The True Meaning of Christmas

I don't visit every house for Christmas. That would be ridiculous. Santa does that, and he's very litigious. I don't want his army of lawyer-elves on me all year.

Instead, I pick seven lucky families to receive a Wight Christmas.

I can't fit down a chimney and most people don't have chimneys anyway, so I slide into their WiFi connection on Christmas Eve, digitizing myself to infiltrate their home. Nobody leaves out milk and cookies for me, and I don't want to steal from Santa, so once I return to my physical form I usually crack open the family's fridge and drink milk straight from the jug.

I have a list of what everybody did all year, but I don't check it because I don't really care who's naughty or nice. I leave the same gifts at every house: tiny pixies, ready to do favors for the homeowner for a year and a day. They're great at fixing shoes, assembling furniture, and Call of Duty.

Don't worry about taking advantage of their labor, either, because they take their payment in the form of fallen crumbs and loose dog hair. Those are very valuable in their world.

But receiving the service of fey craftsmen isn't the end of a Wight Christmas. I also make sure that, before the end of Christmas Day, the families I select are visited by three ghosts.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come are usually occupied, so it's whatever ghosts I have on hand. I think this year I have the Ghosts of Christmas Lost, Fantasy, and Working Retail. They do their best to teach a lesson, but not every performance is Scrooge-worthy.

After I unleash the pixies and point the ghosts in the right direction, I have plenty of time to return to my subterranean workshop in the South Pole and join my dark elves for a glass of webnog, which is just eggnog but made with the eggs of giant spiders.

I fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of Santa pranking me by dropping bombs onto the roof of my bunker and calling out: "Merry Christmas to all! Except for you, Will Wight."

-Will