Santa Claus reads, “THE BIGFOOT HOLIDAY HUNT” and 2 More Scary Stories for Kids! #SpookySanta
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There'll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and get out in the snow. There'll be scary ghost stories...

Well, hello again. It's Santa, here with another edition of Spooky Santa. I have more scary stories to tell you. And I know for a lot of kids like you, spooky stories can make for a very merry Christmas. So be sure to ask your mom and dad first before you begin to listen.

In this episode, I'll tell three stories. The first is called "The Bloody Axe". It's about a boy who suspects that his father might be a murderer.

I'll share a short, scary email I received from eight-year-old Joshua in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It might keep you up at night. Plus a holiday story from Jackie Horsefall called Bigfoot Busters. Hey, remember, if you want to send me your own scary story, you can email it to me at letters at SpookySanta.com. I might read your story in an upcoming episode.

Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, pour a mug of hot cocoa, and come with Spooky Santa for another holiday chiller. Here is my first story, The Bloody Axe. I remember that Christmas when I was eight years old as if it happened yesterday.

I remember how I would lie very still under the old moth-eaten quilt my mother made. I was wide awake and listening for those familiar sounds: the thump of the front door closing, the clomp-clomp-clomp of my father's mud-caked boots on the stairs, and the sound that to this day still fills me with revulsion and horror. Drip, drip, drip.

Then my father would pass my doorway and the light from the hallway would cast his shadow on my bedroom wall, and the shadow of the bloody axe he carried in his hands. The next morning I would eat my watery oatmeal in the wintery chill of our kitchen and ask my mother very slowly and carefully, "Where was daddy last night?"

She would just look at me with her sad, grey eyes. I will never forget the pain and torment in those eyes. But Mother never said a word. After breakfast I would set about doing the chores on our little farm. My father never did much work on the farm, he always seemed to be busy with other matters. On those chilly, windy mornings as the snow began to fall, I had a lot of time to think

At school, I couldn't pay much attention to my lessons. I was always lost in my troubled thoughts. When I got home in the evening, I would arrive just in time to see my father leaving, his axe clutched tightly in his hands. I rarely saw my father during daylight hours, and at night all I ever saw was his shadow.

I can still vividly recall that terrible night when I was awakened by the sound of the shutters of my bedroom window clattering in the screaming December winds. When I got up to close the shutters, I happened to glance over at the barn and noticed a shadow in the darkness. It was my father, and he was putting something into the feed box that we used to feed the cattle.

I returned to bed and lay awake long into the night, puzzled by what I had just seen. Eventually, though, I did fall into a tortured and troubled sleep.

The next day, my curiosity got the better of me. I took the key that hung on a hook in the kitchen and opened the feed box. I remember standing and staring for several seconds at the foul-smelling, bloody pulp inside trying to understand why my father would put parts of a slaughtered animal into the feed box. And then I noticed something that struck horror into the pit of my soul.

Judging up out of the bloody offal was a severed human hand. From that moment I was filled with a nameless dread. I no longer looked at my parents with trust, but with a dark, creeping suspicion. I began to notice things that had previously escaped my attention.

newspaper headlines that spoke about brutal murders and discovered bodies, overheard conversations about a bloodthirsty fiend on the loose. Finally, I heard a boy at school utter two words that repeated over and over in my tortured mind: "Ax murderer." That night, my sleep was invaded by shapeless horrors

In these nightmares, I saw two images that haunted me constantly: the face of my father and an axe dripping with blood. Unable to sleep, I got out of bed and crept downstairs. Taking my father's axe from the fireplace, I dimmed the lights and crouched in the darkness at the top of the stairs.

It seemed an eternity before I heard the key in the lock and the front door swing open and then close. Thump! I listened for those familiar footsteps on the stairs. Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Stepping out of the darkness, I raised the axe above my head and I brought it crashing down. Chunk! In the eerie silence that followed, I listened for the sound of any movement from my parents' bedroom.

I hoped against hope that my mother had heard nothing. The only sound I heard was the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet and the pounding of my heart. I looked for the last time at the headless body that lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, then quietly tiptoed back to my bed. Early the next morning, I was awakened by the sound of strange voices in our hallway.

Silently, I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down at the scene below. A group of policemen were crowded around my father's bloody corpse. My mother was standing beside them, watching silently. No one was paying any attention, but when she glanced up, she noticed me. Then, very briefly, very discreetly, she gave me a knowing wink.

Ho ho ho! Looks like Mom did know what was going on, and she knew who killed her husband. It was her own son. That is a scary story, but not near as scary as something that actually did happen.

Here's your mail today! Joshua is 8 years old. He lives in Sioux City, South Dakota, and he sent me this short but very creepy email. He says it's absolutely true. He says, "I used to babysit this kid with Down syndrome. He couldn't talk very well. He communicated with grunts and sign language. He was very expressive though and easy to understand.

Well, this one night, he runs upstairs and refuses to come down. I finally ask him what's wrong, and he points behind me, runs his finger across his throat and makes a "gluh" sound. I turned around, but nothing was there. "Ooh, that would keep me up at night too, Joshua. That is so creepy. I can't believe that actually happened to you."

Hey, remember, if you have something scary that you would like to share with me, maybe a story that you wrote on your own, or maybe a scary experience that you had, you can email your story to letters at SpookySanta.com. I love getting letters from all of my good little boys and girls on the good list, even if they're scary stories. Especially if they're scary stories. Ho, ho, it is Spooky Santa, after all. Ho, ho,

You can send your emails to letters at SpookySanta.com. Now for my final story. It's by author Jackie Horsfall and it's called Bigfoot Busters. Here's the story. Park Ranger Lopez held up a blurry photo of a hairy brown blob.

"Here's our target. This guy's got glowing red eyes and stands about seven feet tall. He walks like a man but looks more like a gorilla." My hand shot up. "Yes, Nick, what's your question?" "Does he eat humans?" Everyone in the group laughed. My face burned. I felt dumb asking the question, but the beast looked wicked mean. "Rip off my limbs and gnaw them like chicken wings, mean."

Lopez zipped up his parka against the bitter wind. "We don't know for sure, but it's reported he attacks grown-ups, not kids. That's why we've recruited you young people as Bigfoot Busters." "Why on Christmas Eve?" someone asked. "Bigfoot hunters say it has something to do with the winter solstice." Lopez swept an arm toward Avalanche Pass. "In the old days, townsfolk left baskets of food on the slope.

They hoped it would prevent Bigfoot from eating their livestock. No one does that now, but sightings are still reported on December 24th. Super. A man-eater was out there, ticked that his Christmas gift baskets were cut off.

Dark, gray clouds rolled in, spilling fat flakes. Lopez tucked his sunglasses away. "If you have a sighting, do not engage Bigfoot. Hold your ground and blow your whistle. I'll come pronto with the tranquilizer gun." "Oh yeah, that'll work. Like zapping Godzilla with a toothpick."

"We don't want to harm or kill Bigfoot," he said. "We want to study the species and its habitat. And most important, prove to the world Bigfoot is real." His eyes roamed over the group. "Everyone got it?" All of our heads nodded. "We'll spread out and start up avalanche paths together, always staying within sight of each other. That way we'll comb the entire pass all the way to the summit.

A girl up front raised her hand. "My dad says there's no such thing as Bigfoot. He says it's probably only a bear." "Ayeeeee!" A high whistling screech nearly blew out my eardrums. I clapped my hands over my ears. The shriek sliced through the valley like an air raid siren. "That is Bigfoot's signature cry," Lopez said. "It's not a bear. Bears don't scream."

The kid standing next to me whimpered, "Suck it up, man!" My voice hardly wobbled. "It's only a bobcat or a coyote." He didn't look at me. He stared past me, over my head. I turned to see what he was staring at. At first all I saw was the ski slope. Pine trees. "Look! There he is!" A finger pointed. "There's Bigfoot!"

Every head swiveled. Gasps rang out. In that moment, I became a believer. It was true. Bigfoot was real. The girls screamed. Some of the guys, too. I screamed the loudest of all. A huge, shaggy-haired hulk with long arms hunkered at the top of Avalanche Pass. He waved. Lopez waved back and shouted, "Hey, Moose!"

The Hulk slogged through the snowfield to his snowcat. We stood still as statues, shocked. Finally, someone spoke. "Bigfoot's a moose?" "You kids crack me up," Lopez said, loading his dart gun. "That's not Bigfoot. That's Moose, the trail groomer. He's a big guy who lives by himself in a shack near the top of the chairlift." My body relaxed. "Big Moose, not a Bigfoot."

"He must be some fearless dude, living up there alone with Bigfoot on the loose." Lopez beckoned us closer. He lowered his head. His voice hushed. "Remember, there's a mega-million-dollar deal riding on this event. If we flush out Bigfoot, we make TV history. News specials, interviews. I'm counting on you kids to put our park on the map."

I was totally cool with being a celebrity billionaire, but there was this awful nagging feeling that I might die first. A roar thundered from deep in the pines. Little hairs prickled on my neck. I snugged my ski hat tight over my head and hummed "Silent Night" for good luck. Lopez handed out whistles.

At his thumbs-up signal, I kicked the toes of my boots into the crusted snow and trudged uphill with the group. I scored a clear line of tracks. For a while, it seemed like a fun adventure. After about twenty minutes, the slope grew steeper. I kept my eyes on my boots as I stepped, dug in, hauled myself up and stepped again.

In no time, I was panting like my dog Rufus, huffing out steamy breaths. Sweaty under my parka. A line of snot dribbled out and hardened to ice under my nose. Heavy snow swirled in the air. For a moment, I was blinded. I couldn't tell up from down. My team disappeared in the whiteout. "BONK!" I slammed into a big white wall.

It was a humongous hill about the size of a house. I'd have to go around it. That really torqued me off. I was whipped. My belly rumbled. I didn't have a clue where I was going or what time it was. Street lamps were already flickering in the lodge parking lot. I decided to head for Moose's shack.

At the top of the chairlift I followed a cleared trail of flat rocks and pine needles. A lopsided, banged-up shack sat on concrete blocks. Wood slats were nailed every which way like sticks in a beaver dam. The snowcat was parked nearby. A plastic sled the size of a beach boogie board was propped against the woodpile.

I climbed the steps. The spongy boards squished. The door was wide open, gouged with claw marks. I rapped on the jam. "Hey, anybody home?" Silence. I stuck my head inside. "Mr. Moose?"

I clumped inside with my boots. The place had been trashed. Tables splintered. Lamps smashed. Stuffing popping out of the slashed sofa. I inched my way toward the kitchen, and what I saw on the floor made my guts churn like a meat grinder. A bloody heap of freshly gnawed bones, broken into pieces. Moose sure had an appetite for raw meat. But where was he?

A horrible thought suddenly crossed my mind. Was Moose… the pile of meat and bones? Gagging, I charged into the tiny bathroom and dropped to my knees over the camp toilet. My mouth filled with sour saliva. Water. I needed water, and quick. No sink? A shower curtain hung down to the floor. Maybe there was a water tank behind it. I stood and pushed the curtain aside, rings tinkled on the rod.

What I saw made my knees buckle. I crashed back against the wall. Bigfoot was hanging in the shower. He didn't move. His whole body was droopy. He looked dead. I stuck out a finger and poked at him a few times. The fur smelled scuzzy like wet wool socks. He was dead. No, not exactly dead. He'd never really been alive.

Bigfoot was a costume, a gorilla suit. So that's what Moose was up to, pretending to be Bigfoot, scaring all the townies and making fools of us. Wait till Lopez found out we'd all been scammed. I backed out of the bathroom and bumped against a wall.

A big wall. And the wall grunted and belched hot air down my neck. A foul stench of rotting meat washed over me. "Mr. Moose?" I croaked.

It was not Moose. It was Bigfoot, the real one. He towered over me, eight feet of shaggy brown hair, dangling gorilla arms, and hands big as catcher's mitts. I frantically dug the whistle out of my pocket and blew it. Bigfoot bared his teeth and snarled. He slapped it out of my hand and I stomped on it. I was a dead man. But wait, Lopez said Bigfoot didn't hurt kids.

"Hi, I'm Nick," I squeaked. "I'm your friend?" This was a question. Bigfoot smacked his lips. His answer was perfectly clear: I was not his friend at all. I was his dinner.

I lunged for the door before Bigfoot could grab me. I stumbled down the steps and sprawled near the woodpile, knocking over the sled. I tumbled into it and pulled myself into a crouch. Leaning forward, I put my weight on my front foot. Like a snowboard shredder, I rocketed downhill, my arms flailing like a scarecrow in a windstorm.

Woodchucks and rabbits dove for cover. The sled hissed as it skimmed over new powder. Pines whizzed by in a green blur. I pictured my brain splattered on a tree trunk.

Above me, Bigfoot's shriek shattered the snowmass. The next thing I heard was the whoomp of an avalanche. Snow spilled down the slope behind me, crashing through trees, snapping limbs as it barreled down the mountain. I whipped at warp speed so fast that by the time I saw the hill, I was shooting over it, catching some serious air. The sled shot off sideways. I somersaulted,

bellowing like a terrified hound dog. In a flash, I nosedived into a mean header down the steep, ice-slicked slope, pinballing, bouncing off small moguls. I finally leveled off and slid across a snowy field. A puff of snow rose as I scored Olympic gold for a ten-point faceplant into a snowdrift. I lay there, shaky,

Heart jackhammering at that moment. I didn't care if we never flushed out Bigfoot. I didn't care if I wasn't on TV or never got a fat wad of cash. All I cared about was going home. I shoved Bigfoot to the back of my mind when we gathered around the tree that night. Our family tradition was to open gifts from relatives on Christmas Eve.

I was pretending to love the hand-knit Jingle Bell sweater from Great Aunt Margie when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it!" I tore myself free from the mushy kisses. "Probably carolers," Dad said. "Invite them in for hot cocoa." I opened the door and looked out. No carolers. The only sound was a low growl. A big dude wearing sunglasses hunkered by the mailbox. I squinted into the dark,

"Ranger Lopez?" Bigfoot lumbered up under the porch light. His wide, hairy chest was stuffed into Lopez's parka, seams bursting. He picked at a fleshy scrap between his teeth and belched. A blast of rotting meat hit my nose. "Poor, poor Lopez. I really liked that guy." "Please don't hurt me," I pleaded to Bigfoot. "I'm only a kid."

Bigfoot drew the tranquilizer gun from behind his back, and he aimed it at me. "No!" I said. "I couldn't die on Christmas Eve. I still had gifts to open." Then an idea hit me. "Wait," I said. "Wait right here.

I dashed back inside to where my family sat opening gifts and listening to Christmas music. I dropped to my knees and rummaged under the tree, digging through boxes and wrapping paper. "Can't wait for your next turn, huh?" Dad said, chuckling. Finally, I found it. I lugged it out and hoisted it to the door. "Here!" I handed the cellophane-wrapped bundle to Bigfoot, and I said, "Merry Christmas!"

Bigfoot's red eyes glistened. He knuckled away a tear, his lips turning up in a half-smile. Before I could duck, he reached out and patted my cheek. Hugging the basket to his chest, he turned and loped into the darkness. At that moment, I understood something important about Christmas Eve traditions. Something deadly important. And I would never forget Bigfoot's gift basket ever again.

Who knew Bigfoot celebrated Christmas? Well, did you like the stories I told this time? If so, do Santa a big favor and tell your friends and family members about the Spooky Santa Podcast. That way they can listen too. And remember, you can write your own scary story and email it to me at letters at SpookySanta.com.

It can be an original story or it could be something scary that really happened to you. You can send it again to letters at SpookySanta.com. Spooky Santa is a registered trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright Marlar House Productions 2019. Now, be a good little girl or boy and join me next time for more creepy tales from Spooky Santa. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.

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It's electric.

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