...So it was decided that though most holidays would share one city, these seven holidays would be given towns of their very own. Although the high pantheon of holidays were made up of seven, and St. Patrick's Day, July the Fourth, Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day had their role to play, there would be a Trinity of holidays that would reign supreme. These three had the most important meanings, and thus they would be the most recognised.

Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection. Humans would honour this occasion with symbols of new life: eggs and animals. The town erected in its honour would represent the holiday's meaning through a perpetual Spring, a perpetual reminder of rebirth.

Halloween, a celebration of Christ's victory over Satan. A day when pumpkins would be carved to ward away evil spirits, and costumes would be worn to mock the powers of darkness. Its town was filled with monsters, but idiotic ones, a silly parody of what the Great Ones fought against.

Then there was the holiday Santa would represent: Christmas. A celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and a celebration of love and giving. It was thus given a town of frantic activity, of bright lights and sparkling snow, of sweets and childish delight.

Santa Claus was recognised as the high ruler and the king of Christmas Town, and his long-time associate Peter Cottontail was given Easter Town, yet Halloween Town was given no ruler. It had a Mayor – not only a mockery of dark forces but malicious politicians, but it had no real king.

That changed, however, when the Holiday Lands were invaded by a special spirit. A being said to be so evil he was not only unable to enter Heaven, but, as he had tricked the Devil on several occasions, Hell itself had rejected him. Without an afterlife to be tied to, Jack's unearthly form had rotted away to a skeleton, but he relished his new form. He said it would be perfect for what he intended to do.

He fought Santa for control of all the holidays, but was defeated quickly, and banished to Halloween Town – for he was considered as pitiable as those pseudo-demons...

This. Oh, this.

This tripe.

An entire website dedicated to ass-licking the fat shit. Describing his many achievements, praising his ability to deliver tonnes of plastic crap to brats in one night. Bob leaned back in his chair, grinning to himself to the cue of the chair's squeak. He had to know his enemy, and he loved this website the same way he loved those corny Christmas movies they'd play on the tube.

He wasn't of Christmas. He wasn't of Easter or Valentine's Day or those "big" holidays. A measly peasant holiday he was. Some had said he would fit in with Halloween, but just because he was a black cat didn't mean he had anything to do with that place. Friday the 13th was his holiday; a holiday that constantly changed months, and one few humans believed in, but he still lived in the Holiday Lands, and stayed in Holiday University.

It was to make sure he did the duties of his holiday, which was to spread bad luck. It built character, he was told. It kept people alert, he was told. Bringing bad luck was not a skill he needed to learn, however, but rather one he had to control. Black cat babies had to be born in solitude; last black cat that was delivered in a hospital screwed up an operation something awful. So Bob was born in the basement of his house, and spent the next twenty-one years trying to keep in the bad luck, only to let them out when he was told to.

There were worse things to be, Bob knew. Hell, making someone miss the bus or leave their umbrella on the train on a rainy day did satiate that tiny little sadist Bob liked to think everyone had. But what about the others?

Bob tore himself away from the computer – too much internet makes you dumb and too much sitting gives you diabetes – and took a look through his dorm window, at the campus at night. Still a bunch of holidays mucking about – future mothers and fathers, groundhogs come out of the ground, people in St. George-themed facepaint – all accepting the fates Santa gave them. All going out to celebrate those fates.

And it was nearly Christmas too.

Every Christmas Eve Santa would come into the city square, under that repulsively lurid Christmas tree, and give a speech before going out to shove his toys and crap down the human kids' throats.

Well, not every Christmas.

Last year, Santa was absent at the speech. The people waited, yet he didn't show. The festive music that usually blared throughout the annual palaver was muted as the citizens were thrown into a panic. Bob remembered worrying a little too, despite the small pang of cheer that ignited within him.

The next morning though, Santa appeared alive and well, blubber and all. And what a story he had to tell! The evil Jack Skellington had found a way out of Halloween Town, and had taken over Christmas in order to ruin Santa's reputation! He had thrown Santa into a dungeon with a hideous monster, and dressed himself up as Santa! Oh, and he went around delivering evil presents. The fiend!

Using what was called "superior intellect", Santa vanquished the monster with his own hands and took back the holiday that was rightfully his. Jack, terrified, ran back to Halloween Town to remain an object of ridicule to the end of his days. Santa was the hero and was once again showered with praise yadda yadda.

Then Maggie brought up an interesting point; what was Jack really doing? She said that he was probably trying to ruin Santa's reputation, but for a good cause. He gave out those evil presents as a symbol of what Santa's consumerist ways brought. He wanted to show the uglier side of Christmas that so many people ignored. He wasn't evil; that was just the media. The stupid, lying media.

Maggie had been trying to convince the holiday people that Santa had been exaggerating his stories for years. The stories that lead to his fame, and kept him in that seat of power. The stories that meant Maggie had to go through with that little ritual when university was over.

She was supposed to be a Mother's Day Mother. Her life was spent learning how to knit, what dresses to wear and how to smell pretty flowers. Just like how the Father's Day fathers in training learned how to wear tweed jackets and sweater vests and smoke a pipe. Then, when her education was complete, Maggie was supposed to find one of those fathers to be and...become a mother.

Bob cringed just thinking about it. Nausea began to squirm in his stomach – it was like the feeling he got before a nasty hairball, only magnified – but he could easily soothe that by remembering Maggie's accomplishments. They had attended high school together, and there, Maggie had staged a little show for the students. Holiday members of all sorts gathered around the field outside the school to see Maggie and a fellow Mother burning a pile of Mother's Day cards. Bob remembered looking at the smoke and pretending it was the hidden darkness being purged away.

'I appreciate the idea of showing your love for your mother,' cried Maggie to the crowd, 'but it should not be for just one day, and not with mass-produced plastic junk! Yet, because humans continue to celebrate this sham of a holiday, I and fellow "mothers" will be forced into parenthood on our final days of university. Some of us, however, feel we have lives outside prolonging the lifespan of a vapid celebration of consumerism!'

Bob had stood among the crowds, and smiled. His stomach rose, and it felt like fireworks had erupted within him.

That was the day he knew what he was going to do.

The present Bob sprung back on his computer to continue looking at the lies that had been exposed to the past Bob by Maggie. After burning the cards, she gave a speech on how old Santa was not all he was cracked up to be, right before being taken away. Despite the trouble she got into in high school, she made sure to keep her beliefs throughout university, and had formed a little group, of which Bob was a member. Remembering that high-school event, the group and the euphoria both of them brought was always what Bob needed to get through the day. He was not just a herald of bad luck, but he was fighting to reveal the truth, to show the holiday sheeple a better way.

"Sheeple". That was a funny word. It sounded rather juvenile, but maybe it was because of that fact rather than despite it. Bob had a quick chuckle with himself.

Right before an air-horn blasted into his ear-hole.

That thing had sounded off so many times, yet every time it caused Bob to leap to the ceiling, holding onto it with his claws. He was surprised the ceiling was still in place. Landing gently on his feet as his kind were wont to do, Bob saw his roommate standing before him. Clarence. An April Fool. A little blob of a creature constantly donning a jester's uniform. He had to play tricks and make pranks and basically wind up everyone. They were chosen as roommates because bad luck, as Bob had heard, is a great help when pulling pranks. Well, on the victim's part it is.

'Still addicted to the internet, ain't ya?'

'Yeah, I guess I am,' replied Bob, dusting off his t-shirt, 'I mean, the alternative is a conversation with you, and at least you can find people with brain-cells on the net.'

'Oh, don't be like that,' said Clarence, pulling out a can from behind his back. 'Have a...'

'Have a peanut. Yes. I open that and some snakes fly up in the air. Old as the fucking dinosaurs. Nobody finds that joke funny anymore, so...' Bob grabbed the can out of Clarence's hand and threw it to the floor. 'It's useless. Maybe if it had actually fucking peanuts in, it might have an iota of worth, but as it is, it's about as pointless as your holiday. You think I like it when I go on the internet and there's some fake-ass news story pretending to be real, just for the sake of a cheap laugh. Oh wait...' Bob put a finger on his chin, stroking his fur while looking at Clarence's ever growing frown. 'Maybe it does have some use for Santa. April Fool's Day keeps people stupid, and thus it keeps them listening to the crap Santa spews.'

'What do you have against...'

Bob snorted. 'See, you're not a complete failure. You did make me laugh.'

So out went the April Fool, leaving Bob to just stand there and fold his arms.

Stuff like that always helped him through the day.

As much as he disliked the way Santa ran the holiday city, Bob had to admit to himself that he did like the cards he had been handed. Or at least, he had nothing against them. His holiday actually had some use; it kept people on their toes. His holiday was to make the gears in people's heads squeak a little bit more, and that was the purpose of Maggie's little group.

Yet Maggie had suggested that Bob try his hand at bringing good luck for a change.

It was not only because she wanted him to go against what Santa was standing for, but because good luck was what her group needed were they to have any success. The group had their little meetings in a pub not too far from the University – The Reindeer's Nose – and in a corner of that pub were a couple of one-armed bandits. Good practice. If Bob were to make someone playing one of those win, then Maggie's group would be able to go a little bit further. According to her, black cats were considered good luck in the United Kingdom.

Bad luck was easy. Look at a guy, think of him stepping into a puddle, he gets his shoes wet. So causing good luck should be just like causing bad luck, only with one or two changes.

Turning around, Bob saw a groundhog walking down the pavement holding a bag of groceries. So, Bob thought, all he had to do was stare at the groundhog and imagine him finding a fiver on the ground or meeting the woman of his dreams and that would be that.

He kept his eyes focussed on the groundhog, trying to clear his brain of negative thoughts, at least for the time being. Any minute now, some money should be found on the ground, or something else. Think about winning lotto cards, Bob told himself. Think about...well, if they had a better ruler, that would be lucky.

Bob almost fell to the ground from all his forced little luck thoughts. Regaining himself, he looked at the groundhog. A hole had appeared in his shopping bag and some butter fell out. The groundhog didn't notice.

Well, bugger.

Nonetheless, with a sigh, Bob entered the Reindeer's Nose, smiling slightly at well he blended in with the drab surroundings. It reminded him somewhat of that ghost train he rode at the funfair – the walls were dark and grey, and there were ugly weirdoes to be seen everywhere. The barkeep was a fat Father, standing there to support his kids. All the stories Maggie told meant Bob had that repulsive hairball feeling whenever he saw a father, but he still ordered himself a Guinness. Those gave him more energy than any cup of coffee.

'Hey!' At a table near a rather large window, there sat Maggie, wearing a blue dress and having her blonde hair in a bun as was required by law. Next to her sat Richard, a living Guy Fawkes dummy slumped over his chair. Those three made up the little group. It was so hard finding new members.

'Hey,' said Bob, walking over to them.

'You know,' said Maggie, tapping the table, 'Ya didn't have to buy your own beer. I'm always willin' to get a round.'

'No,' said Bob, 'You don't have to.' He guzzled down his Guinness before continuing. 'Besides, that's the sort of thing we're trying to prevent.'

'No, I'll buy the drinks because I want to...' She rubbed her temples. 'Never mind. Anyway, since Christmas is coming, I've had an idea.' Bringing Bob and Richard's heads closer to hers, she continued in a whisper, 'But I can't tell you about it here.'

'Ah,' replied Richard in that same tone of voice.

'But, since we're all here,' she continued, 'we can still have a bit of chat. And maybe Bob...' That last word had a tiny bit of a sting to it. '...can have a go on that one-armed bandit there.'

So an hour was so was spent nattering about several topics which Bob didn't listen to. He focussed on the bandit, given a bit of a rush by Maggie's plan. A St. George's man played the slots, and Bob thought to himself, Three Bells, Three Bells.

He didn't win.

'Ya still can't make 'im win?' Maggie's words made Bob's head feel more solid. 'Shame that. You know, with the economy.'

'Yeah, you hear?' said Richard, 'The rich are getting richer, apparently. Easter Bunny can make more eggs and the Valentines can make more sweets. It's them corporations, I'm telling ya. That's why American holidays get their own town but us British holidays don't. They pay Santa to hawk their wares...'

'But he's giving away the toys for free,' Bob interjected, before embracing the rise he got from correcting someone.

'Yeah, they're free samples. The kid likes the action figure he got for Christmas, his mum's credit card ends up paying for more of the line.'

'Actually,' replied Maggie, 'you're right 'bout the corporations but I think the parents pay Santa to keep their kids quiet. He and them fat cats split the profits.'

'And he pays the other holiday rulers to keep mum about his little secrets.' Richard turned to Maggie, the latter having just cringed. 'No pun intended.'

'I think you may have a point,' said Maggie, 'but I'm not sure about the "free samples" thing.'

Thus began a little argument between the two, which soon devolved into incomprehensible jabbering, which only stopped when Bob whistled.

'Maggie,' he said, 'I think now would be a good time to leave.'

'Yeah,' replied Maggie and the three left the pub and walked down the street together, their shoes clacking on the pavement sounding like a marching beat to Bob's ears. As they walked to a more secluded spot, all six of their eyes caught sight of a certain billboard. A picture of Santa Claus, that shit-eating grin hardly covered by his beard, next to "I hope you have a merry Christmas".

The graffiti possibilities ran through Bob's brain. "I hope you choke, you fat shit", the latter four words in damning black paint. Flies circling his dangly red hat. A little speech balloon saying 'Go fuck, mothers.' Then it would get put up on a website. Bob had seen a lot of good ones. A billboard with "I never understood the appeal of Christmas until Santa revealed its magic" became "I never liked Christmas and I never fucking will". Santa's face splattered with an array of "Bah, humbug"s (it may have been a quote from a book promoting brainwashing, but it was still appropriate).

The group once met in Maggie's dorm room, but, for university students, two guys going into a girl's room had certain connotations neither Maggie nor Bob wanted to think about. Mothers made pregnant before their studies were complete were forced to have abortions.

Now they met on the outskirts of the city, near a canal and not too far from the forest where the seven biggest holidays had their towns. When they reached their destination after much walking, Bob slumped over to the canal, took off his shoes and dipped his toes in. 'Some people just don't appreciate nature,' he said.

'Yeah,' said Maggie, 'Anyway, I was gonna wait until you managed to create some good luck...' Bob narrowed his eyes, but made sure not to let Maggie see. '...but with Christmas getting nearer, I think we should act as soon as possible.'

'What are we going to do?' asked Richard.

'Ain't it obvious?' she said, gesturing towards the trees, 'Tomorrow I think we should find Halloween Town.'

'But Maggie,' said Richard, 'We aren't...'

'Don't tell me, I know.' Her voice grew graver with each syllable. 'There's something that's being hidden from us though, and we need to find out what it is. I think we should find Jack Skellington and give 'im a little chat. Let 'im tell 'is side of the story.'

'I've heard things about Halloween though,' replied Richard, 'You know, that there are monsters there?'

'Really?' replied Bob as he put his shoes back on, 'I thought there were pink monkeys there...of course there're monsters! But they're morons!'

'Well, that's just it, isn't it? Santa says they're morons but he's a liar, isn't he? If they were morons, how did they manage to capture Santa?'

'That question answers itself,' said Bob, shaking Richard. 'I mean, all that money and he doesn't hire some guards or anything to keep the Halloween towners in their little tree. I'm pretty sure a brain-dead hamster could overthrow Santa.'

'That begs the question of why we 'aven't,' said Maggie, chuckling slightly to herself. 'But that means it should be easy finding Halloween Town, even if we ain't supposed to go there.'

'Yeah,' replied Bob, 'And people've told me I look like I came from that place...'

So it was agreed the three would travel to the forest the next day and find Jack. True, Bob still wasn't able to make better luck, but this required more skill than luck. Part of his many lessons was to learn the difference between the two. So when he returned to his room, Bob ignored Clarence jumping on the bed while making deranged clucking noises like Clarence ignored him and packed what he needed. Compass, snacks, wire clippers, tape recorder, scribbling of random theories, and of course, Bert the teddy bear. Couldn't go anywhere without him.

After a surprisingly good night's sleep, Bob grabbed his backpack and ran out of the flat, skipping breakfast. When he got outside, however, he stopped. His body begged him to run, but Bob knew he had to be careful when something like this was involved. So he walked, making his legs ache as he thought of what this might accomplish. He took a quick look at the people around him – a footie player for the World Cup, apparently that counted as a holiday, a Mother with her child – and thought of what their reaction would be if they actually managed to contact Jack. Then he thought he might have a better idea of such reactions if he actually knew what Jack was going to say.

Odd how journeys always seem quicker when its along a place you've been before. Even though he walked slowly all the way, Bob managed to reach the outskirts in no time. While punctuality had never been one of Bob's strong points, but he had managed to arrive at the woods before either Maggie or Richard. Thus, a few minutes were spent nibbling some crisps he had packed before he saw Richard wobbling about in the way guys do, and Maggie followed soon thereafter.

'You know,' said Bob, 'that dress is going to get pretty dirty when we go into the woods.'

'Yeah, well, you're the one with the blummin' dress shirt.'

'It's to help me fit in,' replied Bob, tugging at the collar, 'I hear they're real formal in Halloween Town. You know, maybe they are my kind of people.'

Maggie rolled her eyes. 'Yeah, let's just move.'

So off they went into the forest, with Maggie taking Richard by the hand in order to prevent him getting caught on a twig. Nobody was in the forest except them – no hikers, no nature nuts, not even any couples waking up from their sex-induced slumber. Was it luck? Perhaps. If anyone did turn up, however...

The journey was long, but all significant journeys are, Bob reminded himself. He also reminded himself that being a cat has its advantages; on occasion, he climbed up a tree to get a good bird's eye view. He was certain he saw a certain set of trees that were taller than the others, and told his two comrades to head in those trees' direction. They rested a bit to have their snacks – except for Richard, who didn't need to eat – and it was shortly after that that they found what they were looking for.

Bob had read books on the history of his holiday and its symbols, and when he had read up about witches, he was sure he had seen them somewhere like what lay before him. A circle of seven trees, each with little artefacts dotted around. Seven holidays. Seven doors. Seven worlds.

Lucky number seven.

The three stood in awe, though Bob wondered if he was surprised at the mystical fairy circle, or the fact that he, Maggie and Richard were the only ones here.

'Typical, isn't it?' Richard said as he leapt into the centre of the circle. 'He can spend money on shit kids will throw away in seconds, but not proper security. I guess the Easter Bunny had dug up some real dirt on him.'

'Never mind that, quickly,' said Maggie, running to the centre despite her high heels. Bob leapt in too, and the first thing he saw after his leap was the grinning pumpkin face.

It felt familiar.

At once, he lost control of his body, and even his mind. He had become more of a doll than even Richard, mechanically reaching out his paw to the nose – how did he know it was the doorknob? – and opened the door.

A whirlwind engulfed the three.

In a second, Bob found himself in a monochrome world, devoid of any colour. Thin, bare trees, like emaciated hands, clawed towards the abyss that was the sky, dead grass was dotted around the barren ground, and a twisted path led to a warped town atop a mountain.

'Jesus Christ,' said Bob, though he didn't know if he was saying it to himself or to Maggie and Richard, 'Who designed this place? Dr. Caligari?' Talking did nothing to soothe his stomach sinking. This did seem like the type of place a tyrannical demon would live...Bob held his head as his brain stung. He slapped himself to regain his composure, right before noticing both Maggie and Richard had frozen as well.

'Well, come on,' said Bob, his unease beginning to slowly dissipate. Maggie and Richard still stood. 'Didn't Santa create this land?' He said those words as soon as the thought came into his mind. Both of his friends still frozen, Bob continued on the path all by himself. He walked on towards that town atop the mountain, where the buildings bent and even seemed to move a little.

There was that hairball feeling again.

Bob then tried to remind himself that this whole journey was to spite Santa. Maybe this town was meant for that purpose too. If appearances reflected the truth more, maybe this is what Christmas Town would look like. If Santa insisted on covering up his true nature with tinsel and saccharine sentiments, why wouldn't one of his rebels choose to live in a miserable place like this?

Bob smirked as he reminded himself of all the stupid specials Santa forced televisions to show round the clock. The claymation shit with moronic lessons. One special had the message, "It's better to give than to receive". Oh really? Did Santa believe that? Sure he gave out millions worth of expensive crap, but he got billions back. Then again, to him, giving deceit and disrepect was certainly better than getting it.

The wind screeched – yes, it didn't howl, it sounded like an organic screech. Bob froze like his comrades had done just minutes ago, and it took a few punches to the knee to get his legs to move again. Before he could reach the part of the path where it elevated towards the top of the mountain, he heard a slight little chuckle.

'You shouldn't be here.'

Turning around, Bob saw a little witch behind him, standing on the path. She cackled at him, right before whistling to her right. From behind a tree came two more little imps: a boy in a devil mask and a tubby little brat dressed as a skeleton.

Oh fuck. Kids.

'Piss off,' said Bob, swiping a paw at the three.

'You shouldn't be here!' The witch waggled her finger at Bob.

'Sure I do! I'm a Hallowee...' Bob couldn't finish.

'Nuh-uh!' said the devil, raising an eyebrow. 'Liar!'

'You're part of our second favourite time of the year!' said the witch, her grin growing wider.

Hearing this, Bob's body ached again, begging him to run. He tried doing just that, only to have his tail tugged on.

'Come on!' said the witch. 'Come with us!'

'No!'

'But,' said the devil, 'we know this guy who could really use a bit of bad luck...'

'I said get off!' Swiping at them once again, he managed to get them off his tail.

'Hey!' Bob looked down to see the skeleton child frowning. 'My candy's gone!'

'Maybe you ate it?' replied the witch.

'No, I had a supply I was saving for later! That cat made me lose it!' The skeleton lunged at Bob, hitting him in the knee. The kid's fingers were surprisingly sharp.

'Leave him alone!' After wincing from the pain of the skeleton's claws, Bob opened his eyes to see Maggie and Richard walking down the path.

'Oh ho ho,' said the little devil, seemingly looking in Richard's direction before turning to the witch. 'Do you see what I see, Shock?'

Maggie waved her hand in the three's direction. 'Piss off, you brats!'

'Hey!' said Shock, still smiling. 'What are you, my mom?'

'Oh, that's it...'

'Ahem!' The devil leapt in front of the witch. 'What my sister means is that we'll be happy to assist you any way we can.'

Bob raised an eyebrow. 'Well, if you want to make yourselves useful,' he said, 'You could take us to Jack Skellington.'

'I thought you'd never ask!' said the devil, 'He's in the graveyard at this time of day! Follow me!'

The three imps then scarpered off in the opposite direction of the twisted town, the skeleton beckoning. 'Bob,' said Maggie, her eyes narrowed, 'Ya really think we can trust these three?'

'Well,' said Bob, 'It's worth a try.' The second after those words escaped his mouth, he knew that was a stupid thing to say and trusting the imps was a stupid thing to do, yet he followed them, and Maggie and Richard went along with him.

They passed more gangly trees, more jack-o-lanterns impaled on rusty spikes. Bob, Maggie and Richard stayed silent throughout the journey, but Richard noticed Maggie glaring at him. He inwardly heard her voice, and thus, inwardly kicked himself a bit. In a few seconds, the imps had led Bob and co to the graveyard like they said, with the gravestones resembling warped cartoons more than homage to the dead.

'There he is,' said Shock, pointing towards a figure sitting on a coffin. It looked like the trees Bob had walked under with its thin limbs and bent posture. Its round head, however, made it resemble a lollipop.

'Hey Jack!' cried the little devil. 'Jack!' The lollipop-tree raised its head, revealing its hollow sockets, its bat bow-tie. 'There're some people who want to see you!' The devil then shoved Richard to the front of the group as Jack stood up.

'AGH! Get it away from me!' The skeleton than shrunk, crouching down with his fingers covering his face. 'Haven't you tortured me enough?'

'What are you talking about?'

Jack looked up to see Bob and Maggie, as well as the imps running away. 'You lot shouldn't be here, you know.'

'But we need to speak to ya, Jack!' Maggie pushed Richard out of the way and shoved a tape recorder into Jack's face. 'We know you did an act of rebellion.'

'Rebellion?' Jack rose up again. 'What are you talking about?'

'Christmas. Last year. We know...'

'Oh look,' said Jack in a sing-song voice, 'A little doll for Susie. A cute little doll which she will treasure forever! A cute little doll with sharp claws. Sharp claws perfect for ripping her throat out!' Then he began a fit of maniacal laughter that echoed throughout the empty lands. Then a fit of hysterical sobs. 'I saw the interviews...her-her parents were crying...I keep seeing that doll in my nightmares.'

Suddenly, he screamed.

'SALLY! I th-thought I saw the d-d-doll coming to get me...I thought...I thought I'd get rid of it once and for all!' He smacked his palm, right before seizing Bob by the collar. 'When that doll sneered at me, I took the blasted thing by the neck and burnt it alive! I had avenged little Susie's death!' Bob fell to the ground. 'Then...I saw...it was...Sally. I killed Sally. I...killed...' Then he began laughing again. 'It wasn't the doll that killed Susie, it was Sally! Silly me!' Then came that frantic sobbing.

'Oh geez,' said Bob, 'Maggie, let's...' He turned around and saw that neither of his friends were still there.

Taking a few deep breaths, Jack regained himself. 'Why did you come here? You'll be in trouble.'

'I...just wanted to hear your side of the story,' said Bob. 'I think what Santa said about you was a lie.'

'Oh, I've heard the media,' said Jack. 'They say I'm a monster. I'm evil. I daresay they're right. I just wanted to be like Santa.'

'Why would you want to be like him?' yelled Bob, his arm poised as if to slap Jack across the face. 'He's an idiot! A tyrant! If Maggie were here, she'll tell you what her kind is forced to do! And there's the fact...'

'He may have been easy to capture,' said Jack, a finger on his chin, 'but he wasn't stupid. He didn't hire guards for my tree because he knows I'll never get out. And if someone did get in, why, they'd regret it.'

Bob was unable to reply.

'I know what you're trying to do. You're going to make the same mistake I did. You're going to go barging into something without knowing what you need to know. I...' Jack fell to the ground, pounding on a gravestone. A scream, not a ghoulish one but one of frustration, escaped his throat. Then Jack sprung up. 'You're a student, aren't you? You have a bright future ahead of you...just...go.'

Bob ran.