Nurturing Wonder

Inspired by Chuck Wendig’s “Christmas in a strange place” challenge, although I’m too late to enter. I first read it as “Christmas is a strange place,” and it got me to thinking that even home can be strange, given the wrong circumstances.

Happy Holidays to all of you, whichever ones you celebrate!

Home for the Holidays

Sylphie woke with a gasp, flinging the covers aside and jumping to her feet before pausing to wonder what had woken her. A quick glance around the room showed her nothing out of place, though, no immediate danger.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to calm her racing heart and make sure that her brain was fully awake and functioning.

“Two teetotalers tiredly toddling to Tewksbury,” she muttered under her breath. “Mother pheasant plucker, mother pheasant plucker. Rubber baby buggy bumpers.” The tongue twisters came out ungarbled, and the familiar routine helped to calm her further.

She sat down on her bed, wondering if she would be able to go back to sleep, or if she should do a circuit of the house to make sure all was well. Don’t assume. Never assume.

She sighed at the answer. It was going to be a long night if she couldn’t get her paranoia under control.

I don’t know that I’m insane, she thought. The others saw something too. Of course, I’m pretty sure the others were high, so they’re not the best reality check I could wish for.

She pulled on yesterday’s socks one-handed, unable to bring herself to put down the bookmark she held in her right hand for even a second. It looked like a normal piece of cardstock, doodled on in black ballpoint ink. According to her logical mind, that was all it could be.

According to experience, however, it might be something more. Mystical weapon or sign of a mental breakdown, she wasn’t yet sure. Not sure enough to risk being committed anyway.

She skipped the slippers and bathrobe. Socks would keep her feet warm enough, and putting on the bulky robe would make her feel more vulnerable rather than less.

She stepped lightly over to the door, listening carefully. Was that the sound of rustling paper?

She flicked her bedroom light off, and kicked away the towel that had blocked the bottom of the door. Her parents didn’t need to know that she was sleeping with the light on, but she couldn’t open the door without giving herself every possible clue of what waited beyond. Faint light flickered along the crack, illuminating individual fibers standing up from the worn carpet.

She watched for a long moment before deciding that her parents had probably left the Christmas tree on intentionally.

A quick glance at the clock told her it was 12:45, Christmas morning already. It was too late for her parents to still be awake, though, and far too early for her sister to be up. There shouldn’t be anyone moving around the house but her.

She gripped her bookmark tightly, and eased the door open, peering out and wondering whether turning the light on would wake her parents.

A large shape moved in front of the Christmas tree, and her hand flicked out to the switch without a second thought.

She froze in place once the light was on, though, gaping at the red-garbed figure by the tree.

He didn’t look like a department store Santa, or even a movie Santa. He looked like he could have stepped right off a Coke can, or out of a child’s best daydream. His suit looked well-made and warm, his hair and beard looked natural, and there really was a twinkle in his eye as he straightened and smiled at her.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he said. “Good little girls should be snug in their beds, or else they’ll get nothing but coal in their stockings.”

She closed her mouth, suddenly feeling angry. Bad enough she was seeing monsters at school, but now this? “Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re seriously trying to pretend that you’re Santa Claus? What am I, six?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” He reached out a hand. “Come here, child, and you’ll see just how real I am.”
A creak jerked her eyes over to the stairs, and she saw her sister Dryad crouching on the middle stair, just low enough to peer down into the room.

Sylphie could have kicked herself for speaking so carelessly. She didn’t honestly believe the figure by the tree was really there, but she couldn’t just ignore it either. That meant either more talking, waving her bookmark through the air like a maniac, or both. Dryad was sure to tell their parents, and then she was in for it.

“Two little girls!” The false Santa turned and held his hand out to Dryad, revealing a small object wrapped in blue and yellow paper. “Would you like a present, my dear?”

Sylphie was in motion before the last word was out of his mouth. Institutions and insanity didn’t matter in that moment. Figment or not, there was no way she was letting him get near her sister.

She sprinted across the room, envisioning energy flowing from her arm into the patterns on her bookmark.

She could feel the instant when it changed, when the edge started slicing through space itself and leaving an invisible gash hanging in the air. She pushed aside that awareness and focused on directing her swing at the false Santa.

The bookmark hit his red suit at the shoulder and passed through his shoulder and back and out his side without the slightest resistance. She hopped back, panting and keeping her weapon active while she watched.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, his face twisting into a snarl. Then black flame shot out of the slash down his back. It looked unspeakably violent, but it burned silently and without heat, eating away at the stranger’s body until there was nothing left but the small present that fell to the floor with a thud.

Sylphie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to believe that they were safe now.

“Wow…”

The word at her elbow made her jump to the side, although she managed not to strike out at her sister. “Dryad!” she scolded. Then she made a show of looking around the room. With a little luck, she could still make a convincing claim of sleepwalking.

“Did you… just kill Santa?”

Sylphie froze where she stood, then looked seriously at the younger girl. “You saw him too?” she asked.

“Sure,” Dryad said. “And I saw you blow him up with black fire. But… nothing’s burned, so maybe I was dreaming?”

Sylphie closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, then caught her sister in a tight hug. “No,” she said. “No, I saw him too. I saw the same thing you did.”

I’m not insane! she thought, resisting the urge to pick Dryad up and dance around the room for joy. She saw him too! He was real! All of it was real!

A chill ran down her spine at that realization, and she opened her eyes again to peer around nervously.

“So what do we do with the presents?” Dryad asked, pulling out of her hug and reaching for the package that the false Santa had dropped.

Sylphie grabbed her wrist, stopping her before she could touch it. “We’ll have to destroy it,” she said. “There’s no telling what sort of damage it’s meant to do.”

“What, all of them?”

She looked past Dryad, and finally noticed the big sack by the fireplace. It had tipped a little, spilling a handful of identical presents onto the floor, and it looked full to the brim of more of the same.

“All of them,” she confirmed, trying to suppress the feeling of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”