Christmas Horror Volume 2 Page 2

  “Who are you?” she managed.

  Bridgett shrugged, sucked on the Marlboro then exhaled smoke from her nose. No, not smoke. Flames. Tiny flames. “Oh,” she said. “I’m me. Just Bridgett Patterson. The woman who gets what she wants when she wants it how she wants it. Nobody denies me. Nobody challenges me.”

  “You’re a witch.”

  “I don’t know, Donna. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just me. I’m what I want and I get what I want.” Bridgett stood and wandered back into the shadows. Donna glanced around, hoping to spot the stairs somewhere in that dark hellhole. Her eyes were still not adjusted and she saw nothing but the shadows, the flickering candle.

  Then the overhead light flashed on, brilliant, excruciating. Donna shut her eyes and groaned.

  “Oh, quit being such a baby,” said Bridgett. “I just want to show you my newest Christmas decoration. Look over here.”

  Donna slowly opened her eyes. She scanned the room for the steps and saw none, only a closed door. She was in a back cellar room, nowhere near an easy escape. Her heart banged against her ribs; cold sweat stung her arms.

  “I said look over here!”

  Donna looked.

  Standing beside the cinderblock wall, eyes bright with tears, was a life-sized mechanical Santa, stuffed and ruffed and dressed in red and white with shiny black leather boots. His arms made grinding sounds as they opened wide then folded tight across his enormous belly. His head tipped back and forth slowly as his mouth, hinged like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy, mimed a silent “ho ho ho.”

  A silent scream.

  “Do you remember Martin Cooper?”

  Martin Cooper. He worked at the grocery store. Big guy. Word was the Pattersons ran him out of town a couple weeks ago.

  “I turned him into the perfect Santa, don’t you think? He’s next to go out on the front lawn.”

  “Martin?”

  “That’s what I said. Oh, but you are so slow. And Martin … I mean Santa … needs a wife. A Mrs. Claus. That’s where you come in.” Bridgett clapped her hands. Huge sparks leapt from her fingertips, filling the air with an acrid, electric smell. “I love Christmas. Christmas is mine, all mine. Festive and fun!” She giggled and walked toward Donna. Donna backed up. “Now just hold still and it’ll be easier. That’s what I told Richard right before I changed him, you know. He was such a delicious dork. Such a handsome little moron, my Richard. But now look at him. You’d never know he wasn’t real, would you? He does what I say, and because of me, we own Spring Hill and all of you little people.”

  Donna touched Mam’s necklace. It felt strangely warm.

  Mam wore this every day.

  She would snap her fingers or wave her hand and the dogs and bullies would run away. Fly away.

  Or did I just imagine it?

  Donna glanced at the door.

  “Seriously, Donna? The door’s locked, you must know that. You aren’t going anywhere, except out on my front lawn along the driveway as Mrs. Claus.” Bridgett took a drag on the cigarette and shot two columns of fire from her nostrils.

  Mam took a long time choosing the seeds, the shells, the bones. The perfect combination. Crafted with precision, with her rare and special talent.

  “Now,” said Bridgett. “A woman for Santa! A friend! A wife!” She raised her hands and flames trailed like hellish ribbons. “Be still now and it won’t hurt too much.”

  Donna raised her hand at the same moment and flicked her wrist. Bridgett was knocked backward toward the weeping, creaking mechanical Santa and hit the floor.

  Yes!

  Bridgett scrambled to her feet and stumbled forward two steps. Her hair was mussed, her composure shot. “What was that? Who are you?” she screeched.

  “Maybe I’m the ghost of all the Christmases you fucked up.” Donna flicked her hand a second time, harder, sending Bridgett backward again, even closer to Santa this time.

  “You can’t do that!” wailed Bridgett. Flames of rage shot from her nose and mouth and singed the sleeves of her velvet pantsuit. “No! I will have what I want when I want as I want!” She clawed her way up and charged Donna.

  “Get lost, you dog!” said Donna, and she flicked her hand once more. Bridgett was flung fully across the room and slammed into Santa, whose open arms closed around her and snapped her neck. Bridgett’s eyes popped; her knees buckled. The flames from her mouth and nose dissolved into trails of smoke. The cigarette in her hand dropped, bounced off the toe of one Gucci sandal, and rolled away.

  “You might love Christmas,” said Donna. “But it looks like Christmas hates you.”

  Santa began to melt back into Martin Cooper, the rigid machinery softening, drooping, leaving a heavyset man in a Santa costume, panting, staring in wonder at Donna and then at the dead woman on the floor.

  “Come on, Martin,” said Donna. “This place stinks.”

  Outside on the lawn, the ornaments were coming back to life. Missing citizens morphed from mechanical to human. They slumped to the frosty ground, rubbing necks, coughing, crying. They watched Donna as she walked past them, nodding sympathetically and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

  At the base of the driveway, Donna turned to gaze back up at the house on the hill and the Tiki torches blazing by the front porch. She waved her hand and the torches flew up and crashed through the first-floor windows. In a matter of moments, flames were dancing deep inside the house.

  Donna drew her coat around her and walked home, smiling at the holiday lights in town, grinning up at the first white flakes of snow that drifted down like ash from a burning mansion.

  LITTLE WARRIORS

  Gene O’Neill

  PROLOGUE

  On Mt. George, near the old Monticello-to -Napa wagon trail, December 2015—

  Around midnight, near the still-standing redwood shed, which had served in the past as a halfway horse-changing station for the wagons back-hauling quicksilver to Napa from Monticello, hundreds of greenish-blue dots coalesced into a luminescent existence. For a moment, the amorphous figure, about the size of a large hummingbird, hovered as if gaining its bearings; then, just an iridescent blur, it zoomed three-quarters of the way up Mt. George and quickly disappeared beneath the shadowed decking extending across the western face of the darkened adobe home.

  1

  The Arthur brothers, Jake and Little Anthony—his nickname ironic because he stood six foot three, only half an inch shorter than his older brother—were waiting for their sidekick, Wilton Smith, Jr. Wilton, better known on the Oakland streets as Repeat, was shopping to find a proper-fitting set of snowshoes for his childlike feet. The recently paroled trio had already been to two other places, including REI in Berkeley, with no luck, and the brothers were now waiting impatiently outside Snowdrift Ski Shop in Moraga, standing next to their ’91 Escort station wagon—a heavily decorated survivor of the Oakland parking wars.

  The ex-cons had made recent plans for a series of potential big-score burglaries, but they’d all need snowshoes for the robberies. They planned on taking advantage of the early snow flurries right after Thanksgiving and the subsequent heavier snowfalls in December that had recently closed down State Highway 89 around the southwestern edge of Lake Tahoe.

  “Lots of wealthy hotshots from the Bay Area have cabins isolated by the snow up there now,” Little Anthony had explained earlier in the day—he was the leader of the group. “We’ll borrow Big Mack’s four-wheel-drive Dodge Ram pickup, break into a couple of the boarded-up smaller cabins just off eighty-nine at night … and then the next day we’ll hit some of the bigger chalets nearer Squaw Valley and the other ski lifts. If the rich people are even up there for Christmas vacation, you can bet your sweet asses they’ll be off skiing during the day, leaving behind all their expensive Christmas presents still wrapped.”

  The smaller man appeared suddenly, running out of the front doors of Snowdrift, quickly approaching the parked junker and proudly waving his new pair of children’s snowshoes overhead like two tennis rac
kets, grinning excitedly, but stalling out when he tried to explain. “L-L-L-L—”

  Jake put his arm around his hyper cohort’s shoulders, hugged him tightly, and quietly said, “Okay, bro. Now ya just take a deep breath in and out … and calm the fook down, ya unnerstan what I’m sayin?”

  Repeat nodded, sucked in a long breath, let it out slowly, and then tried to talk again, but could only manage, “G-G-G—” He stomped his foot violently on the asphalt, which jarred loose an explosive “Got ’em, fellas!”

  To a casual stranger, his stunted stature, pronounced stammer, and bizarre facial tics made Repeat appear physically/intellectually challenged. But even though the little ex-con was gullible, naïve, and childlike at times, he was also a certified badass in a tight spot. He’d once saved Little Anthony from being slashed on the main yard at San Quentin by charging and head-butting a Black Guerilla, knocking the prison gang member flat on his back, and then disarming the semi-conscious man of his weapon—a piece of safety razor melted into the head of a plastic toothbrush handle. Fortunately for them, all three were transferred to the CCC near Susanville, a minimum-security prison camp in Northern California, a few days after the hushed-up incident without having to face Department of Corrections discipline or, more importantly, deadly BG retaliation. The Arthur brothers never forgot Repeat’s brave action.

  2

  Tanner McKinney waited anxiously at the foot of the Southwest Airline Terminal escalator to the baggage claim on the street level at Oakland Airport for Sally and the twins to appear. Their flight from San Diego had been delayed over an hour and a half by regional thunderstorms, which seldom, if ever, occurred in San Diego in December. He was anxious because Sally and the kids had been living with her older sister, Lilly, in Carlsbad during a trial separation. He hadn’t seen any of them for over three months. Now, he was hopeful that the family could finally be reunited permanently. He was going to do his best to make it happen, and it sounded like Sally was more than a bit willing to give it a sincere try. She’d agreed on spending the kids’ entire Christmas vacation at his family’s adobe cabin isolated on the western slope of Mt. George—the highest point on the eastern side of Napa Valley. He was relieved because his earliest memories as a youngster included the yearly McKinney clan tradition of gathering for Christmas at the adobe on Mt. George. In recent years, the extended family had been shrinking in numbers, partly due to some of the younger members having moved away from the Bay Area, but also to an increasing number of older family members passing. Now, it was just Tanner, his immediate family, and his brother, Mike. He was thankful they would be reunited and continue the thirty-plus years of McKinney Christmas tradition atop Mt. George.

  Tanner was busy scanning the faces of descending passengers, afraid he’d miss his family in the tightly packed departure crowd. Sally was petite, the twins mirroring her tiny stature. As his family appeared in view, his favorite Christmas Carol, “The Little Drummer Boy,” began playing throughout the terminal—Brrrum, brum, brum, brum …

  “Hey, Pops,” Sean shouted, waving as he led the family onto the down escalator. The fourteen-year-old wasn’t usually so publicly demonstrative. But Sinead, his twin sister, was right behind him, characteristically jumping up and down, waving over peoples’ heads. Sally brought up the rear, looking down at him and smiling broadly.

  Because of the long hours at his computer day job at Cisco Systems and then writing half the night and every weekend during the year past, Sally had complained of him being inattentive to the family. It was true; he had not been there for any of them. But he’d ignored all three even more during the last six months, because he thought he was on the verge of breaking into the big time with one of his thriller novels. He’d secured a good NYC agent who had agreed with that assessment of The New Plague, but had forwarded along thirty or so single-spaced pages of complicated suggested edits and revisions. Then, in the middle of those revisions at the end of last August, Sally had shocked him: taking matters into her own hands, abruptly packing up some necessities, and leaving their apartment in San Francisco with the kids for Carlsbad.

  Negotiations over the phone the last week or so had been promising. Watching them descend on the escalator, Tanner waved back, his spirits lifting and taking the edge off his nervousness.

  On the ground floor, they all hugged, Sally kissing him on the lips—just a trace firmer than an old garden-variety-greeting peck. And she whispered, “Missed you, Mr. T.” The family huddled up and chatted about the flight delay while they waited five minutes to pick up their luggage. Then, bags in hand, Tanner led them to the parked Lexus SUV with the tiny Christmas tree riding in the rack on top. As was tradition, the family would decorate a tree at the adobe.

  ~

  Even at 4 o’clock, the Friday night commuter traffic from the Oakland Airport west on I-880 and then north on I-80 was gridlocked, much worse than usual. With school out for Christmas vacation, perhaps many were already heading up to the ski resorts at Stateline and Lake Tahoe—there had been flurries of snowstorms right after Thanksgiving up until the present. The stop-and-go progress on the freeway gave the family a chance to relax, everyone perhaps feeling a bit stiff after the almost-four-month separation. The constant stream of Christmas music on the radio also helped put everyone in a relaxed, joyful mood.

  Tanner asked the kids about their new school. The twins had been good students in San Francisco and were presently enrolled in the eighth grade at the famed Children’s School near UC San Diego in La Jolla.

  “Going great, Pops,” Sean said. “Our modern Christmas play was really fun and turned out well. Good audience reactions. I helped write it and was a kinda hippie guru wearing a tie-dyed outfit. Sinead starred as San Diego Lou, a country-western guitar player, who sang, “Crazy” and “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be—”

  “Sean, you were supposed to let me tell Dad!” Sinead interrupted.

  Her brother shrugged and said, “Oh, sorry,” his dismissive tone indicating he wasn’t the least bit concerned about his sister’s disappointed outburst.

  Both rambled on about the new school, their teachers, and especially a bunch of new friends. Sounded to Tanner like they both had adjusted exceptionally well for teenagers being disrupted from their routine on short notice, and then leaving behind all their old friends at University Middle School in San Francisco.

  “Dad, did Uncle Mike get off work early in Sacramento, and will he be here tonight at the cabin?” Sinead asked. The twins were tight with his much-younger single brother. Mike had bonded with them when they were ten years old, teaching them basic and advanced archery skills and taking them to many junior competitions around the country. Recently, he’d told Tanner and Sally that he thought the twins had the ability to compete internationally, perhaps even a chance of making the Olympic archery team and going to Rio de Janeiro next year, but probably a lock for making the team for Tokyo in 2020.

  Tanner smiled inwardly. His brother was a lifelong skilled bowhunter, and had promised to take the twins deer and boar hunting when they turned sixteen. A year ago, Mike had set up a tough training schedule, the pair practicing religiously three days a week at the South City Archers’ Club. On weekends, whenever possible, they would go up and shoot at least one day at Mike’s private archery club near Rocklin—Billy Tell’s Red Apple Range.

  “Not tonight, but Uncle Mike will be up late tomorrow evening or early Sunday morning,” Tanner said.

  “He’s planning on staying on Eve, right?” Sally asked.

  Tanner nodded. “He said he wouldn’t miss it, had some special gifts for his favorite niece and nephew.”

  “We’re his only niece and nephew, Pops,” Sean said, chuckling at his uncle’s old joke.

  The family was fairly relaxed now, enjoying each other’s company and the background Christmas music, even though the commuter traffic was still stop-and-go. But eventually it thinned significantly as they crossed over the Carquinez Bridge on I-80 and passed by the east
ern turnoff for Benicia on the southern outskirts of Vallejo.

  “Looks like it’ll be too dark to practice anyhow if we ever do get to the cabin this evening,” Sinead complained, disappointed resignation obvious in her tone. It was already beginning to turn dusk. They’d both been working on their quick pull, aim and release technique at pop-ups at a San Diego archery club, but they wanted to get down as soon as possible to practice the technique at the new target range their uncle had cleared: a long level spot near the old Monticello-to-Napa historic wagon trail—a pair of stationary targets using the horse shed as a backdrop.

  “You guys can go down tomorrow morning, get in some practice before Uncle Mike gets here,” Sally suggested. She’d strongly encouraged the small but athletic youngsters’ almost obsessive interest in archery, although she was alarmed by Mike’s recent offer to take them out bowhunting a year or so from now. That sounded a bit too dangerous to her.

  Tanner glanced at the twins in the back seat, smiled, and nodded. “You can show off for Uncle Mike tomorrow night or Sunday morning after he gets here.”

  ~

  At about 7:10, the McKinney family finally pulled into the circular driveway in front of the family place. Then they hauled their luggage into the sprawling adobe. Quickly dropping off their stuff into the three bedrooms, they all met out on the long deck spanning the back of the house and enjoyed the spectacular view, everywhere below them Napa Christmas lights sparkling. After a few minutes, Tanner walked to the southern end of the deck, looked down, and checked out the attached old-fashioned greenhouse. Everything was still apparently intact, including all the multi-paned glass windows. Overhead, the stars were twinkling, and to the south, thirty-five miles away, the red and green lights from San Francisco were shining brightly, as were the lights of St. Helena, away up-valley about ten or eleven miles. As the family enjoyed the sights, the full moon rose over the mountain behind them, bathing the Napa Valley directly below them in silvery, eerie moonlight.