Festive Frights

by CW Publishing House

  Archie couldn’t argue with that. He tipped his hat in thanks and followed the man inside. It was nice to see the inside of the house for a change. Edith would have loved it, he thought. The smartly dressed man ushered him through to a room full of people, all chatting and holding glasses of brightly coloured punch. Someone passed a glass to Archie. The fire crackled in the hearth and Archie positioned himself in front of it to warm the back of his knees. He sipped his punch and watched a candle battle with an invisible breeze. He placed his hand in front of it, trying to locate the source of the draft, but could feel none. When he moved his hand away, the candle flickered out.

  “Did you have a Merry Christmas?” The question took him by surprise. The lady of the house leaned into him, and Archie could see she was more than a little tipsy.

  “I wouldn’t say merry, exactly, but it was nice enough. Thanks.”

  “Not merry! That will never do!” She rushed off to the Christmas tree and rummaged in the pile of wrapping paper and discarded boxes. “Found it,” she said to herself. “Andrew, I’m giving our postman a present.” It was a statement not a question, and her husband smiled and raised his glass in their direction. She stumbled a little on her way back to Archie. “Here, this is for your wife.” She handed him a box and he could tell without opening it that it contained a scent.

  “I can’t take this, really. “ He handed it back to her, but she pushed it into his chest. “For your wife. I insist.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, and then whispered, “I have tons of the stuff.” She planted an oily lipstick kiss on his cheek.

  Archie made his excuses and went on his way, keen to get home. It had started to snow outside, gently but enough to cover the pavement with a light, powdery dust. Sally would love this, he thought, and he wondered if it was snowing in Wales, too.

  A shadow moved behind him, but when he turned to look, he could see nothing. War had made him jumpy. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself and shivered. The cold seemed to be getting deep into his bones today. He turned away from the high street towards the back roads, dropping letters and cards as he went. He could hear the tinkling of the piano as he approached the pub. There was no letter box on the door, but he had a package for the landlady, Vera.

  He’d known Vera and her husband George for years, had spent many a merry night there as a young man, and then later with Edith after they’d married. Vera was at the piano when he pushed the door open. A small group of locals sat around her, all of whom turned and waved at him as he entered, carrying on with their song. He waited for her to finish; she sang with her eyes closed. She was a handsome woman, but he had seen how she’d aged since the news of George had gotten to her. The past months must have been hard for her, he thought, but she’d never shut the pub, not even for a day. She finished the song with a flourish and blew out the candle lighting the keys before she turned towards him.

  “Got something for me, love?” she asked. He passed her the package and she smiled. “Never thought I’d be so glad to get a bunch of old jumpers,” she said, pulling at the paper and letting woollen garments spring out of the holes. She looked up at his confused face and laughed. “It’s to make toys for the kids. I send them down to the country.”

  “Oh! I was wondering.” He felt a rush of warmth towards this woman who, despite her own grief, still thought of others.

  “Stop for a drink, Archie?” she asked.

  “Better not, Vera. I’m running late. The raid held us up.”

  “Fair enough, my love, but wait there a second before you go.” She ran behind the bar, disappearing into a hidden room and emerging a minute later with a doll held aloft. “Here, send this to your Sally. Bit late for Christmas, I’m afraid.”

  He held the handmade doll in his hand and stroked its woollen hair, as yellow as Sally’s. “Thanks, Vera. Really. She’ll love it.”

  “My pleasure. Give my love to Edith, won’t you? And bring her in for a drink soon.”

  “Will do.” He waved to the cluster of drinkers, pushed the doll into his satchel, and made his way back out into the cold.

  The snow had formed little drifts against the pavement. He smiled to himself; snow for Christmas. If only Sally was here, they’d be in the garden making a snowman by now. He had the strong sense of being followed as he trudged on. He stopped and looked around, but there was nothing, just the snow falling silently around him.

  Carrying on, he tried to ignore it but the sense of being watched overwhelmed him. When he stopped again, he thought he heard a whisper. He whipped round, but once more he found the street empty but for the shadows thrown by the trees. A siren started up; it seemed close. He stood in the snow, waiting for it to turn the corner, but as soon as it approached it seemed to stop and become nothing more than an echo. The night was playing tricks on him. He pulled his cap down over his eyes, so he could only see his feet in front of him, and forced himself on towards the grocer’s shop.

  He’d known Mrs. Jones since he was a child. She’d always run the grocers, and he remembered her giving him a toffee or a square of chocolate when his Mum would shop there. He remembered getting a clip round the ear for stealing an apple once, too. The thought made him laugh as he dropped a postcard through her letterbox.

  “Is that you, Archie Pratt?” A head poked out of an upstairs window.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Wait there.”

  He rubbed his hands together from the cold and did as he was told. No one argued with Mrs. Jones. The door opened and Mrs. Jones stood, inspecting him for a few seconds.

  “It’s snowing,” she said, sounding surprised.

  “Yes. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Cold is what it is! Quick, follow me. I have something for you.”

  He followed her up the narrow stairs. “How have you been, Mrs. J?” he asked as she showed him into the front room. He’d never been into her flat before; he felt a little uncomfortable, like a naughty child somehow.

  “Have a sherry with me, Archie.”

  “I shouldn’t, Mrs. Jones…”

  “Call me Shirley. It’s Christmas,” she interrupted.

  “Err, Shirley. I shouldn’t, really. I’ve already had a glass at the big house.”

  “Ooh, drinking with the upper classes, eh? My sherry not good enough for you?”

  “No, I…err, it’s not that...”

  “I’m joking with you, Archie.” She stood and went to the sideboard where she poured them both a sherry. “I could do with the company, and it’ll warm you up enough to make the last of your deliveries.”

  She handed the glass to him and he smiled, taking a sip. “Go on, then.”

  “I wanted to show some photos I found today. I don’t know if you remember, but my husband was mad about his old camera. He used to drive me mad snapping away all the time. Anyway, I was going through some old boxes and found these,” she said. “Here, let’s get some light on it.” He watched her light a candle on the table, throwing the match into the hearth. “Look, recognise this?”

  She held out a photograph and he took it from her. “It’s Mum and Dad.”

  “Yes, and look who’s in front.”

  “Me! Ha, we don’t have any pictures like this. It’s lovely, Mrs. J…Shirley.”

  “And look at this one.” She held it out proudly towards him.

  Archie stared at the two figures in disbelief, children no more than four or five years old standing outside the grocer shop, holding hands. It was him and Edith. “But how—”

  “I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Look at you two! Oh, don’t cry now, Archie.” She handed him a tissue and he wiped his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen this. Don’t even remember it being taken.” He looked up at her. “You see, I’ve always loved her, even then.” He laughed and handed the photograph back.

  “No, no, you keep them. My Christmas present to you. P
recious memories.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Jones. Edith will love this, and Mum and Dad.” He slipped the photographs into his pocket and finished his sherry. “I’d better get going, or I’ll never get home.”

  She leaned over and blew out the candle. As she did, a shadow passed the window, and they heard three bombs land in quick succession somewhere in the distance. Then the candle blew out. They stopped and looked at each other.

  “You should go home,” she said.

  Mrs. Jones saw him out with a wave. The snow storm had picked up, and Archie struggled on, his head down against the icy blasts. He only had a few letters left now and he was glad of it. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, but his fingers had grown numb. His whole body felt numb, now he thought about it. He needed to get home.

  He dropped the remaining letters through boxes and jogged through the snow towards home. He was eager to see Edith, now; it had been a strange night. The lights were off when he arrived. He called for Edith, but she obviously wasn’t there. He could feel her absence. He checked his parent’s house; it was also empty. Knowing there was only one place they would be, he set off for the underground. A night guard passed him on the other side of the road.

  “Is everyone in the shelter?” he called, but the guard walked on without replying.

  The underground station was open as he suspected. He heard the hushed voices in the tunnel. People were wrapped in blankets, some lying down, others leaning against the walls and chatting quietly. He tip-toed through the crowds, looking for Edith.

  He’d walked the length of both platforms before he found her. She huddled in the furthest corner, a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. As he approached, he heard small sobs. His mother sat next to her, clinging to her. Archie felt his blood freeze in his veins. He looked around for his father but couldn’t see him; something must have happened to his dad.

  He rushed towards them, then, stepping over the legs of the sleeping bodies. “Edith, Mum, what’s happened?” He knelt beside them, but they didn’t look up; they only huddled in closer to each other. Each held tissues to their faces. “Edith, is it Dad? Tell me, please.” He reached out to hold her but was stopped by someone walking past him. He looked up and saw his dad.

  “Dad?” He stood to embrace his father. “I thought…” But his dad didn’t look at him. Instead, he knelt down next to Edith and Archie’s mother and wrapped his arms around them. Archie stood back, watching the three of them, their bodies wracked with sobs, trying to make sense of it.

  “Edith?” He shouted it this time, and she looked towards him. His mother looked too, and his father followed their gaze. Edith’s voice was so small he could barely make out her words.

  “I thought I heard him,” she whimpered, and the three of them collapsed into each other again.

  “Edith, I’m here. I’m here.” His heart and mind raced with fear and confusion. “I’m here.” But they couldn’t hear him. They couldn’t see him. He tried to reach out to her but his hand fizzed and tingled as it touched her. He saw her shiver. Archie stood over them for a moment more, understanding what was happening but not believing it. Not wanting to believe it. He turned and ran back out of the shelter. I’ll put this right. I’ll put it right, he thought.

  The snow still fell as he stumbled back out of the station. He reached down and picked up a handful, but although he could feel the cold of the snow, his hand left no mark in it. When he turned around, he saw he’d also left no footprints.

  Archie ran, following the route he had taken earlier in the evening. The air around him changed, the chill thawed and warmed, and he saw that the snow was not snow but ash, falling from the sky. A heavy smell of burning hit him. How had he not noticed it before? Confused, he ran across the road towards Mrs. Jones’ shop and was nearly hit by a passing ambulance. He stepped out of the way only to see another, and then another. The scene in front of him changed as he stared.

  Suddenly, the streets filled with fire engines and people. He knew they hadn’t just arrived, that they’d been here all along. He just hadn’t seen them. He stopped outside the grocer’s shop and watched, the tears streaming down his face, as they carried Mrs. Jones’ broken body from the smoking ruin.

  He ran again then, towards the pub this time, but it too was gone, replaced by a pile of rubble. He moved towards it but stopped when he saw the shattered piano, and behind it the head of a woollen doll peered out at him. He’d seen enough.

  Archie didn’t run after that but walked hesitantly towards the big house. He thought back to the party, the happy faces enjoying Christmas, the roaring fire. But that had been after the bombs had dropped and he knew now that none of it could have happened. It came as no surprise when he saw not just the big house but the whole street wiped out of existence. The guards scuttled among the bricks like rats, pulling out bodies as they went.

  He walked slowly back to the post office; he didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. The building, what was left of it, still smoked and lay covered by a blanket of thick, grey ash. He walked to the side of it, into the patch of grass at the back where the shelter stood. In front of him was a mass of metal, twisted and mangled. He walked towards it, not wanting to see but knowing he had to. How else could he believe it?

  Then he saw them. Four men, resting alongside each other. They could have been asleep but for the grey blue pallor of their faces and unnatural tangling of their limbs. In the middle, he saw himself.

  Archie turned and saw the dark figure standing behind him—the shadow that had been following him.

  “I know who you are, but I’m not ready.”

  The figure took a step back and Archie straightened. They looked at each other and an understanding passed between them. Archie nodded and headed back to his house.

  He stood at the door, listening. He could hear talking from inside; they were back. He took his satchel off; he’d been carrying it the whole time and yet it weighed nothing. He took the doll for Sally and the perfume for Edith from it and rested them on the doorstep. Then he pulled the photographs from his pocket and placed them against the door, and in the ash he drew a heart. He remembered Mrs. Jones’ words.

  “Precious memories,” he whispered. He knocked on the door and stood back. Edith opened it. It broke his heart to see her face, red and puffy from crying. He watched her bend down and pick up the doll and the perfume. She looked around and fixed her eyes on him. Did she see him? Maybe a little.

  She picked up the photographs and held them to her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Archie.” She went back in and closed the door.

  Archie turned to the shadow figure, who held a hand out toward him. “I’m ready, now,” he said and followed the figure into the night.

  About Rachel Fox

  Rachel Fox is a Supernatural and Horror writer who lives in London, England. After writing for her own amusement for many years, she started posting her short stories on ABCTales.com, an online community of writers, and to her surprise she found that people liked them.

  She recently won the AuthorTrope ‘I made the darkness’ Halloween writing contest for her short story 'The Exchange', which you can hear brought to life on her website.

  Her first novel ‘The Herring Hanger’ is set for release in December 2015.

  Website: www.rachelfox.co.uk

  Email: rachelfoxfiction@gmail.com

  Let It Sleep

  By Christopher Broom

  Drip….drip…..drip…..drip….

  The water was warm under my skin. I flicked the excess drops back into the bathtub and saw my little girl come stand beside me. She was a beautiful, fragile little thing and the spitting image of her mother. Long brown hair cascaded down her pale shoulders while her bright blue eyes saw the innocence in everything. She rocked on her heels as she waited for me to finish filling the tub for her nightly bath.

  “It’s Christmastime, daddy!” she squealed with delight, and I smirked at her when she made a silly face in whi
ch her eyes crossed and her tongue stuck out of her mouth. I padded her head as I stood and motioned towards the steam rising from the tub.

  “Santa requires all good girls to be clean before his arrival,” I said. She was beyond the age of needing help getting into a bath, and so I left her to her enjoyment.

  I plunged the backside of my body into my lounge chair and reached for the television’s0 remote control. I flipped through the static for several minutes until my eyes became heavy and my lids dropped. I wasn’t asleep, this much I could tell you. I heard my little girl playing in her bath; I heard my wife somewhere near the kitchen, talking to her sister on the phone. I heard it all, so I knew they were alive and they were happy.

  Drip…drip….drip….drip…

  I moved my toes against the hard floor and felt a slickness of liquid beneath my skin. I stretched my feet to reach the dry portion of the floor again, but wherever my feet went the liquid followed. I tried in vain to ignore it, to resume my much needed rest, for my body was sore and my head was heavy. Inhaling sharply, I smelled copper; it was as if someone had stuck a bowl of old pennies under my nose.

  I heard my little girl make a splashing noise then gurgle softly. Oh, how she loved to splash in the bathtub! A loud scream echoed distinctly throughout the house, and I knew the voice to which the scream belonged. My wife’s voice; my beautiful bride of seventeen years. Her voice was that of angels singing, and when she screamed it reminded me of a powerful chorus.

  “Calm yourself, my dear.” A smile found its way to my lips as I heard her voice. “You don’t want to disturb our little one.” At that moment, I knew my rest was over. There was work to do.

  I found her in the bathroom kneeling beside the tub. Water had seeped over the top rim and had pooled near the toilet. Her voice was quiet now as she held a small form in her arms. Our little girl must be done with her bath. I reached out and touched the back of my wife’s shoulder, but she didn’t move; in fact, she didn’t make a sound beyond the quiet huffing I realized came from her chest. She must be battling a cold.