Pub. Date:
Santa is a Vampire

Santa is a Vampire

by Damian Serbu


View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for delivery by Thursday, September 30


Simon the Elf wants to tell you the true story behind Jolly Ole St. Nick. Yeah, he’s a vampire. But that alleged gift giver and lover of children hides more than that fact from you. And what about Mrs. Claus and Rudolph? Venture into a world of enslaved elves, enchanted animals, and death wrought by Santa himself. With his sharp wit, Simon will lead you into the darkest realms of Christmas. Warning: Simon cusses a lot. But you would, too, if Santa held you captive.

Related collections and offers

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781949909456
Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC
Publication date: 11/26/2018
Pages: 268
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.61(d)

Read an Excerpt


Introducing the Blood Sucking Legend

JOLLY OLD ST. Nicholas. What a laugh.

If you only knew the real story behind Santa Claus. He keeps it buried for a reason, after all. Because you'd hunt him down up there in his North Pole ice castle if you even had a remote idea regarding his real identity.

Mrs. Claus and Rudolph too. Well, maybe not the missus. It's complicated. But more on them later. Back to Santa.

Let's peek in on this esteemed man who brings gifts to children and represents the blessed holiday of Christmas, shall we? He would kill me if he found out I leaked this information. Well, I intend to leak it, no matter the consequences, because I'm keeping this in a journal. If you're reading it, I probably succeeded. Which means dead Simon the Elf, for sure, if he discovers me telling people any of this information. But death might improve my situation since this enslavement sucks big ones. I started this secret blog and will release it without concern for my well-being.

So, if you're reading it, I'm probably dead.

This first little story will tantalize you, get your feet wet with everything I want you to learn.

It's late November, so Santa moves around a lot more freely because everyone expects to see him out there, greeting the children and gathering their Christmas orders. A lot of fools dress up like him to please the little kiddies or earn a buck. Everyone sees these fake Santas everywhere they go. Good enough for the real Santa Claus, because it hides him. He appears as another of the fool Santas walking about during the holidays.

That and his silly outfit disguise him — What a costume he picked! — but again it serves his purpose well. The ridiculous beard and red outfit mean Christmas cheer, presents, and a happy fat man coming to spread joy. Of course, he manages a real beard and authentic outfit to intensify the experience when people meet him.

Do you know why he wears red? I do. It hides the blood stains better. Okay, confession time. I'm throwing out my theory, but don't ask for proof. He never said that or explained the red. It just makes sense to me. Even though he usually cleans the blood up. Oops. Getting ahead of the story again. Let's take a deep breath and refocus.

By the way, in case you require my credentials, I'm an elf. Trapped against my will to do Santa's bidding. More later.

Okay, focus. Late November. Turkey Day's come and gone and Santa enters prime time. He creeps out of the ice palace, chains the poor reindeer to the sleigh, and speeds away, with a couple of elves, including me, enchanted in the sled against our will. We never know, until he issues a command, what he intends for us. Sometimes we ride along to keep him company; sometimes we get clean-up duty; sometimes we have to help.

We fly over various parts of the world, almost land in Germany until Santa spies one of those Secret Hunters. "Dangerous. Let's go someplace else."

"Scared, are ya?" I glance over at him. "Ouch!" Santa backhands me. It's another curse of mine, but one I came to elfdom with. See, I'm a bit of a smart-ass and can't hold my tongue. Gets me in trouble a lot.

"Let's find someplace more hospitable." Santa instructs the reindeer to change course and never answers my question. But I suppose the slap upside the head could be considered an answer, of sorts.

To America, the land of advancement and scientific reasoning. I recognize the coastline right away. Why, even the hardcore Christians dismiss Santa as a legend based on an alleged saint from the past. Saint, indeed. But such thinking helps hide his true identity.

We swoop over New York, but Santa seldom likes to hunt there because it doesn't really present a risk. Masses of people living on top of each other, often killing and dying without his assistance. Where's the challenge in hiding a body in that mess?

Moving right along, the reindeer glide over the little town of Wilmington, Ohio. It offers Santa everything he desires. I know from experience. Remote. Tranquil. Peaceful for the most part. Until a dead body materializes right in the midst of the holiday cheer. Santa's way of taking a dump on Season's Greetings in a happy little community.

So Santa guides the sleigh over Wilmington College and sets it down in the town cemetery. We can't land on roofs yet, without people wondering if Santa's calendar got all out of whack. Few people enter a cemetery in the midst of a cold November so we can hide out here.

He orders the reindeer to shut up, except Rudolph, who gets to run and do his own thing. He trots off with his bright-red nose high in the air. The other reindeer stay here. I often wonder if anyone questions the sudden appearance of reindeer manure where no reindeer exist. Of course, even if they thought about it, no one would come to the conclusion that Santa hid his sleigh and reindeer in the cemetery for a spell. Because most over the age of seven don't think he exists.

Once he gets the reindeer squared away, Santa tells a couple of my fellow elves — two I think are big assholes, so you know — to watch the sleigh and get the hell out of Dodge if anyone shows up. Santa can summon us from afar, so no worries there.

Me? I get the distinction of tagging along with him. He makes me his personal assistant on these sublime missions because he knows how much I despise it. The killing. The secrecy. And his perfect disguise of being Santa. Well, this pains me to admit, but I think he also enjoys my company for some twisted reason, especially my mocking of him and constant chatter. We have a complicated relationship, to put it mildly, compelling him to keep me close, no matter how much I detest it.

My compadres snicker as I run along to keep up with Santa. I take a second to stop, turn around, and give them the bird.

We saunter right down Main Street and wave at the passing cars when they honk. I almost puke every time he lets out a jovial, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Little kids run up to him and say hello, followed by asking for presents. He feigns delight and interest while holding back an inclination lurking beneath the surface. Sweet little kid blood.

We get far enough away from prying eyes to meander down a residential street. Then we wander around while Santa scouts the houses and makes an assessment of our target. This goes on for a couple hours, until most children lie sleeping in bed. Even most adults are passed out by now.

One car zooms past. I wonder what they think, seeing Santa amble down the road amidst these houses, lit up for the holidays. Do they think it's someone's dad, surprising the kids in disguise? A hired dude going to a party? Maybe it's a stripper, dressed for the occasion until the ladies (or men) demand the pants and coat come off?

Nope. It's the Real McCoy. And the lady behind curtain number one, alone in her house as she waits for her husband to get home from the night shift, just became dinner. Okay, I have no idea if a husband on a night shift exists. I lied to make the story better. But the woman sits alone in this normal-sized house. Looks like she's dusting or cleaning something.

Sometimes Santa walks right up to the front door. Knocks or rings the bell, and the fools open it for him. Listen, even without Santa's hidden reality, who opens their door for a dude in a Santa outfit unless you're expecting the stripper I referenced?

Anyway, no front door this time. Or back door. Instead, he touches the side of his big-ass nose, grabs me by my neck, and yanks me along as we fly through the air, land on the roof, and plunge into the chimney. He could get in the fucking house any way he wants, by the way. He does the blackened chimney thing for two reasons. One, for effect. You know, back to living up to the legend and playing by the rules. Despite the fact the sleigh and reindeer remain hidden among the dead in the cemetery and not up here on the roof with us. No one will question a big guy in a Santa costume plopping into their fireplace and shouting out a "Yo!" It may startle them, but since it conforms to the legend, people tend to go with it. Idiots. Two, he does it tonight because I hate it. I hate heights. I hate flying. And I hate when he touches me.

We hit the fireplace grate and roll out onto the carpet in the living room, where we stand in triumph before the poor woman, who gives a yelp. Actually, she screams bloody murder.

"Shh, my dear one. Shh!" Santa puts his finger up to his lips and winks at her. "Nothing to fear. I imagine you didn't believe in good ole Santa anymore? Adults so seldom do these days. But as you saw from my arrival through your chimney, I do, indeed, exist!" Santa sweeps his arms out with a flourish, to indicate his body and presence in the flesh.

The woman stops screaming, thank God, before my eardrums rupture.

"And this here is my worthy assistant, Simon."

"I'm not here because I want to be —" Santa clamps his hand over my mouth and glares a warning. Right. I'll stop, because getting locked in the ice dungeon when we get back to the North Pole totally sucks.

"Is he all right?" she asks him and points to me.

This is what gets me so pissed off. Stupid fucking people. I want to shout back at her. Hey! Lady! Wake up! A big fat ass plunged down your chimney with a little elf under his control. You scream, but because he wears a red suit and laughs and has a crazy beard, you relax and engage him? Trust me. You do not want to engage him!

Instead, I shrug my shoulders and smile. Self-preservation ranks over saving her stupid self. So I speak to make it right. "Sometimes I forget myself. Coming down the chimney got me dizzy and all. Everything's cool."

Santa pats my back, signaling I recovered well enough he'll lighten my punishment.

Too bad nothing will help this poor woman. Glancing around the living room, I deduce my inaccurate take on the husband thing. She lives alone, because I only see pictures of cats, herself, and a few of large family groups.

Yet she looks normal enough. A little heavyset. Pretty smile, long black hair that flips up into curls at her shoulder. Her clothes leave little to desire, with the baggy sweatpants and Cleveland Browns sweatshirt. But she was cleaning, so who the hell dresses up to tidy up?

Santa grins and does his "Ho! Ho! Ho!" laugh at her.

She giggles back at him. Fool.

"Tell me, dear, what's your name?"

"Samantha." She bats her eyelashes.

What is wrong with her? Seriously, most victims at least get a little skittish at this point. An internal wiring signals danger, even if the Jolly Ole Elf seems harmless enough.

"Samantha!" Santa laughs. "Delightful! Of course, I knew your name already." If I forgot to mention it, Santa lies even more than I do. "Come here, and give Santa a hug."

She hesitates a bit. She dips her chin, smiles as the red spreads across her cheeks, and wiggles back and forth.

"Come, come!" Santa opens his arms wide.

Samantha falls into them more than she comes to him. He hugs her close, rubs against her, and finishes with releasing her. Usually he would spring into action now and force me to help. Her compliance gives him other ideas this time.

"Listen, it's too early in the Christmas season for people to see me. Do you have a private place we could go? I need to ask you a few questions about your gift requests and enlist your help in making the holidays special for needy children."

As she leads us up the stairs and down a hallway, I snort by accident. Santa pops me upside the head, so I turn my near laugh into a sneeze.

"Gesundheit." Samantha turns after she opens a door and motions for us to enter. "I converted this spare room into an office." Santa goes first; I follow.

"What a delightful space! What do you do in here?"

Santa's lying again. I almost hurl at the state of this room. Crammed full of papers, boxes, an old computer dumped in a corner because a newer version sits atop the desk, and other crap. Books strewn across the floor. And it reeks because the closet houses a cat's litter box, long overdue for an empty.

"Well, I work from home for my job sometimes, when the lawyers have editing and stuff for me to do. Otherwise," Samantha glances around, as if gremlins lurked nearby to hear her secret. Actually, they might. I arrived with Santa down the damn chimney, so who am I to insinuate gremlins can't exist? "I'm writing a novel."

"Ho! Ho! Ho! What a pure delight! May I read it?"

She hurries over to the computer and sits in front of it. She clicks around and opens a document. Reading the first page, I surmise this here office is in a better state than the writing. A corny romance, with the sex scenes represented by dot dot dot. You know: "Kellen grabbed her around the waist, pulled her close, and engulfed her mouth in a sensuous kiss......" Figures she'd fear typing out the words penis, vagina, clitoris, and cum, or even climax of throbbing. So represent them with dots.

Santa has enough with playacting to live up to his reputation. I thought it odd he let this continue for so long.

Snap! One handcuff around her wrist. Samantha whips her head around, but not before he grabs her other arm and clicks the cuffs on the other wrist. Hands behind her back, sitting in her chair. Poor Samantha will soon learn Santa's true nature.

"Santa?" Samantha whimpers when he spins her around to face us.

"Sorry, dear." Santa holds out his hand to me. Ugh, I know what he wants, so I give him the handkerchief. He shoves it into her mouth, and now I get the reaction I expect.

Panic. Her eyes go wide with terror, and she struggles to free herself from the chair. Santa pushes his weight against her, and they both go toppling over with the chair smacking hard onto the floor.

I step into the background. Nothing I can do.

They wrestle around a bit until he has her tied up.

"Oh, my lovely. I wish I could do this a different way. Truly." Santa pets her head as she sobs into the rag in her mouth. "It has to look like a burglary or something gone wrong. Understand? That's the reason for this." Santa motions his hand over her body, ripping her clothes.

By the way, another FYI — he lies through his teeth again. He conceals his crimes in a lot of different ways. For some reason, he feels compelled to try to pacify her this time with his nonsense or make himself feel better perhaps. He ties her up and stages a burglary for extra fun, not necessity.

Back to the situation at hand. Oh, one more thing. At least I never witness any rapes. I don't know about every vampire, but this fat jolly one has no appetite for sex. Only blood.

Santa stands up and takes off his hat, handing it to me. He stretches out his neck, cracks his knuckles, and then allows the transformation.

His eyes go coal black, the color of the stuff he puts in the stockings of naughty boys and girls. His round cheeks turn pale. When Santa opens his mouth, his fangs descend.

The bloodlust takes little time to take over. He peers down at Samantha, as if seeing her for the first time, and falls to his knees before her tied up and shaking body.

Right to the jugular, he sucks at the blood until poor Samantha lies dead on the floor.

Santa gets up, wiping the blood from his face. He smears it around. Licks what he can off. His beard looks disgusting. Drops of blood run down onto his coat. He holds out his hand for his hat, placing it back on his head after grabbing it.

So picture the image of Santa you have in your mind, with his hat cocked at a slight angle, the red suit, the black belt with a big gold buckle, the leather boots, and him smiling down at a camera. But turn the twinkling blue eyes to black pits and smear the bushy white beard with blood. Creeps me out, too, even after all this time.

"Stage this scene while I tidy up in the bathroom." The fangs ascend, but those scary eyes still stare right through me. Pits of hell.

I hear Santa in Samantha's bathroom, with the water faucet on and him scrubbing away. The whole time, he sings at the top of his lungs, "Jolly Ole St. Nicholas." Even I smirk this time. I mean, come on, he's twisted, but that's funny.

While he makes himself presentable, I get out my little kit. Santa carries a small tin with supplies imbued with the sort of magical properties we elves use after he finishes up, so the authorities see a typical murder scene or natural death.

Such as this little vial of green powder, I sprinkle over her neck. The fang wounds heal, the blood evaporates, and any sign Santa touched her disappears. Next, red powder — a dash I rub into my hands. I lean over and grab her around the neck, and without so much as squeezing, strangulation marks appear and her windpipe gets smashed in.


Excerpted from "Santa is a Vampire"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Damian Serbu.
Excerpted by permission of NineStar Press, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Customer Reviews