Some know him as Santa Claus, the jolly old man who brings gifts to every child in the world. They consider him a hero, an elf that puts others before himself.

I do not look at him in that way.

Saint Nick is not as everyone thinks he is. He butters everyone up with hope and joy of the Christmas season so they don’t notice the horror of the situation.

An old man sneaking into your house in the dead of night, watching you to see if you have been naughty, knowing everything that goes on.

Some call it a happy elf making sure everyone is up to their best behavior—I call it a killer stalking its prey before it comes on for the kill.

How do I know this?

Because I was one of the children kidnapped and brought to his workshop. Forced into a lifetime of slavery and torture. See, Santa doesn’t have “_elves_” to do his work for him, he uses the kids he has kidnapped over the years, who drink poisen so they never grow older or bigger.

Never get a normal life.

I have been here for nearly twenty years, and still am only 12 years old. I long to escape this dreaded place, but I couldn’t leave the other kids here alone.

But there are thousands of them.

Some who have been here for centuries.

New children arrive every Christmas, at first they believe they have been brought to the wonders of the North Pole—nicknamed Hell Hole by many of the children here. But once they realize that Santa isn’t who he says he is, they long to go back home.

Back to when Christmas was a joyful holiday.

I sit here on the cold concrete floors of the Factory, my ragged clothing sticky with god knows what. Praying, hoping, _anything_, that this will be the last Christmas here.

“You are supposed to be working, Danny.” A low and whispery voice hisses from around me. My heart beats faster, no one usually sees Santa’s face, they only here is voice echo through the North Pole.

“You don’t want me to send you to where the naughty children go.” Santa whispers again. The air suddenly fills with a rotten smell, as wet begins to drip from the pipes.

I cover my mouth to hold back my scream.

Fresh blood drips from the pipes above me, and a soft and raspy laugh echos through the room. “They all would love another friend I am sure.”

I can’t speak, but I know I don’t have to. Santa has eyes and ears everywhere, so I shake my head, and think hard.

_I am going to be a nice little girl. _

_ _I can sense his smiles, “good,” he whispers, his voice hushing the room, and fading away. Until I am left in silence.

What of if I accidentally do something wrong?

_He sees you when your sleeping _

_He knows when your awake _

_He knows if you’ve been bad or good _

_So be good for goodness sake _

__

__

The haunting tune fills my head, and my eyes fill as I realize things are about to get a lot worse.