Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror

by James S. Dorr

  Then it hit me. Had this been one of the resolutions locked away in my subconscious? To murder Sydney because he stole a puny hundred dollars? I couldn’t believe I had that kind of vengeance inside me.

  I zigzagged through side streets to the restaurant so I could meet Angela. But somehow, I ended up at 22 Balmour Avenue. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know anyone who lived here.

  Or did I?

  A tall women with short red hair answered the door. My mouth worked by itself again. “Hello, is Tom Leeman here?” I heard the name come out of my mouth and then remembered it. He had bullied me when I attended high school.

  An aged Tom came to the door, still with the same pudgy cheeks, big ears.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me, but you used to beat me up.”

  I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You’re John Lambert.”

  I nodded.

  He seemed sad for a moment, then spread his hands. “I’m very sorry about that. I treated a lot of people badly in those days. Spent years in therapy to figure everything out. I’ve since turned my life around. Became a minister. However, I can understand if you still harbour ill will toward me.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I forgive you.”

  He smiled. I turned around to go. But, then my legs began to move on their own, turning back toward the door. My hands grabbed hold of them, trying to force them to move elsewhere, but they kept moving forward.

  I stood in front of Leeman again.

  “Forget something?”

  “Yes.” I banged his head against the door hard, ten times. Just like he had done to me so many years back. He gasped, fell to the ground, blood pouring from his head. His wife came to the door and screamed.

  I ran into the car, my whole body trembling, breathing hard.

  I had turned into a monster.

  Walters had told me there were three resolutions. I had to stop the third from happening. But my hand already held the keys and was about to insert them into the ignition. I seized the keys with my other hand and threw them to the ground. Then I reached for my cell phone and dialled Walters’ number.

  “What have you done?” I screamed into the phone. “I’ve killed two people. I have to stop this.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert. Once the process is begun, it cannot be halted.”

  “There must be a way.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Can you at least tell me what I’m going to do next? Maybe I can prevent it.”

  I didn’t hear anything for a moment, then he spoke in a low tone. “Okay, because it’s your first time with us, Mr. Lambert, I’ll make an exception. I will decipher your files from the audio-graph.”

  While I had been talking on the phone, my left hand had reached down, clutched the keys and started the car. My right hand latched onto the steering wheel and began turning it.

  I slammed my foot on the brake to stop the car from moving.

  I heard Walters’ voice. “Okay, the third resolution is that you’re going to kill your boss.”

  “That can’t be. He’s generous, a good man.”

  “Obviously you don’t truly think that.”

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “Mr. Lambert. We didn’t put these resolutions into your mind. It’s the nature of man to seek revenge for past hurts. Apparently, at your core, you have a lot of unresolved issues. Just the way it is. We merely free your unconscious to deal with things as it sees fit.”

  He hung up and my foot lifted from the brake. My hands held tight onto the steering wheel and the car began moving.

  Another murder would not happen. I would not allow it. Using all my strength, I forced the car down Denison Avenue rather than the boss’s street.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the restaurant to meet Angela. My mind fired a thousand thoughts at me, but I refused to think about the dreadful acts I’d committed till I was in a safe place. I searched through the restaurant but couldn’t find Angela. I looked at my watch—ten thirty. Crap, she must be at the hotel.

  I sped down to the Triumph Towers, my hands and feet seeming to do my bidding now. I raced up to the room.

  I knocked at the door. Angela answered, looking furious. “Where the hell were you? You promised you’d be at the restaurant by nine.”

  “Honey, it’s been a terrible night.”

  “You don’t know terrible. I sat alone, waiting for an hour straight.”

  “I killed two people.”

  She grimaced. “You didn’t go to the resolution place, did you? You went drinking with your buddies instead. I ask you to do one thing and you can’t even do that. I had the whole evening planned.”

  I had to make her understand. I put my hands on her shoulders, looked her straight in the eyes. “I was going to kill my boss.”

  At that moment, I realized I had misunderstood, as my hands slowly crept their way up Angela’s neck and squeezed.

  Trigger

  Leah Givens

  Showtime. Ray’s fingers tingled at the controls. First time shooting fireworks at this field. And it couldn’t come soon enough. He stood, grabbed the cold metal doorknob of the booth and pulled to let in the freezing night. How many times had he ignited the new year with the flick of a switch? Close to twenty years, as though his father had beaten it into him. Never here, though, the perfect location, a plateau of land that dropped off to yield an open sky. Just the nine o’clock kiddie show, and still his skin itched to get started. He reached fingernails down to scratch underneath his T-shirt, his hand running over a hilly landscape of belt-buckle scars.

  Snow and blankets patchworked the field. Hundreds of people must be here, probably half the town. The proposal to raze Pine Hill Wild Bird Conservatory had promised a good show, plus plenty of other uses for a tree-free place. Enough to stomp down protests from environmentalists that the old forest held something sacred: if not the birds, then the Indian burial grounds beneath. Eagles that had nested there for ages could move on, officials argued, and old Indian myths held no meaning nowadays. A clearcutting began, one that wouldn’t quite satisfy either side. I guess this compromise works best; a small empty field, and a half-ring of woods left behind.

  One last glance at his watch. Ray shut the door and sat down again. Through the booth he heard the crowd’s countdown: “Three, two, one…” Adrenaline buzzed his fingertips as he flipped the red switch.

  Why am I so excited? I could describe the whole sequence from memory. Ray focused on the small booth window. Sure enough, the intro blast—a pink burst like a rose with green streaks as foliage. The booth’s walls hummed with cheers and claps. Ah. He settled in the chair to watch, chuckling at himself. Same show every year, but the kid in me always wants to see the lights.

  Next up, the ice-blue spider design. Ray’s eyes anticipated familiar sparks of color in the darkness. Wait, what? A low, fuming boom jolted him to standing. Oh, crap, this isn’t supposed to… His hands floundered for the phone on the wall while his eyes held to the sky. A tiny ball of light exploded into limitless brightness; the view through his window transformed from black to entirely white.

  What on Earth? The shock stopped him in place. From the center of his vision sprung a mass of birds, large as eagles yet feathered white all over. They all flew outwards, blazing across the sky, wings loud in unsynchronized flapping. Silence fell as they disappeared. Moments later, the brightness departed too. Night ruled again through his window, and the darkness looked blacker than ever.

  Ray reached for the doorknob as if by instinct. This is my show; I’m responsible. Amidst the rush of his mind, he could hear a mix of yells and cries outside. What am I going to tell them? It might help if I knew. He opened the booth’s door; cold air swirled in and around him. With the wind he felt the presence of his father alight on his shoulders, like a coat—only this coat chilled him more than the winter night. He shivered, then exaggerated the
movement, as if trying to shake off the heaviness, an anger that bit harder than rough wool.

  “You fucking moron!” a raspy voice yelled. Ray, startled, looked for the source. He saw a thin figure sitting on snow-littered grass a few feet away. God, is he talking to me? I didn’t mean to…

  “Hey, that’s not necessary!” shouted Big Ed of Ed’s Everything, his figure hard to miss, bundled on a nearby blanket. “I’m having some weird déjà-vu of my wife leaving. And you’re calling me stupid?”

  “Plus, this is supposed to be ‘kid-friendly,’” Ray added, shaky but glad to be relieved of blame.

  The cigarette-scarred voice continued, louder and louder. “You are a louse on a hound. No, you’re a spot the sun forgot to burn…not good enough for a chicken to pick from its claws!”

  “Hey, man!” Ed said. “No one deserves that kind of abuse! Is it even me you’re mad at? What did I ever do to you?”

  The man curled up, forehead to knees, then drove a punch to his own right temple. A cry of pain mangled out through gritted teeth. Ray stood stunned in the booth’s doorway. Ed made no move either. The man swung again, harder; Ray panicked, almost expecting to see eyes pop from their sockets. Against half his will Ray ran to him, sneakers squeaking on snow. His mind blank, he pulled the man’s arms down and pinned them at the knee.

  Once again Ray could attend to the world. “Joshua, Joshua!” wailed a woman many paces away. I know that voice; I know that voice. Oh, right. Celia, redhead, pretty, walks her beagles down the street. She mentioned once she’d lost a son, didn’t seem too broken by it. “Breathe, Honey, breathe!” she begged the empty air. “You’re not going to die in front of me!”

  “It’s just a dream!” Ray screamed, stuck in place but hoping his voice could reach her, “I think.” How else do you explain this? He felt his father’s presence on him, unforgiving, but managed to shake it off.

  He kept his grip on the resistant arms of the man beneath him. Yells and cries surrounded them, and it felt like forever until the man lifted his head. “Keith?” Ray recognized the college student home on break. He couldn’t hide his surprise. “What happened?”

  “You don’t know,” Keith shook his head. “Put those pills in front of me, and I’m powerless. I’ve destroyed my life. Let me go.” His eyes, the right bloodshot, begged. “Or at least,” he said, “Let me rest in the woods. It’s quiet there. I don’t know why. People yell going in, and then they’re silent.”

  Ray scanned the field and realized Keith was right. Half the adults had run away, all towards the dark trees. The remaining ones cried, but with less passion, or hugged their children like ships tied to anchors.

  “Please?” asked Keith. “I need some relief.” He tried to force his arms upward against Ray’s grip.

  Ray was stronger and had the advantage of standing. This kid is not going to hit himself again if I can help it. It sounds crazy, but could the woods give him some peace?

  “Okay,” Ray said, “But you promise, no stupid shit like before?” He tried to sound tougher than he felt. “You’re a good kid.” He failed.

  Keith nodded. “I’ll hold on, if the woods will make a change. Or will let me. I don’t know. I’ve fucked up.”

  “All right.” Ray released Keith’s arms. “I’ll walk there with you.” Makes a good excuse. What are those people doing in the woods anyway?

  The two of them found a makeshift trail, one of the many where boots and shoes had scattered the snow. Ray glanced at the field as they made their way across. Countless children huddled on blankets near the dim light of a dying lamppost. A few lone adult figures too, rocking back and forth as though to calm themselves, yelping out occasionally. Why have they been spared? Maybe their lives don’t hold enough trauma to cause them to run.

  Keith and Ray reached the edge where grass gave way to thick pines. The wind picked up a distinct Christmas-tree scent. Ray looked to Keith for a final decision. Even in the near-darkness, the young man’s pain was unmistakable. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll curse myself all the way, though. Being alone and thinking about my past…” he shook his head. “I hope I can find some peace.”

  Ray peered into the trees as Keith stepped forward. He could follow the boy further, try to comfort him, but the border of this silent forest made him catch his breath and stop. As promised, Keith resumed his loud self-recrimination: “God, what kind of imbecile are you, can’t even control yourself…” But in seconds—too soon—his yells faded to eerie quiet. Ray couldn’t hear so much as the crunch of snow under Keith’s boots. The drops of sweat on his back flash-froze to an icy web.

  Ray’s watch beeped: almost time for the midnight fireworks. He wouldn’t set them off this year. Soon a new day would dawn. Would it be safe then to enter the strange woods, search for the people who’d walked in but not out? I pushed the button and started this whole thing. I have to try to fix it.

  The new year came with a sudden silence. Ray hadn’t realized how loud the screaming from the field had been until it ended. He turned to look. The dark figures on blankets stopped in place. Soon they began moving again, but in slow motion, rising to stand, hugging their children, talking again.

  Relief swept into Ray’s lungs. The weight of his father’s rage lifted from his shoulders. They’ll be okay.

  The people in the woods, though… All still dark and quiet. He gulped.

  One careful step into the forest. Ray looked down. More footprints, no surprise. On and on, dodging tree trunks. A few minutes in, he stopped. Bent to touch one icy shoe print. Smaller than the ones before? Three-quarters the size.

  A hundred more footsteps. At least there’s moonlight. The snow reflected everything the sky gave.

  He scanned the ground, then knelt closer. Shoe prints, less than half the size of his own. His breath stalled. No children came in.

  Walking faster. Smaller, smaller, smaller prints. Then tiny hands and feet like a baby had crawled. Then gone. Not a single print but his own.

  Where are those people? Had they left, risen up? No, that’s silly. I don’t believe in those crazy things. But the snow here was so fresh, untainted. Maybe they’d given up their bodies and memories to start over. He paused. Would I have done the same?

  He felt in his jacket pocket for his house key. It’s time to go home. He turned to follow his path back. Then stopped fast. Smooth, untouched snow reached from his shoes, as far as he could see.

  The Story of Myrtle Roady

  George Seaton

  Myrtle Roady took a toy

  Drank some rum

  And ate a boy

  Myrtle Roady stole a curl

  Drank some rum

  Then ate the girl

  On December 31, 1882, Hiram Clop, a fair-haired boy of seven who’d already broken one leg of the hand-fashioned wooden horse his daddy had given him for Christmas, carried the cherished albeit lamed steed he’d named Fury to the tent that covered the odiferous hole fifty yards from the pine-framed and canvas-walled and roofed structure he knew as his home. His mamma and daddy had told him to hurry-up his business, as the New Year’s Eve celebration would soon commence in the large communal tent down the road, and “You still gotta change your clothes, Hi.” He pulled the flap open, smelled the odor that always aroused his druthers to just step off into what was now, at almost eight o’clock in the evening, the blackly-hued scrub either side of the path where he could just squat, do what he needed to do and then run back to the warmth of the single-burner iron stove that centered their unfinished house. He’d been admonished to be civilized, though, by his mamma who’d caught him more than once, “…actin’ like a savage,” and that “…decent white men use the privy.” And he did, stepping under the flap, keeping hold of Fury in his right hand and pulling his drawers down with his left. He quickly finished his white man’s duty to decency, wiped with a handful of feather grass, pulled his pants up and stepped back out of the awful place. He saw the glow of his house, heard the voices of those already gat
hered in the Crawford town center, smiled with the remembrance of last New Year’s Eve when the townspeople had sat down to a fine supper after the blessing from Pastor Gumm had ended. He took one step into the run he knew would get him to it all a little faster, felt something clamp against his mouth as Fury was ripped from his hand and his whole body rose as he was tightly embraced by an arm around his middle. He tried to scream, and he couldn’t. Kicked his legs and flailed his arms. Knew he was being carried away from the proximity of his home, and even further from the happy sounds of those anxious to bring in the new year with good food, a warm fire, a little cider and declarations that the Good Lord would bring them a better year ahead. He felt no pain when the hand upon his mouth quickly snapped his head backward to an unnatural and mortally conclusive life-ending droop. Hiram Clop was dead, and Fury found a new home amongst other childish things—ragged baby dolls and ribbons, curled locks of hair, six-shooters of wood and wood blocks painted gaily in reds and greens.

  *

  Myrtle Roady left life on January 1, 1889, in a town of 150 souls called Crawford in southwestern Colorado; a place where scrub oak, cacti, sagebrush and saltbush are plentiful upon the land, and where the mountains and canyons beyond provide stingy embracement of Pinyon Pine, juniper, yucca and Mountain Mahogany; where cottonwoods suck sustenance from washes here and there, and sunrises come late against the rise of the West Elk Range of the Colorado Rockies to the east.

  Story is that Captain George A. Crawford passed through the area at the end of December in 1882, mentioned to a Baptist preacher/resident, Henry Gumm, that this would be a fine place for a town and the preacher and his flock heartily agreed as they watched Captain Crawford disappear into the sunset. They then and there named the place where they’d settled Crawford and set up a post office for good measure. Didn’t occur to the folks who now had a name for the place upon which their ragtag assemblage had squatted, that Captain Crawford—who didn’t even find it necessary to dismount as he smiled down at Pastor Gum and gave voice to those encouraging words—that patronization was a convenient way to just get on with more pressing business that, in Captain Crawford’s case, eventually included the founding of more hefty burgs like Grand Junction and Delta.