herself against the banister before creeping in the shadows, wanting to see but not be seen. For the moment, Greta could only hear her own excited heartbeat until, suddenly, there came a subtle sound. A jingle of sleigh bells, so distant and yet nearby, tempting her with its magical call, far away and faint at first but stronger with each tiny step Greta took.
‘
Samichlaus, ist daß Sie?
’ Greta asked to the air. The bells stopped as if their owner had heard the question, before jingling in reply with even more excitement.
Greta was transfixed by the sound and, as if to entice her more, the shadows of the fire now danced to the magical bells’ tune. They became orange fairy folk, swirling upon the walls, twisting and somersaulting to each jingle of the bells. Greta, knowing that she had to let Saint Nicholas in, ran to the entrance door.
The door was barred closed by a huge log, held in place by iron hooks. She strained, trying to push the wood that refused to move even a hair’s breadth. Disappointed but not deterred, Greta turned her attention to the window shutters. Pushing a stool against the wall, she climbed up and tried the latch. The shutter opened with a creaking, revealing a small window, frosted as if Jack Frost himself had pushed his hands against the glass. Greta peered into the darkness, the sound of the sleigh bells now louder than ever. However, all she could see was the moonlit snow and the ancient trees holding their vigil over the lodge. That was, until a huge shadow passed by the window, darting out of Greta’s sight as fast as it had appeared, but not before tapping on the window. Tat, tat, tat.
Now she knew without any doubt that Saint Nicholas was here. She had to let him in, and she suddenly knew how. By the fireplace, Mama kept a bucket of water just in case the fire became too enthusiastic. Greta, with great strain but more determination, tipped the bucket into the fire. Most of the water poured over her nightgown and the floor, but the bucket and the rest of the water streamed into the fireplace, and the fire died with a dramatic and smoky hiss that made Greta cough. Instantly the music of the bells stopped, and the dancing shadows went dark with only slivers of the moon seeping into the lodge. Black water ran over the fireplace and over Greta’s toes, turning them murky and chilling them with the cold dirty water that ran like blood.
‘
Samichlaus?
’ Greta called up the chimney when the smoke cleared, being careful of the orange embers that were slowly turning black. She invited him down the chimney and into her home.
‘
Samichlaus, hereinkommen. Samichlaus, hereinkommen,
’ she said in her little voice.
Soot fell from the chimney stack and, with smoke filling the dark of the tunnel, Greta strained to see movement. She stood on tiptoe and leant further forward, and she smiled as Saint Nicholas crawled towards her.
Except, too late.
It was not Saint Nicholas that came hungrily for the child this night.
Mama and Papa woke suddenly to Greta’s shrill screams. A piercing that went through the night and into the hearts of her sleeping parents.
‘
Greta, ich komme. Greta, Papa kommt,
’ Papa shouted as the two ran in the dark, crashing into furniture, and entered Greta’s room. Mama pulled the blankets back, searching for her daughter. Greta screamed again, and her fearful parents, in their terror, followed the horrid sound.
On the stairway they stopped in their tracks at the sight that befell them.
‘Greta?’ whispered Mama, her hand covering her quivering and fretful lips.
From the dark and the embers and the silver slivers of light they saw their daughter—sweet, succulent Greta, young and tender and plump. She stood by the fireplace and from it an elongated arm with black scales and lengthened fingers wrapped around the tiny girl’s waist.
‘Mama? Papa?’ Greta replied with tears in her eyes. And with a terrible movement, as fast as darkness murders light, the arm
‘
Samichlaus, ist daß Sie?
’ Greta asked to the air. The bells stopped as if their owner had heard the question, before jingling in reply with even more excitement.
Greta was transfixed by the sound and, as if to entice her more, the shadows of the fire now danced to the magical bells’ tune. They became orange fairy folk, swirling upon the walls, twisting and somersaulting to each jingle of the bells. Greta, knowing that she had to let Saint Nicholas in, ran to the entrance door.
The door was barred closed by a huge log, held in place by iron hooks. She strained, trying to push the wood that refused to move even a hair’s breadth. Disappointed but not deterred, Greta turned her attention to the window shutters. Pushing a stool against the wall, she climbed up and tried the latch. The shutter opened with a creaking, revealing a small window, frosted as if Jack Frost himself had pushed his hands against the glass. Greta peered into the darkness, the sound of the sleigh bells now louder than ever. However, all she could see was the moonlit snow and the ancient trees holding their vigil over the lodge. That was, until a huge shadow passed by the window, darting out of Greta’s sight as fast as it had appeared, but not before tapping on the window. Tat, tat, tat.
Now she knew without any doubt that Saint Nicholas was here. She had to let him in, and she suddenly knew how. By the fireplace, Mama kept a bucket of water just in case the fire became too enthusiastic. Greta, with great strain but more determination, tipped the bucket into the fire. Most of the water poured over her nightgown and the floor, but the bucket and the rest of the water streamed into the fireplace, and the fire died with a dramatic and smoky hiss that made Greta cough. Instantly the music of the bells stopped, and the dancing shadows went dark with only slivers of the moon seeping into the lodge. Black water ran over the fireplace and over Greta’s toes, turning them murky and chilling them with the cold dirty water that ran like blood.
‘
Samichlaus?
’ Greta called up the chimney when the smoke cleared, being careful of the orange embers that were slowly turning black. She invited him down the chimney and into her home.
‘
Samichlaus, hereinkommen. Samichlaus, hereinkommen,
’ she said in her little voice.
Soot fell from the chimney stack and, with smoke filling the dark of the tunnel, Greta strained to see movement. She stood on tiptoe and leant further forward, and she smiled as Saint Nicholas crawled towards her.
Except, too late.
It was not Saint Nicholas that came hungrily for the child this night.
Mama and Papa woke suddenly to Greta’s shrill screams. A piercing that went through the night and into the hearts of her sleeping parents.
‘
Greta, ich komme. Greta, Papa kommt,
’ Papa shouted as the two ran in the dark, crashing into furniture, and entered Greta’s room. Mama pulled the blankets back, searching for her daughter. Greta screamed again, and her fearful parents, in their terror, followed the horrid sound.
On the stairway they stopped in their tracks at the sight that befell them.
‘Greta?’ whispered Mama, her hand covering her quivering and fretful lips.
From the dark and the embers and the silver slivers of light they saw their daughter—sweet, succulent Greta, young and tender and plump. She stood by the fireplace and from it an elongated arm with black scales and lengthened fingers wrapped around the tiny girl’s waist.
‘Mama? Papa?’ Greta replied with tears in her eyes. And with a terrible movement, as fast as darkness murders light, the arm
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