Santa Claus reminded me of the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. He could always find me, wherever I went—almost like he was waiting for me.

At every five-year interval at Christmas, I would get a doll. It was fun at first, till it wasn’t.

It was always the same doll: black hair, black empty unblinking eyes that stared at me, and a red hooded dress. It reminded me of litle red riding hood.

It came with a note: “Santa’s favorite.” It smelled like cherry candy.

By the time I was 15, I found the gift childish and embarrassing and decided to throw it away—all of them and any that came after.

At 20, failing at community college and working to keep a roof over my head, I dealt with nasty customers on waitressing duty. This particular one was the worst of all.

I stood with a strained smile on my face as she hurled insults about her order, and I’d had enough when she threw her piping hot soup at me and slapped me. I hit her back, quit, and called the cops on her.

Only when I was back home, shivering under my blanket with a broken heater and no money to fix it, did I dread losing that job.

Then came a creak from the floorboards, and I froze. I wasn’t alone.

I held my breath, terrified, but no sound came after. After a few minutes, I realized I wasn’t being attacked and dared to sit up.

I scanned my dark room, and my heart seized as I made out a shape.

I turned on the lamp and grabbed the nearest object, a paperweight. The ticking of my clock as it struck midnight was the only sound, along with my heavy breathing.

There was something on my bedroom floor—something covered in a red bag. I cautiously walked closer and opened it with shaky hands.

Black soulless eyes stared at me, and I jumped back in fright. There was a woman dead on my floor. It was the customer from today, and she had black hair and a red cape, caked in blood. A tape was over her mouth, and written in blood was: “Santa’s favorite.”

I forgot it was Christmas, and Santa had just delivered his gift.

Would you like to be Santa’s favorite?