by G W Thomas
I shot him. I thought he was a burglar. I really did.
I never knew he'd haunt me every Christmas. One just doesn't think of Santa that way. But it makes sense. He only has power that one night a year.
I don't run. He'll find me anywhere. The first year, I ran. I almost didn't make it. Now I just board up the windows and clean my gun.
Ho ho ho. Bugger off. Or I'll use this gun on you. And I doubt you'll be back to haunt me.
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