The December Awethology - Dark Volume

by The Awethors

  A jingle and jangle echoed from the tree downstairs just around the corner from the last step of the stairs. He pressed his back to the wall, cautiously creeping to investigate the noises, but there was something sinister in the air. It was not jolly and filled with joy. Tonight the cold air was like a ghost warning him to run back upstairs and hide under his bed.

  The wicked giggle broke the silence. An eruption of sparks and whistles cascaded around the corner. Adam continued to the final stair and when he peeked around the corner Santa was not there. It was an estranged elf sitting at the stoop of the fireplace. A cigar balanced between his fiery red lips and his round doll eyes twinkled with a blaze of hate. The boy stepped into the doorway and watched the elf blow a puff of smoke from his mouth. The bell jingled from the end of his hat as he rubbed the stubble across his jaw.

  “Where is Santa?” Adam asked with a shiver. “And why are you not in his workshop?”

  “Kid, it’s all a lie. There is no Santa Claus that funnels down the chimney or reindeer that fly. Your mother and father lied. It is all a hoax to distract you from reality.” The elf coughed and got to his feet. His green shoes curled back like the ends of candy canes.

  “Who are you? Why are you saying those things?” He stepped back to the doorway. His eyes rolled over to the staircase, where the shadows toiled from the tree branches outside.

  “I’m the helper that haunts your dreams on Christmas Eve. The Christmas spirit you never hear about in the dark abyss.” The elf walked towards Adam and flicked the cigar into the tree. The embers caught the rug on fire and the branches engulfed in flames instantly.

  Adam watched as the joy turned to horror. He tripped on the first step and crawled to the top landing. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw saliva dripping from the elf’s sharp teeth, the elf’s eyes thirsting for Adam’s blood. He ran down the hallway, but the door extended further from him. His tiny little fingers wiggled in the air, but he could not reach the door handle. A tug on his ankle made him roll across the floor. When he flipped over onto his back, he saw the elf overpowering him and glaring down at him like an insane elf from hell. Adam crossed his arms over his eyes.

  “Mom, Dad, help me!” His cries rattled the walls of the hall and a light consumed the darkness. “Help!” he screamed as the elf’s sharp nails dug into his neck.

  The bitter cold no longer gave him chills. Heat underneath his back and around his face made him cry harder. Flames surrounded him and smoke billowed overhead.

  THUMP!

  The noise pounded in his head as a hand grabbed him from the hallway. His body was whipped into the air and he was hung over someone’s shoulder like a sack. His eyes burned from the heat and he dared not try to speak. A final jolt through the front door brought the cold Christmas air rippling down his back. He looked up into the sky at the white specks of snow, the moon hanging high, and the trees rustling in the wind. When he saw the fire truck and the police cruisers in the cul-de-sac, he realized the fire had consumed the house.

  “You’re going to be okay, kid!” the firefighter yelled, plopping Adam onto the back of an ambulance. The man turned to the police. “I’m going back in to find any other survivors.”

  Adam watched the windows explode, shards of glass glistening in the air. Pieces of the curtain fabric blew through the broken windows. It was a ruined Christmas for Adam, but was the elf only a dream? He looked up towards his parents’ bedroom. There was the menace, blood dripping from his lips. The glint from his mother’s wedding ring twinkled from the severed hand. It was not a dream, the fire was a distraction and Christmas was the fuel that awakened the beast.

  A blinding light flashed over Adam’s shoulder. He saw his father running towards him with another woman – the neighbor a few houses down. Adam closed his eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks, but all the chaos disappeared in a matter of a blink. A chill brushed his sleeve, and when he opened his eyes, he heard the sound again.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  The room was black and the chill from the open window tickled his feet. He was excited because Santa was finally here. Adam flipped his feet over the side of the bed and ran to the door. He raced down the hall to the stairs where an orange glow lit the foyer below. When he turned the corner, the elf was waiting with a blood-stained grin. The elf dragged his feet towards the boy and flicked the cigar at the tree. Flames engulfed it instantly.

  “You thought you could run. How did that work for you? You even hid like a mouse in a hole. You will always remember this night especially because you caused your mother’s death.” The elf gestured its head towards the floor.

  Adam looked down and there was the culprit: a pack of matches between his feet. He turned around to discover the fire consumed the walkway behind him. The elf’s lips curled back into his mouth as he reached out to grab Adam.

  “They all think they can escape their nightmares, but your fate was already decided when you died with the flames…”

  Christmas with no Atmosphere

  Simon Coates

  Steve opened his eyes and awoke. He was facing his digital clock, which showed 6:55am, and with it, the realisation that he had woken before the alarm would wake him. This was unusual; most mornings, he would have to be woken by the relentless automatic timekeeper, to begin another day, at 7am precisely. By now, the routine was fairly well established. Steve, along with the four other crew members had trained for this for years previously.

  They were now simply putting that preparation into practice. Now, after succeeding in the most audacious and ambitious endeavour in the history of the human race, they were heading home.

  Steve was one of the five humans that had set foot on Planet Mars some two months previous on 5th October 2037, becoming the first humans to walk on another planet other than Earth. Now they were on the return journey back home.

  The moment had not yet sunk in, not for any of the crew. For Steve, it was almost disappointing, an anticlimax. He wasn't around when Neil Armstrong had landed on the Moon nearly eighty years ago, and ever since Steve had been placed on the mission to Mars, he had imagined what it would actually be like to be part of something truly pioneering, what it would feel like. The sense of achievement. The sheer thought that he was going to be part of something so amazing, that he would be written in the history books as being one of the five humans that had made up the crew of the first manned mission to Mars. Perhaps that euphoria would come later, when he and the rest of the crew would meet dignitaries and face the media, telling the stories of what it was actually like. Here, right now, he was on that mission, travelling home.

  Wearily, Steve made his way to his shower area, had a brief wash, and got ready for his shift, piloting the spaceship home. By now, he moved easily in the zero gravity environment, something he had gotten used to after being in it for over a year. His uniform was fresh from the washer and always smelt nice for the first couple of days, before it would be cleaned as part of the normal routine of life on board the ship. It had become so normal, so routine, he did things almost without thinking. Leaving his quarters, he headed towards the ship's bridge.

  "Hi Andrea", he said, noticing the figure of Dr Kowlowski, the main pilot. She nodded in a sign of acknowledgement, and returned her gaze back to the computer screen, another routine that was well established. The day-to-day monotony of life aboard their spaceship, which had been home since they took off from Earth, some 14 months ago.

  One thing was different, however, and that was the empty chair next to the doctor. This should have been occupied by the co-pilot, a Japanese man called Kung Fi Koom. This sight caused a bit of consternation for Steve; such a thing was odd, in the normally 100% certainly of the schedule of their mission.

  Turning to Andrea, Steve asked "Where's Kung?"

  Andrea smiled, and turned to face another crew member who had just entered the cockpit area. This was the Russian Sergy Abramov, the man who was the first to step onto the surface of Mars.

  Dressed in re
d, with an obviously fake long white beard, he came into the room that made up the ship's bridge, smiling. For a moment, Steve looked bemused at this strange turn of events. Then, suddenly, his expression of surprise and puzzlement changed into a smile. He nodded, gave a smirk and acknowledged the rest of the crew.

  It was 25th December, 2037.

  "Sorry guys, I had totally forgotten about the date. Well, Merry Christmas everyone. Sorry I haven't been shopping, but there weren't any decent places on the planet we’ve just been on."

  This was met with smirks of laughter in the room. By now, the crew had established a good friendship with each other; there was no other way, confined to a cramped spaceship for such an extended period of time.

  By now, Kung, and Nasser, an Iranian computer technician, had joined the rest of the crew on the ship's bridge. The mood had lightened significantly; for months, these people had been on board the spaceship to take them to Mars, and it had been two months since they had actually been on the Red Planet. It had been a routine of professionalism, of supremely gifted humans embarking on a voyage to Mars, the first one of its kind. Now, today, the sense of formality had lifted, today was going to be a day of celebration. Sergy had by now opened a bottle of champagne, which had been allowed on board, but had been forgotten about when they had landed on Mars; it should have been opened then. Christmas seemed a very agreeable alternative excuse to consume this beverage.

  The crew chatted amongst themselves. It seemed that the normal formal arrangements of strict duties was on hold; for the five people on board, it was a very welcome distraction. On any normal day, Sergy would be taking his scheduled sleeping time, and the other crew members would be doing routine duties on board the ship. However, this was 25th December, Christmas Day.

  Inevitably, the conversation turned towards a more profound subject, as was usual for scientists. If humans were to live on Mars, would they celebrate Christmas? Of course they would! And to that, the five crew members raised their glasses, and shared a toast to the people on Earth, wishing them a very happy and Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year— for a good and prosperous future, whatever that might bring.

  The Cake and the Kumiho

  Isaac Jourden

  The final bell rings. My classroom of middle school students shuffles into the hallway in their dusty grey school uniforms, not comprehending that today is a special day. To them it’s just another Friday. To me, it’s the most special day of the year; Christmas Eve.

  I’m still shell shocked I had to work today. In Seoul, Christmas isn’t special. It’s a gimmicky couple’s holiday designed to sell chocolate and movie tickets. Soon, my family back home will be gathering around a warm fire, opening presents, enjoying the solace. The people here scarcely notice.

  Mrs. Han comes into the room. Of all my coworkers, she’s the one I want to see least. She dislikes me intensely and doesn’t try to hide it. She loved the last American teacher here, a cheerful blonde with a big smile and an unquenchable work ethic I can only describe it as annoying. Mrs. Han resents that I took her place.

  “Lesson plan ready for next week?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “I’ve been very busy.”

  “Send it to me before you leave please. I need to prepare.” She leaves in a huff. I spend fifteen minutes on YouTube, send her a lesson plan I found online, and leave. I need a drink.

  Woodstock is my favorite bar in Korea. It’s dark, it’s loud, and they play only English music. One of few places you can drink without Korean pop music in the background. Plus, it’s nestled in one of the back streets near Sillim Station, far away from Hongdae or Gangnam or anywhere else people typically party. Just get a drink, listen to some Guns ‘n’ Roses, and walk home in the dark.

  My usual spot in the back corner is open. The lights are low and there’s a candle on each table, and a wreath attached to the bar. If they play any Christmas music, I’m leaving. I can’t celebrate properly, with friends and family. I can’t celebrate like the Koreans, by taking a girl out on a date. I want to forget it’s even a holiday.

  Three Long Island Iced Teas—which taste like poisoned lemonade and not at all like a Long Island—help me along the way. That’s when I notice her.

  Short skirt, brown tights, and gaudy high heels. The room is a thousand degrees, but she’s bundled in a white fur jacket, hood pulled up, complete with fox ears I always thought were exclusive to anime, until I moved here and discovered they were everywhere. Has she been there all night, or did she come in while I was drinking? I’m smitten. Stuck. I know ten words of Korean when I’m sober, and I’m nowhere near that now. I admire my new crush from afar.

  The girl at the bar perks up, as though she’s listening. She swings around on her stool to the tune of “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones. She walks toward me in time with the music. Or maybe not. I’m drunk.

  Timed to the music or not, she slides into the booth next to me. It happens—she’s curious about a non-Korean, nothing more.

  “Hello, how are you?”

  I swallow the urge to answer “I’m fine thank you, and you?” like textbooks instruct my students to respond. This would probably get a laugh, and is likely my only shot at a joke we both understand.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  Up close, she looks… wrong, somehow. Eyes too big. Nose twitching, like she smells something enticing. But she’s cute. It’s hard to look away.

  “It’s Christmas time,” she says.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, toasting her with the watered down dregs of my drink.

  The bartender, Subin, brings over two fresh Long Islands, and smiles at me. It’s as close as a Korean would get to a suggestive wink. Normally, I’d enjoy seeing Subin, an attractive girl by any measure. Tonight, she looks disappointingly plain.

  I look back to the stranger next to me. She’s cute, but not stunning. Not the kind of girl you dream about. But around her, everything else seems, well, dull. My face is flushed. I’m thankful for the low light.

  “I’m Kumi,” she says. “Where are you from?”

  “Portland,” I say. “America.”

  “Do you like Korea?”

  “I like the music,” I say. She misses the joke.

  “Are you having a nice Christmas time?” she asks.

  “It’s different here,” I say. It’s as diplomatic as I can be.

  “In Korea, it is a day for couples. You have no girlfriend?”

  “Nope,” I shrug.

  “Who will share your Christmas cake?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  The Korean Christmas Cake is one of the few traditions all my students adore. You place an order days, even weeks in advance, as bakeries crank out ornate cakes for every family in the neighborhood, topped with Christmas trees, Santa Claus, or shaved chocolate. Korean cake does not at all taste like American cake. It’s not sweet enough, rich enough, or fluffy enough. They look beautiful, but they taste like cardboard display cakes.

  “You must have a Christmas cake. Go and get a cake, and I will share it with you. It’s tradition.”

  I want to share cake with this girl—this woman—very much.

  “Wait here,” I say.

  I rush up the stairs, out the door, and into the cold night air. How Korea manages to be so cold with so little snow, I have no idea. My skin feels feverish.

  All the local bakeries are closed. But there’s one place that never disappoints: Paris Baguette. Paris Baguette is a Korean chain bakery that churns out Korean-inspired breads, cakes, donuts, and sandwiches which are designed, I presume based on flavor, by someone who has never tasted the proper versions of any of these things.

  At one a.m. on a Friday night, the Paris Baguette at Sillim station is very picked over. The store clerk has wisely given up on replenishing missing items, waiting for everyone to go home so he can work in peace. I look over to the Christmas cake display window. Empty. I walk over anyway for a closer look, and there it is: a lone Christmas cake, sitting on
the bottom rack, pushed to the back. The thrill of victory.

  I bend down to pick it up. My victory is stolen—the cake is mashed and deformed. The only one left because no one else wanted it. I consider buying it anyway, bringing it back to my new date with a sheepish grin. The sentiment feels very “Charlie Brown Christmas.” I abandon it.

  I burst out into the crowded street, scanning the throngs of people for Christmas cakes. There are plenty. Someone must be willing to give up theirs. A mom letting her daughter hold the cake? No. An old man in a suit and tie? No. A gaggle of old ladies? No. Then I see them: a young couple, high school or maybe even younger, walking arm-in-arm, looking at each other, holding the cake between them. Perfect.

  “Anyohaseyo,” I say. Hello.

  “Anyo,” they say back, justifiably confused.

  “Christmas Cake jusayeo.” Christmas Cake Please.

  They look around, not sure what to do. I think they worry I might attack them.

  I quickly pull a hundred thousand won out of my wallet—about ninety bucks. Hardly enough to entice a working mother or a businessman, but jobless teens? Maybe.

  “Jusayeooooooo,” I say, stretching the word in a high pitched way, the sound Koreans universally accept as begging or whining.

  The teens look at each other. They look at the money. They look at each other again. The boy takes the cash and the girl hands me the cake. I don’t wait to see their reaction. Success!

  I run back to Woodstock, half expecting Kumi to have disappeared, leaving me holding a disgusting twenty dollar cake and feeling like an idiot.

  She’s there. “You’ve returned!” she says. “I thought you escaped.”

  I slide into the booth next to her, displaying the cake. Snowmen and blue snowflakes. Classy. Subin brings us chopsticks from behind the bar, and Kumi cuts the tiniest of pieces of cake for us. With pieces this size, we could feed the whole bar.