The chimney voice

Okay; now for something topical.

* * *

“Come here, child.”

The voice from the chimney was raspy, old, whispery. Little Timmy did not like it at all, so he just went on his way and brushed his teeth like his mother had told him to, and went to bed.

An hour later Timmy, unable to sleep because of the great day of gifts and bedecked trees and all tomorrow, once again passed the living room doorway, this time with a glass of milk in his hand; and the house was all dark this time.

“Come closer, little child.”

The voice from the chimney was the same; a wheeze, a wheedle, from the darker abyss of the fireplace in the back of the dark emptiness of the living room.

Timmy hesitated for a while, and then ran back to his bed, unquiet and troubled.

Another hour passed; and as Little Timmy couldn’t sleep, he thought.

As an inevitable consequence of this, he found himself back for a third time, peeking into the living room darkness; and he whispered: “Are you Santa?”

There was no answer from the chimney.

Timmy gathered all his little courage, and stepped into the dark room, and all too quickly found himself with the fireplace looming in front of him, smelling like a burnt maw of hell.

There was a faint rustling noise from up above, and a few drops of meltwater patted down on the hearth; meltwater Timmy thought they most probably were, but some liquid drool or the other, surely.

A whisper reverberated down the chimney for the third time: a voice cold dead and inhuman, and it said: “Finally within tentacle reach” — and come morning, his parents found Little Timmy not, and never saw him again.

* * *

The topic being, of coure,’s December for Cthulhu. What did you think it would be?

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