But how would they get their hands on dad’s old hat?
A skeletal breeze ran its nails down the length of his worn, grey jogging suit. Shivering, he hurled the hat, and it landed in the center of the walkway. He watched it sink into a pool of slush.
The hat jumped.
“Ohhh noo.” Jim blinked. “I am not seeing this.”
It jumped again.
Losing his balance, Jim fell from the edge of the threshold and landed on the stoop. The door clicked shut behind him.
“SHHHIT.” Frantic, he turned and rattled the unyielding knob.
“Shitshitshit.” He gave the stubborn wood a vicious kick, forgetting his feet were bare.
Howling in pain, he sat on the wet stoop to inspect the damage. His first three toes were darkening from purple to deep violet.
Probably broken. Sighing, Jim buried his hands in his thinning, ginger hair and closed his eyes.
He needed to think.
His toes were numb.
It was three o’clock in the morning.
Nobody would be up opening presents yet in the neighborhood. He hated to go knocking on some stranger’s door while he was partway to plastered and shoeless.
Great picture for a ninth-grade teacher to be presenting to his community, he thought.
Then he heard something moving in the snow. Like the sound a sled makes when you’re pulling it up the hill for another run. A slithering.
Jim looked up.
The hat was crawling toward him—pulling its sodden, velvet body down the walkway.
He wanted to scream, but giggled instead.
This HAS to be another one of my liquored nightmares.
Swaying, he stood and approached the hat. It was stuck on a clump of fresh snow, flopping like a dying fish.
Dropping to his haunches, he reached for the hat, stroking its rich, red coat. It cooed and lifted its matted, dirty trim to nuzzle his hand.
The hat bit him. The fluffy cotton edge opened, exposing a circular row of long teeth. As it clamped down on his four fingers, Jim shrieked and tried to shake the thing off his hand.
A Santa hat, he kept thinking as he pummeled the writhing creature into the cement, hoping to force it to let go, I’m being attacked by a freakin’ SANTA HAT.
Why couldn’t it be Mrs. Kreagle miserable Pomeranian? At least he knew how to fight THAT damn thing off.
Deciding to try a new tactic, Jim stomped down on the hat with his left foot, holding it in place while he tried, with his free hand, to pry the nasty pest off. It curled its fuzzy lip and growled at him. Grinding his heel into the hat, he pulled harder.
He screamed as hot needles pierced his pinkie toe. The cotton tuft atop the hat was gnawing its way down his foot.
With his free hand, he swung at the munching pompom. Missing completely, Jim stumbled forward and fell. His head met the pavement with a meaty thud. Pain exploded in his skull.
The hat let go of his hand and continued feeding on his toes.
He fought to keep awake, listening to the chewing and suckling sounds the thing made as it devoured him. It didn’t hurt so bad anymore. The darkness creeping into his mind made it all go away …