The crash is so loud; I hear it above the buzz of my kids’ electric toothbrushes. 

My five-year-old Sasha gasps, sending white spittle flying in every direction.

“Santa only comes if we’re asleep. Everyone, hurry!” She flings her Spider Gwen toothbrush at the mirror and runs to her bedroom.

We haven’t read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas yet. It would be funny if it weren’t for that sound. I look at my husband, but he isn’t laughing; he heard it too. It wasn’t reindeer’s hooves. 

Even Toby, my eight-year-old, is less amused. His gaze shifts between us, foam on his lips. “Finish brushing and go to bed, buddy,” I say. “That was probably nothing. Right, Dad?” 

“Sure. Random-ass junk falling in the wind. I’ll check it out. Don’t worry.” Justin pats him on the shoulder, but he’s not very convincing.  

Toby spits and completes the process. After giving hugs, he trots into his room.  

Justin stares at me and I know he’s nervous by the iciness of his blue eyes, but we have to investigate the sound. He squeezes my hand and leads the way down the stairs. We slip into boots and put heavy coats on over our matching pajamas to brave the subzero temperatures and the slush left behind by the kids’ playing earlier.  

Outside, we verify no sleigh slammed into our roof and the inflatable decorations lining the front lawn are still glowing. We move on and head to the garage, checking the side for anything amiss. The trashcans are upright and the ride-on toys line the fence as usual. When we wind up in the backyard, however, we stop dead in our tracks.  

Something has carved a massive crater into the ground. At it’s center rests a gleaming, silver orb. We can tell it has fallen out of the sky, but it’s not Santa’s sleigh. The vessel is a triangular-shaped spaceship and must measure twelve feet on each side. Weird, florescent yellow lights flash along the outer edge in repeating patterns. Smoke wafts out of the depression in thick, black streams.   

“What the fuck!” escapes my mouth. 

Justin sticks with, “Holy shit!” 

It isn’t like I hold a disbelief in UFOs, more like I haven’t given them much thought, and I don’t know if Justin has either. Maybe the universe is too big to be empty, but I never gave any brain space to one of its citizens landing in my backyard. I need time to reconcile my worldview. 

But I won’t get it. While I’m still standing with my gob hanging in a wide o, a hatch on the ship springs open and a lanky figure emerges. It’s covered in dark green scales, with a flat, triangular face, and pointed nose that resembles a snake. It wears a tight-fitted suit of dull silver fabric that reflects the light differently than any terrestrial material. Stumbling out of the craft, it notices us staring and lumbers our way. A tightness rises in my stomach, but I’m unable to move a muscle. 

The alien stops a yard away. “Drogba,” it intones in a voice that sounds too deep and raspy to have originated in its throat.  

Justin and I exchange bewildered looks, then direct our focus on the creature. We repeat what it said phonetically as best we can with our palms raised in a parody of an old Western movie. 

Gesticulating in a turmoil of motions, it says the word again, accentuating each syllable.  

“A-Abigale,” I stutter, patting my chest as an afterthought. Then I tap my husband. “Juh-stin.”  

The visitor utters a series of subvocal grunts as it makes choppy gestures that might signify frustration. It leads me to believe I have not guessed its name. 

Its small, dark eyes widen and its features seem to relax. Its legs bend in s-curves as it stoops to its knees and picks up a scoop of fluffy, white powder. Holding out a handful, it utters a sentence that ends on the same note. 

Justin’s eyebrows jump and he sounds intrigued. “That’s snow.” 

The towering hulk takes some between its claws and makes a snowball. Even after it’s formed, it keeps compressing the sphere while staring at us. It repeats the same thing while squeezing. 

With no other direction, I bend over and start forming my own snowballs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Justin demands. 

“I don’t know!”

The entity also responds with unmistakable frustration. It bats the compacted snow away from me before I have time to wish for my gloves, muttering to itself, and looks around.

“Abi, it won’t want to have a snowball fight,” Justin admonishes.

“I’m sorry; I don’t speak alien,” I snap. 

It notices something behind us, and its slitted mouth widens. “Drogba?” it asks, pointing. It sounds hopeful. 

We turn to see where it’s indicating, but I can’t discern anything special against the back of our house.  

The being grunts, having decided, and strides past. It crosses the porch and starts manipulating the frame of the French doors, searching for an entry point. Inevitably, it will find one. 

“Oh my god,” I shriek, grabbing Justin’s elbow. “Are we going to let it wander inside?” 

He gestures toward the imposing figure. “Do you want to stop it?”  

The creature must be ten inches taller than my five-eleven husband and have the mass to match its height. Its arms stretch two-thirds the length of its body and its fingers end in thick, black claws. The knots of its muscular legs are visible through the spacesuit. Thus far, it has behaved with civility, but I don’t wish to fight with a beast like this.  

“What do you think it wants?” I ask. 

“Dog-beer, or whatever it said,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t seem bent on world domination.” 

He’s right. Seeing no alternative, I walk over and show the alien the handle before it has more luck disassembling the molding.  

It walks inside, glancing around and taking everything in. Crayons and bits of colored paper decorate the white table in front of it. To its left, drawings plaster the refrigerator and the sink is full of dishes. It nods as if it approves of the mess. Through the doorway on the opposite side, it spots the lit Christmas tree sparkling in the living room. It shows no interest in anything littering the kitchen, but walks straight into the neighboring room. It stops at the threshold, cocks its head, and pokes out a forked tongue for a brief instant. Then it approaches the flocked pine and caresses the tiny ornaments, scrutinizing the delicate figures and frosted glass.  

Without warning, my philodendron falls off the plant stand. More shuffling sounds ensue. A high-pitched scream rings out. 

ET, the drama queen, recoils, reeling.  

Sasha bursts from behind the couch. “That is not Santa!” she accuses. Then the tears begin.  

I hurry to her and hug her tight, drawing her the rest of the way out of her hiding place. “It’s okay, baby. He’ll be here later.” I glance at Justin, but he shrugs with a flabbergasted expression. He’s going to be no help.  

Shaken from its attraction to the tree, the intruder resumes wandering the house, peering into nooks and crannies as it finds them, glancing through every door. Justin follows it down the hallway.   

“What is that?” she sobs. 

“We have a different visitor this year.” I’m doing my best. “Who comes from another planet, I think?” I push the hair out of her eyes and snag a tissue for her nose. Before I screw up the explanation further, an excited shout from the hall cuts me off. 

“Drogba!”  

I jump up and follow them into our first-floor bathroom. Surrounded by floral wallpaper, the creature points into the mint-green toilet.  

“Think it has to piss?” I ask Justin.  

He motions to the commode. “Go ahead. You can use it.” 

The entity bends down and splashes the water in the toilet bowl with its bare hands. 

Oh god, I hope it’s water in there.

A light bulb flashes in my mind. I turn on the sink faucet.  

Our guest waves its arms in celebration that I’ve understood. Then it paws at the stream, making a scooping gesture I don’t know how to interpret.  

What a long-ass night. My fried brain has only one thought. I return to the kitchen and they follow me. Best I can do is a glass of water. I open the cupboard, grab a clean tumbler, and fill it from the spout on the fridge. I pass it over.  

The being almost chuckles. Its attention shifts from the cup to me. “Cubi drogba,” it explains.  

My brain draws a blank. I feel like we’ve gained so much ground, but I’m missing an important point.  

It lifts the glass as if it intends to give a toast. Then it starts out the door, making sure we’re following. It brings us through the snow and to the crash site. Most of the smoke has cleared.  

When it arrives at the downed vehicle, it reaches into the hatch. An exterior panel pops up, which it presses, revealing a long tunnel. It pours what it has into this spout. It pantomimes repeating the action many times in a row.   

Justin and I look at each other. “I think needs a lot of water,” he says. 

I have an idea. “Get the hose.” 

Justin takes off for the garage and grabs it while I show our friend how the spigot works. He’s there in a flash, and we have it hooked up. We stretch it to the UFO’s tank and then Justin turns it on. As the flow begins, the entity starts bounces, its whole body gyrating, apparently ecstatic. 

I spin around when I hear footfalls in the snow. There stands Sasha, with her boots on the wrong feet, struggling to put on her coat. Toby stumbles along beside her. 

“What the fuck is that?” His eyes are so wide.

“That’s a good question, son,” I admit while zipping his sister up.

The spaceship must be full because our visitor removes the hose and passes the spewing fountain to Justin, drenching his legs in the process. 

I nudge Toby. “Shut that off for Dad.” He trips into the house, looking over his shoulder, unwilling to miss any more excitement. 

With the task finished, it closes the tunnel, and the pattern of flashing lights on the craft becomes less frantic.  

The alien glances from Justin to me, over to the kids. It points to him, “Juh-stin.” Stretching out its arm, it indicates to me, “A-ah-bigale.” It taps its own chest. “Cinta.” Its mouth widens into an expression that resembles a grin. Then it disappears on board its ship. The hatch closes and a lump forms in my throat. 

Justin steps back to join us as the UFO shakes free of the Earth. There’s no heat or sound and I can’t tell how it flies, but it takes off, zips up into the sky, and continues as a light we watch fading into the distance.  

“Mom?” Sasha asks. 

“Yeah, honey?” I know they’re confused, but I silently hope she saves her big questions for later and gives me a chance to digest the experience.  

She huffs and stomps in the snow. “Can we go to sleep now so Santa will come?” 

I chuckle. “Sure, baby.” We steer the kids inside. Everyone strips off their cold-weather gear and settles on the sofa. I grab the bedtime story to pick up where we left off. Justin and I have to make the rest of Christmas happen tonight somehow.  

We read to “I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter” when I dissolve into uncontrollable laughter. I pass the book to Justin, but considering recent events, he can’t complete the tale either. Toby finishes for Sasha, but what’s clear is that the meaning of the holidays has fundamentally changed for our family. I think we’re going to need a new Christmas Eve story.

Editor: Michelle Naragon