They say the average child stops believing in Santa around the age of eight, maybe

eight and a half. But not me. Cause I’m not like other kids. You see… I’ve actually met
Santa. Many times. Now, I know what you’re thinking… That's not possible. Santa
ISN'T real. Well... you're both right... and wrong... at the same time. And for that very
reason, I stopped telling people the story after I turned ten. But it goes something
like this. I remember loving Christmas. The lights, the sounds, the decorations, the
stockings, and most of all, like any young child, waiting for Santa to come down the
chimney to give me my presents! One Christmas Eve, when I was four years old, I
remember insisting to my Mom that we leave just the right amount of cookies on the
table for him. For some reason, my four-year-old self had decided that he only liked
the oatmeal ones, and not those made with chocolate chips, like we actually had in
the kitchen. So, my Mom and I cooked up a batch just to leave for him. A batch, that
she helped me bake with love, knowing they would go to waste. That night, I
remember putting myself to bed extra early, knowing that the faster I went to sleep,
the faster I would wake up in the morning, to the presents that always awaited me
on Christmas morning. I had been fast asleep that night, when I was suddenly
awoken by the sound of rustling on the roof above me. This was it! I thought to
myself. It’s Santa! I’ll finally catch him in the act! So I snuck out of bed, tiptoed
downstairs, and, as expected, spotted a man with a white beard, all dressed in red,
standing in the living room by the Christmas tree. I ran to my parents’ bedroom in
excitement, and tugged at their sheets. “Mommy! Daddy! Santa’s here! Santa’s
here!” My Dad rolled over, eyes still closed, and humored me. “Oh yeah?” “Yeah! He
just came down the chimney!” “That’s nice. Now go to bed, Bobby.” My Mom added,
before they both returned to their slumbers. I did as she said, and went back to my
room. But as soon as I heard my Dad begin snoring again, I carefully made my way
back down to the living room, to catch another glimpse of Santa. I peaked my head
around the corner, and there he was. It’s really him! It’s really Santa! I kept staring at
him, not wanting to miss a moment of his visit, when he finally noticed me. He
seemed puzzled for a moment, before he waved me over. “Hi, Sant-!” I began to
excitedly call him by name, but he quickly placed one finger over his mouth. “Shhh,
Bobby.” He whispered, before picking up one of the cookies we had left on a plate for
him, dipping it in the glass of milk beside it, and taking a bite. Eventually, he reached
into a large, green velvet bag, which was filled to the brim with packages, and
removed one. He then proceeded to place the wrapped box on a rocking chair beside
him, and patted the seat, gesturing for me to join him. Who was I to disobey Santa? I
thought to myself, as I ran over to the chair, picked up the package, hopped onto the
seat, and opened the gift in a scurry. “Hmm?” I muttered, as I unwrapped it, and
removed it from its packaging. It was a humble wooden box, with a surface like a
chessboard, containing several small pieces, each resembling festive objects like a
reindeer, a candy cane, a snowman, and a Christmas tree. “It’s a game.” Santa said
with a smile, before explaining the rules. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane
beats snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats
reindeer.” We played the game for hours and, as the night went on, I gradually
learned how to play. That first year… he let me win. I know that for sure. After the
third game that night, he smiled, and told me I was good at the game. He then tipped
his red cap, stood up, and let himself out the front door. As soon as my parents woke
up the next morning, I rushed to tell them everything that had happened. But they
laughed off my story, likely dismissing it as a child's fantasy, and we went about our
Christmas day traditions, just as we always had. Looking back on it, from a kid’s
perspective, there was nothing unusual about it at all. I was just playing a game with
Santa. And so, I couldn’t have been more excited when he returned a year later, with
the same game. We played it again, and I won again, which Santa seemed to be
impressed by, laughing aloud, as he scarfed down his cookies. It wasn’t until the third
year, where things… changed. That year, I was once again excited to play the now
annual game with Santa. And just as he always did, he reached into his bag. But this
time, he pulled out a different game. Not unlike the first, but this board was larger,
with more pieces, and far more complex. “Ok, Bobby. Now that you’re old enough,
we’re going to play for real.” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but I agreed to play
anyway. He explained the new rules, which were a bit more difficult to follow, and we
began to play. And this time… Santa won. Letting out a soft chuckle, he removed two
items from his pocket. A piece of charcoal, and a scroll. He then unrolled the paper,
revealing the words, “Naughty List.” Below them… was a list of names. He then
proceeded to take the piece of charcoal and scratch it across the first name on the
list, until it was completely crossed out. And then, he simply left, just as he always
did, through the front door. Truth be told, I didn’t think much of it at the time. Or the
next year. Or the one after that. And every year that he won, he would do as he
always did, and scratch a name off the “Naughty List.” Now, around this time, it just
so happened that in my town, there came to be known something that the locals
referred to as, the Christmas Murders. For three years in a row, three people had
died on Christmas. We all knew their names well. Daniel Jones, Sarah Anderson, and
Michael Taylor. By now, I was just old enough to be suspicious of the correlation, so
the next year when Santa came around again, I paid careful attention to the first
name on the list, and memorized it before Santa crossed it out. David Miller. And
sure enough the next day, the headline of our newspaper read. “Christmas slayer
strikes again. This year, David Miller.” That’s when I realized… that every time I lost
the game to Santa, an innocent person died. That's when I realized... that this... was
NOT Santa. This... was someone else. After that, I stopped looking forward to his visit.
I tried everything. Locking myself in my room. Hiding in the attic. Even running
outside. But every year, Santa found me. Every year we played the game. And every
year that I lost, someone died. But last year, was different. Last year… I refused to
play the game. “But you have to, Bobby.” Santa insisted. “Or what?” I shot back.
“Well, let’s see who’s on the list this year.” He said, as he removed the paper from his
pocket, unrolled it, and lowered his glasses. “Ah, yes, just as I thought.” He pointed to
the first name on the list… It was mine. “I don’t want to!” I cried out, as I began to
walk away. “If you don’t play, then you get scratched off the Naughty List, Bobby. And
what do you think happens then?” “Who the fuck are you?” I shouted, “I wanna
know! Now!” He belted out a laugh, just as Santa always did, in all of those children's
Christmas stories and movies. With his eyes closed, and holding his belly, seemingly
charmed by my reaction. “You know me, Bobby. I’m Santa.” “Get the fuck out! I’m
calling the cops!” “Then you forfeit.” He said, menacingly, as he removed the piece of
coal from his pocket and was about to scratch off my name. “Wait!” I called out, as I
stopped at the door and turned back to him. “Alright, fine.” I said, defeated, agreeing
to play the game. And so, sitting there, across from Santa, and looking down at the
wooden pieces, I began to think about everything he had ever taught me about the
game, starting at the beginning. “Reindeer beats candy cane. Candy cane beats
snowman. Snowman beats the Christmas tree. And the Christmas tree beats
reindeer.” But he was good at the game. Too good. And nearly lured me into a false
move. But this year, I was playing more carefully. I thought about every possible
move, what his maneuver might be in return, and how I could counter. Somehow, I
got the feeling that I was about to make the exact move that Santa wanted me to
make. But I was resilient. No matter what, this year… I had to win. And so I did.
“Christmas tree beats reindeer.” I said defiantly, as I moved my Christmas tree piece
forward, knocking his reindeer to the board. “Good job, Bobby.” Santa congratulated
me with a smile, before standing up and walking away. “Maybe next year… I won’t go
so easy on you!” he said, before walking out the door, just as he always had. That…
was last Christmas. Coincidentally, the first year our town didn’t see a Christmas
Murder. And since then… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Who is he?
Why does he make me play the game? Is he doing this to anyone else? And will it
ever stop? To this day, I still don’t know the answers. But what I do know is…
Christmas is now just seven days away. And all I want for Christmas this year is to
stop playing the game.