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Hello, my Spookyes, it's your host and narrator Enrique Kuto
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here with yet another holiday present for you all, in
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the form of a seven story marathon guaranteed to give
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you a very scary Christmas stories about killer Santa Clauses,
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ghosts at Christmas Eve, and so much more. So get comfortable,
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put another log on the fire, not just to stay warm,
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but to keep jolly old maniac Saint Nicholas out of
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your home at least for a few hours. And make
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sure you're subscribed on your favorite podcasting app because we
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have so many, so very many scares left to give you,
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not just for Christmas, but the rest of the year
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as well. But now I have a hankering for some
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Christmas Cranberry's Christmas Cranberries by L. F. Falconer. Ronnie was
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no longer content with pulling the legs off of crickets
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that bored him anymore, as did wingless dragonflies and tailless lizards.
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So today it was Fluffy, the long haired tabby with
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the blue collar that jingled softly with the cat's subtle
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movements to protect the birds. Fluffy's owner, Missus kent from
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the neighboring house was often known to say Fluffy was
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missus Kent's favorite, and Ronnie did not like missus Kent,
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for missus Kent was mean. Her mouth was always turned
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down in a frown, and her eyes glinted like a pirate's.
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She never missed the opportunity to complain to Ronnie's mom
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when he'd picked the apples from missus Kent's tree off
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the single branch that overhung the back fence, and she
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fused to return any balls that accidentally ended up in
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her yard. Yes, missus Kent was a mean old biddy,
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So this day Ronnie thought, when he caught Fluffy trespassing,
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was to be Fluffy's last. Ronnie's eyes gleamed as he
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firmly held the writhing cat beneath the water of his
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wading pool. He imagined the cat to be missus Kent
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as he kept holding her down tighter and tighter until
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she was quite dead beneath the shallow water. He smiled.
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A sweet tang like Cranberri's filled his mouth. He savored
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the taste as he shoved the wet, dead cat into
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a garbage bag and stuffed it into the trash can
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in the alley for a long time. Ronnie stared at
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the trash can, reveling in satisfaction, relishing the taste of cranberries.
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In all of his six years of life, he could
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never remember feeling so good. That was in June. By
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the first of September, just one week before his seventh birthday,
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Ronnie was beginning to hunger. With the need to feel
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good again, he began to crave the cranberries. For his birthday,
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his father brought home the puppy, a happy eight week
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old Lab Border Collie mix, At his mother's suggestion. The
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boy named the dog Susie, and within a few days,
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Susie was fetching the ball Ronnie would toss. Very few
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were lost to missus Kent's yard any more. At night,
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Susie would curl up in her crate at the footboard
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of Ronnie's bed, and she rarely woke before daylight. In
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the morning, she would follow Ronnie like a shadow and
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wait patiently outside the closed bathroom door until he would
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let her out in the backyard to tend to her
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own duties. When Ronnie would come home from school, Susie
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would brim with joy and exuberance, wagging her entire hindquarters.
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Four weeks after Ronnie's birthday, Susie disappeared. Ronnie knew where
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the dog had gone. Though Susie had done nothing to
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set Ronnie into a fit of anger. The boy had
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simply wanted to feel good. He had been hungry. He'd
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wanted to taste the cranberries. He had taken his father's
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clawhammer out of the garage. He'd bashed it against Susie's head.
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He'd bashed again and again, each blow, feeding his hunger,
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filling his mouth with tang, until cranberry drew low, overflowed,
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and dribbled onto his chin. The hunger was seated. He'd
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tossed the hammer behind the rose bush, unlatched the alley gate,
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and shoved Susie's little body into a box in mister
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Phipps's trash can at the end of the block. He
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would be full for a while. Ronnie felt good. Ronnie's
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mother and father posted the reward flyers around the neighborhood
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in hopes of inducing the return of the missing pup.
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Five days after he'd put them up, Ronnie's dad took
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the flyers down, even though the lost puppy had not
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been found. A week before Halloween, Ronnie was blessed with
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a new sister. His mother had gone to the hospital
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and came home two days later with baby Elizabeth wrapped
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in her arms. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Sigga Grandpa Paul
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all came for the Thanksgiving holiday dinner with much fuss
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and ado over baby Elizabeth. Grandma Rose clicked her favorite photo,
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so she said, of a smiling Ronnie lovingly holding his
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new one month old sister in his arms. Little did
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Grandma Rose know that when she posed the children for
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that shot, how hungry Ronnie was growing, how Ronnie's bright
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smile was merely instigated by his inner anticipation and his
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knowledge of how to feel good, how to taste more cranberries.
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He tried to fill his hunger at the Thanksgiving feast,
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but the ones from the can were too sweet, They
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weren't the same. They did not make him feel good.
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After dinner, the women gathered in the kitchen for the cleanup,
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and the men retiredired to the living room in front
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of the TV. So Ronnie, Grandpa Paul asked, as he
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settled upon the sofa, what do you want Santa to
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bring you for Christmas? This year? Ronnie scooted forward in
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his seat. A baseball bat would be nice. He had
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no desire for a ball or a glove. A shiny
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red baseball bat red like cranberries. His grin was as
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wide as his eyes. It made Grandpa Paul smile. I
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always loved baseball as a boy, Grandpa Sigg said, loosening
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his tie. Grandpa Sigg always wore a tie. You never
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know when you'll need to make a good impression, he
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always said. Ronnie's dad, Jim, leaned back in his recliner.
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Santa might not come this year. Why not, Jimmy, Grandpa
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Sigg asked. He's not short of cash, is he No?
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But sometimes it's just best if he stays away. Ronnie's
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dad muted the TV and set the remote aside. Dad,
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why don't you tell Rannie about the Santa you knew
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as a boy. Are you sure? Grandpa Sig ran his
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tie back and forth through his fingers. Times are different,
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and here in America, Santa Claus has changed his m
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a little. He's changed his m O a lot, Dad,
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So indulge me and help me teach the boy a
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little folklore from his heritage. My Rannie's old enough to
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know there's more than one Santa in the world. He
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looked over at his son and winked, aren't your son.
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Ronnie sat up proudly, Yes, I am, and the boy
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listened and rapped awe as his father's father began the tale. Well,
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here in America, Santa Claus might come accompanied by a
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red nosed reindeer. Grandpa sigin toned, But back where I
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come from, Santa or Samiklaus, as he's known, makes his
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rounds with Schmutzy. Ronnie giggled at the sound of the
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name spoken in his grandfather's residual German accent. Is that
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a Swiss reindeer? He asked. Grandpa sig shook his head solemnly. No,
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Schmutzy is Samyklaus evil altar. While Samyklaus wears a red
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cloak and a tall red hat, Smutzy dresses in Suti gray.
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Samiklaus has a long white beard, and Smutzy is black
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as coal. Schmutzy's face, too, is black as an ink well,
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and his eyes glow red as embers in a fire.
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Sami Klaus leaves true eats in the shoes of good
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little children, while schmutzley beats the naughty children with his broom,
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and with those boys and girls who've been truly, truly bad,
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he sweeps them into his sack and spirits them away
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deep into the wilderness, to be eaten and never seen again.
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Ronnie stared wide eyed. Why are you telling the boy
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that horrible tale, Grandma Rose asked, coming out of the
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kitchen with a handful of fresh washed china for the cabinet.
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There's nothing wrong with Ronnie knowing the folklore of his heritage, Mom,
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Jim said, after all, I grew up with it, and
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look how sane I turned out. Well, I didn't approve
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of your father telling you those stories then, and I
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don't approve of you scaring my grandson with them now.
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It's too late, Jim said, reaching for the TV remote.
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The tale of Schmultzy has been told. I'm not scared,
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Grandma Ronnie lied, after all, this is America. Santa's changed
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his mo o. Grandpa Sig and Grandpa Paul both laughed.
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Grandma Rose shook her head and returned to the kitchen.
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Ronnie stared at the TV. The sound was reinstated, but
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Ronnie didn't hear it. All that filled his mind was
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the picture of glowing red eyes on a black face,
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and the hunger for cranberries faded into the background.
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Don't go away, weakly, Spooky will be right back.
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When Ronnie relayed the story of Somniklaus and Schmultzy to
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his friend Jason at school, Jason just laughed. It's not real,
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Jason said. There's no such thing as Santa anyway. It's
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only your parents. And that is what Ronnie wanted to believe,
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or at least that in America there was Sanna, not
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semi cloths, and certainly no Schmultzy. And maybe he hadn't
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been that naughty though he wanted to be. He was
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craving the cranberries, but it would have to wait. He
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couldn't take any chances before Christmas. Two days before Christmas,
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Ronnie watched, licking the taste of cranberries on his lips
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as his mother bathed baby Elizabeth in the infant's tub
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upon the tabletop. Can I help, he tentatively asked. After
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a moment's consideration, mother nodded, of course, Ronnie. She handed
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the boy the soft washcloth when he stepped close. Just
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gently wash her body, okay. Mother held Elizabeth securely in
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the tub. Ronnie rubbed the cloth over the baby's soft
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shoulders and belly, and imagined grabbing hold of the baby's ankles,
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whirling her around and flinging her against the wall, then
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jumping up and down on her body. Once she hit
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the floor. He imagined skewering her with the fireplace poker
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and roasting her like a marshmallow. He imagined taking his
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fingers and poking them into Elizabeth's wide blue eyes and
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cramming the soaking wet washcloth down her throat. He licked
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the tang of cranberries away. Here. Mother interrupted his thoughts.
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Hold her steady for me while I lay out the towel.
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Ronnie's hands replaced his mother's beneath Elizabeth's arms. He looked
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up into his mother's eyes. They were smiling, The tang
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in his mouth sweetened. Mother leaned over to unfold the
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towel beside the infant's tub. Ronnie began to release his grip.
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Elizabeth slipped a bit. Could she slide all the way
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down until she drowned? Ronnie wondered, Not likely, but perhaps
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she could slip fast enough that were he to try
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to catch hold of her again. Her tiny little neck
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might snap in the process, her tiny little neck so
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skinny in its frailty trying to hold up her big
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bobbling head, and maybe her big bobbling head just might
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pop right off in his hands. Pop the cranberry tang
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caused a slip of drool to dampen Ronnie's chin. His
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eyes grew wide as he stared at his sister. He
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let go his grip. Elizabeth started to slide. Whoa. Mother
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quickly caught the baby before or she slipped into the
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shallow water, and laughed nervously. She can be a little wigglebug, can't.
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She almost got away from you. You have to be
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more careful with your sister, Ronnie. His father spoke from
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the doorway as he entered the room. Yes, Ronnie agreed,
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taking a step back, relieved mother had been so quick.
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Christmas was close. He couldn't be naughty before Santa came,
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but afterwards, afterwards he could feel good again. On Christmas Eve,
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he could not sleep. His stocking was hung, but would
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it be filled? Was Santa real? Would he come? And
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what about Schmultzy? But this was America, of course Santa
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would come. Santa in a red nosed reindeer to leave
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presents under the tree, not red eyed Schmutzley. He had
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been being oh so very good, even though the hunger
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for Cranberry's was unendurably strong. Elizabeth was sleeping in her
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room across the hall. Mother and father were sleeping in
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their room at the end of the hall. Ronnie stared
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out the dark window to the starlit night beyond. Please
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let Santa come, he whispered. He only had to wait
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until after Santa came. He couldn't be bad before Santa came,
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but afterwards everything would be all right and he could
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feel good again. After all, this was America, and in America,
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Santa wanted little boys to feel good. Santa rewarded good
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with presents. Ronnie stared at his bedroom door. Elizabeth was
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across the hall. Mother and father were at the end
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of the hall. At the other end of the hall,
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around the corner in the living room, the brightly lit
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Christmas tree cheerfully winked, awaiting its yearly night stalking visitor.
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Every year, it was Santa who came, not Semiklaus, not Schmultzy.
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This was America. Ronnie pulled the blanket up to his
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chin and stared out the dark window. The tang was
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in his mouth. He just wanted to feel good, that's all.
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He didn't want to be naughty, and there was only
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one way to feel good, and here in America, Santa
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brought presents to the good, maybe even a baseball bat,
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bright shiny and red thunk. He could hear the metallic
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sound of the bat's impact. Thunk, thunk, hollow and resonant, red, gleaming, slick, gosh.
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He was so hungry. He wanted to feel good, to
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feel good for Santa. Elizabeth was across the hall. He
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sat up in bed and stared at the door. Was
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there truly a Santa If so? Was he American? Or
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was he Swiss? And had he come yet? Ronnie laid
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back down. It was getting hard to breathe. His mouth
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was full. He needed to feel good. When would Santa
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come so he could feel good? He needed to know
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Santa had come before he could feel good. He sat
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back up and dangled his feet over the side of
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the bed. He stared at the door. Elizabeth was across
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the hall. Had Santa come yet? Ronnie was so very hungry,
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starving He could taste the cranberries he needed to feel good.
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Bare feet hit the floor, he crept to the bedroom door,
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peeked into the hall, looked to his parents closed bedroom door,
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then to Elizabeth's. His hands began to sweat. Ronnie eased
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his way into the hall without squeaking. The door hinges