by Chris Morey
A loud splashing noise erupted somewhere in the darkness, followed by a horribly suggestive gurgling. More splashing, and then a low, animalistic growl. She saw a quick flash of light somewhere ahead—like moonlight glancing off a pair of silver-green eyes.
“Mom! Maa—”
A final splash, and the night fell silent but for the low rustle of branches in the icy breeze.
No!
“Dylan! Dylan, where are you? Answer me!”
The moon disappeared and darkness swallowed her—the unbroken blackness of a subterranean chamber. She tried to force her feet to move, but they were numb, frozen in place. Then, before her, a pinpoint of light appeared.
Red light.
She knew what it was.
Something was moving through the water toward her, and as it drew nearer, she could feel not fear but a wave of powerful, palpable rage, coming on like a monstrous, ravenous spider. Behind the fiery red eye, a body began to materialize in the darkness.
Roger.
He was holding the crystal ornament next to his head, his eyes wide, staring—at her, past her. He was plowing through the waist-deep water, seemingly insensate, his movement jerky, machine-like.
“Roger, where’s Dylan?”
He ignored her, continued to close on her, the eye of the ornament burning with preternatural flame.
“Where the hell is Dylan?” She screamed the words at him.
Less than ten feet from her, he stopped moving. His eyes finally appeared cognizant of her, but his dazed expression did not change. Turning the spear-like tip of the ornament toward his neck, he spoke, his voice hollow and inflectionless. “Gone. We are all gone.”
Then he plunged the sharp point into his jugular vein. For one brief moment, his eyes gleamed with terrible cognizance; then he stumbled sideways and disappeared beneath the inky surface. The burning red eye glowed beneath the water for a few seconds and then vanished, leaving Lydia alone and shocked, bereft of breath and voice, in silent, cavernous darkness.
THEN
After some time, a painful tingling in his feet and legs reminded him his circulation was gone. With supreme effort, he drew himself upright, wobbled for a moment, and then took a few steps toward the door.
Silence.
This was all a bad dream. Some temporary madness brought on by stress and guilt.
There was nothing in the hall. There could be nothing in the hall.
He drew a deep, steadying breath; leaned forward; and put his eye to the hole in the door.
The first thing he saw was a dark, smaller hole in the opposite wall.
Then something blocked his view—something black and featureless.
And the red, burning eye appeared, staring in at him, its brilliant pupil blazing with the fire of hell itself.
He stumbled backward but did not fall.
Something had stopped him. Something solid.
Something as cold as a gale from the deepest, darkest reaches of outer space.
At the periphery of his vision, a shadow was materializing, something tall, something with brilliant, emerald eyes.
The frigid mass behind him was enveloping him—a creeping, swelling mass of black plasma, preventing him from moving a muscle. With a click, the door began to open inward, the space beyond filled with blood-red light.
As if clutched in a giant, freezing hand, Landon Grigg could only gaze in disbelief as the light cascaded over him, countering the icy grip on him with waves of mounting heat. Hotter and hotter, colder and colder, both flaying his flesh, burrowing deep inside him, ripping apart everything within, filling the new spaces with pure pain. The room and everything in it was awash in hot red, he was swimming in red, but he could no longer feel his arms and legs. His sense of being had gone topsy-turvy, his body dissolved, his mind adrift in a sea of dazzling crimson agony.
Fear. Pain. Rage.
For a moment, before all rational thought fled, he realized he was looking out at his old room through a cut, beveled jewel. Before him, a ghastly, pale face—her face—took shape, floating in the flaming sea, eyes wide in shock, her expression frozen in that moment when life had fled from her body.
But he had never deserved what she had done to him.
He did not deserve this.
This horror. This fate.
Fear. Pain. Rage.
Red rage red rage red rage red rage red
NOW
Dylan. Oh, God, her poor Dylan.
Roger had killed him. And Roger was dead.
Lydia knew only pure, soul-deep grief. Her little boy would never grow up, he would never experience life. It was all over.
He was gone.
Somehow, sometime later, chilled and soaked with water already turning to ice, she had stumbled back through the yawning front door of the house. She was alone.
How had this happened? Overnight, her world of warmth and beauty had turned to frigid horror, and then to an abyss of anguish and despair.
The tree in the living room was still alive with multicolored lights, flashing and blinking; a hellish reminder of a life she had loved, now snuffed out by something awful, something incomprehensible.
Something dead but alive.
The spherical, crystal ornament with the pointed stem and gleaming jeweled eye was hanging in its place on the Christmas tree, as if it had never been removed. As if it belonged there.
Red.
She felt it building inside her, breaking through the shell of cold that encased her: monstrous, consuming heat, sending her muscles into trembling spasms, all beyond her control. She could feel her husband’s presence, as if his essence were entombed in that awful sphere of crystal, and just for a second, she swore she heard her little son screaming.
Rage.
Black smoke was dribbling from the silvery crystal sphere, from its glowing, sentient eye, forming tendrils of living, ravening evil that began creeping across the floor toward her.
Behind her, something moved.
Something heavy, shuffling and sliding, like a body being dragged across the hardwood floor.
“He killed me,” it said.
Her body was still frigid, but all she could feel inside was the heat of that mounting, burning, everlasting rage.
POINTY CANES
Uncle Jack loved candy canes. That wasn't disturbing by itself; after all, they're a delicious treat that's made to be enjoyed. What made me uneasy is that he would suck the end down to a point, and then put the candy cane in a large cardboard box with hundreds of others.
"What are you going to do with all of those sharpened candy canes, Uncle Jack?" I'd ask.
"Nothing," he'd say.
If this were happening in his house, I would have figured it was just a quirk. What concerned me is that he brought the box over to Grandma and Grandpa's house every year, acquiring more and more of the pointy canes. Why did he need to bring the whole box? If he wanted to save them, why not simply put the new ones in a plastic baggie and take them home?
"Don't you think it's weird?" I asked Mom, as she drove me home from college for Christmas break.
"It's weirder than some things, less weird than others," said Mom. My mother was not a great conversationalist.
"Did he do that kind of thing as a kid?"
"Oh, yes. Some of those candy canes date back thirty years."
"Candy canes last that long? How come they didn't turn soft and squishy?"
Mom shrugged. "I guess he properly stores them."
"I think it's kind of creepy."
"It's creepier than some things. Less creepy than others."
Uncle Jack had never married, or even been in a long-term relationship. I wasn't necessarily blaming the candy-cane habit, but I also wasn't discounting it as a contributing factor.
We got to Grandma and Grandpa's house right at dinnertime. Their tree was beautiful, as always, and presents were piled high. Uncle Jack was seated on the recliner in the living room, watching an episode of a sitcom that was spoofing
It's a Wonderful Life. He was sucking on a candy cane.
"Hi, Barry!" he said, standing up and giving me a hug. "How did your finals go?"
"Pretty well, I think."
"Can I interest you in a candy cane?"
"Nah, that's all right, but thanks."
I don't know why I found Uncle Jack's habit so disconcerting. It wasn't as if he offered the pre-sucked canes to us. Nor did he ever ask us to suck our canes to points for his collection. Maybe he was saving them for some crazy art project.
There were fourteen of us in the house, too many to fit at the dining-room table, so four of us ate our delicious ham dinner in the living room. Uncle Jack sucked on a candy cane between bites, which was odd even for him.
"Are you trying to add mint flavor to your mashed potatoes?" I asked.
"This one is fruit flavored."
"Oh. Are you, uh, trying to add fruit flavor to your mashed potatoes?"
"No."
"Oh."
He took another bite of mashed potatoes. He chewed, swallowed, and then popped the candy cane back into his mouth.
"C'mon, Uncle Jack," I said, "you have to admit that this is kind of weird, right?"
He slid the candy cane out from between his lips. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding up the cane.
"A fruit-flavored candy cane?"
"More specifically."
"Cherry?"
"Strawberry. But I mean, do you know its significance?"
"No."
"This is my one-thousandth candy cane."
"Wow."
"Impressive, right?"
"Yes. Congratulations."
"That means that I have finally acquired one thousand candy-cane daggers, and now the ritual may commence." He set his dinner plate aside and stood up. "Daggers for everyone. Grab a handful. Don't be shy."
I looked over at my cousin Neal and Aunt Shawna. They both looked appropriately confused.
"I said, don't be shy." Uncle Jack grabbed a few candy canes from the box and walked over to me. "Put out your hands."
"I don't really want to touch them."
"This isn't about what you want. I've been preparing for this ritual since I was eight, and I'm not going to have you spoil it just because you don't want to get your fingers sticky."
"What are we going to do?"
"For now, you're going to put out your damn hands so I can give you some candy canes."
I reluctantly held out my hands. He placed seven or eight sharpened canes in them. The saliva had long since dried, so it actually wasn't all that gross, but I still didn't enjoy the sensation of holding them.
Uncle Jack gave some candy canes to Neal and Aunt Shawna, then took the box into the dining room.
"Do you think he's going to make us eat these?" Neal asked.
"I don't know."
"I really don't want to."
"He's not going to make you eat anything you don't want to eat," said Aunt Shawna. "He's just drunk."
"He was drinking water," I said.
"Then he's off his medication. Or on new medication. Or very tired. It won't hurt us to humor him."
We walked into the kitchen, where Uncle Jack was busy distributing sharpened canes to all of my relatives. Everybody had an "Uhhhhh …" expression.
"What's this all about, Jack?" asked Grandma.
"It's for the blood ritual."
"Blood ritual?" I asked. "When the hell did this become a blood ritual?"
"Language!" Grandma snapped.
"It was never anything else," said Uncle Jack. "We have a thousand daggers, and they shall create a thousand stab wounds. The blood and the sugar will give rise to the ancient demons, who will devour humanity."
Grandpa raised his hand.
Uncle Jack pointed to him. "What?"
"Why is that desirable?"
"Because humanity is a cesspool! A lice-ridden cesspool of vile filth and wretched mildew! A scabby pustule upon the earth! Everybody knows that!"
"Let's say, for argument's sake, that we agree with this assessment," said Grandpa. "I still don't think that ancient demons devouring humanity is the way to go."
"Are you kidding? How can you be so dense?" Uncle Jack gaped at him in astonishment. "I guess I'll cut you some slack because you're old and set in your ways, but everybody else gets it, right?"
Nobody said anything.
"Shawna, you understand, don't you?"
"I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"
"Barry?"
I looked at the floor. "I guess … I mean … no, actually, I don't. I'm not sure why we'd want to do something like that."
"I can't believe you people! How is it possible that I can be related to such … oh, you know what, I apologize. I didn't explain that we would be spared when the demons devoured humanity. After they're done, we'd rule the planet. I should've clarified that. Now do you get it?"
Nobody said anything.
"You all suck!" said Uncle Jack. "I've spent three decades' worth of Christmases making those candy-cane daggers, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let a bunch of prudes stop me from fulfilling my destiny. Everybody pick up your candy canes. Now!"
"Listen, Jack, you're just sleepy," said Shawna. "Let's get you upstairs to—"
Uncle Jack slammed a candy cane into her throat.
He was standing on the other side of the table, so when he started running toward her, one of us probably should have considered that he was planning to stab her with a candy cane and taken appropriate action. On a similar note, Aunt Shawna should have taken his outstretched arm and the sharpened candy cane in his fist as a signal that she should protect her neck. But I suppose none of us thought he'd really inflict violence upon a beloved relative.
Aunt Shawna clutched at her neck. Blood spurted from between her fingers.
"Mom!" screamed Neal.
Uncle Jack took out a gun. In retrospect, it had been odd that he was wearing a jacket indoors, and I guess I'd noticed a vaguely gun-shaped bulge in his pocket, and if I were being truly honest with myself I had to admit that there'd been a moment where I thought, "Hmmm, I wonder if Uncle Jack has a gun in his jacket pocket?" but how was I to know that he'd take it out and start waving it at us?
"You killed my mother!" Neal wailed.
Uncle Jack shot him in the head.
As his body dropped to the floor, I was horrified at the death of my cousin, though I also felt that Neal was mostly responsible for his own fate. His accusation was entirely correct, but it could've waited.
"I don't want to shoot anybody else!" said Uncle Jack. "It's a waste of death that should be coming from the candy-cane daggers! But if any of you cross me, I'll do it! I'll do it!"
"Just calm down," I told him.
"I don't want to calm down. After all this time, I'm finally at the part of the plan where I can be hyper! Either you're with me or against me, and those of you who are against me are getting shot! Who's with me?"
Everybody raised their hands, except Grandpa.
"Well, Grandpa?" Uncle Jack asked.
"I need to know what being with you entails."
"A mass slaughter with the candy canes."
"Got it. Nope, not my thing."
Uncle Jack shot Grandpa in the head.
"You killed Lester!" Grandma wailed.
Uncle Jack shot her. Again, this act filled me with unspeakable horror, but still, we'd just seen an example of why you shouldn't wail things like that.
"Who's next?" asked Uncle Jack.
"Not me," said my cousin Ralph. "I'm totally with you."
Uncle Jack shot him in the head.
"Aw, crap," said Uncle Jack, as Ralph dropped to the floor. "I got trigger-happy on that one. I know what he said, but I heard something different, and by the time I realized my mistake, I'd already shot him."
I don't think anybody felt that it was a reasonable mistake, but none of us wanted to call him out on it.
"It won't happen again," Uncle Jack assured us
. "Now, everybody pick up your candy canes."
Everybody at the dinner table did as they were told.
"The key is to use as many candy canes as you can," Uncle Jack explained. "So if you stab somebody twenty times with the same one, it only counts once. What you want to do is stab somebody with twenty different canes."
"Why not just stab a corpse with all thousand of them?" I asked.
"Good question. Once somebody is dead, they no longer count toward the ritual."
"So you're saying that stabbing Aunt Shawna in the throat was wasteful?"
"Yes," said Uncle Jack, apparently not offended. "But there are a bunch of you and only one of me, so if I'd stabbed her in the arm, you might have been able to subdue me. I wasn't trying to make the best use of resources. But when we go on our stabbing spree, we'll definitely stab people in the arms and legs and other places where they won't die right away."
Everybody was sobbing by this point. "I can't do this," said Mom.
"Mom, no!" I cried out. "You have to!"
"It's just too ghoulish!"
"Please, Mom! Please, do what he says!"
"Relax, Barry," said Uncle Jack. "I'd kill my own parents, my own nephew, and my own sister, but I wouldn't kill my last remaining sister. Everybody else has to be part of the stabbing spree, but if she really thinks it's too ghoulish, she's excused."
"Thank you," said Mom, hurrying out of the dining room and running upstairs.
I noticed that she'd left her cell phone on the table. And Grandma and Grandpa didn't have an upstairs phone. I have to admit, I was a little disappointed that apparently Mom was not going to use this opportunity to save the rest of us.
"We're going to do this as a group," said Uncle Jack. "Candy canes are flimsy weapons, so it's strength in numbers that will assure our victory. We're going to go house to house, ringing the doorbell and stabbing anyone who answers."
The doorbell rang.
"Somebody must've called the police when they heard the shots," I said.
Uncle Jack nodded. "I knew this might end with me being gunned down by the cops. Hoped it wouldn't. Maybe I can take one or two of them out first."
He walked over to the door and threw it open.
A group of Christmas carolers stood there.
