Paperback Santa

In Virginia City, a curious holiday tradition had taken root. Every December, a mysterious figure known as “Paperback Santa” appeared at Frostbite Books, the local used bookstore.

Wearing a Santa hat and old wool coat, he distributed free, well-loved paperbacks to customers, selecting titles with remarkable precision, as each book seemed to resonate deeply with its recipient. Children adored him, and adults marveled at his ability to recommend novels they didn’t even know they needed.

Yet, no one knew much about Paperback Santa himself. His grizzled beard and tired eyes gave the impression of a man who carried heavy burdens, but his warm, rumbling laugh was as festive as any sleigh bell.

That was until Emily Hart, a journalist visiting from Reno, decided to uncover the truth about this puzzling figure. Armed with her cell phone and a flair for investigative reporting, she visited Frostbite Books late one snowy evening.

When Emily stepped inside, the shop was quiet except for the hum of a portable heater and the light rustle of a book’s pages turning. Paperback Santa stood at the counter, chatting with a wide-eyed teenager clutching a battered copy of The Call of the Wild.

As the boy left, Santa turned to Emily with a smile. “Looking for something to read, or just the story of the season?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with amusement.

Emily smiled back, not yet ready to reveal her intentions. “Maybe a little of both. Got any recommendations for someone who loves mysteries?”

Santa’s eyes glinted as if reading her intentions as clearly as the title of a book. He handed her a dog-eared copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. “Something tells me you’ll appreciate the clues,” he said.

Emily’s investigation, however, quickly led her to Virginia City’s darker side. Locals whispered about livestock rumored to have disappeared under the full moon, eerie howls echoing from the desert, and Paperback Santa’s habit of vanishing after Christmas Eve.

When she pried deeper, an elderly woman at the coffee shop confided, “He only showed up ten years ago, right after old Tom Ainsworth—our last town Santa—went missing.”

Another interrupted, “Tom did not disappear, he retired to Florida.”

The puzzle pieces began to fit together one fateful night when Emily followed Santa after closing. Trailing him through the snow-covered streets, she watched him slip into the woods.

She hesitated—then pressed on, her flashlight trembling in her grip. Deep in the woods, she found him beneath the silver glow of the full moon.

His coat lay discarded on the ground, and his form had begun to shift grotesquely. Muscles rippled, fur sprouted, and his face elongated into a lupine snout.

The gentle, bookish Santa transformed into a hulking werewolf. Before she could scream, the wolf’s golden eyes locked onto hers.

“Woof,” the beast said, in a voice more human than animal.

Still, Emily ran, heart pounding.

The next day, Paperback Santa was gone, replaced by a hastily written note on the bookstore window: Some stories are best left unfinished. Merry Christmas.

Emily left Virginia City with more questions than answers, and every once in a while, she picks up the old copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and wonders if she had imagined it all.