“Anti-Santa!” scoffed Mr. Cushing “Dear me. Can we even admit that regular Santa isn’t a real thing.”
Mrs McCulikn merely stirred the pot on the hob, humming to herself as she did around 5:45 when Mr. Harding would sneak into the pantry and shove his hands into whatever jar he fancied, Mrs. Harding would have words with the staff when he did so but if the pantry was locked Mr. Harding would have words instead. At times such as this, it paid to be deaf.
“According to little Christopher” explained Mrs Marks “the anti-Santa is for bad girls and boys. How does it go again? Good girls and boys leave offerings to Santa Claus.”
“Offerings being milk and biscuits,” laughed Mr. Cushing adjusting his tie “and oats and carrots for Rudolf.”
He then coughed and proclaimed in a pious voice “The righteous lambs shall receive material wealth; the unrighteous goats shall receive fuel as punishment.”
“As I was saying,” went on Mrs Marks who spoke with the aggression of one who is often interrupted “Christoper won’t stop talking about the anti-Santa.”
“And anti-Santa is the fellow who delivers coal?” asked Mr. Cushing.
“No,” Mrs Marks coughed “something worse.”
A small silence as Mr Cushing had to inquire “What?”
“If jolly St. Nick leaps into the drawing room via the chimney, this anti-Chris cringle crawls in, not touching the floor but scurrying spiderlike across the walls and ceiling. That’s what Master Christoper insists to anyone who listens.”
“The boy rarely speaks,” Mr. Cushing remarked “fancy him holding an audience…”
“He’s told us that on Christmas Eve, late at night the Anti-Santa crawls towards the bedrooms of the naughty boys and girls with long sharp nails drawn and bless his heart Christoper has judged himself to be on the naughty list.”
“Sounds as if the lad sees himself destined for the pit rather than a good telling off,” laughed Mr. Cushing “I always said he carries the weight of Atlas on his shoulders.”
It was then they heard the scream. Sharp, ear aching, and coming from the drawing room, maybe Mrs. Harding had seen a mouse scuttling across the floor or read a ghastly article in the evening paper. So Mr. Cushing feeling that it was his duty to report on such matters made his way across the hallway towards the drawing room, knowing this little drama was but a tempest in a teacup.
And yet as he pushed open the drawing room door, he blinked at the sobbing Mrs. Harding flung on the sofa and the crouching, pleading form of young Christopher kneeling by the fireplace in a feverish prayer.
Instead of milk and cookies, the fireplace was smeared in a bright crimson substance, and upon the grate, there was what appeared to be moist, glistening entrails that Mr. Cushing could only wish came from a pig or a cow.
For he hoped that this anti-Santa didn’t demand human flesh to be placated.
