“HERE COMES SANTA’S CLAWS” by Jon Allen (Short Horror Story) #WeirdDarkness #HolidayHorrors
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Welcome, Weirdos! I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved, and unexplained.

Coming up in this episode, it's an original short holiday horror story from John Allen called Here Comes Santa's Claws. Before we get into the story, though, welcome to the show! And if you're already a member of this weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show.

And while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com, where you can send in your own personal paranormal stories, watch horror hosts present old, scary movies 24/7, shop for Weird Darkness and Weirdo merchandise, listen to free audiobooks I've narrated, sign up for the newsletter to win free stuff I give away every month, and more! And on the social contact page, you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, and you can also join the Weird Darkness Weirdos Facebook group! Now,

Bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Hey, look up. The stars. Do you see them? That's me. Okay, maybe not. I'm stealing that shtick from It's a Wonderful Life. You know, how the stars are angels that talk to each other. I thought I'd give this story a traditional holiday vibe.

That's what people are used to this time of year, right? The whole feel-good story thing? Personally, I love the Christmas season. I loved it as a human, and I love it as an angel. Other angels kid that I love it too much. Ariel, the other 11 months of the year are just as important, they tell me. They're right, and I do try to treat each day with the same passion no matter the month. Something mystical happens around this time every year, though.

It's in films and music and books. It's in the air. The holiday spirit. It's everywhere. It envelops us. It overwhelms us. It's a blanket of love, and I truly believe that if the holiday spirit could be sustained year-round, this would be a harmonious paradise, a fortress of infinite peace, impervious to the darkness. The holiday spirit creates miracles. It gives second chances and redemption."

It is pure, unsullied light. As an angel, though, I see all things. I'm no fool. I realize that even a fortress has cracks, and darkness can seep in through the tiniest opening. I'm trying to say the holiday spirit is magical and visceral, and I could regale a thousand tales of humanity's finest moments when enchanted by this hypnotic utopia, but that's been done to death. It's boring and ineffective.

These stories no longer have impact because they're so common. The Lifetime Network made a cottage industry of it. To fully comprehend the importance of the holiday spirit, another writer needs to pen a different chapter. Frankly, the holiday spirit has dwindled in recent years, and I need to take a different approach to save it. The thing is, if it bleeds, it leads, right?

Sorry if that doesn't resonate, it's an old newspaper industry saying and I died when print media was still a thing. If you're wondering, I was hopped up on New Coke and fell from a scaffolding thing at a Bananarama concert while applying Aquanet and taking Polaroids simultaneously. It was a whole embarrassing to-do that I don't want to talk about. But anyway, let me see, how can I modernize this? Okay, so say you're in the comments section online.

Nice comments are the holiday spirit, but the nice comments get a like or two, and the trolls get a million downvotes, but a lot of attention. How does this relate to the wonders of the holiday spirit? No one will pay attention if I ramble about glittery unicorns and sugar rainbows. They want serpents and ominous clouds. Well, I won't disappoint. It's impossible to embrace the marvel of holiday spirit without understanding an existence without it.

Fear is the only way I save it and possibly you. So grant me a one-time allowance as clickbait. I'm going to troll your inner zen so you never take the holiday spirit for granted. Again, it might save your life. It all happened one Christmas Eve in a universe not far removed from ours, when Santa bargained that the world's most vile souls could be saved by the spirit.

Imagine you're hearing that whimsy sitcom segue music they always use when they vanish into a dream sequence. Go ahead, there's the harp music and we're fading into blurry pixels. Here we go. 3, 2, 1… None comprehended the celestial chaos that brought them together on Christmas Eve, and they never would.

They simply materialized from their various circumstances and formed a line at the Christmas party outside of the strange estate, infamous serial killers both reanimated and alive. Each appeared as they had in their prime, and each carried carefully wrapped gifts from an unknown origin, most standing in shocked silence. One or two of the societal scourges was so criminally insane that the unfathomable phenomenon at the moment didn't even raise a question

It was as routine as the seasonal ugly Christmas sweaters and Santa hats they were wearing against their will. The palatial estate itself was nestled in a blanket of powdery white snow that extended beyond what the human eye could register. It was akin to being inside of a snow globe, and the genius savage Edmund Kemper ascertained that they just might be trapped inside something preternatural, as the universe of the moment ran parallel to any previously known.

The elven butler at the door, adorned in bells and pointy shoes and bright, eccentric shades of red and green, collected the invites as each entered. Being Christmas Eve, he'd rather be spreading joy and wonderment, but instead found himself playing greeter. Last year's embarrassing overdose on cranberry sauce and gumdrops had led to this predicament, so he took his punishment like an elf. His only solace was how wonderful his clothing danced against the moonlight.

Charles Manson fronted the line, sauntering into the abode while muttering nonsensical things to himself as his wild eyes leered and his wispy locks and unkempt beard posted large, fluffy snowflakes. Following the minuscule cult leader was the infamous Eileen Wuornos, who shrieked at the grandeur of the estate given her poverty-stricken past. Then, Milwaukee's finest, Jeffrey Dahmer, who remained as distant and silent as he had been when alive the first time.

Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker himself, came next, his rancid breath causing the butler to recoil in horror. Even with his satanic essence, the puffy Christmas tree sweater softened the madman. John Wayne Gacy strolled through in full clown regalia, his oversized shoes emblazoned with images of garland and his makeup a fiasco of yuletide cheer. The rotund monster eclipsed the elf butler in wardrobe outrageousness, a formidable task.

With a little coaxing, the dutiful elf was able to corral Edmund Kemper, whose beautiful, disturbed mind caused him to wander the estate grounds trying to find clues that would explain this sudden, bizarre scene that had sprung him from a prison cell to whatever this place was. As he watched the butler write on his sheet from right to left, a grand peculiarity, the gruesome goon knew he no longer lingered on the earthly realm. This place

held something strange, something he couldn't figure, some type of weird darkness. Upon completion, the butler, Zuzu, grew impatient and checked his list. Hmm, one missing, Zuzu thought. Well, I'll take it up with the boss lady. I'd better get inside before they spike the eggnog or start stabbing each other with candy canes.

As Zuzu closed the castle-like doors behind him, the harrowing thud was overshadowed by Johnny Mathis on the speakers as the old crooner bellowed Winter Wonderland to a party that was slowly becoming vibrant. The main room that held the get-together was a power company's dream as strands of beaming lights hugged every inch. Mistletoe tickled the tops of many ahead, which was actually a hazard for Edmund Kemper.

His surreal height brought the sharp, prickly strands eye-level, his glasses acting as a shield. Even in the madness of the situation, the gargantuan co-ed killer used his intellect to describe Mistletoe to absolutely no one in his matter-of-fact way. "It is an obligate, hemiparasitic plant in the order Santillales. I've always found the plant's order Santillales and relation to Christmas to be obviously ironic, given that

Kemper's lesson trailed off unheard. Christmas trees massaged every corner, and a long, festive sycamore table held the aforementioned eggnog, a bowl of punch, and nearly a thousand sugar-laden confectionaries.

The big guy had even allowed alcohol, something Zuzu thought insane. But the wager would be that the holiday spirit can change the worst of the worst from their natural environment, and since drinking had been so natural to some of the killers, the detail remained. Even the unpopular fruitcake held an appetizing pull, and the pleasant aroma of something baking in the kitchen intermingled with the lingering scent of pine and pastries.

Other traditions aided in the holiday spirit. Hanukkah dreidels and menorahs and golden gelt interspersed with Ramadan henna lanterns and eyed countdown chalkboards. Christmas decor blended with Kwanzaa Kinara's and Zawadi and Unity cups in a perfect cacophony. Zuzu sighed. Such majesty surrounding such tragedy. Holiday spirit dictated redemption, but that was for people. These were insidious demons.

his place was not for them. Still, the big guy wanted what the big guy wanted. His own work ended, and Zuzu sought the head elf, Capra, and informed her of the missing name from the list before passing the evening's events on to the Jolly One's sassy lieutenant. We'll have more of our story here comes Santa's Claws by John Allen when Weird Darkness returns.

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When it's PCS time, you know the drill. Pack, research a new base, get the kids in school, because family supports family. At American Public University, we support military families with flexible, affordable online education that moves with you. As a military spouse, your tuition rate is the same as your partner's, just $250 per credit hour. American Public University, education that moves with you.

The party had begun with a spark and morphed into an explosion in quick fashion.

The first phase of the experiment continued for a few hours, and the insidious cretins laughed and drank and ate like royalty in their new existence, as if this was not the most bizarre occurrence in the history of normal or paranormal. Misbehavior became the theme of this squandered second chance in a blink. Decoy elves served as stand-ins to give the party a buzz — a regrettable choice.

Capra watched from the corner of the room with a keen eye as the dreadful subjects wrecked the room, leaving a tornadic disaster of wreaths and tinsel and stockings behind. Elves were threatened and harassed. John Wayne Gacy placed one of Santa's helpers atop a towering cabinet and joked about an elf on a shelf. The serial killers themselves were separated from one another, as well as their creative makeshift weaponry. Eileen Wuornos' intentions with the gingerbread man were less than honorable.

Idiots. They haven't learned a thing, Capra thought. They won't, and they can't. As the Brendalee classic Rockin' Round the Christmas Tree spun on the record player, the disruption from the miscreants caused the reindeer outside to stir, calmed only by Rudolph's mesmerizing red nose. This was not going well.

The holiday spirit was lost on these people. Nary an ounce of kindness or humanity had reared itself. Saved from Hades or San Quentin, gratitude should have been paramount. Rather, Capra eventually compiled the following list for the big guy: "Subject Manson has attempted two coups and continues to attempt to manipulate the elves into doing something witchy. He has also proclaimed himself as God twice."

Subject Wernos has consistently propositioned various elder elves upon inquiring whether they have any "scratch" on them. Follow-up intentions can be assumed based on past transgressions. Subject Dahmer has drunk at a feverish pace and making strange glances toward isolated elves since arrival. Again, history dictates nefarious intentions.

Subject Gacy has employed standard clown routines and has invited some of the younger elves to hang out alone somewhere. See above about predictable intent. Subject Kemper remains the most behaved, though his elevated heart rate among the female elves is a concern, based again on his criminal background. His charm and normalcy need to be monitored.

Subject Ramirez has constructed pentagrams from licorice rope and declaring Christmas a pagan institution, causing the removal and re-education of certain gullible elves. Based upon the sordid and violent nature and history of all parties, it is my opinion that this experiment has and will continue to fail. I declare that Phase 1, interacting with regular society amidst the holiday spirit, is a failure. The hand-carved wall clock read 45 minutes until midnight.

Outside, the ever-rising snow mountain coated against the window, Capra watched the smoke plumes from the fireplace that kept the cozy adjacent bungalow warm. The Kringles preferred their nook to the opulence and decadence of the main estate. Jessica Kringle's silhouette graced the glass panes of the horny bungalow, and Capra knew that the real boss of the operation was helping her lovable cherub husband prepare for the busiest night of the year. She wondered how the big guy would fare tonight since he went gluten-free.

Last year's keto experiment was a disaster. Phase two of the experiment was drawing upon her, and the head elf could no longer put it off. It was time to interact with the despicable ones as they interacted with each other, an affair Capra greatly bemoaned because the outcome was textbook predictability. The sooner it was over, though, the sooner she could celebrate Christmas. She adjusted her candy-striped leggings and got on with it.

Capra summoned the six murderers to a round table lathered in poinsettia and ornaments and cookies and all that sparkles, then used her elven power to lower the stereo volume, muting Eartha Kitt before she could sing for Santa to hurry down her chimney. Capra appeared in the middle of the table, sitting cross-legged and floating in a slow rotation to address the six filled chairs, with the lone vacant chair pushed off to the side.

"Merry Christmas, bad seeds! Welcome to the North Pole! Welcome to your party! Please sit!" A murmur trickled amongst the guests as they sat. Capra composed herself. Life to her was love and good tidings, and the murdering filth that surrounded her was an affront to every belief she held.

Still, she'd promised Kringle she would contain her sharp tongue and moderate the debacle with fairness. "Excuse me, can you get back to work, please? We're quite busy tonight, as I'm sure you're aware of," Keppra said towards Charles Manson.

A second glance and she giggled at her mistake. "'Apologies, Mr. Manson. Your stature confused me. With the elf hat, I mistook you for a worker. My apologies. Now, everyone, welcome. It's Christmas Eve, as you can gather, given the location and all you see. That said, it doesn't matter anyway, I'll assume. I'm inclined to believe religion is not something any of you have accidentally stubbed your toe on.'

"Well, anyway," the head elf sighed, "my name is Capra, and I'm your overseer for the next event. Some of you have rotted in Hellfire and Brimstone, others prison. If you're a tooth, you've been rotting in Mr. Ramirez's mouth." The Night Stalker and his foreboding scowl tried to lunge at Capra, but an unseen force whipped him back to his seat.

I'm sorry, Mr. Ramirez. It was right there and I couldn't not say it. I promise no more jabs at you. I'm so sorry. I couldn't help myself. I should say this, though, to everyone. No attacking me or anyone else. Keep your hands inside the ride at all times. Your evil inclinations are useless here, as you just saw.

Consider this a field trip, only instead of a tour guide to keep you on the right track, you have invisible shock pallors. There are forces that'll stop you before you even think it, so behave. Got it? Moving on.

My life is devoted to Christmas and the holiday spirit, and you all have never basked in its glory. You've never bathed in the waters of altruism and goodwill. Quite the opposite, I'd say. But nonetheless, the big guy knows best, so here we are. It's been a big failure so far, but I'm here to try to instill this spirit inside of you people. That's my task.

"It would seem I have a better chance of not popping the bubble wrap when wrapping presents, but here we are. Obviously, you've been unable to reintegrate among others, so that was a misfire. I figured as much and had an idea. I'm going to try one surefire thing that always spreads joy." "I won't spread joy. I spread her all over Los Angeles," Richard Ramirez crackled as he looked to his peers for validation.

Capra motioned her magical hand and an invisible muffle covered the Night Stalker's mouth. "Not the great start, Mr. Ramirez. Anyone else wish to speak up? Mr. Gacy? Miss Wuernos?" Capra asked. "Silence." "Great. Now it's time for Secret Santa. In front of you is a gift, and on that gift is a name. Makes sense now, right? Go ahead and slide it over to that person. You all know each other." Capra sighed as she looked at the time.

"Go on!" Slowly, the sinister six began to do so.

Charles Manson was the first to speak up. "Shame, Mama, just seeing is not in my bag, dig? What happens after this? Do we get to go back to our lives? That's the only holiday miracle I need. I've been X'd out of your society since I was born. I've been a political prisoner since day one because the rules of an unwell world are not the rules of me. I don't belong in hell any more than I belong in heaven.

I'm just a man of peace. In my mind's eye, my thoughts light fires in your cities. What's the endgame here, sister love? Is my exile over? Or are the piggies going to continue to castrate my free will?

Everyone stared once their eyes stopped rolling. "'Oh, shut up already, you insufferable babbling lunatic,' Eileen Wuornos interrupted. "'You vomit words that don't go together, and I ain't never understood how you got them kids to do your killing for you, you coward. They're as crazy as you, which is nuttier than squirrel dung.' Capra cracked a smile and observed the detestable fiends like a rubber-necking driver.

If she wasn't allowed to insult them, listening to the ogres roast each other was the next best thing. "Hey, know your place, woman. Sanity is a small box. Insanity is everything. Listen here, mama," Manson countered. "Don't you go judging me, lest you want to be judged. I won't though, because I exist on a higher plane. I'm the invisible man. A ghost, a specter you can't see.

I can't judge any of you because I have no malice against you, no ribbons for you. But I think that it's high time that y'all start looking at yourselves and judging the life that you live in.

Edmund Kemper chimed in with his measured, collected thoughts: "Charlie, even in death you haven't changed. Same guy with your same gibberish back at the pen in Vacaville. Just stop. The 60s are over. No one here's on LSD. Your gimmick is a joke in this era. Now your place, woman? You're a relic friend. Just stop already."

"Perhaps it would be prudent for all if we allowed our hostess the prospect of executing her disquisition. I'm certain everyone shares a piqued interest into our current situation." Capra began to speak but was again interrupted by Ramirez's raised hand. Capra released his muffle with reluctance.

"Yeah, Chuck. You heard Stretch there," Richard Ramirez sneered. "Quit acting like a damn clown. Everyone hates those creepy things. I'm sorry, Gacy, except for Pogo, of course. All the helpless kiddies loved Pogo, right, freak? John Wayne, you ought to have that name revoked. The Duke was a man, you? Target practice is too good for you." John Wayne Gacy managed to growl, even though his face was painted in a permanent smile, a comical juxtaposition.

"Don't apologize to him, Richie. He can't do anything to you. You're older than twelve," Wuornos laughed. Even amongst killers, anyone who hurt children was the lowest of all, and the group began to pile on Gacy. The table then turned on each other in spurts and began to argue in one combustible cartoon bubble of expletives. Except for Jeffrey Dahmer, who was half asleep. Capra noticed this and waved her hand once more, the mystical motion rendering everyone mute.

"'Mr. Dahmer, you haven't said a word,' Capra said. "'Are you... you look... are you drunk?' Dahmer peered through his thick glasses with red eyes and shrugged in the affirmative. "'Okay, you know what? This is to be a normal Secret Santa exchange. So, just... I don't know. Shut up and open your gifts.' Capra looked at the clock and shook her head in disgust, counting the minutes. "'You're dead, Dahmer!'

Keppra knew she should have kept them gagged. Richard Ramirez was not thrilled with his gift. Dahmer rose from his glossy headspace, just enough to protest. "I didn't buy you that. They don't have gift shops in hell. I just appeared here like you did and this package was there. Relax, Ramirez." Ramirez would not. "You think it's funny? A toothbrush? I'll rip your heart out, Dahmer. How about that? This time I'll rip your heart out and sauté it with peppers and onions and eat your soul."

Capra sighed. "Mr. Ramirez, Mr. Dahmer is correct. I don't know where the gifts came from, but he didn't choose yours. None of you did," Capra informed the hygiene-challenged lunatic while peeking at the big guy's bungalow outside. The front door was ajar, which meant it was almost time. "Shall we move on?" "Whatever," Ramirez replied. "Pledge allegiance to the devil and people just become plain rude. You know, even psychopaths have emotions."

"No thank you or appreciation," Capra mentally noted. A minor slight with each gift was a simple test for the subjects, and the reactions cement my first conclusion about their inability to change. In fighting. Threats of murder. No attempts at betterment or empathy or gratitude. Which means no holiday spirit. Phase two: Fellowship among peers under the holiday spirit is not looking great.

Manson's turn came, and as he unwrapped his present from Edmund Kemper, his pupils became a fiery sea of evil that resembled a Rorschach test. Kemper spoke before anyone else could. "You literally just heard, Capra Charlie. I'm not the one who chose this gift to bestow upon you. Don't you render it quite dubious that I would purposefully give you shoe lifts? This whole affair seems to me a test of some sort." Capra thought. "Again, no gratitude. No gratitude equals a bad attitude."

Kemper, perhaps, is onto us, though. Maybe that 145 IQ is real. Time to shut him up. Let's move along, folks. Mrs. Wuornos, please, open your gift from Mr. Ramirez.

She did, and like the others, rage overcame her. Peroxide, oh go to hell whoever did this. Yeah, I have roots this show. Big friggin' deal, man. It's jabs like this, man, that made me what I was. I said before, this world is nothing but evil, and my evil just happened to come out because of the circumstances of what I was doing. Keep laughing, whoever done this, keep laughing. The rest of the exchange was much the same.

No genuine moments of harmony and peace. Capper tried not to snicker at the intentional bullying nature of the presents, though her gleeful grin could not be contained. The phantom gifter dictated Manson gifting a vegan cookbook to Dahmer. Wuornos gave Gacy a book titled "Clowns for Those Not Good Enough to Be a Mime." Gacy himself bestowed upon the brilliant Ed Kemper the entire Dr. Seuss collection, with a note stating that these would replace his current library of academic literature.

At the end of it all, no one showed progress. Not a whiff of Christmas virus attacked their malevolent immune systems. Even the prank test gifts should have been a welcome reprieve from the existence they came from. Yet they weren't. Sprung from prison, hell, it did not matter. The North Pole Haven lie destroyed, and the Secret Santa Exchange a bust. The violent subjects were given a plethora of opportunities, but as the night whimpered and midnight loomed, Capra had no choice.

Phase two was a massive failure. On the list, their names went, with little surprise to her. At the top of the list was the word "naughty." We'll have more of our story here comes "Santa's Claws" by John Allen when Weird Darkness returns.

Eat, save, and be merry with low prices and same-day delivery from Amazon Fresh. Whether you're looking for sweet deals on holiday treats or your dream gingerbread house, outshine the tree with holiday deals delivered right to your doorstep. Prime members save even more with deals on thousands of grocery items and up to 50% off on weekly favorites. Celebrate the holiday season with savings and same-day delivery from Amazon Fresh.

When it's PCS time, you know the drill. Pack, research a new base, get the kids in school, because family supports family. At American Public University, we support military families with flexible, affordable online education that moves with you. As a military spouse, your tuition rate is the same as your partner's, just $250 per credit hour. American Public University, education that moves with you.

Learn more at apu.apus.edu/military

I give scratchers to my boss and I give scratchers to my wife. I give Virginia Lottery holiday games to every adult in my life. I give scratchers to my yoga instructor, my mailman, and my friends. With the lottery's New Year's millionaire raffle, the possibilities never end. And when I need some time alone to keep from going insane, I open up the lottery app and play the holiday online games. The best way to bring joy all season long and be a gifting MVP is giving holiday games from the Virginia Lottery.

Capra hummed the Gene Autry standard without words. Had she sung it, she would have crooned, "Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane." There was a reason for this. The big guy always had a plan.

A commotion rumbled from the chimney, causing murderer's row to stop throwing things at one another and freeze in silence as they remained forcefully seated at the table. "Ho! Ho! Ho!" The hearty catchphrase bellowed from the chimney into the room with gusto, and before a word could be uttered, jolly old St. Nick, Kris Kringle himself, burst into existence. Capra smiled at the sight of the big guy. The killers expressed shock, disbelief, and fear.

The clock struck midnight as he appeared. Off in the distance, elves cheered the arrival of Christmas morning. "Merry Christmas to all! Welcome to my humble abode, built on the hopes and dreams and goodwill of humanity. How has your evening been so far? I trust Capra has showered you with all the holiday spirit!" Each hateful killer had a thought in the moment.

Edmund Kemper was a genius, and geniuses tend to rely on mathematical logic, so he could not rationalize gods and non-scientific beings, let alone Santa. Thus, he deduced himself lost in a fever dream. John Wayne Gacy was upset that he no longer claimed the title of most outrageous morbidly obese man in the room. Eileen Wuornos eyed the bag tossed over Santa's shoulder and envisioned shooting the white beard and stealing his loot.

Charles Manson's deranged mind went into an internal incomprehensible rant, tying Kris Kringle to capitalism, conspiracy theories, and the "system" and other various loopy Mansonesque fallbacks. Richard Ramirez lamented that his object of worship, Satan, spelled "Santa" if the letters were slightly rearranged. Jeffrey Dahmer just figured he was still feeling the effects of the eggnog and seeing things.

Capra hugged Santa like a child hugs her father and handed over her notes. She then left the room without word, as if something was about to happen that she did not want to witness. Santa skimmed the notes and was visibly disappointed with the list. He even checked it twice.

He decided right then that Phase 3 would be tossed aside entirely as the notes turned into Kindle in the fireplace. "'You know, children,' Santa said to the adult murderers as he climbed and paced the very tabletop where Capra had held court, "'I know everything about who you once were. I also know everything that happened tonight. On Christmas Eve, nonetheless.'"

"Needless to say, I'm quite disappointed. I pulled some favors because I believe in rehabilitation and redemption, but mostly because I believe that the holiday spirit can save everyone and change the world. But it appears Mrs. Kringle was correct. Again. I'm just a hopeless optimist, I suppose. Where are my manners? We should always feast on Christmas Day, no matter what you celebrate!" Santa snapped his fingers.

and a plate of beef and vegetables instantly appeared to everyone. "Eat up, children! Happy holidays!" "Now, where was I?" "Uh, Mr. Santa?" Jeffrey Dahmer slurred through a squint of sobriety. "My plate is all vegetables!" Santa chuckled. "Finally he wakes up! We'll get to that in a few, Jeffrey. Dive in, everybody!" And so they did.

As Santa went on about his disappointment, the entire crew gobbled as if they'd never eaten before, as if sudden ravenous hunger was foisted upon them. The feast was scrumptious and addicting. Santa's words were drowned out by the food. Kringle noticed this. "Yes, yes, eat up, children," Santa said mid-sentence as he took a break from dressing them down. "Seconds are available as well. Hey, Santa!" Dahmer chimed in with impatience. "The oldest plate of vegetables for Santa to see."

Santa shushed him, and everyone else for that matter. Their ability to speak had ceased with a simple motion. It was obvious where Capra had learned her tricks. The speech continued, The reason, in most of your cases, that I brought you back to life. Santa's words were background noise until the food disappeared. Then the reviled predators, with nothing going in or out of their mouths, finally had no choice but to listen. Their ears joined in as the round mound of joyful sound was winding down.

So, it is with great regret that I must inform you all that even the holiday spirit cannot save you. You are simply abhorrent, just disgusting beings. You see, people exist in the world with terrible upbringings, much like some of you had, but they don't become what you did. Some of you didn't even have bad childhoods, yet all of you chose evil. And that simply isn't festive now, is it?

I didn't want it to come to this, because I truly believed the season would move you. But part of my pact with the higher-ups was that if I couldn't convert you, well, I'd have to punish you immediately. So that's where we find ourselves.

Glances flickered across the table. Though he couldn't speak, Charles Manson began to laugh without control, his body wrought with awkward bobbing. Santa glared at the impish hellion in a loud words. "'What's possibly so humorous that you're interrupting me, Mr. Manson?'

Manson allowed himself to laugh beyond the mark of obnoxiousness before speaking. "Well, Fat Man, I was just laughing at you, Jack. You said something about punishing us. Are we getting coal for Christmas? My life is a lump of coal. You think some commercialized imperialist pig is going to scare me? You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something.

"Noradays everybody's crazy, including you, Papa Christmas. We're not in Wonderland anymore, Alice. You think you're witchy enough to play Johnny Justice? You can't kill what's..." Santa snapped his fingers and Manson fell quiet again. It was quite convenient, the human mute button.

"That man simply never shuts up." "I'm sorry to be so brash, children. It's just that I've never heard so many words spoken that amount to nothing." "Mr. Manson, I don't believe actual witches are too appreciative of you using that word 'witchy.' In fact, I know you're not the spokesperson they'd choose. I've heard Bathsheba say as much."

Oh, I guess that's a slippery secret. Yes, witches are real as well. We all are, except the Tooth Fairy. That's just a ridiculous notion. Now, everyone, about Mr. Manson's questioning of your punishment. Well, it's already begun.

The big guy continued to walk across the table, veering down at the empty plates. "You may have noticed a seat at the table as empty as your plates," Santa continued. "Well, it belongs to one of your contemporaries." "Oh, he's here, all right." "Sad, sad Dennis. Seriously, who gives themselves a nickname?

"That pathetic wannabe BTK, jeez, I don't want to be complimentary of your collective atrocities, but he literally does not deserve a seat at the table with you. No originality. Stealing everyone else's calling card. Well, the hack has been hacked, so problem solved. Season's eatings, though. Did he taste like failure?" Aileen Wuornos grunted, as if to regurgitate, though her magically closed mouth wouldn't allow it.

Gacy pointed at the plate in muffled fear. The first time eating actually scared him. Kemper allowed a slight smile at the cleverness of it all. Yes, children, in this case for you all, BTK stands for Biting Through Kidney. Here's in fact...

Kidney, spleen, liver, all of it. Mr. Ramirez, you told Mr. Dahmer earlier that you wanted to eat his heart. I hope this is close enough. Oh, and Mr. Dahmer, I know you enjoy this sort of meal, so of course I had to disallow you access. That's why your plate was devoid of meaty substance. How were your broccoli florets, though?

The collective faces of the monster squad became a mix of ashen, sullen silence and unabashed rage with a few punches of violent disgust. Santa now held their attention. "So now that we have full bellies, children, I believe it's about that time. I can't waste any more precious moments on you. There are a billion good little boys and girls out there, nestled all snug in their beds while visions of sugarplums dance in their... well, you know the rest.

Why do you look so sad? This is your doing. Gacy's clown makeup began to kick into his tears. Ramirez snarled like a chained, rabid dog. Manson seemed unbothered. Sadness overcame St. Nick's plump, pink cheeks as he fell into deep thought. Oh, I'll tell you what, mongrels. The spirit didn't grab you, and the season didn't change you, but there is one last thing. No, I shouldn't...

"Well, it's Christmas, but Mrs. Kringle says I'm too much of a softy," Santa scratched his thick, cottony beard, leaving the motley crew of sadists in suspense. "Okay, I'm Santa. This is what I do. I will tell you children what. There is one last cog in this machine, and that's the Christmas miracle. This is the final chance at salvation. I mean it. If you tell the missus, the deal is off.

"This is quite simple. Now raise your hand if you believe yourself the brightest of the bunch," went the hands of Edmund Kemper and Charles Manson. Everyone else nodded towards Kemper with urgent, pleading eyes, begging Santa not to pick Manson. Santa allowed Kemper to have a voice once again.

How's your scientific brain rationalizing me now, Mr. Kemper? Still think this is a fever dream? Oh, I can read your thoughts. Why wouldn't I? I already see you when you're sleeping, I know when you're awake, and so on. Kemper cleared his throat. I'm flummoxed and bewildered and have gained newfound faith in lore, sir. Upon further reflection, Einstein once said, if you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales, and I believe this is tantamount to...

A white left hand motioned for silence. "We get it, Mr. Kemper. You're intelligent. The only task I have for you requires memory, not intellect. Your answer will decide whether you all meet a grisly death en route to eternal damnation or whether you are released back into the world where you will hopefully become advocates for the holiday spirit. It's a very simple question, really.

If you have any holiday spirit at all, you'll remember certain festive details that helped shape this evening's celebration. That's what a wonderful thing actually is made of: small building blocks of good that build something, well, wonderful. One memory of one building block of good is all you need to remember. Are you ready, Mr. Kemper?

Kemper nodded. Great. Right before I arrived, my beloved Capra was humming a little Christmas jingle. It's a wildly popular and classic tune that you hear non-stop this time of year. A few bars give a normal person the tingles. Memories, past and future can hang on a simple song. Mr. Kemper, for you and your fellow murderers who have wrecked and destroyed lives and families and hope in humanity, if you can tell me the name of that song, you're free.

That's it. As simple as that. Nothing more, nothing less. If the tiniest, most minute, microscopic trace of holiday spirit exists within you, you'll remember this song that makes so many people so very happy. 1% of 1% of 1% of you and your friends here might be human if you can recall a lovely classic tune. So for the last time, I ask, are you ready, Mr. Kemper?

Kemper exhaled and faced his peers. Yet another entrée into the realm of irrational logic. Of all serial killers in the room, maybe even in history, Kemper was the most self-aware of his evil transgressions. Such a wager, such a final opportunity for salvation, seemed cosmically unfair when measured against his sins. There had to be a catch.

Kemper knew he should burn forever for his sins. A lifetime of murder should not be erased by a round of "name that tune." Kemper's memory of Capra was vivid and clear, and he began to mimic her humming. The table listened with intense focus, nodding along. Gacy was the first to match the humming and slapped his hand on the table, signaling that Kemper was on track. Wuornos registered as well and nodded with fervor. Manson and Ramirez seemed confused. No surprise to anyone.

Dahmer was just really hammered and couldn't care less. "I've got it, Santa!" Kemper finally stated with confidence. In his head, he watched Gene Autry perform the song on TV long ago as a child at his grandparents' house. The clarity was as if he was in the front row. Santa crouched down in front of Ed Kemper from his tabletop vantage, mirroring Kemper's gaze.

"All right, Mr. Kemper, I gave you a steel-stilted pogo stick for Christmas when you were nine. It was the most important thing in your life at the time. It seems not much has changed, ironically. Will I be giving you the most important thing in your life again this Christmas? The chance to begin anew?" Kemper hummed the jingle a final time to secure his answer and flashed a smug smile. "I do believe you will, jolly one, because the answer is 'Here comes Santa Claus!'"

The serial killer collective dared not move. Kemper did not break his eye lock with Santa, and Santa displayed no emotion. That cliché about cutting tension with a knife was apt. Only with this group, knives were a bad idea. Santa slowly rose and turned away, standing for too long and staring into the void. Without moving his portly body, he eventually rotated his head to look down on Kemper. Well, children, it appears you've got me. You did. You've got me.

"So sad that your answer is incorrect." Santa spun around with supernatural speed and outstretched his arms. Through his white gloves, spiky wooden talons as thick as a sequoia and as sharp as a scythe breached the fabric and grew into long, menacing shears. In one swoop, Edmund Kemper was beheaded by the right hand of Santa.

The table gasped. The Jolly One's face morphed into maniacal madness as he confronted them. Even without a head, this guy is like a foot taller than everyone else. The correct answer would be, here comes Santa's claws.

Trick question? Perhaps. But since the holiday spirit didn't move you, it's my job to move you into holiday spirits. That's a fun way to say you're all gonna become spirits. Ghosts. Ghosts of Christmas. And I'm not talking about dickens. Hey, Casey! You dollar general Pennywise, I've lost a lot of clients because of your sick perversion. I live to make children happy, and that means this is going to be extra painful for you.

"You took their souls. I take your lower intestine." Santa lunged with both claws and eviscerated the buffoonish stain of humanity before facing the others once again. "You didn't really think I would reward children on the naughty list, did you? On the thirteenth day of Christmas I give to you sweet, bloody justice. Scary Christmas, sickos!"

Outside the door, Capra and Zuzu checked the harness on Blitzer and Dancer, calming the animals and pretending not to hear the massacre inside. Santa's jolly ho-ho-ho with each kill did not match the gory ambiance inside. The clash of realities so chilling that Frosty the Snowman pulled his hat to cover his ears. Hiding in the shadows, Krampus looked on in envy. The conclusion to John Allen's Here Comes Santa's Claws is up next on Weird Darkness.

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I give scratchers to my boss and I give scratchers to my wife. I give Virginia Lottery holiday games to every adult in my life. I play the New Year's Millionaire Raffle and online games just for me. It's always a season of fun when you give and play the Virginia Lottery. Hey, it's Ariel again. Pretend that dreamy Segway music just brought you back to me. The blurriness is now 3D again and everything is normal. Crazy story, right?

I know angels are supposed to be uplifting and all, but times have changed. And I told you a new approach was needed to save the holiday spirit. Am I wrong to say that if you kill people with kindness, wouldn't you keep them alive with cruelty? It's tough to imagine Santa as a killer. In fact, not much is more cruel than Santa's sleigh. See what I did there with that pun? Sleigh as in slaying? If you think about it though, Santa is a frightening figure.

He's looming. He has the blood-red suit, Unabomber beard, booming voice, mysterious bag. Why do you think kids at the mall always cry in his lap? They have a sense about these things. Anyway, sometimes a droplet of evil is required to prevent future tsunamis of evil. I'd say children would certainly learn a lesson from this tale, wouldn't you agree? Please don't look at Santa differently though.

He's 99.9% good, and he did try to save those people initially, and as for the aftermath, well, that was part of the pact. He's not to blame. They had their chance. He gave them that chance. He took no pleasure in eviscerating them. To wrap this up in a Christmas-styled bow, the holiday spirit is integral to the human spirit. With a touch of it, miracles can happen. With none of it, well, there's a very real chance that Santa Claus might disembowel you.

But don't be fearful, be cheerful because the odds are in your favor. Seriously, if you can't catch the holiday spirit, you're probably a future serial killer or unwashed agent of chaos and a gruesome end is predestined. Most of you can control your destiny though. Just pay more attention to your actions and try to stay on the "nice" list and you'll be fine. I'd better go do angel things so I don't get in trouble, but I hope the holiday spirit finds you if it hasn't already.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Thanks for listening! If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at Darren at WeirdDarkness.com. And you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, including the show's Weirdos Facebook group, on the Contact social page at WeirdDarkness.com.

Also on the website you can find free audiobooks that I've narrated. Watch old horror movies with horror hosts at all times of the day for free. Sign up for the newsletter to win free prizes. Grab your Weird Darkness and Weirdos merchandise. Plus, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. The fictional horror story, Here Comes Santa's Claws, was written by John Allen. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright Weird Darkness.

and now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Galatians 4:4-5: "But when the set time had fully come, God sent His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, that we might receive adoption to sonship." And a final thought from Ralph Marston: Make it a habit to tell people "thank you," to express your appreciation sincerely and without the expectation of anything in return.

Truly appreciate those around you, and you'll soon find many others around you. Truly appreciate life, and you'll find that you have more of it. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Intro

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When you're part of a military family, you understand sacrifice and support. So at American Public University, we honor your dedication by extending our military tuition savings to your extended family. Parents, spouses, legal partners, siblings, and dependents all qualify for APU's preferred military rate of just $250 per credit hour for undergraduate and master's level programs. American Public University, value for the whole family. Learn more at apu.apus.edu slash military.