All the memories of holidays stored in my memory. The laughter. The tears. The family. The food. All of those things that make the holidays, well, the holidays.

What would holidays be without the family – the young niece in tears because her older cousin is pointing his finger at her cheek and taunting, “I’m not touching you!” because he was reprimanded for touching her earlier in the day; mom and dad sternly advising each of us kids to not steal the turkey skin off the bird, as it sits to be carved on the counter-top; and the grandparents sitting, sipping their gin and tonics, wishing everyone would settle down and kindly enjoy being with the family. Ah, yes, family.

This holiday, however, well, this holiday tale you are about to read is vastly different than any you have read before. After all, this family is like no other family in all the world…

The bellowed screech down the stairs, tells the children quite clearly that Sir Cat of Nip does not want to play. He is not interested in having his tail pulled, or being put into doll clothing, or even in being thrown out the door into the pouring rain. No, he wants to hide – run and hide, into the dark corners of the attic. Run to safety. Run where the little troll and imp are afraid to go…the part of the attic overtaken by spiders.

Nip, as he is fondly referred to by the group of monstrosities caring for him, otherwise known as a family in normal circumstances, is not afraid of spiders. In fact, he finds himself very happy in their presence, and even delighted when they weave their webs about his body. The spiders do not spin the webs around Nip because they want to trap him; quite the contrary – the more the spiders weave their silk around the cat, the less likely it is the the little troll and imp will pull him from the attic.

You only think that the little troll and imp are unsavory names for the little beasts that some ‘families’ call children. Oh, but not here.

The little troll and imp are just that, a troll and an imp, aptly named Troll and Imp.

Worse still, is that they are being raised by Ninny and Nincompoop. You and I call these people ‘parents’. Ninny lacks all ability to govern Troll and Imp. In fact, she lacks all control over even herself.

Nincompoop is a tiny wavering little man. He has no backbone, so he bends to and fro’ like a piece of spaghetti as he walks. He doesn’t talk either. He mumbles.

Let’s get back to Troll and Imp. They are, after all, the center of Nip’s holiday tale.

Troll and Imp are twins, but no one has been able to figure out exactly how this occurred. First of all, they look nothing alike. In fact, Troll is large, green, ugly, and has red bushy hair. Imp, on the other hand, is short, slightly hunched, and has soft wild blue-ish hair. Even weirder is that they simply appeared in the nursery in the house, the crooked seven story Victorian on Cruchkly Road, one day, wailing and wailing.

Neither Ninny nor Nincompoop remember putting together a nursery either! It seemed to create itself into being – one day Nip was walking through dusty old rooms, fighting the slope of the floor, and the next he was walking through a room with cradles and noise.

The noise! Nip cannot stand noise. Before Troll and Imp came along, Nip could putter about as silently as the house itself. The occasional noise, if any, was only by the seldom passing of a car. Perhaps this is why Nip stayed with Ninny and Nincompoop the four years leading up to the arrival of Troll and Imp. It surely wasn’t because Ninny and Nincompoop were the best of caretakers, for Nip or for the house. Nip had all the space he could want, was able to find food when Ninny would forget to put it into his bowl, and he had quiet.

Now, as Nip is being pulled down the stairs toward the open dishwasher in the kitchen, he longs for that time. He longs for the time, two years prior, when he could fearlessly jaunt down the stairs into the foyer.

To make matters worse for Nip, Troll and Imp aren’t alone today. Today there are many other little beasts running rampant through his house.

Nip hates the holidays.