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

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  Such a discovery might be thought worthy of more than the very ordinary interest Mr Batchel showed. As a matter of fact, the presence of a human bone was easily to be accounted for. Recent excavations within the church had caused the upturning of numberless bones, which had been collected and reverently buried. But an earth-stained bone is also easily overlooked, and this radius had obviously found its way into the garden with some of the earth brought out of the church.

  Mr Batchel was glad, rather than regretful at this termination to his adventure. He was once more provided with something to do. The reinterment of such bones as this had been his constant care, and he decided at once to restore the bone to consecrated earth. The time seemed opportune. The eyes of the curious were closed in sleep, he himself was still alert and wakeful. The spade remained by his side and the bone in his hand. So he betook himself, there and then, to the churchyard. By the still generous light of the moon, he found a place where the earth yielded to his spade, and within a few minutes the bone was laid decently to earth, some 18 inches deep.

  The city clocks struck one as he finished. The whole world seemed asleep, and Mr Batchel slowly returned to the garden with his spade. As he hung it in its accustomed place he felt stealing over him the welcome desire to sleep. He walked quietly on to the house and ascended to his room. It was now dark: the moon had passed on and left the room in shadow. He lit a candle, and before undressing passed into the library. He had an irresistible curiosity to see the passages in John Evelyn’s book which had so strangely adapted themselves to the events of the past hour.

  In the library a last surprise awaited him. The desk upon which the book had lain was empty. ‘The Compleat Gard’ner’ stood in its place on the shelf. And then Mr Batchel knew that he had handled a bone of William Whitehead, and that in response to his own entreaty.

  J. Steven York

  ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE

  MY FOOT TROUBLES me these cold winter nights. The bunions throb, and the long, ragged nails click on the hardwood floor of this great empty house. It wasn’t always so. I remember my foot as it used to be, before I had it cut off.

  It was a good foot, well muscled, sleek of form, straight of toe, sculpted in asymmetrical beauty. It carried me through life in strong, purposeful strides. Then the day came, that dark and terrible day, when my foot, so perfect and wonderful, made a single misstep, and took my beautiful Betty from me.

  It was a cool morning at the end of summer, and the fog hung low over Puget Sound. We were camping at the state park, Betty and I, in the woods overlooking the beach. It was a beautiful place, the air sweet with evergreen, complimented by the tang of salt coming off the Sound. At the time, it was hard to believe that beautiful place had once been a military base, a place of war and killing, where great guns stood poised to rain on attackers with flaming death.

  But that had been nearly fifty years before, and those days were all but forgotten, marked only by a few overgrown bunkers, silent gun emplacements, and concrete mounds that covered underground chambers where shells and powder were once stored.

  We had seen the signs, of course, marking the old gunnery range. They warned that unexploded shells still might wait there, ready to explode with the slightest touch. But the threat had seemed distant, almost absurd, and the beach that way was so beautiful.

  Who knew how long the shell had waited there? Perhaps it had washed down from the eroded cliffs above, buried under a film of sand. Waiting.

  For my foot.

  I do not remember the explosion, or the terrible sound of it. I only remember flying, seeing the first patch of clear blue sky as the morning fog burned off. I remember the landing, something felt with the detachment of a bag of flour dropped to the kitchen floor. I remember looking at the dead and ruined face of my beloved Betty.

  Later, in the hospital, the doctors worked around the clock to save my foot, but there was only so much they could do. Cruel fate had taken my Betty from me. Let it take my foot too, foul betrayer that it was. “Cut it off,“ I told them. “Be done with it.”

  But it was not done, as I went back to our house alone, that huge and empty house, a cavern where only echoes lived. Winter came, and late at night, I heard the clicking of those toes, moving across my floor. At first, I thought my Betty had come back to me, and I rushed, as fast as my false foot and cane could take me, to the living room. There, I had put up the plastic Christmas tree her parents had given us, holly, candles, and stockings, in a mockery of my former life. Christmas time had been our favorite time of the year, our special time of togetherness and celebration.

  There was no joy in that room, no spirit of Christmas. But there, on the floor, by the piles of gifts from friends long ignored, was the living spirit of my departed foot.

  I screamed with horror, and stumbled back towards my room. I quickly fell, months of physical therapy forgotten, I crawled on my hands and knees like an animal. I scuttled to my room, slamming the door, throwing it shut, feeling the thick walnut against my back. I sat there on the floor, sobbing, trying to catch my breath. I thought I was safe. But then, outside the door, in the hallway, I could hear that sound. The sound of a single footstep.

  Each night it came, until Christmas eve. Then, and only then, it followed me to the door of my room, paused for a time, and then, walked away.

  Each year it came, as sure as Christmas carols and bell ringers at the mall. It was the one certainty in my life as other things crumbled away like plaster from a neglected building: my job, my friends, my family. There were no new presents under the dusty plastic tree, to join the ones unopened from years before. So it is each Christmas. So it is now.

  I see myself in the mirror in the hall, gaunt, unshaven, unrecognizable. Is this what I've come to? I make my way to the living room filled with grim determination. I can't go on. This is where it must end.

  I throw a log in the fireplace, light the kindling, and fan the reluctant flames, warming the bricks of the hearth for the first time in years. I stand before the fireplace, the flickering light of the fire the only light in the room, casting ghostly shadows on the faded wallpaper. But the real ghost has not yet arrived.

  Then I hear it, padding softly through the dining room. I feel my blood thundering in my ears, heart pounding my ribs like a forgotten prisoner, but I do not run. I stand and wait.

  Then I see it, coming out from behind the couch, twisted and scarred, a horrible parody of its former perfection. I want to turn my eyes away, but I do not.

  I look on my severed foot, feel my chest tighten, and the tears run down my cheeks like salty waves. "What do you want from me?" I cry. "What more can you want from me? You took her from me. You took my Betty from me. What else can you possibly want?" But I know there will be no answer.

  Feet cannot speak.

  I know now, that the answers must come from me. While the spirit of my severed foot seems to have a will of its own, it was not always so. A foot is slave to the leg, and the leg is slave to the body, and the body is slave to the mind, and, ultimately, the mind is slave to the heart.

  I see my foot in a different way, betrayed and alone. What can it want from me? Forgiveness? I know now that there is nothing to forgive. What can it want?

  Then my hand falls on the stocking, hanging empty from the mantel. I caress the soft felt and fur of it with my fingertips, and I understand. I take it down from its perch and lower it gently to the floor. I open the top, and the foot comes closer, like a lost puppy, eager, but also afraid. In hesitates but for a moment, and then it squirms inside. A peace comes over me.

  I sit before the hearth, my feet warming before the crackling fire. I do not remember the last time I was content. In the shadows of the corner, I think I can see poor, lost, Betty watching us, and she is smiling.

  Kevin J. Anderson

  SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO GET YOU!

  ‘TWAS THE NIGHT before the night before Christmas, and all through the house little sounds were stirring...sinister, creeping, whispers
of noise. Echoes of things better left unseen in the darkness, even around the holiday season.

  Jeff stared up at the bottom of his little brother’s bunk. Ever since Stevie had gotten rid of the nightlight, he always feared that the upper bunk would fall on top of him and squish him flat.

  A strong gust of wind rattled the window pane. Wet snow brushing against it sounded like the hiss of a deadly snake, but he could hear that his brother was not asleep. “Stevie? I thought of something about Christmas.”

  “What?” The voice was muffled by Stevie’s ratty blue blanket.

  “Well, Santa keeps a list of who’s naughty and nice, right? So, what does he do to the kids who’ve been naughty?” He didn’t know why he asked Stevie. Stevie wouldn’t know.

  “They don’t get any presents I guess... Do you really think Mom and Dad are that mad at us?”

  Jeff sucked in a breath. “We were playing with matches, Stevie! We could have burned the house down—you heard them say that. Imagine if we burned the house down... Besides, it doesn’t matter if Mom and Dad are angry. What’ll Santa think?”

  Jeff swallowed. He had to get the ideas out of his head. “I gotta tell you this, Stevie, because it’s important. Something a kid told me at school.

  “He said that it isn’t Santa who puts presents out when you’re good. It’s just your Mom and Dad. They wait until you go to sleep, and then they sneak out some presents. It’s all pretend.”

  “Oh come on!”

  “Think about it. Your parents are the ones who know what you really want.” He pushed on in a whisper. “What if Santa only comes when you’re bad?”

  “But we said we were sorry! And...and it wasn’t my idea—it was yours. And nothing got hurt.”

  Jeff closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the bottom of the upper bunk. “I think Santa looks for naughty little boys and girls. That’s why he comes around on Christmas Eve.

  “He sneaks down the chimney, and he carries an empty sack with him. And when he knows he’s in a house where there’s a naughty kid, he goes into their bedroom and grabs them, and stuffs them in the sack! Then he pushes them up the chimney and throws the bag in the back of his sleigh with all the other naughty little boys and girls. And then he takes them back up north where it’s always cold and where the wind always blows—and there’s nothing to eat.”

  Jeff’s eyes sparkled from hot tears. He thought he heard Stevie shivering above him.

  “What kind of food do you think Santa gets up there at the North Pole? How does Santa stay so fat? I bet all year long he keeps the naughty kids he’s taken the Christmas before and he eats them! He keeps them locked up in icicle cages...and on special days like on his birthday or on Thanksgiving, he takes an extra fat kid and he roasts him over a fire! That’s what happens to bad kids on Christmas Eve.”

  Jeff heard a muffled sob in the upper bunk. He saw the support slats vibrate. “No, it’s not true. We weren’t that bad. I’m sorry. We won’t do it again.”

  Jeff closed his eyes. “You better watch out, Stevie, you better not cry. ‘Cause Santa Claus is coming to get you!”

  He heard Stevie sucking on the corner of his blanket to keep from crying. “We can hide.”

  Jeff shook his head in despair. “No. He sees you when you’re sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake. We can’t escape from him!”

  “How about if we lock the bedroom door?”

  “That won’t stop Santa Claus! You know how big he is from eating all those little kids. And he’s probably got some of his evil little elves to help him.”

  He listened to Stevie crying in the sheets. He listened to the wind. “We’re gonna have to trick him. We have to get Santa before he gets us!”

  * * *

  On Christmas Eve Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights and hung out the empty stockings by the fireplace. He grinned at the boys who stared red-eyed in fear.

  “You guys look like you’re so excited you haven’t been able to sleep. Better go on to bed—it’s Christmas tomorrow, and you’ve got a long night ahead of you.” He smiled at them. “Don’t forget to put out milk and cookies for Santa.”

  Mom scowled at them. “You boys know how naughty you were. I wouldn’t expect too many presents from Santa this year.”

  Jeff felt his heart stop. He swallowed and tried to keep anything from showing on his face. Stevie shivered.

  “Oh, come on, Janet. It’s Christmas Eve,” Dad said.

  Jeff and Stevie slowly brought out the glass of milk and a plate with four Oreo cookies they had made up earlier. Stevie was so scared he almost dropped the glass.

  They had poured strychnine pellets into the milk, and put rat poison in the frosting of the Oreos.

  “Go on boys, good night. And don’t get up too early tomorrow,” Dad said.

  The two boys marched off to their room, heads down. Visions of Santa’s blood danced in their heads.

  * * *

  Jeff lay awake for hours, sweating and shivering. He and Stevie didn’t need to say anything to each other. After Mom and Dad went to bed, the boys listened for any sound from the roof, from the chimney.

  He pictured Santa Claus heaving himself out from the fireplace, pushing aside the grate and stepping out into the living room. His eyes were red and wild, his fingers long claws, his beard tangled and stained with the meal he’d had before setting out in his sleigh—perhaps the last two children from the year before, now scrawny and starved. He would have snapped them up like crackers.

  And now Santa was hungry for more, a new batch to restock his freezer that was as big as the whole North Pole.

  Santa would take a crinkled piece of paper out of his pocket to look at it, and yes there under the “Naughty” column would be the names of Jeff and Stevie in all capital letters. He’d wipe the list on his blood-red coat.

  His black belt was shiny and wicked-looking, with the silver buckle and its pointed corners razor sharp to slash the throats of children. And over his shoulder hung a brown burlap sack stained with rusty splotches.

  Then Santa would go to their bedroom. Jeff and Stevie could struggle against him, they could throw their blankets on him, hit him with their pillows and their toys—but Santa Claus was stronger than that. He would reach up first to snatch Stevie from the top bunk and stuff him in the sack.

  And then Santa would lunge forward with fingers grayish blue from frostbite. He’d wrap his hand around Jeff’s throat and draw him toward the sack....

  Then Santa would haul them up through the chimney to the roof. Maybe he would toss one of them toward the waiting reindeer who snorted and stomped their hooves on the ice-covered shingles. And the reindeer, playing all their reindeer games, would toss the boy from sharp antler to sharp antler.

  All the while, Santa stood leaning back, glaring and belching forth his maniacal “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  * * *

  Jeff didn’t know when his terror dissolved into fitful nightmares, but he found himself awake and alive the next morning.

  “Stevie!” he whispered. He was afraid to look in the pale light of dawn, half expecting to find blood running down the wall from the upper bunk. “Stevie, wake up!”

  Jeff heard a sharp indrawn breath. “Jeff! Santa didn’t get us.”

  They both started laughing. “Come on, let’s go see.”

  They tumbled out of bed, then spent ten minutes dismantling the barricade of toys and small furniture they had placed in front of the door. The house remained still and quiet around them. Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.

  Jeff glanced at the dining room table as they crept into the living room. The cookies were gone. The milk glass had been drained dry.

  Jeff looked for a contorted red-suited form lying in the corner—but he saw nothing. The Christmas tree lights blinked on and off; Mom and Dad had left them on all night.

  Stevie crept to the Christmas tree and looked. His face turned white as he pulled out several new gift-wrapped boxes. All marked “FROM SANTA.”


  “Oh, Jeff! Oh, Jeff—you were wrong! What if we killed Santa!”

  They both gawked at the presents.

  “Jeff, Santa took the poison!”

  Jeff swallowed and stood up. Tears filled his eyes. “We have to be brave, Stevie.” He nodded. “We better go tell Mom and Dad.” He shuddered, then screwed up his courage.

  “Let’s go wake them up.”

  John Everson

  CHRISTMAS, THE HARD WAY

  ONE BY ONE the candles lit, flames flickering into existence without the aid of a match or spark. Will smiled and counted: 25. Perfect. He glanced down the hall to make sure nobody was coming and then smiled a devious grin. Why do it the hard way?

  The strand of lights rose like a thin green snake from the bag. Will pointed to the crowning branch of the blue spruce and the strand obeyed. Its end still hidden in the storage bag, as it began to twine around the tree.

  On the third loop the plug sailed out of the bag and slapped the wall to mark the wire’s last circle about the tree.

  Will smiled in appreciation.

  No point in getting stuck with pine needles. This was the way to set up Christmas. Flushed with pride, he didn’t note the shadow of his father against the wall until his second strand of lights was sailing around the evergreen.