by Mel Andela
A dead mouse sat in sister’s stocking, a toy car on the stairs for mother, and Jamie nestled with visions of destruction rather than sugar plums.
He sees you when you’re sleeping…
Faint music made Jamie prickle with goosebumps.
Be good for goodness sake…
There was a creak at the door, and a hulking silhouette appeared.
“You’re on my list,” A not-so-jolly voice beckoned. “Time to go.”
“N-no coal?” Jamie squeaked.
“No, when you’ve been really naughty—downright mean—you go to the workshop.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” The laugh was mirthless, merciless. “Who do you think makes the toys?”
Mel fell in love with stories (particularly ghost stories) at a young age, and started writing as soon as she could hold a pencil. Mel lives in a small town in Ontario, Canada, reading anything and everything, and writing short fiction and poetry whenever she gets the chance.