The December Awethology - Dark Volume

by The Awethors

  People who say that they never knew Christmas was coming because the fights started. The ones where mom insisted the stick pretending to be a tree would look better in the corner. Rows that continued with dad loudly insisting it belonged just outside the kitchen. The ones that always ended with the tree in the same place as every year, in front of the window, after dad gave mom a black eye and received a vow of no intercourse for a month.

  Folks who say that never stood over the crib, watching their new baby sister sleep. Never once did they think about how it would be best to give her a wonderful gift. The gift of holding the tiny pillow that smelled like vomit over her face until she, mercifully, stopped struggling. Because struggling is all the older sibling knows, and wants to spare this tiny baby that. The gift of freedom. They were not faced with the decision to give such a blessing, only to decide to walk away.

  Because they never received the curse of love that brought with it the need to protect that innocent angel... even from themselves.

  Other people say... Christmas is in your heart, not a store.

  Those people may be the stupidest of all.

  I would bet forged money on the things they never had to do. I would guess they didn't start working at twelve. Four hours a day after state mandated school and ten hours on Saturday and Sunday. Sweaty labor in dives that don't bother checking ID for incoming employees.

  They've never had to break their backs and blister their hands when most kids haven't even started considering college yet. People who can afford such esoteric thoughts never worked for a quarter of minimum wage—because who is a desperate kid going to tell—and have to contribute enough to the family that they ended up with less money than a pack of cigarettes cost in their pocket each week. They've never had to thank a god they knew hated them for the fact that they didn't smoke. Then again, with their charmed life they probably didn't want to.

  They've never saved up their earnings for an entire year to buy a stolen television. They've never seen the guilty joy of their parents at getting such a gift from their oldest child. Not one time did they have to live through the rage and the beatings that ensued a week later. When the damn piece of crap broke.

  They never had to understand that the anger was aimed at lifelong frustration, even though the fists were aimed at them.

  These are the thoughts that pass through my head as I walk to the only part of town that is worse than the one I live in. The thought three days ago was better. That idea came from love. These ones are born of determination.

  Three days ago I decided, my twelve year old sister was going to have the best Christmas ever. I was going to see to it. She would know I loved her. I was going to give her things I never had. Now, as I stalk the night I think about this crap.

  I see the blood red door, stained ichor black by the hands of greed and desperation. I push inside the "clinic" and look around the shadows that bloom where hard men do business, that grow where weak men go in their hour of need. Two of those men of stone stand behind a table that passes for a counter. I walk up to them and look the one who appears to be in charge full in the face. He smiles at me, a glint in his eyes that I take to mean, 'I've seen your type before and they all leave crying.'

  "Making a donation?" he growls through decades of smoking.

  "Depends. What's the donor's cut on a full body's worth?" I show no fear, I am past that.

  "Half a million for cash up front, if they are all in working order. Twice that if the donor offers on consignment."

  "They are all perfect, young and vibrant. Cash up front. Consignment is for suckers."

  He laughs, nodding as if to say he knows that too. "Well... where's the lamb? Don't keep me waiting, punk. Bring it in for inspection."

  I straighten my spine. I move my eyes back to his, after realizing they have slipped. I smile my most gruesome smile at him, but the amplitude of it isn't even half of his. I slap down a piece of paper I have been carrying with me, careful to keep it out of the snow. I want to swallow hard, but I avoid it. Childhood is over.

  "You've already seen the lamb and know the merchandise is good. Deliver the money to the address on this. Make sure every cent of it gets there. The donor's name is Maria."

  Piece and Quiet

  Christie Stratos

  Each broken fragment of the ornament on the floor held a different memory, just as each sharp piece now showed a different part of the words MERRY CHRISTMAS. At least it had happened at the end of the season instead of the beginning.

  The red of the delicate bauble was still vibrant and shiny, but rough black spots had spread over it and even over some of its white lettering in the past few years. It was her grandmother’s ornament – that was how she’d wound up with it. In this broken state, its threatening, uneven, thin edges reminded her of her grandmother more than the soft curve of the bits still intact.

  She picked up a piece, overly careful of how she handled it. Knowing her grandmother, it would probably still cut her, but she rested it gently with the broken parts on her palm anyway, so that she could look at the harsh shine on the rounded redness. It was funny how she expected this inanimate object to prove itself her grandmother’s belonging by cutting her unexpectedly. Maybe this was her final separation from the old woman, long since passed away. But probably not. On the floor, the rest of the ornament had already put itself back together. This was the third time it had resurrected itself over the years. She feared what else might resurrect if she threw it away. A fake smile spread across her lips as she donated the fragment she was holding to the almost-whole ornament. After it had melded itself back together, she put it away and ignored the darkened and stooped figure in the doorway.

  “I put it back together,” she said, her voice shaking. She pointed at it in the box. When she looked up, the figure was gone. Gone until the next inevitable breakage that she never caused. And the figure got closer every year, no matter what house she moved to. She wished she’d never killed her grandmother.

  Crimson Kisses on a Cold Winter's Night

  Raven Blackburn

  Snow and ice covered the country, the temperatures far below the freezing point. I stood outside, my skin nearly as white as the snowflakes covering it. Black pants hung low on my hips, my feet shoved in a pair of combat boots, that was all I wore and yet I showed no ill effects, for I wasn't human.

  The sun had set long ago on this Christmas Day, but I did not need light to see my prey - a young woman, all alone in her small cottage on the outskirts of a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Her red hair gleamed in the light of the fire she was sitting before, giving the illusion of being part of the flames themselves. She was reading. Coming closer I fought a smile. It was one of those dreadful romances, one with a half-naked vampire on the cover. Little did she know her fairytale was about to become reality, just not in the way she was fantasizing about.

  Unlike every other house I'd come across this evening there were no Christmas decorations to be found here. No tree, no tiny lights, no towering stack of gifts waiting to be unwrapped.

  I walked up to the door and knocked, crossing my arms across my chest when she opened it, pretending to shiver because of the bitter cold. “I-I'm sorry to disturb you, can I use your telephone? I was robbed and...”

  “Oh you poor man, come in, you must be freezing!” she exclaimed as she took in my pitiful appearance. I tried not to let my glee show on my face as she beckoned me inside, for the legends of vampires being unable to cross a threshold, when not invited in, are entirely true. But she had welcomed me inside, so no magical barriers held me back, as I walked into the warmth of her home.

  She hurried away, coming back with a blanket moments later, wrapping it around my shoulders. I was taller than she was, so I leaned down to her, inhaling her scent as I did. It made my mouth water and I quickly averted my gaze, not wanting to scare her. Vampire eyes turn pitch-black when hungry and I was starving.

  Backing away she motioned to the couch in front of the fire, he
r cheeks flushed as if she were embarrassed by something. “Sit down, please. I'll get the phone to call for help.”

  I knew the phone wouldn't work, as I had made sure of it. I heard her frantically punching in several numbers, but finally giving up. Frowning she came back. “The phone is dead.”

  Her hands fluttered helplessly at her sides as she was chewing her bottom lip. She was uncomfortable with having a half-naked stranger in her house. As she should be. Getting up from the couch I limped to the door. “I'll try to get to town then. I don't wish to intrude.”

  She was at my side in an instant. “But you are hurt! You can't go out there. Please,” she seemed to fight with herself, before she sighed, “please stay. We'll get you to a hospital in the morning.”

  Inwardly I smiled. “I don't want to be any trouble.”

  She offered me a watery smile. “And I don't want your death on my conscience. I'll get you something to eat, sit, please. I'm Alexis by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she walked over to the kitchen. Alexis. The name brought a chill to my spine, but I shrugged it off. What harm could a name do?

  I decided to play along, after all, toying with my victims was the only joy I had in life, so I sat down at the table, the blanket still firmly wrapped around my shoulders. I knew, however, that in staying, in talking to her, I risked becoming enthralled by her. “Thank you, that's very kind of you. I promise, I'm not a serial killer.” That got a laugh out of her, transforming her already beautiful face into something almost angelic. For a moment I was transfixed by it.

  “That's... not reassuring at all. A serial killer would say that exact same line to make a woman feel safe.” But her eyes sparkled with amusement as she placed a bowl of steaming hot soup in front of me. “So tell me...”

  “Chase.”

  “Tell me, Chase, what brings you to my doorstep?” Her voice held a slightly flirty undertone, awakening a hunger I had almost forgotten.

  I fabricated a story of being stood up by friends and then being mugged, using the vampiric power in my gaze to put her at ease.

  She placed a pale hand on my arm, squeezing it slightly as if to reassure me. “I'm sure the cops will find them.”

  I lifted my gaze, my eyes meeting her beautiful green ones. They were the most incredible shade, like grass bathed in sunlight. Fighting the urge to reach up and brush away a stubborn lock of flaming red hair that kept falling into her face, I leaned forward. “How does a lovely lady like yourself end up spending Christmas all alone?”

  As if a switch had been flipped, she snatched her hand away and started walking briskly to the door. “Maybe it would be better if you left. There is a phone booth down the street, maybe you can call 911 there.”

  I was behind her in an instant, moving far faster than a human would. Her eyes flew open at my sudden movement, but I quickly took away her fear. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.”

  Her eyes were still slightly widened, her breath a little too fast and for a moment I was sure my compulsion had failed, but then she nodded. “It's ok, it's just I miss him so much.”

  “Who do you miss, Alexis?” I asked softly, trying to ignore her delicate fingers curled around my arm, trying to ignore the enticing feeling of her pulse beneath my fingertips as I cupped her face with my hand, gently tipping her head back so I could look in her eyes. “Who have you lost?”

  “My husband. Car crash one year ago. It was Christmas. I tried to kill myself. I couldn't handle him being gone.” She showed me faint scars on her wrists and I let out a curse.

  Alexis was just as lonely as I was, just as lost in this enormous, vicious world. A cruel world that swallowed millions of souls each year without the slightest remorse. Looking into those pale green eyes I knew I might have found the one to spend eternity with.

  “It's ok. Come sit with me. I'll make the pain go away,” I promised. I would not take her husband's memories away, nor would I replace them, but perhaps I could help her live with them.

  Feeling her warm body in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder and inhaling her intoxicating scent I made the decision that I would not kill her. I found I couldn't.

  Brushing her hair away from her throat I pressed my lips against her racing pulse. She let me, even moaning softly.

  I did not see the stake until it was being shoved into my chest with one smooth, lightning strike, piercing my heart. She had moved far too fast for a human and I froze in shock.

  “Merry Christmas, blood sucker,” Alexis said, a bitter smile twisting her full lips.

  Then it struck me. Alexis McKenna. Beautiful, delicate Alexis was a vampire hunter. No wonder her name sounded familiar.

  A fitting end for me, I suppose. I've been the downfall of many beautiful women, it seemed only right that one would be mine.

  The last thing I heard before I turned into ash was the radio being switched on, a voice singing about crimson kisses on a cold winter's night.

  Critical Mass

  A L Sayge

  “This is supposed to be a happy holiday,” Sandra spat aloud to herself as she slammed figurines into the manger scene on her fireplace. “Someone should tell my family that, especially Aunt Lucy. All I’ll hear over the family Christmas dinner here tomorrow is negative perspectives on my life with that irritating sour sweetness in her tone.”

  She picked up the angel figurine from the manger set, using it as a stand-in for Aunt Lucy and speaking in a mocking “Aunt Lucy” voice. “‘Still in the same job, Sandra? Isn’t it wonderful how you’ve learned to stretch your pennies!’ ‘I see your apartment still has that…quaint…look about it.’ ‘It’s amazing how you keep that sweater looking relatively new, year after year.’ ‘No beau again this year? Maybe if you ease up on the sugars, someone will come knocking.’”

  She’ll give me that “insider” wink. She’ll tap my cheek like I’m a three year old. Every year it’s the same thing. No, that’s not true—every year it gets worse.

  She hung the angel roughly above the manger, watching it swing from the hook on the fireplace brick. A sadistic smile spread slowly as she imagined her aunt swinging from a noose. This isn’t the Christmas spirit, Sandra.

  Her eye caught the colorful foil-wrapped truffle balls shining in the glass bowl on the coffee table. She reached over, grabbed a red one and yanked on the twisted sides, sending the dark ball flying out and onto the floor. Snatching it up, she bit down angrily into the fudgy ball as if she were crushing Aunt Lucy’s vocal chords.

  The temporary tension release was interrupted when her gaze fell upon Mr. and Mrs. Claus decorations in the ornament box. She tossed the wrapper aside and snatched up the figures, one in each hand, angling them toward her. “Is this stuffing homemade?” she gave her mother’s voice to Mrs. Claus. “It tastes like a package mix. I always made my stuffing from scratch.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Sandra answered sarcastically, talking to the figure, “but I actually work for a living. And I volunteer on weekends, not to mention how you’ve forced me to host holidays for the past three years. I don’t just sit home and play cards all day like you do.”

  “Sandra Beth,” she deepened her voice for the Santa figure, “don’t get testy with your mother.”

  “Oh, Franklin,” Mrs. Claus said to Santa, “don’t bother. Is there anything that isn’t from a mix here, Sandra? I suppose the desserts are ready-made too. I could have brought some real food if I’d have known…”

  Sandra threw the Clauses down with a disgusted huff and turned back to the truffle bowl. A blue one this time…yank…twist…release. She closed her eyes. Two minutes of unadulterated bliss as the creamy dark chocolate melted her nerves.

  Back to reality. Among the decorations was an old, scratched-up stapler. Picking it up, she recalled the Christmas three years ago when she found it in her stocking. It hadn’t even been gift wrapped. She’d held it out questioningly, looking directly at her mother. After all, who else would give her something that…weird?

 
“That’s from me, dear,” her mother had said with that semi-furrowed brow coupled with a small sly grin, her eyes boring into Sandra with that testing glint. “Everyone can use one.”

  “Well I do have a stapler,” Sandra began cautiously, knowing that look from her mother could only mean a challenge was at hand. “And this is pretty old and beat up.”

  “Beaten up.” She wagged a reprimanding finger at Sandra. “And that’s what stocking stuffers should be,” her mother lectured. Here we go, Sandra thought. “Practical things. Useful things. I found that in the back of the odds and ends drawer but it’s perfectly functional. You know, people have become so spoiled, they expect expensive gifts in their stockings. Back in the day, children were happy if they got an orange in their stocking.”

  “That was over a hundred years ago, Mom. It was even before your time.” Thin ice, be careful, she’s in a mood. “And no one expects Tiffany’s in their stocking, just something new with some thought behind it.”

  And that launched the family fight of the year that ruined an entire holiday. Sandra had deliberately left the stapler in with the decorations to remind her not to take the bait anymore, especially on holidays.

  Her stomach churned with anxiety over the upcoming family “festivities” she’d be hosting the next day. The annual ordeal had made her dread the holiday season—the season she used to love most. She snapped up two truffles this time, one in green foil and one in gold. Yank…twist…ahhh. Five minutes of sheer nirvana.

  With a deep breath of resignation, she opened the next box. The odor preceded the visual. Ah yes, the old dime-store plastic poinsettias and holly decorations—the stink of decades-old plastic breaking down wafted from the box. These had been her Christmas gift two years ago from Aunt Sarah, her mother’s sister. She’d thought her aunt was going senile when she’d opened the gift, but she was quickly set straight in front of the whole family.

  “That’s what’s wrong with the world today,” Aunt Sarah explained angrily in answer to her quizzical expression, as if waiting for the opportunity. “You young people want everything new and modern. You don’t have any regard for the past, when things were made right. You just want what’s in now, even though it’s junk. Pure junk.”