Twelve Days of Christmas Horror

by Rick Wood

It seemed that… thing… was not alone. As if there were more of them. It was inhuman; a bizarre, mortifying creature, and Joseph decided that, if childbirth did not kill them, these things probably would.

  The Wise Man seemed to know what he was doing, though. He was ripping apart the fences that held in the horses and the sheep. Tearing pieces of wood from pieces of wood and propping them up as levers against the wall, keeping the stable reinforced.

  “You focus on her,” The Wise Man said, noticing Joseph watching him. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Doing as he was instructed, Joseph turned back to Mary.

  She had seemed to stop screaming. For a moment, he worried she had passed out, or even worse; died. He saw her eyes still open, however, though they were not moving much. They were staring upwards, focussed on the roof of the stable.

  Staring as if they were looking at God himself.

  “Mary?” Joseph said, and reached out a hand, taking hers in his. She was so sweaty his hand almost slid out, but he tightened his grip.

  “Mary, can you hear me?”

  She cried. Quietly, and muffled by the chaos of outside, but she cried.

  “Come on, Mary. You can do this.”

  As if he had just provided her the small amount of strength she needed, she started with an elongated cry, which turned into a scream, and she pushed, and she defecated, and she bled but the baby’s head was out.

  Joseph had it in his hands.

  “You’re getting there, Mary, you’re getting there.”

  Before Joseph could celebrate their success, a large clatter drew his attention. Across the stable, someone had punched part of the wooden wall through, and a yellow fist reached its way in.

  Joseph glanced at The Wise Man, who took his cue and ran to the fist, hitting at it with a piece of wood.

  But then another wooden beam broke.

  And another fist punched a hole through the wall.

  And another.

  And another.

  This time, it wasn’t just fists coming in. There were heads. Faces with bloody saliva dripping down their chins.

  The Wise Man looked from face to face, from disfigured monster to disfigured monster.

  “You just focus on her!” he insisted, and that’s what Joseph did.

  He turned back to Mary, holding her hands, whispering her words of comfort. The noise was unbearable, and every few seconds the commotion of another broken slab of wood almost drew his attention, but he kept his gaze upon Mary, and the baby still being born.

  Its shoulders were out now.

  It was crying.

  It was alive.

  They were over halfway there.

  The Wise Man yelped, and Joseph tried to ignore it, but the snarls were too loud, and he looked up.

  An arm had reached in and wrapped itself around The Wise Man’s throat. He tried to hack away at it, but it was too late.

  A head came through the gap as well.

  A head with a mutilated face.

  A mutilated face with yellow teeth.

  Yellow teeth that stuck themselves into the neck of The Wise Man.

  Joseph locked eyes with their protector as he saw death appear, and the man’s body grew limp.

  The baby’s belly was out now. The umbilical cord attached. So nearly there.

  But, as near as he was, it would be useless.

  The Wise Man, despite being dead, was now standing.

  The walls burst open and they stumbled in, falling over one another.

  They were in.

  And Joseph, Mary and Jesus were surrounded.

  8

  “I love you, Mary,” Joseph said, with the kind of passion that only appears when saying goodbye.

  She was delirious. Her eyelids were flickering.

  She lost consciousness.

  Which, Joseph regretfully decided, was probably for the best. If they were to die, at least she would do so not knowing.

  They closed in.

  Every lecherous beast, every hungry pair of eyes, every prying hand, ready for the blood and flesh they craved.

  Just as they did, the baby came out and into Joseph’s arms, and he held him.

  Looked into his eyes.

  The baby’s sweet eyes. Covered in gunk. So tiny. Its small little hands waving gently, its first experience of life probably going to be its last.

  Well, they had tried.

  Joseph had done everything he could.

  He had brought them here.

  He had provided a place to give birth.

  He had guided the baby out.

  But they were done now.

  He accepted it.

  Their fate had been decided.

  There would be no messiah. No special child. No man to bring hope and love to the world.

  Joseph stifled his tears. He would not have his child’s first and final image of him be of his tears.

  He stood.

  The snarls approached.

  And he turned around to face them.

  Then, as he did, the world went into slow motion. It was as if a wave of light had spread over the stable, a pulse sending itself across all approaching bodies.

  They stopped.

  Ceased advancing.

  The walking corpses desperate to feed halted.

  So unexpectedly.

  But then again, not unexpected at all, as Joseph came to realise it.

  He was, after all, holding the Lord’s child.

  He’d resented the idea. Fought the implications. Decided he’d deal with his lack of faith later.

  Now, watching as these walking corpses not only backed away, but dropped to their knees, propped up as the child’s first congregation, he knew.

  The baby stopped crying.

  The baby looked at its disciples.

  All around, at all of these things, worshipping him.

  As if he knew.

  As if he’d done it.

  Minutes old, and he’d already saved three lives.

  He looked to Mary, whose eyes had somehow opened. Despite clinging on to life, despite losing her consciousness, despite her imminent death, she was awake. She was smiling. And she was well.

  And the little baby Jesus looked to Joseph.

  Dad or not, Joseph felt that the baby seemed to know what he had done.

  And he seemed to know that Joseph deserved his gratitude.

  A gratitude that had been repaid with the gift of his life.

  And that, my friends, is the story.

  The lesser known one, yes, but the story nonetheless, of how the world was sure that this baby, this miracle, was indeed the son of God.

  Elf on a Shelf

  The First Day

  So the story goes, an elf is placed upon a shelf at the beginning of December.

  A toy elf, of course, though the magical wonder of a child’s imagination will surely make it come to life.

  It is an elf that has been placed there by Santa to watch over the children of the house, or so the children are told, to help him with his naughty and nice list.

  The elf may move around without the children seeing—though, as we quite know, the parents do this. The movement of the elf is to allow it to watch the children from various points of the house.

  The children are not permitted to touch this elf.

  I repeat, the children are not permitted to touch this elf, at all, under any circumstance; not even a little.

  The elf must remain where he is, just as he has been placed.

  On the shelf.

  Watching.

  Always watching.

  So when Julie came down one day to find the elf removed from the shelf she had left it upon and placed neatly on the fireplace, you can imagine her irritation.

  Not that the kids had touched the elf. It is just a toy, after all.

  It was that she had attempted to enhance the magic of the holiday, to make the season more special—and the children had disregarded the clear instructions not to move the elf, meaning
that they had almost ruined another way that Julie had tried so desperately to enhance the holiday’s charm.

  It was her job to move the elf, and to do it in secret.

  She wished to provide her children with a piece of Christmas joy as they watched the elf discreetly moved to different positions. She wanted to see the looks on their faces when she came down in the morning and they said, “Mummy, Mummy, the elf has moved again!”

  So, later that day, when her twins, Clark and Andrea, were at the kitchen table eating their lunch, Julie addressed the situation.

  “So,” Julie began. “The elf has told me something. Something very important.”

  The kids perked their heads up, smiling. As if they were expecting good words from the elf, perhaps a hint of a verdict as to whether they had been naughty or nice.

  “Something that I am not particularly happy about,” Julie added, to quell their incorrect excitement.

  The children looked to each other, confused. Their sandwiches remained in their hands, hovering over their plates.

  “He told me that one of you moved him.”

  They looked at each other with accusatory glances.

  “Now, you need not own up, just know that the elf was not very happy about this, and he has told me that, should one of you move him again, he will have no choice but to tell Santa.”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Clark.

  “It wasn’t me,” echoed Andrea.

  “I don’t need to know who it was, so long as it does not happen again.”

  She left them to their lunch, considering the matter settled.

  Later on, when they weren’t looking, she lifted the elf from the fireplace and returned it to its shelf.

  The Second Day

  Julie wandered back downstairs the next morning, dressed in her fluffy red dressing gown. An especially festive dressing gown she only saved for the holiday season. Not only did it help her feel that Christmas tingle, it was also snuggly and warm.

  She heard the kids playing nicely in the living room, so she went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made herself a coffee, with a little extra sugar—it’s Christmas after all—and leant against the sink.

  She held the cup in both of her hands, letting it warm her. It was always coldest in the morning, before the timer for the heating switched on.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them.

  The sight didn’t even register at first, but she could tell something was peculiar. Something was out of place.

  Then she realised.

  The elf was staring back at her. On top of the stove.

  She growled. It surprised her to make such a noise, but she made it nonetheless.

  Now this was infuriating! She had told those children not to move it!

  She was trying to bring a little festive cheer to them, create a bit of excitement, and they mess with it.

  They would not ruin the holiday magic she was trying to create!

  She slammed her mug on the side and marched through to the living room.

  “All right, who did it?” she demanded.

  Clark and Andrea stopped playing and looked up at their mother blankly.

  “Don’t look at me like that! I want to know, was it one of you, or did both of you do it?”

  “Do what?” asked Clark.

  “You know what!”

  They looked at each other; again blankly.

  “Stop that!” Julie insisted. “You know! The elf is on the stove. Why ever would it be there?”

  “Because it moved in the night, Mummy,” said Andrea. “Like you told us.”

  “That’s what you said it does,” said Clark.

  “No, I–”

  She was stumped. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to just blurt out she was the one moving it, but she couldn’t tolerate obvious lying.

  “Make sure it does not happen again. I mean it this time!”

  She stormed out of the room and finished her coffee.

  The Third Day

  The next day she returned to the living room to find the elf not on the shelf she had returned it to, but back on the fireplace.

  However, this time, there was something sandwiched between its hands.

  A little folded piece of paper.

  A note.

  She felt her arms shake.

  The children ran in and came to a stop.

  “What is it, Mummy?” Clark asked, noticing the look on her face.

  “What’s this?” Julie asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “This!”

  Julie reached out and grabbed the note, gesticulating with it at the two children staring up at her gormlessly.

  “This note! What is it?”

  “Is it from the elf?” asked Clark.

  “No, I damn well know it’s not from the elf, which one of you moved it this time?”

  “It moved itself, Mummy,” said Andrea.

  “No, it didn’t!”

  “But it did.”

  “It didn’t, because—because—because I know when it moves! It tells me.”

  Both Clark and Andrea shook their heads.

  “He doesn’t speak to you, Mummy,” said Clark.

  “I am not playing games!” snapped Julie. “Go and get your breakfast.”

  They both shuffled out of the living room as she stood there, wiping sweat from her brow and placing her hand on her hips.

  Whatever was she going to do with them?

  Then she realised she was still holding the note.

  Out of sheer curiosity, she lifted the note and unfolded it.

  There, scribbled in childish handwriting, were six terrifying words:

  I am going to kill you.

  She stared wide-eyed, reading it again and again to be sure.

  She readied herself to charge into the kitchen and demand whether they thought this was funny. Whether they enjoyed ruining Christmas. Whether they were happy to have spoilt the fun she was trying damn hard to create for them.

  But they would both just deny it again.

  Instead, she tried to keep an element of control. She grabbed the elf and marched through the kitchen.

  “I am not amused!” she barked and threw the elf in the bin.

  “Mummy!” cried Andrea.

  “What are you doing?” cried Clark.

  “Ending it,” Julie said. “The elf is gone now. You can stop playing with it. He has watched and decided you don’t deserve any gifts this year, end of!”

  No one said anything. She made her breakfast and coffee with stiff movements, opening and slamming doors and cupboards, doing so with rigid silence.

  The Fourth Day

  Having dropped the children off at their father’s the previous afternoon, Sheila felt a wave of relief.

  The whole elf debacle had caused her a lot of stress. After a much-needed night to herself, she had chosen to go to sleep early.

  Yet, somehow, she woke up late.

  The foggy Christmas sky allowed a shaft of light through the curtains. She reached for the light, putting her hand out whilst still opening her eyes.

  Instead, she felt something else.

  Something sharp.

  She turned her head and immediately jumped.

  The elf.

  Sat on her bedside table.

  Its stuffed arms resting either side of a large kitchen knife.

  She shot out of bed and backed up against the wall.

  “What the fuck…” she gasped.

  She tried to figure out how the children could have done this.

  She’d dropped them off yesterday afternoon. She was sure she didn’t see the elf here later on when she’d come to bed.

  But she couldn’t be sure, could she?

  She hadn’t particularly paid any attention to her bedside table. She had turned the light on and off without looking, using its soft glow to read her book.

  But surely she’d have seen if the elf had been there?
>
  Unless the children had snuck in somehow?

  No, that’s crazy. Their father lived ten miles away. They’d have had to walk a long way.

  And why would they do that?

  Then how on earth had the elf managed to…

  She was not taking any more chances.

  She took it to the car without changing out of her pyjamas. She drove out of the estate, further down a few country roads, until she found a friend’s house who was renovating, and therefore had a skip on the street outside.

  She threw the elf in.

  Looked at her hands to make sure it wasn’t still there.

  Just to be sure.

  And she returned home.

  The Fifth and Final Day

  Julie awoke the next day to hear talking and laughter from downstairs.

  She wasn’t due to pick up the kids until later that day, but she was sure it was their voices.

  What on earth were they doing here?

  She looked to her bedside table.

  No elf.

  She couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, as silly as it was.

  She walked downstairs, saw her children in the kitchen, and walked through to the living room.

  The shelf.

  The fireplace.

  Anywhere else.

  No sign of it.

  Into the kitchen. She looked around.

  It was gone.

  Relief fell through her. Never had she thought she’d be so pleased not to see a stuffed toy.

  Finally, she turned her attention to Clark and Andrea.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I’m supposed to pick up you later.”

  “Daddy dropped us off early,” Clark said.

  “You seemed stressed lately, and we thought it would be nice to make you breakfast,” Andrea said.

  And that they had. Out before her was a laid table with their normal cereal, and a space for her. On her mat were two nicely browned pieces of toast with an assortment of jams and butters.

  “Oh,” Julie said, taken aback. “This is lovely of you.”

  She sat in her place.

  “Thank you,” she said to her children, sincerely, who just smiled back.