Santa had scrambled down the chimney and was surprise to find a completely empty room; there was a carpet, a few pictures; but no furniture, no curtains. Santa did not do mistakes.
But there it was on his list: 'Girl, Anna 7, Dolls House, Jigsaw' and, no doubt about it, this address, the satnav on his sledge was never wrong.
He looked around the room again; did that picture flicker; the large one above the fireplace; he went over to take a look and noticed the inscription: 'Anna Thompson Aged 7 – 1898'; she was a pretty little girl. Well that was it; some elf had made a huge mistake and would pay for it; well over hundred years late was a bit much.
Santa hated lugging dolls houses up chimneys. Down was not too bad; up hateful. He packed up the dolls house and resisted giving it a kick; some little horror could have it next year. He was just pushing his sack up before him, and trying not to swear, when the girl in the picture metamorphosed into a bat; swooped down; sank its teeth into Santa's neck. Santa flailed about striking the bat with his fist; the blood mingling with his red suit. Exhausted Santa fell to the ground. A few more thumps and the bat was dead. After a few breaths he reached towards his neck and pulled out the dead bat; dropping it on the floor; where it fizzled leaving only a brown stain.
Next year Santa will have an extra little present for all the children he visits. His fangs are already starting to grow.