It was almost noon by the time I was able to convince myself that I had simply misread the note. The human brain, though soft and mushy, was naturally tethered to reality, and eventually, it reeled my imagination back in. Still, I tucked the "98" note into my pocket in the event I found more almonds. No one was changing the math again without me witnessing it.

I didn't consider myself a superstitious person. Sure, I avoided black cats, didn't walk under ladders, or leave the couch on Friday the Thirteenth, but those were all pretty standard precautions. Nor did I firmly believe in any folklore or urban legends, unless I was put into a position where they may seem plausible. For example, Beth and I vacationed one year in Scotland on the shore of Loch Ness. During the day, while solidly on dry land I didn't believe in the nonsense that was the Loch Ness Monster and ridiculed those who did. But I had to admit, walking the shore at night or swimming in the always-dark water, well, it had a much different vibe—a cautionary tingle in the spine that said what-if.

So, it was with a lot of what-ifs in my head that I proceeded with the day. My grand plan—a sweeping romantic gesture to Beth—was to have the house fully decorated for Christmas by the time she came home. Within a couple of hours, I had purchased a lush six-foot pine tree, lugged all the Christmas boxes up from the basement, and had finished most of the decorating. I popped open the last box and narrowed my eyes in spite.

It was him.

My annual December nemesis.

Santa Bear.

I'm sure that it's technically impossible to have a reciprocal feud with a stuffed animal, considering one-half of the warring factions is an inanimate toy. But every year I did my part to maintain the animosity. And every year Santa Bear ignored my provocations. I knew just by looking at him that he had no respect for my position of authority, despite my clearly being second-in-command in our two-person household.

He didn't look anything like Santa Claus. No beard. No belly. He wasn't even dressed in red. Instead, his vest and hat were green and lined with little silver bells, clearly the uniform of Christmas's subservient toy-making race.

Santa Bear was a teddy bear that didn't look anything like Santa.

Santa Bear was a teddy bear that was dressed like an elf but didn't look anything like an elf.

Creatively, I was offended by every aspect of his existence. Nothing about the little bastard made sense. Nothing—which is also what he brought to the table. He wasn't animatronic. He didn't dance, or sing, or read stories. He just sat there, doing nothing.

Despite all of these red flags, Santa Bear held a level of holiday esteem in this house that was unmatched. Each year Beth placed him under the tree, front and center, prime real estate, with a pillow to prop him up since the little shit wouldn't even stand up on his own. When the gifts started piling up, she'd arrange them into an ever-growing pedestal upon which the stuffed animal sat like a king.

The reality was, regardless of my animosity, Santa Bear was untouchable. He'd been Beth's beloved Christmas bear for over twenty years. That was longer than I'd even known her. Two decades of nostalgia were an impenetrable suit of armor. His stupid hat and vest may as well have been made from Kevlar.

Normally, the "privilege" of placing the bear never fell to me. Beth would lift him lovingly from his box, cradle him like a baby, and ooh and aah over him just long enough to make me grind my teeth. Then she'd set him up in his spot of honor. But it was all me this year.

I pulled him out of the box by his hat which was sown to his head, so the moron didn't lose it, and carried his jingling ass over to the tree. Using a shoebox as support I sat him in the spot I thought Beth would pick. Throughout the process, I never praised him and avoided all eye contact. I'd play nice for Beth, but not too nice.

With this done I decided to reward the maintaining of my grudge with a beer. I headed to the kitchen, popped the cap on a cold one, and enjoyed several long drinks while leaning against the sink. Then I heard Santa Bear's bells ring.

It was a short jingle, smaller in duration than his trip from the box to the tree. The clarity was unmistakable, however. I sighed. Stupid little thing had probably fallen over. His ability to be lazy and just exist was the only thing I respected about it. Now I didn't even have that.

I returned to the living room to see that I had been correct. Santa Bear had indeed fallen over. In fact, he'd been somehow launched from his spot and was now face-down three feet from the tree. I was certainly no physicist, but it was readily apparent that there was no way he could have built up the momentum to go that distance.

There was no time to ponder this as I was immediately distracted by movement from the Christmas tree. From the mid-point to the base, branches rustled in succession as if something were scurrying behind the pine needle curtain. I stepped away, expecting some kind of animal to drop out the bottom. Clearly, my tree had been Trojan Horsed and I'd unwittingly brought some kind of rodent into the house. That was really all I needed—some kind of uncouth country chipmunk, as opposed to my well-bred attic squirrels. Still, whatever it was, it must be responsible for dropkicking Santa Bear, so I owed it a minimal level of hospitality.

I took hold of a few branches and gave them a hearty shake, thinking to scare whatever it was out of the tree. Nothing happened. I repeated the tree throttle, but still, no chipmunk or squirrel broke cover. Finally, I parted the branches and searched the tree, top to bottom.

Nothing.

The weird vibe that I had felt earlier while holding the almond note crept back over me. Shaking it off, I replaced Santa Bear and returned to his box.

Santa Bear had "slept" on a bed of Christmas-themed blankets that Beth always draped over the couch and chairs. The top one was a green fleece decorated with prancing reindeer—incredibly ugly but wonderfully soft and destined for my end of the couch. I grabbed it by the hem, gave it a good flap to remove the creases, and watched all the almonds hidden in its folds go flying across the room.

***

There'd been eight almonds.

I picked them up and dropped them into the bowl with the other two. The note, which I took from my pocket with confidence in my brain but a tremble in my hands, was unchanged.

Thankfully I had a distraction for the evening and it soon arrived in the form of two work pals bearing chicken wings, pizza, and beer. We had plans of binging on carbohydrates and watching zombie B-movies—that's how guys too old to really party pretended to party.

Eric was my antipode. Whereas I was short, slim, and white, he was tall, brawny, and black. His favorite joke was that if he were a comic book superhero then I would be his mild-mannered alter ego that gets transformed by sexy gamma rays. It wasn't my favorite insult, but I had to admit that it worked pretty well thematically.

Paul was bearded, bespectacled, and bald. He was a computer specialist, and no one had ever not guessed his career choice on their first attempt. He just had that look to him.

I waited until we were several beers in to test the conspiracy waters. "So, did Beth mention to you guys that she was going to pull some kind of goofy prank-scavenger-hunt-thing on me while she was gone?"

They both shook their heads and Paul followed with, "Beth pulled a prank? That doesn't sound like her. She seems too...serious for that. What'd she do?"

I showed them both the first painted-face almond that came in the envelope and then explained the others that I had found around the house. I left out the part of the mysterious note as I wasn't ready to let this conversation get too metaphysical.

"That is creepy," Paul said and handed the almond to Eric.

"It's probably some kind of prank from your neighbors," Eric said and then shook his head. "White people..."

I could tell by their reactions they weren't in on whatever type of prank this was, so I let the topic drop. We polished off more beers and watched a few dozen bad-movie victims die with copious amounts of gore, before they left for the night.

I had just locked the front door when I heard the distinctive jingle of Santa Bear's bells. Figuring the bear had just fallen over again I stomped back into the living room to straighten him out. What I saw stopped me cold.

Santa Bear was once again toppled over, this time a good six feet from the tree. Next to him was our pair of kitchen scissors. His vest had been removed and his hat had been cut from his head. Neither piece of the bell-laden outfit was anywhere to be seen.

I dug my phone from my pocket and called the police.

Chapter words - 1600  Total Words - 3610