Author: Greg Beatty. Greg writes poetry, short stories, children’s books, and a range of nonfiction. He’s published hundreds of works—everything from poems about stars to essays on cooking disasters. When he’s not writing, he walks with his dog, dabbles in the martial arts, plays with his grandchildren, and teaches college.

“Um…” David stared at the huge pile of presents surrounding the Christmas tree. “I thought you said you were going for a ‘restrained’ Christmas.”

“I was,” his sister said. “A stocking, and one big gift per kid. Because of that trip we took in the fall. We even had a family meeting about it.”

“Then…” David gestured toward the pile, implying the question “So where did these come from, Sharon?”

Sharon shook her head. “Talk to your nephew. When Kristopher found out about the limit on presents, he threw a fit. Kicking, screaming, threatening. Then he finally went cold. Said he was going over my head, and he stared at me the whole time he was talking.”

David picked up a present. “To Sharon,” he read. “From…?”

Sharon laughed. “I know, I know. Your nephew has a world class temper, and a lively mind, but he can’t spell for crap.”

Sharon laughed again. David didn’t. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to write Santa at all. Maybe he actually meant to send his Christmas list to…” he raised the present, to make sure his sister could see the name tag. “Satan.”

“That’s ridiculous! And besides, he didn’t ask for anything for himself. Only for the rest of the family.”

“Is it?” David shook the present he held. Something inside immediately growled in response. A fang stabbed through the snowflake patterned paper. The point missed his fingers—but the thick fluid coating it didn’t.

“Ouch!” David said, dropping the present. “It frickin’ burned me.”

Sharon looked at the pile surrounding the tree. As if David’s “ouch” had been a signal, all of the presents were hissing, shaking, and rattling.

“Maybe,” Sharon said. “Maybe you’ve got a point.”

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