I have Van Gogh’s ear in an antique glass jar on my Special Gift shelf. It’s a hideous thing, mottled and misshapen like a rotten Smyrna fig. I stole it on a whim from a collector of oddities in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Don’t tell Mr. Nicholas; he’s a stickler for the rules. The jar is sealed with a red wax seal and imprinted with a date: December 25th. Serendipity.
It has a pedigree of dubious provenance, a list of previous caretakers, names and dates, each entry hand-lettered in calligraphy on textured parchment, and each page stained with bloody tears. Artists one and all, now long dead and unremembered. Why owning it destroyed them I cannot fathom, but it has, and thoroughly. The jar occupies a favoured spot on my shelf.
And tonight I, Krampus, Mr. Nicholas’ right hand, shall decide who is next. Who deserves death? Who has earned the right to one of my cursed relics? Who will I doom this year? A taxing job, but I am well suited to it.
My long-suffering colleagues are required to wear foolish red suits and pander to children. Bells, joy, elves, etc. Pshaw…anathema!
I work on the dark side. Entrusted by the Man himself with a single glorious task: punishment. Distributing lumps of coal to inconsiderate children is a filthy nuisance, true, but much of that I can delegate. The Special Gift is the real challenge every year, and delivering the Special Gift is reserved for me alone. The rules state that it must be profoundly disturbing, peculiarly malignant, and always delivered at precisely 6:00 PM on Christmas Eve. Choosing the hapless recipient is as demanding as selecting a suitable gift. There are nuances to this work.
This choosing is a painstaking endeavour, considering the network of informants in our employ. Intelligence floods our Cloud day and night from every corner of the globe, from Timbuktu to Machu Picchu, from the Windward Isles to the Skeleton Coast, from the shores of the Atlantic ocean to the far reaches of the Pacific. Who has done what to whom, or for whom? Who has a pure heart? And who has worms of black malice gnawing at their callous souls?
I have the data on all 7.8 billion of them.
So this year, as always, I boil a kettle for tea and thumb through my mountain of notes. It is time to snoop. Hours later I have winnowed my list down to one foul candidate, and by a fluke it turns out that he is an artist.
An artist who thinks no one knows the extent of his depravity. Who imagines he moves wraithlike through the night, unseen and unheard. A ghoul who paints in blood. Children’s blood. He has talent, certainly, but he has also unwittingly come to our attention. Our minions miss nothing!
I rummage through my collection of Special Gifts in search of something fitting. Talismans and idols, the desiccated limbs of saints encased in silver, papyrus scrolls, Arabian lamps for rubbing, vials of witches’ brew for sipping…all of them cursed, all of them a death knell for the right individual. My eyes settle on the jar containing Van Gogh’s ear.
I am loathe to part with it. It soothes me, and with it near I sleep like a baby. I lift the cumbersome container and give it a vigorous shake. The ear flops up and sticks slug-like against the side of the jar, so that I can clearly observe it. An ooze of ancient wax. A lump of gristle that might once have been a lobe. A protuberance or two partially obstructing my view. A wettish, flabby spiral into shadows is all I can make out. But wait, what is that lurking in its deepest depths? A sunflower? Stars? Is it in fact paint? Or is it just crusted blood?
The ear slides back down the side of the jar and rests in a bed of slime on the thick glass bottom, its mysteries intact. Perfect.
I pull out the artist’s file and settle in for a full night of reading.
The man’s house is designed to entice children to visit. The eaves are strung with flickering lights. A festive wreath is tacked to the door. Garish inflated holiday creatures are pegged to his lawn, and fake snow has been sprayed onto the edges of his windows. I ring the bell at 5:55 PM, December 24th.
The jar is in a gift bag, the expensive kind, decorated with images of fruit. I hear footsteps approaching. The door swings open. A man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering lights. He has eyes like razors, pale, flaking skin, and flecks of spittle in the crease of his lips.
“I am Krampus,” I say, “and this is for you.” I hold the bag out to him.
His eyes narrow and he leans forward greedily to take it. Quick as a snake I shove him back inside and kick the door shut behind me. The bag slips from my hand and falls to the floor with a thud. The jar rolls into view. Its red wax seal cracks and the lid gapes open. Van Gogh’s ear slides onto the carpet, gummy and moist.
He slumps to one knee and stares at the ear.
“Look inside,” I whisper. “Look deep inside.”
He does, and his face pales in despair. He falls into a jealous rage, eyes blazing. “I will never be able to paint like that,” he screams. “Never! Never! Never!” Sobbing, he bangs his head violently against the wall, over and over again. Bloody tears bathe his face. I fill the jar to the brim, drip by oozing drip, with those blood-red tears. I retrieve a paintbrush from the gift bag and dip it in.
“Your new paint set,” I inform him cheerfully. “The only one you’ll ever use again, for all eternity. I do hope you like red.” I tip my hat. “Merry Christmas.”
by 
Lawrence Morgan
Latest posts by Lawrence Morgan (see all)
- Vincent Van Gogh’s Ear - July 16, 2021
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