December 24h, 1999

11:48 PM

Manhattan

The door slipped open easily. The carpet masked the footsteps, and the gentle crooning on the radio covered the creaking of the door as it latched into place. The family was in the living room, and it was a scene out of a Hallmark card. The Christmas tree stood in a corner of the room, but it was always the center of attention. The hanging colored bulbs lit it up beautifully, the carefully wrapped green and red presents completed the cheerful mood. Although most families were asleep at this time (Santa doesn't come if they are awake – he likes to do his work secretly, quietly, and in the dark), this family was awake, because they didn't play by Santa's rules.

The music hid his footsteps as he walked into the kitchen's linoleum flooring. He pulled a knife from the holder. He looked down as something furry rubbed against his legs. He grabbed the cat by the neck and slammed into the ground, snapping the neck and cracking the skull. He ran his hand through the soft fur, pressing his face into it. He looked up, the cat's blood on his cheek and chin. The little girl was a few feet away from him, her blue eyes scared and wide.

He raised a bloody finger to his lips and stood to his feet. The four year old began to turn around, opening her mouth to scream for her parents. His hand covered her mouth and nose, digging his other hand into her neck. Her body seized and she tried to scream into his hand. He let go of her neck and hugged her to his chest, whispering calmly into her ear. Her body went limp, her eyes wide, blank, and red. He set her down carefully against the cabinet, cutting her neck. He put the cat in her lap and kissed her cheek.

"Gabby?" the mom called, and he could hear the woman get off the couch.

He slid out of the back of the kitchen, circling back into the living room. The mother vanished into the kitchen. He crept behind the father and cut his throat. The man immediately yelped and stood, thwacking him on the side of the head. He raised the knife, cutting deeply into the man's wrist. He dug the knife down a little farther, encountering bone. As if on cue, the mother let out a curdling scream. He could hear voices from the kitchen, and he realized the woman was talking to the police. He focused on the father, who was scrambling to get to a drawer. The man was pouring out blood and coughing, the sound gurgled by blood. The father dropped to his knees, pulling the drawer over. A gun toppled out, inches from the father's grasp. The man struggled to reach his arm that far.

He crept towards the father and kicked the gun out of the way. The mother dove for it, trying to grasp it with sweaty hands. Her face was blotchy and red and wet. He felt disgust coil in his stomach.

"Why?" she sobbed.

He walked over to her and kicked the gun out from her grasp. She grabbed his hair and shook him, pushing him to the ground. "Why?" she demanded again, slamming his shoulders down. His grip on the knife slackened, before tightening again quickly. He pressed it into her stomach. She grabbed it, curling off him. He broke her neck, and pulled the knife out from her stomach.

"It was supposed to be quick," he murmured, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her to the couch. He pulled the father on the couch, too, and finally the daughter and cat. He turned to the door and glanced back to the family sitting on the couch, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. "Merry Christmas," he told them, walking out of the house quickly.


{a.n.} Oh, look, a story. :3 {/a.n.}