Smoog came down the chimney like a thick fog, solidifying in front of the fireplace. He dusted the ashes from his clothing, and coughed up the particles that had caught in his throat. The hacking sound woke up the child, who opened his eyes, rolled out of bed, and entered the living room to see what all the fuss was about.

“Who are you?”

“Why, I am Smoog. Surely you know of me? Do you not celebrate Smoog, little child?”

“No. What’s Smoog?”

Smoog drew up to his full height. He was a terrifying sight, a skeleton with tiny red wings. He focused his dark pits of eyes down at the child.

“Are you one of those who celebrate Christmas, then? A Christmasian, eh? Scabs, bring the dead monkey!”

“What are you talking about?” said the child. A tiny elf, quite putrid in appearance, fell down the chimney, landing on its side. As it stood up, the child could see that it, like Smoog, was dead, with mottled, blue skin and eyes stitched shut. After the elf came the desiccated body of a small monkey. It spun across the floor, rattling, until it hit the wall. The child was not disturbed by this; it was obviously a dream in his mind, anyway.

“Why are you in my dream?”

“I have no idea,” said Smoog. “Scabs, stuff that dead monkey in this child’s sock drawer!” Scabs hefted the dead monkey and lurched out of the room to fulfill its master’s bidding.

“Ah, that Scabs, so reliable.”

The child thought over the conversation thus far. “But I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“You don’t,” gasped Smoog. He shouted into the next room, “Scabs, cut it with the dead monkey. This kid’s good.” Smoog then turned back to the child.

“Well, if it isn’t Christmas that you celebrate, then what?”

“We celebrated winter solstice last night. My parents say it’s because we’re pagans or something. I like the dancing.”

Smoog stood for a moment, cracking his knuckles. He looked back down at the child.

“Very well, child, I am willing to let you off easy. Do you believe in me?”

“I believe in you in this dream.”

“Maybe I have been unclear up to this point. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re a skeleton.”

“I’m much more than your ordinary skeleton.” Smoog waved his hands dismissively. “I am Smoog, the true herald of the holidays. I bring holiday cheer on this night, which is also known as Smoog, after me. I leave dead monkeys for bad boys and girls, but presents for nice ones.”

“Really, I thought that was Santa, except the dead monkeys part.”

“No! No, no, never mention that name again,” shouted Smoog. He then calmed his voice a smidgen, “Santa, dear child, is not real.”

“That’s what my parents said, too,” said the child.

“Your parents are very wise people, then. Here,” Smoog plunged his hand into his rib cage, and pulled a large ham from its hollow. “Take this and have a happy Smoog.” Smoog clapped his hands, and flew up the chimney so swiftly that he covered half the room, including the child and the ham, with soot.

“Um, happy Smoog, Smoog!” called the child.