Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  “Ye mean the ra-beyoned, black-feyaced lad, wi’ the brocken neb? Why, that’s a gentleman wi’ a pocket ful o’ guineas, man, and a horse worth fifty pounds!”

  “That horse is no better nor his rider. The nags that were in the stable wi’ him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain down a thack. I tuk them all out o’ that, away from him, into the hack-stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him. But that’s not all. When was keekin inta t’ winda at the nags, he comes behint me and claps his claw on ma shoulder, aid he gars me gang wi’ him, and open the aad coach-house door, and haad the cannle for him, till he pearked into the deed man’s feyace; and, as God’s my judge, I sid the corpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin’ and strivin’ to talk. I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hair rising on my heed; but at lang-last I gev a yelloch, and say I, ‘La! what is that?’ And he himsel’ looked round on me, like the devil he is; and, wi’ a skirl o’ a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o’ my hand. When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door. The moon was shinin’ in, and I cud see the corpse stretched on the table whar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi’ a purr o’ his foot. ‘Lock it,’ says he; and so I did. And here’s the key for ye—tak it yoursel’, sir. He offer’d me money: he said he’d mak me a rich man if I’d sell him the corpse, and help him awa’ wi’ it.”

  “Hout, man! What cud he want o’ t’ corpse? He’s not doctor, to do a’ that lids. He was takin’ a rise out o’ ye, lad,” said Turnbull.

  “Na, na—he wants the corpse. There’s summat you a’ me can’t tell he wants to do wi’ ’t; and he’d liefer get it wi’ sin and thievin’, and the damage of my soul. He’s one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies off Dardale Moss, that’s always astir wi’ the like after nightfall; unless—Lord save us!—he be the deual himsel’.”

  “Whar is he noo?” asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable.

  “He spang’d up the back stair to his room. I wonder you didn’t hear him trampin’ like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the house shook again—but Lord knows whar he is noo. Let us gang awa’ up to the Vicar’s, and gan him come down, and talk wi’ him.”

  “Hoity toity, man—you’re too easy scared,” said the landlord, pale enough by this time. “’Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroad that the house was haunted by the deaul himsel’! Why, ’twould be the ruin o’ the George. You’re sure ye locked the door on the corpse?”

  “Aye, sir—sartain.”

  “Come wi’ me, Tom—we’ll gi’ a last look round the yard.”

  So, side by side, with many a jealous look right and left, and over their shoulders, they went in silence. On entering the old-fashioned quadrangle, surrounded by stables and other offices—built in the antique cage-work fashion—they stopped for a while under the shadow of the inn gable, and looked round the yard, and listened. All was silent—nothing stirring.

  The stable lantern was lighted; and with it in his hand Tony Turnbull, holding Tom Scales by the shoulder, advanced. He hauled Tom after him for a step or two; then stood still and shoved him before him for a step or two more; and thus cautiously—as a pair of skirmishers under fire— they approached the coach-house door.

  “There, ye see—all safe,” whispered Tom, pointing to the lock, which hung—distinct in the moonlight—in its place. “Cum back, I say!”

  “Cum on, say I!” retorted the landlord valorously. “It would never do to allow any tricks to be played with the chap in there”—he pointed to the coach-house door.

  “The coroner here in the morning, and never a corpse to sit on!” He unlocked the padlock with these words, having handed the lantern to Tom. “Here, keck in, Tom,” he continued; “ye hey the lantern—and see if all’s as ye left it.”

  “Not me—na, not for the George and a’ that’s in it!” said Tom, with a shudder, sternly, as he took a step backward.

  “What the—what are ye afraid on? Gi’ me the lantern—it is all one: I will.”

  And cautiously, little by little, he opened the door; and, holding the lantern over his head in the narrow slit, he peeped in—frowning and pale—with one eye, as if he expected something to fly in his face. He closed the door without speaking, and locked it again.

  “As safe as a thief in a mill,” he whispered with a nod to his companion. And at that moment a harsh laugh overhead broke the silence startlingly, and set all the poultry in the yard gabbling.

  “Thar he be!” said Tom, clutching the landlord’s arm—“in the winda—see!”

  The window of the cedar-room, up two pair of stairs, was open; and in the shadow a darker outline was visible of a man, with his elbows on the window-stone, looking down upon them.

  “Look at his eyes—like two live coals!” gasped Tom.

  The landlord could not see all this so sharply, being confused, and not so long-sighted as Tom.

  “Time, sir,” called Tony Turnbull, turning cold as he thought he saw a pair of eyes shining down redly at him—“time for honest folk to be in their beds, and asleep!”

  “As sound as your sexton!” said the jeering voice from above.

  “Come out of this,” whispered the landlord fiercely to his hostler, plucking him hard by the sleeve.

  They got into the house, and shut the door.

  “I wish we were shot of him,” said the landlord, with something like a groan, as he leaned against the wall of the passage. “I’ll sit up, anyhow—and, Tom, you’ll sit wi’ me. Cum into the gun-room. No one shall steal the dead man out of my yard while I can draw a trigger.”

  The gun-room in the George is about twelve feet square. It projects into the stable-yard and commands a full view of the old coach-house; and, through a narrow side window, a flanking view of the back door of the inn, through which the yard is reached.

  Tony Turnbull took down the blunderbuss—which was the great ordnance of the house—and loaded it with a stiff charge of pistol bullets.

  He put on a great-coat which hung there, and was his covering when he went out at night, to shoot wild ducks. Tom made himself comfortable likewise. They then sat down at the window, which was open, looking into the yard, the opposite side of which was white in the brilliant moonlight.

  The landlord laid the blunderbuss across his knees, and stared into the yard. His comrade stared also. The door of the gun-room was locked; so they felt tolerably secure.

  An hour passed; nothing had occurred. Another. The clock struck one. The shadows had shifted a little; but still the moon shone full on the old coach-house, and the stable where the guest’s horse stood.

  Turnbull thought he heard a step on the back-stair. Tom was watching the back-door through the side window, with eyes glazing with the intensity of his stare. Anthony Turnbull, holding his breath, listened at the room door. It was a false alarm.

  When he came back to the window looking into the yard:

  “Hish! Look thar!” said he in a vehement whisper. From the shadow at the left they saw the figure of the gaunt horseman, in short cloak and jack-boots, emerge. He pushed open the stable door, and led out his powerful black horse. He walked it across the front of the building till he reached the old coach-house door; and there, with its bridle on its neck, he left it standing, while he stalked to the yard gate; and, dealing it a kick with his heel, it sprang back with the rebound, shaking from top to bottom, and stood open. The stranger returned to the side of his horse; and the door which secured the corpse of the dead sexton seemed to swing slowly open of itself as he entered, and returned with the corpse in his arms, and swung it across the shoulders of the horse, and instantly sprang into the saddle.

  “Fire!” shouted Tom, and bang went the blunderbuss with a stunning crack. A thousand sparrows’ wings winnowed through the air from the thick ivy. The watch-dog yelled a furious bark. There was a strange ring and whistle in the air. The blunderbuss had burst to shivers right down to the very breech. The recoil rolled the inn-keeper upon his back on the
floor, and Tom Scales was flung against the side of the recess of the window, which had saved him from a tumble as violent. In this position they heard the scaring laugh of the departing horseman, and saw him ride out of the gate with his ghastly burden.

  Perhaps some of my readers, like myself, have heard this story told by Roger Turnbull, now host of the George and Dragon, the grandson of the very Tony who then swayed the spigot and keys of that inn, in the identical kitchen of which the fiend treated so many of the neighbours to punch.

  What infernal object was subserved by the possession of the dead villain’s body, I have not learned. But a very curious story, in which a vampire resuscitation of Crooke the sexton figures, may throw a light on this part of the tale.

  The result of Turnbull’s shot at the disappearing fiend certainly justifies old Andrew Moreton’s dictum, which is thus expressed in his curious “History of Apparitions”: “I warn rash brands who, pretending not to fear the devil, are for using the ordinary violences with him, which affect one man from another—or with an apparition, in which they may be sure to receive some mischief. I knew one fired a gun at an apparition and the gun burst in a hundred pieces in his hand; another struck at an apparition with a sword, and broke his sword in pieces and wounded his hand grievously; and ’tis next to madness for anyone to go that way to work with any spirit, be it angel or be it devil.”

  Bill West

  HO, HO, HO

  I WAS ROLLING my last spliff, when there was a thump. My caravan shook. I ran outside and looked up, saw antlers, reindeer nudging shoulders and stamping on the snowy roof. The sleigh looked big, heavy. The caravan walls buckled ominously.

  Santa was hanging, tangled in reins. He smelt of sherry. I cut him down, dragged him inside, slapped him a bit and gave him a smoke.

  “Ho-ho-ho,” he said.

  He looked around at my bare walls, crud littered floor and my one red Christmas candle. I could see he wasn’t impressed.

  That made me mad. He was ‘The Man,’ he had the white beard, twinkling eyes, fur trimmed coat and his own wheels. Santa was the main event, and he hadn’t visited since the orphanage. So full of himself; he didn’t give a damn.

  When I challenged him to Russian roulette, he just blew smoke rings at me. I pulled out my imaginary gun, cracked it open, loaded a single bullet then closed it with a ‘snick’. I gave it a spin and slid it to him. The back of his hand was hairy. He licked his lips, put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger.

  I said, “Click!”

  Now it was my turn. Despite the cold, I was sweating. The imaginary gun felt heavy, familiar. I put it to my forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  Santa said, “Click!”

  I nearly stopped it then. I should have stopped it. But, every Christmas was the same, just me in this battered caravan in the middle of nowhere with my one red Christmas candle. I had to do something.

  Santa raised the gun to his brow and stared at me with bright blue eyes. He squeezed the trigger.

  I said, “Bang!”

  Santa’s head exploded, showered the room with gouts of tinsel, holly and ivy. Bright red berries bounced across the carpet and the air filled with the smell of pine forests, roasted meat and mulled wine.

  “Ho-ho-ho,” I said.

  Alan Griffiths

  SECRET SANTA

  DAVID COOK EXITED Canary Wharf tube station, feeling icy sleet on his face and hearing staccato out-of-tune squeaks and parps. Turning the corner Primrose was a sight for sore eyes.

  “You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said Primrose. A beaming smile exposing bad, nicotine stained teeth as he pocketed the pound coin.

  “A cold morning for it, Primrose,” said Cook. “You look a seasonal picture though.”

  “Aye,” said Primrose. “But the elastic on these Alan Whickers is cutting me friggin’ arse to ribbons.”

  Primrose poking and pulling at his buttocks tottered on stilettos. His red silk dress rode higher; revealing a scary glimpse of hairy goose pimpled flesh, suspender belt and stocking top. Primrose’s only deference to the bitter weather was a three button M&S cardigan, straining across his barrel-chest, and a Santa hat.

  Cook laughed and took a copy of The Big Issue. Saying, “Take care my friend,” as Primrose readied to let loose with the battered alto-sax.

  As Cook reached the First Global Bank building he heard the old transvestite honk out the first few gruff and wobbly bum notes of ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’.

  ***

  Cook spotted the diminutive, mutton dressed as lamb, Georgie Bell. He could count on one hand the number of times Georgie had spoken to him since she was appointed FGB International Director. Making no secret that she regarded him as a middle-aged has been.

  Reaching his desk Cook said a cheery, “Morning all.”

  In her office Georgie feigned not to hear and continued to tap on her keyboard, a sour look on her face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

  Cook thinking, silly, stuck-up bint.

  Firing up his computer Cook hacked into Georgie’s email account. The Human Resources email confirmed his suspicions; today was going to be the day.

  Accessing the Pietersen account he began coding instructions; marvelling at the transactional procedure. One pence, disguised as a currency fluctuation, was deducted from a multitude of FGB international accounts each day and deposited into the Pietersen account. Miniscule amounts skimmed and totalling a tidy six figure balance.

  ***

  The email arrived at 15:45, instructing him to go immediately to HR. Waiting for the lift he spied two security guys locking down his work-station. FGB was following standard dismissal security protocol.

  Georgie, not bothering to attend, sent her deputy, the snivelling Derek ‘Jellyfish’ Ponting. Cook was told by the HR manager that regrettably his position was redundant. Hearing corporate platitudes: Deficit. Tough trading. Efficiencies. Rationalisation.

  The Jellyfish limply shook Cook’s hand and gave him a meagre redundancy cheque. Saying, his tone as camp as a row of tents, “Wishing you a, err... happy early retirement, David.”

  Cook was escorted from the FGB building with not so much as a thank you for twenty five years of unblemished service.

  Doing the sensible thing, Cook found the nearest bar and downed the first of several large malts.

  ***

  Cook tracked Primrose down to a hostel for the homeless in Vauxhall. Finding him semi-conscious in the canteen amongst empty cans of Tennent's Super.

  Primrose insisted on taking his beloved alto to the Starbucks where Cook plied him with black coffee and cash and more black coffee and a guarantee of more cash; if he followed instructions to the letter.

  Leaving Primrose tooting and wailing a stuttering version of ‘We're in the Money’, Cook hailed a black cab. Falling into the back seat as the driver regaled him with a barrage of insight on: London traffic. The Coalition Government. The idiotic Mayor. Tottenham Hotspur FC.

  Cook managing to interrupt him for long enough to say, “Heathrow Airport.”

  ***

  Primrose padlocked his rusty bicycle to the railings of the, oh so chic, L’Antipasto. Thinking, you can’t be too careful with these posh bastards.

  The party was in full swing as Primrose made his entrance. He’d made the effort: Burlesque corset. Tutu. Fishnets. Four inch heels.

  “I’m looking for the lovely Georgie,” Primrose hollered. “You’ve not seen a stripogram like me before, darling.”

  Heads turned; watching Primrose stride to the FGB table and moon at the po-faced Georgie.

  Georgie gagging and spraying a mouthful of mange tout.

  The Jellyfish, finding his backbone, jumped up. Saying, “Get out you drunken, filthy slob.”

  “I’ll take my leave then,” said Primrose. “You’re all a bunch of philistines and snobs!”

  Theatrically sweeping back his long, greying locks Primrose planted his forehead square into Ponting’s pudgy face
.

  In the resulting confusion Primrose pulled a package from his new Prada handbag and dropped it on the pile of parcels in the middle of the table. Snaffling slices of turkey breast, a handful of brussel sprouts and a couple of roasties and washing them down with two large glasses of crisp, Pinot Grigio.

  Belching loudly and breaking wind Primrose slipped out the fire exit; leaving a silent but deadly gift for the clientele to savour.

  ***

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Matthew Strauss, FGB Managing Director and guest of honour. “The unfortunate interruption is over and the... air is now clear. Shall we continue with the festivities?”

  “Here, here,” and glass tapping chorused around the table.

  Ponting gingerly dabbed his swollen nose with a blood stained handkerchief.

  “Let’s have the Secret Santa,” shouted an acolyte.

  Georgie stopped rubbing the vegetable stain on her sparkly designer dress and gushed, “Matt, would you do us the honour of being master of ceremony?”

  ***

  “This... oddly shaped one, is for... Georgie!” Strauss said.

  Paying reverence to tradition Georgie got to her feet and enthusiastically shredded wrapping paper; revealing a fleshy pink, ‘Rampant Rabbit Big O’. Shaking like a frightened schoolgirl as she digested the digits on the slip of paper sellotaped along the shaft.

  Georgie not wanting to believe the balance of her ‘Pietersen’ slush fund account. Her addled brain thinking: Zilch. Nada. Zero. Reading the gift tag tied delicately around the thick base Georgie peed her pants:-