by Tim Curran
The hole began to shrink. It looked like a puddle of oil receding into sand. As it dwindled, the noise of surging air died with it, and that area of the room gradually brightened.
The hole disappeared with a pop and a belch of the most foul stench Mary had ever smelled before. She wanted to retch. Rachel, too, was wrinkling her nose. But after a short time, the odor was gone as well.
Mary took a deep breath, looked at her daughter, and smiled.
Rachel returned it.
Mary knew they’d have much to talk about over the coming days and weeks. Much to do.
But there would be time.
And maybe in time, even the pain would be gone.
The End
About the Author
Israel Finn is a horror, dark fantasy, and speculative fiction writer, and a winner of the 80th Annual Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition. He’s had a life-long love affair with books, and was weaned on authors like Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, Richard Matheson, Arthur C. Clarke and H.G. Wells. Books were always strewn everywhere about the big white house in the Midwest where he grew up.
He loves literary works (Dickens and Twain, for instance), but his main fascination lies in the fantastic and the macabre, probably because he was so heavily exposed to it early on.
Later he discovered Stephen King, Robert McCammon, Dean Koontz, Dan Simmons, Ramsey Campbell, and F. Paul Wilson, as well as several others, and the die was indelibly cast.
He’s been a factory worker, a delivery driver, a singer/songwriter in several rock bands, and a sailor, among other things. But throughout he’s always maintained his love of storytelling.
Right now you can find Israel in sunny southern California.
https://israelfinn.com/
Christmas Carole
By
Lisa Vasquez
‘Pon the wintry eve of December 23rd
There was a sound ‘til then ne’er heard.
A scream more chillin’ than ocean’s depth,
It stole God’s name from beneath the breath.
Carole fell asleep to the sound of a crackling fire and the warmth of it on her young cheeks, smiling with thoughts of Christmas morning dreams. Her room was already warm, but curling into her favorite afghan added an extra layer of comfort to her. It was not only Christmas in two days, it was her birthday and she’d turn seven this year.
The smells from the kitchen where her mother and grandmother were baking wafted upstairs until at last, her little mind went away to where little girls dream.
The frightful sounds to which she awoke is one that no child should ever have to wake to. The barely conscious girl was so frightened by the sounds of them she lost control of her bladder. A warm puddle formed between her legs but she could not move, only stare into darkness with eyes as large and as round as saucers.
She could feel her breath coming in short, quick bursts to allow her tiny lungs to fill with as much oxygen as possible. The fear was on her chest, forcing her into the mattress with the weight of it. There was nothing but screaming rising up the old wooden stairs, slithering across the walls and shaking the bed with its desperation.
When they stopped, the silence was just as painful to her ears. They continued to ring, disorienting her and when she sat up the entire room swayed around her.
“P-Pappa?”
In the room that suddenly became so much larger, her voice sounded small and frail. She listened but there was no response. Panic swelled up inside of her. Her blood rushed back to her frozen limbs and her tears felt cold against her flush cheeks.
“Pappa where are you? What’s happening?”
There was nothing but silence looming in the open doorway with the shadows cast on the walls by flickering candlelight. The thought of her parents being harmed was the only source of courage strong enough to persuade her to move as she did now, swinging one leg off the bed until her toes touched the frigid floor.
She hesitated, praying for her father’s voice to come back through the blackness before her she’d have to force her other leg to meet the first. Carole could feel the constriction of her throat when she tried to swallow and her teeth began to chatter. She was breathing so fast, her head began to feel faint. To steady herself, she reached out for her bedside table and flinched. Her fingers had touched the beads of her rosary.
A sense of hope came over her and she collected it into her palm, clutching it to her chest but the relief it offered was short-lived. From behind her, she heard the heavy fall of footsteps coming toward her. After so many years of hearing her father climb them to kiss her goodnight, Carole knew whomever they belonged to was not him.
The chill of the air reminded her that her nightdress was wet and the thin cloth was clinging to her thighs. Soaked in the smell of urine, she ran and hid behind a panel of thick curtains bunched together on either side of her window.
The heavy sound of the steps drew closer and she pressed her back against the wall. As was human nature, the girl had to see the face of the terror that woke her up that night. She had to see the explanation for the screams before her imagination sent her spiraling into madness. And so, as gently as she could, she leaned forward and peeked at the doorway. The rays of the moon shone down on it like a spotlight, waiting for the star to appear.
At first there were only long shadows stretching from the floor to the door. Carole shivered, not only from cold, but from anticipation of who, or what, the shadow belonged to. With each step the shadow grew closer, the girl’s heart slammed against her ribs like a bird desperate to be free of its cage.
What appeared first was a hoof. A singular, thick hoof glistening with fresh snow.
Her feet had grown roots where she stood. Trailing her eyes up from the hoof was blonde fur covering legs like that of a lamb. The small girl’s mind could barely process it and her lungs forced out a breath in shock. That minute whispered exhale drew the animal’s attention.
Filling the doorway, a creature appeared: haunting and terrifying all at once. Her eyes glistened like father’s whiskey, gold and unnatural. She could see Carole. Not only could she see Carole, she could see through her. The small girl could feel the creature’s gaze penetrate her skin and touch everything inside her.
Upon the thing’s head were horns like a ram that spiraled back into a curl against a mane of honey. She was dressed. Yes, dressed, in animal furs covered in more of the fresh snow, now melting into small gem-like beads and hypnotizing Carole from her hiding spot.
Against her own will, she came from behind the curtains and walked toward the beast. A scream was welling up in her lungs but could not find escape. She opened her mouth wide but felt as though something clutched her throat.
The beautiful terror leaned forward and Carole was able to see her features more clearly. Her face was bathed in blood, Carole’s mother’s blood. The girl fought to get free of the monstrous grasp holding her still when creature leaned forward to take a deep breath, inhaling Carole’s scent.
When she drew back and smiled, Carole could see rows of jagged teeth and pieces of her mother’s hair between them. The scream locked in her small throat began to fight for freedom with sounds of gagging and gurgling.
“Yesssss,” the beast hissed, “Ssssscream!”
Like the sound that woke her to this nightmare, Carole was finally able to unleash the repulsion and shock. The force of her scream ripped at the delicate tissues in her throat, yet she continued despite the pain, until the air ran out of her lungs.
The monster’s eyes closed, seduced by the sound of it, and when she opened her eyes again, Carole saw the hunger in them. All the girl had in defense was her rosary and prayer so she closed her eyes brought the beads to her lips then began to pray.
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the day of battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and the snares.”
Before the final word could be spoken, Carole felt her body falling and her head collided heavily and painfully with the ground.
She tried to sit up to see what happened, but the blow blurred her vision. She could make out only shapes. Someone else was there with her and the monster.
“Papa?”
Crawling on the floor toward the struggle, she was desperate to know if her father was there. She needed to know he was safe, and that he would protect her.
The figure saw Carole and threw the beast down to the floor, plunging something that looked like a sword into her chest before turning and running at Carole.
“Oh God! What’s happened?” she cried, reaching out for him.
The figure leaned in showing his true face, pressing a single finger against his lips, “Shhhh.”
Without another sound, Carole went limp.
###
No matter how many logs Carole put onto the fire, the heat would not penetrate her bones. Resignedly, she sat back releasing a deep sigh. A plume of condensation hung in the air in front of her. Tight, near-frozen fingers curled into the worn, old afghan her mother had made for her many years ago and she pulled it around her. Everything was so stiff.
Behind her, the wind howled against the oversized cathedral windows. The thin panes of glass rattled and shook in protest. There were no clouds in the sky where the bright moon stared back at her. The snowflakes were so enormous they seemed to float past like large sails topping ships on a midnight ocean.
“Grant me, O Lord, the strength to endure. Keep me warm in Your glory.”
The prayer was offered despite knowing it would not be heard.
Taking her rosary from her lap, she brought it to her lips to kiss the frozen metal of the crucifix that dangled from the beads.
Carole had been known to carry the same rosary with her everywhere since she was a young girl. Children often teased her for her piety by calling her names and excluding her from play but it only made her convictions stronger. Despite their cruelty, she would include them in her prayers and in the small hours of the night, passers-by could see her silhouette behind the glow of a single candle in the second story window, until the night her parents were slaughtered and she disappeared.
Carole’s eyes never recovered from the night she was assaulted as a child. The world was a mass of blurry, monochromatic shapes. Since that night when she was seven, Carole was never able to see properly again, until the 23rd of December. Looking down at the street below, she could see a figure staring up at her. It was the anniversary of that deadly night when he would appear and she could see him. The madness of the misshapen world would part and his face would come through in all his brilliance.
And she would relive it again.
Over and over, each year, for nearly a hundred years. The battle between the Beast and the figure would be replayed, keeping Carole’s spirit locked here in limbo as their pawn and link to the material realm.
The children in town were brought to her home and the story was recited to warn them about staying up too late on Christmas Eve. To ward off the evil, they would gather and close their eyes while singing Christmas hymns by candlelight.
“Why do we have to keep our eyes closed?” one of children asked.
“The legend says that if you catch even the smallest glance of the creature you’ll go blind,” her mother explained.
“What creature, mummy?”
“The one with the hooves, Ivy. Now be a good girl and close your eyes. We’ll light your candle for you. When you hear the others sing, you join in.”
Ivy closed her eyes and felt a hand touch hers. Her brother, Eamon, who was blind since birth stood beside her.
“I know you can’t see, Eamon, but keep your eyes closed, too.” Ivy whispered.
The children could tell it was nearly time to start. The rustling of clothing had gone quiet and the talking had ceased. The bells from the church rang out announcing the time to begin and they all began.
The first notes carried up toward the window illuminated with an amber glow. Carole stood in front of the glass in silence, staring down at the only figure she could see. Tears fell from her eyes in anticipation of the anniversary of her eternal Hell.
The voice of the sopranos carried higher and louder than the others, triggering the memory of the screams of her mother on that tragic night. Carole clutched her rosary until her palm was bleeding. Behind her, the sounds of the hooved beast caused her to spin around. She tried to scream but her voice was lost behind the veil of the spirit world and instead the world outside heard only the sound of singing coming from the window.
The figure who Carole waited for every year walked toward the door and stopped. Turning slowly, he looked down at the boy, blind from birth, who could now see him through another's eyes . The Beast was watching him through the boy’s eyes and the boy was seeing him too.
The Devil smiled at the boy, gave him a wink, and went to save Christmas Carole.
The End
About the Author (and the story)
This story introduces Heresy, The Anti-God (the Beast), and Lucifer’s game of cat and mouse from my other book, ‘The Unsaintly Chronicles’ due for release next year. Heresy is the dark Void that existed before Creation. When God brought light to the universe, Heresy vowed to destroy all of His creations. Because she is the “original entity”, her powers are a threat to the kingdom of God. The Father sends out Lucifer to hunt her but he can only detect her when she manifests, physically. Want to know more? Visit my website at www.unsaintly.com or follow me on facebook at www.facebook.com/unsaintlyhalo. Excerpts of my work, including The Unsaintly Chronicles are available to read on my WattPad: www.wattpad.com/user/unsaintly-author.
Stuffed Pig
By
Steven Murray
The street was quiet. Each house, dotted tastefully with Christmas decorations, was trying to outdo the other in tasteful understatement. A dusting of white snow covered everything. Paw-prints and footprints crisscrossed each other down the flour-sifted street and across the large gardens. The tall wrought-iron security fences outside most driveways were thickly iced.
It was starting to snow as the taxi pulled up to the gates. “Mike, it’s Ali and Mickey,” Abi shouted into the intercom. Pretty lights lit up the windows of Sharon’s large modern house, turning the white snow pink then green then blue. The automatic gates opened as Mike, the security guard, pressed the button to let them in. A small Christmas ‘gathering’ held by Sharon Edwards; former model, semi-famous, blonde and beautiful with a gap in her teeth. Now pregnant, engaged to her manager, Eric Roberts, and off the runway.
Inside was warmth, the smell of a real fire, mulled wine. Canapés, chilled champagne and finger-food all on the huge white table. The tree in the living room was 7 foot and all the white lights decorating it sparkled. Angel on top. There was a garland across the art deco fireplace and the cream leather sofa curved around in front of the patio doors which reflected the lights. Wonderland.
Two hours later - all were drunk, except for Sharon, and talking together on the floor near the fire. Mickey had his hands in Ali’s dark brown hair. She leaned back onto him, cradling a glass of brandy. “So, decided what you’re going to call the baby yet?” she asked Sharon.
“Uh, not really…I don’t want to tempt fate.”
“So how are you feeling anyway, you know, in yourself?”
“Like a stuffed pig,” Sharon laughed. “But I can’t wait. I’m so excited.”
“Well, it’s not long now,’ said Ali, sipping her drink. ‘What? One, two weeks? I’m so jealous; I can’t wait to have children.”
“Hey, we’ve got plenty of time!” Mickey said, and they all laughed. Sharon absent-mindedly chewed on her bottom lip. She had a nervous feeling in the pit of her gut; had had the entire evening, and it was getting worse.
She sat on the sofa next to Steve, a well-built man with curly, dirty- blonde, hair and ice-blue eyes. He was stroking her leg.
“Well, I for one think you look amazing,” he said, his eyes staying on her for too long.
“Yeah, you’re glowing,�
� Ali said, suppressing a small burp.
“Oh, you were always full of shit,” Sharon said and they all laughed.
“Are you sure you won’t have any champagne?” Mickey asked, grabbing it from the ice bucket. Slush slid down the side of the bottle and plopped back in. He held it out towards her. “One drink won’t hurt.’ He stood up. ‘We’ll toast to the baby!”
“No, but thank you. Not until after the baby’s born.”
“Come on. One won’t hurt!” Steve looked at Mickey, giving him a warning, but it seemed to go unnoticed. Ali rushed to her feet as Mickey poured a small glass. “Come on. To the baby! … Hey, I remember what a party girl you were.”
“Leave it, Mickey,” Ali said, trying to grab the glass from him.
“Oh, if it’s going to be so much fuss,” Sharon said, grabbing the glass from Mickey.
“To the baby,” she said holding up the glass. They all clanked glasses and yelled “to the baby!” Sharon swigged it back, dozens of Christmas lights reflected in her glass.
Sharon stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. She needed a strong black coffee. I can’t give up everything for this pregnancy, she thought, slightly bitter that Steve hadn’t come to her aid with Mickey. The kettle whistled. As she went to grab it, the phone rang on the wall behind her. She jumped, laughing at herself, and walked over to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hi honey, it’s Joan, just across from you – how are you?” Joan was a sweet older woman in her seventies with emphysema from smoking forty a day. She had a rough, throaty voice and had to take long pauses between words.
