A/N: Mm. Nothing like a new story. Blame my German class for this one. Rated for language and some twisted ideas.

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So here I was, 22 years old, a brilliant mind, looking through the papers on my desk when a newspaper clipping caught my eye:

ELF AGAINST SANTA

That was the headline. I had cut it out earlier, intending to read it, but had never really gotten around to it. Now I picked it up and skimmed the article. Man says he’s an elf who escaped from Santas’ workshop blah-blah-blah. Strangely enough, my interest was piqued, and I went to go talk to the guy.

That’s how it all started.

Day 1.

Okay, this guy seems certifiably insane. He’s in the cell, ranting, raving—and the poor fucker doesn’t look anything like an elf. Not the cheery, toy-making kind, anyway. He looks more like a genetic experiment gone wrong—hunchbacked, face like a pig, and a monkey’s tail. Says his name’s Rolph. Yeah, sure, whatever man.

He tells me all sorts of stuff—Santa’s an evil guy, he’s not an elf, whatever. Maybe I should ditch this topic—it’s too fucking weird.

Day 5.

Kept with it, no idea why. Went to see Rolph again today—he wasn’t there.

Got a letter in the mail. It goes way in depth about all the stuff Rolph said—creepy. Maybe there’s more about this than I’d originally thought. Maybe not.

Day 12.

I’ve gotten three more letters, each one creepier than the last. It’s like someone sending me chapters in a horror story! According to them, Santa’s not a jolly old elf—he’s actually the head of a small corporation who do drug testing; the sack he carries around is where he puts the bad children; and the kids are tested upon and turned into elves, who are then brainwashed and sent to do slave labor. Rolph had apparently built up some kind of immunity to that due to the testing. What. The. Fuck.

Day 20.

I’m starting to get seriously creeped out. The letters were coming on a daily basis, then they just stopped. Two days ago. The last thing in the last letter was really weird: “They took Jenny to the CandyCane wing, giving everyone else these pills. I had to take one—I’m dizzy.” I don’t get it. Was this all just some prank that someone got sick of? I’m afraid to go to the police—they’ll just laugh at me. Besides, I get the feeling this goes a lot deeper than a prank.

Day 31.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. I’m so screwed.

Those letters—I know too much. There were some creepy characters hanging around my apartment when I came home, and I swear they left that candy cane on my pillow. It’s a warning. I know too much. Rolph was right about everything—I went back to the station and asked about him, and they said that the day before I showed up the second time, some men in white showed up, and there was a guy in red too, and they took him away—he was kicking and screaming. I think they killed him!

Day 40.

I haven’t left my apartment in days—I’m too scared. I saw a man in red three days ago, and he looked at me. Young man, all in red—his hair was white. He threw a candycane in the air—caught it and looked at me. I ran all the way home and found a teddybear on my desk, right on top of the article that started it all. I burned them both.

Day 43.

I’m done. I left my place once today—gave my manuscript to the publisher, and gave a copy to a friend, telling them not to read it, but to try and get it published no matter what. Publisher turned me down—I saw a man in white leaving his office before I entered, and I almost ran home again. Shit! I’m so fucking scared—I wish I’d never gotten involved in all this!

Came home—the place smells like sugar. Got some of my stuff and left ASAP, stayed at a friends’.

Day 44.

My place burned down last night.

How the hell do I escape? I keep seeing people in red and white everywhere—I think they’re going to try and kill me like they did with Rolph. There was a note and a candycane on my pillow this morning when I woke up—the note said: “The ChristmasMan is coming to town.” Fuck! I don’t want to die!

I keep hearing Christmas music—my friend tells me to calm down—I’ve tried. But I can’t! I’m just too scared—I broke down crying when I found the note.

I burned it.

Day 50.

I’m being followed. My friend is gone on a date, and I’m home all alone. I keep hearing things. I’m mailing this out tonight.