by Unknown
books he was working on, notebooks full of stories, and sketch books and pencils for drawing. He heard it move its head, the strange little snip snap sounds of it moving, and then the backpack hit and he heard a new sound.
Crunch! He waited a moment to see if the glowing yellow eyes came back into view and when they didn’t he darted forward to retrieve his backpack and head home.
He decided, once he got back to the street and the lights there, that it must have been fireflies and some branches that struck him wrong. If it were any real monster, it would have kept coming after him and he wouldn’t have gotten away.
All the same, he never went back to that part of the woods again.
The Christmas Story
Matthew Cash
I recall now, as I sit in my eleventh century chair by the open fire in my living room, a tale about this season of winter. As I watch the flames devour the logs like some ravenous beast, I remember a night like this many, many years ago. Seventy years ago to this date in fact. Tears well in my eyes. Tears, not of sadness, not of some happy recollection, but tears of fear. For tonight, this snow covered evening may very well be my last night on earth!
It was seventy years ago. Seven decades that have passed as if seven days. The story is as fresh in my head as it ever was….
***
It was Christmastime, 1941, and apparently the coldest winter for six years. I had been concerned about air raids as some houses five miles away had been bombed only three weeks previous. Mother said that there wouldn’t be any air raids over Christmas, but I knew she was trying to keep me from worrying. I knew the ‘Gerries’ wouldn’t rest just because it was Christmas.
Father was not serving in the army, due to him having his left leg amputated ten years previous after a horrific car accident. He had told me not to worry about the bombs, as we always received a warning siren if a German plane was spotted. So he put my mind at ease, and we were determined not to let Adolf Hitler keep us from enjoying our Christmas.
I had been sitting by the fire reading, as was normal for me on dark winter’s nights. I remember putting my book down, too excited by the following day’s festivities to concentrate on the words before me. I gazed around the candlelit room. It wouldn’t be long before we would put them out, as it was suggested that people use minimal light at night during those years.
Mother sat by my side doing her needlework by the light of the orange and yellow flames. Father was sprawled, mouth wide open, tongue lolling out and fast asleep.
I could see mother was overjoyed as soon as I heard the noise coming from outside. The sound was of children singing. Their voices reminded me of the church choir. Excitedly I pleaded with mother for permission to go down to the main door and listen to them. She smiled and nodded.
I quickly raced into the hallway, not considering that I may wake the servants or my father. Down the staircase to the large oak doors. I could hear them more clearly now. I could hear the beautiful yet haunting words of the Christmas carol, O Come, O Come Emmanuel. I reached up for the iron bolt and, with great difficulty, slid it across. The door groaned as I pulled it with all my strength. When I finally had it fully open, I trod cautiously on the fresh fallen snow.
With all my concentration having been on getting the door open, I had not noticed the singing had stopped. Taking a few steps away from the house, I pondered on the whereabouts of my joyous carol singers. When I felt the bitterness of the strong winter wind, I thought the singers must have moved on.
Then suddenly the main door, which I had left open, slammed shut, sending thunderous echoes throughout the house. I turned back to the house, thoughts of being severely punished if I had woken Father or the servants running through my mind.
I turned the freezing cold door handle and pushed with all my weight. It didn’t move an inch. Worried about having to wake up one of the servants, or making Mother or Father come down to let me in, drove all thoughts of the missing carol singers from my mind.
Then I heard it. When I pushed against the door for the second time, I heard again the voices singing O Come, O Come Emmanuel. The singing sounded as if it were across the threshold and
inside the house!
I realised then that someone must be playing some sort of joke on me. I had visions of Mother and Father standing at the foot of the stairs chuckling. Cook would probably be waiting with some hot milk and a bowl of hot chestnuts. I giggled and called for them to let me in, as it was so cold I could positively freeze to death.
All I got in reply was another verse of the same Christmas carol. However this time, along with the children’s voices were those of a lady and a gentleman, which I, of course, recognised as belonging to my parents.
Playing along with their elaborate jest, I requested a verse or two of The Sussex Carol, as it was my favourite. This time I heard even more voices, more ladies and more gentlemen. The servants too!
My…this was a treat. I would, however, have preferred to be listening to them in the warmth of my home, and I wished that they would start to sing a different carol.
As you can imagine I was extremely cold, my young body trembling. I reached out and grasped the brass door handle once again.
The pain! The agony! I recoiled in horror and fell to my knees, shoving my hand into the snow. The door handle of my house had felt as hot as a furnace! I slowly eased my hand from the snow, the smell of my own burnt flesh making my stomach churn. I looked back at the house, tears on my face. The door was ajar!
I stood up, my head full of uncertainty. At the back of my mind I put it down to some freak accident. The five inch gap between the door and post gave nothing away, only blackness. It was only due to the love and trust I felt for my parents that I returned to that door. An accident, I thought. With my left shoulder, I forced the door open a few more inches. Carefully avoiding the handles, I squeezed myself into the house.
Then suddenly, to put my worst fears into reality, I heard the solemn eerie wailing of the air raid siren in the village. Oh no, I thought. I did not know what to do, Should I go further into the house or make for the air raid shelter in the garden? My instinct told me to find my parents first, so I continued.
I could make out the staircase and hallway ahead of me in the darkness. There was no one I could see or hear anywhere. First I called for Mother, then Father. When I got no reply, I hollered at the top of my lungs for the servants.
Nothing. Slowly I started to climb the stairs. I was on the third step when something happened that made my blood run cold. My right hand had been holding the banister, and my injured left had been swinging loosely by my side, when I felt someone’s cold hand touch my naked wrist. This hand, which I only caught a glimpse of, was deathly pale and felt as though it were carved from ice.
A sensation of dread came over me as I turned uneasily to see the owner of that pale hand. My heart thudded so hard in my chest I thought it might burst. All thoughts of the air raid siren had been vanquished. My breathing became irregular as I gazed at the sight before me.
A white-faced boy of about eight years of age smiled up at me. He had neatly combed shiny golden hair. Bright blue eyes sparkled unnaturally from his cherub-like face. He was dressed all in white, just like the choirboys at church.
You may think there was nothing unusual about this happy choirboy standing on my staircase. But when I tell you the following, you will understand the sheer horror of my ordeal. This cherub-like boy in front of me faded out below the knees, it was as though he was floating in mid-air!
This apparition, this manifestation, this ghost or whatever it was, opened his angelic mouth and began to sing that oh so familiar Christmas carol. He sounded and looked like an angel, surely I should have felt peaceful, but instead I felt cold, so cold.
I’ve heard of people who believe they have experienced the supernatural, and most of them admit to being frightened at first but after the initial shock have an overwhelming sense of calmness come over them.
The singing was the mos
t beautiful I had ever heard. Yet I sensed something devilishly sinister, like he was a demonic impostor. Any minute I thought little red horns would cruelly push their way through his small skull, break through his scalp and beautiful blonde hair. I wasn’t far wrong.
It hadn’t occurred to me until I took in the detail of this visitation, that when I walked up the stairs I was in virtual darkness, but now I was able to see the choirboy. Where was the light coming from? From behind me at the top of the stairs?
I spun around on my heels and stared in unbridled terror at five more cherub-like apparitions. Behind them were my parents and our servants. Each of them held a lit candle. Each of them was faintly transparent.
I looked at my parents for a sign of love, or at least recognition, but they just smiled, emotionless, down at the solitary singing choirboy behind me. As the ghost to my back finished his verse of O Come, O Come Emmanuel, the rest of them joined in. I was horror-struck. I was so scared I could not move. I was beyond scared, I felt numb with fear. So petrified was I, that I could not even scream!
The group at the top of the stairs moved downwards as one, towards me over the steps. The first apparition spoke my name softly. Somehow I managed to break from my statue-like state to look upon my caller.
The last thing I remember seeing before I fainted out of sheer fright was the beautiful cherub-faced choirboy. His once bright blue eyes burning like red-hot coals! The sound of the air raid siren was coming out of his little mouth.
And then I heard the buzzing of an aeroplane, before a bright light engulfed everything, accompanied by a thunderous roar. Then total darkness…
***
I was found around midday in the cellar. Our house had been bombed, completely flattened, but luckily the cellar had remained intact throughout the blast. Apparently, I was trapped beneath a thick beam that miraculously did no permanent damage.
I was unconscious when I was found, and remained that way for several days. The bodies of my parents and servants were found amongst the ruins.
As for the spirits of the choirboys, I can only guess that maybe they were a sign, a portent of the death and destruction that was about to befall my house. Maybe I was not turned into an apparition like my parents and servants because I was destined to survive the blast?
I have mulled this over for many a year, and for the last seventy years have tried to think of every possibility and still not come to any satisfactory conclusion.
Living with my aunt, and studying through years of university to become a doctor, I never mentioned this to anyone.
And so I have lived through fifty years as a general practitioner. Now as I sit in my own house, remembering the story that happened so many years ago, I am writing this down so it can be one day be found and hopefully believed. Maybe someone will research my story and find my answers.
The last piece of information I discovered was that one of the houses that had been bombed three weeks before mine had been the vicarage. Apparently the vicar had been tutoring the local church’s choir. The house was wrecked, but the vicar somehow survived. All of the choirboys had died.
I don’t have much time left, I am in poor health. For the last thirty minutes I have been hearing the singing of the many familiar voices that have haunted my dreams endlessly. It is time I got this withered old body of mine out of this chair. I am feeling weaker by the hour, and it is almost a welcome sight to see the ghostly white angelic face smiling through my window. I must go now: I have some long awaited visitors to greet. I must go downstairs and join the choir.
Farewell my dear reader and Merry Christmas.
Reginald Carleton.
Sadie’s Haunting
Ashley L. Hunt
Even now, after all these years, my parents still say it was some kind of joke. A prank taken too far by 'some neighborhood punks'. Sadie insists it was two ghosts. But I think only one was a ghost. As for the other thing, well I don't know what that was.
The year I turned ten, we moved from the farm Dad had grown up on to a small apartment in the city. I'd made a much bigger fuss than my sister. Maybe moving was easier when you were five. We had to share a bedroom. I resented her for that.
It was hot that summer. Sweltering hot. New England summers usually are. We were allowed to play in the June and July storms, but not the monsters that rolled in late August.
But it was dry that Saturday, hot and sticky but dry, the first day I heard the one she called Kenny. I was playing video games. Sadie was running up and down the hall.
Wap wap wap BAM.
Raiders of the lost Ark is a hard game at the best of times; and I was getting annoyed that the snake kept snarking my stuff.
"Sadie stop!" I called after the third time. The sound was driving me crazy.
Silence.
Then…Wap wap wap BAM.
"SADIE!" I yelled, clomping into the bedroom. Directly opposite the door was the closet. Sadie avoided the closet at all costs. I wondered vaguely why I had left it open.
"Sadie," I began, as I turned toward her bed. That's when I realized she wasn't in the room.
Well, now I was scared. Mom and Dad had trusted me to keep an eye on Sadie, and I had lost her in under half an hour.
"Sadie?" I peeked into Mom and Dads' room. Her crayons were sprawled all over the floor. I knew Sadie and I knew her patterns. For this many crayons, she'd have to have been coloring for hours. Sadie had a rather peculiar habit when coloring. She would color the entire picture at once. She didn't stop until it was finished. And no matter what, she always drew a big yellow sun in the top right corner.
She was under the bed, coloring in a tree. The sky was half finished; there was no sun.
"Sadie?"
"It's chasing him again"
It was then I noticed how hard she was trying to keep her hands from shaking. Then her response registered.
"Sadie, what?"
"The other ghost. It's chasing Kenny again. I hope he finds a better hiding spot this time."
"Sadie, come out from there. We'll play frogs and flies, okay?"
"Alright, Tyler." She wriggled out from under the bed and stared glassy eyed at her picture.
Wap wap wap BAM.
I turned toward the hall. Only the two of us were home. Neither of us had made the sound.
"Sadie, did you hear that?"
No answer.
"Sadie?" I looked back.
Sadie was tearing up her picture. Usually she hung them up on her wall. Sometimes she'd even compose a little song about them later.
"Sadie?" I knelt down beside her.
"He doesn't like them. Kenny says it's because of the sun."
"The one in the corner?" I asked, pointing to where she usually drew the sun. Then I realized she hadn't left any space for the sun. That was unsettling, but nothing compared to what happened next.
I helped Sadie pick up her crayons and put them away. I opened the bedroom door. Sadie froze and went extremely pale, letting off a blood-chilling scream. And then Sadie, who always took such great care of her crayons, who never let a single one bend or snap; Sadie, who loved her crayons more than anything else she owned, and took hours carefully putting each one in just the right spot, dropped her prized crayons and kicked them every which way in her haste to get away. I followed, slipping on the rolling crayons - that red one would never be the same again. My heart skipped a beat when I heard the front door slam shut.
It all out stopped minutes later.
I reached the front door and pulled it open. As I pulled it closed behind me, I heard a voice coming from our apartment.
"SHE'S MINE!"
Sadie stood outside the door, still at the top of the stairs, her blue-brown eyes staring right through me.
"I'm not allowed to go anywhere on my own," was all she said.
It was the only reason she had stopped running. I think even that had barely restrained her.
I reached for her hand. "It's okay Sadie, I'm with you. Let's go get some
frozen lemonade."
Sadie nodded. I think at that point, she would have agreed to walk to California in search of the best Sushi/Broccoli joint in the United states - as it were, I'd not have refused that either.
There was no way we were going back into that apartment any time soon. Out walking around, Sadie became herself again. She skipped, hummed and examined ants and flowers. We played a fast-paced game of kick the can, and even raced part of the way home. I'd half convinced myself it was all imagined, or a clever joke played by a neighbor. Or even Sadie.
Sadie grabbed my hand when we reached our door.
"Kenny says we can't tell Mommy and Daddy."
I nodded, but told Mom and Dad everything the minute Sadie was asleep. Mom and Dad were never good at believing in things like ghosts. They still aren't.
***
After that, Sadie stopped coloring for a while. She began to draw. At first they were harmless looking drawings that Dad and Mom thought were pictures of me.
"But sweetie, Tyler's eyes aren't green," Mom pointed out.
"I know," Sadie replied.
So then I knew that Kenny had blond hair and green eyes.
Before long her drawings had become rather frightening.
Kenny was sad. And surrounded by fire. Then by shadows. Then shadows and fire.
I kept a careful watch on Sadie for the rest of the summer.
Which was how I found her scariest picture of all.
***
"How about a tree Sadie? Draw a tree." I begged.
It was a Wednesday in mid-July. I'd been keeping Sadie out of the house as often as I could, but she was starting to get sunburned. Mom had made me promise to keep her indoors for the day. I was making noodles for lunch, one of the few thing I could cook.
Sadie just kept coloring. The black crayon. She had worn out five black crayons already. This one was almost gone.