It's a curious suit. Sometimes it appears to be red plush with white fur trimming. Sometimes, it's brown furs, or tanned hides. Rarely, it's a long dark cloak and broad brimmed hat, tilted low to shadow one eye while the other glints, dark as the night, cold as the snow. He has had many forms and many names, and they shift and flow around him like eddies in an ocean.

There's nothing there when the man they call Christmas lifts his hand -- but when the gloved fist falls, it knocks against a wooden blue door, over the fading echoes of twisted time, and he laughs his deep belly laugh.