When ten year-old, Jason Howard wrote his letter to Santa two months earlier, the last thing he expected to receive was a reply. His mother came barging into his room and tossed the envelope down on the bed. He was flat on his stomach reading the latest issue of Demon Hunter comics with his feet kicking the air behind him.

"What's that, mom?" His eyes were sparkling and he quickly sat up.

"Well, Jason it looks like it came from the North Pole." She had both fists perched on her hips and her full lips were stretched into a wide U. "I'm sure it's got to be good news." She leaned forward and tousled his curly brown hair.

"Wow," he whispered breathlessly. "I can't believe it."
"Have fun, sweetheart." She spun on her furry, pink carnation slippers and shut the bedroom door behind her as she exited the room.

Unlike most kids, Jason's Christmas list had only one request jotted down in black crayon. And he had wanted this one gift for as long as he could remember.

He held the sealed envelope up to the ceiling fan light.

"Please let it be what I asked for," he whined. He had spent so many hours under his bed, flashlight beam pointed at his spiral binder, reciting ancient incantations crafted by malevolent forces. He had prayed to every dark god written in blood between those blue, loose-leaf lines.

"Let it be," he giggled and tore through the letter.

The document inside was tri-folded and crisp in his damp hands. He unfurled the paper like a snake uncoiling its cold, dead skin.

"Whoa," he sighed, reading the words printed in bold ink. This was everything he had desired, and more.

It was a recent death certificate verifying the inconceivable demise of a Mr. Kris Kringle.

"I told my friends you wouldn't be coming to their houses this year," he declared in the sweetest, most innocent sounding voice a devil could ever hope to achieve.