Santa Claus reads, “THE CHRISTMAS BOOGEYMAN” and 2 More Scary Stories for kids! #SpookySanta
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We all dream, but for some people, what should be a time for their bodies and minds to rest turns into a nightmare from which they cannot escape. Our next Weird Darkness live stream is Saturday night, December 28th on the Weird Darkness YouTube channel. And during the live broadcast, I'll share some of these chilling nighttime stories. T

Tales of shadow people, sleep paralysis, and demons who stalk their victims in that place between dreams and reality. I'll share true tales of prophetic dreams, some joyful, some not. Sleepwalking incidents that are both amusing and disturbing. I'll also share real stories of night terrors so horrifying that sleep

became something to fear and dread for those victimized by the night. You might not want to sleep after joining our next live-screen. It's Saturday, December 28th at 5pm Pacific, 6pm Mountain, 7pm Central, 8pm Eastern. On the lighter side, I'll also be responding to comments and questions live on the air and doing a giveaway of some Weird Darkness merch.

Prepare yourself for our next live scream for chilling tales of what some people must endure in an attempt to get some sleep. Find the details on the live screen page at weirddarkness.com. There'll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and get out in the snow. There'll be scary ghost stories.

Well, I don't care what you make for dinner. A pot roast is fine, dear. Great! I'll make deer for dinner. No, no, I don't mean cook deer. I meant yes, dear. Pot roast is fine. I understand. The answer is yes to having deer. You're not understanding me. I do not want any deer for supper. No venison, all right? It upsets the reindeer. Just make pot roast. Be

Beef pot roast by schnookums. You want schnapps for dinner, too? No, no, not schnapps. I said schnookums. Oh, never mind. You know, come to think of it, peppermint schnapps and the egg dog might actually be pretty tasty. But I'll have to wait until after I get back, of course. I can't drink and ride, you know. How about dessert, Big Mac? What do you mean, what do I want for dessert? It's always cookies and milk. Ho, ho, ho, ho.

Oop, gotta go, the kids are here. Hello children! Just on the phone here with Mrs. Claus making dinner plans for Christmas Eve before I head out for the big night. But today I'm excited to bring you more spooky Santa stories. So be sure to ask your parents permission before you begin to listen and I'll know if you ask them because I can see you when you're sleeping and I know when you're awake.

Coming up in today's episode, a spooky story by Laura Pauling. It's called Night of the Snowmen. One of the young ladies on my good list, Lydia, she's 14 years old and she lives in Cromford, England. And she emailed a story to me called Remembering Death. Oh, by the way, if you would like to write a scary story for me, you can email it to letters at spookysanta.com and I can read your story in an upcoming episode.

But first, do you know the name Hans Trapp? Hans Trapp is a legendary boogeyman from the Alsace and Lorraine regions of France. He accompanies me to punish naughty children at Christmas. While I deliver presents and gifts to the good little girls and boys on my list, Hans Trapp delivers beatings to those who are naughty. I'll tell you about him as we begin.

Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off all your lights, and come with Spooky Santa for another holiday chiller.

When Christmas approaches, naughty children in Alsace and Lorraine tremble when their parents utter the words, Hans Trapp is coming. Everyone knows the tale of Santa's evil counterpart. It all began in the 15th century. There was a rich and powerful man who lived in the heart of Alsace. His name was Hans Trapp. The people of Alsace knew him to be vain, cunning, heartless, and cruel.

His life was given over to lawlessness and debauchery. He would most definitely have been on my naughty list. His only goal was to enrich himself by all means necessary. It was said that he worshipped Satan and used black magic and occult rituals to obtain his wealth and hold on to his power. Now that I really don't know, but that's what they say.

Well, when the Catholic Church became aware of these misdeeds, Hans Trapp was arrested and he was brought before the Pope in Rome. He was excommunicated from the Church for the crime of sacrilege. For those of you who don't know, excommunicated means he was kicked out of the Catholic Church for being a bad boy.

When he returned to Alsace, he was ostracized by the local people. Everyone fled from him as if he was a wild beast. His money and his land were confiscated, and he was left penniless. He was forced into exile in the forest, and he isolated himself from the rest of society. He found shelter on the mountains of Gaisburg in Bavaria, Germany, where he built himself a makeshift shack made from sticks.

The solitude caused him to lose his mind, and he spent his days brooding and dreaming of revenge. His anger and resentment were intensified, and he became more deeply devoted to Satanism. Descending into madness, Hans Trapp began to dream of eating human flesh. The evil man was obsessed with a desire to bite into the flesh of a human arm, leg, or thigh.

He roamed the countryside and he disguised himself as a scarecrow by stuffing his ragged clothes with straw. He spent his time gathering sticks and hay in the field and lying in wait, looking for the perfect human victim to consume. One day, he spotted a young shepherd boy making his way through the woods. The boy was only ten years of age, but Hans Trapp was determined to kill and eat him.

As he stared at the young boy, he began to drool at the mouth, imagining biting into the delicious and tender flesh. Well, before the boy knew what was happening, Hans Trapp had pounced on him, attacking him viciously and running him through with a sharpened stick. Then he dragged the dying child back to his shack, where he cut the boy into small pieces and roasted them over an open fire.

When his monstrous meal was ready, Hans Trapp licked his lips and prepared to taste human flesh for the first time. However, before a morsel could enter his mouth, a bolt of lightning came from the sky and struck Hans dead. You see, God would not allow the abomination to continue, and God decided to end the crimes of Hans Trapp once and for all.

Ever since then, Hans Trapp has been cursed to roam the Earth with me every Christmas. He goes from house to house, clad in his scarecrow disguise, scaring the life out of small children and drooling greedily over their tender flesh.

If you've never seen him, be thankful. That means you are likely on my good list. But be careful. If you end up on my naughty list, you might end up being eaten by Han's trap.

He is a scary individual. He even scares me sometimes. I have to keep a bag over his head so the reindeer don't get startled when he hops onto the sleigh with me. It's true. Up next, I'll share a great story from one of the girls on my good list. Lydia is 14 years old. She lives in Cromford, England, and she wrote a very creepy story called "Remembering Death," and I'll tell you that story in just a moment.

Hey Weirdos, if you enjoy what you're hearing from me and the Weird Darkness Podcast throughout the year, may I ask for a Christmas gift from you? It's an easy one, and it's free to give. This month, just invite two or three people you know to give Weird Darkness a listen. That is truly the greatest gift you could ever give to me.

Letting your family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, and others know about the podcast is incredibly valuable to me, my bride Robin, and our cat, Ms. Mocha Monster. That's it. Tell someone about the show. Drop a link to Weird Darkness in your social media. Maybe send a text to a few folks to wish them a very scary Christmas with a link to the show in that text. It doesn't matter how you do it, but it does make a huge impact when you do.

From all of us here at Marlar Manor, thank you, and Merry Christmas. Thanks for listening to Spooky Santa. In a moment, I'll share an amazing story with you that was emailed to me from one of the children on my good list.

I love hearing stories from all of my good little girls and boys out there. If you would like to write a scary story for me to read, you can send it to letters at SpookySanta.com. I would love to read your story. That's letters at SpookySanta.com. Just email the story to me or ask your parents to help you. Now!

Here is today's emailed story. It comes from Lydia. She's in Cromford, England. She's 14 years old and she wrote this disturbing tale called "Remembering Death." Here's the story: I reached peace a few months after my passing. I was one of the unfortunate ghosts who were unable to recall life before death. This is usually because death has been so violent.

Also, if you were a scatterbrain in life, you would probably be a scatterbrain in death. Unfortunately for me, the only thing I remembered about my life was my death. I remember being in a house

The oak furniture was old, grand, and somewhat sinister. I could hear my panting breaths in the darkness. Shadows danced on the walls, and the moon illuminated my slim silhouette. I ducked underneath an elegant chaise lounge, and I prayed silently to God.

Even to me, my ragged breathing sounded too loud in the unnaturally quiet room. I stayed lying on my belly for several minutes. After a while, my breathing began to slow down. I felt my body relax, and I began to press my back against the wall. I lay there for a few seconds before reality crashed in, and I realized the wall was soft, and it was attempting to wrap arms around me.

As I started to jerk forward, arms tightened around my waist and yanked me back. Cold, pitiless laughter sounded close enough to my ear that I felt a breeze blow softly against my right cheek.

I remember struggling, and I remember the feeling of desolation and isolation as I realized that no matter how hard I struggled, my last moments on Earth were not going to be spent cradled by loved ones, but in the arms of a merciless, sadistic monster. Whatever you do, do not believe the stories that tell you that ghosts are troubled souls seeking justice for their death.

My murderer was discovered to be the next door neighbor's son. I personally watched him as he was imprisoned for life in front of a weeping jury. No, I am still here because I have forgotten what it is to love. When you die, your feelings die with you. I came back as a cold and cruel shell of my former self.

Since being dead, I have committed some terrible acts. But I am searching for the answer to my question. While in his arms, I was thinking of loved ones. Who are they? During the day, I would wander around parks looking for victims. I realized that children were the only people who could see me. I used this as a ploy to get close to them. Then I would wallow in their horror and despair as I finished them off.

The only way I knew I had a shred of humanity left in my body was that no matter how many I killed, I could never look them in the eyes. I knew this was cowardly. I was taking away their life. The least I could do was give them the courtesy of eye contact. My killer had looked me in the eyes and smiled as the life slipped from my eyes. I never knew why, but I couldn't.

At the local park, I watched an attractive man walking along with two children. As I don't look into people's eyes, I learn to read moods from body language. This man was heartbroken. His shoulders sagged. His skin was pale. His breathing shallow, as if all the time he was fighting the urge to cry. From the way he gripped his girl's hands, I could tell the only reason he was keeping it together was because of them.

I could see the sweat glistening between his fingers, and he nervously wiped his hands on his trousers. The girls could not be more dissimilar. One was pale and dark-haired, the other blonde-haired and blue-eyed. These two would do nicely for me. I already imagined ripping into their flesh with my bare hands as I heard them scream, just as I had done, beneath me.

I stalked behind the trio as they trudged aimlessly along the path. Usually, I tried to draw the children away from their parents, but not today. This man was so close to the breaking point, I wanted to see his face as his children were ripped apart. Finally, they turned a corner and reached a deserted patch of grassland.

I was ready. I approached the two girls and was more than shocked when they ran up and embraced me. When I'd arrived I had many reactions. Terror and bemusement but never joy. They ran screaming and shouting, "Moosie! Moosie!" The minute the man heard this, his head snapped to attention. The minute he lifted his head I could not help but look into his eyes.

There was a raw loss that burned in his beautiful dark pupils. His pain, so obvious and deep, chased away all thoughts of killing from my mind. I just wanted to stare into his eyes forever, but instead of looking at me, he looked through me. "Girls!" he barked. "We've spoken about this!" The girls slowly started to follow him from the park, but they could not stop themselves from turning to stare back at me.

I smiled at them and waved as tears flowed unchecked down my pale otherworldly cheeks. I had finally remembered my husband and my girls. As I felt this wash of love pass over me, I felt myself leaving, leaving those I loved. But it wasn't a bad thing, because I remembered I could love again.

What an amazing story! It started off so creepy and dark, but in the end, there's actually a happy ending. Very good writing there, Lydia! Thank you so much for sending your story. Again, if you would like to send me a scary story, you can email it to me anytime at letters at spooky santa dot com.

Up next, it's my final story. It's from Laura Pauling and it's called Night of the Snowmen. Up next. Are you ready for my final story? This is a good one. It's called Night of the Snowmen. It's written by Laura Pauling. Christmas Eve. The night air was crisp and clean. Almost magical.

Snowflakes drifted through the midnight blue sky, swirling and tumbling. Jagged flecks of silver pierced the velvet canvas. Playful yet majestic. A boy watched from a window. Tree lights reflected in shimmering colors. He wouldn't move, but with his forehead pressed against the frosty glass, he stared into the darkness. Every flickering shadow made him jump.

Every creak or flash of white sent fear humming through his body. His younger sister stood on the bottom step leading upstairs. "I can help, big brother! I have an idea!" He shoot her back upstairs, wanting to protect her from the horror that was to come, wanting to protect her childish fantasies of a winter wonderland and the magic of this night. Earlier that afternoon, the snowman had followed the children home.

Softly shaped shadows lurking but not attacking. Bodies deformed by days of play making them sideshow freaks from some snow-ridden circus. The boy didn't know what would happen next. He just knew they needed to be prepared. One by one, windows slid open throughout the small neighborhood.

Dark shapes climbed out, landing in the snow with a crunch. The children hesitated, some reaching out to catch flakes on their tongues, but sharp looks and gentle tugs on their sleeves from friends reminded them of their duty, and they clamped their mouths shut.

They walked carefully, fighting off the chill that crept down their necks past scarves and hoods. When twig-like arms creaked alive and black button eyes blinked, they broke into a run, slipping and stumbling in the fresh snow. The inky night suffocated, pressing in on them. Strange sounds clicked and whistled. They raced, the wind chasing them.

When the boy at the window saw his friends appear, none of them wanting to straggle behind, he ran to the door. Not a word was spoken. They communicated with quick nods, forced smiles, and grim faces. Beyond them, in the other room towered the tree. It was draped with love and memories, blinking lights, strings of popcorn, even the ornaments the boy and his sister had made in preschool.

Curiously, the snowman ornament had disappeared. The red ribbon that held it onto the branch had been snipped and lay on the wood floor, limp and lifeless. The children kept their gazes off the tree.

They gathered in the kitchen, weapons in hand. One girl gripped her dance trophy, her most prized possession. A boy held his skateboard, the wheels hard and possibly deadly. Still another struggled to hold on to a bucket. He trembled and the water sloshed over the sides onto the floor. Each child had a weapon of choice, from dolls to water pistols to video game controllers, the cords wrapped around their wrists.

Outside, the wind blew, howling. It ranted and raged and stormed. It roared through the treetops and whooshed down the streets. Window panes rattled. Mothers and fathers snuggled further under their blankets, shivering. The snowmen swished across yards and down streets. Ratty scarves whipped about their necks. Buttons fell off round bellies and carrot noses hung limp and shriveled.

They called out, a high whistling noise piercing the air. Others joined, the sound growing louder and louder, like the scream of a kettle to make cocoa. They wanted something. The group of children shivered inside, their faces pale, their breath shooting out. "It's time," the boy said. Yet no one moved. Seemingly frozen to the floor,

The first ice ball hit the window, cracking the glass and making a fine spiderweb spreading, growing. The next hit and the glass shattered. Frigid air leaked into the room. A layer of frost spread across the furniture, the floor and the walls. "No!" But the boy's voice rasped out his breath, a cloudy mist freezing in midair.

Another window shattered. The air shot into the room, swirling between them with its stinging bite. A girl standing in the back yelled. It fueled the fire of the children and they advanced. They stumbled and tripped, their movements already sluggish and slow.

Outside, the leading snowman skated up the yard. One arm had been ripped from his body. Earlier that afternoon, a child had plucked out his eyes, but even without sight, he knew where to go. A shiver ran down the boy's spine. The snowman's followers continued screeching, whistling their demands and complaints from twisted, narrow mouths made from licorice.

A thin red line slashed across the ghostly faces. The children burst through the door into the frigid night. Their weapons gleamed and glinted and glittered. Hearts full of fright, they slashed and sliced. Under the dark skies, they battled the snowmen, these horrors that once brought such delight.

High above, piercing the misty clouds, a red light twinkled. Santa's sleigh soared silhouetted against the sky. The true spirit of Christmas was all but forgotten. Inside, the boy's sister watched from her bedroom window. A tear trickled down her cheek. The boy stopped, the fight marching on around him, each child fighting a snowman. His breath came slower now, and the tips of his fingers and toes tingled.

The colt traveled up his legs and arms, an icy stream slow and steady.

A high, piercing whistle sounded behind him. His heart shuddered. The leader of the snowman towered over him, his face without eyes. The boy remembered making this one, rolling the snowballs until they formed the bottom, middle, and head. With delight, he had taken the new orange scarf that his aunt had knitted for him, a birthday present, and wrapped it around the snowman's neck. If only he'd known what would have happened.

Was it something about the snow? The scarf? Was it magical, perhaps? Perhaps it was the batch of carrots they'd used for the noses. The boy jabbed at this icy horror with his mother's frying pan. The snowman slid easily away. They danced and poked and ducked, each one at times on the brink of winning.

With one step, the boy's foot slipped out from under him. He slammed onto the ice. His neighbor, the one with the bucket of water, had tipped it over. As soon as the water hit the ground, it had started to freeze and began spreading and crackling until the yard was all ice. His plan had backfired. For hours, the battle continued.

Heads rolled, noses crunched and broke in half. Bodies were torn apart. Twigs lay scattered on icy snow, a graveyard of sorts. Santa came and went. As the children slipped and slithered, their footsteps uncertain, the icy streams reached their hearts, warped their minds. Slowly, bit by bit, their limbs turned glassy and cold.

Up in the window, the girl turned away from the ghastly sight. She remembered her Nana and the twinkle in her eye when she spoke about hot cocoa and magic. Could it work?

Determined, she slipped down to the kitchen. As quick as possible, she placed a mug of water in the microwave until it boiled. The water bubbled and splattered. Then she dumped in the cocoa mix, even though most of it landed on the counter in a layer of chocolate powder. She stirred with a spoon and even added mini marshmallows. Her hands trembled, sending ripples across the cocoa.

She went to the front door. She opened it and the air blasted through, freezing her nostrils, hardening her tears to her eyelashes. She placed the mug of cocoa on the first step and with her foot nudged the mug further out. Then she slammed the door. The rest of the night she curled under her covers, gripping her stuffed bunny. Outside, steam wafted from the hot cocoa, lifting into the air, riding the air currents.

Happiness and joy and peace and everything that comes with hot cocoa on a cold winter's night embraced the snowmen. They remembered love. They remembered the tiny hands that had formed them. They remembered smiles and giggles and bright eyes. Slowly, the howling wind died away. The storm slowed. Hazy streams of golden light stretched across the neighborhood.

It twinkled on icy shards and glimmered against windows. Christmas morning dawned. The parents of the boy woke from their slumber and trudged downstairs. Puddles of water led to the front door. Questioning and confused, they tugged the door open and gasped. What they saw in the front yard pierced their hearts. Grief and sorrow settled on them. Icy statues of children littered the lawn.

Their bodies were somehow frozen right in the middle of action. A throw, a kick, a tackle, frozen in mid-air. On their faces the outline of a grimace. The horror of their freezing bodies was captured forever. The mystery was never solved. They sat the girl down and asked her over and over if she knew what had happened. The policeman smiled and asked the same questions.

What was she to say? That snowman came to life? No one knew how or why this frozen fright had occurred, but from that day forward, the girl never built another snowman. Every Christmas Eve, she and her parents lay out cookies for Santa, but she also boils the water and makes cocoa. Before bed and long before I take to the skies each Christmas Eve, this little girl places her offering on her front step.

Hoping it's enough, hoping it will work its magic, for it was the kindness of a gift that frigid night that had warmed the snowman's impenetrable hearts that sent them back, sliding and shuffling to their own yards. The girl would never forget. And that is why not only do I need cookies this year, but along with that milk, perhaps leave a cup of hot cocoa for me as well.

That magic will protect me on my travels.

Well, did you like the stories I told children? If so, please do Santa a favor. Tell your friends and family members about Spooky Santa so that they can listen to my stories too. And remember, you can write your own scary story and email it to me at letters at spookysanta.com. If you want to learn more about the stories I've told or the authors who wrote them, you can find links in the episode's show notes.

Spooky Santa is a registered trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright Marlar House Productions 2019. Now, be a good little boy or girl and join me next time for more creepy tales from Spooky Santa. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!