December 3: Deck the Halls with New Decorations

Pairing: Sybil/Tom :)

Rating: K+ for mentions of an evil Santa Claus

"If we order these by tomorrow, we'll have them by next Thursday." Sybil shoved the catalogue under her mother's nose for the third time that morning. Her index finger was glued onto one of the pictures showing a rather unique product.

"Sybil, what on earth is it?" Cora said, as calmly as she could.

"A snow machine," answered Sybil.

Frankly, she didn't know why she was so excited about seeing one in the catalogue, save for the fact that it was a machine that could make fake snow inside. For the past week and a half she had been flipping through catalogues and scrolling through websites for special Christmas decorations.

"A snow machine?" Cora repeated. "Sybil, you do realize we get quite enough snow outside at this time of year, we don't need any indoors." She added quietly, "besides, it looks like a modern guillotine."

"You did say that we should shop for new decorations this year. All our old ones are old-fashioned — "

"I did not say we were going to replace the entirety of our Christmas decorations with a snow and death machine," Cora pointed out. "We agreed last week we would toss out the broken ornaments and the ugly stuff, and find some pretty things to replace them."

Sybil scowled. "No matter what, Granny will end up ruling over this entire process. I really think we should — "

"Sybil, please, one thing at a time. First things first, clean out the broken ornaments. Then we can decide which of the other ones should go."

Mentally trying to think of a way to continue the argument and failing, Sybil nodded half-heartedly. In hindsight, the snow machine was a bit much (and extremely expensive) but Sybil wanted something new and extravagant that she didn't see year after year. She did love the older decorations, but only because she was reminded of Christmastime when she was a little girl, and seeing them put up made Christmas seem so real. The problem was, some of the decorations were old enough to be in the British Museum. Quite a few ornaments were chipped or scratched or just plain ugly. But no one had taken the time to sort through them and put them in the rubbish bin.

Until Sybil assigned herself the unofficial job of "Downton Decorator." Which, as is seemed now, would involve mostly sifting through moldy cardboard boxes. Although, she did not feel too badly about this task, because it would mean she would uncover the demonic Santa Claus figurine and finally avenge her traumatic experience of tripping down the stairs and landing within inches of its angry troll face.

Sybil left her mother's sitting room and went back up to her room to find her mobile. She had decided to start early on cleaning out the boxes in the upper rooms, but she was going to need help. When she last went up there, Sybil has stopped counting at thirty boxes. By the time she alone went through all of them, Christmas would be over. Her sidekicks therefore would be her friends, Gwen Dawson and Tom Branson.

Well, unbeknownst to anyone but the two of them, she and Tom were more than just 'friends.'

It was a secret she had difficulty concealing most of the time from her parents. To them, Tom was a ragtag yob who spent far too much of his time absorbing political readings. True he was not the type of man most wealthy people would be seen with, but neither was Sybil. And though it had taken a while, unearthing genuine side of him had allowed her to see the diamond under the rough exterior.

She sent an email to Gwen, knowing she would be on her computer at this time. Gwen worked as someone's secretary, but she always kept her mail inbox open. Sybil would hear back by the time she was done calling Tom.

She could have easily just texted Tom, which would avoid any eavesdropping family members discovering their contacting each other. But she wasn't entirely prohibited from contacting him – her parents had discovered that the hard way – so it did not actually matter in what manner she and him communicated with. Besides, her mother had already agreed that Tom was capable of helping out with any task given to him, so therefore she had already given Sybil permission to ask him for help in cleaning out the Christmas decorations. In Sybil's mind, it counted.

Dialing Tom's mobile number, she waited for him to pick up. She fingered a corner of the décor catalogue while, from the receiver, came the annoying dial tone, steady automated ringing. She wasn't too terribly surprised when the voicemail machine answered, although she was anxious to hear Tom's answer.

"Hi, Tom, this is Sybil. I was wondering – if you aren't busy – if you wanted to help me go through all of our old Christmas boxes and throw out old ugly decorations. Okay? Call me back."

Yuck. She hated leaving messages.

While she waited to hear back from Tom and Gwen, Sybil opened up her laptop and started it up. As soon as she was connected to the internet, she logged onto a certain website, a sort of feminist blog and forum. Even if her parents knew about Tom, there was no way they would know about her secret life as a blogger for this website. On the internet, she was known as miss_harem_pants. If she would remember how she came up with those names, she would definitely blog about it.

She occasionally posted long rants about multiple issues that aggravated her, primarily about the existence of modern misogyny and current political issues. It was hard not to constantly sound pissed all the time, but writing, Sybil found, was a good outlet for her distress. It was not at all like Edith's journalism ventures: Sybil wrote purely to discuss and to inform. She did not care to be pointed out as some wealthy child of a near-extinct species. That was why she used a screen name like miss_harem_pants. Some of the authors on the site used normal-sounding names (though those might have been pseudonyms as well).

Edith probably only did it for the publicity. And her "boyfriend."

Gwen emailed her back while Sybil was looking at the latest posts on the feminist website. Apparently Gwen would be available only on next Saturday, but that was good enough for Sybil. She wrote back a quick thank-you and then continued to surf the blog. She wondered how many Christmas-related articles would pop up in the weeks to come, keeping one ear turned towards the door in case either her mother or father were to come calling. If her father knew what she did in her spare time, his face would contort to resemble the evil Santa statue and suffer an aneurysm.

Her mobile did not ring until noon, when Sybil was lounging in the library, also the warmest room in the house. Her papa was out somewhere, and Mama was still in her private sitting room. When she heard Tom's personalized ringtone sound, she inhaled quickly and had to press the answer button a few times due to her sudden excitement.

"Tom!" she exclaimed in a loud whisper. "What have you been doing? I called you an hour ago."

"Sorry, Sybil," Tom said sheepishly. "I took a shift at the garage this morning."

"Oh," Sybil said shortly.

Tom worked odd hours at the car garage outside of the village. He knew cars well, and that was how he made money and spent time when he wasn't educating himself on political corruption. It made for unpunctual communication and arrival on secret dates, however.

"So, you want me to help you cleanse your attic of old Christmas decorations?" Tom asked.

"Yes. If you can. And if you want to," Sybil said.

"I'd like to help you with that Sybil, really. It's not too big of a deal. But are your parents okay with it?"

"Tom, as long as they think that you are hear to help fix the plumbing or the car or something, they are fine. As far as they're concerned, you'll just be here sorting through crappy ornaments."

"'As far as they're concerned,' huh? What are you planning to do up in that attic?" Tom inquired.

Sybil blushed. "No, not that we're – I mean, you will come to help – I didn't actually mean – !"

Tom's laughter cascaded through the receiver. "I'm teasing you Sybil. Yes, I'll help. What time?"

"Gwen is going to help next Saturday and maybe Sunday …"

"Should I come tomorrow? How many boxes are there, exactly?"

"I have no idea. A lot, at least thirty."

"Then I should come every day, starting tomorrow. It sounds like there will be a lot to go through. We shouldn't save it all for one weekend."

Sybil nodded, even though Tom wouldn't say. "That sounds like a jolly good idea. Okay, come tomorrow after ten. We'll just be going through the older decorations and tossing out the broken or ugly ones."

"Won't your grandmother want a say in what constitutes as 'ugly?'" Tom teased again.

"I don't care what she says. She should learn that her old-fashioned décor is too ancient for the twenty-first century."

"I see," Tom said, laughing again. "Anything else I should know?"

"One more thing. Among all the things we are going to be digging through, there is one thing that we must absolutely be careful of."

A pause. "What is that?"

"It's a demon Santa."

Something sounded like a pig snorting on the other side. "Pardon?"

"A Santa Claus statue that apparently plotted to kill me and make it look like an accident."

Apparently, Tom was not sure how to respond diplomatically. "What the – uh, when was this?"

Sybil took a look breath. "I was seven, and it was a week before Christmas. It was really late at night, and I heard this noise, a bell, like the ones they ring to get people to donate money. Anyway, I thought it was Papa doing that thing with the funny elf hat, waving it outside my door, but when I went outside, there wasn't anyone. I swear, it was really dark, but I didn't hear anything else. But I waited for a bit, and I heard the bell ringing again. So I go out in the hall and listen again. When it rang again it sounded like it was downstairs, so I went to the stairs. But while I was walking down, I tripped on something – I don't know what – and I fell down."

"Was it the evil Santa?" interrupted Tom.

"Maybe. I really wasn't hurt too badly, but I was so scared, because it was dark and I thought I was going to die," Sybil said. Then, for a dramatic effect to elicit sympathy from Tom, she made her voice slower and deeper. "I look up, slowly, and I am exactly one inch from this angry face, a troll from the depths of hell. Yes, the demon Santa Claus planned for me to trip and fall to my death. But just in case I survived, his bell, the one he used to summon me from my bed, was raised and ready to strike out my frontal lobe."

There was a very long, very awkward silence between the two of them. Sybil was afraid that Tom had hung up.

"So … did it kill you?"

"Excuse me?" Sybil exclaimed. "I am really alive, in case you didn't notice. I ran, screaming, into my parents' room. They put away the statue for that year, but they forgot about my attempted murder and since then, it has been out every December, standing on the mantle in the drawing room. I hate looking at it, even now."

"But why would a Santa Claus statue want to kill you?"

"When we find it, you can ask it. I'm not going anywhere near it once it is out in the open."

"Alright, then, Sybil. Would you like me to bring the salt and the garlic?"

"Eh, what?"

"Sybil, it'll be fine. I'll protect you from the evil Saint Nicholas vessel."

Sybil breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, Tom."

"No problem," Tom said.

"One more thing," Sybil said hurriedly, before Tom could hang up.

"What is it?"

"Please bring that salt. And a knife."

Tom would not stop laughing to himself for two hours afterwards.

The evil Santa Claus incident is based on a true story, from the life of yours truly. I still have that statue, and it really looks like a troll from Hell. It is so evilly sinister and ugly that no Christmas anthology would be complete without it.