Christmas Dinner of Souls

by Ross Montgomery

  ‘John, show me where the fireplace is and this coin is yours.’

  The boy’s eyes lit up. He glanced over his shoulder – as if he could see his family watching him through the wall.

  ‘There’s … a basement,’ he said quietly. ‘But we’re not supposed to go down there.’

  He reached out to take the coin, but I snatched it away.

  ‘Show me.’

  John couldn’t refuse. He led me to a back room and opened a door. At first, it seemed like an ordinary closet – but as John moved aside some boxes, I realised that there was another door hidden at the back, locked tight with five massive bolts. John swung the door open, revealing a set of cold stone steps that led down into darkness.

  I didn’t waste a moment. I pushed John aside and tore down the stairs, expecting to see heaps of shipwrecked riches … but there was nothing. The room was an empty square. Nothing but four stone walls and a pounded-dirt floor.

  ‘There’s the fireplace,’ said John.

  As if I could miss it – it took up the entire end wall. It was made of grey stone and decorated with straw figures, hammered into the stone with iron nails.

  ‘Christmas decorations?’ I smirked. ‘Not exactly the most festive room, is it John?’

  I stepped closer to the decorations and pulled one off the wall. It was filthy – like it’d been made years ago. In fact, the more I looked at it the more it seemed—

  I gagged. This was no Christmas decoration – there were human teeth in it. Bits of fingernail, too. I threw it into the fireplace in horror.

  ‘What the hell are these? Why have you hung them above a fireplace in an empty—’

  I stopped. I had just seen the inside of the fireplace. The stone was scorched black. It was covered in nail marks.

  ‘They’re not for us,’ said John. ‘They’re for Black Dog.’

  I blinked. ‘Black Dog?’

  ‘Black Dog that comes down the chimney.’

  That was it. He just kept staring at me, as if what he said made complete sense. I kept my breath held for what felt like a very long time. I realised that I was afraid to ask the question.

  ‘John … are your family really the only people on this island?’

  ‘JOHN!’

  The shout came from outside – the father. John turned white and bolted back up the stairs before I could stop him. His family were exactly where we had left them – they hadn’t moved an inch. I caught the boy just before he flew out the front door.

  ‘John,’ I whispered. ‘What’s going on? What are you hiding from me?’

  ‘I … I can’t tell you!’

  He was terrified – just like the fisherman. I gripped his arm tight.

  ‘John, you have to tell me what’s going on. Am I safe here tonight?’

  The boy swallowed, his eyes darting back outside. ‘You … you’re really going to stay in the house? By yourself?’

  I nodded. John turned to the door, his face torn. Finally he leaned forward and hissed in my ear.

  ‘You have to lock the door. Lock it tight so nothing gets in. If you don’t, then—’

  ‘JOHN!’

  John flew out without another word. I watched in shock as he rejoined the family and the six of them walked away from the house. They kept their gaze fixed on the wide, grey sea ahead. Only John turned to look back at me – just once. I could see pure terror in the whites of his eyes.

  I closed the door … and only then allowed myself to become frightened. I had no idea what I had let myself in for – but John’s message was clear. I wasn’t safe. The family – or someone else – were going to come back in the night and get me. I probably had a few hours of daylight left before the island turned dark. Before then, I had to turn the house into a fortress.

  I locked the door, just like John had said, and piled every piece of furniture I could find against it. I broke apart the table and nailed the wood over the windows. I barricaded the bottom of the staircase with wooden chairs, boxes, benches – anything that might work as an obstacle – then holed myself up in the main bedroom at the top of the house.

  I chose this room for one reason alone: it had two windows facing in different directions over the island. If anyone approached the house, it was my best chance to see them – I could even fire a warning shot out of the window and scare them away. The rest of the room was as barren and unpleasant as you would expect: a filthy bed piled high with rags in one corner, and a wall covered in great cracks from floor to ceiling. Behind it lay the great chimneypiece which ran from the basement to the roof: I could hear the wind whine through it as the blizzard grew closer.

  I broke apart the bed and hammered the boards over the window frames, so that only the thinnest of grey lights could seep into the room. Before I had finished it, the snow had started to fall, hard. Wrapping myself in every blanket I could find I sank into a corner and watched the last dregs of sunlight die over Cu Sith.

  I have no idea how long I sat there, watching and waiting. The room had a clock, but the hands had fallen off long ago – all it gave me was the slow, steady tock of unravelling time. Soon the dull grey of the blizzard faded into a crippling blackness – and when it did, the room became cold. Deathly cold.

  I set to work lighting candles, sticking them to every surface of the bedroom until it lit up around me like a lantern. Outside the wind kept screaming madness and sent the window boards rattling. I sank back into the corner, the revolver clutched to my chest. I had never felt more scared in my life.

  ‘Please God,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t let me die here. Don’t let me die on this miserable island. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t let them get me. Don’t …’

  I don’t remember falling asleep. I do remember opening my eyes and seeing that all the candles had burned out – that I was surrounded by darkness. The blizzard had finally passed, and the wind had died. The windows weren’t rattling any more.

  That was why I could hear it.

  Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch.

  Someone was walking towards the house. No – two people. Two sets of footsteps in the snow.

  I sat bolt upright, my heart racing. The family had come back for me. They were outside the house.

  I ran to the boarded windows and looked outside. It was so dark I couldn’t even make out the ground. The only sign of life were the footsteps, getting closer and closer to the house.

  I lifted the revolver, ready to send out a warning shot. I only had six bullets. That meant I had to wait until they were right beneath me, right outside the front door. It was the only way I could scare them enough to ensure they’d run away. But leave it too late and— Well, it didn’t even bear thinking about.

  I silently removed one of the planks of wood over the window and stood in the pitch dark, holding out the revolver in trembling hands. My breath plumed in the frozen air. All I could do was listen.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

  The footsteps reached the front door.

  Crunch.

  And stopped.

  For a long time there was nothing. No talking, no sound of the door being tested. I stood stock-still, trying to silence my heartbeat, trying to keep my nerves quiet and my gun steady and—

  BOOM.

  The sound came from above me, slamming on the roof.

  I cried out in shock. There was something on the roof – and it was big. My brain reeled. The house was three storeys tall – how on earth could any one have jumped up there? And yet I could hear them even now, pounding across the roof tiles to the far corner of the room – two sets of footsteps in a close dance, making their way to the chimney …

  I gasped. Suddenly all I could see was John’s face in the basement, his face blank and expressionless.

  Black Dog that comes down the chimney.

  Horror rose like a flood inside me. I wasn’t hearing two sets of footsteps. It was something on four legs.

  I turned to the chimney on the wall – and cried out with a sic
kening, gut-white fear. The bricks were swelling and splitting right in front of me. Something was forcing its way down the chimney and inside the house. A new sound filled the room – claws scraping against stone. I could hear heavy gasping breaths through the wall, the bricks heaving like a chest as the monster dragged its way to the basement …

  The basement that was bolted from the outside.

  And suddenly there was John’s face again, begging me with tears in his eyes.

  You have to lock the door. Lock it tight so nothing can get in.

  He hadn’t meant the front door. He’d meant the basement door. The door I had left open.

  I had turned the house into a fortress – and I had locked myself inside it with a monster.

  The house filled with a howl so loud and terrible that every hair on my body stood on end. The floor shuddered beneath my feet – the shudder of something huge and fast running up stairs.

  Black Dog was coming for me.

  I cried out in terror and threw the bedroom door shut. It had no lock – but that would make no difference here. The monster had heard me – I could hear it charging out of the basement and tearing through the ground floor to find me. There was nowhere left for me to go but the window.

  I tore off the boards as fast as I could – but it wasn’t fast enough. I could already hear Black Dog flying up the staircase, tearing apart the obstacles I had left in its path like they were matchsticks. It was already on the first floor, pounding up the second flight of stairs …

  The last of the boards gave way. I ran my hand around the frame, looking for the handle – but there wasn’t any. I gave a great groan of terror. The monster was on the second floor now, the sound of its feet hammering against the steps below me as it grew closer, the howl in its throat getting louder and louder …

  I stepped back from the window and raised the revolver.

  BLAM!

  The blast shattered the glass and the room filled with freezing sea air just as the monster reached the final flight of stairs. I could hear its claws gouging through the wooden steps as it tore towards the bedroom door, its great heaving sides scraping against the walls and splitting the plaster …

  I threw myself at the window at the exact moment the door exploded inwards. I shouldn’t have turned back. I should have flung myself straight out the window and taken my chances with the ground. But I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t help turning to see what had come for me from the darkness of Cu Sith – what it was that filled the door frame from edge to edge right now, with its foul black hair and bleeding eyes …

  It was the worst mistake I ever made. The monster leapt at me in a single bound, its jaws wrenched open wide as I whipped round the gun and pulled the trigger …

  I remember the pain. I remember the muffled gunshot that seemed to come from somewhere far away. I remember the sensation of cold as I fell through the window and into the night air. I remember the snow on the ground as I landed, and how for a moment I thought that I could hear the waves themselves crashing on to the island, heaving themselves out of the black north ocean to claim me – until I realised it was footsteps. Running towards me on every side, getting closer.

  It’s them, I thought. It’s the family, come back for the final part of their sacrifice – to feed me to him, piece by piece.

  And the funny thing was – for a moment, lying there in the snow, staring up at the starless night as the footsteps drew closer – dying wasn’t what frightened me the most. What frightened me most was knowing that no matter what the family did to me, no one would ever find my body. That there had been hundreds before me, and there would be hundreds more after. That I would spend my last living moment on Cu Sith – and then become another ancient myth, lost to the dark waters of time.

  And my last thought before the darkness fell completely was – what will they do to me in that basement?

  *

  Drybone Creathe fell silent. He remained staring into the fire – no one could see his face.

  ‘And then?’ said the Dean. ‘What happened next?’

  Creathe didn’t turn round. He kept his back to the table, facing the fire.

  ‘When I woke up, I was in hospital on the mainland. It was New Year’s Day: in front of me were the two men that my boss had sent to meet me.

  ‘They explained what had happened: apparently when the young fisherman had returned to the harbour on Christmas Eve, there was uproar – no one could believe that he had taken me to Cu Sith and left me there. A handful of brave fisherman had waited for the storm to pass before coming to get me, right there and then in the middle of the night. They had found me lying on the snow outside the house, covered in blood. If they hadn’t arrived when they did … well, who knows what could have happened to me.’

  The Dean glanced at the other guests. They looked as confused as he was.

  ‘And the monster?’ he asked. ‘Black Dog?’

  Creathe shook his head, his hand still clutching at his chest.

  ‘The house was empty – the whole island was empty, in fact. The family had disappeared. There was no explanation for what had happened – nothing except my story, which sounded like the fantasies of a madman. The company didn’t believe me, of course – why would they? Why believe a giant monster had come down the chimney to get me? The two men handed me my termination papers, and I never went back to work again.’

  The guests had begun to lose interest in Creathe’s story. One or two of them turned back to the enormous pudding on the table, searching through it for the missing prize.

  ‘But there were one or two things which no one could explain,’ said Creathe. ‘For example, the state of the house. There was no way I could have torn through the wood of the floorboards like that – as if my hands were made of knives. And of course, how could anyone explain what they found in the centre of the pounded-dirt floor in the basement, surrounded by a ring of dead sea grass and covered in—’

  The hall was filled by a high-pitched scream. Everyone spun round. Lady Arabella Dogspit, who had been wolfing the remains of her Christmas pudding, flew back from her seat in terror, flinging something away from her like a red-hot coal.

  It was a human hand. It had been torn off at the wrist and stripped to gleaming bone – and clutched in its grip was a black revolver.

  Another sound filled the hall now. It was Drybone Creathe, shrieking at the top of his voice. He had turned back to the table, but his face was no longer blank: it was contorted with insane laughter, his eyes wide and howling. He tore his arm from his shirt to show the ragged stump where his hand should be, where something years ago had torn it from him and never given it back.

  At first the guests were stunned – but one by one, they joined in with Creathe’s manic laughter. Soon they were pounding the tables and rolling over backwards – after a while even Lady Arabella was shrieking along. The Dean wiped tears from his eyes.

  ‘Creathe, that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in forty years! And I do believe it might be the best surprise we’ve seen tonight!’ He raised his glass. ‘Come everyone, another toast! To the most gruesome, horrifying Christmas Dinner of Souls yet!’

  Within seconds a flurry of forks and spoons and plates were flying through the air towards Lewis.

  ‘Serving boy!’

  ‘More gin, you miserable bag of filth!’

  Lewis scrambled for the coffin-shaped cabinet in the corner.

  One more story and I’m out of time, he thought to himself. What are they going to do to me then? I have to find a way out of here! Think, Lewis, think!

  Lewis came to the cabinet – and stopped.

  The cabinet was empty. There were no bottles of gin left.

  ‘What are you waiting for, boy?’ bellowed the Dean. ‘Refill our glasses, now!’

  Lewis turned to the table. A sea of cruel and evil faces met him in the firelight. His throat dried up. This was it – this was the moment they killed him.

  ‘There’s … there isn’t
any more,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all gone.’

  The effect on the room was cataclysmic. The guests leapt from their chairs like they had been electrocuted.

  ‘No more gin?’

  ‘The little maggot’s guzzled it up for himself!’

  ‘Get ’im!’

  ‘Skin ’im!’

  ‘Rip out his teeth!’

  ‘NO!’

  The Dean smashed his hand onto the table.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me the first time? No one touches the boy until after the Dinner is finished! We need him!’ He turned to Lewis with an evil grin. ‘Because we all know what happens to the serving boy at the end of the night, don’t we?’

  The guests broke into maniacal laughter once more. Lewis trembled from head to toe …

  ‘That’s right!’ said Drybone Creathe. ‘We make him clear up!’

  Lewis blinked. Clear up?

  ‘It’ll take him forever,’ said Bloodrick Gallant gleefully. ‘Look at this place! It’s a tip!’

  ‘Just mopping the floor will take him most of Christmas morning,’ said Ariadne Biter.

  ‘And that says nothing for the laundry!’ giggled Sir Algernon Thoroughbred-Pilt, grabbing the tablecloth. ‘Oooh, these stains are going to be a nightmare!’

  Lewis’s face flooded with relief – that was it? They’d make him tidy up? After all this time, he’d been so worried – and all for nothing. He still had a chance to get out of here and stop these evil people, before they tried to destroy Christmas!

  The clock struck six.

  ‘Come!’ said the Dean. ‘Our night is not yet over. We still have one more story to hear.’

  He broke the final bauble and held up the name.

  ‘The last storyteller of the night is … myself.’

  The guests stared at him in confusion.

  ‘You?’

  ‘But you’re the Dean!’

  ‘You’ve never …’

  They trailed off. The Dean was staring at them, steady as a lighthouse. He gestured to their empty chairs.

  ‘Well?’

  One by one, the guests sat down, muttering with confusion. The Dean cleared his throat.

  ‘Once upon a—’