Jennifer resides in the Midwest with her husband, and three children. She writes both fiction & non-fiction and currently has two projects in progress, in wildly different genres. She’s looking forward to completing a collection of short horror stories which she’s hopeful to release later this year.
For updates about Jennifer’s work please visit her HERE.
SILVER PLATTER
by
Jennifer Osborn
Bing Crosby’s White Christmas filled the vast expanse of dark, empty, cubicles as Katherine Pierce pulled her office door closed—the C.E.O. was last to leave per usual. She’d sent the rest of the staff home three hours earlier to enjoy what was left of Christmas Eve with their families, and she was patting herself on the back for the spontaneous act of generosity.
“Night Ma’am. Merry Christmas,” a janitor called as he passed, pushing a cart full of cleaning supplies. Katherine ignored him, pressing the down arrow for the elevator.
A security guard nodded as she exited the lift and crossed the brightly lit lobby which housed five fully decorated Christmas trees, standing proudly behind a velvet rope. Katherine’s three-hundred-dollar heels clicked rhythmically against the cold epoxy floor, until finally they connected with the salt covered pavement outside. Out there, they crunched against the salty concrete the same as anyone else’s. The same as Bob in accounting who picked his nose when he thought no one was looking. The same as every nameless janitor with their hand in a toilet.
Katherine noticed the man dressed as Santa Claus immediately. He stood in the snow, near the edge of the parking lot, ringing a small golden handbell. He stared at her, the corners of his mouth turning up as she made eye contact.
A low, raspy, voice cut through the cold air as she walked to her car. It sounded like he’d been smoking two packs a day and swallowing glass, “have you been naughty, or nice?”
Katherine flipped him her middle finger as she sped out of the parking lot.
***
Snow started falling shortly after Katherine had gotten home. Now, she sat with her feet propped on a leather ottoman in front of a fire. Soft white lights twinkled on a large spruce tree in the corner. Another Christmas Eve alone. A thriving career had always come before the idea of having a family, and most men were intimated by her success anyway—at least that’s what she liked to tell herself. She topped off her glass of wine as the opening credits for It’s a Wonderful Life started rolling.
Outside, the sound of a bell echoed across the snow. At first Katherine thought nothing of it, perhaps it was part of the movie, but by the third and fourth bell toll she rose to stand beside the window overlooking her grand backyard. Stunned, she fought to make sense of what she was looking at. A man in a red suit was trodding through dense snow drifts, ringing his bell.
Horrified, Katherine ran to the kitchen to grab a knife. The sound of glass shattering in the other room stole her breath; she stood frozen in fear.
“You better watch out…you better not cry…you better not pout—” that same raspy voice from the office parking lot sang in her living room now,
“—Santa Claus is…in your fucking house.”
The butcher knife in Katherine’s hand shook wildly as the man in the red suit stepped into the kitchen’s entryway. He gave the golden handbell another little ring before he spoke, posing the same question he’d asked in the parking lot, “have you been naughty, or nice Ms. Pierce?”
“How do you know my name? Why are you doing this?!”
“Don’t you recognize me?” The man pulled the fake white beard off his face, and for the first time she registered where she’d seen him before; he was a former employee.
He saw the moment when she recognized him, and he continued. “After fifteen years of loyalty to your pathetic company, you fired me two weeks before Christmas. My children are hungry. You’re a selfish, heartless, lonely woman,” he growled, “and you deserve to be taught a lesson.”
“Anything you want. Name your amount, I’ve got my checkbook right over there,” Katherine struggled to speak.
The man said nothing but set his handbell on the marble island that stood between them.
“That’s okay. I brought you something.” For the first time Katherine noticed a wet spot on the man’s red suit where something bulged beneath the fabric. Slowly, he stuck one white glove into his pocket. A blood-stained glove emerged, holding a heart. Katherine screamed, to which the man began singing again.
“Shhh. Silent night. Holy night. All is calm—” His eyes locked on hers, an unspoken warning. “Now, you’re a smart woman, do you think this would work better if you ate it—or swapped it out with your own cold, dead heart? Which one would make you a better person?”
Hot tears ran down Katherine’s face as she shook her head.
“Decide,” the man hissed, “or I will.”
‘You sit around here, and you spin your little webs,
and you think the whole world revolves around you and your money.
Well, it doesn't.’
The movie played in the living room. The man in the red suit chuckled at the irony.
Without wasting anymore time the man pulled a frying pan off an overhead hook and plopped the heart into it, turning the burner on medium. Katherine’s fragile grip on the knife was as useless as trying to negotiate with the maniac in her kitchen; the worst part was she didn’t even remember the man’s name. He knew it too, that behind all of her money she was nothing more than a coward. She practically handed the knife over willingly when he motioned for it.
Santa threw a slab of butter in the pan; Katherine hated herself for enjoying the smell of it. He sang as he served her a heart on a literal silver platter, “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams—“
The grandfather clock chimed in the hallway, midnight, Christmas Day was upon them.
“Merry Christmas. Eat your fucking heart out. Be Better.” With that he lifted the butcher knife and slit his own throat, spraying Katherine and the freshly seared organ in a holiday shade of red.