Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

If heaven existed, it was exactly like this moment, this place.

“Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.

Hope it won’t give you Christmas blues.

Santa was drugged, tied up, and gagged, blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and

bagged.

His sleigh is waiting out in the yard, and someone has stolen Santa’s

bank card.

Soon his accounts will be picked clean by the use of automatic-teller

machines.”

“Uh-oh,” Charlotte said, snuggling deeper into her covers, “it’s going

to be scary.”

“Well, of course it is,” Emily said. “Daddy wrote it.”

“Will it be too scary?” Charlotte asked, pulling the blankets up to her

chin.

“Are you wearing socks?” Marty asked.

Charlotte usually wore socks to bed except in summer, because otherwise

her feet got cold.

“Socks?” she said. “Yeah? So?”

Marty leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice to a spooky

whisper, “Because this story won’t end until Christmas Day, and by then

it’s gonna scare your socks off maybe a dozen times.”

He made a wicked face.

Charlotte pulled the covers up to her nose.

Emily giggled and demanded, “Come on, Daddy, what’s next?”

“Hark, the sound of silver sleigh bells echoes over the hills and the

dells.

And look reindeer high up in the sky!

Some silly goose has taught them to fly.

The drivergiggles quite like a loon-madman, goofball, a thug, and a

goon.

Something is wrong–any fool could tell.

If this is Santa, then Santa’s not well.

He hoots, gibbers, chortles, and spits, and seems to be having some sort

of fits.

His mean little eyes spin just like tops.

So somebody better quick call the cops.

A closer look confirms his psychosis.

And–oh, my dears–really bad halitosis!”

“Oh, jeer,” Charlotte said, pulling the covers up just below her eyes.

She professed to dislike scary stories, but she was the quickest to

complain if something frightening didn’t happen in a tale sooner or

later.

“So who is it?” Emily asked. “Who tied Santa up and robbed him and ran

off in his sleigh?”

“Beware when Christmas comes this year, because there’s something new to

fear.

Santa’s twin–who is evil and mean-stole the sleigh, will make the

scene, pretending to be his good brother.

Guard your beloved children, mother!

Down the chimney, into your home, here comes that vile psychotic gnome!”

“Eeep!” Charlotte cried, and pulled the covers over her head.

Emily said, “What made Santa’s twin so evil?”

“Maybe he had a bad childhood,” Marty said.

“Maybe he was born that way,” Charlotte said under her covers.

“Can people be born bad?” Emily wondered. Then she answered her own

question before Marty could respond. “Well, sure, they can.

“Cause some people are born good, like you and Mommy, so then some

people must be born bad.”

Marty was soaking up the girls’ reactions, loving it. On one level, he

was a writer, storing away their words, the rhythms of their speech,

expressions, toward the day when he might need to use some of this for a

scene in a book. He supposed it wasn’t admirable to be so constantly

aware that even his own children were material, it might be morally

repugnant, but he couldn’t change. He was what he was. He was also a

father, however, and he reacted primarily on that level, mentally

preserving the moment because one day memories were all he would have of

their childhood, and he wanted to be able to recall everything, the good

and the bad, simple moments and big events, in Technicolor and Dolby

sound and with perfect clarity, because it was all too precious to him

to be lost.

Emily said, “Does Santa’s evil twin have a name?”

“Yes,” Marty said, “he does, but you’ll have to wait until another night

to hear it. We’ve reached our first stopping place.”

Charlotte poked her head out from beneath the covers, and both girls

insisted that he read the first part of the poem again, as he had known

they would. Even the second time through, they would be too involved to

be ready to sleep. They would demand a third reading, and he would

oblige, for then they would be familiar enough with the words to settle

down. Later, by the end of the third reading, they finally would be

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