Twelve Days of Christmas Horror

by Rick Wood

  However, this year, I am tired of receiving books and such like. I desire something that would cast a far greater meaning upon me.

  In fact, I desire a great many things—too many for me to select a particular item that I desire to be placed in my stocking.

  So I grant you permission to select an appropriate number of gifts from a diverse set of items.

  And so, here I giveth to you, my list for this year.

  Please, feel free to choose one sizeable item, or a selection of items that is proportionate—or, indeed, fabricate something similar of your own that it would delight me to receive as a surprise.

  It is the festive period, after all.

  My list is as follows:

  Two turtle doves, but without the shells. (Oh, and also a book that tells me what a turtle dove is.)

  A wok that doesn’t get stained so easily by blood (they are such a bother to clean, Santa, I tell you!)

  The liver of a group of carol singers—preferably the wretched group who keep battering Away in a Manger to death with their inharmonious screeches outside my house.

  A model nativity scene that depicts Mary in a realistic state following childbirth—for example, a mid-wife discarding of the placenta, or stitching up the torn skin beside the Holy Virgin’s unmentionable.

  A wreath decorated in the blood of that Santa from the mall with a fake beard. I detest imposters.

  Jingling bells that only jingle when it’s time to slay my dinner.

  A candy cane with the tip sharpened into a point that would rival any kitchen knife.

  A Christmas Carol on DVD, but only with the part with The Ghost of Christmas Future repeated over and over. He is the only ghost with any substance or relatability, I feel.

  Cookie Dough. And by cookie, I mean the excess flesh of a tasty Vietnamese woman. And by dough, I also mean the excess flesh of a tasty Vietnamese woman.

  An advent calendar that counts down to Armageddon rather than Christmas.

  Frankincense and murr, just so I can figure out what it is, and whether I might be able to kill someone with it.

  A gingerbread man who squeals when I bite its leg off so I don’t have to keep pretending and making the sounds myself.

  Goodwill and tidings to all men. Failing that, death and destruction to all men.

  Mulled wine that is redder than the blood of my enemies. (In fact, if you can access the blood of my enemies, provide me with mulled blood instead.)

  The disposal of the French. Not sure why, I just feel like it.

  A dinner with Krampus. I really feel like we’d get on.

  Mistletoe that falls down and stabs anyone who kisses under it.

  Death to anyone who keeps making that ‘Darth Vader knows what he’s getting for Christmas as he felt your presence’ joke. Honestly, it’s getting old now.

  Christmas crackers, but where the crack is a firework.

  One of your elves as a sex slave. I trust there will be no questions asked.

  A Christmas sweater with a picture of Rudolph on. (What, I can’t be festive too?)

  Another Christmas sweater with a picture of a machete on, that is capable of destroying the previous Christmas sweater.

  Tinsel that has been dipped in kerosene.

  Turkey stuffed with the little drummer boy’s intestines.

  Another turkey stuffed with whatever’s left from the little drummer boy. Waste not want not and all that.

  Wrapping paper that a child could not escape from. I don’t want a repeat of last year’s fiasco.

  And, finally, something for yourself, Santa. Mrs Claus’s sister chained in the basement, perhaps.

  All the best and a very happy Christmas.

  Yours,

  Simon

  (The Christmas Cannibal)

  A Christmas Carol: The Aftermath

  Ebenezer Scrooge awoke once again with a start.

  He sat up in his bed, sweating. He pulled off his nightcap and wiped his forehead on his nightgown.

  He looked down to see the stain of perspiration fading the white of his sleeve.

  “Oh, dear,” he grumbled.

  It was the same every Christmas eve.

  Just as it had been for the past five years.

  Ever since…

  It all happened…

  He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself, just as his therapist had taught him.

  It had all been fine at first.

  He had seen the light, as they say. He had leapt out of bed on Christmas morn, taken the biggest turkey to Cratchit’s house, given him a raise, made amends with his nephew, and paid for Tiny Tim’s treatment.

  He had thought it would all be so much better.

  Then came the flashbacks.

  He’d sit in his armchair, eating his gruel by the fire, only to jump at the sight of Jacob Marley in the chair beside him.

  But Jacob Marley wasn’t there.

  The chains and the jaw that hung so much lower from his mouth than it should have done only appeared in his mind. The image itself was imprinted onto his thoughts, as was the chilling voice announcing his doom.

  He’d escaped the doom, but he had not escaped the sight.

  He tried to speak about it once. To a man who said he could provide treatment. But even this man appeared confused by the ramblings that would only come from someone who was deeply mad.

  So he retracted them.

  Claimed he had seen nothing. That he was musing, that it was a joke.

  “Oh, Mr Scrooge,” the man had said, letting out a laugh as he held his portly belly. “You are quite the man!”

  Yes, in the past five years he had been known to jest, to have a joke and a chuckle at his own expense, and many people would assume that he was doing as such.

  As much as his reputation had preceded him before the event, his new reputation followed him after it.

  He decided he’d give up on sleep. Get out of bed. Take a late Christmas eve stroll. Maybe a bit of fresh air would help.

  Yet, somehow, as if his legs were driven by his unconscious, he found himself at the graveyard.

  And there it was.

  A tombstone with another man’s name on it, but a tombstone that could have been his own. The one that the Ghost of Christmas Future had raised its skeletal hand and pointed at.

  For a moment he thought said ghost was behind him, and he jumped, only to find that it was a shadow that had overgrown itself.

  He left, passing Cratchit’s house as he did, knowing that even if he didn’t see his good friend and worker in person, that passing the house would give him joy. That the feeling he gets when he is at that front door would be enough to console his fragile mind.

  But all he saw as he stared through a narrow crack in the dusty curtains was a pair of crutches.

  He knew it would be because Tiny Tim was in bed.

  But it brought back the feeling of knowing about Tiny Tim’s death, about his imminent departure from their plane of existence.

  And he could do nothing but fall to his knees.

  The words became too much. The images, the lessons, it all fell upon him with a weight heavier than the chains Marley had carried around.

  Oh, those chains…

  He could feel them…

  Tightening around his throat…

  Everyone was in pain. He was, and so was Tiny Tim, who would die no matter how much money Scrooge provided. The doctors were just delaying the inevitable.

  It felt as if another ghost was behind him.

  Speaking in his ear.

  Telling him that the only way to save people from the pain was to end their lives before they reached it.

  That the only way to truly bring happiness was to prevent any further suffering.

  That the only way out of life was death.

  So, with the trauma weighing heavily on his mind, that was what he decided would be Cratchit’s Christmas gift this year.

  He withdrew the knife he hadn’t known that he was carrying and
barged through the door.

  A scurry from the bedroom announced Cratchit’s presence, who looked startled but relieved.

  “Mr Scrooge,” he said, a hand on his heart. “Whatever has prompted this intrusion? Not that you aren’t welcome at any hour, of course…”

  No, Cratchit.

  It is an intrusion.

  Scrooge was going to give him a hefty bonus this year.

  But, in a way, this would be the best present he’d ever received.

  'Twas the Night Before Murder

  'Twas the night before Christmas as goes the motto,

  Not a creature was stirring in Santa’s Grotto,

  The good wishes had been wished, and the prayers had been said,

  And all of the elves had gone up to bed.

  Yet someone upstairs was hurting inside,

  “Oh no, sweet Jesus!” Mrs Claus cried,

  She fell to the floor and wailed like a baby,

  Staring up at her husband who had gone totally crazy.

  Her sliced-off arm hurt without a doubt,

  As she lay covered in blood with her insides hanging out,

  “Why, oh why?” she cried, then screamed a lot,

  Santa just smiled and said, “Why the fuck not?”

  And as she looked at the man with whom she had betrothed,

  She begged and begged as he sliced off her toes.

  He cackled and laughed as she put up a fight,

  And he let her run naked out into the night,

  He didn’t need to chase as he could tell where she’d stood,

  From all the footprints marking the snow in blood.

  It took almost an hour, and it reached almost ten,

  Until he found her hidden in the reindeer’s pen,

  She said, “Please don’t do this, I love you so much!”

  He said, “I know,” and stuck holly in her gut.

  As she looked at her husband, perched on her knees,

  She said to him, “Santa, don’t do this, please…”

  He squeezed tinsel round her neck and prompted a tear,

  Her dead body collapsed, and he said, “Love you, my dear.”

  Rudolph looked at him with his shiny red nose,

  Santa thought, well, you’re next I suppose!

  Sensing what was coming, Rudolph flew to the stars,

  But without magic dust he didn’t get far.

  But Santa didn’t kill him as maybe he should,

  Instead, he fed from a bucket doused in zombie blood.

  He repeated this with Prancer, Vixen, and Comet as treats,

  Within minutes they had turned into carnivorous beasts.

  What a beauty they were, just brilliant, thought Santa,

  As he stood there and watched as they mutilated Dancer.

  Dasher and Cupid fled but were easily fought,

  And Blitzen didn’t make it far before he was caught,

  And there they stood panting, ready to soar down south,

  With saliva and blood dripping from each fanged mouth,

  “Hang on my zomdeers, before you burst,

  We need to go see to all the little elves first!”

  So he opened up the rooms and the accommodation,

  Interrupted the elves’ sleep on the eve of vacation,

  Their high-pitched screams echoed into the night,

  As the zomdeers devoured their limbs, bite after bite.

  Santa stopped the reindeer before they were all done,

  And said, “Woah there my darlings, let me have some fun!”

  You may not know that elf blood is confetti,

  He created a downpour with his trusty machete,

  He tore limb from limb til they were reindeer fodder,

  The place looked like it was attacked by a huge party popper.

  He attached his zomdeers to the end of his sleigh,

  And said, “It’s your turn, world—hip hip hooray!”

  You may think that he’d do something drastic,

  But he had very few plans as he flew over the Atlantic.

  He knew there’d be no presents like there normally would,

  Instead this year there’ll be stockings full of blood.

  He snuck silently into each house so happily,

  Ruining Christmas for each family.

  If they were lucky they wouldn’t wake next morn,

  And would find themselves dead before dawn.

  He tore down the Christmas tree for poor little Kimmy,

  Laughed as she slept, and he shat down her chimney.

  Ignored the sign that said beware the dog,

  Took out his dick and pissed in their eggnog.

  He laughed and he cackled before he went away,

  And pictured them drinking it the very next day.

  He left a little present for sweet baby Drake,

  All wrapped up tight, a venomous snake!

  His parents will scream and shout, “Somebody save me!”

  As they watch that snake swallow down their entire baby.

  He found Sammy’s house decorated so well,

  With a colour themed tree and a few jingly bells,

  There were some wrapped crayons he thought could be fixed,

  And he replaced them all with a hundred elves’ dicks.

  Sammy’s mum and dad were asleep in their beds,

  So he brought in Rudolph to rip off their heads,

  Mrs Claus had said that he needed new hobbies,

  How about gutting these bastards then hanging their bodies?

  The families next door were awoken of course,

  And came out to see their neighbour’s headless corpse,

  Strung up to a streetlamp by their underwear,

  Santa just laughed and left them both there.

  Joyously he chuckled as he crossed the water,

  Another country of kids ready for torture,

  The first house he came to belonged to poor Mia,

  As he watched her sweet slumber he had diarrhoea.

  Oh, how she slept soundly, the spoilt little brat,

  The next day she’ll awake to find a stocking full of crap.

  In Toby’s bedroom who slept without care,

  With a thumb in his mouth and an arm around a bear,

  He reached out and took the teddy from the bed,

  And quietly replaced it with a horse’s head.

  After the night was ruined and Santa was to blame,

  He shouted out to every Jason, Jacob and James,

  To every David, Beatrice and Beth,

  Merry Christmas to all and to all a good death!

  Then he awoke with a start as strange as it seems,

  And sighed with relief as it was all just a dream,

  But then as he smiled and turned his head,

  He found Mrs Claus, just lying there, dead.

  The Christmas Card Trap

  Stage 1

  Dorothy had heard about the card before, but only in the way one hears about any urban legend.

  The legend of Bloody Mary never stopped her looking in the mirror, and Hollow Man never stopped her going on the internet, and the Boogeyman never stopped her from walking through a dark room.

  So, as she sat with her daughter, stroking Tia’s hair from her face as she lay in bed, she reassured her; as was her motherly duty.

  “It’s nonsense,” she said. “Just something other kids make up in the playground.”

  “But Mum, it’s not, it’s real!”

  “It’s not.”

  “It is! They say that the Christmas card has a picture of a snowy scene on it.”

  “Most Christmas cards have a snowy scene, dear.”

  “But this one’s different! It has a little boy in a red coat waving at you.”

  “Sounds like a normal card to me.”

  “But it’s not! Mum!”

  She sighed. Tucked the corners of the duvet over Tia.

  She had always tried to stop Tia from believing in childish stories for th
is very reason. In all the child’s eight years, Dorothy had never insisted on a belief in Santa Claus, or the Toothfairy. She had told her daughter that superpowers weren’t real and that wishes don’t come true.

  It sounds harsh, and to many other parents it sounded diabolical. She’d heard them at the mother’s meetings and at the park, taking offense as mothers often do when someone wishes to raise their child in a different way to them.

  But she didn’t care.

  Because discouraging Tia’s imagination helped to convince Tia that things like this aren’t real.

  “It’s something kids make up to scare other kids.” Dorothy leant down and kissed Tia on the forehead. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mum,” Tia said, and Dorothy could still hear a little shake in her daughter’s voice.

  Dorothy turned off the light, left the room, and left a gap in the door so she could hear any nightmares Tia had because of those foolish children—those children at school who had those liberal mothers who glared at her. The ones who tutted at her for her parenting decisions, then allowed their child to feed this nonsense into her daughter’s mind.

  Dorothy made her way downstairs and paused. Only a single lamp lit the adjoining kitchen and living room. An advent calendar with three doors left rested against the wall on the kitchen side, a sparsely decorated Christmas tree with recycled ornaments sat in the corner, and an envelope lay upon the floor beneath the front door.

  An envelope?

  She stared at it, confused, as if the act of staring would provide an explanation.

  She glanced at the clock. It was a little after eight in the evening. It was an odd time for a postman to be delivering.

  She edged closer to the envelope and, looking around, reminded herself to stop believing in monsters too. It was strange, but if she taught her child to be rational, she should surely set an example.