Collected Christmas Horror Shorts (Collected Horror Shorts Book 1)

by Tim Curran

  Sharon poured the hot water onto the coffee. “I’m fine, thank you.” The rich scent filled her head.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just I noticed… somebody around the side of your house, lurking, about a minute ago….Just to say, make sure the doors… are locked….darling. Can’t be too sure…..what with those burglaries….last Christmas.” Sharon’s anxiety came back with a thud, creeping up the back of her spine with cold fingers and letting butterflies loose in her belly, floating around her unborn.

  “Well Joan, we’ve got pretty good security here this Christmas. I doubt that anyone would get past Mike. He was a police officer for ten years.” She dropped four teaspoons of sugar into her coffee and stirred. “Plus, this isn’t America.” She laughed and it came out too loud.

  “Well…I thought I’d call. Better safe… than sorry, that’s what my Jerry always said.”

  “Thanks Joan, I appreciate it. I’ll call and tell Mike to keep a look out. Bye now Joan, and Merry Christmas!”

  “Bye sweetheart … and good luck with the baby….Do let me know when it’s…..born.”

  “Okay, bye.’ Sharon put the phone back on the hook. She felt sick with anxiety. It bubbled near the surface getting closer and closer to the top. Rich, pure white fear. She frowned and picked the phone back up. She dialled Mike.

  Sharon paced the kitchen, phone ringing. It went dead. She imagined a gloved hand reaching into the fuse box outside and cutting a wire. Silly. That only happened in the films. The baby kicked hard, twice, and she thought how badly she needed to pee. She had the phone pressed so tight against her ear it was starting to hurt. Suddenly, a hand clasped her shoulder. She turned quickly, raising the phone to use as a weapon.

  “Whoa! Calm down lady, it’s just me,” Steve said. The light bounced off his blonde curls. She stared at him, a perfect shade of pale.

  “Jesus, Steve, you scared me!! Do you want me to go into labour?

  “I’m sorry, darling; I never meant to scare you. I need to talk – Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing probably. I just got a call from my nosey neighbour. She’s alone and spies on us all with binoculars.” She laughed, pushing a strand of hair from her face. “Joan said she saw someone outside, lurking. Her exact word, ‘lurking’. And now the phone line’s dead.”

  “Do you want me to go down and check on Mike?” Steve asked, taking her hand and squeezing it, the diamond band digging into their flesh.

  “What do you think?” she asked, her green eyes glittering.

  “I think I’d like to talk to you, so I’ll ask Mickey to go do it.”

  Sharon grabbed her cup of cold coffee and laughed. Again, it sounded too loud in her ears. Like she was trying to reassure herself of something.

  Some old crooner was still singing about ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire.’ Ali and Mickey were lying on the sofa together. Mickey was watching Ali as she slept. Steve slapped his hands together, hard, grabbing both their attention. Ali jumped and sat up. “Steve! I was asleep.”

  “Mickey! You need to go down and check that everything’s okay with security because the phone’s dead.”

  “Why can’t you go?!” Mickey asked.

  “Because I need to talk to Sharon,” Steve said, winking.

  “What’s with the winking?” Ali asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Mickey whispered.

  “Fine!” Ali elbowed him in the side then grabbed his beer bottle. “Go on, it’ll only take a minute.”

  “What if there’s some psycho out there?”

  “Well, it’s more likely to be a chav trying to make off with Sharon’s Faberge eggs,” Ali said, pulling a mock-snooty face. “The undesirables must keep with their Christmas traditions, as well as the rest of us.”

  “The line’s just probably down,” said Steve. “Go check, Mickey! It’ll help Sharon relax.” Another wink.

  Mickey begrudgingly got up from his comfy position and swung his leg over Ali. “Love you,” he whispered to Ali, much to her surprise. She was just about to answer. In their five years of dating, he’d never said it before.

  Steve smiled. “Thanks Mickey, I appreciate it.”

  “You wink one more time,” she warned.

  Mickey sighed as he pulled open the front door. He was met with a gust of wind that chilled his face. Snow was now falling heavily. Mickey gazed up into the fleecy night. He shivered and hugged himself, pulling his long black coat tighter. He could feel the warmth behind him. ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ was playing. He closed the door on it and descended the front porch, looking around and shielding his eyes with his hand. The moonlight struggled through the snowstorm. His breath blasted out into the skin-numbing air. He blinked as the snow caressed his face with tiny little kisses of frost. He wanted to twirl like Wynona Ryder in ‘Edward Scissorhands.’ But Steve could be watching from the window for all he knew.

  It was a long walk to the security guard’s booth. The snow crunched under his boots. He started to sing to himself. “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake….” He sang softly and tentatively as if someone might hear him. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake.”

  Soon he reached the booth. “Mike? Mike, you about?” His voice got lost in the howling wind, though he kept on walking. It was dark now, the snow making everything dreamier. He noticed fresh footprints in the snow, two sets, and in his murky, dreamy-drunk head, fear seized. He looked up, then spun around. He could barely see the house through the blizzard.

  Mickey hesitated. Yes - definitely more than one set of footprints. Maybe Madeline and Scottie decided to come after all. But where were they? He was too scared to call out. The lights in the security booth were flickering. There’s something wrong with the electric, Mickey told himself. The security booth door swung open on its hinges; squeaking in the breeze. I should go back, Mickey thought. He didn’t.

  “…Mike?” His voice got eaten up in the hungry air. He approached the flashing booth slowly, scared like a kid. The flashing was coming from inside the booth. He grabbed the swinging door and wiped crystals out of his eyes with numb fingers.

  “Oh my God!”

  Mike was limp in his chair, his body slumped back. He’d been tied up with Christmas lights. They flashed on and off: blood on the security panel-Mike’s throat slashed-then darkness. Again: Mike’s eyes cut out with Christmas lights in the empty, bloody sockets-his mouth open in an unending scream-darkness. A spray of blood all over the window-uniform soaked in blood-darkness. Blood, thick and dark, like treacle, dripping onto the crisp white snow. “Oh God, Mike…”

  He gagged and turned, coming face to face with a man wearing a cheap Santa Claus outfit. Mickey staggered backwards, hiding behind the security door and staring through the glass. The man, his features dark, held his head up high, twin trails of white vapour drifting out of each nostril. The number 666 was daubed on his forehead with what looked like lumpy, congealed blood- Mike’s blood. He pointed a gun at Mickey’s terrified face.

  “Don’t say a fucking word or you’ll end up like him.” He nodded to Mike, still flashing gruesomely from his seat.

  Mickey put both his pink hands up. “Don’t shoot!”

  A girl appeared - long fair hair in pigtails, a Santa hat and fake white beard. Thin, tall, attractive, bugging eyes, clown smile. 666 on her forehead. Almost lost in a mess of tacky green tinsel around her neck like a feather boa. If Mickey had to take a picture of insanity, he’d aim his camera at her. They looked high, he thought. Maybe they just wanted to steal some stuff so they could go out and buy more drugs.

  In his gut he knew better.

  “What do you want?”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” the girl screamed, right in Mickey’s left ear. It was so loud he couldn’t hear for a few seconds. They pushed Mickey towards the house. The young woman used a hand-knife, poking it into his back, and Santa kept the gun aimed on him. Mickey’s bottom lip quive
red so hard that he started to drool.

  “You better keep quiet; else I’ll cut you with this baby a thousand fuckin’ times.” Her voice was strangely high, like she’d been sucking helium. She dug the knife in his back, causing him to cry out in pain as they walked towards the house.

  Sharon and Steve were in the brightly lit kitchen, drinking camomile tea and talking in hushed tones. “Listen, you know I care about you,” Steve said.

  Not this again, Sharon thought. One mistake and he won’t let go. Why can’t he leave me alone? “You know I think you’re great, Steve…”

  “But Sharon, you can’t raise my child with another man. I want to be there for you, for the baby. I love you!”

  “Oh Steve, I love you, too. You’ve been amazing with me and the baby. You know how much I appreciate you, but –”

  “Sharon…” He had to make her understand. He had to. He took her hand in his as a scream rose up from the living room. Ali. Then some strange voices. Steve motioned to Sharon to keep quiet.

  “Please don’t hurt her!” Mickey said, kneeling on the floor with his hands on his head.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ali asked, staring at the strange man in the Santa suit.

  “You can call me Santa, and this beauty here, this is Santa’s little helper.”

  The thin girl, who looked pretty but insane, twirled around holding a knife above her head. “Da-dah!” she said like a magician’s assistant. “Now…GET UP BITCH! MOVE YOUR ARSE!” She fluttered her eyelashes coyly. Ali got up slowly and steadily, determined not to show how scared she was. The fact she was close to shitting herself was neither here nor there.

  “Sharon, get in the bedroom and lock yourself in. These people are not messing around,” he whispered.

  They were crouched down behind the kitchen island. Steve was rubbing Sharon’s arm. She looked terrified. He helped her up and edged her towards the door which led to the side of the house. He could see the way she kept rubbing her baby bump through her white silk dress.

  “Do you have a gun?” he asked.

  “No! I hate hunting. I’m a vegetarian for God’s sake!” Sharon said.

  “Well, right now, this minute, we’re the hunted. Do you have a mobile phone?”

  “Yes! Yeah, it’s in the bedroom, charging.”

  “Get in the bedroom and call the police – don’t come out ‘till I say. Lock yourself in.”

  “Steve, be careful please.”

  “Sharon, hurry. You do your part, I’ll do mine.”

  “Steve,” she whispered. “I do love you.”

  He looked at her with glassy blue eyes. He kissed her, and she let him. He held her face in his hands momentarily. Then he got a chef’s knife from the knife block and handed it to her.

  “Hold it like this, so you don’t get hurt, and if you get a chance – don’t hold back. Stab with all of your might. Think of the baby.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She walked awkwardly away towards the back of the house, cradling her swollen belly before giving him one last worried glance. Steve returned to the knife block and took out a boning knife. He headed for the living room. He pushed the door open gently and peeked around the corner, seeing the gun in Santa’s hand. Gun beats knife, he thought, knowing he’d have to wait for his opportunity.

  Santa’s helper was sat next to Ali, looking at her, like a little girl in the playground who wants to make friends but doesn’t know how. “Who else is in this house?” she asked.

  Ali glanced at Mickey who was still on the floor with his hands on his head. “No one,” she said innocently. Instantly, the girl had hold of her by the hair, pulling it hard. Ali refused to scream until the girl prodded her in the ribs with the knife.

  “You liar!” the girl screamed, twisting Ali’s hair. She pulled it sharply, exposing Ali’s neck. The girl took the knife and gently caressed Ali’s throat with it. “Just a little kiss from the knifie-wifie and – whoops!” Ali cried out, blood trickling down her neck. The girl had a firm grip on her. “It’s only a little cut, we’re sorry aren’t we, Mr Knifie-Wifie?”

  “Leave the bitch and check the rest of the house!” Santa yelled.

  “No fair! You said I could play.’ She stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Let me cut her, Damian!”

  “No fucking names you moronic bitch!”

  “Oopsy,’ said the girl.

  “Please…leave me alone!” Ali said, finally breaking.

  The girl laughed, high and nasal. “Pwease leave me alone,” she mocked.

  Ali narrowed her eyes. “You sound like a fucking chipmunk!”

  “What did you say?” the girl screamed, twisting Ali’s hair.

  “Hey, bitch,” Damian said. “Check the house! NOW!”

  The girl pushed Ali down onto the ground and booted her in the stomach with her big Dr Martens. Ali cried out and then lay sobbing on the living room floor. This is bad, she thought, this is so bad. They hadn’t asked for jewellery or money. The girl walked away begrudgingly, poking her tongue out at Damian as she left the living room. Ali, gasping, looked on in panic. What did they want except murder? Bing Crosby was dreaming about a white Christmas and the snow poured down.

  Mickey waited until the girl was out of sight and then began his rehearsed speech. “Why are you doing this, Damian? We’re people like you, we’re humans, and –”

  Damian dug the gun into his forehead, saying, “We’re doing His work, pig.” And then he squeezed the trigger and blew Mickey’s brains out all over the Christmas tree. Ali screamed from the floor. She could feel blood and pulpy chunks of hot gunk on her face. Using the coffee table for support, she got up and ran for the front door, leaping over Mickey’s body. Damian, laughing softly, took aim as she pulled the door open. He shot.

  Ali stumbled forward, out into the freezing cold air - free. There was a searing, fiery explosion in her chest, and blood sprayed out all over the porch steps. She stumbled to one of the porch pillars. She haphazardly grabbed white fairy lights from the pillar. Two more bullets exploded out of her chest and she stumbled forward and dropped to the cold floor, lit up like a Christmas tree. He loved me, she thought, and knew. Then all went dark.

  The master bedroom was on the bottom floor on the left side of the house. Sharon had picked it for its walk in wardrobe. It was also near the kitchen, for midnight snacks, though none of that seemed important now. All the doors, including the patio, were locked. She sat in near darkness by the side of the bed, hidden. She jumped at every gunshot going off in her home and thought that all three of her friends must be dead. Tears streamed down her face, taking black eyeliner with them in rivers of black. She was still holding her mobile phone to her ear. After several rings, there was a click.

  “Hello?” Sharon said, waiting to give the operator an overwhelming amount of information.

  “I’m sorry; all emergency services are currently busy. You are in a queue and an operator will deal with your emergency as soon as possible, we thank-you for your patience.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she whispered. She paid her taxes for this? Suddenly, the door handle of the master bedroom started going up and down manically. The sound of metal and hinges straining filled the darkness. Sharon placed the mobile phone, still ringing, by her side and held the knife with two shaking hands. The door handle was going up and down frenziedly. Sharon looked on in fear, the knife feeling exceptionally heavy. She’d fight. She knew that much.

  “Who the fuck’s in there?” a female voice shouted. “Let me in fucker, else we’ll slice up your piggy friends!” The voice sounded manic. Fists started pounding on the door; Sharon was convinced it would rattle its way out of its hinges if it continued. “Damian, there’s someone in this room!”

  “I’ll see if there’s another way in,” said a man.

  Sharon liked his voice even less than the manic girl’s. It was calm and confident. It belonged to a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

  Damian pushed open the kitchen door quietly, seeing no one in si
ght, and walked through. Steve, sensing his moment, jumped on his back, jumping up from behind the kitchen island and stabbing Damian in the back. Damian bucked and gurgled up blood as the knife was pulled free. Steve stabbed again and again, splashing the toaster and coffee machine with ribbons of dark blood. Damian fell to the hard linoleum, taking Steve with him. Steve rolled to one side and for a moment they lay next to each other, weapons in hand, breathing heavily. Steve lurched to his feet. He kicked Damian in the kidneys, once, twice, three times, before falling over and landing in a messy sprawl next to Damian, who was curled up into a protective foetal position. Steve was taking no chances; he got up onto his knees, above him, and lifted the knife high, screaming, “Die!”

  But Damian still had the gun.

  He thrust his hand into the Santa suit pocket and managed to get a shot off. The bullet hit Steve in the shoulder, but through pure adrenal rage, Steve still plunged the knife down into Damian’s throat.

  Damian’s eyes bulged in shock and his gloved hands flew to his neck. He gurgled fresh dark blood and it puddled on the pure white tiles.

  Steve slumped backwards. Floating out from the lounge was ‘I saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus.’ Lunacy, he thought. He examined the gun wound spilling blood through his top, coughing and grimacing in pain. It had been more difficult than he’d anticipated. All those hours at the gym and a quick, scrapping fight had reduced him to this – panting, weak, limbs like heavy metal, a mess. He just trusted the woman would be easier to stop. He pulled himself up using the kitchen island, leaving bloody hand smudges all over it. He hoped that Sharon had called the police.

  The kitchen door flew open and the girl wearing the Santa hat and pig-tails came charging in, eyes bulging over her fake moustache and beard.

  “What have you done? You fucking murderer!” she screamed, running at him, the hunting knife in her hand raised. She was next to him in an instant. She was fast. He put his hands up defensively but she was too quick. She stabbed him in the gut. He staggered backwards, holding his insides. It felt like his intestines were coursing out, and a mixture of acid and blood fell out of his mouth. Sharon’s never going to get all this blood out, he thought. The girl came again. She stabbed him in the chest. He fell onto his hands and knees, gasping for air.