Daleks at Christmas
Ballykillduff Daleks and Christmas – what could possibly go wrong?
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter One — The Sleigh That Fell to Earth
Snow fell on Ballykillduff the way confetti falls on a bride—generous, glittering, and slightly chaotic. The village spruce on the hill was strung with fairy lights that blinked like patient stars. Children skidded in boots two sizes too big. Someone tuned a tin whistle painfully near the top of the scale. Declan at the pop-up mulled-punch stall kept insisting his secret spice was “none of your business,” which meant it was definitely cloves.
From the bell tower, a line of carolers, rosy-cheeked and determined, pushed into “Hark! The Herald,” and for a few minutes the world was the way people say it should be at Christmas: warm hearts, cold noses, and a sky the colour of fresh cream.
Then the sky split open.
At first it was only a chalk line high above Ballykillduff Hill—an odd scratch across the clouds. But it brightened into a spark, and then into a shower of sparks, and then into a thousand sleigh-bells ringing out of key. Heads tipped back, mouths fell open, and through that glowing tear came a sleigh, pitching and yawing like a boat in a storm, reindeer legs windmilling, gift-sacks bursting behind it like fireworks made of paper and ribbon.
“Would ye look!” cried Tommy, nearly dropping his steaming cup. “It’s—”
The sleigh thundered past the clock and skimmed the spruce, dusting the top star with frost. A red and green blur hurtled down toward Curran’s Lane, clipped the eaves of Mrs. O’Toole’s cottage (knocking her plastic Santa into a respectable hedge), and finally ploughed nose-first into a drift outside the postbox. The crash sent a wave of snow down the lane like a slow-motion avalanche, burying anything that had ever pretended to be tidy.
Silence. Then, a door on the sleigh creaked open that strictly speaking shouldn’t have been there, and out tumbled a round man in red, brushing soot from a beard that looked like it had been borrowed from a cumulonimbus.
“Ho—ah—ho,” he coughed, patting down imaginary flames. “Bit of turbulence over Rathvilly. Anyone got a map?”
“Santa?” breathed Maria, eyes big as baubles.
The man straightened with the dignity of a king who has just slipped on a banana peel and is pretending it was choreographed. His coat, singed at the hems, steamed in the cold. The reindeer shook themselves, snow exploding off their backs, harness bells rattling out a nervous rhythm.
“Father Christmas himself!” Miss Battle-Scars declared, hand over her heart. “Children, form an orderly—”
“—queue?” Tommy finished hopefully.
“—cheer,” Miss Battle-Scars corrected, because she had seen the glint in Tommy’s eye and did not trust whatever would come after “queue.”
The cheer rose, joyous, stunned, and a little unhinged. Even Declan raised his ladle like a toast.
It lasted exactly four seconds.
From the hedgerow at the bottom of Curran’s Lane came a sound unlike anything the lane had ever heard—metallic, nasal, and deeply offended.
“ALERT. ALERT. UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT.”
Four Daleks rolled out of the snow-bent hawthorns like angry ornaments someone had dropped and dented. Their domed heads swivelled; eyestalks glowed a sullen blue. Snow had dusted their casings, settling in the seams like icing. One wore, inexplicably, a loop of tinsel snagged around its midsection.
“UNAUTHORIZED AIRSPACE INTRUSION,” barked the lead Dalek, its grill flaring. “SCAN CONFIRMS: FAT HUMAN MALE IN RED ARMOUR. TARGET DESIGNATION: SANTA.”
“Be nice,” Santa murmured, hands raised, as if calming a frightened pony. “No need for labels.”
“CLASSIFY: INTERSTELLAR CONTRABANDIST. REINDEER ARE BIOLOGICAL VEHICLES. SLEIGH IS UNREGISTERED WARP DEVICE. HOLIDAY IS A CULTURAL VIRUS.”
“Ah now,” said Mrs. O’Toole, stepping forward, handbag cocked like a weapon. “You’ll watch your mouth about Christmas, you pepper-pots.”
The Daleks swivelled as one. “DISRESPECT FOR AUTHORITY DETECTED.”
A dozen villagers collectively inhaled, cheeks whiting in the cold. Somewhere, a tin whistle lost heart and squeaked into silence.
“Let’s keep it festive,” Santa suggested, as if he were the chair of a committee meeting ten minutes from mutiny. “I’ve a tight schedule, you see.”
“YOU WILL SURRENDER THE REINDEER,” said another Dalek, trundling closer. “THEY WILL BE REFITTED FOR EFFICIENT HAULAGE. THE FAT HUMAN WILL BE INTERROGATED. ALL TOYS WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-ATED.”
The last word cracked the night like a whip. The fairy lights on the spruce jittered and steadied. Two children started to cry.
“Exter—min—what?” Tommy asked, but Miss Battle-Scars had already grabbed his hood and yanked him back behind a snowbank, eyes wide in a face usually only that stern during spelling tests.
The lead Dalek angled its gun-stick at the sky and fired. The beam sizzled a halo out of falling snow and vaporised a string of fairy lights. Glass chimed as it fell.
“Rude,” Santa said. “Very rude.”
Another shot took off the nose of a snowman. He looked suddenly worried about his place in the world.
“CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ARE ILLOGICAL,” the Dalek declaimed. “ILLOGICAL THINGS WILL BE DESTROYED.”
“Like your manners,” Mrs. O’Toole muttered, winding the strap of her handbag around her fist.
Around the lane, the Daleks fanned out, forming a metal semicircle between the sleigh and the hill. Their tracks etched tidy patterns in the drift—tidy in the way of a bureaucrat’s desk, terrifying in implication. The smallest one—a squat unit with a dented shoulder plate—stared up at the reindeer as if trying to map them onto a spreadsheet.
“QUERY,” it buzzed. “WHICH END IS THE FRONT.”
“Rudolph,” Santa whispered, calm as a hearth. “Don’t laugh.”
Rudolph did not laugh, but his nose pulsed softly, as if composing itself.
“People of Ballykillduff,” Santa called, hands raised for quiet, as if starting school assembly. “All will be well. We’ve faced worse than a few grumpy pepper mills, haven’t we?”
“They’ve got lasers,” said Declan, which was fair.
The lead Dalek glided forward until its eyestalk filled Santa’s reflection with a tiny red-coated figure. “TRANSMIT THE LOCATION OF THE TOY FACTORY,” it ordered. “CONFIRM MANUFACTURING CAPACITY. SURRENDER ELVES. ELVES WILL BE REPURPOSED.”
“Repurposed as what?” Santa asked gently.
“ADMINISTRATORS,” said the Dalek, with relish. “THEY WILL FILL FORMS.”
A shudder ran through the crowd. Even the idea of paperwork at Christmas seemed like a war crime.
Santa sighed, as if feeling every December he had ever carried. “My friends, I can’t do that.”
“NON-COMPLIANCE DETECTED,” the Dalek shrieked, rising imperceptibly on its suspension, “EX-TER—”
“Now hold on!”
The voice came from the far end of the lane, young and outraged. Tommy burst from cover, skidding on packed snow, cheeks ablaze. Maria pelted after him, scarf streaming.
“Tommy—!” Miss Battle-Scars hissed, but he’d already scooped a double handful of snow and hurled it at the nearest Dalek. It hit with a satisfying whump, sliding over the grill and oozing into the seams.
“UNSANCTIONED PRECIPITATION!” the Dalek barked, reversing, flailing its plunger like a panicked squid. “SENSORS OBSTRUCTED. VISIBILITY—VISI—”
“Ha!” Tommy punched the air.
“Language,” Santa said mildly, but there was a spark in his eye.
It was the spark that did it—the shift from embarrassment to mischief, from mischief to a plan. Around the lane, you could feel it take, like flame to kindling. Villagers straightened. Audacity warmed them faster than Declan’s punch. Mrs. O’Toole took one step forward, then another, her handbag in front like a shield. The carolers—God bless them—picked a key and found their courage again.
“Once in royal—” they began, and if there was fear in their voices it braided well with hope.
The Daleks didn’t like that.
“CEASE ACOUSTIC TRANSMISSION,” the lead one snapped. “SINGING IS A SPREADING AGENT OF IRRATIONALITY.”
“Then you’re going to hate verse two,” said Maria, and she threw a snowball that split neatly into two midair and spattered a Dalek’s eyestalk.
“TARGET: CHILD,” it droned, swinging its gun.
The world sharpened. Miss Battle-Scars lunged, dragging Maria down. Mrs. O’Toole surged forward as if she were forty years younger. Declan hurled a ladle of scalding punch which steamed off a Dalek’s casing and fogged its lens. The reindeer snorted, hooves striking sparks on cobbles hidden beneath the snow.
Santa moved.
For a big man, he moved like a dancer: three steps and he was between Maria and the Dalek, coat flaring, arms wide.
“That’s quite enough,” he said, the kind of voice that could stop a blizzard to take attendance. “You will not use that thing on a child.”
The Dalek hesitated, because somewhere deep down beneath layers of orders and logic and hate, even metal can feel a weight when it is put on it properly.
“PRIMARY OBJECTIVE,” it insisted, weaker. “EX—TER—”
A new sound cut through—thin at first, then rising like a comet’s tail. It came from the front of the sleigh, from a nose that had guided a thousand midnights home. Rudolph lowered his head, and the red light building there tasted of cinnamon and frost and the first time you ever believed in anything.
Santa didn’t take his eyes off the Daleks. “Rudolph,” he said quietly, as if asking a friend to hold a door. “On my mark.”
The villagers felt the hum in their ribs. Fairy lights flickered as if bowing. Snowflakes turned in the air to watch.
“ATTENTION,” the lead Dalek barked, rallying, “NEUTRALIZE THE LIGHT SOURCE. NEUT—”
“Wait,” said Santa, as if making a point at a parish meeting and also holding back the sea. He turned his head just enough to see the village—his village for tonight, as all villages are his for one night only—children huddled behind barrels, Miss Battle-Scars squared up like a general, Mrs. O’Toole incandescent.
He smiled, the particular kind of smile that knows a secret and is about to share it with the whole world.
“Ballykillduff,” he called, not loud, but the winds hushed to hear it. “Would you mind giving us a bit of hope?”
A murmur, then a swell—the kind of sound that’s bigger than throats. Someone began, “Silent night…” timid, alone. Another joined, and another. By the second line the village had found itself: old voices cracked, young ones soared, the tin whistle—brave creature—piped an octave that had not been invented yet.
“IRRATIONALITY INCREASING,” warned the Dalek with the dented shoulder, backing up, voice skating between registers. “AFFECTIVE CONTAGION DETECTED.”
“Mark,” Santa breathed.
Rudolph’s nose ignited.
Not a beam, at first—a dawn. Red that wasn’t just red but every hearth ever, every coal glowing in the grate while boots steamed on the mat, every tail-light on a lonely road that meant the ones you loved were finally home. It pooled across the sleigh, swept the lane, lit the curve of the spruce and the edges of the bells on the reindeer harness, turned the metal of the Daleks to blood-warm bronze.
Then it focused.
The light drew itself into a spear so bright it painted shadows in white. The Daleks’ sensors screamed. Snow cracked like glass. The hum became a chord became a roar.
“COUNTERMEASURES,” the lead Dalek shrieked, flinging power to shields that stuttered under the carol-fuelled blaze. “DEPLOY—DEP—”
Santa winked at Ballykillduff as if they were all in on the same mischief, which—miracle of miracles—they were.
“Don’t worry,” he said, just loud enough to fold into the song. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
The red spear leapt.
—
To be continued…
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Two — Tinsel Wars
The red spear of Rudolph’s nose burst across the lane, striking the lead Dalek square in its eyestalk. There was a hiss, a spark, and a noise like a kettle having an argument with itself. The Dalek reeled backward, its casing glowing as though someone had shoved a Christmas pudding full of brandy beneath its shell.
“VISUAL INPUT COMPROMISED,” it shrieked, spinning in circles. “ASSISTANCE REQUIRED! ASSIST—CRASHHHH!”
It toppled sideways into a snowbank, where Mrs. O’Toole immediately buried it deeper with her handbag, shovelling snow over its head like she was tucking in a naughty child.
But the others rallied.
“TARGET: REINDEER,” barked the Dalek with the dented shoulder plate. Its gunstick fired, missing Rudolph but slicing straight through the spruce tree. The lights fizzed, then snapped out as the great Christmas tree groaned and fell sideways. Villagers screamed and scrambled clear.
“OUR TREE!” Declan wailed, dropping his ladle. “Do ye know how long it took to haggle that off the Rathvilly lads?”
“EX-TER-MIN-ATE DECORATIONS!” another Dalek screeched, firing wildly. Fairy lights exploded in showers of sparks. A row of snowmen lost their heads—literally. Mince pies vaporised mid-air in clouds of cinnamon-scented dust.
Ballykillduff had never seen such sacrilege.
“Oh, they’ve gone too far now,” muttered Mrs. O’Toole, shaking snow out of her hat. “Come on, lads!”
And so began the strangest battle Carlow had ever known.
Snowballs flew first—dozens, then hundreds. The children pelted Daleks with icy missiles that splattered across their grills. The Daleks wheeled about furiously, unable to see properly.
“ILLOGICAL PROJECTILES! ILLOGICAL!” one bellowed, slipping on its own melting pile of snow.
The carolers, never ones to waste momentum, armed themselves with hymnals. “Joy to the World!” they roared, hurling books like holy grenades. A thick leather-bound Psalter clanged off a Dalek dome with a THWONG that echoed down Curran’s Lane.
Declan grabbed his punch cauldron, swinging it like a warhammer. Steam and cloves sloshed everywhere. “Come on ye pepperpots! Have a taste o’ Christmas spirit!”
Miss Battle-Scars, refusing to be left out, snapped her umbrella open and jabbed a Dalek in its side panel. “For discipline and order!” she cried, before getting spun halfway round like a maypole when the Dalek shoved back.
Through the chaos, Santa was moving, ducking and weaving like a man who’d dodged chimneys all his life. He lifted Maria into the sleigh for safety, ruffled Tommy’s hair, and barked, “Stay low, lad, and keep those snowballs coming!”
But the Daleks were not finished. Two of them bracketed the sleigh, hemming Santa in.
“CAPTURE THE FAT MAN,” the dented one buzzed. “HE CONTAINS DATA. EX-TRACT. EX-TER-MIN-ATE.”
Gunsticks rose. Rudolph growled, stamping his hooves. The reindeer tugged at the harness, ready to bolt.
Santa raised both hands. “Now, now, let’s not get drastic. Christmas isn’t about violence.”
The Daleks advanced anyway.
Before he could react, a grappling hook shot from one Dalek’s casing—clearly a new attachment—and clamped onto the sleigh. The other Dalek fired a tractor beam, crackling green, that wrapped Santa in light.
“NO!” Maria screamed, but Santa only gave her a quick wink as he was dragged, sleigh and all, down Curran’s Lane toward the hedgerows.
“TARGET ACQUIRED. RETURN TO SHIP,” the Daleks chorused.
The villagers gave chase, shouting, hurling snowballs, waving handbags and hymnals. But the metal monsters were fast, faster than anyone expected in the snow, and they vanished into the trees with their prisoner.
The sleigh disappeared. The hoofprints ended. Silence dropped on Ballykillduff like a bell jar.
Santa was gone.
Miss Battle-Scars steadied the villagers with a whistle blast that nearly froze the ears off Tommy. “Stay calm!” she barked. “We regroup, we plan, and we don’t panic!”
“Don’t panic?” Mrs. O’Toole gasped. “They’ve kidnapped Father Christmas! If he doesn’t get out, there’ll be no presents, no puddings—no Christmas!”
“Exactly,” said Declan, eyes wide. “And if Christmas is gone, what’ll happen to January sales?”
The villagers fell silent, the horror dawning.
Tommy clenched his fists. “We’ve got to save him.”
Maria nodded fiercely. “We’ll go after him. We’ll bring Santa back.”
“But where?” someone asked.
A low hum answered. From the hilltop, lights flickered in the clouds. A circular shadow began to descend, blotting the moon. The ground trembled.
Every villager turned, eyes wide, as the Dalek saucer lowered itself above Ballykillduff Hill, its underbelly glowing with green fire.
“Holy saints,” Mrs. O’Toole whispered. “They’ve brought their blasted spaceship.”
The ship’s loudspeakers crackled, and a voice boomed across the snow:
“ATTENTION HUMANS OF BALLYKILLDUFF. YOUR LEADER HAS BEEN TAKEN. CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.”
The villagers gasped.
Maria whispered, pale, “They’ve got Santa.”
Tommy’s jaw set stubbornly. “Then we’ll just have to get him back.”
Cliffhanger: The Daleks have Santa as a prisoner aboard their ship. Can Ballykillduff mount a rescue in time—or will Christmas be truly exterminated?
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Three — Prisoner in the Pepper Pot Ship
The Dalek saucer hung over Ballykillduff Hill like an overturned frying pan, humming with alien menace. Its underside glowed with sickly green light that turned the snow into a field of lime jelly. The villagers huddled below, watching as Santa’s sleigh was reeled up into its belly. With a final groan of iron chains, the hatch sealed shut.
Inside, the air smelled of burnt metal and disinfectant. The walls pulsed faintly, like the inside of a giant mechanical lung. Santa was marched—well, hovered—down a corridor by two Daleks, their gunsticks pointed squarely at his midriff.
“MOVE. MOVE. NON-COMPLIANCE WILL RESULT IN—”
“Yes, yes, extermination, I’ve heard,” Santa muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’re a very one-note crowd, aren’t you? Ever try saying ‘Merry Christmas’ instead?”
“IRRATIONAL PHRASE. BANISHED.”
They shoved him into a chamber that looked half laboratory, half accountant’s office. Cables dangled from the ceiling like icicles. In the centre stood a chair cobbled together from bicycle frames and old typewriter keys.
“SEAT YOURSELF,” ordered the lead Dalek. “YOU WILL BE INTERROGATED.”
Santa sat down heavily, beard bristling. “All right then. Fire away. But I’ll warn you: I never reveal secrets. Except recipes. My plum pudding is to die for.”
The Daleks ignored him. A screen lit up on the wall, displaying the stern dome of the Dalek Supreme, painted black with golden slats that gleamed like wicked tinsel.
“SUBJECT: CLAUS,” the Supreme intoned. “CONFIRM LOCATION OF TOY FACTORY. ELVES WILL BE REPURPOSED FOR ADMINISTRATIVE LABOUR. ALL MANUFACTURE OF GIFTS WILL BE CONVERTED TO WEAPONRY. CHRISTMAS WILL BE… DELETED.”
Santa leaned back, folding his arms. “Not a chance. Christmas isn’t mine to delete. It belongs to every child, every village—aye, even to you lot, though you wouldn’t admit it.”
“ILLOGICAL SENTIMENT,” the Supreme snapped. “BEGIN DATA EXTRACTION.”
Mechanical arms descended, bristling with probes, saws, and one suspiciously large turkey baster.
Santa raised an eyebrow. “You’ll get nothing out of me. Not unless you’re after biscuit crumbs.”
The arms whirred closer.
Meanwhile, down below, Ballykillduff was in uproar.
Declan slammed his ladle down on a table in the pub, where the villagers had gathered. “We can’t just sit here sipping punch! They’ve nabbed Santa! If he doesn’t deliver tonight, the whole world’s finished.”
Mrs. O’Toole adjusted her hat with grim determination. “I’ll not have my grandchildren waking up to no presents. We’re going up there.”
“Up there?” gasped Maria. “How?”
Miss Battle-Scars snapped her umbrella shut with a military click. “We’ll infiltrate. Disguises. Strategy. Discipline.”
“Or,” Tommy said, grinning, “we could just sneak in as carol singers.”
There was a pause.
“That… might actually work,” Maria admitted.
And so it was decided.
Minutes later, a ragtag group of villagers stumbled through the snow toward the hill, dressed in scarves and hats, clutching hymn books, tinsel draped round their shoulders. From a distance, they looked like nothing more than a cheery choir braving the cold. Hidden inside their baskets, however, were weapons of war: exploding mince pies, puddings packed with cloves, and Mrs. O’Toole’s handbag, reinforced with a brick.
“Remember,” Miss Battle-Scars hissed, “sing as if your lives depend on it. Which they do.”
They began with O Come, All Ye Faithful, trudging steadily into the eerie green glow.
Above, the Dalek saucer’s hatch began to open.
Inside, Santa gritted his teeth as the probes closed in.
“LAST CHANCE,” the Dalek Supreme growled. “SURRENDER THE LOCATION OF THE NORTH POLE.”
Santa’s eyes twinkled despite the danger. “You lot wouldn’t last a minute up there. The elves would run circles round you.”
Just then, faintly, through the walls of the ship, came a sound. Thin, muffled, but unmistakable.
“Sing, choirs of angels…”
The Daleks stiffened. “ALERT. UNAUTHORIZED HARMONICS DETECTED.”
Santa’s smile widened. “Ah,” he murmured. “Right on time.”
Cliffhanger: The villagers are about to sing their way aboard the Dalek ship… but will their carols be enough to fool the deadliest pepper pots in the galaxy?
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Four — Attack of the Gingerbread Army
The Dalek saucer’s hatch yawned wide, spilling green light across the snowy hill. Out of the glow trudged Ballykillduff’s “choir,” led by Miss Battle-Scars like a general marshalling her troops. Their scarves flapped, their hymnals trembled, their voices rose against the whine of alien machinery.
“Sing, choirs of angels…”
Inside the command chamber, alarms shrieked. Daleks wheeled in frantic circles.
“UNSANCTIONED MELODY DETECTED. EXTINGUISH SOURCE!”
“No!” barked the Supreme. “ANALYZE FIRST. MELODY MAY BE… WEAPONIZED.”
Santa chuckled from his chair of bicycle parts. “Oh, you’ve no idea.”
The choir reached the base of the saucer. A beam of light swept across them, scanning from woolly hats to boot soles. The villagers froze mid-verse.
“IDENTIFY,” demanded a Dalek voice from above.
Declan, sweating, nudged Mrs. O’Toole. She shoved him back. Miss Battle-Scars hissed, “Sing louder!”
So they did—belting out O Come, All Ye Faithful at a volume Ballykillduff hadn’t heard since the All-Ireland final. The hatch hissed. Against all logic, the Daleks seemed… hesitant.
“QUERY,” muttered one guard Dalek. “POSSIBLE FESTIVE DELEGATION?”
The Supreme rasped back: “ALLOW ENTRY. CAPTURE FOR STUDY.”
The choir shuffled inside.
It was like walking into a furnace of steel and shadows. Daleks lined the corridor, their eyestalks swivelling in perfect synchrony. The choir sang louder, voices bouncing off the walls. Maria clutched her hymn book so tightly her knuckles turned white. Tommy, hiding behind her, grinned nervously—he loved when plans were mad enough to just about work.
Then it didn’t.
From the bottom of Maria’s basket slipped a gingerbread man. Not just any gingerbread man, but one baked with Santa’s enchanted flour—rescued from his sack during the crash. It hit the floor with a soft plop.
The Daleks froze.
“UNIDENTIFIED BIOLOGICAL LIFEFORM DETECTED.”
The gingerbread man twitched. Then it stood. It had raisin eyes, an icing smile, and a candy-cane sword clutched in one hand.
“ATTACK!” it squeaked, and charged straight at the Daleks.
What happened next defied every manual the Daleks had ever compiled.
From every basket, crate, and pocket, enchanted toys tumbled free: gingerbread soldiers marching in neat lines, nutcrackers with gleaming jaws snapping shut, tin trains chugging furiously on invisible tracks, dolls singing out-of-tune carols that made Dalek circuits waver.
The corridor erupted into chaos.
“ILLOGICAL ASSAILANTS! ILLOGICAL!” screamed one Dalek as gingerbread men swarmed up its casing, smacking it with candy-cane clubs.
Another Dalek blasted a toy drum, only for it to burst into fifty smaller drums that rolled under its base and rattled until the machine tipped over.
Nutcrackers marched, clamping their jaws on plunger arms. Wind-up monkeys clattered cymbals in a deafening rhythm that jammed targeting sensors.
The villagers roared in triumph. Tommy whooped, pelting another gingerbread man into the fray like a grenade. Maria hurled baubles that exploded in showers of glitter, shorting Dalek eyestalks. Even Miss Battle-Scars admitted, grimly, “Not the worst plan.”
Deep in the chamber, Santa heard the commotion and leaned forward, beard bristling with pride.
“Sounds like my backup’s arrived,” he said.
“REPORT!” bellowed the Supreme.
“WE ARE UNDER ATTACK,” came the reply. “TINY HUMANOID BISCUITS. ADVANCING. RELENTLESS.”
“IM-POSS-IBLE!” screamed the Supreme. “INITIATE COUNTERMEASURE DELTA.”
Panels in the walls hissed open. From them stomped something new: a reindeer. But not a real one—an enormous, mechanical beast forged of Dalek steel, with glowing eyes and antlers tipped with blades.
“DEPLOY: CYBER-REINDEER,” the Supreme ordered. “ERADICATE THE BISCUITS.”
The ground shook as the metal monster snorted steam and pawed the floor. Its eyes locked onto the villagers and their gingerbread army.
Cliffhanger: The villagers have unleashed enchanted gingerbread chaos, but now a giant Dalek-engineered cyber-reindeer is stomping toward them. Can Ballykillduff’s homemade army possibly stand against it?
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Five — The Ghost of Christmas Extermination
The cyber-reindeer’s hooves slammed into the saucer’s deck, rattling rivets loose from the ceiling. Sparks cascaded. The gingerbread army faltered, their candy-cane swords clattering nervously. Villagers stumbled back against the metal walls as the thing’s glowing antlers carved fiery scratches into the floor.
“CYBER-REINDEER ACTIVATED,” droned the Daleks. “ALL FESTIVE RESISTANCE WILL BE TRAMPLED.”
The beast lowered its bladed antlers, steam venting from its nose like two boiling kettles. It pawed the ground and let out a metallic bellow that shook the corridor.
“Oh, saints preserve us,” whispered Mrs. O’Toole, clutching her handbag tight. “We’ll be minced.”
Declan took one look at the monster, then at his ladle. “Not exactly fair odds.”
The cyber-reindeer charged.
And then—cold.
The lights flickered, dimmed, and died. Green glow faded to shadows. The whole saucer groaned like a tomb door opening.
A chill swept the corridor, cutting through wool and bone alike. Candles guttered though no candle was there. The villagers shivered and turned their heads.
From the shadows drifted figures. Pale. Wispy. Half-formed. They glided through the Dalek walls as though the steel were only mist.
“Spirits,” Maria breathed, eyes wide. “The ghosts of Ballykillduff.”
First came Old Man McGinty, his cap still pulled low, his translucent pint sloshing endlessly though he never took a sip. He grumbled about “the price of porter in the afterlife.” Behind him floated Sister Ignatia, ruler of the old schoolroom, ruler still, her ruler in hand ready to rap knuckles—even spectral ones. And then came the nameless farmer from the famine years, carrying his spade, eyes hollow but kind.
The Daleks froze. “NON-MATERIAL ENTITIES DETECTED. ANALYSIS IMPOSSIBLE.”
The ghosts moved between villagers and the cyber-reindeer, forming a wavering line.
“You’ll not trample Ballykillduff while we’ve a whisper left,” McGinty said, his voice like the wind through old gravestones.
The cyber-reindeer bellowed again and charged straight at them—only to crash through McGinty’s form as though through smoke. But the ghost twisted, and his cold hand brushed its flank. The beast staggered, systems shuddering as frost crackled up its steel legs.
Daleks shrieked. “ILL-LOGICAL! INTRUSION DETECTED IN MECHANI-CAL FRAME.”
But the air grew colder still.
From deeper shadows, another shape emerged—taller, darker, cloaked in black frost. Its face was hidden beneath a hood of night. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
Even Santa, chained in the command chamber, felt it. His eyes widened as the temperature dropped further still. “So they’ve come,” he whispered.
The ghost lifted a skeletal hand, and all sound in the corridor died. Even the cyber-reindeer froze, locked in its tracks, steam stiffening into icicles at its nostrils.
The villagers clutched each other.
“What… what does it want?” Tommy whispered.
The hood turned. Beneath, only void. A voice spoke without sound, sliding directly into every mind:
This is the future without Christmas.
In their heads, the villagers saw it: empty mornings, stockings limp, laughter gone, children silent. Streets with no lights, hearths with no warmth, shops bare of colour. A planet ruled by Dalek logic, where cheer was outlawed and hope exterminated.
Santa groaned, bowing his head. “They’re showing them the truth.”
The Daleks flailed. “PSYCHIC INTERFERENCE! SYSTEMS DESTABILIZING!”
The cyber-reindeer buckled to its knees, frost tearing up its frame.
But the Ghost was not finished. It turned its hand toward Santa. The vision shifted—now he saw himself, chained forever, the North Pole reduced to a factory of Dalek weapons, elves bound to endless paperwork. He saw the sack of toys torn apart, his sleigh in ruins, the joy of centuries undone.
Santa’s breath caught. His jolly eyes dulled. “If we lose tonight,” he whispered, “the world wakes tomorrow to nothing at all.”
The ghost lowered its hand. The vision vanished, leaving only silence, heavy as a grave.
Then Sister Ignatia clapped her spectral ruler against her palm, sharp as lightning. “Not while Ballykillduff stands,” she declared.
The villagers roared with sudden courage. Tommy hurled a snowball into a Dalek’s eyestalk. Maria raised her hymn book like a sword. Declan swung his ladle with renewed fury.
Mrs. O’Toole stepped forward, pointing her handbag straight at the Supreme’s image on the screen. “Not this Christmas, you rust buckets. Not ever.”
Cliffhanger: With ghosts on their side and the cyber-reindeer faltering, Ballykillduff has one chance to fight back—but the Daleks are preparing to unleash their deadliest weapon yet.
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Six — Rooftop Rumble
The cyber-reindeer collapsed with a clang, its metal legs buckling under ghost-frost. Steam hissed from its joints as gingerbread men swarmed over it, crowning themselves on its antlers like conquering heroes.
But the Daleks were not defeated.
“DEPLOY ULTIMATE STRATEGY,” shrieked the Dalek Supreme from its screen. “RELEASE THE SLEIGH!”
Chains snapped. Santa’s sleigh, still clamped in the chamber, shuddered as rockets unfolded from its sides—Dalek modifications, sharp and angular. A tractor beam wrapped Santa, yanking him back into the seat, reins pressed into his hands.
“YOU WILL PILOT THE SLEIGH,” the Supreme commanded. “DELIVER DALEK WEAPONRY ACROSS EARTH. THE FESTIVE PERIOD WILL BEGIN WITH PLANETARY DOMINATION.”
Santa gritted his teeth. “Over my pudding body.”
Rudolph pawed the deck, nostrils blazing. The other reindeer snorted, straining against their harnesses.
And then, in a surge of jingling bells, the sleigh blasted free.
The hatch blew open, showering Ballykillduff Hill in sparks. Out roared the sleigh, reindeer straining, Santa gripping the reins tight. But attached to its rear—clinging like furious baubles—were three Daleks on rocket boosters, their domes glowing with rage.
“PURSUIT MODE ENGAGED. DESTROY THE FAT MAN.”
The villagers below gasped and pointed. Above the thatched rooftops, sleigh and Daleks weaved between chimneys, sparks and snow swirling together.
“Come on, lads!” Santa roared, urging the reindeer. They shot forward, skimming the church steeple.
Laser fire crackled behind. Tiles shattered. Mrs. O’Toole’s thatch went up in smoke, only for Old Man McGinty’s ghost to pour spectral porter on it, extinguishing the blaze with a hiss.
Tommy and Maria, not to be left behind, clambered onto a lower rooftop. “He’ll never manage alone!” Maria shouted.
Tommy cupped his hands. “Go, Santa! We’ll back you!” And with a well-aimed pitch, he flung a snowball so hard it clocked a Dalek square in its eyestalk.
The Dalek swerved wildly, jetpack sputtering. “VISIBILITY COMPROMISED. TRAJECTORY UNSTABLE—” It spiralled into Mrs. O’Toole’s clothesline, got tangled in long johns, and crashed into a hay cart.
The villagers cheered.
But the other two Daleks weren’t so clumsy. They rose higher, locking onto the sleigh. Their gunsticks glowed, ready to fire.
Santa pulled hard on the reins, swerving over the spruce tree stump. “Hold fast, my friends!”
Rudolph’s nose blazed, unleashing a beam of red light that scorched across the rooftops, forcing the Daleks to split formation. One fired wildly, blasting a hole straight through Declan’s punch cauldron below. Mulled spice rained like hot rain, and Declan wailed, “That was my last cloves!”
The chase roared on. Sleigh and Daleks looped around the clock tower, reindeer hooves sparking on slate. One Dalek nearly clipped the tower bell, which began tolling madly as though the church itself had joined the fight.
“CHRISTMAS WILL BE CANCELLED,” screeched the lead pursuer.
“Not while I’m breathing,” Santa bellowed, and snapped the reins. The sleigh surged upward, higher, higher, trailing sparks.
The Daleks followed. Villagers craned their necks, watching the silhouettes vanish into the snowy clouds.
For a moment, only silence. Then—
A colossal BOOM. The sky lit with fire. Santa’s sleigh spun out of the clouds, smoking, one side torn open by a blast. The reindeer fought for balance, bells jangling in panic.
“HE’S GOING DOWN!” Tommy cried.
The sleigh twisted, losing altitude, tumbling toward Ballykillduff Hill. Behind it, Daleks streaked in fiery pursuit.
Snow whipped the ground into a frenzy as the sleigh plummeted, sparks raining like stars. Santa clung to the reins, jaw set.
“Hold, lads! Just a bit longer!”
But the hill rushed closer. Too close.
Cliffhanger: Santa’s sleigh, damaged and blazing, is crashing back toward Ballykillduff Hill with Daleks hot on his tail. Will he survive the fall—or will Christmas end in flames?
Santa vs. the Daleks
A Ballykillduff Christmas Serial Special
Chapter Seven — The Last Present
The sleigh spun, sparks hissing from broken struts. Reindeer strained at the harness, wings of frost streaming from their hooves as they fought the plummet.
“Steady, lads!” Santa bellowed, smoke stinging his beard. “We’ve one chance left!”
With a final heave, the sleigh skimmed the roof of Miss Battle-Scars’ schoolhouse, scattering tiles like confetti, and smashed down into the village square. The crash sent snow flying in a wave that buried half the spruce stump and knocked Mrs. O’Toole straight onto her handbag.
The sleigh skidded to a halt, reindeer trembling but upright. Santa rolled out, brushing off soot. His coat was scorched, but his eyes still blazed.
Above, two Daleks swooped down like vultures.
“TARGET SECURED. TERMINATE NOW.”
The villagers gathered round Santa, weapons in hand—snowballs, hymnals, ladles, handbags, even a tin of stale biscuits. Tommy and Maria pushed to the front, faces set.
“We won’t let you have him,” Maria declared.
The Daleks’ gunsticks rose, glowing.
Santa reached into his sack. But this time, there was no shower of gingerbread men, no wind-up toys. Just one small, unwrapped parcel glowing faintly in the bottom.
“The last present,” Santa whispered. “I was saving it.”
He held it aloft. The box pulsed brighter, spilling gold light over the snow. The Daleks froze, their sensors buzzing.
“UNIDENTIFIED ENERGY SOURCE. ANALYSIS REQUIRED.”
The box split open.
From within erupted not fire, not frost, but song. Pure, unearthly music poured out—every carol ever sung, every laugh at every Christmas table, every child’s gasp at stockings filled. It rang from the rooftops, soared through the clouds, and set the spruce stump glowing as if the tree still stood.
The villagers gasped, then joined in. They sang with it, voices weaving into the light.
“Joy to the world, the Lord is come…”
The Daleks convulsed, casings sparking.
“ILL-LOGICAL… ILLOG—AAAGH!” One spun helplessly, crashing into the pub wall. The other shrieked, “EX-TER-MIN-ATED… BY IRRATIONALITY!” before its circuits blew in a shower of sparks.
The square blazed brighter and brighter until the Dalek ship overhead quivered, groaned, and simply… dissolved into the night like mist at dawn.
Silence. Then cheer erupted. Villagers hugged, laughed, sobbed. Mrs. O’Toole swung her handbag triumphantly in the air. Declan raised what was left of his ladle. Miss Battle-Scars even allowed herself a smile.
The ghosts faded, nodding once before slipping back to their shadows. McGinty tipped his cap. Sister Ignatia wagged her ruler. And the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come turned its hood toward Santa, then vanished with a whisper that might have been approval.
Santa wiped his brow, weary but grinning. “Well, my friends,” he said, “you’ve saved Christmas.”
Rudolph pawed the snow, nose glowing proudly. The reindeer jingled their bells, stamping in triumph.
“Will you manage the deliveries?” Maria asked, eyes wide.
Santa chuckled. “With a little help.”
And sure enough, ropes dangled from the sleigh. Tied to them, battered and begrudging, were the surviving Daleks, dragged along like the world’s angriest Christmas baubles.
“UNFAIR. UNFAIR,” they grumbled. “WE ARE NOT REINDEER.”
Santa winked. “Tonight you are.”
The villagers roared with laughter as the sleigh lifted once more, rising into the snowy sky.
Bells echoed. The lights steadied. Ballykillduff glowed with triumph.
Mrs. O’Toole, dusting off her coat, sipped from a rescued flask and declared:
“Well, if they’re going to exterminate anything, let it be the January sales.”
🎄 The End. 🎄
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 