by Tim Curran
“Please…please stop...”
But she was just getting started. The last thing Steve heard as the life ebbed out of him was, “Such pretty blue eyes you have.”
Sharon, phone in hand, slid open the patio doors that lead to the front of the house. She looked around through the swirling snow and walked quickly outside, her breath immediately turning to vapour. Her bare feet sank into the thick snow as she half-walked, half-ran down the driveway towards the main gate. Within seconds they were stinging. It was strange, she thought, how cold could burn. The wind howled in her ears, turning them pink. She could hardly see the white path beyond the blinding night. Looking back, the house, trees and potted plants would come into vision and then disappear, swallowed back inside the white snow storm.
The girl got up from her position on the floor. She looked at the bloody knife and grinned inanely at it. She licked the blood off the blade. She licked it clean.
She went over to Damian and kissed his cool forehead. ‘Goodnight, sweet Damian Daddy,’ she whispered.
She stood up and walked towards the bedrooms. Her face and clothes were saturated with dark, sticky gore. “Where are you, pregnant piggy?” she said to the empty house. “Don’t hide. I just wanna make friends. I know you’re here, we’ve been watching you all night.”
Sharon stood next to the security booth; Mike’s dead body behind her, his hollowed out eyes still twinkling with fairy light. She typed the security code into the small panel with numb fingers. A bleep sounded, too loudly, she thought, and the two huge black gates opened, even louder and with frustrating slowness. She dodged backwards, grabbing the security keys from their hook and starting to run. She nearly skidded trying to get to the gates and had to steady herself. You’ll survive this, she told herself. The cold had already spread across her skin like a layer of lace. She shivered in her white dress. He feet were probably bleeding, there was blood in the snow.
“Hey Bitch!” Sharon heard from behind. A girl in a Santa suit and pigtails was standing by the front door. The manic voice she’d heard through the bedroom door. Sharon’s mouth fell open in disbelief. The girl was holding Ali’s lifeless body up for her to see. She had her arms wrapped round Ali’s chest as if she was doing the Heimlich manoeuvre. No, it wasn’t happening. Sharon closed her eyes instinctively.
“I’m a boring bitch, HO HO HO!” mocked the girl, bobbing Ali’s body up and down. Sharon made herself open her eyes and keep moving. Ali’s body fell to the ground with a thud and flakes of snow flew up around it. The girl started skipping down the driveway, kicking up snow. She was covered in some sort of black tar, Sharon thought at first, and then realized better.
Her bare feet were running again, crunching in fresh snow, a frustratingly pleasant sound. Sharon slid again, grabbing onto the opening gates but dropping the mobile. “Shit!” she cried. The gates were freezing to the touch, but strong and heavy. They never stopped moving, even with her weight against them. She reached through them for the phone. Nearly. They pushed her away. The girl’s skipping turned into a full-on sprint. “Screw it!”
Sharon ran out into the street. Over the pavement and into the road. “Help me! Somebody, help me please!” The wind answered with a lonely howl. She pressed the button on the key-chain that caused the gates to start closing and started down Church View. The girl raced towards the gates, kicking up a furious storm of snow. She was almost there. Sharon could see the whites of her eyes.
And then the girl’s feet went from under her and she landed on her arse. “No!” she screamed. As the gates closed.
Sharon turned and ran gracelessly down the street.
“Run bitch! I’m coming for you! You think I can’t climb a teeny-weensy fucking gate? I’m going to rip you open, whore!”
Sharon jogged, trying not to slip. She could feel the baby kicking. Could it sense something? The nearest house was Joan’s, which was just up the street from hers. Quite a way, but possible. She could just see the house through the haze of white, which had numbed her nose and quivering lips. She knew she was leaving footprints, maybe even bloody ones, but she just had to hope the blizzard covered them up before the girl got over the gate.
Finally, she reached Joan’s home. She entered her fence through the side door panel, to which she knew the security code. “Help me! Joan! Joan are you there?” She ran to the house, slipping slightly in the snowfall. She reached the front door. Joan’s Christmas lights were on. She pounded on the front door. “Joan!”
She could hear the girl’s laughter a way back. She’s coming. “Oh my God, Joan, please!” She pushed down on the door handle, and to her astonishment it swung open, leaving her ice cold hand empty. She didn’t hesitate; she ran into Joan’s house, slamming the door behind her and pulling across the latch. The house was dark but warm inside. Her numb feet were delighted to sense carpet. A few Christmas decorations were strung about and some fairy lights cast shadows around the large, seemingly deserted, home. All was silent. “Joan?” Sharon dared to whisper. Something was very wrong. Joan had been home a couple of hours ago. Where was she?
The house was large and old fashioned. The TV was on; silent and showing ‘It’s a wonderful life.’ The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Sharon looked for a phone, her numb hands out like a zombie’s. She grabbed a brown blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her head and shoulders to calm her shaking. Her full lips were tinted porcelain blue.
Pans hung above a kitchen island in the galley. Towards the side of the back door stood a Christmas tree with lights on it and a star on top. The lighting in the home was dim and Sharon couldn’t find the light-switch. She ran her hand along the wall, searching desperately for a phone. Behind her, Sharon heard a window smashing. The girl had arrived. She grabbed a kitchen knife from the block on the counter and turned to see a phone, lit by the moonlight and stars. She snatched it up quickly and dialled emergency services. She backed into the darkness behind a pottery cabinet and prayed.
This time an emergency operator answered after several rings. “Which emergency service do you need?” A calm Scottish woman asked politely.
“The police! Please hurry! I’m being attacked. They’ve attacked my friends, murdered them…” She cried. “Please hurry.”
“And where are you now?” the operator asked.
“In my friend’s house.”
“Do you know the postcode?”
“No, but my postcode is CF5 3NP – please help us. I’m pregnant.”
“Okay, sweetheart. The police and ambulance are on their way. Can you tell me are you safe?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered. In the hallway she heard glass crushing. Sharon dropped the phone, letting it bob up and down on the cord. She held the knife tight. “Please God, for my baby,” she prayed.
The girl walked along the hallway, towards the kitchen. Her head out, craning to see on her long neck. Big eyes reflecting the Christmas tree lights. “Don’t worry, pregnant piggy, I’m not going to kill you straight out. I’ll go nice and slow. I’m going to make you scream though.” She giggled manically. “Scream, scream, scream!” She repeated the word over and over to herself in small whispers as she searched the dark house with her fairy-light eyes. The bloody numbers on her forehead had become so congealed they looked black rather than red. She tiptoed like a cartoon villain into the kitchen, grinning wildly, her eyes darting everywhere. She heard the noise coming from the phone, off the hook. She darted behind the cupboard, knife raised. No one there. She sighed.
Sharon appeared behind her silently, knife raised. The girl felt her presence and started to turn, but too late. She felt something strike her lower back, a punch or a kick. The knife slid in as far as it would go, scraping bone and Sharon stepped back, leaving the knife handle jutting out.
The girl whirled around, her knife slashing thin air with a whoosh, and then staggered backwards. The kitchen light started flickering. Warm blood ran down the girl’s backside. Sharon turned
her head, tears running down her face; unable to look at what she’d done. The girl twisted, grasping for the knife which she couldn’t quite reach and stumbled into the Christmas tree, taking it down with her. The Christmas lights decorating it all smashed out as it landed.
Sharon stepped backwards, away. She heard a great gong sound come from directly behind her and jumped. It was the grandfather clock chiming Midnight. She pressed her back against the cool wood and closed her eyes. She felt her baby’s foot dig into her bladder and wondered when was the last time she’d used the toilet.
A hand around her foot. The girl had pulled herself across the carpet. She was looking up at her with snarled teeth. “Merry Christmas,” she said. Her dirty fingers dug into Sharon’s foot. There was a bloody trail in the carpet all the way from the felled Christmas tree. She had tinsel and dead fairy lights caught around her ankle. How was she still alive?
“Just die,” Sharon said with a hatred like she’d never known before. She pulled her foot free of the girl’s hand, stepped to the side and with a giant heave, pulled the grandfather clock down onto the girl.
“Merry Christmas,” Sharon whispered, sliding her back down the wall. She watched the girl’s legs spasm from out underneath the clock, and once they were still, she burst into sudden, harsh sobs. She let the tears flow, warm and bitter. Hysteria hit. She held her hand to her forehead and sobbed. She gasped for air, trying to breathe through the pain. She cried until she had unleashed enough emotion to breathe steadily; and then looked around in the darkness. She looked at the girl’s still legs and wondered why. There was something hanging from the girl’s cheap Santa belt. A present, hanging on with red ribbon. Sharon carefully undid the ribbon and pulled the small gift free. She read the gift card. “To Sharon, love Steve,” Sharon mouthed. Then she tore open the paper and opened the small, pale blue, jewellery box. It was an engagement ring. She felt the baby kick. “You already gave me the best present,” she whispered to Steve, and to herself.
“Oh, Steve,” she said, looking upwards. “I did love you. Really, I did.” She put the ring on her finger. Then lifted it, to see the diamonds glitter like stars.
“What the hell is this?”
Sharon jumped, her hand fluttering to her throat. It was Joan, standing in the hallway in a long white nightie. She had an eye mask pulled up over her forehead and ear plugs in her hand. Her lined old face was pale with worry. Her brown eyes were warm and worried.
“Thank God, Joan! I thought you were dead,” Sharon exclaimed..
Joan bent down to help her up. “Come here dear…everything’s going to be okay now.” Police sirens could be heard outside and the blue and red flashing of the cars, lit up the downed Christmas tree. The star tree-topper sparkled.
The End
About the Author
Steven Casey Murray has been writing since Junior School. His love for horror began when he watched 'A Nightmare On Elm Street ' at age 13 and decided Nancy was his heroine. He has written for numerous horror magazines such as 'Gorezone' & 'Scream'; & has written for websites on horror and graphic novels. He collects Catwoman memorabilia (mainly, Michelle Pfeiffer''s iconic take) and loves cat's.
Steven graduated First Class Honors from Bath University in 'English Literature & Creative English.' His favourite book is 'Cujo' by Stephen King, and he is currently working on his first major novel. Steven lives in Llandaff with his Bengal cat, Isis.
www.screamhorrormag.com
www.bellaonline.com/articles/art37257.asp
www.thesidekickcast.com
The Last Christmas Dinner
By
Christina Bergling
“Would you like some more egg nog, dear?” Susan said.
Susan shuffled out from the kitchen clinging to the hefty pitcher with both hands. The cream liquid sloshed threateningly at the rim with her uneven movement. The ache radiated up from the titanium joints in her replaced knees as she moved in deliberate out-toed steps on her ergonomic shoes, which seemed to do nothing after so many hours in the kitchen.
“Yeah, sure, Ma,” Jared said, holding out his glass.
Jared did not move from the couch to reduce his mother’s trek. He simply lifted his glass a little and kept his eyes committed to the tablet glowing in his lap. Susan waddled over to him slowly and filled his cup with the speckled mixture.
Snow fell softly and silently outside the large picture window of the living room, the flakes reflecting the Christmas tree’s twinkling glow cast through the pane. Susan had hung the heirloom ornaments in measured and perfect spacing, aligning each glass ball with a nearby lightbulb to amplify the glimmer. She had hand-strung the popcorn garland with her trembling arthritic fingers like every year. When she looked past her son’s suspended glass, she smiled to herself subtly at her festive masterpiece.
“Tastes different this year, Mom,” Samantha said from the opposing couch. “Stronger, maybe?”
The screen of Samantha’s smartphone reflected in her dead eyes, making her look hauntingly possessed. Her finger moved mechanically and repetitively across the screen in practiced patterns.
The fire crackled behind Samantha, warming the toes of the stockings hung high on the mantle above. The ancient CD player in the corner mumbled out Susan’s favorite holiday compilation album. The soundtrack of decades of Christmases spent just like this one—and some when her young, happy children tore through gifts so joyously it made Susan’s heart threaten to burst.
“Yes, darling,” Susan said, turning to pad over to Samantha’s outstretched glass. “I tried a new recipe this year after you and Derrick kept saying how much better Derrick’s mother’s homemade egg nog was last year.”
“Oh, don’t mention Derrick!”
Samantha flopped dramatically back onto the cushions, keeping her phone locked at the same distance from her face. The concentrated light exaggerated the pout on her features, elongating the creases in her face with unforgiving shadows.
“You sure know how to pick them, sis. Just a parade of jackasses. How many women did he screw before you figured it out?” Jared laughed, face half-buried in his glass, egg nog mustache blooming on his upper lip.
“Shut up, asshole. At least I can get a date to bring. You probably haven’t been laid since college.”
Susan took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, holding the pitcher of egg nog like a statue.
“Wow, feisty, sis. The egg nog must be stronger this year, Ma.”
“I’m just glad you both seem to like it,” Susan said.
She smiled, forcing the expression up into her cheeks through the exhaustion, and topped off both her children’s glasses again.
“Where’s Dad?” Samantha asked from behind her phone.
“Yeah, we haven’t seen him all day,” Jared echoed from behind his tablet.
“He’s just resting, but he’s nearly ready for dinner,” Susan said.
“Good, because I am starving. Feels like we’ve been waiting here forever. I’ve already beaten like ten levels on this game. Just since I’ve been here.” Jared shook the tablet out in front of him.
“Dinner is almost ready, dear,” Susan replied.
“Did you make the honey ham?” Samantha asked.
“Yes, dear.”
“And the green bean casserole?”
“Yes.”
“And the mashed potatoes with Grandma’s gravy.”
“Of course.”
“And the rolls?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And the pies?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Tell me you didn’t make that awful fruitcake.”
“I always make fruitcake, dear.”
“Ick. I don’t know why. It’s so terrible.”
“Do you want some more egg nog, dear?”
“Sure, Mom.”
By time Susan eased back toward the kitchen, she had drained most of the pitcher between Jared and Samantha’s glasses. She left her adult children in the same posi
tions she had found them, immobile zombies married to their devices, hardly speaking a word to each other though they had not been in the same room since this time the previous year. Even though the glass pitcher was less full, it somehow felt heavier as Susan walked.
Listening to the robotic chirps and relentless chimes dancing from the other room, Susan began to meticulously set the table. She took small half steps around the chairs to painstakingly spread the brightly embroidered tablecloth over the length of the table top, smoothing her hands over the raised texture of the poinsettia pattern.
The ache in her bones began to permeate through her muscles, radiating up to the skin, as she laid out each place setting. Placemat, plate, salad bowl, silverware. She folded the napkins against the protest of her fingertips. When the settings were placed perfectly like the stack of magazines she kept beside the recliner, she began making slow trips to place the food.
With everything except the main dish artfully positioned, Susan wiped the thin bead of sweat from her forehead and beckoned her children.
“Samantha, Jared, it’s ready.” Her voice sounded as tired as she felt in her very marrow.
“Great! Finally, Mom. I thought I was going to starve to death,” Jared said as he shoved past his mother and dove toward the table.
“Oh my God! Me too!”
Samantha scurried past her mother as well. They abandoned their devices on the table beside their place settings long enough to both begin grabbing up serving spoons and heaving helpings onto their plates. The clanking of dishes was only matched by their selfish and ragged breathing.
