Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  Roy’s world was black. The fresh scent of pine and burnt wood hit his nostrils. Despite wanting to open his eyes, he couldn’t. The smell from the pine and wood filled his nose, went down his throat and hit his lungs. He tried moving, but the best he could do was wiggle his toes. They were in something liquid, something warm and sticky.

  A craggily voice hung over his head like a wet blanket, each sound it made just that: sound without meaning.

  Head hurting, confusion setting in, the sound of his heartbeat began to fill his ears and pulse away, each thump-thump thump-thump getting louder as if it was pumping inside his head instead of in his chest.

  Muscles aching, he tried to move again, but like before the most he could manage was wiggling his toes. The sticky liquid sloshed over his feet, its warmth sending goosebumps up and down his skin.

  A hot tingle, then extreme relaxation as he felt every muscle in his body turn to quivering jelly. His heart pounded, the beats growing slower apart. Roy thought he was shaking, but couldn’t be sure. That voice sounded overhead and still held no meaning. The beats slowed even more, and the inside of his chest began to feel hollow, as if something inside was slipping away. The sticky fluid splashed up and hit his legs. He realized he was indeed shaking. Thump.

  Thump.

  Th—

  * * *

  The sweetness of the pine’s sap rested on Roy’s tongue, every inch of skin inside his mouth coated with the sticky stuff. When he opened his eyes, a man’s face was before him, the fellow with his hands on either side of Roy’s head. “You there, mate? Your colour’s gone. All pallid, you are. ‘The Blend’ was supposed to warm you, not freeze you out again.” “Hrrrmm …” The sound trickled out of Roy’s mouth. “That’s it. Wake up. Let’s get you out of—” The man glanced down at Roy’s feet. “The bucket’s empty. Where’s ‘The Blend’? It’s as if you sucked it right up through your feet and—”

  Roy put his hands on the man’s and held them there. The fella’s old face looked familiar, but no name came to mind. Roy licked his lips, the sweetness of the sap gone.

  Where was it? What was he drinking that was so good, so sweet? It had to be around here, had to be—

  The texture of the man’s skin beneath his palms, tender, appealing. He smelled good, too, the scent stirring his stomach, making it rumble. Slowly, Roy brought the man’s hand off one of his cheeks and dragged it across his skin to his mouth. The man’s hands smelled of the delicious sweet stuff. Roy stuck out his tongue and licked inside the man’s palm.

  “Now, hey, there just a second. You can’t—” The moment the man pulled his hand away, Roy jerked it back and couldn’t help himself but bite into it. Warm blood spurted up into his mouth. The man howled and ripped his hand away, cradling it against himself like a baby.

  Roy stood up, whatever that red stuff was that came out of the man’s hand was even sweeter than the sap of a pine. He had to have more. Had to have that delicious sweetness on his tongue all the time. Legs heavy, head tipped to one side no matter how hard he tried to straighten it, Roy slowly moved toward him.

  With the tears in his eyes, the man said, “Roy, it’s me Sam. What’re you doing? What’s happened? Why are you—?”

  Sam took a step back. Roy forced his legs to move faster. He raised his arms and reached forward. The old man looked like he was going to turn away from him, so Roy fell forward, his hands landing on the man’s shoulders, Roy’s weight was enough to set the old guy off balance and pull him to the floor.

  “Mrrrr …” More.

  He let his head flop onto Sam’s and he started biting into the old man’s face. His teeth tore away the flesh from the cheeks despite Sam’s open mouth screaming in pain. If anything, the old man’s screams made it easier because it stretched the skin and made a larger surface area for him to bite in to.

  Roy slurped the slab of chewy skin into his mouth, relishing the sweet flavour of the blood upon it. These two combined made him go into a frenzy. He grabbed Sam’s head, torqued it to the side, inadvertently snapping the old man’s neck.

  Roy ripped into his throat and tore out his trachea, crunching down on it like corn on the cob. Every mouthful made him want more and he ripped away Sam’s clothes and dug into his abdomen like a dog burying a bone. Intestines boiled over the rim of the bloody cavity like noodles and sauce over a pot. Roy gorged on them, their slick texture sliding down his throat like squid.

  With each mouthful, he wanted more. He dipped his hand into the old man’s body and pulled out the liver and bit down on it like a pizza.

  Growling, he chomped it down and knew that once the flesh from this man was gone, he wanted more. But where?

  He’d find something. He had to.

  When he was finished, Roy got up, let chunks of meat and strings of bloody skin roll off his mouth and chin and down his body. Eyes fixed forward, he stumbled to the door and left. While outside, something pulled him to the right. He didn’t know where he was going, but heading this way seemed the right thing to do. The partly-covered tracks in the snow said someone else had been this way before.

  He walked on.

  * * *

  “Roy?” Elena called from the front door. “Roy, we’re home!” She looked down at Stephanie, their daughter. “Why don’t you take your boots off and find Daddy?”

  “Okay.”

  For a six-year-old, Steph was already adept at putting on and taking off her ski pants and parka. Still needed help with the wrap-around-the-head scarf though.

  Before Steph left the foyer, she asked, “Should I tell him about Grandma and Grandpa coming over, too?”

  Elena smiled. “Let it be a surprise.”

  Steph grinned, mimed zipping her lips shut, locking them, and throwing away the key. Elena gave her a wink. The little girl ran off into the house.

  Elena hoisted the two duffel bags from their trip over her shoulders and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom so they’d be ready for unpacking later. As much as she wanted to see her husband right away and plant a big, wet kiss on that face of his, it was more important to her that their daughter spent a few minutes alone with him first because she had been so excited to see him. It was all she talked about on their trip home.

  Elena dropped the bags on the bed then made her way back down the stairs. When almost at the bottom, a high-pitched shriek shook her to the core.

  “Steph!” she screamed then jumped down the last step and headed for the kitchen. “Where are you?” The girl screamed again. Downstairs! Elena ran down the stairs to the family room. Her foot caught on a step about halfway down and folded under her. She was on her butt instantly and slid down the stairs. She hit the bottom in a heap.

  The screaming turned to a wet gurgle.

  Then nothing.

  The family room was empty. Just the sofa, the loveseat and the big, microfiber chair that she and her husband fought to sit on all the time. The flat screen TV was there, turned off.

  There was no Steph.

  The laundry room!

  Foot hurting something fierce, she forced herself up and limped to where the small room ran off the TV area, just beside the bar. The light was off, the door slightly open.

  Call the cops. Call the cops. Call the cops, she told herself. Steph! She had to know her daughter was okay.

  She slowly neared the door and debated saying hello. Stay quiet. Just see what’s there first.

  Elena crept up to the small opening and listened. A soft sound came from the dark room: wet and slurpy. She pushed on the door; it opened with a whiny creak. The slurping stopped and a pair of drooping, white eyes gazed up at her from the dark. “Roy!” she said and flicked the light on. “Roy?” Her husband sat on the floor, their daughter in his lap, chunks of Steph’s face dangling from his lips. Blood dribbled off his chin, the droplets splashing against the open flesh of what was once Stephanie’s cheekbone. Their daughter gazed up at the ceiling, eyes open, never blinking.

  Screaming, Elena turned and ran. G
rab her! Get Steph out of there! But her legs refused to turn her around. She tumbled over a few steps later, her bad foot giving out from under her.

  “No, no, no …”

  Roy appeared in the doorway then hobbled toward her, dragging Stephanie’s limp body by the foot behind him. Her husband’s skin was blue, and bruised in nasty blotches all over his face and neck. He still had on his jacket and boots. His hands were blue as well, with dark sores on his fingers. Blood coated his face, chunks of moist flesh dotting his cheeks and forehead, as if he had stuffed his face into a bag of hamburger like a dog did to a snowbank.

  Elena crawled along the ground, trying desperately to get her legs underneath her.

  When she finally managed to get up and get most of her weight on her good leg, Roy grabbed her from behind. She swung around and backhanded him, but not before he tried to snap the hand off with his mouth. Fortunately, he didn’t.

  Breaking loose, Elena quickly limped to the stairs and, tears in her eyes, began the brave ascent to higher ground.

  As she hobbled up the stairs, the thump-slap of Roy’s footfalls pulsed behind her.

  “Come on,” she said through gritted teeth, “move it!” A few more stairs and … she was at the top. She desperately wanted to catch her breath but a thwoomp-bump behind her caused her to glance over her shoulder. Roy had fallen face first on the stairs, his blue-gray hands with black fingernails clawing at the steps as he tried to regain his footing.

  The front door. She had to get to the front door. Elena ran as fast as she could through the house. Her heart leapt in her chest when the front door came into view. Elated, she ran even harder for it, hand already reaching out for the knob. She quickly snapped it back when another blue-gray man appeared in front of her, his eyes dull, green mucus oozing from between his lips. The portly old-timer reached for her. She slapped his hand away and did a one-eighty, heading back down the hallway in the hopes of making it to the patio door off the kitchen.

  The old man behind her groaned, his clumsy footfalls thumping the wooden floor in heavy wumps as he followed suit.

  Roy reached for her with both hands the moment he got to the top of the stairs. Elena hugged herself as she twisted by, narrowly avoiding him. She entered the kitchen, slipped on the linoleum, and hit the ground face first. A dull, echoey spike of pain blasted through her nose and into her forehead and cheekbones. Tears suddenly springing from her eyes sent the kitchen into a blurry mosaic of brown rectangular shapes dotted with silver.

  Low moans droned somewhere behind her.

  Elena pushed herself onto her feet, her head immediately swooning as she stood. She stumbled back a step … and into a pair of waiting blue-gray hands behind her.

  Screeching, she tugged herself away, but not before a burst of wet warmth gushed onto her shoulder, soaking into her shirt. The pain came after, and there was no feeling in her right arm from shoulder to fingertips.

  “Stop! STOP! STOOOOOPPPPPPP!” she shrieked as she made her way to the patio door. With each footfall, pain shot through her arm, the swinging motion only adding to the agony.

  At the sliding patio door, she found the handle with her other hand and pulled. The door opened about a foot. Elena went to open it some more, but Roy slammed up against the glass right in front of her, his weight against the door making it impossible to open any further.

  “Get away! Getawaygetawaygetaway …” she screamed and instinctively lashed out at him with her left hand. Roy caught it and yanked her fingers to his mouth, ripping them free from her palms. Blood spurted out of the stumps like geysers; throbbing pain shot up her arm and seemed to punch her in the face.

  Dizzy, Elena swung herself sideways through the foot-wide opening in the door, doing everything she could to get herself outside and her hand from Roy’s mouth. The creature held on, his grip solid, fighting her every effort. She pulled and pulled and … her arm dislocated in its socket. Pain shook her upper body and she fell out of the house and onto the patio.

  Crawling along the deck, wriggling her hips and legs to move forward, eyes still blurry from tears, panic accelerating her heart with every moment – her first thought was how the deep snow didn’t feel that cold at all. If anything, it felt as if it wasn’t there.

  White snow.

  A series of sharp pricks hit the rear of her calves. A second later, red rained around her, dying the snow just in front of her a rich crimson.

  Off in the corner of the yard was an old evergreen, one that she and Roy had planted there back when they first moved in. She loved its colour. Always had. Its green matched the red on the snow.

  Something heavy landed on top of her. Then something else. She thought she heard Roy whisper something. Then again, it could have been her imagination. “Merry Christmas,” she thought she heard him say. “Glad you’re home for the Holidays.” But it wasn’t Roy’s voice or the old fellow’s. A little girl’s head landed in front of her; Steph’s wide eyes wrapped loosely around her skull was all that remained of their princess.

  Elena couldn’t feel her legs anymore. She still didn’t feel the snow. The evergreen looked on. A bruised hand knocked some snow over her eyes. Everything was blue-grey.

  Paul A. Freeman

  CHRISTMAS WITH MUM

  ROBIN WADE GLANCED at his watch and sighed. Filial duty was a burden at the best of times, but on Christmas Day…

  “Everything alright?” said Robin’s mother, smiling across the dining room table.

  “Wonderful, mum.”

  Old Mrs Wade drew the blades of her two carving knives across each other, sharpening the steel. “More turkey, dear?”

  Robin shook his head. “I’ve got to get back, mum.” He polished off his second glass of sherry, then added truthfully, “I’m not feeling too well.”

  “What a shame. Perhaps some Christmas pudding before you go.”

  Robin was about to protest, but his mother was already bustling off.

  “Maybe next year Karen and Geoff will join us,” Mrs Wade shouted, from the kitchen. “Then we can have a real family Christmas again.”

  Very unlikely, thought Robin, remembering last year’s stand-up row between himself, his sister and his brother. None of the siblings had spoken since.

  Feeling decidedly nauseous by now, Robin loosened his tie. He used his mother’s untouched glass of sherry as the focal point for his increasingly strained vision.

  He was suddenly aware that his mother was back in the room. She was fussing around, laying two extra place mats. On each mat, she set down a plate. To Robin’s unfocused gaze there appeared to be large Christmas puddings on the plates.

  Mrs Wade resumed her seat. “Isn’t this nice, dear?” she said, picking up the carving knives and once more drawing the blades against each other. “All my darling children back with their mummy.”

  Robin tried to make sense of his mother’s last comment, but the poison in the sherry was already paralysing his central nervous system. However, some still functioning instinct told him that the two round objects on the plates were not Christmas puddings.

  G.W. Thomas

  GREEN GROW’TH THE HOLLY, SO DOTH THE IVY

  JOHNNY TWO-FEATHERS and I had just finished our Christmas Eve dinner of bannock and rabbit stew, when the door to Cabin Number Two flew open. It might have been the wind, for it was blowing apace outside, except that Johnny had just fixed the latch that morning. We both turned to look at the stranger in the door, wrapped in a heavy coat and a beaver hat.

  "Got room for another?" he asked through frozen lips.

  "Sure," I said. Johnny got up to fill the kettle from the bucket on the sideboard. The newcomer looked cold. He'd need something warm to drink. After the kettle, Johnny started setting up for another batch of bannock.

  "Name's Llwewellyn," said the stranger, taking a seat close to the fire. He warmed his small hands and looked casually at our home. Not much to see except traps on the wall, a feed store calendar and a single picture of the Holy Mary that Johnn
y had bought in Edmonton. Cost him a big beaver pelt. I'm not much of the God-fearing type, so it was all the same to me. But Johnny loved that picture.

  While the Indian took down the sack from the ceiling then picked the mouse turds out of the flour, I talked with our guest. He was a typical Welshman, shorter than me, dark hair, blue eyes with a sad quality to them. I found out later this was not sadness, but something else.

  "So, Mr. Llwewellyn, what brings you to the wilds of Alberta?" I asked idly.

  "Prospecting," he lied. He weren't no prospector. He looked city-born. I said nothing, just looked to Johnny. The Indian kept his opinion to himself.

  I noticed our guest's leg then. He was bleeding.

  "We'll need to put something on that," I offered. He began to brush me off but when he saw how much blood was on his pant leg, he nodded yes. I got the kit out from under the bed. Johnny brought hot water from the kettle. Llwewellyn pulled the pant leg up to show five or six deep gashes. They weren't animal bites but more like when a man scratches his leg on a branch. Llwewellyn offered an explanation as I cleaned and bandaged the wound.

  "Had a little accident on that beaver dam." He pointed in the direction of Blue Creek where the beaver were once thick. It was possible that he had torn his leg in an old beaver run. Just possible.

  Soon Johnny had the bannock ready. Usually we bake it but since he was in a hurry he fried it in bear grease in a pan. There wasn't any more rabbit so the stranger had to make due with dried meat. Llwewellyn eyed the vittles on the sideboard.

  "That's a nice turkey you got there," he said, like he was hinting for an invite. Neither Johnny nor I took the bait.

  "For Christmas dinner," said Johnny. "Potatoes and cranberries." The Indian showed him a bowl filled with wild cranberries, picked in October but stored in our cold house.

  "We traded a wild goose for that bird. From the Norwegians near Mayerthorpe."