The Horror Library - The Best in Horror Fiction

What Child Is This
By R.J. Cavender

When they see me coming, they all line up for a good laugh.

'Here comes CLUMPY' they say to their co-workers. Or GIMPY. Or DOPLAR. Or CHIEF.

Oh yes, they have many names for me here at the mall. I just ignore it all, and keep walking. I sincerely doubt any of these fuckers know my real name. And oh what a treat that would be, to hear someone call me by my real name for once.

But, instead each and every one of these poisonous bastards has a cutesy little nickname for me. The guys at Famous Footwear like to call me FLASH. I guess it's because I walk so damn slow. They probably think that's funny. Sure, have a good laugh at the wrinkled old geezer in his polarized sunglasses and generic clothing. Wait until you get old, I think to myself. Wait until your body is filled with corrosive chemicals and metal pins, and see how goddamn funny it truly is.

The 'tech team' at ProCommunications like to call me DOPLAR. When I was still 'allowed' to go into the store, they used to tease me as I'd check the weather reports on the demo computer each day. 'Is it gonna rain today DOPLAR?' 'See a hurricane coming? Better run!' They were awful damn cutesy, making one another fall over into fits of laughter. Everyone's a goddamn comedian, full of hilarity and wit.

I've all but stopped talking to everyone at the mall now. I'm not allowed to go into any store unless I make a purchase. 'If you come to walk, then walk. But, don't go making trouble for yourself, SLICK.' Even the mall manager, Rick Huff, has a cutesy nickname for me.

I was just trying to make a point. It all started innocently enough, but when you talk about politics people get defensive. Before I knew it, Mr. Huff was asking that I not 'bother' the girls at B. Dalton anymore. Slowly, store by store, complaints rolled in. It was clearly a conspiracy, and soon the entire mall had adopted a 'No Pay, No Stay' policy. If I wasn't on my way to purchase something at the register, then I wasn't welcome in any of their stores.

I've been walking the mall for years. I've seen managers' come and go. I've seen stores come and go. And I'm one of the few remaining locals who can actually remember a time before this god-awful monstrosity of a mall was even here. In those days, there was nothing here on this spot but trees and weeds. I used to play in those trees, as a boy. Countless hours spent in those fields, reading books and catching bugs, and doing all those long forgotten things that boys do with their precious boy-time.

But, now I am old and tired and very much alone. As pitiful as it is, these walks at the mall are what passes for exercise now. You'd think that people could take a moment, however small, from their precious time to talk to a lonely old man who once fought for this nation's freedom. But, you'd be thinking wrong. Even in this festive season of 'Good Will Towards Man' and 'Peace On Earth' people are still basically the same bastards as they are year round.

Except for the 'people' in this town. They're hardly even human at all. And there's something about the Christmas season that makes everyone here seem sick and rotten on the inside. And like all things vile, this horrid condition is infectious. They spread their disease to whomever they can. For this reason alone, I hate them all.

Why are these people so hateful? At Christmas time? What makes them this way? For these questions, I have no answer. All I know is that the people of Sierra Vista must pay. Not just for the transgressions against myself, but for crimes against humanity in general. Each and every person I come into contact with in this backwards little town seems to be bubbling to the brim with hateful poison. I am the antidote.

I pass the same Christmas displays I've passed since November. I make my loop around the mall, a small smile plastered in place. Just enough of a smile as to not raise suspicion. My cane jingles from the new sleigh bells I've attached this morning. The red velvet bag slung over my shoulder is filled to the top, but remains a small enough load that I can carry it without any problems.
I wonder what they'll think. Maybe they'll see the error of their ways. If there is anytime for forgiving past transgressions, Christmas time is it. Perhaps a little peace offering is all that's needed.

Rick Huff stands at the entrance to the administrative offices, near the bathrooms, off the foodcourt. His eyes are fixed upon me and narrow into suspicious little slits as I approach. His son Randy is with him, a miniature figure cut from the same cloth as his father. The chubby cheeked boy looks at me with the same disdain as his father. How a child of ten could have hatred in his eyes for a stranger is beyond my understanding. It's all in the upbringing, I suppose.

They stand there like statues. Rick, looking like a corporate version of a Bob's Big Boy statue brought to life, his son looking like a caricature version in miniature. Four cold black eyes stare me down as I approach.

"To you and yours Mr. Huff," I say, handing him the gift from out of my bag. "A Merry Christmas in advance!" And with that, I turn and continue through the mall. I hear Randy asking what it is. Rick doesn't seem to know what to think either.

Advent calendars are something we always had when I was a kid. A German tradition my Grandmother passed down in our family. We always counted down the days to Christmas with them. You get your calendar before the first of December, and for each day counting down to Christmas you have a little door that opens on the cardboard display. Inside each little door that's been opened, is a little chocolate treat....each in the shape of something suitably festive for the season. A Christmas tree, a dove, a drum, or a star. Just something nice for the children. Something that I remember from my childhood.

And I did indeed make a list. Checked it twice too. For each little boy and girl, a little treat from the man everyone hates. It's not their fault that their parents have hatred in their hearts. It's not their fault they were born into such a situation. At Christmas every child should get what they deserve, and no one should be forgotten.

I give Ginny Frances at Hallmark three calendars for her girls. She takes them without saying so much as 'thank you' and shoves them at her girls, who are playing behind the counter. I make my way around the mall in my usual fashion, bells jingling all the way. I empty my Christmas bag as I go. I've checked my list more than thrice, and I give a present to each parent who has a child...either naughty or nice.

And that's all it really took. Just a minimal purchase at Trader Joe's. Each calendar costing me only ninety nine cents. Another stop from my cab driver at Home Depot to pick up some supplies. A trip to the mall on December first.

And then I waited. I watched the newspapers. I listened to the police scanner radio. I made a few anonymous phone calls. I waited and I watched and I smiled knowing that the children would finally be immune to the same crippling disease that afflicted the adults in their world.

I never returned to the mall. I took my daily walks in the woods instead.

I just waited at home for the inevitable. I waited to hear the sounds of police sirens. Those sirens never came.

But, everything worked as planned. Over three dozen children were spared from becoming like their parents. They died pure.

Just a small snip to the cardboard end of the calendars. Slide the plastic tray with the candies out. A light dusting with an industrial airbrush gun. A box of toothpicks, to unclog the cocoa from the spray nozzle. A trip to the library, and a half-hour on a computer terminal. A recipe for gradual poisoning on an anarchist website. An effective recipe made entirely from items from around the house.

Then, just a countdown from December first until...well, until the poison took hold.

And how the people of Sierra Vista suffered. How they adored their poor poisoned dead. The children, the poor innocent children. How they suffered. But, when dealing with insects...it's always best to go for the eggs.

They will never live to make others suffer. They will never live to be evil and full of hatred, they will never hurt or learn to hurt others. They will never discriminate, judge, or ridicule. Their parents will never catch me, as no one really knows my name. No one bothered to ever ask me.

They will only know the judgment that I brought them for their crimes. They will know that their children have paid for the hate that their hearts have conjured. They will know that just a small gesture of kindness could have prevented it all.

These children will live forever in their parents' blackened hearts. They will forever live as the Perfect Christmas Angels.