My sister was always afraid of Santa.
Well, that’s not entirely accurate. She wasn’t afraid to sit
on Santa’s lap at the mall. She was a big fan of Santa on Christmas morning.
But Christmas Eve? Not so much.
Every year, the family collects by one of the upstairs
bedroom windows to look for Santa’s sleigh. I was always beside myself with
excitement. The magic was about to begin. I’d been waiting for this since
December 26th of the year before.
My sister, on the other hand, had one goal – get the hell to
sleep before the big guy got there. And looking for reindeer just slowed down
the process. She could handle at most a couple of minutes of it before she was
yelling at all of us to just get in bed.
As I was a big fan of Mr. Kringle, I could never really
understand her discomfort. Maybe it had something to do with his being able to
get into locked houses. Or maybe she just took the whole “you better watch out”
sentiment more seriously than I. All I know is that she was equal parts
excitement and fear on December 24th, while I was just pure
excitement.
Except for one year.
Now the blame can’t be laid on Santa for this one. Nope. I
place it squarely on the shoulders of another bearded man – my dad.
You see, his birthday is just a few days before Christmas.
Today, in fact. (Happy b-day, Pops!) And one year, my older cousin gave him a
birthday card during our Christmas Eve dinner. On the front was a cat with a
huge, human smile.
The first time I saw it, I thought it was mildly creepy, but
then my dad started talking about a movie that the card reminded him of. Well,
not the card exactly, but the smile. That damn smile.
My cousin had never heard of the movie, so my dad regaled
her with the tale of Mr.
Sardonicus a poor man cursed with a grotesque smile after digging up his
deceased father to acquire the winning lottery ticket in the older man’s
pocket.
Dad has a flare for horror stories, so he was particularly
dramatic as he told of the moment that the man’s wife first saw his cursed
face. Wondering why her husband wasn’t speaking, she slowly lifts a candle in
the darkness and there he stands in all his glory.
Later that night, lying in bed I was suddenly struck with the
image of looking over at my sister only to have her looking back at me with the
smile of that stupid cat. The Mr. Sardonicus smile. The thought scared me
enough I started crying.
Well she heard me. And thought I was crying over Santa. So
she started crying.
Shortly after, my parents came up to check on us and found
us sitting next to each other in bed, still crying. Needless to say, not what
they were expecting.
My dad felt horrible. He hadn’t realized that I was lurking
and listening in on the horror stories and it certainly hadn’t been his intent
to scare the bejeepers out of his little girl.
I got over it, of course. Somewhat. I mean, I stopped crying
and stopped being scared that all the people I knew were going to be cursed
with evil smiles. The thought of Mr. Sardonicus stopped being something that
popped into my head every Christmas. I remembered the card as being unsettling,
but not the exact image.
It was nice.
Years later, I came home to spend Christmas with the folks
after my first semester at college. As I put my stuff down in my bedroom, I
noticed something on my pillow.
There, smiling up at me, was the cat card.
Horror stories and little kids do not mix. Neither do creepy smiles. Nope, not going to happen.
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