A Long Winter's Fright: 13 FREE YA Holiday Poems & Stories

by Rusty Fischer

  Zack is frantic, crying, wrapping like a mad man, bloody like a serial killer and I kneel to him and say, “It’s too late for that, Zack.”

  He ties them anyway as we yank Dad up and turn him around, until his back is against the wall and he’s staring at us with sweat – and blood – pouring down his broad forehead.

  Just then the living room picture window implodes and Echo steps calmly over the shards to step next to the fallen Christmas tree.

  He sizes the scene up in seconds; the blood, the safe room door, Dad’s gnarled legs, Zack’s bloody hands, Mom’s useless tears.

  “April,” he says somberly, tenderly, but I can’t run to him now.

  Dad is mumbling so I lean in, his breath already foul, his eyes turning yellow, the Dad I knew becoming the monster I’ll see in my nightmares 20 years from now.

  “What, Dad?” I ask, leaning in more closely. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

  More loudly this time, he rasps two words: “Kill. Me.”

  I stand, and back away; all my training failing me now as Mom clatters into a dining room chair, guzzling the rest of her wine in two large swallows as she looks away from the man she no longer knows.

  Zack hides behind her, clutching to her like he did as a little tyke on the first day of kindergarten.

  “Take them,” Echo orders me, reaching for the spare shotgun in the open closet. “Upstairs, out back, wherever, April; take them somewhere so they can’t hear.”

  There is a low growling on the floor behind him, and when I look up Dad is sniffing Echo’s leg like a bear at a fresh campsite.

  “Hurry,” he says as I gather Mom and Zack tightly to me, shuffling them past the room where Jimbo lies congealing and around the corner toward the den, where I crank up the Christmas music on Dad’s old school stereo as loud as it can go.

  As Bing Crosby croons, as the snow falls, as Mom covers her ears and Zack stares out the window at a dozen dragging zombies, I hold my ear to the door.

  I’ll never know what Dad said to Echo, if anything; or what Echo said to Dad.

  I only know that I don’t flinch when I hear the shotgun blast, and that Echo has cleaned the blood off – all of it – when he finally comes to get us long hours after the latest infestation has come and gone.

  With the sirens racing down the street, and lights flashing in their wake, we spend the rest of Christmas the only way we can these days; hunkered down, stomachs rumbling, with the ones we love.

  Or, at least, the ones we trust…

  * * * * *

  Pin the Nose on the Werewolf:

  A Christmas Short Story by Rusty Fischer

  Do you know how hated it is to have a birthday… on Christmas?

  No offense to the Big Guy Upstairs, but… it pretty much blows.

  I mean, how do you compete with THE biggest birthday in the known universe, am I right?

  Still, my family’s pretty cool about it and always tries to make sure that in addition to the usual Christmas presents, I also get at least one present that’s wrapped in birthday wrapping.

  So that’s why I’m playing “Pin the Nose on the Reindeer” when I hear the first growl.

  Yes, I know it’s un cool.

  Yes, I know it’s for little kids.

  Yes, I know nobody ever wins.

  We’re being ironic, get it?

  Plus, it’s my 17th birthday this Christmas and if I want to get blindfolded and spun around and play some stupid kids’ game with my entire family and half my friends cheering me on, then it’s my party and I’ll be lame if I want to.

  Nobody’s cheering now, though.

  The growl is low and ominous and, what’s worse, none of us have dogs.

  Not even Aunt Bertha, who has every type of animal known to man – except dogs.

  It’s the kind of growl you don’t just hear; you feel it, deep down in the marrow of your bones.

  It starts as a low rumble, and I’m thinking maybe my sister’s boyfriend is playing with me, but his voice isn’t that deep and, frankly, he’s just not that imaginative.

  The growl gets louder, never piercing; just a kind of general “Is that what I think it is?” sound.

  People stop watching my silly Christmas-slash-birthday game to get a better listen.

  I stop, the party laughter stops, the back chatter behind me, around me, even the CD – Christmas Party Hits of the 80s, don’t ask – stops.

  I stand there, blindfolded with an extra-long Christmas stocking, red rubber reindeer nose in my hand, waist at mid-pivot, cake frosting still fresh on my tongue, and wait with the rest of my family and friends for what’s to come next.

  One second, two seconds, three, and time is slowing down now and then—

  The first growl was kind of behind me, but the next one is in front of me – and close.

  Suddenly there are growls everywhere – all around, moving quickly – and I still have that stupid rubber nose in my hand!

  I hear screaming, and running and smashing and glass ornaments breaking and party streamers tearing and it’s all heightened because I can’t see a damn thing!

  I reach to take my blindfold off and something knocks me down; something hot, and hairy, and big, and long.

  It brushes against my shoulder like a cruise liner sliding by and seems to take forever.

  Then something snags on my favorite black and white mini-hoodie – something sharp and stiff – and yanks me down to the ground.

  I land with a thud, on my side, in a heap, the red reindeer nose bouncing out of my hand and feel open air on a fresh wound.

  I reach for my elbow and feel a gash and slick, wet hotness and smell the coppery smell of blood and still the screams echo off the back porch and the above ground pool and the sliding glass doors.

  There are more growls now, growls so loud and hot and wet they must be right over me, then beside me, then behind me, then in front of me, then… racing away.

  There is a distinct smell, too; like wet dog fur.

  And the growls, so many growls; hungry, tearing, ripping, angry, violent growls.

  There are fewer screams.

  I hear one, the high-pitched wail of my mother shouting, “Mercy, get up honey; get up and RUN!”

  Or, at least, I think she says “RUN” because her last word is cut off mid-stream; not by a growl but what sounds like a – slash.

  Then the screaming – and the words – stop altogether.

  I sit up and listen for more screaming, hearing only the sound of gallons of water draining over the top of the above-ground pool.

  It hits me in the back, a small wave, and gushes over my legs and I hear giant tongues lapping, like a dozen dogs at the world’s biggest water bowl.

  I groan and sit up, my head throbbing from where it hit the ground; hard.

  The lapping stops, instantly.

  I hear muddy footsteps, four of them, eight of them, twelve… sixteen?

  Too many to count, let alone identify how many.

  They go in groups, moving together; and all toward me.

  The world goes silent except for this very specific sound: heavy breathing.

  Hot, heavy breathing right up against my face, like I’m sitting in front of the world’s grossest, meatiest air vent.

  It smells putrid and raw, like eight days of old steak stuck in front of a fan; but hot, like the steak’s still raw and putrid but sitting on a heater.

  And it’s not wafting, either; it’s blowing right.

  In.

  My.

  Face.

  In front of me, beside me, in my ear, behind me, blowing against my dark black tresses, dragging them across my shoulder, ruffling the cheesy red stocking my older sister Sarah bound tightly against my eyes just so there’d be no chance I’d ever win; she’s very competitive, Sarah.

  And the panting; the panting is so loud, it’s almost – almost – worse than the growling.

  I go to raise my blindfold and something growls.

/>   I drop my hand and it’s no more growling; back to panting.

  My face is moist with it, my hair covered in it.

  I raise my hand again and the growling starts; one growl, two growls, three or more joining in.

  I let my hand drop and don’t dare raise it again.

  The panting slows, the hot air softens and then; silence.

  I flinch as hot breath returns, closer this time, and the glistening sound of drool dripping onto the wet, muddy ground pauses and the slick, sickening sound of an opening mouth reaches out.

  I jerk backward as a hot, wet tongue slides up and down my face; it’s not human.

  It’s two, three times the size of a human tongue; sharp and wet like being smacked in the face with a wet salmon, scales included.

  I gag, and retch as the tongue recedes and the panting turns to… laughter?

  Not quite human laughter, but not quite animal growling, either.

  Like humans pretending to fake growl; or animals that aren’t all animal.

  Suddenly a howl sounds off in the distance and the growling returns; lower than before, deeper, hotter, more urgent and stark.

  I am brushed aside by furry loins and giant shoulders and claws trampling over my ankles as the circle of… whatever… that’s been surrounding me rushes to join the howling sounds behind me.

  I sit in the mud, bloody and wet, drool rolling down off my one cheek, until I’m sure nobody – or nothing – is still around.

  Then I reach up and yank down my blindfold.

  Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t.

  The backyard is a battlefield, blood red mud trampled with bodies, body parts, icing from my half-eaten birthday cake and dozens – I mean dozens – of paw prints.

  I put my hand in one, if only to avoid the carnage that surrounds me; I barely fill one fourth of it.

  I stand on wobbly legs, holding my bleeding elbow next to my chest as I race inside.

  The back door is in tatters, blood splattering the living room walls, the Christmas tree and all that remains of Aunt Bertha is a swath of her ever present pink and periwinkle blue housecoat.

  Mom’s sneakers are bloodstained and she’s not breathing; Dad is in another room, his pale, cold hands full of torn presents he must have been sneaking out of the attic.

  My sister is in the backyard, her face a mask of pain; what remains of her face, anyway.

  I toss the one piece of birthday cake I had into the bushes, follow it up with the roof of the gingerbread house I snuck when no one was looking.

  I wipe my trembling, sugar-coated lips with the back of my ragged sleeve as I slog through the bloody, muddy backyard.

  I return to where I’d fallen and just sit there; trying to see what I’d missed while I was blindfolded.

  All around the space are paw prints, dozens of them, large as Bigfoot’s, and all circled around me.

  How long had they sat like that?

  And what for?

  And why was I the only one left standing?

  Did they know it was my birthday today?

  Was this their idea of a Christmas present?

  The howling keens in the distance, the brush full of retreating bodies and bark breaking as giant, massive haunches scrape by.

  I stand, take one look at my family, and follow.

  By rights, I should have been dead too.

  And if the lore is right, the mythology, all those late-night monster movies I watched on TV long after everyone else in the house fell asleep, this bite on my arm means I’m a goner already.

  Might as well find out who killed me, right?

  I take a step, then another, crouching low to the ground and following the muddy, wet footprints as they disappear into the forest behind our house.

  It’s my party, and I’ll have revenge if I want to…

  * * * * *

  A Very Vampire Holiday:

  A Vampire Christmas Story

  “Let me get this straight,” I ask the fat man, standing – quite literally – with his fuzzy red cap in hand. “You want us to help you deliver your presents tonight?”

  “Yes, Sheila, that’s right.”

  His voice is louder than I thought it would be; firmer, too.

  I’ve read too many kids’ books, I suppose.

  Once upon a time, that is.

  “What of your miraculous elves you’re always bragging about?” I ask, sitting up in my ice throne just the same.

  “Well, you see…” He pauses to chuckle and, I must admit, even though my heart hasn’t beaten for over two centuries, it’s hard not to like the dude.

  I mean, this is Santa Claus we’re talking about here, right?

  “That’s the thing, you see, Madam Sasha. Mrs. Claus whipped up a batch of her favorite molasses and macadamia macaroni, you know, so the elves could carbo load for the big day. Well, apparently, the pasta had gone bad and now, you see, I have 6,000 elves all down with food poisoning.”

  I chuckle, staring out the ice wall at Santa’s back to see the rest of my coven lingering closely as they eavesdrop through the sheer, crystalline walls of my inner sanctum.

  You can take the heart out of the vampire but you can’t take out the gossip, let me tell you.

  “I don’t see how we can help, you see; we’re such a small, humble coven.”

  “Over 60 strong,” Santa boasts. “And, you’re vampires, aren’t you? That means you have the strength of 10 men each!”

  “Aha! So you do know we exist.”

  “Why, of course dear,” he sighs, fat hands anxiously wringing the life out of his cap. “I’m Santa Claus, you see.”

  I nod, licking my lips. “If you say so. I mean, we were starting to wonder seeing as you haven’t dropped off a present in over 78 years!”

  Santa blushes, three shades of crimson.

  Now it’s impossible to tell where his neck starts and his red satin overcoat begins.

  “Well, now, we talked about that Sasha, you see. I can’t have you draining my reindeer dry every time I stop by to drop off a few gifts for you and your… undead friends.”

  “Hey, better we drain reindeer blood than elves’ blood!”

  “Better neither, my dear,” Santa corrects and, looking closely, his nose really is red.

  I shrug and admire one of my three-inch long, razor sharp claws. “Besides, I thought we were doing you a favor. Vampire reindeer could fly you around the word faster, stronger and sooner than those regular old reindeer.”

  “Yes, Sasha, but… regular reindeer don’t try to eat the children at every stop, you see?”

  I sigh. “Details, details…”

  “I put you on the naughty list then, you see, and I haven’t seen fit to take you off yet.”

  “And yet, here you are. On Christmas Eve, of all nights. So, which is it? Are we too naughty for gifts, but just naughty enough to help you deliver gifts? Is that it, St. Nick?”

  Santa shakes his head irritably. “But you’re vampires, dear. Whatever would I give you anyway?”

  At last I stand from my chilly throne and slink down the three shaved ice steps to the cavern floor, my thick-heeled boots providing both dramatic effect as well as much-needed traction.

  It wouldn’t do to slip and fall at my finest moment, now, would it?

  “Millions of things, as I see it Santa. Files for our fangs, crystal tumblers for our blood, a new cape… heck, a new coffin! You of all people know how far it is to the nearest town, and yet every year, you fly right on by without so much as a lump of coal, to say nothing of a clot of blood. How do you think that makes us feel?”

  “Feel?” he asks, combing fat fingers through even fatter whiskers. “I, well dear… I never stopped to consider your feelings, I suppose.”

  “That’s right,” I “aha” him, waving a long, dangerous finger in his face as I circle him, raggedy cape still managing to “hiss” dramatically along the pure ice floor beneath our feet.

  “Every year we wait, and we wait, all Christmas lo
ng. And you fly right on by, and you fly back, and never even a nod as you sail across the sky over our heads. And there we sit, black stockings hanging from our ice chimney, red lights blinking on our dead fir tree, hoping just once that you’ll finally forgive us for that one little transgression lo these many years ago…”

  “Little?” he gasps, stepping back in his own fancy black boots to issue one of his famous lectures. “Why, Donder and Blitzen were two of my best reindeer. Do you know how long it took me to find worthy replacements?”

  “Okay, so we screwed up Santa, but… look how good we’ve been ever since. No more feasting on Arctic scientists, no more terrorizing documentary film crews, no more depleting the local polar bear population, now we ship our blood in, along with our capes and fang files and everything else you won’t bring us each December.”