Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (5 page)

Time becomes a slippery thing when you are feeling the holiday bliss and before I know it the special is winding down. Gassley gasps, "Oh my...we're all out of...time...well, I hope you've...enjoyed...this evening's holiday excitement every bit as much as...I have..." All around the room I can sense the unspoken response: it isn't over already, is it?

The orchestral holiday music swells to a crescendo as the camera rises, pulls out. "And remember: have A Very Gassley Holiday!" I don't think there's any question that we will.

During the closing strains of music and credits which play over suicide scenes and war crimes I clap my hands together with anticipation. "Well everyone," I barely manage to say, "I've got a little surprise!"

"Oh, you didn't!" Darla sloppily exclaims.

"Yeah, well, it's a little something to show the family just what I think of them, and how much I appreciate the duties of fatherhood." Having prepared in advance I pull the generator, alligator clips, and fifty yards of barbed wire out from under the sofa.

"Yay!" the kids cry in unison at the sight of my homemade torture kit.

Darla eyes the setup with genuine surprise. "George, you shouldn't have...really..."

"How about we take this thing for a spin before we eat?" I grab my son and bounce him rigorously on my knee, probably because of all the adrenaline pumping through me right now. "Well? What do you say to that, Billy?" It comes out as more of a growl than a question really.

"G-G-God b-b-bless...bless us...every o-one..." little Billy sobs. The heartfelt sentiment moves me as I know it does the rest of the family.

John Edward Lawson

John lives in Hyattsville, Maryland with his wife Jennifer. He has had over 200 works published on the Internet, in the small press, and in various collections. Three of John's eBooks are available from bizarrEbooks.com and he also has a poetry chapbook for sale, The Scars Are Complimentary. In 2001 his work won several competitions and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Currently John is editor of The Dream People (www.dreampeople.org) and four anthologies.

By Simon Wood

Snow insulated the city, absorbing the urban world's noise in its peculiar way. All Tom could hear was the squeak and scrunch of his footfalls compacting fresh snow.

He smiled. The kids would love the surprise in the morning. It would be their first white Christmas. Hell, he hadn't seen one in years. Who expected snow in San Francisco? Bing Crosby would be the name of the day tomorrow.

A new sound invaded the night. Sleigh bells tinkled on the night air. Tom grinned like his five year old.

He loved Christmas, always had. There was something about this time of the year that made him glad to be alive. People always managed to do something special-like now. Someone was giving the illusion that Santa was on the way by ringing sleigh bells from the rooftops on Market Street.

The sleigh bell chimes intensified. They were directly overhead. Grinning, he looked up.

His grin slipped down his face like melting sleet. Christmas had just lost all meaning.

Clark couldn't believe it. Some son of a bitch was mugging some other son of a bitch on Christmas Eve. The mugger was dressed entirely in green. From Clark's vantage point, he was in a fancy dress costume and pounding the shit out of his victim on the ground.

Clark wasn't about to let it happen. He charged across the empty street. His feet found surprising purchase on the slippery surface.

"Leave him alone, you shit!" Clark shouted.

The attacker continued to deliver blow after blow to his victim.

Clark closed on the attacker and realized the attacker wasn't using his fist. He had a short bladed dagger in his hand. Two bells dangled from the butt and chimed every time he stabbed his victim. Clark tried to stop, but he slithered on the snow then on the red slush before colliding with the man in green. The attacker collapsed on his prey and Clark flew over the top of them and crashed on his back, cracking his head on the sidewalk. He flipped onto all fours, afraid that the green-clad killer would turn his attentions to him. The killer didn't. He wasn't finished with his victim. He thrust the knife down twice more into the dead man's eyes. With rapid motions, he plucked the eyes out, snaring them with the dagger's snake-like forked blade.

Terror cold-welded Clark to the spot as he bore witness to the unbelievable. Lightning exploded from the dead man's sockets, striking the knife blade and vaporizing the eyeballs skewered to it. Electricity was conducted through the killer and he released an involuntary growl. When the lightning ceased, another bell dangled from the knife's handle.

The killer turned to Clark and Clark saw the murderer's face for the first time. The killer's hood had hidden his face, but not anymore. He was a man...of sorts. The face was dark and gnarled, as if carved from tree roots, and twisted into a permanent sneer.

"You're next, friend," the killer growled.

Clark didn't doubt it.

Sirens wailed and three police units slewed onto Market.

The man in green snatched a glance at the approaching cruisers then turned back to Clark. "Somebody up there likes you," he said with a smirk.

"Up where?"

"Up here." The green man propelled himself hundreds of feet into the air, until he was lost amongst the night and the stars.

The black and whites skidded to a halt on the snow, one car riding the curb. Headlights bathed the sidewalk in blinding light. The scene was open to wild interpretation and didn't look good for Clark. He stood with his hands raised.

"It wasn't me," he said weakly.

It sounded feeble and he knew it. But what else was he going to say? That some other guy dressed like the Riddler flying through the air did it?

"Stay right there," came a voice from a cruiser's bullhorn.

"I didn't do it."

The cops piled out from their cars with weapons drawn. Two cops kept their guns trained on Clark. The other four had their guns aimed on the night behind and above them.

"Turn around and face the wall," an approaching cop with sergeant stripes said. "Place your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers."

Clark did as he was told. "I didn't do it. Honestly," he said to the wall.

A gun barrel pressed against Clark's neck and a handcuff snared his wrist. His hands were brought down behind his back and the second bracelet clamped his other wrist. He was turned to face the victim. Heat vapor was still escaping from the wounds and the eye sockets.

"Christ," the handcuffing cop said. "Just like the others."

"I didn't do it."

"We heard you the first time," the sergeant said, guiding him into the back of a cruiser. "Someone order a meat wagon and keep the press away. I'll deal with this one."

The sergeant bundled Clark into the rear of the vehicle and roared off, lights flashing and siren wailing. The policeman drove more quickly than the conditions allowed. The car slithered on snow-covered streets, sliding from lane to lane, crossing into oncoming traffic lanes. It was lucky for everyone that the hour was late and traffic was scarce.

"Am I under arrest?" Clark asked.

"The lieutenant will decide that." The sergeant threw the Crown Victoria into the next bend.

Clark expected bright lights and a foul smelling interrogation office. Instead, he was delivered to the TransAmerica pyramid. A balding, pot bellied man emerged from the building's reception area. The sergeant delivered Clark to the man.

"This is getting serious," the man said.

"We're running out of time, lieutenant," the sergeant said.

"I know." The lieutenant checked his watch. "Damnit, we've got an hour."

"This is the witness." The sergeant shoved Clark a step closer.

"Lieutenant Harry Jakes." He offered a hand. "And you are?"

"Under arrest?" Clark replied.

"Foisie, get the cuffs off him."

"Yes, lieutenant." The sergeant did as he was told.

"Your name, sir?" Jakes asked.

"Clark Zale."

"Okay, Mr. Zale, you're with me." He indicated his unmarked blue, Crown Victoria. "Foisie, tie up affairs here. You'll find the Vic on the 25th floor."

Glancing up at the building, Foisie asked, "Where abouts?"

Jakes was already guiding Clark to his car. "Just follow the trail of blood. You can't miss it."

Clark massaged his wrists. "Am I free to go?"

Jakes shook his head. "You're very valuable to us. Get in the car. Let's drive around for awhile and you can tell me what you've witnessed tonight."

Jakes' driving was far more sedate than Foisie's and Clark was glad of that. But he wished he could go home and change out of his wet clothes. The damp cold had finally overcome his adrenaline inspired fear.

"What can you tell me, Mr. Zale?"

Clark reeled off his account of the man in green. It sounded unbelievable but Jakes took it all in with the occasional nod of understanding and without question. Clark wondered whether the policeman was just humoring him.

"When you say bells were on the knife, how many?"

"Three."

"Good. That means only three are dead."

"Can I go home now?"

"No, you're not safe. And from now on, you're under police protection."

"What?"

"You're still at risk. Sleath has never let a witness escape unharmed. He'll be back for you. I guarantee it."

"Sleath? What the hell is this about, lieutenant?"

"Christmas."

"Christmas?"

Jakes nodded.

"This is unbelievable."

"It isn't. Let me give you an education. Christmas, 101 style. Sleath is the killer you saw tonight. He's killed three people in the last two hours and he has another four to go before midnight."

"Who's Sleath?"

"He was Saint Nicholas' right hand man."

"Saint Nicholas? Santa Claus? What is this bullshit?"

"Not bullshit, Mr. Zale, the truth. This is the Christmas story we don't tell anyone."

Clark said nothing, not knowing what to say or believe.

"Sleath was...a...a disciple of his I suppose. Saint Nick's people would call them elves these days."

"This guy was no elf."

"Don't believe everything Walt Disney tells you. Not all elves are dwarfs who sing songs all day. They are people blessed with the gift of long life to preserve the spirit of Christmas."

"And Sleath is blessed, but not with the spirit of Christmas, I suppose."

"You got it. He had a falling out with Saint Nick. I don't know all the details. There are things they don't even tell us."

"Okay, Sleath doesn't like Christmas, but why all the killing?"

Jakes turned onto a street sign-posted for the Bay Bridge. "Ever heard of the Christmas Bell?"

"No."

"The Christmas bell sends out the spirit of Christmas and keeps Christmas safe for another year. If Sleath destroys the bell, it's adios Christmas. But, he only has the night before Christmas to do it." Jakes made a left. "Because the bell is at risk, it's moved from country to country every year. This year, it's here."

"Where?"

"Coit Tower. I've got a couple of men posted there with orders to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Okay, all Sleath needs to do is smash the bell, but that doesn't explain all the killings."

"The bell can only be destroyed with a weapon forged from the same material."

"Which is?"

"Sleath's knife."

"Figures."

"But that isn't enough, it has to be hardened with the souls of seven Christmas believers."

Clark thought of the soul he'd seen escape before being sucked into Sleath's blade and the bell that appeared on its hilt after the soul was captured. He hoped he wouldn't become a bell dangling from Sleath's knife.

"So, I'm bait."

"Afraid so."

"We're not heading towards Coit Tower, though."

"And I don't want to be. I want you as far away as possible. You're unfinished business and I'm banking on him coming after you."

"And you'll protect me?"

"I'll do my best."

"You'll do your best? Christ, Jakes, don't sound too confident."

"Sleath is a formidable killer."

"I know. I've seen his work-up close."

Jakes slammed on the brakes. Clark was hurled against his seatbelt-his breath blasted from his chest. The Ford's brakes locked up and the vehicle went into a skid that seemed to have no end. Clark didn't have to ask the lieutenant the reason for all the drama. Sleath was charging down the middle of the street towards them with his knife in his hand.

"Get us out of here, Jakes!"

It was too late. Before the policeman could spin the car around and hightail it, Sleath was upon them, his speed inhuman. He burst through the windshield, showering the occupants in glass.

"Hello again, friend," Sleath said to Clark.

Clark recoiled into his seat.

"I believe we were interrupted. I've come for your eyes." Sleath brandished his knife and four bells tinkled.

"Not this time," Jakes announced, unholstering a hand-cannon and taking aim.

Sleath was lightning fast. His knife-hand whipped around and severed Jakes' gun-hand at the wrist. The hand still clutching the gun bounced into Clark's lap. He couldn't touch the abhorrence lying there.

Clark was a spectator to what happened next. It was so fast, he didn't know what happened until it was over. With Jakes clutching his handless arm, the Ford careened out of control. Sleath aimed his next blow at Clark. The cop hurled himself in the way of the arcing blade, smothering Clark. Sleath's knife buried itself in Jakes' back. The lieutenant threw open the passenger door. The car swerved violently and Clark found his seatbelt had been unbuckled.

Sleath ripped the knife from Jakes' back. It yanked Jakes off Clark. The policeman lay sprawled in the driver's seat as Sleath oozed deeper into the car through the shattered windshield. He raised the knife again. The forked blade trained on the cop's eyes. Jakes knew it was the end and glanced at Clark. Acceptance was in his gaze. Although finished, the lieutenant could do one last thing. He booted Clark out the open door.