When I was a kid Santa Claus terrified me. The thought that this fat old dude in red velvet pajamas and storm-trooper boots was breaking into the house at night was bad enough, but when my mother told me that he “…sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake…” I was totally freaked out. I defy anyone to explain how a fat old man who watches young boys sleep is anything but creepy.
As frightening as Santa was, at least he only came in December. During the rest of the year there was the threat that Grandpa would come to babysit. Grandpa was injured in the war and had a glass eye that he could pop out at will. When he babysat he would have a couple shots of whiskey and remove his eye; he would carefully position it on the kitchen counter so that no matter where you went it was looking at you. Then he would tell my little brother and me, “I’ve got my eye on you,” and go take a nap, certain that when he woke up we would still be cowering under the kitchen table.
Somehow I managed to survive the perv in red velvet and my grandpa’s unblinking eye more or less unscathed, but then I met Diablo the Shelf Elf and my childhood terrors came back with a rush.
I walked into my nephew’s house last week and saw a creepy little doll dressed in red velvet sitting on the mantel staring at me. I shuddered slightly and went to investigate; I was about to pick it up when four people screamed simultaneously.
“Don’t touch that!” thundered my nephew while his wife keened loudly, as though for the dead. “OHHHHHH, NOOOOOOO!” wailed my nephew’s younger son while his older son went pale. I pulled my hand back as though I touched a hot stove and glared at my nephew.
“This is Diablo the Shelf Elf,” he told me, calm now. “No one is allowed to touch him.”
My nephew explained that Diablo is like a low tech nanny-cam. The family adopted him and named him; he spends the whole day evaluating whether the kids are naughty or nice and then reports back to Santa every night. No one can touch or move Diablo during the day but when the house is asleep he goes wherever he wants. Every morning the family finds Diablo in a different place where he spends the day, ever-vigilant.
“That’s really creepy,” I told my nephew, thinking that Diablo looked like a seriously disturbed choirboy: He was definitely the kind of elf who would pull the wings off butterflies and fry ants with a magnifying glass. “Doesn’t it scare the kids to know that Big Brother is watching?” I asked my nephew’s wife.
“They’ve been angels all month,” she said firmly; her tone clearly saying, “Butt out.”
“Whatever,” I said and Diablo, triumphant, smirked at me. All afternoon I could feel him watching me, but whenever I looked at him he looked away. After dinner when I said good bye to my nephew’s family Diablo was still staring, formulating his report to Santa I’m sure. “Enough is enough,” I muttered.
The whole family came outside to say goodbye but I remembered I left my wallet on the mantel and had to go back in to get it. On my way home I got a call from my nephew. “We found Diablo hanging from the ceiling fan,” he said accusingly. “The kids are hysterical. I know you did this.”
“Just ask Diablo what he saw,” I told him. “Have him report back to you.”