AUTHOR’S NOTE: This The Suff Christmas story is alternate reality and not part of the canon The Suff lore—not unlike Marvel’s What If . . .? series.
Click here if you would like to read my last The Suff story. While they both take place in the same universe, they are stand-alone and do not need to be read in any particular order.
All credit for The Suff goes to , who graciously let us join in his fun. If you would like to read more about SubStack’s first urban legend (both canon lore and alternate universe), check out ’s master list here on Macabre Monday.
Reading Ambience
December 26th.
2:30 a.m.
If Mom and Dad find me out here . . . .
I flexed my fingers for what felt like the millionth time, focusing with all my might on the lingering heat of the warmers hastily stuffed into my gloves. Shivers rattled my bones. Northern Minnesota winters don’t give a crap about how many layers you pile on—the cutting wind will find a way to slice right through to your marrow.
The neighborhood stood silent, muffled by deep snow blanketing every yard and housetop. Blobs of multicolored lights strung across every rooftop danced on my bulky, hand-me-down coat and painted the snow in soft rainbow hues. No moon tonight. Just the dark expanse of space, twinkling in its own light show.
The big scarf Grandma’d knitted for me last year wrapped around my head, all soggy from my dripping nose and hot breath. A disgusted grimace tried to twist up my face, in vain. Muscles and flesh were too cold.
Why did I keep wanting to look back over my shoulder? The house was dark, like every other house down our street. Mom, Dad, Grandma, Billy—all still sound asleep, fat and satisfied after days of hot, home-cooked meals and loads of sugary sweets.
Still, the hair prickled at the back of my neck. Like someone was there. Like someone could see me . . . .
Stop it!
The shuffling of my coat as I tightly crossed my arms seemed much too loud. As hard a fight as it was, my eyes never left the snow-packed street. Squinting, searching, hoping this wasn’t all for naught.
Hoping that he was coming.
crunch
shhshhshh
My heart lurched.
Blood pounded in my ears.
For a split second, I thought for sure the hours of standing in the cold had finally turned my brain. That I’d given in to those stupid scary stories Derek Masters told the gullible kids on the playground. Hearing things that weren’t there.
crunch
shhshhshh
He seemed to materialize out of the dark.
Black snow boots crunched against the tire-packed snow. Elongated arms—much too long to be natural—dragged behind him. Cloudy breath floated from his mouth, where it lay obscured in the dark shadows of his hood. He walked so slowly.
With my heart lodged in my throat, I hesitated. Watched him curiously, in spite of myself.
Though he headed my way, it was as though he couldn’t see me. Even at this distance, with the Christmas light-illuminated snow and the blazing streetlamps, he should be able to see me. I’d planted myself at the end of the drive, just ahead of the heaping snow mound left days ago by the plow. It’s not like I was trying to hide.
He hesitated mid-stride by the next-door neighbor’s driveway. I clutched at the posterboard pressed against my chest, willing myself to call to him, or more toward him, or wave. Something—anything—to stop him from running, again.
But he hadn’t been looking at me. He never had been.
He’s looking at Christmas lights.
That old, guilty distress twisted up my heart again, just like it had last year. I hadn’t meant to startle him. I hadn’t known he would break into a sprint, disappearing into the deep woods, leaving behind the gold-rimmed cans of SPAM where they’d tumbled out of his plastic Kwik Trip bag and into the dirt and brown, cracked leaves.
Monster, the people in town called him.
Boogeyman.
The Suff.
All kinds of terrible names littering equally horrible rumors. Names and rumors I’d passionately despised ever since I saw this grown man run in terror from me. A kid.
How long he stood there, basking in the glow of my neighbor’s expertly crafted house decorations, I don’t know. But when he finally pulled himself away, I know what he saw next.
A little kid, struggling up on tiptoes, holding a big piece of posterboard as high over his head as he could emblazoned with two clumsily rendered words in bright, glow-in-the-dark paint:
Free Hugs!
He didn’t move for what felt like ages.
What could he be thinking? Feeling?
Did he recognize me from the woods last year? Did he know I’d never ratted on his deal with the Kwik Trip manager for food? Or that I had tried my best to return the cans he’d dropped?
If he chose to run, I wouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t chase him, either. This man had spent his life running. It was part of his suffering.
If he walked right past me—well, that was alright, too. At least I’d cared enough to try and make amends. To show him that some people knew he was people, too.
crunch
shhshhshh
Slowly, cautiously, he passed. In the flickerings of the Christmas lights, I barely made out the mismatched swatches of old, stained fabric sewn together to make the original coat long enough for his arms. Its mixed scents of stale deodorant, festering cigarettes, and day-old noodles made my nose curl deeper into my moist scarf.
He didn’t say anything. But before he was out of reach, he lifted one hand and gently patted my stocking-hatted head. Once. Twice.
I watched his back as he passed my house and meandered down the road. Toward more Christmas lights. Toward a show that seemed specially lit for their audience of one.
For once in my life, I couldn’t keep silent.
“Merry Christmas, sir!”
Maybe it was just my imagination.
Maybe it’s only what I wanted to hear.
But it seemed to me, as he melted back into the dark winter night, the man known as The Suff softly replied,
“Merry Christmas, kid.”
Thank you for reading!
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🥹 So sweet! I love this!
AWWWWWWWWWWW. My feels.