Troy gave his bronze bell a wobble and boomed out a valiant “Ho Ho Ho”, before he kicked the bucket.

Children stared in puzzlement as Troy fell flat on his back like a slice of bread butter-side down.

Frantic elves waded through the tide of children and crouched at Troy’s side. Pressing his fingers beneath the elasticated beard, one curly-toed elf shook his head sadly. “He’s gone.”

Horrified parents began shepherding their offspring away.

The ambulance arrived within minutes and Troy was zipped up into a black bag, his red bobbled hat perched on top like a robin.

***

“Children at the Royal Victoria shopping center were left traumatized on Saturday morning by the sudden death of Father Christmas. Troy Masters had worked as the popular Father Christmas at the Tunbridge Wells complex for five years and staff there have been expressing their shock at his death. Following a post mortem coroners were unable to establish the cause of death and have recorded a verdict of ‘death by natural causes’…”

The image of the newsreader’s carefully presented face was sucked back into a black hole as the red standby button clicked into life below it.

“Poor guy – and right before Christmas as well,” Mum said, tossing the remote onto the kitchen table.

“Was that the real Santa Claus that died?” Rio asked, sloshing her spoon into her cereal like an oar and scattering coco pops across the glass tabletop.

“No it wasn’t, sweetheart,” Mum reassured her, moving in to wipe up the mess.

“You know what probably happened though don’t you?” Dad said to the room at large in a conspiratorial tone.

“What happened?” Rio asked on cue, as her breakfast congealed beneath her.

“Well, the saying goes that every time a child says ‘I don’t believe in Father Christmas’, another Santa Claus falls down dead.”

The teenager in the corner rolled his eyes and Dad took a swig of coffee, a knowing look on his face.

“I thought that was supposed to be fairies,” Mum said.

“Yes of course, but it’s the same for all magical beings. So it’s very dangerous being magical in these days, because so many kids don’t believe in them anymore.”

Rio looked horrified. “Oh no! But I will always, always believe in them, for all my life!”

Dad chuckled and rose from the breakfast table, as he did so the teenager leant across his pop-tart plate with a withering expression.

“Dad’s lying, Rio. Father Christmas doesn’t even exist, so he can’t even die.”

“Of course he exists!” Dad said, scandalised. “Who do you think brings all your presents on Christmas morning?”

“You of course,” he said. “I don’t believe in Father Christmas any more.”

***

Henry was finding it really hard to get out of bed in the mornings, now that winter had rolled in.

He staggered out of the shower, a towel clinging on to his sizeable waist like a dying man.

Henry moved in front of the mirror and ran a comb through the tangle of white bristles on his chin.

He spread his lips into a jolly grin, exposing crisp white teeth, lined up like snow-covered cottages.

“Ho Ho Ho!” he rumbled as he pulled on his red and white hat, admiring his authentic look.

I do make a damn fine Santa Claus, he thought to himself before he croaked.

© Amy Roskilly 2009

This story is a part of the Spec the Halls contest for speculative winter holiday-themed fiction, artwork, and poetry. You may find guidelines and links to other entries at: http://www.aswiebe.com/specthehalls/guidelines.html