The Christmas Thingy by F. Paul Wilson, Alan M. Clark

The Christmas Thingy
     

    “ You want what for Christmas?” Mrs. Murgatroyd says, bending to pick up the pieces of the plate she just dropped.
    “A monster,” Jessica Atkins says, nibbling on her toast. “Not a big, mean monster. I want a friendly little one to play with when I come home from school, and maybe keep me company at night.”
    “Don’t you wish for no monster, Miss Jessica,” Mrs. Murgatroyd says, her accent getting thicker with each word. “Not for Christmas! ’Specially not in this ’ouse!”
    Jessica is sorry for upsetting the plump old housekeeper, but now she’s very curious. “What do you mean, Mrs. M.?”
    “You just might get your wish!”
    “Really?” Jessica claps her hands with glee. “Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish!”
    “You’ll be very sorry, you will,” Mrs. Murgatroyd says in a grave tone. “Very sorry if the Christmas Thingy decides to pay you a visit.”
    “‘Thingy?’” Jessica laughs. “ ‘Thingy? ’ What a funny name!”
    “You won’t be thinkin’ it’s so funny when you wake up Christmas morning and find out what’s ’appened to all your presents.”
    Suddenly Jessica is no longer smiling. “Wh-what will happen?”
    “The same thing that ’appened almost one ’undred—no, I do believe it was exactly one ’undred years ago.”

     
    Jessica waits patiently as the housekeeper counts the years. Mrs. Murgatroyd sort of came with the house and has worked here forever.
    “Yes. It was exactly one century ago this year that the Christmas Thingy visited this very ’ouse. The lit’le boy who lived ’ere then ’ad been wishin’ for a secret friend. Well, as Advent came, ’e got ’is wish: the Christmas Thingy arrived. It stayed right up until Christmas, it did, and then it left, because Thingies must always return to Thingyland before dawn on Christmas morning. But before it left this ’ouse a century ago, it stole some presents.”
    “Oh, that’s awful!” Jessica cries.
    “Not all the presents, mind you; not the ’ole family’s. Just one person’s. The ones for the lit’le boy who ’ad befriended it. The Thingy stole all the lit’le boy’s presents and took them back to Thingyland to ’oard and gloat over, because nobody gives presents in Thingyland at Christmas. They steals them.”
    “But why?”
    “Thingies steal,” says Mrs. Murgatroyd with a shrug. “They can’t ’elp it. Stealing is in their nature. As me Mum used to say, ‘Like a rose must bloom and a pig must squeal, a cow must moo and a thingy must steal. It simply must.’”

     
    “But what’s a Thingy look like?”
    “Ow, it’s an ’ideous lit’le creature, it is. Too ugly to describe. Let’s just ’ope you never ’as the misfortune o’ seeing the lit’le blighter!”
    Jessica nods, but inside she still wants her own little monster. Then she yawns.
    “You wouldn’t be tired now, would you? You just got up.”
    “I keep waking up and hearing noises.”
    “These old ’ouses is full o’ creaks an’ squeaks. You’ll get used to ’em after you’ve lived ’ere a while longer.”
    Jessica knows that the noises come from mice in the walls—little scratchings all through the night. But she doesn’t want to tell Mrs. Murgatroyd that. The housekeeper will start setting out traps. Jessica doesn’t want to hurt the mice, she just wants them to go away.
    She smiles as she realizes something: If she got a little monster for Christmas, maybe it would scare those mice away.
    With that nice thought in her head, she tightens the thigh strap on her leg brace
    and gets up from the table.
    “Thanks for the breakfast, Mrs. M.”
    The old housekeeper smiles. “You’re quite welcome, Miss Jessica. But don’t you be watchin’ any o’ those silly old movies now. You’ve already got enough strange notions in that lit’le eight-year-old ’ead as it is.”
    “What else am I going to do?” Jessica whispers as she limps up the steps to her room. “I’ve got nobody to