Christmas Dinner of Souls

by Ross Montgomery

  ‘DOWN WITH CHRISTMAS!’ the guests cheered, drumming on the table and smashing what was left of the plates.

  Lewis was horrified. What was wrong with these people? How on earth could they hate Christmas?

  ‘When Edgar was older,’ the Dean continued, ‘Lord Caverner sent him away to Soul’s College. He hoped that studying at his world-famous university might finally put Edgar on the straight and narrow … but he was wrong! It was in this very room that Edgar held the first Christmas Dinner of Souls, a place for all those who despised Christmas to gather each year and tell the most spine-chilling stories they knew. But no one was a match for Edgar! There was no one more unpleasant, more terrifying, more disgusting than he!’

  The Dean raised his glass.

  ‘He is the reason we spend the rest of the year working in this rotten, stinking university – to be near the legend of the greatest horror-storyteller who ever lived. A toast – to Edgar Caverner!’

  Lewis’s eyes widened – he finally understood. These weren’t just any guests – they were the teachers and lecturers of Soul’s College. No wonder the College had fallen from grace over the years: these awful people had transformed it into a monstrous clubhouse.

  ‘BOY! Where’s our gin?’

  ‘Worthless, cack-handed runt!’

  A plate flew past Lewis’s head. He gasped – he’d let his thoughts drift, just for a second. He ran round the table, pouring out two more bottles as fast as he could. If he wanted to survive the night, he was going to have to stay on his toes.

  ‘Then,’ said the Dean, ‘one fateful Christmas night … Edgar had a dream.’

  The guests fell silent. The Dean leaned over the table.

  ‘In the dream, he was the Lord of Darkness – and he had the power to destroy Christmas. He rode high above the rooftops in a pitch-black sleigh, leaping down chimneys to whisper bloodcurdling stories into children’s ears. They would wake up screaming and wet the bed with fright. Christmas Day became a day to be feared. Soon it was wiped from the face of the earth completely … and all thanks to Edgar.’

  The Dean leaned even further across the table, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘And in the dream, there was only one thing which gave him the power to do it: the rotting teeth he wore inside his mouth. The Dead Man’s Jabberers.’

  The dining room was as silent as a graveyard now, the guests hanging on the Dean’s every word.

  ‘Legend spoke of a set of teeth that gave whoever wore them the power to tell terrifying stories. Not just any stories – stories so frightening that they could send a man insane. Stories frightening enough to kill. Stories which – in the right hands – could fill the world with darkness.

  ‘Of course, everyone knew the teeth didn’t really exist. They were just a myth – a fairy tale made to frighten children. Some said they were once the teeth of an evil Viking warlord, plucked from his corpse by a witch doctor and bound together with curses. Some said they were the teeth of the Devil himself. But from the moment Edgar woke up, he knew he had to find them. They were the key to his dream – to finally destroy Christmas, once and for all!’

  Lewis gasped. Surely the Dean wasn’t serious – surely no one would want to take the rotting teeth from a corpse and put them into their mouth?

  ‘Edgar stopped going to lectures,’ said the Dean. ‘He stopped sleeping. All he did, night and day, was search the College library for information about the Jabberers. He found stories of them from hundreds of years ago. He discovered that whoever wore the teeth would live forever – unless someone killed them and claimed the teeth for themselves. He discovered that if the teeth considered you unworthy, the second you put them in your mouth they would bite out your tongue and kill you instantly!

  ‘But he found no proof that the teeth actually existed. Every clue to their whereabouts quickly became a dead end. He found reported sightings in Scotland, in Peru, in darkest Antarctica – all rumours. It seemed that the Dead Man’s Jabberers might really be a myth. Edgar began to despair.

  ‘Then one day, news reached the College of a demonic figure terrorising villagers in Siberia. No one believed the stories: after all, they sounded too ludicrous to be true. Terrified villagers were saying that someone was breaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night and frightening them to death. A man who could kill people just by telling them stories – a man with rotting teeth.

  ‘Edgar wasted no time: he stole as much of his father’s money as he could, leapt on the nearest train and set out for darkest Siberia. This was his one chance to find the Dead Man’s Jabberers, claim them for himself, and use their power to destroy Christmas once and for all …!’

  The Dean let his last words hang in the air, echoing off the chamber walls. When he spoke again, it was with a whisper.

  ‘And that, of course, is the last time anyone saw Edgar alive. His body was found two years later, floating face down in the black waters of the Volga. No one knows how he died. Perhaps the teeth killed him – perhaps someone else did. No one knows for certain. No one knows because Lord Caverner paid an unspeakable amount of money to have his son’s body transported back to Soul’s College before anyone could inspect it, and secretly buried him in the Catacombs beneath our feet.’

  The Dean stepped to one side and lifted up a rug on the floor. Sunk into the stone of the floor was a thick iron trapdoor, deadbolted ten times over. Carved across the middle was one word:

  CATACOMBS

  ‘No one could understand why Lord Caverner chose to bury his only son here instead of in the family crypt. The Catacombs are a huge maze: you could search down there for days and never find what you were looking for. It was a privilege reserved for old College staff: a way to protect their coffins from bodysnatchers. Why on earth would Lord Caverner want to hide his son’s body where no one could ever find it …?’

  The Dean swung round, a glint in his eye.

  ‘The reason is obvious: Edgar was wearing the Dead Man’s Jabberers when he died, and Lord Caverner wanted to make sure no one found out the truth! And if that wasn’t proof enough, the last thing he did before he left the College, never to return, was find this painting of his son and rip out the mouth with his bare hands!’

  Lewis looked up at the painting. It seemed like it was alive somehow, staring down at the guests with its pale eyes and sucking all the light from the room into its gaping mouth.

  ‘Tonight,’ said the Dean, ‘we continue the tradition which Edgar started and gather for another Christmas Dinner of Souls. But we’re not simply competing to tell the scariest story! We’re competing to find someone worthy of taking Edgar’s place. Someone scary enough to venture into the Catacombs, find his body and pluck the Dead Man’s Jabberers from his skull. Someone who can finally wipe Christmas from the face of the earth, once and for all!’

  Lewis gasped. He couldn’t believe his ears – was that what was going on here tonight? These people were plotting to destroy Christmas?

  ‘Since Edgar’s death,’ said the Dean, ‘over two hundred guests have descended into the Catacombs to search for his body. No one has ever returned. Tonight, we will pick one more storyteller to look for the Dead Man’s Jabberers. If they are worthy of the teeth, they will become our new Lord of Darkness – if not, the teeth will bite out their tongue and kill them instantly!’

  The guests shuffled in their chairs. Lewis could see in every one of their mean, greedy eyes how much they longed for the chance to wear the Dead Man’s Jabberers – but that they feared winning as much as they desired it.

  The Dean stepped towards the fireplace and picked up a set of black metal tongs. He reached into the heart of the flames and brought out a single scorched bauble.

  ‘Tonight, seven guests have been selected from your ranks. They’ve each had a year to prepare their story.’

  He held up the bauble. The fire had burned away its top layer: beneath it the paper was black as night, with a white skull painted above a blood-red number.

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nbsp; ‘Each guest will serve a specially made course to accompany their tale,’ said the Dean. ‘When the night is over and all seven stories have been told, a winner will be chosen to search for Edgar’s tomb.’

  The Dean picked out six more baubles from the flames and placed them in a row on the table.

  ‘Once the winner has descended into the Catacombs … the night is over! Everyone must leave and wait to see whether or not Christmas morning comes … to discover if our new Lord of Darkness has risen!’ The Dean grinned. ‘Everyone, of course, except … for the serving boy.’

  He turned to Lewis, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘Because we all know what happens to the serving boy, don’t we?’

  The guests burst into maniacal laughter once more, hooting and slapping the table. Lewis’s legs shook – it was no good. He couldn’t stay here a moment longer. These monstrous people were going to kill him – and not only that, they were going to destroy Christmas! He had to get out and find a way to stop them, before it was too late!

  He fled for the door, but the only exit was blocked by Lady Arabella’s dogs. They roared and snapped at him, driving him back to the table as the guests howled with laughter.

  ‘There is no escape, boy!’ cried the Dean. ‘The Christmas Dinner of Souls has already begun!’

  The Dean lifted the first of the seven baubles and smashed it on the table. A swarm of steaming maggots poured out, scuttling across the table as quickly as they could before the guests could eat them. The Dean pulled a slither of paper from the glass fragments and held it above him.

  ‘Our first storyteller of the night is … Lady Arabella Dogspit! Our esteemed Professor of Blood Oaths and Curses!’

  The enormous woman who had grabbed Lewis earlier stood up to rapturous applause. The door to the kitchen swung open in a cloud of rank steam, and the Cook stepped into the dining room holding a great silver platter.

  Lewis’s stomach heaved. In the centre of the platter lay a huge roasted fish, with grey sunken eyes and a rack of razor-sharp teeth. But this was no ordinary fish: it stood on top of eight spidery legs, each one thick with bristling hair and ending with a cloven hoof. A set of spiked, gleaming horns curled out of its brow and glistened in the firelight.

  ‘Well?’ cried the Dean. ‘What are you waiting for, boy? Bring it to the table!’

  Lewis didn’t move – the thought of being anywhere near the fish made him want to be sick …

  But then he saw the look in the Cook’s eye. A warning.

  Don’t make them angry.

  The Cook was right – if Lewis wanted to find a way out of here, then he had to stay alive. He quickly took the platter and heaved it onto the table in front of Lady Arabella Dogspit. She dragged the stinking fish towards her and smiled at the guests.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is an Abyssinian Striker Trout. It lives at the bottom of the darkest lakes, hiding in the mud where no one can see it. Then … it waits. It waits until a moonless night has come and crawls onto land, so it can feast on any foolish campers sleeping nearby!’

  She plunged a pudgy fist into the grey meat and pulled out a bone the size of a bear claw. She turned it in her hands, studying it idly.

  ‘It suits my story perfectly: a Christmas tale from long ago and far away, when the world was a very different place. A tale of murder most foul, and dreadful revenge.’

  She thrust the fish to the centre of the table and the guests launched onto it like hyenas. Lady Arabella wiped her oily hands on her dress and began her terrible story.

  An Old Forgotten Scream

  There was once a young and wealthy baron. He had everything you could ever wish for: youth, good looks, more money than most people could spend in a lifetime. But there was one thing the Baron didn’t have: land. He longed for his own forests and fields, his own rivers and lakes – and the Baron was prepared to do anything to get them.

  It so happened that there was a young lady who was in love with the Baron. She was too besotted to see that beneath his good looks, the Baron was greedy and cruel – and that he utterly detested her. In truth, there was no one the Baron liked much apart from himself.

  But the Baron did like the Lady’s land. She owned miles and miles of it: fields as fertile as you could hope for, forests stretching long into the wilderness. You could walk for weeks without reaching the other side, nor see a single other soul along the way. The Baron was desperate to have the lands for himself – but there was no way he could do so without marrying the Lady first.

  One Christmas Eve, the Baron sat unhappily in his mansion, gazing out of the window and lamenting his fate.

  ‘Life is so unfair!’ he cried. ‘If only there was some way I could have that land without being married to that idiot for the rest of my life …’

  Just then, the Baron noticed the fountain in his courtyard. It was a particularly cold winter, and the water had frozen to solid ice. The fish in the fountain had all died.

  And just like that, the Baron came up with an evil, sickening plan to get exactly what he wanted.

  He wasted no time and went straight to the Lady’s castle. He got down on one knee the second he found her.

  ‘Dear Lady, I love you! Your face is as fair and beautiful as, er … mine. Let’s get married! And for our honeymoon, let’s travel through your beautiful lands – just the two of us!’

  The Lady thought her heart might burst with happiness, and the very next day she and the Baron were married. On Christmas morning the newlyweds set off on a cherry-red sleigh together as the Lady’s family and servants waved them goodbye. Normally she would be accompanied by her guards, but the Baron had insisted that it just be the two of them. Everyone agreed this was hopelessly romantic – the Baron and the Lady had never looked happier.

  Of course, no one knew the real reason why the Baron was smiling.

  They rode for seven straight days and seven straight nights through the Lady’s land. Winter had turned bitter, and the ground was as hard as stone. Icicles hung from the trees like fangs, shattering the frozen branches as they fell.

  ‘My darling – it is terribly cold,’ the Lady said with a shiver. ‘Could I wear your coat?’

  ‘No need, sweetums!’ the Baron insisted. ‘It’s just a little further!’

  They kept riding. Soon the Lady was so cold and tired she thought she might faint – but every time she asked the Baron to stop, he refused. Finally, on the seventh day, the Baron stopped beside a beautiful frozen lake, surrounded by a ring of treacherous mountains. They were miles away from the nearest village now. The land was blanketed in snow and silence.

  ‘Almost there, tiddlykins!’ said the Baron. ‘But first, let’s take a scenic stroll across this frozen lake.’

  The Lady’s teeth were chattering and her face was almost blue – but she loved her new husband too much to refuse him. She took his arm and the two of them walked across the thick black ice.

  ‘Oh, snugglewump,’ said the Baron. ‘You look even more beautiful than usual today – gaze at your reflection in the ice and see for yourself!’

  The Lady knelt down without question – and quick as a whip, the Baron grabbed her hair and smashed her head through the ice. She was too shocked and exhausted to fight back – all the Lady could do was scream. She screamed and screamed into the freezing water, but no one heard her except for the fish and the pondweed.

  Soon she stopped screaming entirely, and slumped against the ice. She was dead.

  The Baron filled her wedding gown with rocks and tossed her into the water, then strolled back to the sleigh whistling a merry tune. He looked like someone in the middle of a Boxing Day walk instead of someone who had just murdered his wife. He muddied his face, ripped his clothes, and rode for seven straight days and seven straight nights until he burst through the castle doors in floods of tears.

  ‘There’s been a terrible accident – the Lady is dead! We were riding along a mountain pass when a fearsome bear leapt out and attacked her … I bravely fought o
ff the beast as best I could, but he carried her away and ate her alive! Oh, tragedy – how ever will I live without my Lady? Not even the deeds to all her lands – which as her husband I now rightly inherit – can ease the pain in my heart!’

  No one dared to question the Baron’s story – after all, no one could prove he was lying. All the Lady’s land became his, and her household went into mourning. On the day of her funeral, the Baron himself led the procession, weeping into a black lace handkerchief and negotiating the final terms of the deal with a team of mourning accountants.

  Secretly, the Baron’s heart sang for joy. His plan had worked perfectly – and no one would ever find out the truth.

  The very next day he moved into the Lady’s castle and raised taxes, driving the nearby peasants into poverty and forcing them off her lands. He used the money to build a second castle for himself at the other end of the Lady’s estate, even more luxurious than the first. Finally the Baron ordered every bear for miles around to be slaughtered in revenge for his Lady’s death, and turned their fur into delightful rugs to decorate his plush new bedroom. A long, dark winter settled across the Lady’s land: the Baron had never been happier.

  Then one day – on the very first day of spring, in fact – the Baron awoke to a strange sound.

  It was a scream – a faint, faraway scream. It seemed to be coming from outside. And stranger still, the Baron felt somehow that he recognised it.

  He looked out of his bedroom window. From that height he could see all the Lady’s land, stretching right up to the treacherous ring of mountains on the horizon. Sure enough, the Baron could hear a scream on the wind – growing louder as it blew harder, and softer when it fell.

  The Baron’s blood froze in his veins. It was the Lady’s scream – and it was coming from the lake where he had killed her.

  ‘It … it can’t be!’ he cried. ‘She’s dead! I killed her myself!’