Christmas Dinner of Souls

by Ross Montgomery

  To Lian –

  boo.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  An Old Forgotten Scream

  Bad Uncle Mortimer

  The Kensington System

  Miss Magpie

  The Beast

  Black Dog

  The Dean’s Tale

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  The good children were all in bed by now. The good children were fast asleep, tucked up in warm pyjamas and dreaming of Christmas.

  But not Lewis. He wasn’t one of the good children. That was why he was trudging alone through the bitter cold to work on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Bah humbug,’ he muttered.

  Lewis made his way out of the village. Every doorway twinkled with fairy lights; every windowpane glowed with the warmth of a family fireplace. Lewis could see parents inside cuddled up on sofas, mantelpieces hung with stockings, hopeful children peeking down through the banisters. Every house was a Christmas box, full of wonders.

  And then there was Soul’s College.

  It sat on the tallest hill beside the village. It was an ancient building, grim as a scorched fireplace. It glowered over the rooftops like a crow on a fence post.

  That was where Lewis was spending his Christmas Eve.

  ‘Stupid College,’ he moaned. ‘Stupid Mum. Stupid Dean!’

  It hadn’t been Lewis’s idea to throw stones through the College windows – but as usual, he was the only one who got caught. The rest of his gang had scattered when the guards appeared, leaving Lewis to take the rap by himself. No one had expected there to be anyone inside Soul’s College – after all, it was the day before Christmas. The few students who still attended the crumbling old building should have left for the holidays ages ago.

  The guards had dragged Lewis by the scruff of his neck through long, winding corridors to the office of the Dean – the head of Soul’s College. He was a thin spike of a man, who looked exactly like the building he sat in – cold, dark and barren. He had taken Lewis in with a long, silent look … and smiled.

  Lewis had expected him to shout – but he didn’t. It was much, much worse than that. Instead, the Dean told Lewis to come back that night – Christmas Eve night – and work for the College until he’d repaid his debt. Lewis had begged his mother to say something, but to his dismay, she’d agreed with the Dean.

  ‘Serves you right for spending all your time with those horrid friends of yours! You’ll have to make a choice one day, Lewis: do you want to be good, or do you want to be bad?’

  Lewis reached the forest that surrounded Soul’s College. It was dark inside: very dark. The air was as still as a snow globe and the ground sparkled with frost. The trees almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. Lewis took one final look at the village behind him. The old church steeple stood cold and grey on the horizon; the clock on the bell tower read half past eleven. Almost Christmas Day.

  Lewis trudged up the hill, his breath curling out between his teeth in fingers. He had to admit that being asked to come to the College in the middle of the night seemed … well, a little strange.

  But then, everything about Soul’s College was strange. It had once been the best university in the country, but that was hundreds of years ago. Over the years the students had dwindled, and the building had darkened and decayed. Hardly anyone went there any more – no one even knew what went on inside.

  There were rumours, of course.

  Everyone at school had been talking about it for years. On Christmas Eve, when Soul’s College closed and all the lights went out, something about it … changed. It was as if the building suddenly came alive. Those who were brave enough to stay up late and watch it – at least, those who said they did – whispered about seeing shadows at the windows. They even said that if you listened carefully enough, you could hear voices coming from inside.

  No, not just voices. Screams.

  Lewis shivered, and wrapped his coat tight around himself.

  ‘Come on – it’s Christmas Eve. Nothing bad can ever happen on Christmas Eve. Family, warm socks, eggnog …’

  The hill crested, and Soul’s College rose out of the ground like a gravestone.

  Lewis gulped. The building seemed somehow bigger than he remembered. It was surrounded by black metal gates and a high spiked fence. There was a wooden model of Father Christmas on the roof, but it didn’t seem particularly cheerful. In fact, from where Lewis was standing, it almost seemed like it was leering down at him with a malevolent grin on its face.

  ‘Hello?’ Lewis called out.

  His voice went into the cold night air, and didn’t come back. It was like the darkness ate it. Lewis tugged at his scarf nervously.

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing bad can happen on Christmas Eve.’

  He stepped bravely through the gates and made his way to the dining hall, just as the Dean had told him to. It was big and cold and empty inside. There was a fire at one end that gave no warmth, and a high ceiling lost to darkness. The walls hung with heavy tapestries.

  In the centre of the room was a long dining table, set for fifty guests.

  So that was it – the College was holding a dinner. Lewis was going to work as a serving boy. But it didn’t look like a dinner was about to start any time soon – especially not a Christmas one. No one could be festive in a room as cold and miserable as this. The only sign it was Christmas at all was the scraggly tree beside the fireplace, decorated with a sorry string of tinsel and seven sad baubles.

  Lewis gazed at the enormous portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. It was the only part of the room that was warm and friendly. Lewis knew the man in the painting – everyone in the village did. It was Lord Caverner, the man who had built Soul’s College hundreds of years ago. He’d been much loved in his time, and it was easy to see why: he had a warm, kind face, with a thick beard and a smile that reached his eyes. Lewis felt safer just looking at him.

  ‘Come on – it’s Christmas Eve. Nothing bad could ever happen on Christmas E—’

  Creak.

  A door had opened at the other end of the room. Lewis turned round … but there was no one there. The far wall was lost to darkness.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nothing – the room was silent.

  Then – ever so quietly – Lewis heard something move. The steady scrape of dead feet on flagstones, one after the other. They grew out of the darkness, getting closer.

  Then they stopped.

  Lewis stood still, his breath held in his throat.

  There was someone standing in the darkness in front of him.

  Lewis couldn’t see their face … but he could make out their shape. They were hunched double, as if they were in terrible pain. Their chest swelled and shuddered with every breath.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The voice was hoarse and rasping: it sounded like it hurt just coming out of them. Lewis swallowed hard.

  ‘I–I’m supposed to work here tonight.’ He glanced at the table. ‘For the Christmas dinner?’

  The man convulsed. He gave a high, hacking cough that was almost a laugh … then stepped into the firelight. Lewis could finally see his face.

  But it wasn’t a face.

  The man had no lips. He had no eyelids. His skin was like cold, cooked meat packed into clumps against his skull. He wore ragged overalls, streaked with blood and grease. On top of his head was a high white chef’s hat.

  ‘Like Christmas, do you boy?’

  Lewis didn’t answer – he couldn’t speak. There was nothing he could do, nothing except stand frozen to the spot in terror. The Cook came slouching out of th
e darkness, his red eyes boggling in their lidless sockets.

  ‘I said: do – you – like – Christmas?’

  Lewis had no idea what the Cook wanted – but he had a sickening feeling that something terrible would happen if he didn’t do whatever he asked. He nodded frantically.

  ‘Good,’ said the Cook. ‘Then listen to everything I say – that is, if you want to live to see Christmas morning.’

  Lewis gasped. The Cook leaned in close – close enough for Lewis to smell the years of cooking which clung to him like ghosts.

  ‘They’re coming, boy. They’ll be here any moment. Don’t talk to them. Don’t speak at all if you can help it. And for pity’s sake, boy – DON’T MAKE THEM ANGRY.’

  Lewis’s mind reeled. ‘Th–them? What do you mean, them …’

  Outside, a smash of glass – Lewis spun round. The building wasn’t empty any more – oh no. It was surrounded. He could hear things moving towards the dining room from all sides, growing louder, getting closer. Crashes, bangs, wheels on gravel … Lewis could hear voices, too.

  But they sounded like screams.

  ‘Get ready, boy,’ said the Cook. ‘Our guests have arrived.’

  The doors burst open and a belt of freezing wind flooded the dining room.

  Lewis screamed as a motorcycle roared through the doors towards him. He only just managed to throw himself out the way before it flew past and smashed into a trophy cabinet. The rider had leapt off at the last second, and now stood smoking a cigar and surveying the damage with a grin.

  ‘Bullseye!’ he said proudly. ‘Got it in one!’

  ‘Bullseye? Pah!’ came another voice at the door. ‘You’re losing your touch, Bloodrick – you missed the serving boy this time!’

  A woman was heaving herself through the doorway. She was the biggest, foulest, most disgusting woman Lewis had ever laid eyes on. She wore a mouldy fur coat, and a hat made of rotting thistles slumped over her head. She was surrounded by a pack of ravenous hounds that roared and snapped and pulled viciously at their chains. She yanked Lewis to his feet.

  ‘Look at him! Scrawny as a gnat and twice as ugly! He won’t last till morning!’

  CRAAAAASH.

  The stained-glass window exploded behind them, and an enormous black horse flew through the air. It landed on the table like a ton of bricks, shattering the glassware and stamping the china to dust. Riding high on its back was a woman with a pinched, cruel face and glasses so thick her eyes looked like holes drilled straight into her skull.

  ‘Miss Ariadne Biter!’ said the enormous woman, shoving Lewis aside. ‘What an entrance – you look even more revolting than usual!’

  The woman flashed a hungry smile. ‘And you, Lady Arabella Dogspit. Another meeting upon us already – has it really been a whole year since last Christmas?’

  ‘AAAAAAARGH!’

  The fireplace erupted in a cloud of soot and smoke and something flew out of the chimney, smashing off three walls and thumping into Lewis’s chest so hard he was knocked off his feet once more. He looked down at the smoking heap in his hands … and screamed.

  It was a burnt and blackened head, its mouth stretched open in a sickening smile. Lewis flung it away as fast as he could and scrambled across the floor …

  Then stopped. It wasn’t a real head – it was from the wooden model of Father Christmas on the roof. Someone had ripped it off and flung it down the chimney. Next to come was his sack of presents, big round belly, and finally a short squat man who burst out of the fireplace, quite clearly on fire, before leaping out of the window and throwing himself, bum first, into a snowdrift.

  ‘Retch Wallmanner – you absolute goon!’ cried Bloodrick. ‘Every year, the same entrance … and look! He’s gone and put the fire out, too!’

  Miss Biter cackled. ‘Well then, we’d better stoke it up, hadn’t we?’

  She pointed to the Christmas tree beside the fireplace, and the three guests howled with delight. They threw themselves at it, tearing the tree to pieces and cramming it into the fire like a murder victim. The miserable tree caught alight instantly. The flames rose higher and higher, stretching the shadows of the guests up the walls like demons.

  ‘DOWN WITH CHRISTMAS,’ they cried, ‘AND LONG LIVE THE CHRISTMAS DINNER OF SOULS!’

  Lewis looked around the hall in disbelief. More and more guests were arriving every second. They came tunnelling up through the flagstones, clambering through the shattered windows, smashing motorcars through the walls. They were the most hideous people Lewis had ever seen in his life – each one seemed even more unwashed, loud and foul than the last.

  Lewis had no idea what was going on – but he knew one thing for certain. He didn’t want to be in Soul’s College any more. He wanted to be back home in his safe warm bed, as far away from these horrible people as possible. He shot to the exit—

  ‘Oi! Where do you think you’re going?’

  A bony hand clamped round Lewis’s wrist and dragged him back. Standing before him was a man in a filthy pinstripe suit and broken bowler hat, glaring down at him through a black-rimmed monocle.

  ‘What’s that you’ve you got there, Sir Algernon?’ someone cried. ‘An intruder?’

  The man grinned. ‘Even better – a serving boy!’

  Lewis was suddenly surrounded by shrieking guests, grabbing and pinching and shoving him.

  ‘A serving boy!’

  ‘Pull out his hair!’

  ‘Scratch his face!’

  ‘Break his little arms!’

  ‘LET – HIM – GO,’ a voice roared.

  The guests released Lewis at once, and he swung round. Standing in the doorway, glaring with fury, was the Dean.

  ‘WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?’

  The guests backed away – even the dogs started whining. The Dean stormed towards them, his face outraged. Lewis could have cried with relief. The nightmare was finally over; these so-called guests would be thrown out, Lewis would be sent home, and everything would be safe and sound once more …

  ‘How many times have I told you?’ the Dean cried. ‘No one is allowed to harm the serving boy until after the Christmas Dinner of Souls has finished!’

  Lewis’s face fell. The Dean walked straight past him.

  ‘You can damage the College all you wish – smash the plates, stamp on the glasses, spit on the paintings until you’re red in the face – but you know the rules! The serving boy must be kept alive until the night is over!’

  The Dean reached for the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

  ‘For heaven’s sake – do you know nothing of tradition?’

  He flipped over the painting with one sweep of his arms. Lewis gasped. There was another picture secretly hidden on the other side – but the man in this portrait was nothing like Lord Caverner. This man was tall and thin, with mad pale eyes and filthy grey hair. He looked as though he had lived in darkness all his life.

  And right where his mouth should have been, there was nothing. Someone had ripped the canvas from the painting, leaving a jagged hole that stretched from his jawbone to his heart. In its place, a single polished plaque read:

  EDGAR CAVERNER

  ‘We follow Edgar’s rules to a tee!’ barked the Dean. ‘Without him, there would be no Christmas Dinner of Souls!’ He turned to the guests. ‘And what are the rules?’

  Hands shot up on every side.

  ‘Dinner begins at midnight!’

  ‘Seven guests must tell a story!’

  ‘No one may leave until the winner has entered the Catacombs!’

  ‘And no one touches the serving boy until after the Dinner is complete.’ The Dean grinned. ‘Then we all know what happens to the serving boy – don’t we?’

  He turned to Lewis and gave a long, loud cackle. Soon all the guests were joining in, howling with laughter and rubbing their hands with hideous glee. Lewis trembled from head to toe. The Cook was right. If he did anything that these maniacs didn’t like … he’d never get out of Soul’s College
alive.

  A tall black clock struck the hour: twelve chimes, filling the room like a death rattle.

  ‘The dead of midnight!’ cried the Dean. ‘The hour has come – our Christmas Dinner of Souls begins!’

  The guests shrieked with delight and fought for the chairs around the dining table. It was already covered in shattered glass and spilled wine, but the guests didn’t seem to notice or care.

  ‘Boy! Serve us!’

  The Dean pointed to a cabinet in the corner, shaped like a black coffin and filled with shelf after shelf of bottled gin. Before Lewis could respond the guests rained down plates and cutlery on his head.

  ‘Didn’t you hear him?’

  ‘We want gin, you filthy rat!’

  ‘Faster, maggot!’

  Lewis didn’t need telling twice. He grabbed two bottles and raced round the table, pouring out gin for the guests with trembling hands. They knocked it back like water and sent their glasses smashing into the fireplace.

  ‘So!’ announced the Dean. ‘Once more, our secret society holds its annual Christmas Dinner of Souls! Once again, we gather at darkest midnight to continue the tradition started over two hundred years ago by our lord and founder, Edgar Caverner!’

  The Dean turned to the mouthless painting behind him and the table fell into respectful silence.

  ‘Edgar was always destined for great things,’ said the Dean. ‘His father, Lord Caverner, wanted a son who was good and kind … but Edgar was born evil. He ate every pet rabbit his father bought him! Set fire to his schoolbooks and burned down a hospital! And more than anything, he hated Christmas. Abhorred it. Despised it!’ The Dean grimaced. ‘The tinsel, the presents, the singing …’

  The guests booed and retched and made unspeakable gestures. The Dean waved them quiet.

  ‘So Edgar hatched a plan. Once a year, on Christmas Eve, he would sneak into his little sisters’ rooms and tell them stories so horrifying, so disgusting, that they would be too frightened to sleep. They’d spend Christmas Day rigid with terror, weeping into their stockings. Soon, the merest mention of Christmas made them burst into tears. Eventually Lord Caverner had no choice but to ban it from the household entirely. Young Edgar had won – he’d ruined Christmas!’