It was one of those dammable nights cast from dream to dream before its resolution repeatedly I woke up sweating and wary of breath, tendrils of it snaked down my forehead until I tasted a bitter, odorous taste. I was enveloped by the familiar light of my lamp stationed rigidly by my side, my hand felt weary the amount of times it was summoned to the switch. I had no trouble of the least concerning sleep, only maintaining it thanks to the malevolent nature of my dreams that night. Desiring to retire the struggle for rest I resolved to only drift into sleep a final time, if not then I would have to attend to the large mound of work that needed aptly doing. And so I embarked a final time from the shores of sanity to the half-reasoning of the dream-world. I felt first the humidity, and was astounded by the exactness of it. It’s exact quality signalled to me it was sunset, and it’s precise geographical quality conveyed somehow to me I was in a latitude which aligned from the barren coast of Northern Russia, through many regions and climates of China down to the integrated Hindu-Islamic-Bhuddist culture of the Southeast Asian islands. There I saw a boy no taller than some of the shrubs which sprouted out of the tropical weed-land in the forest clearing presented to me approach a corpse shrivelled horribly though still animate. It was of no image I should rightfully paint a portrait in any tome, nor picture, nor spoken tale, though those who continue, and fancy themselves courageous, resilient or strong read on ,if not dispose of this tale through whatever means you feel necessary; he had horrible sunken bags of a putrid rotten colour hanging limply under two bloodshot, discoloured, yellow disks, his hair was tufted and matted, and was an unnaturally off-white colour, and the way the hair travelled; not luscious like gently arching waves, no, serpentine and coiling but minus the natural grace and elegance of a serpent. His pallor was a greenish-gray that lacked the vibrancy of average skin and was dull and dry, a wicked and grimy hue, his nose was pointed and beaked, a nose of a gremlin or another mean spirit that inhabited the mythic lands of the Celts, his teeth were pointed and bristles, which gave a distinct impression of them utilised to pick bones of morsels of meat, like a carrion eater, and adorning that head were two pointed eerie ears that were undoubtedly used for location of prey. A tunic of aged linen rested on his body, a worn type of red garb that looked ancient, fastened along his waist was a belt with an undeniably old design formed out of brass, certainly its use had been continuous for many years, and it held a strong cutting of leather hide that appeared like its tan was extremely potent in order for the dark coat to maintain. Bells hanging from frail looking, though undoubtedly sturdy, chains rattled as the wind meandered past. They were all of different metals though polished with continuous use. The boy whispered a few words and the corpse whispered a few back through comb-like teeth. Though one sentence I came to know and one sentence I will always know, as he bent down closer to speak is this, “I am Saint Nicholas.” And from that I received a terrible jolt which startled me back to the realm of real experiences and real voices. And in my mind I always heard the words, “I am Saint Nicholas”

A fortnight after the dream was concealed deeply under the preparations for the massive Christmas day party I was going to host, for friends disowned from their families or neglecting responsibilities for their relatives to engage in the preparation for the day with. Midway through the massive banquet, and it was massive: a knock sounded on the door. And a grey figure entered. He was like a realistic equivalent of my dream, an idea constructed in reality. He was severely bony, with hollow cheeks and eyes situated in deep chasms, his skin had an anaemic complexion, he wore a few scalvaged scraps. The scraps in general were: a pair of tights only fashionable at the beginning of the century, a cravat overlayed with a bow tie pockmarked by moth marks and moisture stains, his overcoat scalvaged from some molding heap of vile clothes, his boots; mud collecting scraps riddled with holes and cracks and several other rags accumulated and piled on his hideous body. His hair was extremely thin and the strands that were on his head were white and saturated with sweat, and his mouth had thin, menacing teeth coloured by rotting crimson, repulsiveness had formed an aura around this figure. Then that horrific, grotesque figure spoke in a wheezing, strangled statement: “I am Saint Nicholas.” And then I was alone, in a dark lofty hall, with empty and cold metallic plates and cutlery that seemed to peculiarly shimmer in the darkness. That figure approached swiftly and with a stumbling and limping gate, the strange limp alternating to each leg as he stepped or swung the other leg forward. He then sat down on the bench beside me. We then began to talk, in concealed whispered. He rasped almost thoughtfully as I spoke to him, and I attempted to speak calmly and gently. He then looked at me with his hazel eyes filled with misery hooded under a heavy brow, “Now you know why I came, I am Saint Nicholas.” He then left the hall peacefully. And I found my way through the countless stairways, passages and hallways to my bedroom. My friends recounted that they left because I spontaneously asked them to and that I said in an unusually strangled voice: “I have a guest I am expecting. You are not acquaintances with him.” I still regard that day as unusual, and for some unknown reason even If I urge my brain to remember that quiet conversation I cannot.