Christmas Chillers

by ALAN TONER

  Julie suddenly noticed how cold it was getting in the room, despite the roaring fire in the grate. Odd. She shivered, pulling her cardigan close against her chest, and stared into the flames . . . And shivered more intensely as, just for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a grotesque, horned, gargoyle-like face glaring balefully at her from the fire. Then the face vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

  "I don't believe in you," Mandy was saying to the glass. "You're not real." She seemed visibly angry at Santa's apparent reluctance to bring her a present this year.

  The glass moved again, spelling out : OH BUT I AM. PEOPLE HAVE BELIEVED IN ME FOR CENTURIES.

  Somehow, Julie didn't like the way all this was going. Unease prickling at her, she rose from the armchair and crossed to the tumbler to snatch it up. "All right, children," she said, trying to make her voice sound as stern and authoritative as possible. "I think that's quite enough for tonight."

  Then her hand froze an inch away from the tumbler as two strikingly weird things happened: first, the radio suddenly switched itself off; second, the plastic talking head of Father Christmas on the wall uttered its jolly greeting of "Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas," without anybody going near it to set it off.

  A strange, unearthly silence descended on the house.

  Then, a few seconds later, that silence was suddenly broken by the explosion of the tumbler, as it showered tiny but lethal shards of glass into the face of the babysitter.

  "Julie, we're home."

  The slurred but chirpy voice announcing their arrival was that of the children’s mother, Claire. Gently closing the front door behind her, she felt thankful that she had remembered to take the key to that door, for the babysitter - for some unfathomable reason - had failed to answer her three knocks. Maybe she'd fallen asleep in front of the TV after putting the children to bed, Claire thought.

  The party had been great. Both Claire and husband Brian had enjoyed themselves immensely. Now, the time fast approaching midnight, it would be straight up to bed, for neither of the parents wanted any supper, both their stomachs completely full after all the party food - washed down with liberal amounts of booze, of course - they'd consumed.

  As she slipped the front door key back into her pocket, Claire noticed how silent the house was. No radio on, no television, no voices. Nothing. It was almost like walking into a morgue. Somehow, Claire didn't like this silence. It perturbed her somewhat.

  "Blimey, you could hear a pin drop in here," her husband remarked, as if he had read her thoughts.

  "Yes, I know," Claire said with a puzzled frown. "Don't tell me Julie has decided to have an early night too."

  "Doubt it." Brian knew Julie fairly well, and would hardly describe her as the type who loved her bed; on the contrary, she usually stayed up very late, even when she wasn't babysitting.

  "Julie, we're home," Claire called again, slipping off her fur coat and hanging it up in the hallway. She then walked towards the living room, Brian following close behind her.

  Still no response, no movement of any kind.

  The door of the living room was partly ajar. In the frost-covered street outside, a strong wind had begun to stir, its howling gusts rattling the windows of the house in their frames. The light in the living room was on. Claire gently pushed the door further open. It creaked harshly, as if in protest against the intrusion. She entered.

  And jumped with shock as the talking Santa head on the wall just beside the door frame roared, in a guttural, inhuman voice, "HO, HO, HO - MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

  Late afternoon, Christmas Day.

  And all through the house, silence. Total silence. The quiescence of a graveyard.

  A foul stench permeated the whole house, its assailing odour just as intense as the deathly silence. The hush, combined with the stink, completely overshadowed the otherwise homely Christmas atmosphere.

  No longer a Christmas house

  Just a death house.

  On the floor, by the now totally burned-out fireplace, the two children were at it again, utterly engrossed in their little "party game", just as they had been last night. They had whipped another tumbler from the drinks cabinet and, once more, had re-assembled all the letters of the alphabet in a circle around the glass.

  They were talking to Santa again.

  This time, now that he had got to know them a little better, they didn't have to wait too long before the glass started to move. This new ease of contact excited the two children immensely, to the extent that they just could not tear themselves away from the board for one single minute. They were utterly hooked, totally obsessed, to the complete exclusion of everything else. They weren't even bothered about the three dead bodies of the adults that were sprawled out in various parts of the house. Santa had overdone it a bit last night, he really had. In fact, he had been exceptionally naughty. Viewing his over-the-top antics with sheer awe and shock, the children had, at first, been rendered speechless, especially when Santa had performed the exploding tumbler trick on Julie, before moving on to an even more amazing feat involving a set of kitchen knives and their parents. However, Santa was so powerful - so undeniably possessive - that he soon dispelled any revulsion that the kids might have felt, and eventually won them over. And all this, without even having to materialise in his red suit. Ho, ho, ho - this world was so much fun!

  Billy's voice suddenly broke the silence of the house: "Come on then, Santa. Tell us who is gonna win the World Cup next year. Please tell us it's gonna be England."

  Mandy scowled disapprovingly at her brother, and said: "Football again." She tutted. "That's all you ever think about. I wanna know when am I gonna win some money from somewhere. Come on, Santa, tell me, please."

  In response, the glass started to move in its usual slow, weird way. However, it gave neither Billy nor Mandy the answers they wanted. Instead, it just spelt out the sentence: DO NOT CALL ME SANTA ANYMORE.

  The children's mouths dropped open in surprise. Then they frowned and exchanged puzzled glances. "Why not?" Mandy said. "Santa IS your name, isn't it?"

  The word that the glass spelt out next increased the children's puzzlement: ANAGRAM.

  "What the heck is an 'anagram'?" Mandy asked.

  Billy shrugged. "I don't know."

  The glass was moving again, this time faster, faster, as if eager to elucidate on what it was implying. Finally, it stopped, having fully spelt out the message it wanted the children to assimilate: TAKE THE N AND PUT IT AT THE END OF SATA, AND WHAT HAVE YOU GOT?

  "Put the N at the end of SATA and . . ." Billy proceeded to mentally rearrange the letters in accordance with the glass's instructions . . . and his face paled with shocked recognition.

  SATAN

  CHAPTER 3: CHRISTMAS IS COMING

  Santa Claus was fed up. In fact, he had never felt so utterly depressed and dejected before in his whole life. Even the cheerful little children who had been visiting his grotto all afternoon, sitting on his knee one after the other, and joking with him as they playfully tugged at his beard, couldn’t lighten his spirits on this dark day. Actually, he was feeling really sorry he had even bothered to turn in for work today. But he’d had to. The department store needed his services, and he needed the money.

  Yes, Christmas could be a real miserable time, even for such a traditionally merry old soul as Santa Claus. But it was the loneliness again, with him, wasn’t it? It was still there, eating away at him like some horrible parasite. Although he was doing his utmost to keep up a cheerful manner for all the kids, deep down inside he felt as if he were dying a slow, miserable, death.

  “And what do YOU want for Christmas, my little man?” he asked of a spotty-faced, snotty-nosed boy of around 8 or 9 years old, who had just plonked himself onto Santa’s knee.

  The boy thought for a few seconds. Then, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his features, he said, “Britney Spears.”

  Santa forced a smile, somewhat taken aback by the boy’s cheeky reply. This little bugger is going to be
a right one for the ladies when he gets older, Santa thought.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Santa laughed off the boy’s saucy request. “You cheeky little boy, you. Well, I can’t promise you Britney Spears herself in your Christmas stocking, as she wouldn’t fit! Besides, she’s a little old for you, young man. What I can do, though, is maybe slip a little Britney Spears doll into that stocking of yours.”

  The boy shook his head, pulling a disapproving face. “Nah, a doll’s no good. Rather have the real thing.”

  Huh, you’ll be lucky, Santa thought. The mention of Britney Spears had sent a very dark train of thought – a bitter memory - running through his mind. Britney Spears was blonde and leggy, just like the blonde and leggy lover who had done the dirt on him by running off with his best friend (huh, some friend!). Before that rot had set in, Santa had thought he really had it made: dating such a gorgeous, curvaceous blonde for all those months. He’d fell so much in love with her that he’d idolised her, put her on a pedestal. But what a bloody fool he had been!

  The boy made a sharp sniffle as, with the back of his hand, he wiped away a green bead of snot that had begun to dribble from his nostril. Santa cringed inwardly with disgust at the boy’s action. Christ, these young kids were getting cruder by the day. He could have at least used a hanky.

  The boy’s sniffling evoked another bad memory in Santa’s mind. Santa recalled how he himself had sniffled – and sobbed too, oh God how he’d sobbed – when he’d first learned of Beverley’s secret affair with his friend. Oh yes, he had sniffled and sobbed like a baby. Even more upset than the little boy that Santa Claus forgot. A grown man of 45, reduced to a blubbering wreck by the cold-hearted philandering of a modern-day Delilah. And what had upset him even more was when the callous bitch had just laughed in his face when he’d burst into tears. In a twisted kind of way, it seemed that she’d actually found his heartbroken state highly amusing. The arrogant bitch! He hated her!

  But even that wasn’t the worst of it, oh no. Because the blonde whore had dumped him right on – of all times – Christmas Day last year! Thanks to her, the season of goodwill had, in the twinkling of an eye, become the season of ill will!

  And ill was exactly what her shock dumping had made him. He’d been so traumatised that he’d had a complete mental breakdown.

  And that was when the doctors had come along to cart him away to the psychiatric hospital.

  “Christmas is coming,” the psychic medium said. She was giving messages from beyond the grave to the blonde-haired woman who sat across the small table from her. The reading was being held in the upstairs room of her local pub The Bull and Gate.

  The blonde frowned. “Christmas is coming? What do you mean by that?”

  The medium, a plump and dark haired woman of 55, seemed to be growing a little agitated as she tightened her grip on her client’s hand, which she’d hitherto been holding gently as she’d relayed message after message from the woman’s deceased relatives. Eyes closed, still in a deep trance, the medium slowly shook her head, as if seeing something rather disturbing.

  “Oh, no . . . no,” the medium said in a hushed voice. “Christmas is coming . . . Christmas is coming . . .”

  The blonde’s face grew more bemused. She didn’t like this at all. “I . . . I don’t understand. What do you mean?” She stared at the medium with deep concern.

  The medium’s face had now turned a sickly shade of pale. She looked utterly perturbed. Frightened. Beverley had never seen a medium in this state before, and she’d been to quite a few in her time. She was even beginning to feel a little disturbed, a little frightened, herself.

  Then the medium suddenly jolted out of her trance. Heaving a heavy sigh, she relinquished her grip on the blonde’s wrist and fished out a white tissue from her pocket, with which she dabbed away the beads – cold beads – of perspiration from her brow.

  The blonde continued to press her. “What did you see? What was all that about, ‘Christmas is coming’?”

  The medium shoved her tissue back in her pocket and shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know, Beverley. I just got a sudden message from your dead grandfather – Christmas is coming – and then I . . . well, just lost contact with him. It does happen occasionally with some spirits.”

  “But the way you went,” Beverley pressed on. “You got all panicky, went white.”

  The medium frowned. “Did I really?” Then she shrugged dismissively. “Well, all I can say is that I do apologise if I became . . . shall we say, a little over-emotional during that reading.” She gently patted Beverley’s hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you, dear.” Then she rose from her seat. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll bring this session to a close for tonight.” She thrust out a palm to Beverley. “That’ll be ten pounds please.”

  As Beverley opened the door to leave, the medium stopped her as she called: “Oh, and Beverley.”

  Beverley turned around. “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  Beverley looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

  The medium’s voice betrayed no underlying significance attached to her advice as she said, “Just be careful, that’s all.”

  Beverley heard him before she saw him suddenly loom into view from out of the darkened alleyway.

  The sound of a jangling bell.

  A tiny little Christmas bell.

  She froze still in her tracks. The icy cold December wind cut through her coat and caused her to shiver. She looked to her right, wondering who had jangled the bell there . . . and saw a red-clad, bearded figure slowly walking towards her. In his gloved hand he held up the glinting silver bell, and shook it again. “Ho, ho, ho,” he chortled. “Merry Christmas.”

  Beverley smiled. It was just a Santa. But what was he doing coming out of that dark alleyway? Perhaps he’d had to take a piss or something.

  “Oh, er, hi. Merry Christmas.” She felt like adding: you’re a bit early to be out on your rounds, aren’t you? Christmas Eve is still three weeks away.

  Then she noticed he had his other hand tucked behind his back. What was he hiding in it? Was he going to give her a surprise present?

  Santa’s next words, as he stepped closer to her, caused her blood to run cold. Colder than even the cutting December wind: “Christmas is coming . . . Christmas is coming!” There was something very disturbing about the emphasis he had placed on that last word, something very unsettling about the intent gleam that had appeared in his eye.

  Then, with almost lightning speed, he whipped the hand out from behind his back. Beverley gasped in shock as she saw that it held a hammer.

  With deft, brutal force, Santa brought the hammer crashing down on the top of Beverley’s head. Her skull cracked with the impact, the sound of broken bone resounding all around the frost-covered, deserted street. Dazed, dizzy, and blind with pain, she staggered back, colliding with a lamppost as she went.

  Mercilessly, viciously, Santa laid into her again and again with the hammer, brandishing the weapon like a demented warrior, screaming in sick triumph as he battered her head to a bloody pulp. Her body writhed and jerked on the ground, like that of a mad puppet.

  He wasn’t satisfied until, finally, his deceitful, detestable ex-lover lay dead on the glistening, frosty pavement, bits of brain oozing out of the shattered skull, blonde hair completely matted with a viscous fluid that was as red as the Santa suit of her vengeful assailant.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” the medium said, relaxing in front of the roaring fire, glass of sherry in one hand, mince pie in the other. “I won’t tell the doctors at the hospital what you’ve done. We don’t want them putting you away again, do we?”

  Santa, himself enjoying a glass of sherry and a mince pie, smiled gratefully at her from the armchair facing hers. He loved his sister to bits. She was always willing to help him out whenever he had a problem. “Thanks, Charlotte.” Now that he was relaxed for the night in the warm comfort of his sister’s home, he had fully divested himself of the Santa ga
rb, and had changed back into his ordinary clothes. “I knew I could count on you to do the business.”

  Charlotte shrugged emotionlessly. “Well, I mean, she deserved it, didn’t she, the way she cheated on you like that. There was certainly no Christmas spirit there.” Her eyes darkened at the thought.

  Santa sniggered. “Yeah, you’re right, she DID deserve it. Oh, and talking of Christmas spirits, that was a real good trick you pulled off there, when you did that little “reading” for her.”

  The medium laughed. “Yes, yes, it was very clever, wasn’t it? It just goes to show that some people will believe anything.”

  “Yeah.” Then a maniacal gleam appeared in his eye as he added: “Even in Father Christmas!”

  CHAPTER 4: CALLING ON KRAMPUS

  “I do hope we get a white Christmas this year,” little Mandy Hawkins, 8, said to her older brother David, 9, as they walked down the narrow street to their school.

  “Yeah, me too,” David replied, his breath visible before him in the frosty air as he spoke. “Weather’s certainly cold enough for it.”

  It was a week before Christmas, and all through the small town both children and adults alike were all getting into the festive mood. In the town centre, even the normally tight-fisted council had been touched by the Yuletide goodwill this year, for despite the spending cuts, they had scraped their tight budget enough to set up a lovely big Christmas tree whose branches were liberally festooned with all kinds of colourful decorations and sparkling tinsel. And at night, on came the fairy lights, enhancing the sparkling look of the olive-green tree all the more.

  “So, have you written your letter to Father Christmas yet, David?” Mandy asked, her pretty little blue eyes gleaming teasingly. She’d never believed in Santa Claus. Neither had her brother. But come Christmas time, they always liked to pull each other’s legs about everything, from possible Dear Santa letters to how much of a greedy pig each could be at the Christmas dinner table. Their mutual teasing was just another part of their enjoyment of the festive season.