“Here’s a secret for you, Turner, old son. The Dead don’t like being where they are. It’s cold and lonely. Here, this place? It’s a lot happier for them.”
“I can’t make them go away. I’ve tried!”
“What rituals did you use?” There were always methods for reversing a spell, but he had to know which incantation had been used in the first place if he was going to make this painless.
Turner did the one thing guaranteed to anger Crowley. He lied. “I don’t remember. I don’t have the book anymore.”
There were times when Jonathan Crowley was too nice for his own good and times when he was far too lenient as far as he was concerned. He looked at the man in front of him, surrounded by the dead who demanded sacrifices, and knew that there was never going to be an easy fix for the situation. Given the opportunity, Turner Harrison would do it again. He did not want to learn from his mistakes. He simply wanted to have everything turn out his way, regardless of the cost.
“Fair enough. Handle your own problems, Mr. Harrison.”
“What?” Oh, that got him thinking, didn’t it? Suddenly there was more to consider.
“I said handle it yourself!” Crowley left the room, pushing the door open in a hurry and almost knocking Laura on her ass in the process. The atmosphere was quieter on this side of the door, the air warmer, less turbulent.
“Mr. Crowley, where’s Turner?”
“He’s staying here. We’re not.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, but instead grabbed Laura by her bicep and led her toward the front door. The maid hesitated for a second and then started following. He looked over his shoulder at her and nodded. “This is the part where we want to run.”
Laura tried to resist but he was far too strong for her. He lifted the woman in his arms and ignored her frantic attempts to hit him, to make him let go. She started to say something but the sudden screams from the dining room dwarfed whatever words she tried to speak.
Crowley didn’t stop to listen, much as part of him wanted to. Instead he forced the front door open and when she got feisty a second time he physically hurled Laura out into the snow beyond the front porch. The maid was right behind him and didn’t waste a second leaving the premises.
A moment later the scream came again, louder, distorted by pain and something else. It did not cease, but instead trailed off, fading in the distance though none of them were moving.
Crowley looked back at the house, a frown on his features, and studied the structure carefully.
Silence greeted him, complete and eternal. The dead that had been in the house were gone and so too the man who had summoned them to visit and paid them in blood to stay away every year.
Laura charged past him, screaming her uncle’s name. He let her go, knowing full well what she would find inside.
The house was as empty as his own; devoid of family or loved ones. Once upon a time he’d lost his family too; the difference was he knew better than to try to call them back.
The wind called out, blasting past the empty house, drowning the sounds of a woman in mourning. Her losses were bad, but could have been worse. In the end, she still had her husband and her children waiting for her.
That would have to be enough.
Barry Gifford
THE STARVING DOGS OF LITTLE CROATIA
“EVERY MAN LIVES like hunted animal,” said Drca Kovic.
“You make this just up?” asked Boro Catolica.
“What is difference?” Drca said, “if it is truth?”
The two men, both in their mid-thirties, were seated next to one another on stools at the bar in Dukes Up Tavern on Anna Ruttar Street drinking shots of Four Sisters backed with Old Style chasers. Brenda Lee was on the jukebox belting out “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” just as she did every December. Boro Catolica lit up a Lucky.
“Ten years now Chicago,” he said, “and no truth more than Zagreb.”
“At least here we drink in peace,” said Drca Kovic. “There we drink in war.”
“Yes, but probably we end up lying still in alley with cats they are looking at us. Our eyes they are open but not being able see theirs.”
It was seven o’clock on a Friday evening two days before Christmas. There were four inches of snow on the ground with more expected. Boro and Drca had been in Dukes Up since ten to five, thirty minutes after dark and twenty minutes following the end of their shift at Widerwille Meatpacking on Pulaski Avenue. The men worked full days Monday through Friday and half days on Saturday.
“You notice old man Widerwille not so often check line now?” said Boro.
“Probably too cold in freezer for him,” Drca said. “Blood is thinner.”
The front door opened and two boys, both about eleven or twelve years old, entered the tavern, bringing with them a blast of icy air accompanied by a spray of new snow.
Emile Wunsch, the bartender and part owner of Dukes Up, shouted, “No minors allowed! And shut that door!”
“There’s a dead guy lyin’ out on the sidewalk,” said the larger of the two boys.
The smaller boy closed the door.
“How do you know he’s dead?” said Emile Wunsch.
“He looks like Arne Pedersen did,” said the smaller boy, “after he died from Sterno poisoning last February.”
“His body froze overnight,” the other boy said, “on the steps of Santa Maria Addolorata.”
Boro and Drca went out, followed by the boys. Half a minute later the four of them came back inside.
“It’s Bad Lands Bill,” said Boro, brushing snow from his head, “the Swede was from North of Dakota.”
“The flatnosed guy used to work at the chicken cannery?” asked Emile.
Drca nodded. “His skin is blue and there is no breathing.”
“We saw his eyes were open,” said the smaller boy, “so we stopped to look at him.”
“He wasn’t blinkin’,” said the larger boy, “his tongue’s stickin’ out and it’s blue, too.”
The two Croatian men went back outside, picked up the body and carried it into Dukes Up, where they set it down on the floor. Boro closed the door.
“I’ll call the precinct,” said Emile Wunsch, “tell ’em to send a wagon. You boys can stick around to tell the cops how you found him.”
Drca and Boro went back to their stools at the bar.
“Boys you want Coca-Cola?” asked Boro.
“Sure,” said the smaller one.
“I am Drca, he is Boro.”
“I’m Flip,” said the larger boy.
“I’m Roy,” said the other.
“Okay they sit at bar?” Boro asked Emile.
Emile was still on the phone to the precinct. He hung up and motioned to Flip and Roy to go ahead. The boys climbed up on stools next to the men.
“You think corpse we should cover?” said Drca.
“Why to bother?” Boro said. “Wagon coming.”
“Did Bad Lands Bill drink here?” Roy asked.
Emile came over with Cokes for the boys.
“Not for a while,” he said. “He got laid off a few months back. Last time I saw him was in July.”
Flip sipped his Coke as he spun around on his stool and looked down at the body. The eyes and mouth were closed.
“Hey,” Flip said, “weren’t his eyes and mouth open when you carried him in?”
“Yeah,” said Roy, “his tongue was hangin’ out.”
Everyone stared at Bad Lands Bill. His skin was not quite so blue.
“I guess gettin’ warmed up changes the body,” said Flip. “It’s good for him to be inside.”
“That’s what Midget Fernekes said about himself,” said Emile.
“Who’s that?” asked Roy.
“A bank robber grew up in Canaryville,” the bartender said. “He was the first person to blow safes usin’ nitroglycerin. Midget said he learned more about safecrackin’ in the pen than he ever could’ve on the street.”
Drca and Boro drank in sil
ence. Emile poured them each another shot of Four Sisters, then busied himself at the end of the bar. No other customers came in. Roy and Flip finished their Coca-Colas and sat quietly, too. For some reason it did not seem right to talk a lot with a dead man lying there.
“The wagon oughta be here by now,” said Emile, who came around from behind the bar, walked over to the front door and looked outside through the small window.
“It’s a full on blizzard out there,” he said. “Maybe you kids should go on home now, before it gets any worse. Drca and Boro and I can tell the ambulance boys what happened, if they can even get here.”
“Go,” said Boro. “Drinks on house. Yes, Emile?”
The bartender nodded.
“Be careful of starving dogs,” said Drca. “They are hunting in group when weather is bad.”
“This Chicago,” said Boro, “not Zagreb. Here dogs eat better than people of half of world.”
Roy and Flip got down from their stools and took one more look at Bad Lands Bill. His skin seemed almost normal now and there was a peaceful expression on his face. Emile opened the door a crack.
“Quick, boys,” he said, “so the wind don’t blow the snow in.”
After Flip turned off Anna Ruttar Street to go to his house, Roy bent his head as he trudged forward and thought about packs of hungry wild dogs roaming the streets of Croatian cities and villages attacking kids and old people unable to defend themselves, feasting on stumblebums like Bad Lands Bill, especially if they were already dead. Roy brushed snow from his face. He wondered if Midget Fernekes was really a midget or if he was called that just because he was short. Roy worried that he could end up like Bad Lands Bill or Arne Pedersen, a rummy frozen to death on a sidewalk or in an alley. This was a possibility, he knew, it could happen to any man if enough breaks went against him. Roy tried to keep the snow out of his eyes but it was coming down too fast. He felt as if he were wandering in the clouds only this wasn’t heaven. He was where the dogs could get him.
John Edward Lawson
CHRISTMAS HORROR TALES: AN INTRODUCTION
IN CONTEMPORARY SOCIETY Christmas is thought of as the celebration of Jesus Christ's birth. It is a merry time for Christians to celebrate and spend time with their loved ones. Largely this is a creation of the Victorian era, popularized during the 1860s. The origins of this holiday, though, are of quite a different nature. The true history of Christmas goes back well over four thousand years.
The ancient Mesopotamians called their New Year Zagmuk, a twelve day festival marking the battle between light and darkness. The god Marduk entered mortal combat with the chaotic forces of darkness to prevent winter from taking over. To achieve this end their king was to be sacrificed yearly in order to fight at Marduk's side. The Mesopotamians, however, had no interest in losing a king each year. The solution was to select a "Mock King" from among the criminal population. He was given all the privileges of royalty but died at the festival's end.
Not only do the twelve days of Christmas stem from these traditions, but strangely the theme of having the impoverished and enslaved switch roles with the upper class became a centerpiece of most winter solstice holidays along the Mediterranean and throughout Europe.
A case in point is the Babylonian and Persian holiday of Sacaea, wherein slaves ruled over their masters. The Roman holiday of Saturnalia, celebrated from the middle of December through mid-January, also gave similar power to slaves at the masters' expense and the peasants took control of Rome. Later, Europeans would celebrate Christmas in a raucous, Mardi-Gras manner. During the drunkenness locals would appoint a "lord of misrule" and obey his commands, then besiege the homes of the wealthy taking their best food and wine. If the rich refused the mob there was often trouble.
Still other variations of the holiday focused less on class struggle and more on the titanic battle between gods and devils. For example, the Greeks held a celebration similar in nature to Sacaea and Zagmuk, during which they assisted Kronos in his combat against the Titans, who were led by Zeus. For Scandinavians the battle between the forces of light and dark were even more serious. On the thirty-fifth day after the disappearance of the sun scouts would be sent to the mountains to look for signs of its return. It is understandable that after such a long period of darkness massive festivals were held, in the form of Yuletide, from which we derive the Yule log. Evergreen and mistletoe boughs were considered excellent weapons against the spirits that ran amok during the short days of winter.
In the early days of Christianity the religion was struggling to establish itself against the popular Roman gods, and the Mithraism of the Persians. Mithra-unstoppable god of the sun-figured prominently in both of these religions; he was an infant god born from rock, born on December 25th. While it is not ever stated in the Bible, Julius I, Bishop of Rome, decreed in 350 AD December 25th the official observance of Christ's birth. This seems somewhat suspect considering that shepherds wouldn't be herding during winter. Regardless, this policy allowed converts to continue their traditional celebrations, allowing Christianity even greater appeal.
Other features taken from the Roman Saturnalia are garlands, visiting family and friends, large feasts, decorating trees with lit candles, and everybody's favorite: gift giving. Sinterclass, Saint Nick, Father Christmas, and Santa Claus are all variations on the Bishop of Myra, Saint Nicholas. Having died in 340 AD, he was renowned for his charity, especially to children. Italy has La Befana, a beneficent witch clad in black who delivers gifts to children on January 6, and Scandinavian countries have an elf that delivers goodies. In Switzerland the Christ Child actually appears and gives gifts to children directly! And, for those naughty children, some of these gift-bearing entities have dark sidekicks who will steal children or beat them severely with a rod.
Despite the fact that the general public is no longer able to terrorize the gentry, and some children live under threat of being tormented by supernatural creatures, Christmas remains the most anticipated holiday in most Christian lands.
Donald E. Westlake
(as Curt Clark)
NACKLES
DID GOD CREATE Men, or does Man create gods? I don’t know, and if it hadn’t been for my rotten brother-in-law the questions would never have come up. My late brother-in-law? Nackles knows.
It all depends, you see, like the chicken and the egg, on which cam first. Did God exist before Man first thought of Him, or didn’t He? If not, if Man creates his gods, then it follows that Man must create the devils, too.
Nearly every god, you know, has his corresponding devil. Good and Evil. The polytheistic ancients, prolific in the creation (?) of gods and goddesses, always worked up nearly enough Evil ones to cancel out the Good, but not quite. The Greeks, those incredible supermen, combined Good and Evil in each of their gods. In Zoroaster, Ahura Mazda, being Good is ranged forever against the Evil one, Ahriman. And we ourselves know God and Satan.
But of course it’s entirely possible I have nothing to worry about. It all depends on whether Santa Claus is or is not a god. He certainly seems like a god. Consider: He is omniscient; he knows every action of every child, for good or evil. At least on Christmas Eve he is omnipresent, everywhere at once. He administers justice tempered with mercy. He is superhuman, or at least non-human, though conceived of as having a human shape. He is aided by a corps of assistants who do not have completely human shapes. He rewards Good and punishes Evil. And, most important, he is believed in utterly by several million people, most of them under the age of ten. Is there any qualification for godhood that Santa Claus does not possess?
And even the non-believers give him lip-service. He has surely taken over Christmas; his effigy is everywhere, but where are the manger and the Christ child? Retired rather forlornly to the nave. (Santa’s power is growing, too. Slowly but surely he is usurping Chanukah as well.)
Santa Claus is a god. He’s no less a god than Ahura Mazda, or Odin, or Zeus. Think of the white beard, the chariot pulled through the air by a breed of ann
ual which doesn’t ordinarily fly, the prayers (requests for gifts) which are annually mailed to him and which so baffle the Post Office, the specially-garbed priests in all the department stores. And don’t gods reflect their creators’ society? The Greeks had a huntress goddess, and gods of agriculture and war and love. What else would we have but a god of giving, of merchandising, and of consumption? Secondary gods of earlier times have been stout, but surely Santa Claus is the first fat primary god.
And wherever there is a god, mustn’t there sooner or later be a devil?
Which brings me back to my brother-in-law, who’s to blame for whatever happens now. My brother-in-law Frank is – or was – a very mean and nasty man. Why I ever let him marry my sister I’ll never know. Why Susie wanted to marry him is an even greater mystery. I could just shrug and say Love is Blind, I suppose, but that wouldn’t explain how she fell in love with him in the first place.
Frank is – Frank was – I just don’t know what tense to use. The present, hopefully. Frank is a very handsome man in his way, big and brawny, full of vitality. A football player; hero in college and defensive line-backer for three years in pro ball, till he did some sort of irreparable damage to his left knee, which gave him a limp and forced him to find some other way to make a living.
Ex-football players tend to become insurance salesmen, I don’t know why. Frank followed the form, and became and insurance salesman. Because Susie was then a secretary for the same company, they soon became acquainted.
Was Susie dazzled by the ex-hero, so big and handsome? She’s never been the type to dazzle easily, but we can never fully know what goes on inside the mind of another human being. For whatever reason, she decided she was in love with him.
So they were married, and five weeks later he gave her her first black eye. And the last, though it mightn’t have been, since Susie tried to keep me from finding out. I was to go over for dinner that night, but at eleven in the morning she called the auto showroom where I work, to tell me she had a headache and we’d have to postpone the dinner. But she sounded so upset that I knew immediately something was wrong, so I took a demonstration car and drove over, and when she opened the front door there was the shiner.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 3
