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The strange noise would not let me sleep.

It was distinct from the other usual creaks and groans of our old house. At first I thought it was the snowy oak tree outside scraping against the eaves. Soon I realized it was coming from downstairs. The more I heard it, the more it reminded me of the time Father had been digging a new pit for the outhouse and banged his shovel hard against a large rock. A scraping, clanging sound, but without all the cussing and hollering that made Mama cover my ears and roll her eyes.

I was normally far too excited to even close my eyes on Christmas Eve. In bed I'd lie awake, listening for Santa and the swishing of his sleigh on our roof. Somehow I'd always miss him. In the morning I'd stumble downstairs with barely enough energy to tear open the presents which miraculously appeared under our tree.

This year was different. Father had lost his job at the shipyard. With the new steam ships, no one needed sailmakers anymore. Now we were losing our home in two days. Even with money so tight, Mama asked if I wanted anything. I didn't have the heart to ask for more than an inexpensive little doll from a catalog.

Packing for the move had exhausted me. I decided it was best to sleep through the night. At least I'd be able to enjoy any presents Santa brought.
                        

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The mysterious sound changed my plans.

I climbed out of bed and flinched as my feet touched the cold wooden floor. My toes warmed immediately when I stepped into the slippers I'd received last year for my seventh birthday. I padded over to the door.

A slow turn and pull of the handle revealed the hallway and the upper landing for our staircase. It was lighter out here, even without the gas lamps lit. Moonlight poured in through the big windows, highlighting the leafy garland Mama had wrapped around the banister. Mama and Father's room was at the other end of the hall, across from my two brothers’ room.

Maybe they were too far to hear the noise, which was noticeably louder out here. There was a repetitive rhythm to it, insistent and mechanical. It certainly wasn't reindeer or sleigh bells.

I was turning towards my parents' door when something crashed to the floor downstairs. I stifled a gasp and peered through the stair railing. It came from the direction of the parlor. We'd put a few presents for relatives under the tree. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone damaging the little we had to give.

Despite my growing apprehension, I started downstairs carefully. Be a Big Girl. Be a Brave Girl. That's what Mama and Father always told me whenever we went to the dentist. I didn't want to be Big or Brave. Every time I was either of those things, someone would attack my teeth with hooks. When they were done, Mama or Father would crouch in front of me and lovingly say Now isn't that better? while I glared back through blurry eyes still wet from tears.

Big or Brave? No. Instead, I'd just be Curious Girl. Hopefully, painful things never happened to Curious Girl. Well, at least things that involved dental instruments.

I reached the foot of the steps. A quick tip-toe had me across the foyer and against the parlor entryway. I slowly peeked around the corner.

Our large ornamented tree stood to the side, hemmed in by Mama's blue couch. The fireplace within the far wall was dark. A rope stretching over it supported five stockings, each individually decorated with the owner's name. Father's books, Mama's painting easel, and my brothers' hunting rifles were all where they should have been. Everything perfectly in order.

Except for the large man in red banging his head against the fireplace mantle.

Even with his back to me, I could tell he was dressed just like I'd imagined him. Fluffy red suit. White trim. Shiny round boots. Black gloves. Bright red cap with a white fuzzy ball at its tip. A bulging leather sack lay on the floor, its loosely tied neck revealed hints of brilliantly wrapped gifts. He looked every bit the part, but something was clearly wrong with him.

I watched in confusion as he took two steps away from the fireplace, then two forward, smashing his face against the mantle with a crack. Over and over he did this, his movements jerky and impatient. Moisture glistened at his feet. Fragments of the glass of milk I'd left crunched under his boots. There was a strange buzzing sound every time he moved. Was he sick?

Slowly I approached. Dark shadows hid his features. I lightly grasped the hem of his coat. "Santa?" I tugged gently, scarcely able to breathe.

He stilled for a moment, arms falling limp to his sides. Then he turned abruptly towards me.

Santa had no face.

Within the darkness beneath his cap's furry brim burned two fiery yellow eyes. They cast a sickening glow over a blackened skull, its surface the texture of our old metal stove. Where his nose should have been gaped only a black triangular hole. Pieces of rosy skin dangled from the edges of his face like rotting meat. Fleshy clumps dotted his thick beard.

I felt a scream rising somewhere deep inside.

Then he stumbled towards me, fleshy hands reaching. My scream was silenced by action. I backed away, eyes wide, unable to comprehend. His fat fingers groped the air. Flames licked behind his eyes, a wholly unnatural light.

My right slipper caught on the loosely tied rope securing the bag of gifts. Shiny boxes spilled onto the floor. I tried to wrench myself free, succeeding only in falling hard on my backside. Kicking my slippers away, I rolled over and crawled towards the stairs, looking over my shoulder. Paper and glass crackled as he crushed the gifts underfoot. He towered over me, a great shadow lit crookedly by the window, his enormous gut quivering as he moved.

His sleeve snagged on the Christmas tree. The great pine was wrenched from its stand and fell over pitifully, collapsing to the floor like a drunkard. Ornaments and decorations scattered and broke. Whatever gifts remained were smashed underneath it. Santa paid it no mind, his focus elsewhere. On me.

I should have kept my eyes forward. I blindly crawled headlong into the door frame and collapsed to the floor in pain. Shifting awkwardly on to my back, I saw him bending over me. I cringed, threw my arms up, closed my eyes. I could feel the heat of his breath against cold skin. It stank of burning charcoal.

"Halt!"

The voice filled the room with its power and depth.

A moment later the heat dissipated. I opened my eyes. Santa was standing upright. The glow in his eyes had dimmed to a muted orange. His grotesque hands now hung at his sides.

Through his legs, I saw another man standing by the fireplace. A brown leather coat stretched to his knees, accented by black boots and gloves. On his brow glinted a pair of goggles, pinning down a red knit cap. A full white beard flowed out around his collar, snowy and clean in the moonlight.

"Come here, Twelve-Oh-One," he said, tone that of an annoyed parent.

Buzzing furiously, Santa trudged towards the other man and stopped. The stranger shone a small electric torch over Santa's face.
 

"Dammit, what did you do to yourself?" the man grumbled. He did something to the front of Santa's coat and Santa immediately went limp, head lolling to the side. "Now I need to take you - oh!"

His gaze froze on me. I came to my feet, afraid, but still the Curious Girl. He walked around Santa and stopped a few feet away from me.

"My goodness," he said calmly, "he must have given you quite a fright."

I said nothing.

He smiled, kindness in his blue eyes. "It's alright, dear. Just a little malfunction. He was probably just going to give you a hug." Uncertainty wrinkled his brow. "I think. Anyhow." He aimed a thumb back at Santa's unmoving form. "I turned him off. He can't hurt you now."

"You turned off... Santa?"

"Ho!" the man laughed. "That's no Santa, child."

"Then who is he?"

"He - or that - is just a helper." He grabbed the lapels of his coat and puffed out his chest. "I'm the real Santa." He held out his hand. "And you are?"

This was Santa? He was thin, strong, and rakishly handsome, with only the beginnings of a belly. Even his white beard was neatly trimmed.

"Adda," I replied quietly.

"Of course! Adda May Wincott. So very pleased to meet you." He shook my hand delicately. I must have appeared very surprised. "My list is just names, ages, and addresses," he explained. "It's always lovely to put a face to the name, as they say."

"Pleased to meet you too." I couldn't take my eyes off the figure by the fireplace. "What is he?"

"He's a machine, my dear," he stated simply.

For some reason, I felt a bit annoyed. "But I thought you were supposed to deliver all the gifts!"

He shrugged. "It's all logistics. There are more people in this world today. I couldn't keep up with all of these families having wonderful children like you left and right. In the end, I decided I needed help, so I had my elves make me some helpers."

"Why did this one act like that?"

"We've had some quality control issues as of late. Some of the more rambunctious elves got into the rum cakes and came into work a little tipsy. They damaged a few of the helpers before they were caught."

"How many of those helpers are there?"

"Plenty," he replied mysteriously. He glanced at the mantle clock. Worry crossed his face. "Unfortunately, Adda, I must be going. I need to finish this one's shift. Only a few hours remain before dawn."

He walked over to the machine Santa and fiddled with its front again. It buzzed to life as puffs of steam escaped its ears.

My own gaze wandered over the absolute disaster that was our parlor. "I suppose I'll clean this up," I said, trying to remember where Mama kept her broom.

"Don't worry yourself about that," Santa said over the machine's shoulder. "I take care of my own messes, my dear. You can go back to sleep."

"Not that it matters," I said sadly. "It won't be our house much longer, anyway."

"I know. And I know it’s hard." His eyes were melancholy as they looked out to the night. "But Adda, even in darkness, you will always find stars."

We were quiet for a moment. Then he stepped behind the machine and prodded it towards the fireplace. It tried to walk into the mantle again, but he held its head down and it kept walking into dark recess. "Height meter's gone bad. Second one tonight," he said glumly. Behind him, the machine gripped the edges of the chimney and hoisted itself upwards.

"Young Miss Wincott, it has been a delight even under the circumstances." He bowed gracefully. "I wish you pleasant dreams."

I curtseyed like I'd seen the ladies do in the city.

"Just promise me one thing."

"Yes Santa?"

He pulled on his goggles. "Please don't let anyone know how I really look. The pudgy, jolly thing makes wonderful cover."

"I promise," I replied, giggling.

He turned to the fireplace and stopped short when he saw the stockings hanging over it. His head turned slowly until he found mine to the right. I thought I saw a smile come across his face. Then he was gone up the chimney.

Curiosity took over me. I hurried to the front door and opened it carefully. The bitter cold stung my face, but I needed to see. I headed out into the night, craning my head upwards.

There was something enormous overhead, slender and rounded and impossibly quiet. Twice as long as our house was wide, yet it floated in the sky effortlessly. Beneath it dangled a basket-like contraption. Santa was seated at its forward end, operating levers with his left hand, his right gripping a wheel like that of a fishing boat. His goggles glinted in the moonlight. The helper was strapped horizontally to a wooden deck. Two enormous wooden troughs lined the sides, bulging with sacks of gifts. The bow held an enormous red light that turned the surrounding trees crimson. Towards the rear end spun an enormous fan. Tied to the thing's tail was a much smaller vessel, apparently the helper's craft.

Santa pushed a large lever forward. I heard a sputtering sound and smoke belched from a curved pipe. The fan whirled faster, pushing the giant craft forward. It lifted off into the night and faded into the darkness.

A strange thunderclap shattered the clear, quiet night as a single streak of red shot between the stars. Then nothing. He was gone.

I turned back to the house, saw the half-filled wagon that stood to the side. My spirits fell when I remembered we'd be moving in two days. At the very least I would take with me a remarkable memory.

 Slowly, I walked back inside.

"I don't understand. There's nothing here for you, dear," Mama said.

We'd all come downstairs together in the morning. My two brothers had nearly knocked my parents and I aside to be first into the parlor.

Santa had done as promised. The room was beautiful. The tree, the gifts, all of it. Even the glass of milk had been replaced.

However, when we all sat down around the tree and started handing out the gifts, I felt something was wrong. Mama and Father each received several presents. Both of my brothers had enough to build a pair of forts and were haggling over who had more.

Yet, there were none for me.

My parents searched the parlor, the closets, even the kitchen. There was nothing. I felt awkward and betrayed.

"Perhaps there's something in your stocking?" Father suggested as he walked over to the fireplace. He took my stocking down carefully. "Oh, this is heavy! There are definitely some wonderful things in here, Adda." He had to support it with a hand on the bottom as he handed it to me.

The weighted sock slipped from my small hands and crashed to the floor. Small black objects spilled out.

Coal.

Broken, sharp, horrible pieces of coal.

"Looks like someone's been bad," my brother Donald sneered. Paul laughed.

"Donald!" Mama hit his arm roughly.

I felt heat on my face as tears began to flow.
 

"Father's lost his job. We're losing our house." I glared at my brothers. "You two only care about who got more gifts. I only asked for a dumb doll." The coal seemed dark as night. "This isn't fair!"

My two brothers tried to contain their laughter. Father sat quietly, sadness on his face. Mama reached out to me. "Oh, my sweetheart,"

I shook her off and ran up the stairs, my anger focused on Santa. How could he have done this? I'd behaved my best. I'd promised to keep his secret. I slammed the door behind me as I entered my room. Curled up on the floor in front of my packing boxes, I cried quietly.

"Hey sis!" Donald was outside my door. "You forgot your present."

The door opened a crack and my stocking full of coal slid towards me. Laughter filtered after it. I'd had enough. I grabbed a heavy chunk and was about to hurl it at them.

Something caught my eye.

A strange box lay on my bed. It was completely red, nearly three feet long, and narrow. It hadn't been there before.

Beside it sat a small, handwritten note.

"Dear Adda - I hope this will turn your darkness into stars. Santa."

Mystified, I pulled back the lid.

Inside rested a wooden nutcracker soldier, tall and proud in a red uniform with black and gold trim. I lifted him out and set him on the floor. He looked like most nutcrackers I'd seen before, save for a larger head. The mouth was huge compared to the rest of the face.

I swung his left arm up. Gears clunked and the immense jaw opened. The space within was cavernous, almost frightening.

Darkness, Santa had said. I looked down at the coal in my hand.

I wasn't sure why, but I inserted the coal into the mouth. It fit perfectly. With both hands, I pushed down the arm. The jaw closed while mechanical things turned inside. The mouth ground shut tightly, spewing black powder that made me cough and covered the front of my gown.

When I pulled the arm back up, the coal was completely gone. Something small twinkled in its place.

I reached inside and pulled the object out. I gasped when I realized what I held in my hand.

One by one, I fed the coal pieces into the nutcracker's hungry mouth. By the time I was done, my room was covered in coal dust. I didn't care.

I heard Father cursing outside. Down the stairs and out the front door I ran. He was loading another crate of our belongings into the wagon.

"Adda, what are you doing out here?" he asked.

"We don't have to move." I crunched across the snow to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, "but we can't afford to live here anymore."

I took his right hand in mine and opened it.

"We can afford it now, Father," I said as I emptied the contents of my hand into his.

As he stared in awe at the pile of exquisite diamonds in his palm, I thought I heard a thunderclap in the clear blue sky above us.

Mark Rossmore spends his days talking to airplanes and his nights occupied with a variety of creative endeavors. A current air traffic control trainee and a former creative director, he continues to express himself via writing, music, video, photography, and more. He won his first NaNoWriMo in 2008 with a steampunk-inspired alternate history novel and hopes to someday hold the finished piece in his hands. As a Cuban-American living in the Deep South, he happily accepts emergency care packages containing platanos maduros, croquetas de hamon, and tres leches.

Mark keeps a well-regarded aviation and ATC blog at: http://PinguinoMalo.blogspot.com