It’s unsettling, to say the least. He’s crouched under the Christmas tree, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, pressed close to the lower branches. At first glance, you might mistake him for a misplaced decoration or some enormous stuffed toy. But no—he’s half as tall as the tree, and his skin looks like textured, semi-flexible bark. A demon. Probably Babylonian. Not exactly subtle.

I’m a professor at a small liberal arts college where I teach the odd class of ‘Spiritual Diversity’. It’s somewhat of a ‘comparative religions’ course, but goes deep into the dark side of things.

I’d heard a noise that didn’t belong, something unusual for Christmas Eve. It pulled me from a sound sleep. Half-convinced it was a burglar, I crept into the living room with a baseball bat in my hand and flipped on the lights.“What on earth are you doing here?” I demanded.

Silence.

“I can see you, you know.”

He shifted awkwardly, his weight making the floor beneath him creak. In the process, he bumped the tree. One of the antique glass ornaments fell, bounced once on the carpet, and rolled to a stop near the fireplace.

I winced. There were only three left—fragile survivors of years of chaotic, overexcited children. Mercifully, it hadn’t broken. I retrieved it carefully, my movements deliberate.

“I want to see what this is for,” he said suddenly, startling me with a voice deep and warm—not the raspy, menacing growl I had braced for. He sounded almost human. A little like Santa.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“This.” He gestured broadly at the room with one thick arm, rocking the tree again. Another ornament fell. I caught it this time. He groaned softly and pushed himself upright, his rough, bark-like back brushing against the tree. The whole thing wobbled, hesitated, and tipped over with a crash.

One of the remaining ornaments disintegrated in a scatter of red and silver shards. I groaned aloud.

“What?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

“That ornament was my grandmother’s.” My voice caught on the words.

He bent to examine the shattered remains but looked up at me blankly, as though the significance was lost on him.

“It’s tradition,” I explained.

“That’s exactly what I mean!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the walls.

A sleepy voice called from down the hall. “Can we come out now?”

“It’s okay, honey,” I called back. “Stay in bed. Santa’s not ready yet.”

The demon muttered something under his breath and lowered his voice, though it still rumbled like distant thunder. “We need to discuss this.”

“Can we take this outside?” I asked, glancing nervously at the mess he’d already made.

“No! I need to understand all of this.” He gestured broadly again, narrowly missing the mantle. The decorations rattled, and ashes stirred in the fireplace, spiraling up the chimney. His gaze followed the movement, suspicious.

“Why a fire?” he asked. “And why bring a cut-down tree inside? Are these fetishes? What do they protect you from?”

“Fetishes?” I echoed, baffled.

He pointed at the mantle. It was decked out in fake snow, miniature plastic trees, ceramic figurines, and red candles in hurricane shades.

“Are those your people? What kind of attack are you preparing for?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, struggling to respond. “They’re… decorations.”

He didn’t seem convinced.

“And who is this ‘Santa’?” he demanded.

“For crying out loud, don’t you guys keep up with human traditions?” I hesitated, unsure if ‘guys’ was the right term for demons. Would they find it offensive? The sulfuric tang hanging in the air confirmed his otherworldly nature. “How can you not know what this is about?”

This isn’t going as planned,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “You’ve changed it. You always do. And now I want to know the meaning of this!” His arm twitched as though to swing again, but he stopped short. Something about his demeanor shifted—he seemed smaller, less imposing, as though trying to fit the space better.

“So, you’re here on a fact-finding mission?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes.”

“As in… spying?”

“No.”

“Who sent you?”

“No one.”

I stared him down, refusing to speak.

He shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “I came on my own,” he said, though the words rang false. These beings didn’t act alone. Ever.

“Clearly, you don’t believe me,” he said, growing slightly larger again. Shadows flickered across his frame, exaggerating his already imposing figure.

“What’s your question?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation. The kids had gone quiet again, and my wife’s snores floated softly from down the hall.

“What is all this about?” he asked again.

And then it hit me.

“You’re asking me the true meaning of Christmas?” My voice cracked. The absurdity of a demon grappling with that question left me reeling.

“This was meant to show you humans what you could accomplish without… outside help,” he said hesitantly, as if the words were difficult to admit. “It was a test. Would you give—at the worst time of year—more than you could afford, to those who already had enough? It was meant to destroy you, emotionally and economically. But it’s broken. It doesn’t work anymore.”

He sounded genuinely distressed, almost defeated. They had designed the ultimate trap, but somewhere along the way, humans had turned it into something else—something they hadn’t accounted for.

“It’s a holiday for children,” I said quietly. “It always has been. A celebration of a child being born.”

He frowned, considering this. “But we already have a holiday for children. In the spring.”

“That’s different,” I countered. “Spring is about renewal and… other things.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then shook his head. “It was supposed to distract you from the unseen, to trap you in materialism. But instead, it’s… something else. What changed?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. Not one he’d accept.

Just then, a small face peeked around the doorframe. “Santa?” my daughter whispered, eyes wide with awe.

For a moment, the room blurred. The tree righted itself, the ornaments were whole again, and the fire roared cheerfully in the hearth. Where the demon had stood now knelt the most picture-perfect Santa Claus I had ever seen.

“Yes, little one?” he said warmly.

“Santa!!” She beamed and ran forward for a hug. She got it.

“Back to bed now,” Santa said with a chuckle, sending her off with a pat.

As the little footsteps receded down the hall, the red suit and white beard faded away. The scaly figure returned, smaller, calmer. “I see now,” he murmured. And then, instantly, he was gone.

I stared at the empty room, trying to process what had just happened. The tree stood tall, the ornaments gleamed, and beneath its boughs were gifts—some I didn’t recognize.

At the top of the tree, a new ornament caught my eye: a glass gnome, sitting with arms wrapped around its knees, a satisfied smile on its face.

In one hand, it held a card with fancy script on it.

It read,

Merry Christmas.