GIFT-WRAPPED
&
TOE-TAGGED
a
Melee of Misc.
holiday anthology
hung with care by
Dr. Freud Funkenstein
Christmas, n.
A day set apart and consecrated to gluttony, drunkenness, maudlin sentiment, gift-taking, public dulness and domestic misbehavior.
- Ambrose Bierce,
The Devil’s Dictionary
CONTENTS
NICHOLAS WAS … - Neil Gaiman
A BRIEF HISTORY OF CHRISTMAS - Patrick Kill
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS - James A. Moore
THE STARVING DOGS OF LITTLE CROATIA - Barry Gifford
CHRISTMAS HORROR TALES: AN INTRODUCTION - John Edward Lawson
NACKLES - Donald E. Westlake
FOUR THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT CHRISTMAS - xTx
TINSEL - Frazer Lee
CHRISTMAS EVE - R. Chetwynd-Hayes
DELINQUENT’S YULETIDE - James Swingle
THE WORST CHRISTMAS EVER - Lotus Rose
BLACK STATIC - Kealan Patrick Burke
THE DECORATIONS - Ramsey Campbell
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI INDIAN GIVER - Steve Martin
THE HUMANE WAY - John Everson
COMING HOME - Maria Alexander
THE WAITING GAME - Bruce Jones
CHRISTMAS WISH - Sarah Gomes
THE CHRISTMAS EVES OF AUNT ELISE - Thomas Ligotti
SANTA IS THE DEVIL (I HAVE PROOF!) - J.J. Hyams
HOWARD, THE TENTH REINDEER - Jeff Strand
GRANNY’S GRINNING - Robert Shearman
CHRISTMAS EVE, ALONE - Charles Bukowski
THE YATTERING & JACK - Clive Barker
KRIS KRINGLE’S KRIMINAL KAPERS - Jim Goad
THE STOCKING - Nigel Kneale
HEARTLESS - Mercedes M. Yeardley
WHILE MORTALS SLEEP - Kurt Vonnegut
DEAD SANTA - Patrick Kill
SNAKES & LADDERS - Col Bury
THE BOX - Jack Ketchum
THE JUNKY’S CHRISTMAS - William S. Burroughs
CHECKING IT TWICE - Melissa L. Webb
SEASONS OF BELIEF - Michael Bishop
“GOLDEN HOPE” CHRISTMAS - Robert E. Howard
SLAY BELLS - Simon Wood
VISITATION RIGHTS - Kealan Patrick Burke
FAR OFF THINGS - Quentin S. Crisp
SANTA’S TENTH REINDEER - Gordan van Gelder
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH 390 PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHRISTMAS TREES? - Richard Brautigan
THE STAR - Arthur C. Clarke
JAMES - Tim Burton
S.A. - Jack Kilborn
I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS FOREVER - Richard Matheson
TOMMY’S CHRISTMAS - John R. Little
DON’T MESS WITH THE FAT MAN - Todd Wheeler
THE CHIMNEY - Ramsey Campbell
EGGNOX & EXLAX - Patrick Kill
‘TWAS THE NIGHT - Nick Contor
AN IDEAL FAMILY HOLIDAY - John Edward Lawson
SANTA CLAUS VS. ANTI-CLAUS - Pete Conway
SUNSHINE BEAMED - Marie Green
THE DEAD SEXTON - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
HO, HO, HO - Bill West
SECRET SANTA - Allan Griffiths
CHRISTMAS FOR THE SICK - Supervert
FREEBIES - Laurence Staig
WAITING FOR SANTA - Bentley Little
THE WEIRD WOMAN - Anonymous
I’M WALKING BACKWARDS FOR CHRISTMAS - Spike Milligan
THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE - William Topaz-McGonagall
TANNER’S BOMB - Dan Keohane
SANTA’S WAY - James Powell
NIGHT LIGHTS - Aaron Polson
IMMOLATION - Jeffrey Thomas
DOOMSDAY FATHER CHRISTMAS - Kealan Patrick Burke
CHRISTMAS STORY HOUSE - Patrick Wensink
JACK KETCHUM’S CHRISTMAS MEMORY - Jack Ketchum
THE HELLHOUND PROJECT - Ron Goulart
PANCAKES ARE SPOOKY - Cameron Pierce
STREAMER OF SILVER, RIBBON OF RED - K. Allan Wood
MERRY CHRISTMAS (I DON’T WANT TO FIGHT TONIGHT) - Nigel Bird
TIS THE SEASON - China Mieville
1 SAMUEL 17 - Jesse Bradley
HUNG WITH CARE - Ty Schwamberger
SANTA FUCKS UP - James Dark
CHRISTMAS TAIL - Mark Thomas
THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY - Mark West
A KRAMPUS CHRISTMAS - Ryan Bridger
VANKA - Anton Chekhov
TIMMY, THE BIPOLAR ELF - Nathasha Cabot
SMEE - A.M. Burrage
THE LITTLE HUMMER BOY - Patrick Kill
TINSEL - John Boden
THE DAY I DISCOVERED THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MAN IN THE RED SUIT - R. Phillip Roberts
ISN’T NEXT TO THE REST - Mike Young
THE EVOLUTION OF CLAUS - Nick Ozment
HOME FOR THE ZOMBI-DAYS - A.P. Fuchs
CHRISTMAS WITH MUM - Robin Wade
GREEN GROW’TH THE HOLLY, SO DOTH THE IVY - G.W. Thomas
SANTA BABY - Sarah Downey
BONE TO HIS BONE - E.G. Swain
ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE - J. Steven York
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO GET YOU! - Kevin J. Anderson
CHRISTMAS, THE HARD WAY - John Everson
THE SANTA OF SECTOR 24-G - Scott C. Carr
CHAPEL - Jeffrey Thomas
MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM AN ATHEIST - Ray Garton
ANGEL OF LIGHT - Joe Haldeman
ALL I WANTED FOR CHRISTMAS WAS TO DIE - LJ Blount
SNOWMEN - Kealan Patrick Burke
REINDEER LOCAL 79: AN ORAL MEMOIR - Jon Alan Carroll
TO DANCE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON - Stephen Gallagher
NIGHTMARE ON 34TH ST. - Paul Kane
DOCKING BAY THREE - Megan Powell
THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT - Ramsey Campbell
A CHRISTMAS STORY - James S. Dorr
SAMANTHA’S DIARY - Diana Wynn Jones
CHRISTMAS IN WATSON HOLLOW - Jerrold Mundis
WAITING FOR ANAIS - Chaz Wood
SAD STORIES OF THE DEATH OF KINGS - Barry Gifford
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER - Robert J. Duperee
CHRISTMAS, 1976 - Michael Ian Black
THE FESTIVAL - H.P. Lovecraft
DEAR SANTA - Michael Arnzen
THE PEDDLER’S JOURNEY - Ronald Kelly
HARNESSING THE BRANE DEER - Robert Billing
THE KRAMPUS - Sam Williams
INTERVIEW: A CHRISTMAS ELF or WHO’S DERRICK? - James Maddox
THE GHOST SHIPS - Angela Carter
I SAW RENNY SHOOTING SANTA CLAUS - David Whitman
WITHIN THE WALLS OF TYRE - Michael Bishop
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT - Chris Deal
NO PRESENTS FOR CHRISTMAS - Kailleaugh Andersson
AUGGIE WREN’S CHRISTMAS - Paul Auster
THE REAL STORY OF FROSTY THE SNOWMAN - James Valvis
THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER - James Patrick Kelly
SECRET SANTA - Jackson Publick
CHRISTMAS LIGHTS - Brett McBean
LAST CHRISTMAS - Teel McClanahan III
CHRISTMAS EVE - Guy de Maupassant
THEY KNOW - Kealan Patrick Burke
A NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL - Arthur Machen
BUSMAN'S HOLIDAY - Tony Campbell
FROST - John Everson
THE NIGHT OF THE MEEK - Rod Serling
ON THE HILLS AND EVERYWHERE - Manly Wade Wellman
CALLING CARD - Ramsey Campbell
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS - Robert Bloch
DON’T HATE THE PLAYA, HATE THE DATING GAME - Bradley Sands
THEM WHAT AILS YA - Cullen Bunn
UP THROUGH THE NIGHT - Charles Bukowski
THIS WONDERFUL LIFE - Patrick Kill
WISH - Al Sarrantonio
CHRISTMAS WITH THE DEAD - Joe R. Lansdale
I HOPE YOU HAVE SUCH A GREAT CHRISTMAS, YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODES - Jim Goad
Neil Gaiman
NICHOLAS WAS …
older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.
The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.
Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.
He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.
Patrick Kill
A BRIEF HISTORY OF CHRISTMAS
ONCE UPON A time a long, long time ago, a woman got knocked up by God. On the night she gave birth, there appeared a bright white light in the sky which was later identified as a passing UFO. Local shepherds followed this UFO to the birth place. They came bearing gifts for the newborn and left their flocks unattended. Meanwhile, one herd was stampeding into a village of crippled children, leaving behind nothing but rubble…and splintered crutches.
Many, many, many years later, in a far distant land known as America, a group of men and women known as retailers met and decided it was about time everyone celebrated the immaculate conception of an infant now known as Christ. They decided that the best way to celebrate this was by creating a holiday. And, on this holiday, people would celebrate by spending lots of money and by giving presents to one another. Furthermore, this holiday would be the single day of the year that strangers were nice to each other. And that even though Christ was born in July, it should be changed to December to coincide with end-of-the-year sales.
After this first meeting of retailers ended, one retailer went home to find that his house had been broken into, as someone had slid down the chimney and raided his safe. Inside, the drunken burglar had passed out wearing his wife’s red velvet negligee, knee-high black boots and a white fluffy boa.
Within an hour, another meeting was called and the burglar named Ronnie Clause was introduced to the board of retailers. To make up for his bad deed, the burglar supplied free moonshine to every one in the meeting along with such drugs as crack and PCP. Within minutes, the stoned and drunken staff of retailers had come up with the myth of Ronnie Clause…a fat drunken guy who breaks into houses and leaves presents. (The image was a slight adjustment made from the retailers’ sober marketing staff, along with a name change to Santa, although the wild drug-induced vision of some fat guy riding on a sled pulled by flying reindeer actually was kept. Luckily, though, Santa’s attire was changed from skimpy negligee to a much warmer gear, thanks in part to the frigid winters up north.)
That about sums it up. Of course, there’s a lot more to it, but, as titled above, this is just a brief history. I could also tell you about Hitler’s secret concentration camp filled with Pygmy Jews. Instead of being gassed, the little people were sold as slaves who were then forced into sweatshops to make toys for American children. Again, the marketing geniuses created a happier version of the Pygmy slave: the elf. But, the last I had heard, Oprah still didn’t refer to them as “elves.” Of course, “Lazy Fucking Midgets” isn’t really a slogan that ties in nicely with “Peace, Love and Happiness,” three popular words found on most every Hallmark Christmas card which, incidentally, sells for the same price as what a Pygmy Jew makes in an entire week of slaving away in Oprah’s basement.
So, on that note, this history lesson concludes.
James A. Moore
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
‘TWAS THE SEASON.
The roads leading into town were nearly cleaned of the thick sheath of snow that had blanketed the area for the last week and there were Christmas lights in the windows of most of the houses and all of the shops. One elemental truth stood against any and all religious differences during the holiday season: Christmas decorations meant more customers. Even the very Scroogiest shop owners knew that simple fact, and all of them did their best to take advantage of it.
They’d have had the damnedest time when it came to Jonathan Crowley. He’d been known to celebrate the season on behalf of others a few times, but not in longer than most of the stores on Main Street had been around.
Black Stone Bay was a beautiful town and half deserted for the holidays. Two universities took up a good portion of the area and with school out of session most of the students had gone home, leaving the campuses oddly silent despite the festive decorations. It leant the town a haunted air, though he could easily sense there were other reasons for that sensation. No town of any age managed to stay free of dark spots, places where life had gone wrong or death had grown cancerous. Black Stone Bay was a town most places aspired to; the people were well off, the crime rate was light—with a few exceptions—and the town was postcard perfect. It had been years since he’d come through the town and remarkably little had changed since then. There were no new developments, no subdivisions that had grown into the area or overshadowed older neighborhoods. No matter who might want to bring change to the town, the people who lived there would never tolerate the idea.
There was little space for the nouveau riche in the place. The old money families saw to that.
The very notion set Crowley’s teeth on edge. He had no special love of the wealthy, or of the needy. He had no special love for people, if the truth must be known, but they called on him just the same, and with no consideration of what they asked when they made their requests.
“So, tell me about your friend.” He looked at the latest in an endless line of people who’d asked for help. The woman was not a stranger. He’d met her twenty years earlier when she was in college herself and living in Los Angeles. Back then Laura Natchez Montgomery had planned to be the next big thing as an actress. Two decades had removed that desire and replaced it with a fairly large family, including a husband, three children and two dogs. Dreams change. Jonathan Crowley could have told her that when they met, but knew she wouldn’t have listened. Most people don’t want to hear unpleasant or inconvenient truths when they’re young and still know everything.
Laura sighed and looked out the window while she composed herself and tried to figure out exactly what to say.
She was not a previous client. He had never been asked to help her out of a dilemma, but he’d come to her assistance just the same. They met while he was on the hunt and tracking down a killer. A flesh eater if he remembered correctly, one that killed its victims and then let them rot for a few days before it picked the bones clean. Laura had been unlucky enough to find one of the bodies and catch the damned thing’s attention. She was a striking girl as he recalled, and the thing that had run across her agreed. It was a matter of timing really, blind luck that kept her from being raped by the nightmare. It was just tearing her clothes away, cackling as she screamed and tried to fight it off.
For Crowley it had also been a perfect distraction to let him take the damned thing down once and for all. The seams on Laura’s jeans split open and she cried out at exactly the same time he was driving a ceremonial sword into the back of the demon’s skull. The impact had broken the blade, much to his disgust. He hadn’t been able to find a replacement and it wasn’t for lack of looking over the years.
As he often did, he made sure she forgot about his existence and what had been done to her, with the simple added command that she would remember him and how to contact him should she run across another situation where he might be useful.
Two decades later she called him about a friend of the family.
“I stil
l can’t get over how little you’ve changed…” Her voice drifted almost sleepily. He hadn’t changed. She had. Two decades weighed on her, etching fine lines in her features and transforming her from a tiny sexpot into a mother of three with the hips to prove it. Crowley looked exactly the same. The only noticeable difference was likely in his clothes and that was just because it was a damned site colder in New England at Christmastime than it was in California at the height of the summer.
“That’s not why we’re here, Laura. You wanted to tell me about your husband’s friend.” He allowed himself a small flash of a smile and waited while she thought over the situation.
Her eyes traveled along the length of him, not ogling, but absorbing. He was not normal and sometimes it took people a while to adjust to that fact. He was tolerant. Well, at least for the moment. The silences were stretching his willingness to behave himself.
“He’s not…” She sighed. “He’s not my husband’s friend. He’s my uncle. I just, I didn’t know if you would take me seriously if I said he was a family member.”
His lips pressed together and he forced himself to remain pleasant. He wasn’t known for his patience, and liars, while amazingly common in his experience, almost always managed to piss him off.
“Oh, nothing to worry about. I don’t need him to be anything to you one way or the other. I just need to know what the situation is that has me in Rhode Island instead of home for the holidays.” He stared pointedly until she got the hint and nodded her head. He had nothing to go home to, but that wasn’t any of her business and so he opted not to share the information.
“Turner is my uncle. My mother’s brother, but a lot younger than her. He’s only around five years older than me. We have never been overly close, but we know each other, of course.” She smiled apologetically and Crowley nodded his encouragement. For some people talking about family was like pulling teeth. “He lost his family a few years ago.” She looked out the passenger’s side window of his car as he moved slowly, smoothly down the road. “He was at work, and somebody broke in. Somebody killed all of them. His wife, his children.” She sounded apologetic, as if she were responsible for the entire situation. He was always amazed by how many people seemed to worry about that.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 1