James eyed him from the couch. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Anything of value, of course. Consider it a donation to my Financial Recovery Plan. I experienced a rather stunning and swift downsizing of my repertoire earlier today, so I'm paying that misfortune forward."

"We have nothing of value."

"Lies, of course. Your tree is nearly bare beneath it. Your boy thinks Santa is real, but we both know better. Where are the rest of the presents? Your wife's jewelry, your wallet, those i-thingies? Time to give up the goods, tubby."

Jimmy returned from the kitchen, a plate of cookies in his right hand, tall gla.s.s of milk in his left.

Lucky salivated at the sight. His stomach seemed to spin itself in circles like an excited dog. Aside from the one cookie he had earlier, he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Milk and cookies," Jimmy announced, setting them on the table before Lucky. "Just like mom liked them."

There was a chipper tone to his voice, and Lucky didn't like it. He watched the boy, who now sat silently on the chair across from his father. Was that a smile he was struggling to hold back? Lucky hadn't seen a phone in the kitchen, but could he have missed it?

"Did you call the police?" he asked, pointing the knife at Jimmy's face.

Jimmy looked at him blankly. "There's no phone in the kitchen."

"You could have used a cell phone."

"I don't have one. Dad says I'm too young."

"He's telling the truth," fat-naked-hairy James said. "And my cell phone is on the nightstand upstairs."

"You better hope so. If I hear or see the cops, body parts fly. Capiche?" He bit into a cookie, then drained half the gla.s.s of milk. Delicious. "Now hand me that string of Christmas lights, Jimmy."

Jimmy moved to the fireplace, slowly pulling away the single string of lights that was draped over the brick mantel.

"Any day now, partner."

After unplugging it from the wall, Jimmy crossed the room and handed the string of lights to Lucky, who was now on his third cookie.

"Thanks," Lucky said. "These cookies are wonderful, by the way." He wiped away the crumbs from his lips and took another swig of milk.

"Turn around," he said to Jimmy.

"What for?"

"Now that's the Jimmy I remember. Jimmy the wise-a.s.s. But you don't ask the questions around here. Now shut up and turn around."

Jimmy complied, and Lucky commenced to tying his wrists together with the Christmas lights. Only it wasn't as easy as it should have been.

Lucky knew knots. He'd been a Cub Scout and a Boy Scout as a child, and he'd also been Den Leader as a young adult. He knew his G.o.dd.a.m.n knots. His fingers were strong and nimble. He was a master at making balloon animals, the delicate twisting and turning, a skill that had come to him naturally, thanks to his years of knot-tying as a young boy. But now he struggled with a simple overhand knot.

James leaned forward and said, "You don't look well, mister. The milk will do you good."

Milk, Lucky thought. Milk milk milk. Something about that word. But he couldn't focus.

His hands shook, and it felt as if the air around him were solidifying and pressing close, pulsing. His armpits tingled as sweat began to form on his skin. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d must have cranked the heat. That's it. Milk, indeed. Cold cold milk. He took another long swig, draining the gla.s.s, and wiped his mouth on his smooth velvet sleeve.

"You turned the heat up," Lucky said, the words coming out slower than he had intended and with a drunken slur that lacked the joy of actually being drunk. "You sub of a nitch."

Jimmy spun away, and Lucky stood. "Now you stop-whoa." The room began to rock back and forth-or Lucky did, he wasn't sure. His legs quivered. Jimmy and his absurdly fat and hairy and naked father watched him. They were both smiling, laughing like those f.u.c.king kids with their mashed potatoes. He'd teach them. No one laughs at Lucky the Clown. He looked down at the knife sitting on the table, stumbled forward and lunged for it.

The table hit him in the face so hard Lucky had a sudden appreciation for the soft, comparatively loving nature of mashed potatoes. He heard the table crack-along with a few of his ribs, if the pain lacing across his chest was any indication-and buckle beneath him. The table canted, and Lucky rolled off and flopped to the floor like a dead fish.

Father and son loomed over him. Jimmy reached into the front pocket of pajamas and pulled out a bottle of pills. He shook it and smiled. "Nembutal," he said. "My mother also had trouble sleeping."

James clapped his son on the back, the gesture of a proud father. He leaned down and picked up two things: the horn...and the butcher knife.

The last thing Lucky saw was an arching streamer of glinting silver and an enormous fat man, naked and hairier than a gathering of apes, smiling down at him.

And as the world went cold and black, Lucky heard the soothing song of his world-famous horn-hee-honk hee-honk hee-honk hee-honk...

K. Allen Wood's fiction has appeared in 52 St.i.tches, Vol. 2, The Zombie Feed, Vol. 1, Epitaphs, a New England Horror Writers anthology, and is forthcoming in The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair. He lives and plots in Ma.s.sachusetts.

For more info, visit his website at www.kallenwood.com.

What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

GRAB BAG.

Corncob holders. That says Christmas to me.

You may be wondering how that works exactly. In order for you to really understand, you have to realize that mine is not a family of traditions. We do not all gather together for Thanksgiving dinner, we don't have family reunions, there are some family members I'm lucky to see once a year.

But there is one tradition we have that I never miss: Christmas Eve at my Grandmother's house. I don't have to travel over a river or through any woods to get there, but it is an event I look forward to each year.

We usually meet up at my Grandmother's house around 5:30 in the evening, do some catching up since often many of us haven't seen each other since the last Christmas Eve dinner, then we sit down to eat. The food is always delicious and we stuff ourselves. Following that comes present-giving time. Wrapping paper goes flying, to be tossed into the fire. There is much laughter and chatter.

All of that is well and good, but that's not the main event, that's not what makes Christmas Eve at Grandmother's house so special. No, the best is saved for last...

The grab bag.

I am not sure how this tradition started, but I don't ever recall a Christmas Eve without it. Basically my Grandmother takes a large plastic bag and fills it with all the unwanted junk she finds in drawers and closets. Items like half-burnt candles, wooden-bead jewelry, used pens, and yes, of course the holy grail of the grab bag, the corncob holders.

I am aware of just how silly the grab bag is; most of the items never get used, after all. And yet the experience has its own kind of magic. Everyone has a good time, displaying the half-empty bottle of hand lotion he or she got, laughing over each other's prizes, sometimes even making deals to swap. The cheap, tacky gifts in Grandmother's grab bag...that is Christmas to me.

Without it, the holiday wouldn't feel complete.

-Mark Allan Gunnells.

www.markgunnells.livejournal.com What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

I think I was somewhere between eight and ten years old when the Shogun Warriors G.o.dzilla action-figure was released. It was the only thing I wanted that year for Christmas, and my parents not only bought it for me, but also a giant robot from the series named Mazinga.

Too excited to sleep, my brother and I woke at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and opened our gifts. I still can't tell you why this particular G.o.dzilla had a hand that fired across the room, and in order to fit in the box properly, his tail had to be snapped on. Sometime during the day, G.o.dzilla's tail went missing. I freaked, but managed to keep it together.

Thinking either my brother was messing with my mental stability or I had simply dropped it somewhere, I had finally forgotten about it until a few nights later when I heard my mom yelling at the dog in the kitchen. Not only did she locate G.o.dzilla's tail under the kitchen table, but also a whole stash of my brother's small Micronauts figures. My mom was relieved when I told her the tail was not a cuc.u.mber, and that no bugs had been attracted.

-Nick Cato.

www.nickcato.blogspot.com.

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO GET YOU!.

by Kevin J. Anderson.

'Twas the night before the night before Christmas, and all through the house little sounds were stirring...sinister, creeping, whispers of noise. Echoes of things better left unseen in the darkness, even around the holiday season.

Jeff stared up at the bottom of his little brother's bunk. Ever since Stevie had gotten rid of the nightlight, he always feared that the upper bunk would fall on top of him and squish him flat.

A strong gust of wind rattled the window pane. Wet snow brushing against it sounded like the hiss of a deadly snake, but he could hear that his brother was not asleep. "Stevie? I thought of something about Christmas."

"What?" The voice was m.u.f.fled by Stevie's ratty blue blanket.

"Well, Santa keeps a list of who's naughty and nice, right? So, what does he do to the kids who've been naughty?" He didn't know why he asked Stevie. Stevie wouldn't know.

"They don't get any presents I guess... Do you really think Mom and Dad are that mad at us?"

Jeff sucked in a breath. "We were playing with matches, Stevie! We could have burned the house down-you heard them say that. Imagine if we burned the house down... Besides, it doesn't matter if Mom and Dad are angry. What'll Santa think?"

Jeff swallowed. He had to get the ideas out of his head. "I gotta tell you this, Stevie, because it's important. Something a kid told me at school.

"He said that it isn't Santa who puts presents out when you're good. It's just your Mom and Dad. They wait until you go to sleep, and then they sneak out some presents. It's all pretend."

"Oh come on!"

"Think about it. Your parents are the ones who know what you really want." He pushed on in a whisper. "What if Santa only comes when you're bad?"

"But we said we were sorry! And...and it wasn't my idea-it was yours. And nothing got hurt."

Jeff closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the bottom of the upper bunk. "I think Santa looks for naughty little boys and girls. That's why he comes around on Christmas Eve.

"He sneaks down the chimney, and he carries an empty sack with him. And when he knows he's in a house where there's a naughty kid, he goes into their bedroom and grabs them, and stuffs them in the sack! Then he pushes them up the chimney and throws the bag in the back of his sleigh with all the other naughty little boys and girls. And then he takes them back up north where it's always cold and where the wind always blows-and there's nothing to eat."

Jeff's eyes sparkled from hot tears. He thought he heard Stevie shivering above him.

"What kind of food do you think Santa gets up there at the North Pole? How does Santa stay so fat? I bet all year long he keeps the naughty kids he's taken the Christmas before and he eats them! He keeps them locked up in icicle cages...and on special days like on his birthday or on Thanksgiving, he takes an extra fat kid and he roasts him over a fire! That's what happens to bad kids on Christmas Eve."

Jeff heard a m.u.f.fled sob in the upper bunk. He saw the support slats vibrate. "No, it's not true. We weren't that bad. I'm sorry. We won't do it again."

Jeff closed his eyes. "You better watch out, Stevie, you better not cry. 'Cause Santa Claus is coming to get you!"

He heard Stevie sucking on the corner of his blanket to keep from crying. "We can hide."

Jeff shook his head in despair. "No. He sees you when you're sleeping, and he knows when you're awake. We can't escape from him!"

"How about if we lock the bedroom door?"

"That won't stop Santa Claus! You know how big he is from eating all those little kids. And he's probably got some of his evil little elves to help him."

He listened to Stevie crying in the sheets. He listened to the wind. "We're gonna have to trick him. We have to get Santa before he gets us!"

- On Christmas Eve Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights and hung out the empty stockings by the fireplace. He grinned at the boys who stared red-eyed in fear.

"You guys look like you're so excited you haven't been able to sleep. Better go on to bed-it's Christmas tomorrow, and you've got a long night ahead of you." He smiled at them. "Don't forget to put out milk and cookies for Santa."

Mom scowled at them. "You boys know how naughty you were. I wouldn't expect too many presents from Santa this year."

Jeff felt his heart stop. He swallowed and tried to keep anything from showing on his face. Stevie shivered.

"Oh, come on, Janet. It's Christmas Eve," Dad said.

Jeff and Stevie slowly brought out the gla.s.s of milk and a plate with four Oreo cookies they had made up earlier. Stevie was so scared he almost dropped the gla.s.s.

They had poured strychnine pellets into the milk, and put rat poison in the frosting of the Oreos.

"Go on boys, good night. And don't get up too early tomorrow," Dad said.

The two boys marched off to their room, heads down. Visions of Santa's blood danced in their heads.

- Jeff lay awake for hours, sweating and shivering. He and Stevie didn't need to say anything to each other. After Mom and Dad went to bed, the boys listened for any sound from the roof, from the chimney.

He pictured Santa Claus heaving himself out from the fireplace, pushing aside the grate and stepping out into the living room. His eyes were red and wild, his fingers long claws, his beard tangled and stained with the meal he'd had before setting out in his sleigh-perhaps the last two children from the year before, now scrawny and starved. He would have snapped them up like crackers.

And now Santa was hungry for more, a new batch to restock his freezer that was as big as the whole North Pole.

Santa would take a crinkled piece of paper out of his pocket to look at it, and yes there under the "Naughty" column would be the names of Jeff and Stevie in all capital letters. He'd wipe the list on his blood-red coat.

His black belt was shiny and wicked-looking, with the silver buckle and its pointed corners razor sharp to slash the throats of children. And over his shoulder hung a brown burlap sack stained with rusty splotches.

Then Santa would go to their bedroom. Jeff and Stevie could struggle against him, they could throw their blankets on him, hit him with their pillows and their toys-but Santa Claus was stronger than that. He would reach up first to s.n.a.t.c.h Stevie from the top bunk and stuff him in the sack.

And then Santa would lunge forward with fingers grayish blue from frostbite. He'd wrap his hand around Jeff's throat and draw him toward the sack....

Then Santa would haul them up through the chimney to the roof. Maybe he would toss one of them toward the waiting reindeer who snorted and stomped their hooves on the ice-covered shingles. And the reindeer, playing all their reindeer games, would toss the boy from sharp antler to sharp antler.

All the while, Santa stood leaning back, glaring and belching forth his maniacal "Ho! Ho! Ho!"

- Jeff didn't know when his terror dissolved into fitful nightmares, but he found himself awake and alive the next morning.