Christmas Horror Volume 2 Read online

  CHRISTMAS HORROR, VOL.2 © 2017

  Edited by Chris Morey; interior design by Michael Bailey

  Individual works © 2017 by individual authors

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording, broadcast or live performance, or duplication by any information storage or retrieval system without permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations with attribution in a review or report. Requests for reproductions or related information should be addressed to the publisher. The following anthology is a work of fiction. All characters, products, corporations, institutions, and/or entities of any kind in this book are either products of the authors’ twisted imaginations or, if real, used fictitiously without intent to describe actual characteristics

  Dark Regions Press, LLC

  P.O. Box 31022

  Portland, OR 97231

  United States of America

  DarkRegions.com

  ISBN: 978-1-62641-277-4

  CHRISTMAS HORROR

  VOLUME 2

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHRISTMAS AT THE PATTERSONS

  Elizabeth Massie

  LITTLE WARRIORS

  Gene O’Neill

  I SAW SANTA

  Steve Rasnic Tem

  DECEMBER BIRTHDAY

  Jeff Strand

  A NOTE FROM SANTA

  William F. Nolan

  SILENT NIGHT

  Richard Chizmar

  CHRISTMAS AT THE PATTERSONS

  Elizabeth Massie

  Donna Wilson didn’t always hate Christmas, but she did now. Oh, did she ever. She detested the noise (otherwise known as “Christmas music”), the garish store decorations, the pre-stuffed plastic mesh stockings on sale for pets and kids alike, the chocolate candies dressed up in green and red foil, the artificial Christmas trees, the screamingly cheerful holiday commercials on the radio, and worst of all, the holiday party she and her husband were expected to attend each year at the home of Jeff’s boss, Richard Patterson.

  The town of Spring Hill was small—population hovering around 9,000—but the Patterson Empire was big and nearly complete. Richard Patterson owned the hardware store, the grocery store, the weekly newspaper (appropriately renamed the Patterson News-Register when he and his wife had moved to town and had taken over thirteen years earlier), the jewelry store, the old-fashioned radio station WRBP, the shoe repair, the Spring Hill Theater, the appliance store, the Maple Leaf Diner, and the Ford dealership. Nearly everyone in town worked for Richard Patterson and nearly everyone in town hated him, though it was a silent hatred, the kind that shown in people’s faces when they met one another in the grocery store or passed each other in their Ford vehicles. The citizens needed work. They needed groceries and shoe repairs and, when they had a few bucks in their pockets, they needed to get away to see a movie. And so they endured. They tolerated. Even as Richard Patterson fired some employees and ran others out of town, those who remained kept their hatred sealed up and locked down.

  Under the direction of Richard and his crisp scarecrow wife, Bridgett, Christmas in Spring Hill began in late August. Christmas music dominated the airways of WRBP. Stores threw up shiny silver garlands and strings of ornaments and began their “SHOP NOW!” holiday promotions. The telephone and light poles at the intersection of Main and Oak were wrapped in red and white plastic to imitate candy canes. In October, Halloween was a pale shadow of its former self, relegated to the back seat of the Christmas festivities such as nonstop showings of the 1960s television standards, Frosty the Snowman and Rudoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer at the Spring Hill Cinema.

  The Saturday after Thanksgiving, the Pattersons held an open house at their huge, terrifyingly ornate house on the hill at the edge of town, and attendance was mandatory. Richard and Bridgett decked the halls with every form of Christmas nonsense they could get their hands on. At a distance, the Patterson house looked like a fireball on a hillside or an alien ship come down to Earth, ready to consume all living things within reach.

  Donna was one of the few citizens who did not owe her soul to the Pattersons. She had a business selling handmade necklaces and earrings online. It was the one peaceful thing in her life: manipulating thin wires, tiny chains, and hemp strings, then adding glass, shell, and wooden beads of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Her mother, dead now many years, had been a talented crafter herself as well as a soft-spoken yet protective woman with an uncanny ability to drive dogs out of their flower garden with a snap of her fingers and keep bullies away from Donna with a flick of her hand. (Once, when Donna was five, she had laughed and asked Mam if she was a witch or a magic fairy, and Mam only hugged her and said, “I love you, Sweetie.”) Donna missed her mother greatly, the comfort and security she had radiated. Yet while Donna had never been the pillar of confidence Mam had been, she had at least inherited Mam’s talent with jewelry. The unique pieces she fashioned brought in enough money to keep food in the kitchen for herself and Jeff, who worked at the hardware store and sometimes sneaked materials and tools home to keep their deteriorating doublewide from falling apart.

  The night of the Christmas party, Jeff and Donna put on their best outfits. Jeff donned his gray slacks and black jacket. Donna dressed in her black skirt and pale blue blouse, and then opened her jewelry box and took out Mam’s favorite necklace, made of tiny shells, dried seeds, and polished little bones. Donna had never worn it before. She’d kept it as a treasure, meant to admire but not use. She turned it over in her hands, remembering how it looked on Mam, how simple and pretty. I miss you so much, she thought. On impulse, she clasped it around her neck and grabbed her coat.

  Jeff and Donna drove across town and up the winding driveway to the fireball on the hillside. Life-sized mechanical snowmen, reindeer and elves, lined up along the driveway, greeted their arrival, bowing and grinding with shuddering movements, mouths snapping open and closed as if singing Christmas songs. A huge, inflatable snow globe sat beside the indicated parking area, and blazing Tiki torches, tied with red ribbons, lined the sidewalk leading to the front door.

  Bridgett Patterson was dressed in a flowing green velvet tunic and wide-leg slacks, star-shaped earrings, jewel-encrusted heeled Gucci sandals, and pink lipstick that sparkled. She greeted guests in the foyer, making kissy lips, tossing her blonde hair, and talking about this-and-that-and-mish-and-mash. Richard stood on the third step in the wide candle-lit foyer, surveying his domain, and then ordered all the men to follow him down the hall to see his “man cave and trophy room” which supposedly held new and even more impressive memorabilia gathered since last December. This left all the women at the mercy of Bridgett, who gathered them in the parlor to tell them the history of each and every Christmas ornament on her eight-foot-tall Frasier fir from Finland.

  “Oh, Mrs. Patterson, you have such style and grace!” cooed one of the townswomen, who had hopes that she would be promoted to head saleswoman at the appliance store.

  “Yes, it’s all so pretty!” crooned another woman who had been without work for months and hoped to get hired at the movie theater.

  “You and your husband make Christmas so special!” said another feminine voice, someone who might be hoping Bridgett would float her a loan for next month’s mortgage. Donna wasn’t paying close attention to the mindless conversation. She stared past the tree to a shadow on the wall, dreading the next four tedious hours, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that the bra she’d chosen to wear was just a little bit too tight, and remembe
ring how Mam never put up with pompous nonsense from anyone.

  “And now!” said Bridgett after what might have been an hour, “let’s enjoy some tasty holiday treats!”

  Bridgett clutched her wine glass in her manicured fingers and tapped her way from the parlor into the grand dining room, where she encouraged her guests to try all the holiday treats spread out silver platters. “I made them all myself, you know. Now, eat up!”

  Donna didn’t need to be told who’d made the snacks. They tasted like crap. Raisin-tapioca scones with jalapeño glaze. Apricot tarts encrusted with Parmesan cheese. Various hand-rolled dark chocolates filled with crushed garlic, tomato paste, and bacon bits (which Bridgett called “Yuletide Yums.”) The women held glass plates and pretended to enjoy the spread. Some choked the offerings down with pained smiles. Others hid bits inside their cloth napkins, waiting for the chance to excuse themselves to the restroom in order to flush the bits away. Bridgett watched them like hawks, sipping her wine, playing with her hair.

  “Let’s go to the library,” said Bridgett after enough of the treats were gone from their platters. “I’ve prepared a Christmas reading to share with you! The men will be joining us in a little while.”

  The library was decorated with enough velvet ribbons and pine boughs to choke a one-horse open sleigh. A fire popped in the fireplace.

  “Sit down, sit down, everyone!” ordered Bridgett. She lit a Marlboro and it hung from her lower lip as if it had been stapled there. “I’ve written a poem to share. Now get comfy. I know you’ll love this.”

  The women sat obediently. Donna eased down on the arm of a sofa, fingering her mother’s necklace. Mam would have had words with Bridget by now, would have told her to cut it out and quit acting like the Queen of Sheba. Or the queen of Christmas. Mam had a way with irritating people. If they didn’t listen to her she would dismiss them with a wave of her hand and they would go away. Like the dogs in the garden. Like the bully children.

  Donna glanced at the door for a chance to slip out and make a beeline for the car. Surely Bridgett would look away at some point. Surely she would notice one less guest in the library.

  I hate Christmas.

  “Oh, fair Tannenbaum!” screeched Bridgett around her cigarette. “Empress of trees! Pretty are you, in a cold breezy breeze. Waving and weaving, hello, you say! I’m a Tannenbaum, happy and gay.”

  The women in the library clutched their knees and forced themselves to smile.

  “Oh, fair Tannenbaum, green prickly sticks, you are not ugly like poor ragged hicks.”

  Donna let out a silent breath. Look at the window, Bridgett. Just for a moment. That’s all I need so I can slip away without you seeing me.

  “Oh, fair Tannenbaum! In silver and gold! Aren’t you glad to Pattersons you have been sold?”

  Look at the window, Bridgett. Over there!

  Bridgett sucked hard on the cigarette and it stood out for a moment like a skinny white dick before flopping down again. “Oh, happy Tannenbaum, in your expensive five-hundred-dollar stand. Here at the Pattersons you look quite grand.”

  Look at the fucking window, Bridget!

  “Oh, sweet Tannenbaum! Shimmery-shine! Aren’t you so glad to say you are mine?”

  Donna let out an audible, “Ugh.”

  All faces swiveled toward hers. The guests looked horrified. Bridget stared, enraged.

  “What … was that?” she demanded.

  “Phlegm,” said Donna. She faked a little cough. “I’m sorry. I was … was trying not to cough and interrupt your lovely reading.”

  Bridget pursed her pink lips and the cigarette jiggled. She took several steps toward Donna. Her eyes glinted like embers on the hearth. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Donna Wilson. Jeff’s wife.”

  Bridget sniffed. “And who, you irritating little mouse, is Jeff?”

  “Jeff Wilson. He works at the hardware store.”

  “Does he know his wife is rude?”

  “I … I wasn’t being rude.”

  Bridgett’s lip curled. “Seems to me you hate Christmas, Donna Wilson.”

  “I don’t hate Christmas.” Oh, I do hate Christmas! I do, thanks to you and your self-centered husband!

  “And what have we here?” Bridget reached out for Mam’s necklace. “What is that nasty thing?” A brief, orange spark flared on Bridgett’s fingertip then vanished.

  Donna jumped stepped back before the woman could touch her.

  “What kind of jewelry is that?” sneered Bridgett. “Shells? Seeds? Bones? Are you kidding me?”

  I didn’t see Bridgett’s finger spark! I’m just nervous. My mind’s playing tricks.

  “Ladies,” laughed Bridgett, “do you see what Donna thought was appropriate to wear around her neck to my Christmas gala? Some kind of trash she picked up on the ground somewhere.”

  The ladies glanced at each other and nodded. One muttered, “No, not appropriate at all, Ms. Patterson.” Another, “No, that’s just not right.”

  Then Bridgett clapped her hands. Another tiny flash. Another spark? She smiled broadly, revealing her perfectly straight (sharp?) teeth. “Oh, let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we? What’s a cough and some disgusting garbage stung together in the greater scheme of things? It’s Christmas time!”

  No, it’s not! It’s November, you pompous bitch!

  “I say we toast the season with some sherry! Would you ladies like to join me in a delicious sherry?”

  The ladies said yes. Donna felt her own head go up and down slightly.

  “Fine, then; follow me!”

  Like goslings after a goose, the ladies trailed Bridgett from the library down the main corridor to a more narrow hallway and then up a short flight of stairs and into Bridgett’s “lady cave,” a smaller room decked out with ancient artworks and poshly puffed pillows, and, of course, several blinking Christmas trees. Bridgett opened an ebony cabinet, revealing crystal glassware and tall bottles filled with amber liquid. “Voila!” As the ladies glanced about at the room and at one another, Bridgett poured liquid into the glasses and passed them around. Then she held her glass aloft.

  “Here is to Christmas and to all the fun it brings!”

  I hate sherry. I hate this party!

  “Let’s drink to it all!”

  Mam, I wish you were here. There was nothing and no one you couldn’t deal with!

  Bridgett downed her drink. The other ladies drank, too. Donna hesitated, thinking at least it was just a small amount, swallowed hers in a single gulp. There. Done. And this evening can’t be over too soon.

  Then the world began to grow fuzzy.

  “Let me tell you about the ornaments on these trees,” said Bridgett, her voice growing distant.

  Fuzzy and dizzy…

  “This one,” said Bridgett from far, far away, “cost the most. We got it in Italy …”

  … fuzzy and dizzy then dark.

  A long, deep darkness.

  Total darkness.

  Donna’s head pounded and her shoulder ached. Her eyes fluttered then opened. She was lying on a sticky vinyl sofa in a shadowy room lit by a single candle on an end table. This was certainly not the “lady cave” nor the library, grand dining room, nor parlor. The place smelled of mildew, feces, and sulfur.

  “Party’s over, Donna.”

  Donna forced herself to sit up. Oww … I hurt!

  “Party’s over and everyone gone home, even your precious Jeff.” It was Bridgett, somewhere in the shadows. “I told him you confessed to me how you were sick and tired of him, had a lover elsewhere, and were running off, leaving Spring Hill forever.”

  “What? No. He … he would never believe that.”

  “Oh, Donna, he would. And he did. So here you are, in my cellar. My little holiday workshop.”

  “You drugged me?”

  “You’re so slow, aren’t you Donna? Did you really think you could say ‘ugh’ in front of me and my guests? You think you could insult me like that?”
>
  “You drugged me?”

  “What do you think?” asked Bridgett, moving out of the shadows to the foot of the sofa. Her arms were crossed. She was still dressed in her green velvet and snowflake earrings, but her hair was less coiffed, a bit tangled, her pink lipstick smeared. She lit a Marlboro and stuck it into her mouth. “That was just the beginning. I don’t put up with people like you.”

  Donna rubbed her shoulder. She must have hit the floor hard.

  “The other ladies were sorry to see how poorly you hold your liquor. ‘Oh, poor Donna Wilson,’ they said. ‘How sad to be such a lush,’ they said. ‘All wobbly on her feet, and passing out! What a pity,’ they said. I promised to let you sleep it off and we moved back to the parlor.” Bridgett sat down next to Donna and lit a Marlboro. Donna drew up against the sofa’s arm. “Did you like my lawn ornaments?”

  “What?”

  “Are you as stupid as you look? Of course you are. Lawn ornaments. Or-na-ments.”

  Those hideous mechanical monsters along the driveway? “You mean the snowmen? The reindeer and elves? In front of the house?”

  Bridgett blew smoke in Donna’s face and Donna coughed. “Yes, idiot,” said Bridgett. Did you like them?”

  Mam, help me! What do I do?

  “Well? Answer me? Do you like them?”

  “They suck.”

  Bridgett’s eyes widened, whites showing like train lights in a tunnel, barreling forward. “Oh, my. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Donna drew herself up and clenched her fists. “I have to go home. I’m going home.” That sounds brave. Brave is good.

  “You’re going nowhere, Donna. You’re staying here. And you’ll make such a lovely Mrs. Santa. Well, not lovely. You are far from lovely. You and that cheap blue blouse. That trashy-ass necklace.” Bridgett reached out again. The orange spark was clear this time, and it crackled loudly. Donna jumped to her feet, her head swimming.