Twelve Days of Christmas Horror

by Rick Wood

  The lights come back on.

  And they reveal a lifeless body on the floor.

  Jake.

  With a bloody slit across his throat.

  3

  We look to each other then all of us in unison, except for Drake, run to the nearest door.

  For the three of us, that means we each try to open one of the three doors that provide an entrance or an exit to the office.

  We each find our door locked.

  This had too been prepared.

  We look to each other.

  We tremble. I can see Barry trying to keep it together, but I can also see Shane with tears running down his cheek.

  One an image of forced rationality, the other a painting of pure terror.

  After we side-eye each other, we look down.

  At Drake.

  He lays over his brother, weeping, shaking him, doing everything he can to bring the corpse back to life, claiming it has not happened, that it is not real, it’s just a joke and Jake needs to wake up now.

  Barry, Shane and myself look to each other, allowing Drake’s meltdown to fade to the background.

  And we each know the truth.

  One of us has to have done this.

  The office is open plan.

  There are five desks, that is it.

  No hiding places.

  Just us.

  None of us say anything. We keep glancing at each other, trying to second guess.

  Three of us are victims.

  One of us is not.

  And we dread to get any closer to one another, instinctively wary, refusing to take any risk.

  Drake lifts his head.

  “Who did this?” he screams.

  He stands, his fists clenched, and he screams once more.

  “Who did th–”

  But he is abruptly halted by the lights turning off again.

  2

  This time, when the lights reappear, it’s Drake whose throat is a bloody mess. His body slumps next to his brother’s and their pools of blood merge, mixing together.

  It feels right for twin’s blood to join in death, I guess.

  And here we are. The three that remain.

  I look to Barry.

  I look to Shane.

  Each standing at a separate corner, by a different door, that we have each tried again and again, multiple times, mostly when it was pitch black and we feared for our lives being next.

  “One of us is guilty,” says Barry, finally.

  “Yeah, one of us is,” confirms Shane.

  They both look to me, as if I am meant to verbally confirm this too.

  “Yeah,” I say, because shit, I don’t know what to say!

  “Whoever it is, if you come near me,” says Barry, “I will not hold back. You understand? I will kill you.”

  “And I’ll fucking kill you,” says Shane.

  They look to me again.

  “I don’t even know how I’d kill someone,” I admit. I know this makes me sound weak, but somehow, I can’t front this bravado that they are parading. It seems pointless. Futile.

  If someone’s going to kill someone, it doesn’t look like that person will have much choice.

  So when the lights go out next, I relax a little.

  And, when the lights come on, I look to Shane’s dead body without surprise.

  Then I look to Barry approaching me.

  1

  He has a letter opener that he took from his table.

  His eyes are demented. Full of rage.

  I haven’t seen him like this.

  This is a different Barry. A murderous Barry. A nasty Barry.

  Barry was always so welcoming, always so kind.

  To think he is capable of murder…

  “Do not move,” he tells me.

  And I don’t.

  I shouldn’t need to.

  I knew this would happen.

  That the last one would try to fight back.

  That a knife wouldn’t be right for Barry.

  And that’s why I brought a gun, and that is why I use it now.

  And, as his body lays down before me, I look at what I’ve done and smile. I call the police and they take me away, but I get another ten minutes with my colleagues before they arrive.

  This time I created an office party that I would enjoy.

  This time I had it on my terms. I committed the crimes, and the men around me weren’t able to do anything about.

  And, as the judge tells me I’m guilty, I smile.

  Not because I’m pleased with the verdict.

  But because I am excited.

  I have so many ideas for how I can liven up the prison Christmas party.

  Track Santa Part Two

  I stare at the fireplace.

  Awaiting something.

  The screen blinks again.

  The website has changed. The colours have gone a darker red, more like a blood red. The font has gone a dark, more sickly green. And the website is no longer called TrackSanta.

  Somehow it has reset itself.

  Now it is entitled TrackKrampus.

  “What the hell…”

  I walk up to the laptop and click the X at the top of the window.

  Nothing happens.

  I try again. Determinedly clicking and clicking.

  The website does not close.

  I hold down the power button.

  “Try freezing with no power,” I taunt it, and I wonder why I am verbally arguing with a computer.

  Yet the power does not switch off.

  I hold it down longer. I hit it in multiple taps. I do everything I can, but it does not work.

  I press control, alt, delete, but nothing happens.

  The screen is completely stuck.

  More dust puffs down the fireplace.

  There is the sound of something gently thumping the wall behind it, like steps, but bigger…

  Like hooves.

  I have to get out.

  That’s what I have to do.

  “Henry!” I gasp, a sudden reminder that my son’s life is at stake.

  I turn to the stairs, but I’m interrupted by a louder clatter. A large, sinister jingle followed by two large thuds on the living room floor and a grunt that is anything but human.

  I slowly turn my head.

  I can see it out of the corner of my eye. Blurred at the edge of my vision.

  It’s hideous.

  I don’t want to look.

  I freeze.

  It’s not real.

  I’ve become so lonely my mind is fabricating lies. Tricking me. It’s the onset of psychosis.

  I see the laptop screen.

  It flickers. Turns off and on again.

  The screen now reads:

  Krampus is in your house.

  Krampus?

  The mythical monster of scary children’s stories?

  The anti-Santa?

  Come off it. I don’t believe in Santa, never mind bloody Krampus.

  But the hooves take another step, pounding the floor. I can feel its breath firing against the back of my neck. It is humid, and the smell is abhorrent.

  It is approaching me. Slowly. Methodically.

  “Who’s there?” I ask and scald myself for it.

  I’ve had too many sherries in quick succession. Alcohol isn’t known to make one hallucinate, but that’s not to suggest that loneliness can’t act as the catalyst that makes alcohol do extraordinary things.

  It moves forward again, with a large jingle as it steps, like it has bells on it, but not nice bells, not bells from a festive Christmas song, more like funeral bells, omens of death, each rattle another sinister reminder of doom.

  “Please leave,” I say, but my voice comes out small and weak, and I barely hear it myself.

  “Please, le–” I try, a little louder, but I am interrupted by a humongous roar, the force of wind emanating from its throat sending me to my knees.

  I push myself to my feet.

  I
have to get out.

  But I have to get Henry first.

  I consider whether I should, then hate myself for it. I will not be such a coward that I will leave my son alone to die.

  I scuttle up the stairs on all fours, like a cat; a sick, ill, scared cat.

  I reach the hallway and feel it on my back.

  The ajar door of Henry’s room is across the corridor.

  I run at it.

  It closes.

  “No!”

  I reach the door and go to move the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. It’s not that the door is locked, but that the handle is stiff in its position, unmoved, unrelenting.

  I press down on it with all I have, but it’s not enough.

  I barge my shoulder against the wall, but I’m weak even when adrenaline tries to give me strength.

  “Henry!” I scream, but there is no answer.

  I look back over my shoulder.

  The shadow of the beast falls up the stairs, but the beast remains at the bottom step. I can hear its elongated pants as it waits for me, waits for me to return to my demise.

  I am not going anywhere without my son.

  I won’t let myself.

  I mustn’t be a coward.

  “Let me in!” I scream at Henry’s bedroom door.

  I swear I can hear it laughing.

  I barge once more.

  As you wish…

  The door swings open.

  I rush to the bed to collect my son.

  Yet, when I pull back the duvet, he is not there.

  (The story concludes later…)

  The Mince Pie

  The hardest part of Christmas for Santa is, without any doubt, the naughty and nice list.

  He loves the hard work of Christmas Eve; he loves the sparkling colours, and gosh he loves the elves.

  But he does not like this list.

  So much so, in fact, that the tolerance for what he will accept as naughty has risen significantly, and continues to rise. Mrs Claus tells him he is getting soft in his old age, but he asserts that he has removed his cynicism and replaced it with understanding.

  No kid is ever naughty without a reason, of course.

  Eric who called the kid at school fat was being called names by his own father.

  Shania who kicked a puppy was being kicked by a bunch of girls on her estate.

  And dear little Horris, just three years old, had no way of knowing that you do not shout at people, as that is all he received at home.

  So, regretfully, Santa had to put those children on the naughty list. Then, just as he went to leave his office, he returned and put them straight back over to the nice list.

  If anything, those children are the ones most in need of a gift; of a moment of happiness come Christmas morning.

  Things aren’t black and white, after all.

  So Santa allows it to happen. He allows these children to behave as such, and still be rewarded.

  That is probably why you never hear of a child getting coal anymore, no matter how much you believe that little toerag deserves it.

  But now Santa has to make a decision.

  This child is different.

  He stands on the roof of 15 Evergreen Terrace, in Tavistock, a small town in the South West of England, where most people know each other; by sight at least.

  It is a town where, should someone cause a disruption, it sends a ripple across the whole community.

  Well, Billy had been sending more than ripples.

  He’d been sending tidal waves.

  To put it mildly, and using language Santa did not particularly like–if he was deciding on the naughty and nice list, he had to set an example himself after all—the child was a complete and utter, undeniable little ragamuffin.

  And there was no reason to Billy’s anarchy. He had a loving home with two loving parents and a sister who had been awarded the status of Head Girl at school. He was raised with love, and yet he had still turned out to be a delinquent.

  And Santa wanted to be understanding, really he did. He wanted to say that Billy must be upset, or Billy must be having a difficult time, or that Billy must not know any better.

  But Billy had really started to push his buttons—excuse the harsh language.

  Santa had cut him plenty of slack. In fact, he’d cut him huge pieces of slack.

  A few years ago, Santa left Billy the baseball bat he was so after. Billy had been watching some American baseball on the television with his dad, and they seemed to bond over it, so Santa could not wait to acquiesce Billy’s request for a baseball bat that arrived via his letter in early December.

  What did Billy do?

  He used that baseball bat to batter away at his sister’s knee caps. As if rewarding her for her perfect behaviour at school and at home, he waited until they were alone, and he thwacked, and he thwacked, and he thwacked, and he thwacked.

  She said nothing to her parents. His sister is kind like that.

  But Santa knows.

  Santa always knows.

  Then Billy grew closer to his mother over the next year. He began to enjoy sewing with her. He did not care about masculine stereotypes, no; he was happy to make felt puppets and jackets for his Action Men.

  So, when he asked for a craft set, Santa was happy to oblige.

  What did Billy do?

  He used the craft scissors to cut off his gerbil’s legs.

  He told his parents he didn’t know how it happened. They rushed the gerbil with its bloody stumps to the vet and the vet was as equally perplexed as the parents were.

  They wouldn’t disbelieve their son. They did not understand what he was capable of.

  But, as the gerbil died from its terrible wounds, Santa knew.

  Santa always knows.

  But Billy seemed to do well in the year after that. He seemed to find some focus, try harder in school. Santa had been pleased with the turnaround.

  Billy decided he wished to paint his room. He wanted to do it all himself, too. He wanted to cover his furniture in blankets and do as good a job as possible.

  Well, there’s nothing like a bit of manual labour to teach a child the advantages of hard work.

  So imagine Santa’s disdain as he watched Billy force feed the can of paint down the cat’s throat, for the vet to end up being as equally perplexed when the parents brought him the feline’s corpse.

  The autopsy revealed paint in its body, but the parents naturally assumed the paint had been ingested by accident. Maybe the cat had eaten some while Billy painted his room; the room that had been left half-finished and remained that way—as if Billy had done enough painting to keep up the pretence that he wished to use the paint for his room.

  But Santa knew.

  Santa always knows.

  So, this year, as Santa stands in the living room and places a wrapped-up doll for Billy’s sister under the tree, he looks to Billy’s stocking and pauses.

  Oh, how he hated to be the bad guy.

  He loved seeing the good in the world, the positives in people, the hope in those he helped. He hated having to condemn a child to no gift, however horrible that child had been.

  Then he saw something that surprised him.

  Beside the fireplace. A plate with a mince pie. Next to it, a note, reading:

  Dear Santa,

  Sorry for being so bad. I am trying, really.

  I hope you enjoy the mince pie.

  Your friend,

  Billy.

  Santa stared at the note and felt a sinking feeling in his gut.

  He had judged the boy too soon. He knew it.

  He shouldn’t have been so quick to condemn.

  Maybe there was some good in Billy.

  He picked up the mince pie and wondered whether to eat it. He had come here without a present for the child. Would it not be a bit of a kick in the belly to take the child’s mince pie and not leave a gift?

  Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  Maybe he could go back.


  Maybe he could find something, anything.

  He took a bite of the mince pie.

  It was delicious.

  He felt so bad.

  So, so bad.

  Why didn’t he–

  Santa paused.

  He felt a gurgle in his belly.

  He looked to the plate of mince pies and noticed something across the room.

  It was a bottle.

  Reading isoflurane.

  “Isn’t that a sedative?” Santa asked, right before he passed out.

  Santa awoke hours later.

  He looked around.

  He could hear dripping.

  It was cold.

  He was naked. Looking down, he had nothing on. His red suit had disappeared, and so had his boots. His fat belly poked out, shielding his bollocks.

  Yet he still wore the hat.

  He looked up.

  He saw a fat little child in front of him.

  “Billy?” Santa asked.

  Billy just grinned, his chubby cheeks growing bigger as he did.

  “What are you doing?”

  Billy only said one single sentence: “Thank you for my gifts, Santa, I have been waiting to use them.”

  Billy pulled the cloth off a table to reveal three items.

  A baseball bat for Santa’s kneecaps.

  Craft scissors for Santa’s legs

  And paint to finish Santa off.

  And, as Santa looked into Billy’s sadistic, demented eyes, only two words escaped from his lips:

  “Oh, fuck.”

  A Letter from The Christmas Cannibal

  Dear Santa,

  I so very much appreciate the delectable gifts you endowed the base of my Christmas shrub with in the previous year.

  It was ever so nice of you to acquiesce to my request of a cookbook that negotiated human flesh into a set of delightful dishes. I hadn’t been dutifully informed that an item was in existence, let alone that one could obtain it—but I have since been enchanted to consume sliced brain in a sweet tartar sauce, and fried skin in an omelette.

  Should you have conjured up such a book yourself, I would be immensely impressed.