"How long have you been alone?" I ask my reflection in the glass, seeing the lines etched across my face, the grey at my temples. I turn away from myself, unable to accept how long I've been on my own with just the house, my new mother, to keep me safe and protected. My anger fading, I walk back down stairs and I see the house for what she is: an empty shell that's grown tatty over the years. The wallpaper has always been torn, the carpet threadbare. It’s just a dream I had about a perfect house, just like old Bing dreamt about a white christmas.
There is the sound of a car stopping outside and for a moment my heart leaps, wondering if they've finally come back. I run to the front door, unlock it and stand on the porch. There's a man stood by his car, looking up at my house, wonder in his face. I can see myself in him, can sense his desire.
Finally, the man meets my gaze and he stammers, ”I didn’t think anyone lived here, but I saw it at the side of the road just passing. I have to ask if it’s for sale?” He’s unable to stop staring. It's almost obscene.
I shake my head. "You could never afford her," I say. At some point as I wondered the house alone, I grabbed an axe and my hand is gripping it as if it’s my saviour. The snow is perfect white upon the lawn and I begin to dream about a red christmas as I edge towards the stranger on my land. It’s the house. She wants me to protect her as she protects me. You have to keep the strangers away. We don’t need anyone else, especially not on christmas.
And I hear a family singing in the distant past…
We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a -
“Happy new year!” I scream out, swinging the axe down, watching the red spray across the blanket of snow. It’s the most beautiful christmas, I think, a festive red that colours a world of black and white. Swinging the axe again, I realise I’m not dreaming. I’m awake.
About Kevin Grover
Kevin is a horror writer who lives in Kent, England. Kevin's biggest influence is Stephen King. Kevin has been writing from a young age and describes himself as the ultimate geek. When not writing, you can often find him watching old episodes of Doctor Who. He has been previously published in ‘Writing Magazine’ in the UK, having come runner up in their 2012 ghost story competition with Pack Up Your Troubles, a story about a wartime ghost come back to visit his wife.
Father's Song is his first novel and takes the reader on a journey into the dark origins of nursery rhymes. It has recently been published and is now available through Amazon. His short story, The Dead Ringers, is published in the Grim Keepers, a book of horror stories for Halloween by 15 international writers. You can connect with Kevin using the following links:
Website: www.kevingrover.co.uk
Facebook: www.facebook.com/Kevin.grover
Twitter: @groverkevin”
Seasons’ Greetings
By AJ Millen
The harsh caw of a rook made Inspector Thomas Crumb look up at the row of beech trees on the horizon, their naked branches outlined stark against the steel-grey, snow-laden early morning sky. He should have been home by now, sipping hot tea and nibbling on toast and marmalade after a quiet night shift at Burbon-on-Lee’s tiny police station.
It was cold outside, but colder yet inside Hathaway Cottage as he stepped across the threshold. The cramped living room was crammed with overstuffed, once grand furniture and a collection of knick-knacks that only a lifetime in the same place could accumulate. A forlorn plastic Christmas tree sat in the corner, its lights blinking feebly. Three stockings hung from hooks on either side of the old iron fireplace. One hook lay empty, spoiling the careful symmetry.
A line of cheery cards stood on the mantelpiece, pride of place given to the largest one, an ornate affair which looked like it had been handcrafted and possibly made to order. The scene it depicted almost looked like the room, but an idealised, picture book version of it, without the dust and discarded crockery.
Crumb approached the armchair facing the now cold fireplace, and looked down. In it sat a man in his 80s, wearing a checked flannel shirt, knitted tie and thick jumper vest. His thinning grey hair was slicked back against his parchment thin scalp, stray white hairs jutted out wildly from his eyebrows, his skin stretched across closed eyelids and gaunt cheekbones. His ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, wrists firmly bound in his lap, and something was stuffed tight into his mouth. He was dead. Very, very dead. And it didn’t look like he’d gone peacefully.
“Poor old bugger must have choked on whatever the evil bastards shoved down his throat to keep him quiet,” said Jo from Forensics, taking a large pair of tweezers and carefully drawing the make-shift gag from between the victim’s lips. “See those broken veins, and the bluish tinge to his skin? Tell-tale signs. Asphyxiation… what the hell?”
Her eyebrows shot up as she carefully pulled the gag out to reveal a length of brightly-coloured fabric with the name ‘Jake’ written in glitter above a cheery appliqued snowman. A Christmas stocking – probably intended for one of the grandchildren he’d be expecting to visit in the coming week.
“Funny thing is,” she continued “although obviously some sadistic git did this to the poor old sod, there’s no sign of a break-in. All the doors and windows were locked from the inside. Nothing missing either – not even the box of fifties our boys found stashed at the back of his kitchen cupboard. If it hadn’t been for Elsie Symms doing her morning rounds and letting herself in with the spare key, it probably would have been days before anyone realised they hadn’t seen old George.”
Marjory Falstaff was hard at work, oblivious to the drama unfolding at the other end of the village. Humming along to the Christmas carols playing on her ancient record player, she smiled as she gave her latest creation its finishing touches. On the shelf behind her, an old grocer’s scales gave the slightest creak as one side clicked down a fraction, bringing it a degree closer to equilibrium with the pile of weights neatly stacked in the opposite tray.
Admiring the finished greetings card, with its skillfully sketched and embellished scene, she added the final detail. Her trademark – the shadow gate seal, three truncated crescent moons intertwined to resemble a spiky flower. She’d been using it ever since that day a year ago when she’d made the deal that gave her one last Christmas with David.
Already well-known in the village for her card-making skills, she’d been barely in a fit state to do anything but cry after that cold November day when the doctors delivered the news they’d been dreading. David wouldn’t last a month, they’d said. The cancer had eaten away just too much. It couldn’t be stopped. He wouldn’t see Christmas, they’d said.
That’s when she swore she’d do anything for a little more time with her husband. Promised the unthinkable to things she hardly knew (or dared consider) hiding in the shadows, just for the chance to celebrate his favourite holiday together one last time.
David had confounded the doctors and rallied as the darkest day of the year approached. His bloodshot blue eyes regained something of their old spark as he watched Marjory place the angel atop the extravagant conifer she’d dragged in from the garden and decorated with the glee of a six-year-old. He’d enjoyed a mince pie washed down with mulled wine as they listened to the Midnight Mass on the radio late on Christmas Eve. He’d even opened his gifts with delight and managed to eat a full plate of turkey with all the trimmings on Christmas Day. He was happy. So was his wife.
But their happiness was short-lived. Marjory and David did have their one last Christmas together, but that was all. Boxing Day dawned on his cold lifeless body lying next to her in the bed they’d shared for more than forty years. Since then, she’d been adding her mark to every card she sold at the village fete, church bazaars and, in the past two months, online.
And now the time had come for her debt to be paid.
By ten in the morning, Jo had finished her examination and was watching carefully as George Jenkins’ cold corpse was loaded into the ambulance for its trip to the mortuary. Not that it would take long to formally determine the ca
use of his death. It was the why and the how that was a mystery.
Crumb sighed as he thought of the paperwork waiting for him back at the station. But first, he decided to swing by Bellamy & Sons – Funeral Directors, to give them the heads-up about a new customer they’d have on their hands once the coroner released the body.
A revered hush washed over him as he opened the door to undertaker’s parlour. A tall, kind-eyed woman rose at the sound of a visitor entering, carefully arranging her features into an expression of solemn compassion. It was replaced with a tired smile when she recognised the local CID man.
“Morning, Doreen,” said Crumb. “Another chilly one, eh?”
Settling into the chair opposite Doreen Bellamy, he continued: “I’ve just come from George Jenkins’ place. Another customer for you, but I’m afraid he didn’t go naturally so you’ll have to contact the coroner’s office to find out when you can get his body and make the arrangements.”
Doreen sighed. “Seems it’s high season in our business,” she murmured, pushing a desk calendar showing the next two weeks across the page. Every weekday was marked with names for cremation or burial. “The graveyard at St Swithun’s will be more brown than green by New Year with all the digging they’ll be doing.”
Winter was always a busy time, she explained, but this year had brought a bumper crop of freak accidents in addition to the usual cases of pneumonia or dodgy tickers that carried off the old and infirm. A single mother, determined to give her kids a jolly holiday despite her limited budget, electrocuted when trying to fix the ancient wiring on fairy lights found in the attic. A reckless teenage boy, his neck snapped like a twig when he slipped while trying to fix a large illuminated Santa to the roof of his family’s home. The aging spinster found frozen solid on the park bench, the remains of seed she used to feed the birds still clinging to the fibres of her woolen glove.
Time for a break, Marjory told herself. She stood up from her work table, stretched and hobbled painfully (thanks to her arthritic hip) to the kitchen. Filling the kettle for a cup of tea, she gazed out of the window. The weak winter sun was struggling to break through the clouds, casting patches of warmth and light on her lawn to melt the silver frost from the green blades of grass.
A robin landed on the handle of a spade leaning against the shed. It turned its cheery red breast in Marjory’s direction and seemed to look directly at her with its bright beady eye.
“Hello, sweetheart,” said murmured. The robin redbreast always put her in mind of David, making her feel that he was still keeping an eye on her from beyond… well, beyond whatever it was that separated the living from the dead.
She turned on the radio to listen to the midday news, more out of habit than interest. Tales of terror, conflict and death washed over her like a breeze moving a net curtain, but her interest was piqued by news that police in Vermont were stumped by the case of a woman apparently trampled by a herd of wild reindeer – an animal never before known in the state. Elsewhere, the authorities in Australia had withdrawn a particular brand of gourmet Christmas pudding after a child had died of internal bleeding after eating a bowlful laced with broken glass.
Sighing and shaking her head sadly, Marjory opened the freezer to take out the single serving of beef stew for her midday meal. The scales on the windowsill moved another inch closer to balancing the books.
Temperatures plummeted in Burbon-on-Lee the night before the winter solstice. An icy wind cut through the streets without bringing a single flake of the snow the children hoped for now the school had closed for the holidays.
“Too cold for snow” opined Harry, resident amateur meteorologist and barman at the ‘Old Bell’ pub as regulars piled in for a nip of something strong to chase away the chill. The fire in the 16th century inglenook and the crush of pre-Christmas drinkers offered a warm refuge from the cruel night. Outside, long icicles formed on the eaves overhanging the footpath to the car park, trembling slightly with every frigid gust of wind.
The rusty cowbell above the door jangled as Inspector Crumb walked in, seeking a hot meal and some company before going home alone after a trying day at the station.
“Evening, Tom,” said Harry, wiping spilled beer from the bar. “What can I get for you?”
“I was thinking of one of Sal’s piping hot meat pies,” said the policeman, settling into the high stool.
“Coming right up,” said the barman, making a note of the order. “And what about a pint of something while you wait? Or are you still on duty?”
Finished for the day, Crumb decided to enjoy a glass of something from the pub’s selection of traditional real ales. Home was less than a quarter of a mile away, he could always walk.
“I’m done for the day. Give me a pint of Green Man.”
Taking a sip from the nutty, bitter brew, Crumb looked around the bar. Regulars sat around their usual table, sharing the local gossip – no doubt including the demise of old George two days back. A pair of old codgers supped hot toddies over a game of chess. At the far end of the bar, near the jukebox and dart board, a gaggle of suited twenty-somethings hooted in a fit of pre-Christmas boisterousness.
One pint led to another, as Crumb settled into a comfortable stupour after his hot meal. He didn’t want to go home to the dark, empty house that had felt as personal as an airport hotel room since the day Jane had packed her bags and left three years ago. Instead, he settled back in his seat, contentedly working on The Times crossword and looking up every now and then to greet familiar faces as they came and went.
The gang of drunks at the far end of the bar were getting louder and more obnoxious. If they carried on, he might need to adopt his official persona and order them to pipe down.
But no, they’d had enough of the charms of the country pub and were now on their way out. No doubt to some swanky bar in the city which served champagne cocktails with cranberry spiked swizzle sticks.
None were in a fit state to get behind the wheel of a car but that wasn’t Crumb’s problem, he decided. Just days before Christmas, there would be plenty of his fellow officers on the look-out for drunks to stop any stupid enough to attempt to drive.
Crumb raised a hand to signal to Harry. A hot, strong coffee and he’d call it a night. But before the barman could respond, a monstrous gust of wind shook the pub, howling like a wild animal trapped beneath its centuries old rafters. A rumble, a crash and a scream smashed through the cacophony outside. Harry looked up in panic, threw the bar door open and dashed out to see what had happened. Driven by an unshakable sense of duty, Crumb followed.
Peering through the dark now peppered with the first wildly swirling flakes of snow, he tried to make out the scene. The sight that loomed out of the dark was not a toppled chimney stack, as he had expected. Instead, the largest icicle that had dangled from the eaves had detached itself and plummeted to the ground. Unfortunately, the head of one of the departing Yuppies had got in the way.
Spread-eagled on the ground in a growing pool of blood mingling with the settled snow and smashed ice splinters, the be-suited young man was clearly not breathing. The left side of his face was obliterated and his expensively cut hair matted with gore and bits of brain. A smartly dressed blonde knelt next to him, hysterical, heaving and screeching.
Crumb watched transfixed, paralysed by shock and fatigue. Around him, people were running, screaming, shouting. Harry was yelling into his mobile phone. The smart blonde was vomiting copiously on the ground next to her boyfriend.
After what felt like an age in suspended animation, the policeman looked up and started at the sight of a gargoyle-like face grinning down at him from the rooftop. He blinked and looked again, but saw only darkness broken by the approaching flashing blue of the ambulance lights bouncing off the red brick of the pub wall. Must be seeing things, he thought. The combination of shock, not enough sleep and too many pints of Green Man could have that effect.
Marjory was desperate. Time was running out, and the scales had still not balance
d. Payment was due and if it wasn’t made… well, who knew?
She’d been encouraged by the slowly descending arm of the scales in the past few days, but it wasn’t enough. One more, just one more to appease the powers that had granted her those last few days of happiness with David, and promise that they would – one day – be reunited.
Marjory grabbed a card from the pile she had finished that afternoon, one with a smiling Santa opening his arms to offer a warm embrace to Christmas revelers. She hastily scribbled a greeting inside and sealed it in its envelope, writing “Inspector Thomas Crumb” on the outside. She shrugged on her coat and wrapped a scarf round her neck, and prepared to leave the house to hand deliver it to the police station just down the street.
Her heart leapt into her throat and she let out a strangled scream as she opened the front door to a man dressed in red. Relief flooded through her like warm water as she watched him lower his fur-trimmed hood to reveal the ruddy, familiar face of David. Her David, healthy and happy, before the cancer got him.
But her blood turned to ice as his smile twisted into a snaggle-toothed snarl and he raised a filthy-clawed hand holding a white envelope bearing HER name. In the bottom right hand corner, she spied the shadow gate seal, calling to her like a homing signal.
“I’ve brought your card, Marjory,” rasped the figure before her, no longer wearing the face she loved. “It’s your turn now. The balance is paid. Time to go.”
About AJ Millen
Words have always been AJ Millen’s friends. She started telling stories young, and she’s still at it. During the 1980s, she worked as a reporter in England before going into public relations. But in 1989, she left her job and homeland for six months in Greece. That was the plan, until a brown-eyed boy persuaded her to stay. Today, he’s her husband and father to their 18-year-old son.
Festive Frights Page 12