9 YEARS AGO
“Happy birthday!” said Grandma over the phone. “You excited about Christmas? Santa Claus is almost here! I hope you were good!”
“I was,” said Clyde.
8 YEARS AGO
“It’s a birthday present and Christmas present!” said Jake. “My mom said it was okay to do it that way and you were probably used to it.”
“That’s fine,” said Clyde.
7 YEARS AGO
“I can’t come to your party,” said Melissa. “All my relatives are in town. We’re putting up the tree tonight.”
“Okay,” said Clyde.
6 YEARS AGO
“Your birthday present’s in Christmas paper because it’s both a birthday and a Christmas present,” said Amy.
“How thoughtful,” said Clyde.
5 YEARS AGO
“You’re lucky, Clyde,” said Mortimer. “I never get to go out caroling on my birthday!”
“It’s great,” said Clyde.
4 YEARS AGO
“Happy birthday!” said Abigail. “Here’s your present! You can’t open it until the 25th, though. It’s a birthday and a Christmas present!”
“That makes sense,” said Clyde.
3 YEARS AGO
“Oh, I’d love to go,” said Henry, “but I don’t know when we’re going to get back from the mall. I haven’t started my Christmas shopping.”
“No problem,” said Clyde.
2 YEARS AGO
“Thank you,” said Clyde. “I didn’t even know they made a Christmas edition of Monopoly.”
“Since it’s a birthday and a Christmas present, I wanted to get you something appropriate,” said Joe.
“Of course,” said Clyde.
1 YEAR AGO
“Sorry it’s just a card,” said Daphne. “I’m broke around the holidays. You know how it is.”
“Yes,” said Clyde.
TODAY
“It’s a birthday present and a Christmas present,” said Uncle Mitch.
“Thank you,” said Clyde, just before he reached under his Christmas sweater, took out a revolver, and shot Uncle Mitch in the face. Blood and brain matter splattered against the tree.
Everybody screamed.
“Who else wants to give me a combination birthday/Christmas present?” Clyde demanded, waving the gun around at the other five people in the living room. “Anybody? C’mon, I know you motherfuckers have more combined gifts for me! Who else? ”
“Just calm down,” said Dad, stepping forward. “There’s no reason to get upset.”
Clyde pointed the gun at their elderly next door neighbor. “Hey, Mrs. Grayson! You brought over a gift, didn’t you? I see it right there on the dining room table! Nice red and green paper! I love the candy cane under the bow—very festive! How about you go get my present so we can continue the celebration, huh?”
“I don’t think this is the appropriate time,” said Mrs. Grayson.
“I disagree! It’s party time, bitch! Go get it!”
Trembling and weeping, the old woman stood up and slowly walked into the dining room. She suddenly turned and tried to make a run for it, but her left foot twisted underneath her and she fell to the floor.
Clyde stormed into the dining room. He picked the package up by the ribbon. “Oh, look. It’s to Clyde. Happy Birthday/Merry Christmas.”
“I’m sorry!” said Mrs. Grayson. “Money is tight during the holi—”
Clyde threw the present to the floor, then shot her in the throat.
He waved the gun at the remaining four people. “Nobody move! My present to myself is that I get to watch her die!”
Mrs. Grayson clutched at her neck, blood spurting between her fingers. She was dead before “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” had finished playing on the radio.
“Who’s next?” Clyde asked.
“Please calm down,” said Dad. “Please, son, you have to remember that the true spirit of Christmas is about giving, not receiving!”
“Fuck you, Dad!” Clyde shouted, shooting Dad in the stomach. “That bullet was for Christmas and your birthday! How does it feel? How does it feel, Dad?”
“We never did that!” Dad insisted, as he fell to the floor. Mom let out a wail of anguish and horror.
“No, but you let it happen! You didn’t protect me from the others! Betty always had a huge July celebration! She had clowns and ponies at her parties! Where were my clowns and ponies, Dad? Where were my clowns and ponies? ”
“We’re sorry!” said Mom. “It wasn’t our fault! You were unplanned! We never would have done this to you on purpose! We’d just moved into our own home and we weren’t used to having privacy!”
“You ruined my life!”
Mom gestured around the living room. “But, sweetheart, we’re having a party for you right now!”
“Bullshit! This isn’t a birthday party! These people happened to stop over!” He shot Aunt Penny between the eyes. Before she’d finished tumbling out of the recliner, he pointed the gun at the postman. “He’s just here because you offered him hot cocoa!”
“There are a bunch of birthday presents for you out in my truck!” said the postman. “I was going to get them after I finished my cocoa! I’ll go right out and get them!”
Clyde shot the postman in the head. He spilled the hot drink all over his lap but was too dead to feel the scalding pain.
“Please, son …” said Dad. “Don’t … don’t do this …” He coughed up some blood, then began to sing. “Happy birthday … to … you … happy … birth … day ……… to …” His eyes glazed over and he went silent.
“ … you …” Mom continued. “Happy Birthday dear Clyde, happy—”
Clyde shot her.
“I totally get where you’re coming from,” said the last person alive, Mr. Taylor, who lived two houses down. “My birthday isn’t just in December. My birthday is on Christmas.”
“That must suck,” said Clyde.
“Oh, God, does it ever! One year my parents just put candles in the fruitcake. Can you imagine? So I understand what you’re going through. I understand why you wanted to go on a killing spree. But I am not your enemy. I’m the only one who truly knows your anguish.”
“Let me see your driver’s license,” said Clyde.
“What?”
“I said, let me see your driver’s license or some other form of identification.”
“I, uh, didn’t bring my wallet with me.”
“What’s your zodiac sign?”
“Huh? Oh, uh…”
“You lying piece of crap,” said Clyde, before he pulled the trigger. Mr. Taylor’s nose exploded.
Clyde gazed at the corpses. Some would call it an extreme reaction. Some would dismiss him as a lunatic. But he’d share his message with all who would listen.
He could hear sirens in the distance. Clyde went into the kitchen, where his birthday cake rested on the counter. He lit the candles and took a deep breath.
He could be the catalyst of change for future generations. He could be a cautionary tale of the dangers of downplaying birthdays just because of their proximity to the most popular holiday of the year.
Clyde made his birthday wish and blew out the candles.
A NOTE FROM SANTA
William F. Nolan
Do you believe in ghosts? Well, I sure do. With good reason. I met one, a real nasty one. I’d just gone down the chimney of this home in Kansas City. Old part of town. Rundown. But I had to stop off and deliver some toys to this little ten-year-old brat, which I did. Left ’em by the big Christmas tree in the living room. The kid was still asleep.
And that’s when this ghost showed up, fierce-looking. A mean SOB, that’s for sure. Lemme tell you, not all ghosts are vapory. This one was solid. Came at me with an axe!
Swung it at me. I ducked under the blade and lit out for the chimney. Climbed back to the roof. Looked down. There he was, peering up the chimney at me and shaking his axe.
Well, as I wa
s watching him, he just began misting away, till there was nothing left of him but his axe. Oh, he was a ghost all right. No doubt of that.
I was lucky to be alive!
And that’s why I believe in ghosts.
SILENT NIGHT
Richard Chizmar
The man sat in his car parked alongside the cemetery and finished his cigarette. The engine was off and the driver’s window was down. It was raining, not too hard, not too soft, a steady rain that drummed the man a lonely lullaby on the roof of his car and soaked his left elbow, which was propped out the window.
He reached over with a gloved hand and dropped the butt into an empty water bottle sitting on the passenger seat next to him. He did this by feel, never once taking his eyes off the cemetery grounds. He scanned from left to right, and back again.
The cemetery had been crowded earlier—always was this time of year—but now the grounds were nearly abandoned thanks to the late hour and the cold and rain. His eyes touched an elderly man a few hundred yards to his right. The old man had been there for the better part of an hour, standing still and rigid, staring down at a grave marker, lost in thought and memory. A middle-aged couple knelt on the wet ground directly in front of the man’s car, maybe a hundred yards out. Had they lost a child, the man wondered? Or were they mourning a mother or father or both? The man thought it could have been all three. The way this world works.
The old-timer left first, weaving his way surprisingly fast between the headstones to a faded red pickup. The truck started with a backfire that sounded too much like a gunshot and slunk away into the twilight. The man watched the taillights fade to tiny red sparks and imagined a dinner table set for one awaiting the old man at home.
Five minutes later, the middle-aged man helped the middle-aged woman to her feet, and with wet knees they walked hand-in-hand to a gray SUV parked at the opposite end of the road. The middle-aged woman never looked up, but the middle-aged man did. Just before he opened his car door and got inside, he glanced back at the man and nodded.
The man remained perfectly still in his car. He didn’t return the nod and he didn’t lift a hand to wave. He cast his eyes downward for a moment out of habit, an old trick, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. He was being paranoid again. He gauged the distance at sixty yards and it was raining and his wipers weren’t on. The middle-aged man was merely nodding at a dark shape behind blurry glass; a polite acknowledgement that he and the man sitting alone in his car both belonged to the same somber fraternity. A moment of kindness shared, and nothing else.
The man watched the middle-aged couple drive away and fought the urge to light up another cigarette. He scanned the cemetery grounds, left to right and back again, waited five more minutes to be sure, and then he got out of the car.
~
In Forest Hills Memorial Gardens at 6:19 p.m. on December 24th a single man exits the lone car that remains parked on cemetery property, a dark sedan with rental license plates. The man is of medium height but broad in his chest and shoulders. He looks around, like he’s making sure he’s alone, straightens his jacket, lowers his winter hat, and despite walking with a slight limp, he makes his way quickly and confidently to a nearby gravesite. The man’s eyes never stop moving beneath that winter hat, and the path he takes is precise and direct. The man has been here before.
Once he reaches his destination, the man bends down and places a single red rose at the base of a headstone, where it joins several other much fancier flower arrangements and a plastic Santa decoration with a candle inside, its flame long since drenched by the falling December rain. The man traces a finger along the names engraved on the marker. He is wearing gloves on both of his hands, and there’s a flash of dark gunmetal at the back of the man’s waistband.
The man doesn’t linger. He quickly stands up, readjusts his jacket and once again surveys the cemetery, slower this time, as if he somehow senses a presence there in the trees, and then he heads back to his car without a backward glance.
Within a heartbeat of closing his car door, the man starts the engine and speeds out of the cemetery. Headlights off and nary a tapping of brake lights. A dark shadow swallowed by the night and the approaching storm.
High in the towering pines, the rain changes over to snow and the wind picks up, whispering its secrets. But the cemetery is deserted now and there is no one left to hear.
~
“Are you Santa Claus?”
The man stopped in mid-step, one foot in the kitchen, one foot still in the family room, staring over his shoulder at the little boy standing in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. The boy was wearing red-and-white pajamas and blinking sleep from his eyes. The man slowly removed his hand from the gun in his waistband, where it had instinctually moved to at the sound of the boy’s voice, turned around, and lifted a finger to his lips. Sshhh.
The little boy—nine years old and named Peter, the man knew—wrinkled his nose in confusion, but stayed quiet.
The man slowly stepped back into the family room. His hands held out in front of him. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I was just on my way out.”
The little boy moved closer, unafraid, and whispered right back, “If you’re not Santa, then who are you?”
The man didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there, memorizing every inch of the little boy. He had entered the house twenty minutes earlier through the basement door. It had been too easy; he hadn’t even needed to use his special tools. He’d crept up the carpeted stairs, silent as a housecat, and eased his way into a dark kitchen, and then the family room, where he’d found a Christmas tree tucked into the corner by the fireplace with dozens of wrapped presents waiting beneath it. The man had stood there in the quiet darkness for a long time, taking it all in. The decorations on the tree, many of which he recognized. The framed pictures on the mantle, several featuring the man’s younger, smiling face. He stared at the paintings on the wall, the knickknacks on the shelves, the furniture, even the curtains. This was the man’s first—and most likely last—time inside the new house, and he wanted to soak up everything he could into his memory banks … to remember later.
Somehow he had missed the little boy, who’d probably snuck downstairs after his mother had fallen asleep and curled up on the sofa beneath a blanket waiting for Santa. Some agent he was.
“You know what? You look a lot like my Uncle Bobby,” the little boy whispered, his cute little nose all wrinkled up again. “Only his hair is a lot longer than yours.”
The man felt his eyes grow wet and fought it back. His pulse quickened. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he needed to say.
But he knew he couldn’t.
The letter and box of money he had placed under the tree would have to be enough.
The man reached out and rested a shaky, gloved hand on the boy’s small shoulder.
“Give your mom and Uncle Bobby a hug for me. I bet they’re awesome folks.” The man bent down and kissed the top of the boy’s head—and that was when he smelled her on the little boy. His wife. Even after all those years.
Inhaling deeply, voice shaking now, the man said, “I left you all something under the tree.”
The little boy’s eyes flashed wide and, with a smile, he looked back at the Christmas tree. “What did you leave us?” he asked.
But when he turned back around, the man was gone.
~
Even with the drifting snow and occasional tears blurring his vision, the man traveled back roads to the airport, careful to make certain no one was following him. He hoped he was just being paranoid, but he couldn’t be sure. It had been a quiet fifteen months since they had almost found him in Mexico. Two years before that, they had somehow tracked him to the coast of Venezuela, and it was only with God’s good grace that he’d remained a free man. They would never stop looking, and he would never stop running. He knew too much; had seen and done too much.
The plows hadn’t touched most of the back roads, so the going was slow. Tha
t was okay with the man. The airport was only twenty-seven miles away, and he had almost three hours to return the rental car and make his gate for the return flight overseas. Better safe than sorry, he thought, although even if a policeman found him stuck on the side of the road in a ditch, he should be fine. His rental papers were in order, and he carried a legal driver’s license, credit cards, Social Security card and everything else he needed to appear a normal, law-abiding U.S. citizen. If, for any reason, the cop decided to search his rental car, then that would be another story. The man would be forced to resort to other options.
With that thought in mind, the man glanced in the rearview mirror and dropped his speed another five miles per hour. He turned the windshield wipers up a notch. The man knew he would have to be at his most vigilant at the airport. These days, they watched the international flights with special attention, especially around the holidays. He would dispose of his weapons once he reached the rental-car return lot, but not a moment sooner.
Ten minutes later, the winding back road he was traveling on merged with MD Route 40 and soon after he passed an old-fashioned road sign that read: WELCOME TO EDGEWOOD. The man looked at the sign with a sad smile.
Maybe a mile later, he slowed through an intersection beneath a blinking yellow traffic light that was dancing wildly in the whipping wind and snow. There was a strip mall bordering the right side of the road, all the stores gone dark except for a Dunkin’ Donuts at the far end of the building. Twin mounds of snow covered two small cars in the parking lot, probably belonging to the unfortunate workers inside.
The man tapped the brakes and steered into the parking lot, feeling his back tires slide a little in the accumulating slush. He swung around and parked facing the road, away from the Dunkin’ Donuts front windows, and turned off the car. His eyes had grown weary, and he knew from experience that strong coffee was the remedy. His stomach was talking to him, too. He thought maybe a couple chocolate donuts or a hot breakfast sandwich, if they served those this time of night.
Christmas Horror Volume 2 Page 6