by Tim Curran
That was some time ago now. I’ve done my best to put the whole experience behind me, but I’ve been unable to. I still bear semi-circular scars on the upper part of my body, and I will never conceive again. There’ve been men who’ve shown me attention, but I’ve fled in terror from them. I’ve never heard from my aunt, although the lovely Lees have corresponded with me throughout the years, bless them. We never speak of Vanessa or of that Christmas.
I know that as much as I try to forget, the rest of my life will be spent re-living that terrible night I spent in the house by the bog, a house where a sprightly yellow paint job and pillows quaintly embroidered with nature scenes couldn’t hide a hideous crime and the undying nightmare it had spawned.
###
Elise closed the book and set it on the table beside the couch. Neither she nor Ray spoke for several seconds.
At last Elise said, “My God.”
Ray could only shake his head and gulp wine.
Elise looked down – and her eyes widened at what she saw. “Ray…” She pointed at something beside him on the couch. He picked it up.
It was an ancient satin couch pillow, its sheen faded but still in good condition, hand-embroidered with an image of birds flying over snowy trees.
“This is the house.”
Ray picked up the pillow and squinted at it before tossing it aside. “Coincidence…”
“The yellow paint job? The bog? The pillows? Ray, this is the house. The one in the story. I’m sure of it.”
“That’s it – no more ghost stories for you, my darling –”
Elise abruptly stood and went to one of her bags. She’d brought Aunt Priscilla’s old family album with her, since she’d thought going through it in her aunt’s old home might be a nice small tribute. She found the old, velvet-covered album, stuffed so full of pictures that it bulged out, and carried it back to the light by the hearth. She’d remembered something she’d seen in there, tucked in among all the photos of distant relatives she didn’t know –
There. It was a large photo, showing around two-dozen people, dressed in the fashion of the 1930s, three lines on a short flight of steps. There was writing on the back – “Family Reunion 1935” – followed by names.
The third name from the right in the top row was “Aunt Jane”.
Elise flipped the photo over and peered at the named woman. She was in her sixties, with short gray hair and a flower-print dress. Her expression was the oddest among the group: She seemed to be trying to smile, with a slight tilt to her lips, but her eyes were serious.
Elise showed the writing on the back of the photo to Ray. “There, I knew it: Ray, she’s a relative.”
Peering at the writing, then the photo, Ray asked (slurring his words), “Who is?”
“Jane – Mrs. H. Warren. The woman who wrote this book.”
Ray hiccoughed as he tossed the photo aside. “Don’t be absurd, Elise. I’m sure every family in England has an Aunt Jane.”
“But I’m sure I’ve seen mentions of ‘Warren’ in Priscilla’s things, too. We could probably track down the deed history of this cottage to be sure.”
“And then what?” Ray staggered to his feet and threw an arm out at the hearth, in an overly-dramatic gesture. “’Ladies and gentlemen, step right up and see where the ghost was murdered’? Shall we charge a pound a ticket, sell souvenir shirts?”
This happened more often than not when they were together: They drank too much until the alcohol led to a fight. Elise hadn’t wanted to argue on Christmas Eve, but now there was no escaping it. “Why don’t you want to acknowledge that it’s at least a possibility? Didn’t you say that the man who sold you the book said it was written by a woman who’d lived around here? It’s not exactly a heavily-populated region, is it?”
Ray raised his arms over his head. Wiggling his fingers, he began to utter a ghostly wail.
Elise was done. She stormed out of the room, heading down a short hall to the first room she found with a locking door. She entered, flipped a light switch, slammed the door, turned the lock. Outside, she heard Ray continue to utter his ridiculous moans. She regretted having left her phone outside; she could’ve at least plugged in the earbuds and drowned him out with music. Not Christmas carols, though; she’d had enough of the holiday.
He finally went silent, and she waited. Would he come knocking on the door, drunkenly taunting her? She didn’t expect an apology, or even an offer at compromise. That wasn’t Ray’s style.
She turned to examine the room. It had a soft bed, a fireplace, a small dresser, a rocking chair. The bed covers were only slightly dusty. She pulled them back and saw that the bed was made beneath and seemed surprisingly clean. Outside the room, full night had fallen; she had no idea what time it was.
She turned on a bedside lamp, turned off the overhead, removed her shoes, and fell into the bed. The room spun; she’d had too much wine. She knew the sensation would pass soon, so she waited.
While she waited, she thought about the story. She was sure Jane Warren was family, and that this was the house. At that thought, her heart skipped a beat.
Because if this was the house, then this bedroom…
She started to sit up, but the room whirled around harder. She was afraid she’d be sick, so she forced herself back down. Besides, if she came out of the room now, what would Ray say? He’d surely launch into a fresh round of mockery. No, she wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
She waited. The spinning slowed. Time passed. Her thoughts grew muddled. The temperature dropped as night set in; she pulled the musty blankets up over herself, enjoying the warmth they brought.
And sleep arrived.
###
At some point she was dimly aware that he’d entered the room and settled into the bed beside her. He’d come to apologize after all. He’d realized that he’d been wrong.
He reached for her. His touch was cold. Had he been outside? She wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t speak. She was incapable of movement.
His frigid hand pulled her shoulder, hard.
Elise knew, then: The door was still locked. It wasn’t Ray.
She struggled against whatever force held her, but it was immovable. Weight settled around her. The bed springs creaked.
No.
She wouldn’t let this happen.
Elise gathered every ounce of will power she possessed, forced her mouth open…and screamed.
The power holding her evaporated. She was alone in the bed.
She leapt from it and stumbled up. She heard Ray outside, running to her door, calling her name. She reached the lock, twisted it. The door flew open and Ray stumbled in. “Elise –!”
“Ray.” She embraced him, the fight forgotten. She didn’t know if they could save their marriage, but right then she knew he was human and real and that she wanted to try.
She hung onto him, looking over his shoulder, wondering if Joe even knew he’d lost, or who exactly had defeated him. Elise didn’t believe – couldn’t believe – that The Christmas Spirit had come to her by happenstance.
“Thank you, Jane,” she whispered to the woman who had just given her the best Christmas gift of her life.
The End
About the Author
Lisa Morton is a screenwriter, author of non-fiction books, Bram Stoker Award-winning prose writer, and Halloween expert whose work was described by the American Library Association’s Readers’ Advisory Guide to Horror as “consistently dark, unsettling, and frightening.” Her most recent releases include Ghosts: A Haunted History and Cemetery Dance Select: Lisa Morton. She lives in the San Fernando Valley, and can be found online at www.lisamorton.com .
Website: http://www.lisamorton.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lisa.morton.165
Thy Will Be Done
By
J. C. Michael
On the morning of the 28th of December Patrick and Colletta Swift took their dog, Percival, for a walk. They found this letter blowing along
the side of the street, the envelope addressed to “God, Our Father, Who Art In Heaven”. Police are still looking for the author and although they accept it could be a hoax, they are treating it as genuine:
Dear Father,
Forgive them, for they have sinned. On this, the most holy of days, the day we celebrate the gift of your Son, bestowed upon our unworthy world, my family indulged in such wicked behaviour that it left me appalled at their debasement.
From the moment they awoke, my children, baptised into your family yet so clearly inadequate in their virtue, displayed such avarice, such envy, that it took all of my restraint not to cast them out as the innkeeper rejected the Blessed Mary when she arrived in Bethlehem bearing our Saviour. Their presents opened, their material desires partially appeased, they argued and bickered over what they had received, before progressing on their conveyor-belt of sin - with greed the next in line. My wife sat alongside them as they gorged themselves on sweets and chocolate, despite their full awareness of the feast that awaited them at lunchtime. For my part, my stomach churned with sickness, and I ate naught.
And so to the feast: a gluttons paradise. The traditional Christmas meal with all the trimmings. How the three of them had their fill like pigs at the trough! Father, it made me retch, and all they did was laugh at my discomfort. As children starve throughout the world, my family forced such volumes of food into themselves that it left them close to vomit. Yet still they ate more: turkey, roast and mashed potatoes, carrots, swede, peas, sausages, bacon, parsnip, Yorkshire puddings, gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce. Ha! I need not list the rest. You see it all don’t you, Father? You do, don’t You? You viewed their sin so You understand: what happened had to happen. It was Your will wasn’t it? Forgive me, for I, too, sinned, but it was Thy will to be done, Lord. I was your instrument, the implement of Your fury at the parody the festival of Your Son’s birth has become.
I rebelled Lord, leaving the table mid-meal and stinging the pride of my wife who, system already awash with wine, berated me as a demon would torment the damned denizens of Hell. Her anger unleashed, she ranted and cursed; her lack of respect for me as head of the household, setting such a vile example to our children, I could have torn out her throat. As her wrath was unleashed, so I controlled mine and I took my leave, demonstrating the kind of restraint she had so willingly abandoned. I sought refuge in my beloved garden.
Once outside, I allowed myself to appreciate the natural beauty of the world of Your creation; yet it only served to highlight the poison which had infected my home and my family. Perhaps that was when I realised what had to be done. I didn’t hear You speak, Lord, but I am secure in the belief that You guided me to that decision: that point of no return. If I am mistaken, and the seeds of the deeds to come were planted by Satan, and not Your divine Self, then I throw myself upon Your mercy, for I have been deceived. I shall know soon enough, Lord. My time of judgment is at hand.
Back in the house, the checklist of the seven deadly sins continued to be ticked off one by one. The dominant mood now was one of sloth. The three of them unable to move from in front of the television. I joined them, but I was not slovenly. My mind was active; I knew the what, yet I needed the how. You did not guide me Lord, but I can see that was part of Your test to prove my worth: to exercise the self-determination that would realise Your heavenly instruction.
By nightfall I still had no plan, but as it turned out one was not needed. The kids in bed, my wife came to me, lust on her mind as she pulled me toward her. She backed up to the table and swept the detritus of the day to one side before perching herself upon it. I was weak, my body responding to hers as she pushed herself against me. Her legs were around my waist, her skirt around hers. I felt her unzip my trousers. “Stuff me, hon,” she said. What a crude and common thing to say! She had no shame. The woman I had loved and taken as mine in Your House all those years ago was gone; replaced by a drunken harridan who needed to be cleansed from the Earth. As her hand grasped me, my own hand grasped the carving knife that still lay on the table by the carcass of the partially-devoured turkey. She tried to place me inside her but I pulled back. She wanted me to thrust into her, but there was a different type of thrust in our future…sharper, deeper, as I plunged the knife between her ribs. Oh, it felt good Lord, and that first stab was for You, the Father. My other hand went over her mouth to suppress her screams as I stabbed again in the name of the Son, Your Son. The warm blood ran over my fingers as I delivered the third strike in the name of the Holy Ghost, pushing and twisting until eventually she fell still. I had delivered the whore to You, Lord. I hope she gives you less trouble!
My two children looked so angelic as they slept, but I could see the demons writhing within them; taunting me that the sin of my flesh had created such beasts. I suffocated them; it was easy.
So now. One final sin. This letter is composed as I stand here in my garden, surrounded by Creation, the noose around my neck. I hope the short drop snaps my neck; though I fear not death, strangulation seems such an unpleasant way to go. I love my family Lord; I hope You can forgive them, I hope You can forgive me. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name--I hope to meet you soon; my sin is done-- Thy will be done.’
The End
Psychopath Remix
By
J. C. Michael
On the first day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A message through my Sony T.V.
On the second day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the third day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A nine mil Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
A ten-gauge sawn-off,
A nine mil Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whor
es to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Eleven men to shoot,
A ten-gauge sawn-off,
A nine mil Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
The Devil sent to me
Twelve final victims,
Eleven men to shoot,
A ten-gauge sawn-off,
A nine mil Beretta,
Eight women to strangle,
Seven feet of rope,
Six whores to cut,
Five split personalities,
Four sharp knives,
Three beaten kids,
Two leather gloves,
And a message through my Sony T.V!
About the Author
J. C. Michael is an English writer of Horror and Dark Fiction. He is the author of the novel "Discoredia", which was released by Books of the Dead Press in 2013, and has had a number of short stories published since then. These have included "Reasons To Kill" in the Amazon bestselling anthology "Suspended in Dusk" and "When Death Walks The Field Of Battle" in "Savage Beasts" from Grey Matter Press.
Taking his inspiration from Stephen King and James Herbert his writing frequently explores the dark side of human nature where moral boundaries are questioned, and the difference between good and evil is far from clear.
