Twelve Days of Christmas Horror Read online

  Twelve Days of Christmas Horror

  Rick Wood

  Rick Wood Publishing

  Contents

  Track Santa Part One

  The Nativity of the Living Dead

  Elf on a Shelf

  The F**ked Up Fairy

  Secret Santa for the Sadistic

  Track Santa Part Two

  The Mince Pie

  A Letter from The Christmas Cannibal

  A Christmas Carol: The Aftermath

  'Twas the Night Before Murder

  The Christmas Card Trap

  Track Santa Part Three

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  Track Santa Part One

  Tradition, it seems, is something people do not mess with—especially when it comes to Christmas.

  Take the Christmas tree, for example. Heaven knows why, but every December, I have to climb into an attic I barely use, fumble through the cobwebs that have gathered in every direction and pull that ageing box down once again.

  Then we open the box and peer down at those decorations that have been there since the eighties. Then we hang these same tired decorations so they can sit there, in the way of everything, taking up the little space that is left, for the sake of a few festive weeks—only for me to have to take them down again weeks later and brave that damn attic once again.

  Turkey. A dry, detestable meat. A cuisine that has nothing on chicken or beef or pork… even gravy does not liven it up… yet, it’s Christmas, and tradition dictates that is what we eat so that is what we eat.

  Secret Santa at work. The worst of the worst traditions, yet it seems to operate in every office in the country.

  But it’s okay because there’s a price limit, so it will not be too expensive! The same traditional excuse.

  But, let’s be honest, no one wants a present that costs below ten pounds. It is a waste of money to buy someone perfume, of which they could have probably chosen better themselves. Anything that we would like that costs below ten pounds, we would buy ourselves.

  Because, let’s face it, it’s below ten pounds. Why wouldn’t we just get it?

  And, as the present in anonymous, I have to pretend that I don’t notice Marjory from accounting beaming at me as I open it, and I have to pretend not to be irritated by a pair of lovingly yet poorly knitted socks that even the charity shop will not want.

  But we do it.

  Because it is tradition.

  And people get immensely irate if you mess with tradition.

  There is, however, one tradition that I never mess with, and would never want to remove.

  It is the one tradition that makes the season worth it.

  The tradition that makes me excited for the three-hundred and sixty-four days leading up to it.

  It is a tradition that takes place on Christmas Eve, between me and my son.

  You see, me and his mother don’t speak anymore. We divorced almost five years ago now, because of a long and discreet affair on her part. The sad thing is, even though she was the one who spent fourteen months having sex with her co-worker, I was still the one who begged her not to leave.

  How pathetic does that make me?

  She fucks him for over a year, and I am the one who grovels.

  So now, much against the vision of a life I had imagined for my forties, I am the stereotype of a part-time dad. Seeing a kid at the weekend, having to force a difficult relationship, knowing he is far closer to the stepfather he lives with.

  And it kills me, it really does.

  And, for this reason, I would truly, truly have nothing—unless it was for Henry.

  And every Christmas has been the same for these past five years.

  Every Christmas eve to Christmas morning he has his time with me, before he’s collected by his stepfather to have a large, festive Christmas feast with my ex’s family; to celebrate and laugh and be merry while I sit in front of a tired Christmas film, drinking too much Cinzano and having a wank wearing a Christmas hat, as if to find some joy to the holiday season.

  I do everything I can to make this time the best time he’s ever had.

  I fail, but I do everything anyway.

  And the one thing; the one damn thing he asks for every year, without fail, is this tradition I treasure so dearly.

  And this tradition involves a website that has become very popular and has even been developed into an app.

  It is called Track Santa.

  And, every year, without fail, we sit there in our Christmas onesies, with our mince pies and our hands cupped around our hot chocolate, warmed by the small, unassuming fire, and watch this website to see where Santa is.

  Santa typically starts in the South Pacific and moves west—as says the website. And now, as we sit there, watching, the website reads:

  Santa is in New Zealand.

  Henry gets so excited, waving his arms around and looking up at me with that adorable grin he has.

  Gosh, I miss that grin. So cheeky, yet so innocent.

  It was the same grin his mother used to have.

  I feel the need to cry, but I promise myself I won’t.

  Not yet.

  Oh, how that would ruin his Christmas, if his father was to burst into tears in the middle of their favourite Christmas activity.

  No, the tears can wait until Henry is in bed.

  Then the real festivities can begin. The excessive consumption of sherry, with a break to put Henry’s presents under the tree before I return to the armchair for a jolly cry.

  The tracker changes once more.

  Santa is in Australia.

  Henry waves his arms again.

  Why was it I did not receive complete joint custody again? Why was it I was only given weekends? What had her lawyer said?

  My house is too small.

  My life is too empty.

  My patience is too short.

  In truth, none of the cited reasons are true. The real reason I wasn’t given complete joint custody was because I lacked the gumption or confidence to fight for it.

  I’ve never been much of a fighter.

  The closest I ever came to a fight was when an overweight bully at school said he would punch me. I negotiated with him, and he agreed that my lunch, my maths homework, and ten pounds would be sufficient payment to avoid assault.

  I look at my son, and I hope he grows up with more confidence than I was afforded.

  “Now, you know when he gets to Japan, that’s when it’s time for bed.”

  “But, Dad, there’s still so many more countries to go before he gets to us!”

  Even being called dad is no longer special. It was once; until he called his stepfather dad too.

  There can’t be two of us.

  And I wonder how long it is until I’m phased out altogether.

  We have another mince pie and another hot chocolate, and then the screen changes once more.

  Santa is in Japan.

  “Right,” I declare. “Time for bed.”

  I take him upstairs, sit with him as he brushes his teeth (I wasn’t aware he could brush his teeth on his own now, but he seems to do a good job), and take him to his barely used bedroom. I sit beside him and engage in another tradition—the reading of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.

  He’s asleep by the time I name the last reindeer.

  I still finish it, not wanting to be away from him.

  When I’m done, and he’s gently snoring, I kiss him on the forehead and whisper, “Good night, Old Chap.”

  I always used to call him Old Chap. It was a little joke when he was a baby, and he used t
o pull a face like a grumpy old man.

  It always made his mother laugh.

  I doubt he even remembers.

  I turn off the light and leave a gap in the door.

  I walk downstairs and don’t wait another second before opening the cupboard and taking out a bottle of sherry. I empty its contents into my glass and place it in the recycling next to two other empty bottles.

  I put it to my mouth and don’t bother taking in the aroma as you should do with good sherry. I just gulp the whole glass down in one, then open another bottle and refill my glass.

  I lean against the side, sipping the sherry now, albeit slightly more quickly than the average person might.

  The laptop is still open.

  Santa is in the United Kingdom.

  Wow, that was fast. I thought he was all the way over in Japan. And it’s just gone ten o’clock, it’s still a bit too early in the night for him to arrive here quite yet.

  Then again, why am I caring so much? It’s hardly real, is it?

  Henry’s gone to bed.

  Tradition’s over.

  Now it’s another year until we get to spend a special moment together.

  That’s even if he wants to come back next year. Eventually he will learn the truth about Santa and will lose interest in this website.

  Then what?

  I’ll hardly still be reading him 'Twas the Night Before Christmas when he’s a teenager, will I?

  Maybe that’s when he’ll decide himself to cut me out of his life for good. To remove all toxic influences. To reject all losers.

  I turn back to the sherry bottle, replenish my glass, turn around and drink more.

  Only at Christmas does one get drunk on sherry. Normally it’s whiskey or beer. Yet, at Christmas, tradition dictates that one doesn’t just get drunk, but gets posh drunk.

  I snort a laugh at the thought.

  At least I amuse myself.

  I notice the screen on the laptop has changed again.

  Santa is in your street.

  “Huh,” I grunt.

  That’s new. I don’t remember ever seeing that before.

  I mean, maybe it knows I’m in the United Kingdom because of my IP address or something. That way it tells you when he’s closer.

  But I’ve only ever known it to do countries.

  Strange.

  I think nothing more of it.

  I open the cupboards. I have an unopened pack of mince pies. I reckon I could get through them all in ten minutes.

  “Challenge accepted,” I say to myself, once again prompting my own amusement.

  I take the mince pies and begin my walk to the living room, ready to watch It’s A Wonderful Life and know how, unlike Jimmy Stewart, no angel would ever show up to suggest I don’t kill myself—but something attracts my attention.

  I stop by the laptop, sure that I had seen something incorrectly, that it was just a trick of the mind.

  But no, it isn’t.

  I read the screen again.

  Santa is in your house.

  Now that is creepy. I’m not sure the website should go that far. Good job Henry isn’t here, it would completely freak him out. It was bad enough saying he was in my street; I mean–

  A noise from the chimney attracts my attention.

  The fire goes out.

  Dust puffs down the fireplace.

  And I can hear something jingling.

  “What the fuck…”

  (Santa Tracker Part Two continues later…)

  The Nativity of the Living Dead

  1

  The walk had been long and arduous, but there was nothing Joseph could have done to change that.

  They had a mission. Something they needed to achieve. And it rested on his shoulders.

  Mary was barely even conscious. She just lay upon the camel, somehow balancing—though Joseph wasn’t sure exactly how comfortable she could be with her pregnant belly propping her up.

  Even the camel was lagging. The poor thing persevered, loyal to the end, but Joseph could see a limp in its step and a delay in its stride.

  Joseph didn’t hurry it, as he felt that delay in his stride too. The fatigue had truly set in.

  But he could not let that show.

  He had to be strong.

  For her.

  For his child.

  For God’s child.

  Or so he had been told, and possibly had been foolish enough to believe.

  He just had to push any bad thoughts to the back of his mind, to sit and fester with every other insecurity he had harnessed over the year. Any depletion in faith could be dealt with later. His love for Mary ran deeper than words, or even blood, and his priority was to keep her safe.

  That was why he did not let on how exhausted he was.

  He couldn’t let her know that he was struggling. He had to be her strength, and that could not falter.

  Whatever happened, that could not falter.

  Not that she was in any fit state to notice.

  But, if he told his mind that he was not tired, perhaps his mind would convince his body.

  With the strength of the almighty behind him, he could do it.

  And, as the inn came into view, he had to stop his aching heart from racing. He hadn’t the energy to jump for joy, but even if he had, he would not allow himself—his night was only just beginning. Getting here was the first step.

  Any hope dwindled as Joseph heard the news; the foretelling of a man with very few teeth and a face that didn’t care.

  “There is no room at the inn,” the innkeeper said, his voice deep and lecherous, like the men who had ogled at his Mary when they first fell in love.

  The men Mary did not care to speak to.

  She saw him, and only him.

  And he saw only her.

  And that love was the only thing giving Joseph the strength to argue. Even opening his mouth and pushing out his voice took energy he had none of.

  “Please,” said Joseph, surprised by the shake in his voice; he knew he was tired, but to hear it in his voice was something else.

  Nevertheless, he persisted.

  “Please, there has to be something. We have travelled for weeks, we have come here under the Lord’s guidance, and I…”

  He ran out of words.

  There was no complete ending to that sentence.

  His head dropped. His eyes closed.

  If he would ever have allowed himself to give up, it would have been in that moment.

  The man must have taken pity on him. Joseph did not know; his mind was too busy to hear the words the innkeeper spoke, and he had to use the wall to steady himself. His eyes were lulling, and his hearing was fading.

  Joseph felt a hand on his back.

  Unnoticed, the innkeeper had walked out and began to guide them. Soon enough, they approached a stable.

  A manger.

  It was half taken up by horses and sheep. The floor was coated in straw; the smell was abhorrent, and the livestock looked displeased to be sharing their accommodation.

  But it had a roof that sheltered them from the rain that had just gently begun to spit.

  “Thank you,” said Joseph, grimacing at the desperation in his own voice. “Thank you so much.”

  “It isn’t much, but… it’ll do.”

  “It… It will do…”

  The innkeeper disappeared. Joseph wasn’t sure how; he did not see him go. One moment he was there, the next moment he was alone.

  Joseph looked around. He noticed a troth. He quickly emptied it, bringing it over—maybe he could use it as a crib.

  He stroked his sweaty palm down Mary’s pale face.

  She grunted. Groaned. Her eyes flickering but not opening.

  He didn’t expect them to.

  With strength he did not have, he took hold of her waist and pulled her ever so slightly, supporting her weight. He took her in his arms, grunting, and guided her from the camel to the floor.

  There, he lay her.

&n
bsp; Bags sat prominently beneath her eyes.

  Her face was white, but her cheeks were red.

  Her belly was big and hard.

  Yet she had never looked more beautiful.

  He ran the back of his hand down her face. Stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. And, not caring if it woke her, dropped his head and placed his forehead against hers.

  “We’re here, Mary,” he said. “We’re here.”

  She said nothing. Not anything intelligible, at least. But she groaned. A long, pained groan.

  A few cries followed.

  “Joseph…” she moaned, a hand rising, her eyes still closed.

  He took that raised hand in both of his, kissed it, and held it firmly.

  “It’s okay, Mary. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  “Joseph… It hurts…”

  “I know. It will be okay.”

  She cried more and, as she moaned just that bit harder, he noticed a damp patch beneath the base of her dress.

  That was not urine.

  He looked around. As if someone was going to appear with a magic answer. As if Angel Gabriel was just going to jump out and tell them what to do.

  But no one did.

  They were alone, and the damp patch was spreading.

  “Oh, Mary,” he said, and held her hand tighter.

  Her water had just broken.

  The baby was coming.

  2

  The innkeeper trudged back around the field that led from the stable to the inns.

  “Bleedin’ kids,” he muttered.

  They always had some kind of excuse.

  We have to sacrifice a virgin! We have to pray for the sun to come back! My wife is pregnant with the son of God!