Now, Dasher: The Saga of a Vampire Santa Claus

By Roy Hudson

Meet Nick Dasher, a vampire who cares for the children of the world enough to break the bloodsucker stereotype and give to them every Christmas. Over 13 years, he meets other legendary vampires, such as the Grim Reaper, the Easter Bunny, the Holly King, the Jersey Devil, and Frosty the snow-vampire. Nick's stories tell of how he came to be, and how he lost everything only to make a comeback as an unlikely saint.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Hudson
• Release date: Dec 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301248308

Roy Hudson

A lifelong resident of Augusta, GA, Roy Hudson is a full-time writer with experience in the University of South Carolina Aiken's Broken Ink magazine and campus newspaper, Pacer Times. In 2010, a sample of his novel The Odic Touch won him a full scholarship at the former Augusta State University's Sandhills Writers' Conference. In addition to The Odic Touch, Roy Hudson has one other published novel, a Halloween-set tale and tribute to the horror film genre, Relic (via Firefly & Wisp). His stories have been published in Firefly & Wisp's anthologies 13 Tales of The Paranormal and the zombie collection Thorn of Death. He has also self-published two holiday story anthologies: Halloween Tales and Now, Dasher- The Saga of a Vampire Santa Claus. All of these are available on Smashwords and various other e-book retailers such as Amazon.com, BN.com, and the Apple book store.

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Now, Dasher: The Saga of a Vampire Santa Claus

By Roy Hudson

Smashwords Edition

Published by Roy Hudson on Smashwords

Now, Dasher

Copyright © Roy Hudson 2000-2012

ISBN: 9781301248308

Contents:

Year One-2000

Year Two-2001

Year Three-2002

Year Four-2003

Year Five-2004

Year Six-2005

Year Seven-2006

Year Eight-2007

Year Nine-2008

Year Ten-2009

Year Eleven-2010

Year Twelve-2011

Year Thirteen-2012

About the Author

Also by Roy Hudson

Links

YEAR ONE

12-24-2000

I’m not usually one for self-documentation, but unlike most of my kind, I actually have a conscience, and the particular dilemma recorded here has been weighing heavily upon it for several years now.

If I were to come right out and say who I am, one would never believe me, especially if he were to see me walking down the street. I’m a slender, dark-haired man whom one would guess to be thirty. Though not vain, I suppose I could call myself handsome. I’m not a rich man, though I could be if I wanted to be; therefore I dress very casually. Again, these things separate me from the rest of my race, who tend to be flamboyant and wealthy. I work in a twenty-four hour department store, stocking in the toy aisles at night. That makes it easier for me to know which toys the children like best.

My name is Nick Dasher. At least, that’s the name I’ve been using for the past few years. I’ve had to change it from time to time, along with the cities in which I’ve made my homes. I’ve had lots of names, from the obvious to those that have taken a good bit of thought. But I’m getting indifferent in my old age, hence the corny moniker that I now employ. I’ve used English variations of nicknames of the legendary Saint Nicholas of Myra from other countries, such as Nicholas Sanct, Peter Black, and Simon Klass from the stories of Holland. I’ve turned the Germanic Knecht Ruprecht into Rupert Nectar, the Scandinavian Julenisse morphed into Julian Nies, and the Roman saint Befana became Samuel Befana (I was less creative on that one, but no one noticed). Then, once the American legends became commonplace and their origins forgotten, I started creating names based on those. For a while I was Washington Diedrich (from the first names of the pseudonym and author of History of New York, in which America was given its first glimpse at a written account of the legend). Not long after the 1823 release of the poem A Visit From Saint Nicholas, I took the name of Clark Moore, borrowed from the poet himself. After a while, it became more difficult. So now I mostly use the names of either Kriss Kringle or St. Nick, and the name of one of the eight famous reindeer. Nine if you count the one with the red nose.

The point I’m trying to make is that I act as that figure known as Santa Claus. I don’t expect anyone to believe that, but I need to tell this story anyway. Though I look like a man in his thirties, I’m actually two hundred and eighty-three years old. I know what this journal’s potential readers will think. If I’m really Santa Claus, how is it that I’m not even three hundred years old when the stories of Saint Nicholas have been spread since the fourth century? Well, that’s a long story, but since it’s not really what I wanted to tell, I’ll make it quick.

I was born Arthur Tennyson of London. When I was in my middle twenties, I decided to stop living as my father had. Despite protest from my family, I joined those seeking freedom on a ship to the so-called New World. And just in case you’re wondering, no, I wasn’t on the Mayflower. My story’s not quite that corny.

On the journey across the Atlantic Ocean, I met a girl named Marie. She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Okay, wait. I won’t lie. As time passes, people evolve and their features change. These days, there are girls more beautiful than Marie, but in my time, there were none. Just as soon as we reached America, we were married, and a child came soon after. It was a boy, Robert by name. Those were the happiest times of my life. Of course, little did I know that I hadn’t much life left in me. Not a year passed after Robert’s birth that I was killed.

One cold November evening, some fellow settlers and I set out into the forest to gather wood for fire. I strayed farther into the forest than my companions, and that was when I came across a dark figure leaning against a tree. I called out to him, asking for an identification. At first I believed it to be a friend playing a joke, or perhaps a native, what we called Indians or savages in those days. It turned out to be neither. It was a vampire.

I’m quite sure that if anyone reads this, they most likely don’t believe in vampires, but when you see an undead creature moving toward you with the speed of a cheetah, baring fangs and flashing yellow eyes, you tend to abandon disbelief.

If you’re asking yourself how fast a vampire can really move, trust me: I didn’t even have time to gasp. It’s actually kind of funny. Kids are always asking how Santa Claus manages to circle the world to deliver all of his toys in just one night. Well, that’s how. That and the fact that I have to bypass certain non-believing countries and the homes of the rich, where toys are easily afforded. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The vampire ripped the flesh from my throat, briefly fed, and left. I never saw him again, though I would clearly recognize him if I ever did come across him. A few hours later, the other villagers wondered why I hadn’t returned from the forest. A search party was sent out and they found my body. In those days, they didn’t go through the process of embalming, nor were there expensive funeral homes to bother with or wakes. To the distress of my beautiful Marie, I was put into the ground almost immediately.

Another major question about vampires: How long does it take after the mortal death to return? I honestly don’t know. When you’re dead, time doesn’t even exist. All I know is, I woke up in a crate in the ground. For hours all I could do was panic. I remembered the attack, but that was all. And now I was in a coffin. Once I coped with this fact, I regained my composure and dedicated myself to getting out of the grave. It took a while, but I dug myself out of the grave.

Legends of vampires had been going around almost as long as legends of Saint Nicholas, so I knew right away what I had become. I knew that there was no way I would be able to return to my village. Oh, I went back occasionally at night, just to watch Marie and Robert sleep. I missed them terribly, but there was nothing I could do about it. You must remember, these were the Puritan days. If they saw me back from the dead, they were certain to do horrible things to me. They would stone me or drown me or most likely burn me. And in those days, I had absolutely no idea what exactly could destroy a vampire. Besides, not long after my burial, a friend of mine took Marie as his wife so that he could care for her and Robert. My son never really got a chance to know his real father growing up. As far as he was concerned, Arthur Tennyson had never even been.

He may not have known me as his father, but I certainly knew him; I watched him grow up and, sadly, I even watched him die. When he was still a child shortly after my death, I was determined to find some way to show my affection for him. And that, as if you couldn’t predict, is how I haphazardly took on the identity of Father Christmas. But please don’t call me Saint Nicholas. I’m anything but a saint. I’m just a guy who likes to give to children. The one thing that gives me more joy than any other is to see a smile on a child’s face.

That first year, I carved a puppet for Robert and left it on Marie’s doorstep. However, the other children, also knowing of the legend of Saint Nicholas, were jealous. And so, I spent the entire year creating things for the children of the village. Once the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century made the mass-production of toys possible, I was able to give generously to as many children as I possibly could, no matter where they were. As I mentioned before, generosity is not common in my race, but I’ve always had a soft spot for children, far too innocent to kill. The majority of adult people, on the other hand, are scum that I am happy to remove from this planet. That doesn’t make me a monster, wanting to clean my home of the greedy and deceitful. Besides, like all vampires, I must feed on blood. Other than hideous criminals, I also feed upon the ill and the homeless, as to put them out of their misery. I may be soulless, but heartless I am not.

The stories of the North Pole, flying reindeer, and elves are nothing more than make-believe. I have been known to go down chimneys, but in the form of mist, which is usually how I travel the world on December 24th. It’s quite easy to move quickly while floating on the wind. But now that I’ve covered the basics of vampires and Santa Claus, it’s time for me to confess and get this story off of my chest.

Three years ago was the first Christmas since the Persian Gulf crisis that I could not enjoy. During that conflict, military families were separated, making the children very distraught. No amount of toys can replace a parent. Then again, isn’t that what I was trying to do with Robert after my mortal death? That’s a question I still haven’t been able to answer.

As I mentioned before, I work the night shift stocking toys in a department store (you can probably guess which one, but it would be safer to not give names of locations just in case this journal is ever found). At the time, I was going under the name of Rudy Kringle (it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the origin of that one). Rudy’s life was a good one. I had many friends there. My favorite co-worker there was the night manager of the sporting goods department, a well-rounded, balding fellow by the name of George Bucher. He wore thick glasses over a bulbous nose, under which he sported a thick gray beard. In fact, he looked more like the traditional vision of Santa Claus than I do! There were others, too. Once again, I’m not vain, but I liked to consider Rudy a likeable guy. But don’t bother trying to find me through those records. Rudy Kringle is just as dead as Arthur Tennyson and every other identity I’ve used, which is a shame, because I was really starting to like old Rudy. But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was always understood that I was to have the night off on December 24th. I would be willing to work on the 25th, and on New Year’s, and even on Easter, but there was no way I could miss Christmas Eve because of a retail stocking job. And even if my boss was short-handed and needed me to come in on that night, I had certain ways of persuading him into letting me stay off. Sometimes being a vampire has some really neat perks.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that, like every year, I had that night off and was able to make my rounds to deliver toys to the good little children. Going with logic, I start as far east as possible. I mostly stay out of Asia and strictly hit Europe. It’s strange how much England has changed over the past two hundred odd years. My last stops are in California (a place with few delivery points) and then I return to my home on the American east coast to sleep before the sun completely peeks out from behind the trees.

In case you’re wondering, the sun doesn’t cause vampires to spontaneously combust on contact, like in the movies. However, too much exposure is unhealthy to us. Think of it this way: the sun is to vampires as carbon monoxide is to humans. In small doses every now and then, it’s not too bad. Too much at once is extremely fatal.

So if the sun is shining when I get back, I still have time to get back to my home and into my bed before any serious illness comes along. Yes, you read correctly; I sleep in a bed. That coffin myth is more malarkey; I simply sleep in a dark room. Can you imagine what would happen if I had a friend come over for dinner and he saw a coffin in my home? Or if I picked up a pretty girl for a night of sexual activity (yes, we can have sex; the blood we drink gets all of our fluids flowing), and instead of a bed, she had to lie on top of a casket? Please. Besides, I had my fill of coffins when I first woke up in one buried underground after that attack back on the original settlement.

Anyway, I’m rambling again. The point of this story is not to explain everything about vampires, it is to clean my conscience. Where was I? Oh yes. Because of my route, I have to deliver the toys in my hometown at around 1:00 a.m., EST. And it was during this time that the unthinkable happened.

There have been comedies in which guys in Santa suits were arrested for breaking and entering and burglary, also political cartoons in which the real Santa runs into a crook while both of them were trying to sneak into a place. I shrugged those things off, thinking they’d never happen. Christmas is a time of love and giving, even in a time when hate dominates the rest of the year. If a vampire can accept that, anyone can, right? Well, I guess not.

I had already finished all the large houses in the crowded areas and was now working on the places that sat alone. This particular home was in the woods by the highway, not too far from the large bridge that separated the passing cars from the filthy river far below. I floated up through the chimney in the form of a mist after leaving the gifts. That’s when I heard the noise below.

I heard a scratching and a slight metallic bump, like the sound of a cat going through garbage cans. I looked down on impulse to see the cause of the noise and saw that it was no cat. It was a cat burglar. You can imagine my response. This awakened a rage in me that was unparalleled. Some scumbag had the audacity to steal during the season of giving? Santa Claus is generally perceived as a spirit of peace and good will, but no one messes with my friends. And each and every person to whom I deliver is a friend of mine, whether they realize it or not. There was not a snowball’s chance in Hell that this man would get away with thieving while I was on the roof.

As I mentioned before, my kind has the speed of a cheetah, but also the reflexes of a wolf. I leapt down toward this man before he even realized that he was no longer alone. When I landed on the ground before him, showing my anger through my flashing eyes and teeth (another special effect that comes in handy when you want to scare the crap out of someone), he fell backward and landed on his behind, though he was unable to scream. I began to reach down for him, as to teach