[ WP ] It 's cute when your kid sends Santa a letter . It 's surprising when Santa sends a letter back . It 's worrying when the two become regular pen pals . And it 's horrifying when you start reading the letters yourself ...

The letters were a curiosity at first, and I paid them no mind. I know that sometimes mail distributors write back letters from Santa to children to keep the illusion alive, before they have to face the inevitable realisation that Santa is just your parents. They were written in a jolly tone, as if the fat man in red had written it himself. It said that my daughter had been a good girl that year and he was going to bring her lots of gifts. 
 
 Naturally my girl wanted to send Santa a thank you letter, and I thought there would be no harm in that. She sent Santa the letter on December 27th, and received a reply on New Year's Day. And that was definitely strange, because New Year's Day is a public holiday. Mail is n't delivered that day. I shrugged it off. Perhaps I had missed some new legislation or something. This is a multi-cultural society after all, some people celebrate the New Year at a different time. 
 
 Once again, the letter was jolly and cheerful. It told my girl she was welcome and that he hoped she enjoyed her gifts. Which was strange, as I was the one that bought the gifts and wrapped them. But anything to keep the illusion alive for my daughter. The letter ended with the line `` Hope to hear from you soon.'' Strangely, I noticed, Santa had not signed his name at the bottom. It just ended with that. But I paid it no mind. The guy that writes these must write a few hundred a day. He ca n't be wasting time on `` Yours truly'' s. 
 
 A few days after New Year's we took down the Christmas tree, to my daughter's disappointment. My daughter hates it when Christmas has to come to an end. But I promised her, in a year, Christmas would come back. A year is a long time for a child. It seems like forever. But my girl, bless her heart, stayed brave, and did n't cry as the tree slowly disappeared before her eyes. 
 
 That was when we found it. 
 
 Tucked away behind the tree, where nobody could see it, was a little wrapped gift. It was wrapped in different paper to the paper I had used. `` How did that get there?'' said my wife. `` Did one of your friends from school give you that?'' My daughter shook her head no. `` Santa brought it,'' she said. `` I know.'' The paper was a deep scarlet red, quite jarring to the eyes, wrapped with a ribbon. As my daughter removed the ribbon I examined it more closely. It looked to be covered in words of a language I could n't read or speak. Icelandic maybe. I mean, Santa *is* from somewhere up that way. 
 
 Inside the paper was a small box. It was made out of cool, sleek metal. It did n't look all that Christmassy. Santa must have a weird gauge for what kids are into. It was unlike a metal I had ever seen before, dark and with a mottled appearance, like folded steel. It had a few moving parts. I realised at once what it was: A puzzle box. Perhaps Santa wanted to improve the agility of my daughter's brain. I thought little of it, and let her play with it. 
 
 The puzzle box fascinated my daughter. Every night after school she would go to her room and play with it voraciously. Every night all she would talk about was the puzzle box. I became concerned that it was becoming a dangerously unhealthy obsession. I said I was going to take it from her for a while so she could play with the other presents we got her. She screamed and threw tantrums in a way I had never seen her do so before. Still, I put it on a high shelf. In a couple of days of sulking, my daughter had forgotten all about it, and started playing with her remote-control car and Fur-Real Friends cat. 
 
 We got a letter that Friday, addressed to me. It felt damp. The edges of the envelope were coloured a sickly brown. I opened the letter. 
 
 > Dear [ my name ], 
 
 > ***GIVE IT BACK*** 
 
 Well now this had to be an elaborate prank. I was a bit disturbed by the threatening letter, so I called the police. The police simply stated that because the letter did n't contain any threats it did n't count as threatening communication, and to just ignore it unless any more letters came through the door, at which point it would become harassing communication. 
 
 The next Friday, I received another letter, more damp than the last one, and even more covered in that sickly brown. 
 
 
 > Dear [ my name ], 
 
 > ***GIVE IT BACK*** 
 
 
 The content was the same, but the format itself was written in a violent, angry scrawl. I started to entertain the thought my daughter was doing this, despite being six years old. She could n't be. I asked her about the letters Daddy had been getting. She just shook her head, disinterested. She did n't even care about the puzzle box any more. I was concerned, but powerless to do anything about it. 
 
 The next Friday, I received a third letter, this one angrier than the last. 
 
 > Dear [ my name ], 
 
 > **I WO N'T WARN YOU AGAIN, YOU COCKSUCKER** 
 
 > ***GIVE IT BACK*** 
 
 I called the police at once. They said they'd look into it, track it somehow. They did n't seem interested. I guess there are worse crimes to investigate than harassing letters. I looked at the puzzle box on the high shelf. My daughter seemed happy without it. I did n't want to give it back to her. So I left it there. 
 
 Then, the next Friday... blood. Blood. Blood seeping through my letter box. As if someone's jugular vein had been slit open. I screamed. My wife screamed. My daughter remained in her room, playing serenely. An envelope slid in through the torrent of blood. I did n't even have to open it. Somehow, it contorted itself open in a way that paper should n't ever do. 
 
 > **DEAR [ MY NAME ] ** 
 
 > ***I WARNED YOU*** 
 
 Blood seeped endlessly out of the letter box. The walls oozed black blood. I woke up one morning to the feeling of something dripping on my face. There was something dripping through the ceiling. I climbed out of bed and the ceiling collapsed. Laying on my bed was a dead ram, its heart cut out, still twitching and bleeding. 
 
 I called in a priest, a rabbi, an imam, anyone I could think of to ward off whatever evil spirit had cursed our household. I told the priest about the puzzle box. He shook his head. `` Sir,'' he said, gently. `` That object is one of the most powerful instruments of evil in God's creation. You must destroy it.'' 
 
 He gave me the instructions on how to rid myself of it. Put it in a bucket of holy water. Put a ring of salt around the bucket. Recite seven Hail Marys. Burn sage and demand, forcefully, though not threateningly, that the spirits leave your house. The bucket will burst into flames and all that will be left is molten metal. When the metal has cooled, break the metal into pieces and scatter it. 
 
 I followed his instructions, with some difficulty, and found that the curse was lifted more or less immediately. The walls stopped bleeding. The same old bills started coming through the door. I had hardly noticed that six months had gone by. 
 
 It was June 25th. I was looking through my important bills when I found a letter, still sealed in an envelope. The envelope was blank and had no stamp. I removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. I read the first line. 
 
 > deer satan, 
 
 > for crismas i ~~wold~~ wood like... 
 
 We were diligent in teaching our daughter how to spell after that.
