Collected Christmas Horror Shorts (Collected Horror Shorts Book 1)

by Tim Curran

  I hadn’t seen my Aunt in twenty years, and my memories of her were colored by childhood’s perceptions. I remembered her as a small, neat, very pretty woman with a sweeping mass of dark hair. Now she was mostly silver-haired, prematurely bent and slightly pudgy. The lines of her face were still clear and striking, though, and she moved easily, without the stiffness I was currently conveying. She rushed out, took my arm, and led me into the cottage. Mr. Murphy followed behind with my bags.

  Aunt Vanessa took me into her parlour and gave me the seat of honor closest to the fireplace, which was currently blazing. I let her remove the heavy blanket and my outer wraps, and hand me a cup of steaming tea. Seeing me settled, she went outside again with Murphy. They returned a few moments later with several boxes of supplies. Mr. Murphy hastily gulped a cup down, accepted payment, doffed his hat once, and then turned to go. “Merry Christmas to you and your family, Mr. Murphy,” she called after him.

  When he was gone she closed the door behind him before joining me in the parlour. “Now, darling Jane, tell me how you are.”

  “Thawing,” I said, my teeth still chattering.

  We chatted amiably for a bit, about the dreadful weather, and my train trip, and the world outside Carlton Abbey. Finally I seemed to have reached room temperature, and Aunt Vanessa showed me to my room. Mr. Murphy had already carried my bags there.

  It was charming, with a large, fluffy bed, a small fireplace, dresser, basin, mirror, rocker, window seat. The decorations were warm and comforting. Aunt Vanessa suggested I take a rest before supper, and I agreed. I’d slept little at the inn; now that I was here and warm again, I was surprisingly drowsy. I lay down on the bed, thinking merely to test it, and drifted off almost instantly.

  I awoke when someone came into the room.

  I was half-asleep when I heard the footsteps. Thinking it was my aunt peeking in to check on me, I opted for a few more minutes of sleep and didn’t open my eyes. But then I had the sensation of someone standing over me, and so I did force myself awake. I looked up to see that the light in the room had dimmed – the fire had gone out, the light spilling in through the window was less – and it took a few seconds for me to make out anything. Then I saw: A silhouetted figure at the foot of the bed. A large figure, with broad shoulders. A man, in other words.

  I tried to call out, but couldn’t seem to move, to even force sounds from my throat. My limbs were equally unresponsive, my heart hammered but uselessly. I was paralyzed.

  He stood there for some time, not moving, not speaking. I couldn’t make out his face or any particulars about him.

  I finally closed my eyes, tightly, as if I could somehow make him vanish by refusing to see him. Almost immediately, I felt something in the room change – it lightened again, a crushing sense of essential wrongness gone. I opened my eyes.

  He was gone.

  I took a few moments to collect myself – to let my heartbeat return to its usual pace – before I rose and left the room behind. I found my aunt in the kitchen, sipping tea and writing in a journal which she closed as I entered. “Ah, there you are. Did you nap well, dear?”

  “Aunt Vanessa, who is the man I saw in my room?”

  Her polite smile disappeared instantly, her shoulders slumped, she set the tea cup down, rattling it in the saucer. “Oh. Oh dear. I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen…”

  “That what wouldn’t happen?” I sat down across from her and poured myself a cup of tea from the pot in the center of the table.

  “That you wouldn’t meet Joe.”

  “Who’s Joe?”

  “Our ghost, dear.”

  I set the cup down and stared at her, incredulous. “Ghost? But surely…”

  “Oh, please, dear Jane, don’t tell me there are no such things, or that you don’t believe in them.” She stood, pumped more water into the tea kettle, and hung it over the kitchen fire.

  “Aunty, do you mean to say that you think your house is haunted?”

  She returned, sat across from me, and fixed me with a resolute stare. “I don’t ‘think’ it, dear – I know it. Joe, you see, is a man named Joseph Hood, and he died here under rather tragic circumstances thirty-six years ago.” She broke off as her eyes took on a distant look, then she continued. “In fact it will be exactly thirty-six years ago tomorrow.”

  “He died on Christmas Eve?”

  Aunt Vanessa nodded. “He was intoxicated. He came into the living room, dropped something near the hearth, tried to reach for it but tripped and fell into the fire.”

  I realized she was referring to the same hearth I’d warmed myself before just a short time earlier, and I shuddered. “How horrible.”

  “They said he at least didn’t suffer – he knocked himself out when he fell.”

  “Who was he? Did you know him?”

  My aunt looked away, and I had the distinct sense that she was covering something up, or being less than completely forthcoming. “Yes. He…worked for me. Just a local fellow. I was the one who found him, in fact.”

  The way she choked up on the last bit seemed authentic, and I had a rush of sympathy for her. I stood and moved behind her so I could rest my hands on her shoulders in an empathetic way. “Oh, Aunt Vanessa, I’m so sorry.”

  She reached up and patted my hands with hers. “It’s really quite all right, dear – it was such a long time ago. And frankly, having Joe around since has frequently been…well, interesting.”

  I resumed my seat and decided to humor her. “What does he do?”

  “Oh, he’s quite harmless. He might slam a cabinet door, or knock on a wall. He must be quite impressed with you – I don’t actually see him all that often.”

  After that, we talked about other things. I told Vanessa about my life with Henry, and she told me about her family growing up. They were an intriguing group of people, this part of my family I didn’t know at all – a collection of eccentrics that included a tea trader who’d sold opium in China, a madwoman who’d died in an asylum, and a professional street mummer.

  We chattered away through the late afternoon, past sunset, and well into the night. Finally Aunt Vanessa yawned and said she needed to seek the solace of her bed. I was initially uncomfortable with the thought of returning to my room, but I soon convinced myself that whatever trick of light and shadow I’d seen couldn’t possibly exist at night, and so I retired as well, taking a book with me. I stoked the little fire and slid under the blankets, convinced that sleep would elude me…but after an hour of wading through the sadly-dull book, my eyes became heavy and I slid into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  ###

  Elise lowered the book and looked around the house. Ray poured more wine for both of them. “Was that the end of the chapter?”

  “Yes,” Elise said, distractedly. After a few seconds, she added, “You know what’s odd? The house in this book could be the very one we’re in.”

  Ray followed her gaze around the room. “True, but I would imagine that most of the old country houses were built like this.”

  “I suppose so…still…”

  Ray smiled. “It’s more fun to believe it’s the same house, is that it?”

  “You caught me.”

  He laughed and toasted her. “Please continue. This is so much more entertaining than watching another Fanny Cradock re-run on the telly.”

  Elise – who loved cooking shows – shot her husband a vicious look before raising the book again. “Chapter Three…”

  ###

  I awoke in the morning surprisingly refreshed and happy to be where I was. Yesterday’s storm had passed, and the day was bright, with just the occasional puffy white cloud scudding past the sun.

  Aunt Vanessa and I spent the day like two old sisters, nattering about in the kitchen preparing foods for a Christmas dinner that could have fed ten. We fixed goose and mince meat and puddings and popcorn; we even made a wassail bowl, although there were only two of us and we had no intentions of going wassailing come evening. The lovely scent
of the wassail – cider, cinnamon, nutmeg – mixed with the other food smells to fill the house with a cheerful holiday scent.

  Day passed into evening. We laid out our merry feast and indulged ourselves. We were soon both quite besotted from the wassail. I’d never been much for drink; even a small amount went straight to my head. By midnight we were both reeling and stumbling as we wished each other a Merry Christmas and made our way to our rooms.

  I undressed and crawled beneath the covers, warm from the drink and the food and the pleasant evening. The little fire began to die down as I headed into sleep.

  At some point in the night I became aware of a dream I was having. I was still disoriented from the wassail, and unsure where I was. I felt another in bed beside me, felt the firm muscles of a man, and thought I must be dreaming of Henry. It would only be later on that I would realize how odd it was – if not close to impossible – to be so self-aware during a dream that you knew you were dreaming.

  I shan’t describe the dream in detail here, for it progressed in an extremely intimate fashion. Suffice to say I was ecstatic to give myself over to it, to have my Henry for one more evening. Even though he was somewhat rougher, more impassioned, than I recalled him having ever been, I considered this dream of Henry to be the most cherished Christmas gift imaginable.

  A terrible headache awoke me in the morning, the after-effects of my wassail consumption. For a few seconds, I felt only the grinding pain in my temples, ears, and just above my teeth. Then I realized I was unclothed beneath the blankets, although I’d gone to bed in my usual proper nightgown, which lay discarded on the floor beside the bed. Increasingly alarmed, I drew back the covers, and saw small red splotches dotting the white linen. I looked down at myself, and saw the blood had come from crescent-shaped marks on my shoulders and bosom. They were unquestionably bite marks, and their pain was a large part of my headache.

  I bit back a scream and leapt from the bed. That was when I saw it – red marks dabbed on the pillow that had just been beneath my head, marks that formed seven letters. The letters read:

  LOVE JOE

  I did cry out then, not so much a scream as a sort of prolonged sob. It was enough to rouse my aunt, who proceeded to bang against my door, calling my name. She asked me why I’d locked the door, and I realized I hadn’t. I went to it and turned the lock, and she entered.

  When she saw me, she gasped loudly. She was asking what happened when she saw the bed – or, more specifically, the pillow.

  Her expression went cold, and she said, “You need to leave here. Today. NOW.”

  I didn’t argue. I requested only the time it would take for me to attend to my wounds and gather my things.

  She waited for me in the living room. When I came in, struggling with my bags, she told me to leave them, that she’d have them sent later. She had a neighbor less than a quarter-mile distant who had a horse and carriage; he could take me back to the village.

  She offered no kind word of sympathy, no apology or explanation. Nor did I ask for any.

  Together, we walked out into the chilly Christmas morn. It was overcast again, though not snowing yet. Our breath came out in opaque puffs as we trudged along the lane. We finally reached her neighbors, the Lees. They were a family of five, simple farmers with generous dispositions, who rushed to my side in concern when Aunty told them I’d fallen ill and needed immediate transportation to the village. They agreed instantly; the father, George, went out to hitch the horses to their carriage.

  Aunt Vanessa gave me a rather cool embrace, muttered something about being sorry our Christmas had ended so poorly, and then left.

  Once she was gone, I asked George’s wife Annie who Joe Hood was. She gaped for a second, and then bade me sit down as she made a hot cup of tea for me. She sat beside me as I sipped the good, strong tea, and she told me the story of Joe.

  “You may believe your aunt to be a lifelong spinster, but the truth of the matter is that she was married once – to Joe Hood. She was twenty, and although you might not know it now, she was considered a beauty among the local folk. She wasn’t rich, but she’d been left enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life.

  “Because of all that she had any number of suitors, but only one caught her fancy: Joseph Hood was a young man who’d come up from the south – some said he’d been run off after a scandal with a society lady – and he was very comely. He saw an easy life with your aunt, so he wooed her. They were married just three months after they met, and Joe moved into the cottage with your aunt.

  “That’s when she found out what kind of man Joe Hood really was: He drank, he cursed if asked to work, but worst of all, he chased after every young lady in the county – including myself. I wanted nothing to do with him, but there were others who gave in to his tender words and caresses.

  “Vanessa was hardly blind; she saw how Joe flirted with all the others, and it turned out she possessed something of a temper. They’d have terrible fights, and Joe would take off for the village pub again on their one horse.

  “Well, on the first Christmas Eve after they were married, Joe came home late from the pub, drunk as usual. Later on the story was that he’d fallen in front of the hearth, hit his head, didn’t even know as he was burned alive. But there were many of us who thought otherwise: That your aunt had surely had enough, hit him on the head with something like an andiron, and put him in the fire to concoct that story.

  “It worked, too – they couldn’t prove a thing against her. Plus, Joe was hardly well liked hereabouts, so the constabulary didn’t exactly exert much effort on proving he’d been murdered.”

  I felt a chill despite the hot tea. My aunt was a murderess? And the crime had taken place in a house I’d been invited to share for the rest of my life? “The house…”

  Annie reached out and touched my hand for support. “Did something happen to you there?”

  I nodded, ashamed to admit the full truth. “Last night…I was – attacked.”

  Annie exhaled sharply before saying, “Your aunt was wrong to invite you, and on the very night of the murder, no less. She must have thought she could control him, or that he was weak –”

  George entered then, saying he had the carriage ready; he told me he’d come back later in the day with my bags. I thanked the two of them for the great kindness they’d shown me.

  Now that I look back on it, I think I can say in all truthfulness that I owe my life – or whatever is left of it – to them.

  ###

  Elise looked up from the book, dazed. “My God. Well, I suppose we know now why she had to self-publish this. Sex with a ghost simply wasn’t done in 1895.”

  Ray, who had already broken open a second bottle, laughed and added, “I’m still not clear on whether we’re supposed to take this as fact or fiction.”

  “Oh, Ray, surely…” Elise broke off. She’d been about to say, “It must be fiction,” but then she realized she wasn’t so sure. A memoir about hysteria, perhaps? Wasn’t the spiritualist movement in full swing when this written? Perhaps Mrs. Warren had been more deeply influenced by all the stories of ghostly contact than she’d been aware of.

  Ray gestured at the book. “Is there more?”

  Elise flipped through it. “One more chapter. The rest of the pages are blank – I guess to give it enough heft for the binder.”

  “Well, let’s finish it out, then.”

  Elise turned the page. “Chapter Four…”

  ###

  George was as good as his word, and arrived later on Christmas Day with my two bags. There was no train back to Manchester until the 27th, so I spent a quiet Boxing Day in the pub, letting Annie tend gently to my injuries.

  A day later I was home again, determined to put it all out of my mind.

  A month later I found employment working for an elderly solicitor. The work involved mainly writing letters and keeping accounts, and my employer was benevolent and thoughtful.

  In March, I was finally sure: I was wi
th child.

  I sat up late into the nights, working out timelines: It could be Henry’s. We’d been together as man and wife the night before he’d died. I tried over and over to tell myself that was the only logical explanation. Of course it was Henry’s.

  But the pregnancy became increasingly difficult. I knew, of course, about morning sicknesses and the usual little traumas, but that was nothing like what I was going through. Everything, even water, made me violently ill. I was constantly besieged by excruciating abdominal pains. Blood trickled frequently from my womb, staining my undergarments.

  My employer not only gave me time away from the job, but provided the best medical care. The doctors were puzzled; they’d never seen such a condition. They asked me if there was any history of problematic pregnancy in my family. I told them I knew very little about my family.

  I never confessed what I knew about the father.

  At five months, I looked (and felt) ready to burst. I was completely bed-ridden by then, and I’d taken to biting a rolled piece of cloth to prevent shrieking in agony.

  Finally, one night in early June, the pain peaked. It was midnight, and I was alone in my bed chambers. I felt a shudder take me, a great deal of warm fluid gushed from between my legs, and the sensation of ten-thousand glass shards piercing me caused me to (thankfully) lose consciousness.

  I awoke several hours later, weak but at last out of pain. I struggled to a sitting position, looked down and saw –

  I shall never describe what I saw, what had passed from my body as I’d lain unconscious. I was too spent to move, so I waited. The doctor who arrived to check on me in the morning saw the dead thing on the bed and promptly sicked up his breakfast. After, he assured me that he would dispose of it in fire and tell no one what he’d seen.

  I was four weeks recovering. Thanks to the careful attentions of my doctors, I did regain my strength. I returned to my work and to my life.