Yuletide Tales A Festive Collective Read online

  He knelt next to the presents and opened the forbidden box. Then, taking three matches at once, he struck them on the side. The fire flared up on the small wooden stick startling the small child with both the heat and brightness. He dropped the matches upon the carpet where the pile quickly burst into flames. Johnny watched wide eyed as the fire quickly spread to the presents, eating them up before spreading towards the Christmas tree. Anti-Claus laughed and clapped his hands at the chaos.

  The dry, real wooden tree also caught fire quickly. Johnny was scared, he didn’t know what to do. He went to get up. He had to warn his parents but, as he turned around, the fire had already spread towards the stairs. He screamed, he didn’t know what to do next.

  Johnny did the only thing he could do. He ran outside, screaming for help, hoping to wake his neighbours. His parents hadn’t noticed the blaze yet. Smoke was even coming through some of the windows upstairs already. Johnny got the neighbours attention over the spectacle of his blazing house but all they could do was scream. Johnny turned back to the house, only to see a shape like his father emerge from the doorway. He was ablaze and carrying a small burning shape in his arms. Johnny knew, in mind boggling terror. that it was his sister.

  The blazing form of his father fell to its knee, screaming. Johnny’s sanity left him as he watched the life leave his father’s body. From that day on Johnny would never speak to any living soul again and just spend the rest of his life staring in horror as the memories haunted his soul.

  For Anti-Claus the whole of Johnny’s life was mapped out for him to see. Not totally satisfied with the way Johnny would turn out but happy with the carnage he had caused. He closed his eyes and moved his consciousness to his next victim’s location. The smoky thought bubble he had sent was just reaching little Sally as he watched; It popped right by her ear.

  "Sally. Hello darling,” the bubbled voice said and caused little girl to moan in her sleep. “Nasty mummy has invited that new horrible man for Christmas.” Sally opened her eyes.

  “Nasty mummy, she’s mine not his,” she quietly said.

  “There’s something under your bed, use it to show how much you love your mummy.” Somewhere far above the town, Anti-Claus smiled evilly. The little girl, now fully awake, leapt from her bed. She scooted down to take a look for her ‘gift’. There under the bed a large chef’s knife glinted. Its edge was ethereally sharp with an electric blue sheen in the dim light.

  Downstairs, Sally’s mum’s boyfriend watched late night Christmas Eve telly. He laughed at some comedy on an obscure channel. It was the first time he had felt happy for a while, Sally’s mum made him feel wanted even if the little girl was a bit odd. Her mum had gone to bed an hour or so earlier.

  He didn’t hear as Sally stealthily sneaked through the darkened room. He did notice with wide terrified eyes as the girl leapt up on the sofa next to him.

  "Holy shit Sally,” he shouted and then looked at the glinting steel in her hands.

  "Mummy is mine, NOT yours.” He didn’t manage to get a reply out as his throat suddenly opened wide. Sally revelled in the red waterfall that fell from the hated man’s sliced windpipe as he choked his life away.

  An hour of work later Sally’s mum was woken from her slumber by small hands tugging at her.

  "Mummy, mummy. I have an extra special Christmas surprise for you.”

  “Sally, what do you mean?” she was groggy from lack of sleep.

  “Just follow me OK.” She did as she was told. Her daughter led her across their landing then down the stairs. The dining room was lit by the eerie glow of tea lights. This made Sally’s mum cross, her little girl had been using matches or a lighter. All this fled from her already fragile mind as she took in the terrible sight before her.

  Sat in five of the four chairs were some of the girl’s larger teddies. Their heads had been removed and stuffing popped of the holes. They were sat at the table which hosted the most macabre meal she had ever seen. The man who had treated her so nicely was now sat lifeless and headless at the far end of the table. His severed head had been positioned on a plate so that its dead eyes could stare at the horrific scene in front of it. Her mind couldn’t take anymore and finally snapped. Sally’s mother crumpled into a foetal position at her daughter's feet while Sally just smiled on at her handy work.

  Anti-Claus grinned once more as he could see the girl’s future mapped out. Sally would go into counselling but it would be totally ineffective. However, the doctors wouldn’t suspect a thing, the clever little girl would fool them all. Sally would be set free five years later and this small town would lay witness to its very first serial killer in its history.

  Happy with his work for this year Anti-Claus floated ever higher into the sky. With a quick click of his fingers he vanished into snowflakes just as a fresh batch started to fall from the winter night’s sky. It would be a white Christmas this year, bringing joy to many families bar two.

  Remember the Anti-Claus because, if you know child who is that terrible, it could be your town he visits next year!

  THE END

  © 2013 D.C Rogers

  Peter’s Wish

  By

  William O’Brien

  In a serene and clammy room

  A tree did sit in festive gloom

  With no snow, tinsel or elves

  Caramel biscuits high up on shelves

  One boy home, nurturing the cold

  Enters a man bearded and old

  Why are you sitting in the dark?

  Angels whisper, jumping quarks

  Room all alight, glitters and twinkles

  Candles, halos, icicles that jingle

  Did you look for the hidden present?

  No, he replied looking to heaven

  Hmmm… said Santa, scratching his beard

  Waved his hand, a dozen elves appeared

  Climbing they played with baubles of gold

  Snow started falling a secret told

  Under the tree, a box gave a truth

  Sending a message for future youth

  Gift of knowing, guardians would tell

  Wish was given, the coin in the well

  ***

  © 2013 William O’Brien

  A Dead Medium Spin-Off

  The Spirits Of Christmas

  By Peter John

  Barbara Smith dropped the four shopping bags onto the kitchen table and watched as the colour slowly returned to her fingers. Christmas was fast approaching and she had many more shopping trips to get through before she would have everything that she needed for that one solitary day of the year. It’s only one day, she thought. One day but it took half a year to prepare for it. There were lists to write, presents to buy, cards to post and sugary or fattening food to stock up with. It had always puzzled Barbara why people, and she included herself in this, spent the whole year checking how many calories are in this, and how much saturated whatever is in that, but come Christmas they’re all out there buying goose fat by the jar full. The obvious reason was that it was tradition but Barbara saw that as a rather poor excuse for watching your weight for twelve months only to put on two stone in two days. Every year she seriously considered serving up fresh salad and a low calorie pasta dish on the big day but every year she still ended up buying the same traditional fare, a turkey the size of a highland terrier, that just barely fitted into her oven, and a waist-high sack of potatoes. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without a fat golden bird and all the trimmings. It was the same every year but this year something was fundamentally different; this was the first Christmas that Barbara would be spending in the company of the dead.

  It must have been about three months ago now, Barbara mused, it’s gone rather quickly in fact. Three months had passed since she had inherited the gift of sight from a woman who, in the space of one week, she had grown to respect after spending two decades thinking of her as a miserable, old crone. May Elizabeth Trump was the last person she would have ever thought she would miss but each time sh
e thought of her she felt her eyes begin to well up. I had always ridiculed Margaret for being May’s one and only friend, Barbara thought. She had been right all along, Margaret saw May’s hidden capacity for compassion from day one, where all I saw was a grumpy old woman who would shout the odds at you should you ever step an inch out of line. That was all before she died of course. May’s death had been the making of her, Barbara had decided. May’s death had shown her all the things she had been searching for her whole life. It was only after May’s spirit had announced itself to them that she had realised just how wasted her life had been. All those dark creepy nights spent poking about in old houses or playing around with macabre picture cards, all in the belief that she had some kind of psychic power that would allow her to see past the grave. All those years of treating a drafty window as a cold spot or the sound of a scurrying mouse as the whispers of earth-bound souls. May was her first real spectral encounter and, after 68 years of envisioning the moment, it hadn’t been quite how she had imagined it. Not that it really mattered in the end. Something had rubbed off on her and, whether it was a gift from May or just her own psychic ability finally kicking into gear, Barbara had started to see ghosts on a regular basis not long after. In fact, nowadays she saw more of the dead than she did of the living, especially as they had the knack of appearing at the most inconvenient moments. Once the word had got out that Barbara could see them, all the local spirits had descended on her with one hundred and one different requests. A lot of it was about contacting their surviving relatives, or even ancestors, as some of the dead folk had been around quite a while, but there were a few who just seemed to like the company of the living. There were three such spirits huddled by Barbara’s kitchen sink as she walked over to her kettle.

  “What’s in the bags, Madam Smith?” Gerald asked as he pointed a bony finger towards the kitchen table. His voice was nasal and had a hollow, whistle-like quality that made him sound as if he were speaking through panpipes. Gerald had started to hang around Barbara about two months ago. He was 6 foot tall and about 2 foot wide, by Barbara’s reckoning, and he was dressed in a two-piece black suit that draped off him as if he were no more than a coat hanger. Barbara had the suspicion that he had lost a lot of weight just before he had died but he refused to confirm it. Gerald didn’t like talking about his death, Barbara had very quickly discovered. He had a habit of suddenly walking off through the nearest wall whenever Barbara had broached the subject, which she found to be a very effective conversation stopper. Yes it was pretty rude behaviour, even for a dead man, but Barbara often used it to her own advantage. Gerald always spoke in short blunt sentences and his tone was generally sober even with the whistle. He tended to question everything but he never seemed to actually listen to the answers people gave him. Barbara could very quickly lose her patience with him, which was usually when she would start asking him about his death knowing that it would compel him to leave.

  “What business is it of yours?” Barbara replied with a sharp tone, as she shook the kettle to check if it had enough water in it and then switched it on.

  “There’s no need to get defensive, Madam Smith,” Brian said through his semi-permanent smile, “he was just asking.” Brian had started to darken her door a couple of weeks before Gerald had appeared. The two ghosts were like chalk and cheese in both appearance and personality. Brian was no more than 5 foot tall and had a wide, circular stomach. His multi-coloured sweater with its thick vertical stripes made him look like an over-inflated beach ball with legs. Barbara quite liked his company, on most days he was usually rather chipper and he had an infectious smile.

  “He’s always asking something or other. That’s the whole problem, you know that!” Barbara heaped a spoonful of coffee granules into her favourite mug and then turned towards the fridge.

  “Have you got an issue with that?” Gerald said.

  “On most days, yes I have, Gerald.” Barbara pulled open the fridge door and took out a half full bottle of milk. She raised the bottle up to her nose and took a deep sniff before bringing it to her coffee mug.

  “What is in those bags then, Madam Smith?” The voice was as quiet as the squeak of a less than boisterous mouse. It had a timid, shaky quality, as if the issuer suffered from perpetual anxiety.

  “It’s just some Christmas shopping Martha, that’s all,” Barbara replied. She couldn’t see the nervous ghost. She’s probably hiding behind Brian, she thought.

  “Christmas! Christmas shopping you say,” Brian was still smiling but there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I didn’t think you were into that old rubbish, Madam Smith.”

  “Is it that time again? God help us!” Gerald announced, his whistle seemed to hit a slightly higher pitch than usual.

  “I don’t like Christmas,” Martha squeaked, “all that noise makes me nervous.”

  “Everything makes you nervous Martha,” Brian pointed out.

  “I know,” Martha sighed, “but at Christmas time I get even worse. It’s all the noise and hullabaloo that goes with it. The shrill cries of excited children, all that doorstep singing business and the bangers always give me an awful fright.”

  “Bangers, Martha? Don’t you mean Christmas crackers?” Barbara asked as she poured hot water into her coffee mug.

  “Do they go bang, Madam Smith?”

  “Yes, I guess they do.”

  “Then they’re bangers in my book and they’d make me jump clean out of my skin if I still had any.”

  “What’s the point of Christmas anyway?” Gerald whistled.

  “Beats me,” Brain shrugged. “I remember celebrating it back when I was alive and it all seemed like too much hard work for very little gain, even back then. All that messing about and wasted money just for one day. You get up too early in the morning, still half cut from the few celebration tipples you drank the night before, and then spend the day feeling like death warmed up. You open a few presents, which are usually nothing more than a few pairs of socks and a satsuma, and then you have to stick your arm up a turkey’s backside and drag out its innards.”

  “It can be hard work, I grant you that,” Barbara said, as she leant against the kitchen side and sipped her coffee.

  “I can handle hard work,” Brian said. “Christmas isn’t hard work, Madam Smith, it’s tiresome is what it is. In my experience, hard work usually leaves you in profit at the end of the day. A day’s pay for a day’s work and all that; I don’t see any profit in Christmas!”

  “What about spending time with your family, you must have enjoyed that?”

  “What, that bunch of freeloaders?” Gerald said.

  “Too right Gerry,” Brian agreed. “Like vultures around a carcass they were, if memory serves.”

  “I was always nervous around large groups of people,” Martha added.

  “What, even your family?” Barbara asked.

  “I think so, I don’t recall a time when I wasn’t nervous, to tell the truth.”

  “You’re better off not remembering if you ask me,” Brain said, managing to sound grumpy and regretful even though his smile refused to break. “Whenever I think back, all I can remember is hardship and disappointment.”

  “I can’t think of anything good about Christmas,” Gerald said and Barbara suddenly realised that is was the first time she had heard him say anything that wasn’t in the form of a question.

  “Can you?” Gerald suddenly added and then Barbara sighed.

  “I can’t believe that none of you have any happy memories of Christmas,” she said. “I have nothing but fond memories of this time of year. Yes it can be tough and yes sometimes we all don’t get on as well as we should but that all pales into insignificance when you look into the children’s eyes as they find out that Santa Claus has been and filled their stockings. Christmas is a wonderful time and, even though I dread all the preparation, every year it always seems worthwhile on the day. It fills my heart and it always gives me a positive start to the new year.”

  “
What absolute rubbish! Madam Smith, I had always thought of you as a woman of stability not a gooey eyed school girl.” Brian’s smile drooped for a fraction of a second but sprang straight back into its usual upward curl.

  “Don’t you remember when you were a child and excitedly waiting to hear the sound of sleigh bells?”

  “Nope,” Brian replied.

  “No, not really,” Martha squeaked.

  “Should I?” Gerald whistled. Barbara sighed again and then took a long, slow slurp of coffee. This wouldn’t do, she thought, as she put her empty mug onto the kitchen side. She looked over at the sink and saw the plug hanging by its little silvery chain.

  “I don’t know if this will actually work on a ghost but I would like to try,” she said as she picked up the black, plastic sink plug and unhooked the other end of the chain.

  “Try what?” Gerald asked.

  “I want to see if I can regress you through hypnosis and see if I can bring back those festive, childhood memories.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Madam Smith,” Brain said.

  “What if they’re bad memories?” Gerald said or asked, Barbara wasn’t certain which.

  “We will find that out, won’t we,” Barbara commanded more than said. She took a couple of steps into the middle of the kitchen and dangled the sink plug in front of the three ghosts.

  “I take it that you’ve done this before Madam Smith,” Brian said.

  “Of course I have!”

  “And it works does it?”

  “Most of the time yes, well quite often at any rate.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Gerald asked and Barbara was sure it was a proper question this time.

  “I doubt it.”

  “So you’re not actually sure,” Brian pointed out.

  “You’re dead already, what harm can it do to you now?”

  “She’s got a point,“ Martha piped up and Barbara could sense a little more confidence in her voice than she was used to.

  “Can you see the plug, Martha?” Barbara asked, she tried to peer around Brian’s large frame but still couldn’t catch a glimpse of the anxious spirit.