Chapter 1:

Eldritch Abominations on Christmas Eve

Eldritch Abominations on Christmas Eve

A chimney finds itself in a family home of unworthy owners. It drizzles down with envious greens and blush reds; frosted in glimmering glitter and cheerful shimmers of different colours, none too dull or dark. And too, couches and bookshelves and trains on tracks, ridden by small men with little hats pulling the horn as steam roars from the engine; a bellowing eruption. A volcanic incursion.

Red, orange and yellow building blocks arch over the tracks and build to a skyscraper in height. A crane balances off the skyscraper, towering over the little train tracks from above. But Geronimo: down the chimney, a man whispers his merriness with a ho ho ho.

Onto the coal-covered fireplace, unlit to warmth, the thin legs and giant boots of a plum-shaped man plop down, smoke clouding out: black ash in rush.

The man sticks, glue-fixed with their roundness, to the cramped funnels honey-sweet breading of red delight. As the man struggles for release, opposite the chimney grasping tight, a door creeks open; a small child walks into the room, holding together their hands clamped-clasped in brave of their fright, as they tiptoe through the rooms egg-shell walls blocking the moons light from getting inside the silent room.

Their eyes seep low as they rub them with their sweaty hands and then scratch their hair with their blue sleeves: icy tides crashing at spiked rocks.

The child makes their way past the train, hoping not to disturb the railway men from their duties and clamber over to the noise that woke them.

Noticing the man sticking out of the chimney, the child's eyes widen as they jump in joyful excite; gleeful glee filling their whimsical surprise, as they see the big man himself flailing his arms and legs to push himself down the narrow chimney.

With a nervous shuffle towards the man, the child hangs hold of the merry fellow's shoe and drags them down the chimney.

The thud of their landing meets with the ground, as does the navy eyes of the white-bearded man and the cacti-cried eyes of the child.

Crimson of reds, most white of snow. Shivering cold: a feeling close to breeze whistles through the room; yet no windows find themselves open nor present in the room blue with white.

Bells clatter above; one of bronze shoots down the chimney and stops at a crawl, creeping towards the child's feet.

Scratching rings and tingle tings and wrangling mangling rustling things; more bells shoot down the chimney, more and more crawling down to meet the others.

Confused, the child backs away; yet only more chase down and stumble towards them; filling the room like running a bath with a ceiling, no way of exit other than the drain. But the plug of the door is open. The bells rinse over to the exit and clamber towards the door peeking into the room.

Continuing, the tangle tangs and clanging clangs bash the door and shut it closed. They fill the room slowly, blocking the door and blocking any sight of the big, round man dressed in red.

No exit. No sight. Getting cramped. Getting tight. Losing air. Losing light. Opposition of bright: dark.

Creaking cracks break into crunch; the jingles crumple and spread out, crumbling and collapsing from structure. The man is once again visible, clouded in dust from debris.

Bits of rubble thrown around, the red house in shambles, the child thinks to themselves how lucky they were their parents were out; how lucky they were it was a time of sleep; how lucky none were around to see such upsetting a thing.

The man grows, their red coat bloating up, their beard's snow spreading and their face contorting and distorting.

Antlers perk out as their nose begins to glow in warning. A sight of what is to come. A sight of what they are to become. Crimson lights; whitest of snow.

Taller and taller they reach. Green skin moulding in radioactive glow: the cliché aura of gamma.

Towering over the town, people wake from their colourful, blocky homes to look for the commotion only to find something else instead.

The man's limbs take the shape of ribbons, his hands that of drumsticks, his once navy eyes now brighter than ever and his beard trapping the townsfolk in snow.

Skin of fur. Hooves of feet. The red of their nose glows yet even more to the stars and moon in the coldly-lit night sky.

Cookies and milk and barber-striped candy canes of red and white planted next to houses turning to gingerbread and snow globes of cold crying spite. And yet even more, with wreaths of holly, merry with jolly, and wooden soldiers marching silly beside bowls of chestnuts and stuffing; forks and spoons set themselves to plates as a pot of gravy waltzes towards a large tables center. Connotation. Culmination.

Merry Christmas.