Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream

by Various

  Aaron felt the barrier between this world and the other break. Hallucinations set in. Recklessly, he waved the knife. "You coward! Where the hell are you?" He stared into the dense brush and searched through the trees for signs of life. It wasn't rain. It fucking wasn't rain! He looked at Rachel and his friends, "God help me! It wasn't rain!" ripped from his throat.

  This was how Ranger McRoy, who came up to say hello, found Aaron a few hours later. What he found would haunt him to the end of his days. Aaron walked in circles talking wildly; he had worn the grass from constant pacing.

  Ranger McRoy carefully approached Aaron. He noted the crazed look in his lifeless brown eyes. Aaron jumped as the Ranger gently touched his shoulder. "Son, what have you done?" He stared at the young man before him, covered in various shades of red and brown.

  Aaron looked despondently at the Ranger, knife pointed, and said, "It wasn't rain."

  At his trial, the evidence presented against Aaron, including the hunting knife, had increased his guilt, but he said nothing. His eyes remained lowered. Once confident and proud, he now teetered on the edge of insanity. After reading the guilty verdict, the judge asked him if he had anything to say before sentencing. His lawyer stood next to him, an unnoticed gleam flashed in his sinister eyes.

  Aaron stood before the judge; and finally raised his head. His crazed eyes stared through the judge and beyond. This once prestigious lawyer convicted of triple murder, managed to say, "It wasn't rain" before he fell to his knees, his body racked in tormented sobs.

  The three were silent as Michael finished his tale.

  "Damn, so do you believe he did it?" David asked.

  "Well, some say he didn't kill those people, but others believed he did. Last I heard, he was still alive and sits in a padded room, a life patient of the State Hospital. I hear the nurses who attend him gossip to friends that all he does is sit in a stained straitjacket, rocking back and forth repeating, 'it wasn't rain'." Michael paused, looking at them. "Yeah I believe he did it, but I had to give him the best defense I could. That's why I prosecute now instead of defending."

  His audience was silent. Shock registered on their faces, they nearly jumped from their skin as thunder sounded in the background.

  Michael stretched as he stood. He looked at the sky, the flames reflected in his eyes, and said, "We'd better get inside the tents, looks like it might rain."

  Nicole Thomas

  Nicole Thomas-aka Nic or A. Nicole-lives with her husband and two daughters in southern Indiana. Ms. Thomas co-owns Demonic Books, parent company of 3F Publications and Catalyst Press, with Monica J. O'Rourke. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and the National Authors Registry. She has had several poems and short stories published both in print and online, including The House of Pain, The Murder Hole and Horrorfind.com. She is currently working on her first novel. She is also the editor of Femmes de la Brume (Double Dragon Publishing).

  She has won several awards for her poetry, including the President's Award for Literary Excellence 2002 and 2003 for Christmas with My Family, which appears in the book Bridges, by Iliad Press. Her nonfiction also appears in the books America: Voices Coming Together, Good Times, 9-11-01, Acclamations, Abstracts and Creations of the Heart. She also wrote and illustrated a children's book, Molly and the Secret, about a child's experience of abuse at the hands of a babysitter. The book is dedicated to her daughters and nephews, as well as the children and adults who must deal daily with the results of abuse.

  You can visit her online at www.anicolethomas.com.

  THANKSGIVING DAY HORROR TALES

  Thanksgiving is the culmination of ancient harvest festivals, Puritan beliefs, and a New World historical event. Traditionally Thanksgiving is a time of contemplating the fortune of those who migrated from England to North America, although in more recent times it is more about reflecting on our prosperity than on mere survival. Families in the United States of America and Canada gather for large feasts and general merriment-activities that would have been banned from an actual Puritan Thanksgiving.

  For the Puritan settlers of the Virginia Trading Company, a Thanksgiving was a somber day of worship to give thanks for good events, such as smiting an enemy or surviving a plague. However, the historical event in the autumn of 1621 featured secular songs, dance, gaming, and culinary indulgence. The Wampamoag participants had little use for involving themselves in any other kind of celebration with their European counterparts. The harvest feast lasted three days and, contrary to popular belief, was not repeated. While many communities held annual harvest festivals-as have all cultures-Thanksgiving wasn't suggested as a national holiday until the 1770's, made an official holiday in New York state in 1817 and nationally in 1863.

  Contrary to current culinary practices, the original Thanksgiving did not feature turkey or ham, nor were fruits and vegetables so prevalent. Because of the hard, active lifestyle they endured, the Pilgrims needed all the protein they could eat, so meats were more necessary. We do know they had venison and "wild fowl" at this meal-wild fowl hunted in the area included crane, swan, and eagles. As there was no sugar to be had there were likely no pies or other sweets, including cranberry relish. Pumpkins were only eaten stewed, corn was only available dried at that time of year, sweet potatoes were not available, and there were no cows or dairy products.

  In Canada the holiday is much the same as in the United States: feasting and family, since 1879. The harvest festival tradition in other cultures is a bit different, though. In China it was known as Chung Ch'ui, occurring on the fifteenth day of the eight month. Considered the Moon's birthday, Chung Ch'ui was celebrated with moon cakes (imprinted with a rabbit as the Chinese see a "rabbit" on the moon, not a "man"). Ancient Egyptians would hold parades, feasts, games, and dances in honor of Min, their vegetation god. Then, as they harvested their crops, the Egyptians would weep to trick the deceased plant spirits into thinking it was an accident. The Israelite survival through the desert is marked by Sukkoth, a celebration dating back over three thousand years. The huts (succuts) of the nomadic Hebrews are recreated, decorated with fruits and vegetables, then used to host outdoor meals for two nights. Greek tradition observed Thesmosphoria, a three-day festival in honor of the grain goddess Demeter. Similar to Sukkoth, shelters would be constructed from plants, replete with furniture, followed by fasting, then feast and food offerings to Demeter.

  The current lifestyle for much of North America has removed the harvest celebration from this holiday, yet it still remains one of the most important for all families, regardless of their background.

  -John Edward Lawson

  GOBBLE, GOBBLE, OXEN FREE

  By Kurt Newton

  Walter huddled his thin, eleven-year-old body against the morning cold. He'd spent the night in an abandoned warehouse wrapped in mothball-smelling dinner jackets and old lady dresses he'd stolen from a Salvation Army dumpster. He wished the bag he'd grabbed had contained clothes he could wear, but then beggars can't be choosers, as his father was fond of yelling when he'd come home drunk with a bag of pretzels and a can of soda for supper and say, "Here, now eat and shut up." And if Walter showed the slightest hesitation or hint of complaint, somehow that message would find its way through his father's drunken fog and the accusations would start flying. "Good for nothing parasite...Just like that whore of a mother of yours...." And like grease for the wheels of violence, the words would soon turn into fists and Walter could only hope that unconsciousness would come quickly.

  Walter watched the morning sun stream in through the warehouse windows and tried not to think that today was Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all the fixings. He supposed that "fixings" were all the other side dishes that came along with Thanksgiving dinner. At this point he'd even go for just the fixings to satisfy his hunger.

  His stomach growled, then spasmed with pain. Somehow the hunger he'd felt over these past two weeks was worse than any bruise his father could inflict.

 
His ears perked as the scrape of a box came from across the warehouse. It was followed by a whispering of voices.

  Walter buried his head and tried to disappear.

  "Hey, here's one!"

  Walter could hear the footsteps gather around him. Then all was silent. He pushed back the sequined hem of an old lady's dress from his face and stared at the faces that stared down at him.

  Three boys and one girl. Each was dressed in winter coats, wool mittens, scarves and earmuffs. They ranged in age from perhaps eight years old to fourteen. Each looked well fed.

  "Hey, don't be afraid," the oldest said. "I'm Matt, this is Marshall," he placed a mittened hand on his younger brother's shoulder, "This here's Melinda Sue, and this one's Mikey."

  Walter looked at Melinda Sue. She looked to be about his age and her smile was as warm as the roses on her cheeks.

  "How would you like to come home with us?"

  Walter looked at the four cherub-like faces and thought he might still be dreaming. He saw visions of a Thanksgiving Day feast, surrounded by brothers and sisters, a mother and father who were neither an addict nor an alcoholic. Walter's stomach growled again, but he was still unsure.

  "We do this every year," said Matt. "It will be fun!" The others nodded, their eyes bright. They seemed eager to get going.

  Matt held out his hand. The others did the same.

  Walter almost felt like crying. He sat up and they pulled him into their group as if he were one of their own.

  They made their way out of the city, over railroad tracks and into the woods beyond. They walked along a well-worn path that wove its way deeper and deeper into the woods until they came upon a field where the grass was waist high.

  Walter thought this was great. He'd lived in the city all his life, in rat infested tenements and crappy hotels. He'd always wanted to live out in the country, out where there were trees and leaves and squirrels. Maybe they had a dog, he thought. A big fluffy dog he could lay his head against on a hot summer day. He always wanted a dog.

  "Gobble, gobble, oxen free!"

  Walter jumped. It was Matt who yelled it. The children scattered, each to the surrounding woods, leaving Walter standing alone in the middle of the field. He wanted to run after Matt, then thought that maybe he should follow Marshall instead. Melinda Sue would have been a good choice, but she was girl, and he couldn't follow little Mikey because the young boy disappeared into the grass like a snake. So Walter simply stood in the middle of the field as the others fled.

  "What's going on? Are we playing a game?" he shouted. He could feel the crisp November air against his cheeks. His feet were numb from the walk. There were rustlings in the woods, followed by giggles. "Count to ten!" somebody called.

  Walter spun around. It was hard to tell which direction the voice had come from. The field was like a big open circle, except for one large stone outcropping jutting up out of the ground at its center. He really didn't feel much like playing. He was hungry. He was cold. But these kids seemed to want to play a game of hide and seek first before they brought him home. Maybe it was some kind of test to see if he would be a suitable brother and playmate. They'd been so nice to him, he figured the least he could do was play along.

  "Okay! I'm going to count now! You better hide real good!"

  Walter walked over to the stone outcropping and leaned against it, forearms covering his eyes. He began to count.

  "One..."

  (he could see himself seated in a nice chair, his hands washed, his hair neatly combed)

  "Two..."

  (the table dressed up like one of those displays in the department stores, all silver and sparkly, with candles and a fruit bowl, and nuts)

  "Three..."

  (everyone would be seated around, his newfound brothers and sister, his newfound mom, all pretty face and smelling nice, his newfound dad)

  "Four..."

  (and the smells, all smoky and sweet)

  "Five..."

  (sausage stuffing and giblet gravy)

  "Six..."

  (candied yams and cranberry sauce)

  "Seven..."

  (baby onions, green beans, and corn)

  "Eight..."

  (apple pie and pumpkin pie)

  "Nine..."

  (and in the center, all golden brown and glistening, the largest Thanksgiving turkey he'd ever seen)

  "Ten!"

  Walter opened his eyes. The field was still, the air a silent calm. They could all be hiding in the grass for all he knew. He climbed up on top of the stone outcropping for a better look. He could see the individual trails each of the kids had made when they cut through the grass into the woods.

  A wide grin spread across his face, the first grin he could remember feeling in a long, long time. "Gobble, gobble, oxen free!" he yelled. His voice echoed across the field. Walter didn't so much feel the gunshot as heard it reverberate in his ears.

  He flew through the air and landed on his back in the grass and lay staring up at the sky. It felt like one of his father's backhands, only this one didn't hurt. For some reason his eyes were locked open and there was a curious twinge that ran along his scalp, like the tickle he used to get when his mom would cut his hair. Aside from that, he couldn't feel a thing.

  He could hear footsteps though. And voices. Young kid voices. And one adult. Like trees they gathered around.

  "What do you think Uncle Frank?" Matt's voice, eager to please.

  Uncle Frank, hunter's hat pulled down over his ears, rifle under his arm, lit a cigarette. He crouched down, grabbed the collar of Walter's jacket, lifted him slightly off the ground and let him drop. "This one's at least a hundred-pounder. You kids did good." Uncle Frank straightened up. "Okay, you two grab his shoulders, you two grab his legs."

  Walter wanted to shout that this wasn't right, they couldn't do this to him, that this was Thanksgiving for crap's sake! I'm not dead...I'm not dead....

  But the smaller faces that stared down at him looked so happy, so...hungry. In fact, Walter was having a hard time remembering what it felt like to be hungry, what it felt like to be cold, even what it felt like to be alone. In fact, these strangers had given him more in a few hours than his mother and father had given him in his entire life-a sense of family and togetherness.

  "What's the matter, Melinda Sue?"

  "It's his eyes, Uncle Frank. They got tears."

  "It's just the cold, that's all. Here, let me fix that."

  Walter watched as Uncle Frank leaned over, cigarette gripped between his fingers, and stamped the hot end into each of his eye-sockets. With a hiss and a sizzle the sky went dark.

  Walter could hear the boys laugh as Melinda Sue went, "Eeyou."

  After that he was probably lucky he couldn't feel a thing.

  KURT NEWTON

  Kurt is the author of two short story collections-The House Spider and Dark Demons-and The Psycho-Hunter's Casebook, a collection of murderous poetry penned by fictitious serial killers. Denizens of the Cityscape, an illustrated collection of poetic tales, is forthcoming from Double Dragon Publishing. For more information, visit Kurt's website at www.kurtnewton.com.

  Emma SRED, the Sleepy Head

  By Jeremy Carr

  It started in high school when she was sixteen years old. Emma still cringed when she thought about it, the old memories of that awkward morning often rushing to the surface when she least expected it, sharp and clear and painful as the day it happened. She told herself that it made no sense to be embarrassed about a past event, recollections that her long lost friends had probably forgotten about, but this rationalization never helped. After all, it didn't happen to them. It didn't affect their lives. It wasn't their cross to bear.

  She had been spending the night at Judy Hudson's house, along with four other girls. A slumber party. They stayed up late watching goofy romantic comedies on TV, gossiping about the boys in their class, and smoking a few illicit cigarettes that Shannon had managed to pilfer from her mom's purse. Emma didn't like to
smoke, but she always gave it her best shot so as not to be ousted from the little group. Shortly after two a.m. they began to nod off; Emma was one of the first to go, crawling inside her sleeping bag and drifting into a deep, dark sleep.

  In the morning she awoke to the sun in her eyes and the laughter of her friends, both focused with unusual clarity directly at her. Shielding her eyes from the glare she sat up, disoriented, and momentarily confused by her surroundings.

  And then she felt it.

  With her palms resting down against the floor, she experienced an unusual feeling. Something squishy and cold. Her hands felt like mush. She was still too tired to think clearly, and would have preferred to ignore everything and go back to sleep, but her friends' incessant giggling made that desire impossible. She struggled to make sense of their remarks, her mind in a muddle.

  "God Emma, what's wrong with you?"

  "What a pig."

  "No self control."

  Her eyes finally ceased their rapid blinking and opened wide, the fog in her brain starting to clear. She looked around at the snickering faces and lifted her hands for closer inspection. They were coated in black and white goo, smeared with clumps of messy, sticky stuff.

  "What's this?" She asked to their utter amusement.

  "You really don't remember?" One of them asked.

  "Remember what?"

  This caused a new eruption of laughter. Emma sniffed the stuff on her hands and recognized the odor. The texture and consistency could only be one thing: chocolate cake with white frosting. Cake she had seen in Judy's refrigerator the night before. It still didn't make sense to her.

  "You got up last night about an hour after you fell asleep. Me and Katherine were still awake and watched you," Judy said.

  "And then you went to the kitchen and totally pigged out. You should have seen yourself. It was sooo disgusting," Katherine added.