big man’s shadow moving around behind the frosted glass.
    I unclipped my automatic, held it in one fist, and turned the knob. Flinging the door back, I stepped inside with my gun trained on the intruder.
    “Stop right where you are,” I barked. “I’ve got you covered.”
    Santa turned, his eyes twinkling, his curly hair and beard sparkling white, his giant tummy rocking with laughter inside his red jacket.
    And that really pissed me off. He didn’t show a flicker of fear. He was just standing there, mocking me. Even my gun didn’t seem to scare him.
    “Get your hands up, you clown!” I roared.
    His big beefy arms began to rise.
    And that’s when I saw his hands clearly.
    They weren’t human!
    He had claws where his fingers should have been, long savage claws. They looked sharp as steel.
    “Ho ho ho,” he laughed.
    I started perspiring.
    Sweat stung my eyes.
    Those claws froze my guts.
    I tried to sound tough. “Shut the hell up and turn around. Now. Hands against the wall. I’m calling down for help.”
    But the big red monster didn’t move. His eyes signalled me with a sad, almost apologetic look. As I watched his claws were growing longer —
    Longer —
    Longer —
    Filling the space between us.
    I stepped back, felt a filing cabinet pressing against my back.
    That big red maniac had me cornered.
    My other hand groped for my radio. I wasn’t going to be a hero.
    My gun left my grip in a flash. His claws just brushed it aside before they clamped around both my hands. Squeezing them, cutting deep, so my blood dripped onto my shoes.
    The bastard was beaming at me. “Have you been a good little boy all year?”
    I twisted sharply, trying to free myself, felt the pain, felt sheer agony, those steely claws slicing deeper, through flesh, crushing bones, mashing fingers. I stared at my two useless hands. Bloody red stumps.
    “Who are you?” I screamed, as the pain forced me down to my knees. Bile swirled in my throat.
    “I was Santa in this store for thirty years. Lost my hands, caught in an accident. They said I couldn’t ever be Santa again. They laid me off, didn’t have to pay me, no union came to help me. But now I’m back.” His clawed hands reached for the safe behind the manager’s desk. “For the money that should have been mine.”
    I was gagging. “You’re insane.”
    “No, I’m dead.” Santa laughed as he ripped the safe door off its hinges. “Died last year. Killed myself. Couldn’t take living without hands anymore. The Dead World folks said I could come back just once to get what’s rightly mine.”
    I felt life seeping out of me. “What good is money when you’re dead?”
    The big red Santa laughed as money and papers cascaded from the safe. “I’m going to burn it. And everything in that safe. And then I’m burning down the building.” He gave me a long regretful stare. “Sorry you got in my way. Nothing to do with you really. I’ll see you again in the Dead World, pal. I’ll look after you, okay?”
    My blood was spreading across the carpet like lava. I nodded; about all I could manage.
    I watched him spraying accelerant around the office. Saw the lighter flare into life. Flames decorated the walls, the ceiling.
    And he did keep his word.
    About the Dead World.
    It ain’t so bad. I’m well cared for here.
    And my hands are growing back just fine.

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