Snow White had lipstick on her teeth.

It was just a tiny speck, but once Phil noticed it he couldn’t stop staring. And the more he stared, the more flaws he noticed. Like the concealer caked on her forehead, and the way he could he see the faint outline of her contact lenses against the whites of her eyes. And her tunic. Was that a faint sweat stain under the armpit, or maybe just a trick of the light? The character birthday breakfast wasn’t going well.

Of course, it wasn’t Snow White’s fault. It was their newly-minted eight-year-old, Virginia. She just wasn’t into it. It wasn’t that she was rude about it. She was perfectly polite, even charming. She gamely accepted the princess’s birthday wishes. But the first time they were here, five years ago, this kind of proximity had left her quaking with awe, face downcast, as if terrified of gazing upon Snow White in all her splendor. Now she simply looked the princess in the eye and thanked her—as you would any service professional — shaking her hand with the practiced ease of a seasoned PR executive. Which was what her mother, Julie was. Phil glanced across the table at his wife for a sign that she shared his anguish, but her face was blank, and she continued tending to her phone while cutting up pancakes for their four-year-old, Chase.

It wasn’t until the picture taking that Virginia’s mature veneer began to crack. Phil wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but it wasn’t this: the fake, “say-cheese” grin, the stiff body language, the vaguest hint of impatience. So he kept pushing his daughter to give him more, shot after shot. Finally she snapped, in one those inexplicable eruptions that were becoming more and more frequent lately. “I am smiling!”

“I know, honey, but it just doesn’t seem like you’re having fun.”

She groaned theatrically, slammed her chair against the table and stormed off to the bathroom. She almost ran into a passing older couple in matching sweatshirts and Phil apologized.

The man looked at Phil with sympathy. “Believe me, I’ve been there. Ours are 23 and 25 now. It goes fast.”

“Yeah,” said Phil, “I’m trying to enjoy it while I can.” He nodded his head in the direction of his daughter’s trajectory. “If ‘enjoy’ is the right word.”

The man chuckled. “Don’t worry, you’ll get her back. In about ten years, probably, but you’ll get her back.”

Phil furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ll ‘get her back.’ She’s going to run away?”

“No, I just mean teenager stuff. She’ll hate you for a while, but they come around.”

“Why would she hate me?”

“Mama, Dada said ‘hate’,” said Chase. Julie tapped at her phone.

“Ok, not literally, of course,” said the man.

The woman chimed in. “Maybe ‘get frustrated with’ is a better way of putting it.”

Phil felt his anger rising. He knew it was wrong, but their matching Mickey Mouse gear set him off. Why were they even here?  “Well, I don’t know what you did to your kids, but my daughter’s got no reason to hate me. I’m not an asshole.”

The couple backed away, and then hurried out of the restaurant. Julie finally looked up from her phone. “Jesus, Phil.”

They’d splurged on a suite at The Grand Californian, and that night, with the kids safely asleep in the adjoining room, Julie proposed intercourse. But Phil couldn’t shake the thought that Virginia would somehow know what they were doing (didn’t they start sex ed this year?), and disapprove. Their children had given them access to a magical, protected world that they could enter at will, a refuge from the daily indignities of adult life. Now the border between that world and theirs had become porous. Virginia was slowly becoming one of them.

They had sex anyway. After, Phil tried to explain why he had lost it in the restaurant. “She’s moved on from that princess stuff,” said Julie. “She likes the rides now.”

“Space Mountain? Next thing she’s gonna want a motorcycle.”

“It’s normal.”

“So what’s next, Santa Claus?” asked Phil, not for first time.

“Maybe. It is kind of on schedule.”

“It’s a little too soon for me. Especially after what happened with Kimmy.”

“Oh my God. You need to get over that,” said Julie.

Kimmy, full name Kimmy Sprinkles, was Virginia’s imaginary friend. When she first appeared, some time around age two, Phil had gotten a little freaked out. Some small, embarrassing part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Kimmy was in fact some kind of demon or ghost. Once he got over his misgivings, however, he was all in. He made her a place at the dinner table, celebrated her birthday (July 25th, the day after Virginia’s), even apologized to her — at length — the time he stepped on her head. The amount of time and effort Phil put into all this made him feel that Kimmy was their joint creation. So it didn’t seem fair when Virginia casually pulled the plug once and for all a few Octobers ago. Suddenly he was the insane one for putting all the Peanut M  and Ms in the “Kimmy pile”? The regular ones gave her diarheea. It had always been that way.

The next morning they packed up to leave. Normally, Phil would’ve been elated. He hated Disney. Instead he felt an unfamiliar sadness. He realized that he had only been free to hate the park because of the immense sway it held over his daughter. He had been like a kid rolling his eyes in church, secretly thrilled at the thought that God was watching. But now God was dead, the spell was broken, and this was just another place to spend money, to diminishing returns. On the way out of the hotel they passed a rack of princess dresses. Phil had an overpowering urge to bury his face in the shiny polyester frocks and sob.

“So what about Santa Claus?” Phil muttered, checking the rear view mirror to be sure that Virginia and Chase were still passed out in the backseat. “Do we have a conversation, or is there a book we can buy?”

“It’s like five months away, Phil.”

“Very soon, in other words.”

Julie sighed. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll happen naturally. At a certain point she’ll realize that Santa Claus is not so much a real person as he is a metaphor for the spirit of generosity and giving in all of us.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Phil, more loudly than he meant to. In the back, Chase moaned softly and shifted his head. Phil lowered his voice. “Either Santa exists or he doesn’t. You can’t smooth it over with metaphor.”

“Whatever. Just try to bring that Christmas magic as best you can.”

“I always do,” said Phil. He started to sing “Jingle Bells” under his breath.

Phil was still stuck on Christmas Carols as he fumbled with the keys for their front door. He had moved on to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Which was appropriate, given the scene that awaited them inside.

The first thing they noticed was the tree. It was gorgeous, perfectly proportioned for their living room, no bald spots or dried out branches, just seven feet of prime Douglas fir. The lights were expertly strung, the ornaments —their ornaments — arrayed with obvious care. A cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace nearby, above which hung their bulging stockings. “White Christmas” played softly in the background. The air smelled of pine and nutmeg. They stood there in shock, until Chase broke the silence. “Yesss!” he yelled, diving for the avalanche of presents spilling out from under the tree. It took both parents to restrain him.

 

“This is gonna sound a little funny,” said the investigating officer, “but it looks like they got in through the chimney.”

“The chimney?” said Julie dully.

“Tight squeeze, I know, but yeah. Obviously the one place your alarm system wasn’t monitoring.”

“How could someone climb down the chimney?” said Phil.

“Highly motivated thief? You’d be surprised.”

“But they didn’t steal anything,” said Julie, glancing over at the technicians in hazmat suits delicately prodding the gayly-wrapped packages.

“True. This one’s a head-scratcher,” the cop said. “Of course, you can’t rule out a pervert. Gonna have the boys check the stockings for, um, DNA.”

“Sperm,” offered one of the technicicans helpfully.

“Yeah, we get it,” said Julie.

Just then, two men in dark suits materialized and took the cop aside, flashing badges. Within minutes, the police had packed up and left.

“I’m Agent Rex. This is Agent Mackey,” said one of the men to Phil and his family. “We’re with…well, let’s just say an obscure sub-division of Homeland Security.”

“Great,” said Phil. “So what the hell happened here?”

“Nobody was hurt, nothing was taken. Our suggestion is that you just forget about it.”

“Forget about it? This is a home invasion. My family’s traumatized!”

“Your son looks pretty happy.” Mackey indicated Chase, who was excitedly eyeing the pile of presents.

“He’s four. Look, I want some answers.

Mackey sighed and looked at Rex. Rex nodded grimly.

“Mama!” said Chase, pointing to a large present. “I think that’s my mine! It has my name on it C, H, A, C, C…” He just learned to spell his name. Almost.

“It’s OK, Ma’am. He can open it,” said Rex. “In fact, whatever’s inside is probably exactly what he wants.”

“Yes,” said Mackey. “If there’s one thing we know about this motherfucker he’s a hell of a considerate gift giver.”

Chase tore open the present. “Transformers Ultimate Optimus Prime!” he shrieked.

“He has been asking for that,” muttered Julie.

“Heartwarming isn’t it?” said Mackey. “I’ve always said you can’t understand what Christmas is all about until you have small children.”

“It’s July,” said Julie.

“OK, go play with it in your room,” said Phil. Chase scampered off. “Now,” said Phil, turning back to the agents.

Rex indicated Virginia with a small jerk of his head.

“Right,” said Julie. “Virginia, would you go help your—“

“No,” said Phil, putting his hand on Virginia’s shoulder. “She’s eight now. Whatever you have to tell us you can tell her.” Virginia looked at Phil gratefully. For a moment he felt a sense of genuine connection, but then she scowled again

“Whatever you say,” said Mackey.

Rex cleared his throat. “Santa Claus is real.” He let that sink in.

Julie let out a strange, choked little laugh.

“Obviously not in the way we tell our children.” Rex glanced meaningfully at Virginia. “But there is some truth behind the tradition. In fact, the tradition probably originally arose as a way to make sense of some rather disturbing occurrences.”

“We don’t know who — or what — he is,” said Mackey. “Or what he wants. Our best guess — and it’s just that, a guess — is that he’s some kind inter-dimensional being, or an envoy from some extraterrestrial civilization, or perhaps some heretofore undiscovered cryptid. Like Bigfoot. Spookier factions in the agency have floated the idea that he’s some kind of ancient demigod, but they’re kind of nuts.”

“I don’t understand,” said Julie. “You’re telling us that some fat guy with a beard and a red suit came in through the chimney and did all this?” She gestured at the holiday splendor surrounding them.

Rex nodded. “What satellite imagery and surveillance footage we’ve recovered does seem to indicate a typical Santa-type morphology: beard, large girth, red nose. He even seems to travel in a sleigh of sorts. However, our equipment tends to malfunction in his presence. Almost as if he has some kind of cloaking technology.”

“Mind you, although the stories go back centuries, we’ve only been tracking him since the ‘50s. At first we thought he was some kind of Soviet weapon. In fact it almost caused a full-scale nuclear war. But it turned out the Russians had no idea what he was, either. We did manage to locate a base of operations somewhere near the North Pole. We mounted a few covert, joint military operations. But they did not go well, to say the least. Since then we’ve just been monitoring his activity as best we can.”

“His…activity? You mean this happens a lot?” said Julie.

“Yes,” said Rex. “We log ten to twenty of these each year. They tend to spike around the holidays, but he also strikes when it’s less…seasonally-appropriate. The MO is always the same – enter through the chimney, tree, stockings, big pile of presents, nice Christmasy smell in the air.” He breathed in deeply. “Fairly innocuous…usually.”

“Wait,” said Phil. “What does that mean? ‘Usually’?”

Mackey shook his head. “Look, I’m a dad. We both are. And I’m telling you, you don’t need to know. Especially her.” He looked at Virginia, who returned his gaze defiantly.

Phil shook his head. “No. Whatever you’ve got to say, she needs to hear it. We all do.”

Rex sighed. “In a few cases, in addition to creating a delightful and festive atmosphere in the home, he also….brutally butchered the family. Leaving precisely zero forensic evidence behind. These crimes are all unsolved.”

“Why would he…?” Julie whispered.

Mackey leaned in close. “He did leave behind certain communications. I’m not at liberty to disclose the exact contents of those communications, but in each case they did indicate a certain moral dissatisfaction with the family in question.”

“I believe the exact word he used was ‘naughty,’” added Rex.

“If this is true,” said Julie, “why haven’t we heard anything about it? It would be all over the news.”

“Really?” said Mackey. “Would you want to go on record with this kind of story? You’d be institutionalized. Not to mention the whole ruining-Christmas thing. Way to be a Grinch.”

“Also if you do speak of this we’ll have to make you and your family disappear,” said Rex. “Anyway, nice to meet you. You’ve got a beautiful family.” He ruffled Virginia’s hair. “Happy holidays…in advance, I guess.”

That night, after they had taken down the decorations and disposed of most of the presents (Chase got to keep his Optimus prime), Phil lay in bed, listening to his wife’s gentle, Xanax-induced snoring. Virginia was there too, having begged to sleep with them for the first time in years. Phil stroked her hair and thought of all he had learned that day. He’d learned that, even at age 46, the world still held surprises for him. That even most horrifying realizations – that his daughter was slowly growing up and slipping away from him forever, or that a malevolent, unstoppable Santa Claus stalked the world — that even these discoveries held a kernel of wonder and awe if you could only grasp it. Most of all he’d learned that with a little patience, daring and money, it was possible to will a miracle into existence. He picked up his phone and with a few taps sent the remaining balance to the address he’d been given. It was a bit extravagant, especially right after the Disney trip, but the work had been top-notch as promised. Everything from the tree to the stockings to the cops’s uniforms. And Agent Mackey – if there were any justice in this world, he’d be a huge movie star. Yes, it was money well-spent. Phil studied his daughter’s sleeping face. She looked two, three years younger. You can’t put a price on that, he thought. Besides, what with all the stress he’d been under, wasn’t he entitled to something for himself? Yes, he was. After all, it would be Christmas before they knew it.