Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (29 page)

A strained laugh had burst from Rachel's lips as she and Aaron realized they had been holding their breath. Thinking their imaginations had bested them, an embarrassing giggle pierced the silence as they snuggled back into their sleeping bags. Rain and wind had mixed, and whipped and beat the small dome tent-the unknowing couple slept.

The raindrops had begun to grow. They crashed and plummeted unmercifully as they soaked the flimsy shelter. Like a bowling ball rolling down the alley, the thunder roared as the lightning cracked. Unexpectedly, a scream cut through the night. Aaron and Rachel bolted from their sleeping bags; shivers of terror had begun to race through their veins. What the hell?

Aaron had hurriedly put on his shoes and groped in the darkness for his hunting knife. Shit! I lost it this afternoon.

"Aaron! What are you doing?" Rachel said in a harsh whisper as she grabbed his arm again.

"Rach, honey, I'm just gonna see if everything's ok. It's all right. Really. It's just a fall thunderstorm."

"Please, Aaron don't leave me here alone." Unseen by Aaron, one tear had rolled down her cheek. "I have a bad feeling, please Aaron."

"Hush, love," he said gathering her in his arms. "It's going to be fine. I'll be right outside. I'm just gonna have a look."

He hugged her tight in gentle reassurance then he reached for the flashlight. The deafening sound of the zipper echoed through the woods, before another rumble sounded. Aaron shined the flashlight toward their friend's tent. Looks fine to me. He shrugged his shoulders and checked the area surrounding the camp. Everything was as they left it, although Aaron could not shake his paranoia … a feeling of being watched.

He felt like a white mouse in a weird science experiment. He imagined giant people were watching and taking notes on a huge brown clipboard while he walked through the maze of their campsite. He wished for lightning to see his surroundings clearer. The flashlight was little help.

Again, he shrugged his shoulders and decided all was well. Wet and cold, Aaron made his way back to his tent. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, caressing his cheek as he walked. He felt as if eyes bore into his skull, reading his thoughts. And as if the Heavens heard his plea, the sky lit up. In the distance, the silhouette of a figure appeared. Aaron blinked. Again, lightning lit up the site like a ballpark. The figure on the small hill was gone. Aaron shook his head. Damn, my imagination is on overload.

He walked back towards Rachel, past their friend's tent, through the entire site. Unzipping the entrance, he found Rachel asleep. You sure were scared, weren't you? Exhausted, he lay on his sleeping bag. Fucking great! Damn tent leaked. Well, this piece of shit is goin' back to the friggin' store. No leak guarantee, my ass. The thunder rumbled, the rain fell, the wind began to howl. Sure is gonna be a bad storm. Hope this piece of shit holds up. Aaron shifted his position then drifted off to sleep.

The next morning he snuggled closer to Rachel. "Mornin' love. See we made it. Nothin' but a good 'ole fall thunderstorm."

He had draped his arm across her waist. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as paranoia overtook him again. He shook himself mentally and rolled to his back, his arm lay across his forehead. Lazily, his eyes wandered to the ceiling. Boy, my mind is havin' a ball with me. Aaron let it slide as he stretched and yawned. Deep brown eyes frowned then widened. He rubbed them to clear the crusted sleep; finally, what he missed last night met him square in the face.

The ceiling was a deep burgundy, a high contrast to the white canvas of the tent. Burgundy striped unevenly down the sides. His eyes focused intensively on the ceiling, mouth agape as he raised himself up on one elbow. Aaron reached out, without looking, and shook Rachel.

"Rach, wake up!"

Silence.

"Rachel!" His eyes glued to the overhead crimson canvas.

He saw nothing except the ceiling. He couldn't understand what happened and why Rachel was so quiet. He stopped and listened. There were no sounds, no birds singing, their friends were quiet, no crickets chirped, nothing … just silence. He froze as reality suddenly hit him. His eyes moved from the ceiling to the form next to him, horror slammed into his brain. Instinctively, he grabbed her and hugged her to him.

"Oh God! Oh God! Rachel! Nooooo!" Fear such as he never experienced consumed his thoughts and actions. His hand flew to his mouth, covered in blood.

Aaron looked at his hand, and then to the woman in his arms, his face locked in eternal horror. Laying her down, he fell all over himself as he scrambled out of the tent. Wildly, he screamed for help. His eyes flashed randomly over the campsite. In the daylight, Aaron discovered everything he had missed last night. Blood smeared and dripped from everything. He looked at himself. He had blood all over him. Her blood. Aaron started shaking violently.

"Dear God! HELP!" His hands flew to his head.

Silence.

"Rachel! My sweet Rachel!" Rocked to his knees, he held his arms out to her.

Silence.

Clawing at the ground on all fours, he swiveled, sinking further into the mud. What should I do? His eyes looked everywhere, but saw nothing. As he looked down again, a glint of silver caught his attention. He recognized it as his lost hunting knife.

He snatched it from the grass. Damn bastard! He held the knife as if it were all he had left on Earth. He gripped it so tightly he cut himself. The blade sliced through his hand. Fresh blood mixed with Rachel's and dripped down his hand. His mind and body were numb from shock. His mind locked up, he knelt paralyzed with fear. He tried to look at the whole campsite, but his mind blocked the massacre.

Stupefied, his eyes moved to the tree branch that hung over his tent - dangling upside down were their friends. It wasn't rain. Fascinated, he watched one lonely drop of blood as it rolled off his best friend's fingertip then fell an eternity onto the tent. The drop echoed into the forest and violently pierced Aaron's soul. One sound penetrated his numbed mind. A slow drawn whistle.

His head jerked toward the whistle. On the hill, the mysterious figure from last night raised his hand. As Aaron watched, covered in mud and blood, his mouth hung open and his hand pointed at the dark cloaked stranger, he saluted then disappeared. Aaron blinked then rubbed his eyes. It finally made sense. Oh God! It wasn't rain! Aaron's tormented mind screamed run! Kill the bastard! The knife had sliced deeper into his hand. But his fear and grief held him in place, sunk knee-deep in mud, caked with dry blood.

It wasn't rain. He made himself focus on the sight of his slain girlfriend. Her head had rolled off her pillow in his rush to get out of the tent. Her eyes were open, staring right at him. Oh God! Rachel … I … It wasn't rain! He looked from Rachel to his friends. It wasn't rain. Continually, this flew through his head until finally it erupted from his mouth in a primal scream.

"It wasn't rain! It wasn't rain." He struggled to stand then began to walk in a circle. "Dammit! It wasn't rain." He ran his blood soaked hands through his ash-blonde hair. "It wasn't rain. What the hell is going on?"

Aaron felt the barrier between this world and the other break. Hallucinations set in. Recklessly, he waved the knife. "You coward! Where the hell are you?" He stared into the dense brush and searched through the trees for signs of life. It wasn't rain. It fucking wasn't rain! He looked at Rachel and his friends, "God help me! It wasn't rain!" ripped from his throat.

This was how Ranger McRoy, who came up to say hello, found Aaron a few hours later. What he found would haunt him to the end of his days. Aaron walked in circles talking wildly; he had worn the grass from constant pacing.

Ranger McRoy carefully approached Aaron. He noted the crazed look in his lifeless brown eyes. Aaron jumped as the Ranger gently touched his shoulder. "Son, what have you done?" He stared at the young man before him, covered in various shades of red and brown.

Aaron looked despondently at the Ranger, knife pointed, and said, "It wasn't rain."

At his trial, the evidence presented against Aaron, including the hunting knife, had increased his guilt, but he said nothing. His eyes remained lowered. Once confident and proud, he now teetered on the edge of insanity. After reading the guilty verdict, the judge asked him if he had anything to say before sentencing. His lawyer stood next to him, an unnoticed gleam flashed in his sinister eyes.

Aaron stood before the judge; and finally raised his head. His crazed eyes stared through the judge and beyond. This once prestigious lawyer convicted of triple murder, managed to say, "It wasn't rain" before he fell to his knees, his body racked in tormented sobs.

The three were silent as Michael finished his tale.

"Damn, so do you believe he did it?" David asked.

"Well, some say he didn't kill those people, but others believed he did. Last I heard, he was still alive and sits in a padded room, a life patient of the State Hospital. I hear the nurses who attend him gossip to friends that all he does is sit in a stained straitjacket, rocking back and forth repeating, 'it wasn't rain'." Michael paused, looking at them. "Yeah I believe he did it, but I had to give him the best defense I could. That's why I prosecute now instead of defending."

His audience was silent. Shock registered on their faces, they nearly jumped from their skin as thunder sounded in the background.

Michael stretched as he stood. He looked at the sky, the flames reflected in his eyes, and said, "We'd better get inside the tents, looks like it might rain."

Nicole Thomas

Nicole Thomas-aka Nic or A. Nicole-lives with her husband and two daughters in southern Indiana. Ms. Thomas co-owns Demonic Books, parent company of 3F Publications and Catalyst Press, with Monica J. O'Rourke. She is a member of the
Horror Writers Association
and the
National Authors Registry
. She has had several poems and short stories published both in print and online, including
The House of Pain
,
The Murder Hole
and
Horrorfind.com
. She is currently working on her first novel. She is also the editor of
Femmes de la Brume
(Double Dragon Publishing).

She has won several awards for her poetry, including the President's Award for Literary Excellence 2002 and 2003 for
Christmas with My Family
, which appears in the book
Bridges
, by Iliad Press. Her nonfiction also appears in the books
America: Voices Coming Together
,
Good Times
,
9-11-01
,
Acclamations
,
Abstracts
and
Creations of the Heart
. She also wrote and illustrated a children's book,
Molly and the Secret
, about a child's experience of abuse at the hands of a babysitter. The book is dedicated to her daughters and nephews, as well as the children and adults who must deal daily with the results of abuse.

You can visit her online at www.anicolethomas.com.

Thanksgiving is the culmination of ancient harvest festivals, Puritan beliefs, and a New World historical event. Traditionally Thanksgiving is a time of contemplating the fortune of those who migrated from England to North America, although in more recent times it is more about reflecting on our prosperity than on mere survival. Families in the United States of America and Canada gather for large feasts and general merriment-activities that would have been banned from an actual Puritan Thanksgiving.

For the Puritan settlers of the Virginia Trading Company, a Thanksgiving was a somber day of worship to give thanks for good events, such as smiting an enemy or surviving a plague. However, the historical event in the autumn of 1621 featured secular songs, dance, gaming, and culinary indulgence. The Wampamoag participants had little use for involving themselves in any other kind of celebration with their European counterparts. The harvest feast lasted three days and, contrary to popular belief, was not repeated. While many communities held annual harvest festivals-as have all cultures-Thanksgiving wasn't suggested as a national holiday until the 1770's, made an official holiday in New York state in 1817 and nationally in 1863.

Contrary to current culinary practices, the original Thanksgiving did not feature turkey or ham, nor were fruits and vegetables so prevalent. Because of the hard, active lifestyle they endured, the Pilgrims needed all the protein they could eat, so meats were more necessary. We do know they had venison and "wild fowl" at this meal-wild fowl hunted in the area included crane, swan, and eagles. As there was no sugar to be had there were likely no pies or other sweets, including cranberry relish. Pumpkins were only eaten stewed, corn was only available dried at that time of year, sweet potatoes were not available, and there were no cows or dairy products.

In Canada the holiday is much the same as in the United States: feasting and family, since 1879. The harvest festival tradition in other cultures is a bit different, though. In China it was known as Chung Ch'ui, occurring on the fifteenth day of the eight month. Considered the Moon's birthday, Chung Ch'ui was celebrated with moon cakes (imprinted with a rabbit as the Chinese see a "rabbit" on the moon, not a "man"). Ancient Egyptians would hold parades, feasts, games, and dances in honor of Min, their vegetation god. Then, as they harvested their crops, the Egyptians would weep to trick the deceased plant spirits into thinking it was an accident. The Israelite survival through the desert is marked by Sukkoth, a celebration dating back over three thousand years. The huts (succuts) of the nomadic Hebrews are recreated, decorated with fruits and vegetables, then used to host outdoor meals for two nights. Greek tradition observed Thesmosphoria, a three-day festival in honor of the grain goddess Demeter. Similar to Sukkoth, shelters would be constructed from plants, replete with furniture, followed by fasting, then feast and food offerings to Demeter.

The current lifestyle for much of North America has removed the harvest celebration from this holiday, yet it still remains one of the most important for all families, regardless of their background.