Short Story: “The Santa Claus at the Window”

Merry Christmas, here is a short horror story about Santa Claus. This is another story pulled from my writings for Haunted MTL (RIP). Turns out you can still go home for the holidays, though! Be sure to check out the latest collection of writing published from the project.

The night the snowstorm hit was the fifth day that ten-year-old William Feldson had been tortured by a sinister yard decoration. He stood at the window of his bedroom on the first floor, looking out into the darkness of the world outside, ringed by holiday lights and the splotchy reflections of them on the show.

The blow mold Santa Claus was in the piled snow, currently facing out toward the street. The Santa hadn’t moved yet since last night, beyond finding its way in the view of the window. But it was only midnight, and every previous night, William found the Santa outside his bedroom window, staring inside into his room.

It was only a matter of time.

William wondered who had put the Santa back out in his view. He thought that it was his brother Gary’s doing, but there was no evidence of it, beyond Gary being a jerk in general. Every night, no matter where the blow mold Santa was placed, the blobby, sun-damaged plastic shell would creep its way to William’s window when he wasn’t looking. Every night.

Every night.

William drew the curtains shut and slid into bed.

He shuddered and shut his eyes, hoping to get to sleep. Perhaps he could sleep through the inevitably sinister events and his dad would fix it by morning so that the Santa Claus wasn’t staring into his room.

Within minutes, he had drifted.

He woke up at 2 AM. The clock ticked its continuous tock, and William turned his bleary eyes to the window. He crept out of bed, tip-toeing over to the window and drawing the curtains open just a sliver. Sure enough, between flurries of snow, a glimpse of the blow mold Santa could be seen, and the unmistakable, distorted face was turned toward the window, gazing toward his bedroom window.

William had had enough of the plastic monster.

He threw on his boots and pulled his thick snow jacket over his pajamaed shoulders. He marched out to the mudroom and grabbed the flashlight from the cabinet under the window seat. He unlocked the door and stepped out into the cold, his flashlight darting wildly in the night. He strode to the Santa and found it had changed its position again, this time toward the front door, where he had emerged. Enraged, William was determined to be rid of it entirely, even if that meant throwing away his dead Grandma’s favorite Christmas decoration.

It had to go.

He paused and stared at the Santa, standing just about a yard away from it. Nothing about it seemed odd, really, beyond the strange, distorted face. That could easily have been age, grime, and sun damage. The face was round and jolly, and there was a red nose, too. But the eyes were solid white, like the snow banked around the front yard.

Had they always been like that? He could have sworn they were black.

Stepping closer, though, that’s when William truly took in the expression of the Santa’s face; under the massive, ballooned jowls and bulbous beard, was a smile, yes, and the heavy-lidded eyes were set to a scowl. Had that just happened? The Santa, so inscrutable for days, now had a wicked grin.

It seemed happy – but not in a pleasant way.

William stepped toward the plastic figure and threw a punch at the fat, ugly face, eager to topple the mold. He was shocked to find that his blow didn’t land – well, not quite; instead, his hand was sucked up into the mouth of the plastic Santa, which had begun pulling him in, eagerly. William’s arm began to disappear between parted ruby lips and a white plastic beard.

William screamed, but a gust of howling wind masked his cry. The neighborhood slept soundly that night.

…

The police had yet to find William. It had been three days.

Any signs of where he went that night had been obscured by the fresh snow on the night of and the day after. Beth had been crying since. To lose her mother was one thing, but for their youngest child to go missing was quite another. Bill Sr. had been advised by the police to stay at the house, in case his son came home. They would search he could best help by staying him, especially given the conditions outside;

Against his impulse, Bill had done so, but this was the last day of that nonsense. He’d be out tomorrow, all day and night if he had to. He’d already taken a few walks around the block, here and there, keeping an eye out for his son. He’d begin a real search tomorrow.

For now, he would spend his afternoon doing something productive. He was putting away decorations. Christmas had passed.

Bill Sr. approached the old Santa blow mold. He never really understood why Margaret had kept the ugly thing around, but it was something that had belonged to her, and Beth decided to keep it, too. He bent down to pick it up, but it was far heavier than he had expected. He stooped down, closer, bending at the knees. He wrapped his arms around it, lifting it with a sudden jerk. He nearly toppled over at the weight of it as the plastic beard rested against his face.

That’s when he smelled the faint scent of rot coming from the Santa Claus.

---

Thanks for reading. As always, you can support my writing via Ko-Fi at $1 a month for access to early chapters and some exclusives. I am also available for commissions.

I am sure the Holiday Home Blow Mold Santa Claus is nowhere near as menacing as the one I wrote about, but I couldn’t resist using it’s likeness for the story.