My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

Shellshocked, Peter sat in an armchair beside Santa’s desk, hot cocoa in hand. The metal spoon jingled against the cup as Peter’s hands shook uncontrollably in fear. Ordinarily he would have drunk in the intricate details of Santa’s master bedroom, and all its candlelit antiques and cozy nooks, and the piles of letters and crayon fanart taped to the wall. But for now he was rigid as stone and stared forward a thousand miles at nothing at all, lost in his thoughts, his mind racing in confused circles. Santa sat at her cluttered desk, a dusty ledger of children’s names shut for the day, and she calmly sipped away at her cup of molten fudge. The encounter with the holy messengers hadn’t bothered her in the slightest. She took off her red cap and scratched through her long black hair.

“Where do we go when we die?” Peter asked.

“You’re not going to die,” she said.

“Up until now I was pretty sure there was no afterlife, but now… if there are Bible accurate angels, there must be a heaven and hell, right? So if we fight them and lose…” then Peter would go to hell, but he didn’t want to finish that sentence, so he didn’t. “But everyone here is an elf, and those aren’t in the Bible, so where do they go when they die?”

Santa sighed. “Well, when we die, we either go to Valhǫll or to Fólkvangr.”

“Valholl.”

“No, it’s Valhǫll,” she corrected. “It’s similar to what you would call heaven.”

“And Folkvaner is like hell?”

“No, Fólkvangr is also like heaven.”

“What’s the difference?” Peter asked.

Santa shrugged. “They’re ruled by different deities. They choose who goes where. Don’t ask me how they choose, because I don’t know.”

“Do elves go to hell?”

“There is no Hel. And I don’t care what that Snorri guy says, he made it up.”

“So if I die I’ll either go to Valholl or Folkvaner?”

Santa shook her head, “No. You’re thinking like a Christian, Peter. Christians think the soul is solid and whole. The truth is our soul— or sál— has four different parts: hamr, hugr, fylgja, and hamingja. When we die, some parts of our soul we keep in the afterlife, some parts vanish, and some parts are reincarnated into our children. It mostly depends if you receive a proper burial, and if you become a ghost or not.”

“A ghost?”

“Not like you’re thinking. Ghosts either haunt their burial site to protect their riches, or they’re like zombies who play tricks on people. If you’re really interested in all this lore I can tell you after we stop the apocalypse.”

“But you’re a hundred percent certain all that’s real, right? This isn’t just some stuff you believe because your parents told you to believe it, right?”

“Oh it’s real. I’ve dealt with ghosts before, they can be a mild nuisance. And I’ve met the rulers of Valhǫll and Fólkvangr when they’ve visited Earth. You’ve seen my fylgja before in your dreams. Your culture might call it a spirit animal.”

“Dreams aren’t real,” Peter said.

“Dreams are very real. They are messages from those we love.”

“And what are nightmares then? Messages from people who hate us?”

Santa set down her mug and wiped her hot chocolate mustache away.

“Did you see a weakness when we spoke to the messengers?”

Peter sighed. “No. And to be honest, I don’t think my rifle is strong enough to even scratch those things. Bullets are just lead. It’s metal. It does wonders against penguins. Rips them right in half. But those things? Those are supernatural. If we’re going to fight those, we need to use some magic or something. And I don’t know anything about magic.”

“Well, think up a strategy, and when you narrow it down, we’ll draw up some battle plans. I know things seem insurmountable right now, Peter. I do. But we have to take things one step at a time.”

Peter sipped his hot chocolate and it had gone cold. He had forgotten to drink it amid their conversation. He placed it down on her desk, stood up, and sighed heavily. Santa took hold of his hand. Her fingers were quite warm.

“I’ll watch over you,” Santa said. “If you run into hell, I’ll go running in beside you.”

Her soft voice carried with it infinite authority. He wondered how someone who possessed a such a firm grasp on logic could make a suicidal promise sound so genuine. The secret was laid out right before him upon the desk. Hidden within Santa’s golden pocket watch, away from everyone’s eyes, was imprisoned a photograph of Peter, asleep in his childhood bed, drooling stupidly. Whenever she whisked out her timepiece and popped it open, the elves erroneously thought she was reading the hours and minutes, when in fact she was daydreaming. Waiting for the moment Peter would need her. Santa stood up from her throne and hugged him, and Peter latched onto her body as if this might be their last and final embrace. In his mind, he wondered if she really loved him, or if she was using him?