Morozko Frosti
An abandoned chimney.
The jingle of sleigh bells. A rooftop clatter. Footsteps crunch through fresh snowfall. Could it be? Could it really be him?
You tiptoe to the fireplace. Flakes of soot flutter down into the candlelight. It is him! Who else could it be?! Here he comes ...
You recoil in horror. Claw-like hands emerge and grasp at the mantlepiece. A man is crawling out of your chimney, tall and thin, crooked like a sweep's broom. He is covered in bloody scrapes. His face is stained with chimney dust.
He coughs up a cloud of smut onto your carpet, then crouches, takes the glass of sherry and drains it in one gulp.
“Are you Santa Claus?” you ask. You already know the answer. The man shakes his head and grins black teeth. He reaches into his pocket, opens his hand and blows dust into your eyes. You fade and fall into a dream.
Darkness. You are wrapped up in bed. No — you are moving. You are being dragged up the chimney!
Cold air chills your lungs. You are like ice. The man shoulders you like a sack, then clambers down from the roof, breaking the frozen gutter from the wall, rattling the snow from the corrugated rooftop of the woodshed.
He leaps into his sleigh and cracks the white whip. His beasts gallop into the forest, snarling like a blizzard. He shrieks at them and cracks the whip again. His heart is a shard of icicle. The sleigh rattles with a thousand bones jangling like bells. The sound will not stop all night. There are many more children to steal before the sun rises.