Shock Totem: Holiday Tales of the Macabre and Twisted 2011 Read online

  But there is one tradition we have that I never miss: Christmas Eve at my Grandmother’s house. I don’t have to travel over a river or through any woods to get there, but it is an event I look forward to each year.

  We usually meet up at my Grandmother’s house around 5:30 in the evening, do some catching up since often many of us haven’t seen each other since the last Christmas Eve dinner, then we sit down to eat. The food is always delicious and we stuff ourselves. Following that comes present-giving time. Wrapping paper goes flying, to be tossed into the fire. There is much laughter and chatter.

  All of that is well and good, but that’s not the main event, that’s not what makes Christmas Eve at Grandmother’s house so special. No, the best is saved for last...

  The grab bag.

  I am not sure how this tradition started, but I don’t ever recall a Christmas Eve without it. Basically my Grandmother takes a large plastic bag and fills it with all the unwanted junk she finds in drawers and closets. Items like half-burnt candles, wooden-bead jewelry, used pens, and yes, of course the holy grail of the grab bag, the corncob holders.

  I am aware of just how silly the grab bag is; most of the items never get used, after all. And yet the experience has its own kind of magic. Everyone has a good time, displaying the half-empty bottle of hand lotion he or she got, laughing over each other’s prizes, sometimes even making deals to swap. The cheap, tacky gifts in Grandmother’s grab bag...that is Christmas to me.

  Without it, the holiday wouldn’t feel complete.

  —Mark Allan Gunnells

  www.markgunnells.livejournal.com

  What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

  I think I was somewhere between eight and ten years old when the Shogun Warriors Godzilla action-figure was released. It was the only thing I wanted that year for Christmas, and my parents not only bought it for me, but also a giant robot from the series named Mazinga.

  Too excited to sleep, my brother and I woke at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and opened our gifts. I still can’t tell you why this particular Godzilla had a hand that fired across the room, and in order to fit in the box properly, his tail had to be snapped on. Sometime during the day, Godzilla’s tail went missing. I freaked, but managed to keep it together.

  Thinking either my brother was messing with my mental stability or I had simply dropped it somewhere, I had finally forgotten about it until a few nights later when I heard my mom yelling at the dog in the kitchen. Not only did she locate Godzilla’s tail under the kitchen table, but also a whole stash of my brother’s small Micronauts figures. My mom was relieved when I told her the tail was not a cucumber, and that no bugs had been attracted.

  —Nick Cato

  www.nickcato.blogspot.com

  SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO GET YOU!

  by Kevin J. Anderson

  ‘Twas the night before the night before Christmas, and all through the house little sounds were stirring...sinister, creeping, whispers of noise. Echoes of things better left unseen in the darkness, even around the holiday season.

  Jeff stared up at the bottom of his little brother’s bunk. Ever since Stevie had gotten rid of the nightlight, he always feared that the upper bunk would fall on top of him and squish him flat.

  A strong gust of wind rattled the window pane. Wet snow brushing against it sounded like the hiss of a deadly snake, but he could hear that his brother was not asleep. “Stevie? I thought of something about Christmas.”

  “What?” The voice was muffled by Stevie’s ratty blue blanket.

  “Well, Santa keeps a list of who’s naughty and nice, right? So, what does he do to the kids who’ve been naughty?” He didn’t know why he asked Stevie. Stevie wouldn’t know.

  “They don’t get any presents I guess... Do you really think Mom and Dad are that mad at us?”

  Jeff sucked in a breath. “We were playing with matches, Stevie! We could have burned the house down—you heard them say that. Imagine if we burned the house down... Besides, it doesn’t matter if Mom and Dad are angry. What’ll Santa think?”

  Jeff swallowed. He had to get the ideas out of his head. “I gotta tell you this, Stevie, because it’s important. Something a kid told me at school.

  “He said that it isn’t Santa who puts presents out when you’re good. It’s just your Mom and Dad. They wait until you go to sleep, and then they sneak out some presents. It’s all pretend.”

  “Oh come on!”

  “Think about it. Your parents are the ones who know what you really want.” He pushed on in a whisper. “What if Santa only comes when you’re bad?”

  “But we said we were sorry! And...and it wasn’t my idea—it was yours. And nothing got hurt.”

  Jeff closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the bottom of the upper bunk. “I think Santa looks for naughty little boys and girls. That’s why he comes around on Christmas Eve.

  “He sneaks down the chimney, and he carries an empty sack with him. And when he knows he’s in a house where there’s a naughty kid, he goes into their bedroom and grabs them, and stuffs them in the sack! Then he pushes them up the chimney and throws the bag in the back of his sleigh with all the other naughty little boys and girls. And then he takes them back up north where it’s always cold and where the wind always blows—and there’s nothing to eat.”

  Jeff’s eyes sparkled from hot tears. He thought he heard Stevie shivering above him.

  “What kind of food do you think Santa gets up there at the North Pole? How does Santa stay so fat? I bet all year long he keeps the naughty kids he’s taken the Christmas before and he eats them! He keeps them locked up in icicle cages...and on special days like on his birthday or on Thanksgiving, he takes an extra fat kid and he roasts him over a fire! That’s what happens to bad kids on Christmas Eve.”

  Jeff heard a muffled sob in the upper bunk. He saw the support slats vibrate. “No, it’s not true. We weren’t that bad. I’m sorry. We won’t do it again.”

  Jeff closed his eyes. “You better watch out, Stevie, you better not cry. ‘Cause Santa Claus is coming to get you!”

  He heard Stevie sucking on the corner of his blanket to keep from crying. “We can hide.”

  Jeff shook his head in despair. “No. He sees you when you’re sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake. We can’t escape from him!”

  “How about if we lock the bedroom door?”

  “That won’t stop Santa Claus! You know how big he is from eating all those little kids. And he’s probably got some of his evil little elves to help him.”

  He listened to Stevie crying in the sheets. He listened to the wind. “We’re gonna have to trick him. We have to get Santa before he gets us!”

  —

  On Christmas Eve Dad turned on the Christmas tree lights and hung out the empty stockings by the fireplace. He grinned at the boys who stared red-eyed in fear.

  “You guys look like you’re so excited you haven’t been able to sleep. Better go on to bed—it’s Christmas tomorrow, and you’ve got a long night ahead of you.” He smiled at them. “Don’t forget to put out milk and cookies for Santa.”

  Mom scowled at them. “You boys know how naughty you were. I wouldn’t expect too many presents from Santa this year.”

  Jeff felt his heart stop. He swallowed and tried to keep anything from showing on his face. Stevie shivered.

  “Oh, come on, Janet. It’s Christmas Eve,” Dad said.

  Jeff and Stevie slowly brought out the glass of milk and a plate with four Oreo cookies they had made up earlier. Stevie was so scared he almost dropped the glass.

  They had poured strychnine pellets into the milk, and put rat poison in the frosting of the Oreos.

  “Go on boys, good night. And don’t get up too early tomorrow,” Dad said.

  The two boys marched off to their room, heads down. Visions of Santa’s blood danced in their heads.

  —

  Jeff lay awake for hours, sweating and shivering. He and Stevie did
n’t need to say anything to each other. After Mom and Dad went to bed, the boys listened for any sound from the roof, from the chimney.

  He pictured Santa Claus heaving himself out from the fireplace, pushing aside the grate and stepping out into the living room. His eyes were red and wild, his fingers long claws, his beard tangled and stained with the meal he’d had before setting out in his sleigh—perhaps the last two children from the year before, now scrawny and starved. He would have snapped them up like crackers.

  And now Santa was hungry for more, a new batch to restock his freezer that was as big as the whole North Pole.

  Santa would take a crinkled piece of paper out of his pocket to look at it, and yes there under the “Naughty” column would be the names of Jeff and Stevie in all capital letters. He’d wipe the list on his blood-red coat.

  His black belt was shiny and wicked-looking, with the silver buckle and its pointed corners razor sharp to slash the throats of children. And over his shoulder hung a brown burlap sack stained with rusty splotches.

  Then Santa would go to their bedroom. Jeff and Stevie could struggle against him, they could throw their blankets on him, hit him with their pillows and their toys—but Santa Claus was stronger than that. He would reach up first to snatch Stevie from the top bunk and stuff him in the sack.

  And then Santa would lunge forward with fingers grayish blue from frostbite. He’d wrap his hand around Jeff’s throat and draw him toward the sack....

  Then Santa would haul them up through the chimney to the roof. Maybe he would toss one of them toward the waiting reindeer who snorted and stomped their hooves on the ice-covered shingles. And the reindeer, playing all their reindeer games, would toss the boy from sharp antler to sharp antler.

  All the while, Santa stood leaning back, glaring and belching forth his maniacal “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  —

  Jeff didn’t know when his terror dissolved into fitful nightmares, but he found himself awake and alive the next morning.

  “Stevie!” he whispered. He was afraid to look in the pale light of dawn, half expecting to find blood running down the wall from the upper bunk. “Stevie, wake up!”

  Jeff heard a sharp indrawn breath. “Jeff! Santa didn’t get us.”

  They both started laughing. “Come on, let’s go see.”

  They tumbled out of bed, then spent ten minutes dismantling the barricade of toys and small furniture they had placed in front of the door. The house remained still and quiet around them. Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.

  Jeff glanced at the dining room table as they crept into the living room. The cookies were gone. The milk glass had been drained dry.

  Jeff looked for a contorted red-suited form lying in the corner—but he saw nothing. The Christmas tree lights blinked on and off; Mom and Dad had left them on all night.

  Stevie crept to the Christmas tree and looked. His face turned white as he pulled out several new gift-wrapped boxes. All marked “FROM SANTA.”

  “Oh, Jeff! Oh, Jeff—you were wrong! What if we killed Santa!”

  They both gawked at the presents.

  “Jeff, Santa took the poison!”

  Jeff swallowed and stood up. Tears filled his eyes. “We have to be brave, Stevie.” He nodded. “We better go tell Mom and Dad.” He shuddered, then screwed up his courage.

  “Let’s go wake them up.”

  —//—

  Kevin J. Anderson has written forty-nine national and international bestsellers and has over twenty-three million books in print worldwide in thirty languages. He has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFX Readers’ Choice Award. He is best known for his highly popular Dune novels and Hellhole, written with Brian Herbert, his numerous Star Wars and X-Files novels, and his original science fiction epic, The Saga of Seven Suns. He has also written comics and produced and wrote two rock CDs as companions to his nautical fantasy trilogy, Terra Incognita.

  Find out more at www.wordfire.com and www.wordfirepress.com.

  What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

  It was the first Thanksgiving that my sister’s in-laws were celebrating with our family. My mother wanted to make a good impression on the Kanes, who were from an upscale town in Connecticut. Our town was pretty nice too, but we lived on a dairy farm, and my mother didn’t want our new relations to think we were hokey or “backwoods” in our ways.

  Everyone was getting along, socializing in the open kitchen area while Mom mashed yams. She glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. Mom discreetly waved my father over to her side.

  “Paul,” she whispered, “I think I just saw a mouse over by the refrigerator. Do something!”

  My father has always been a man of action, and he moved quickly. Grabbing a fork off of the meticulously laid-out table, he crouched down in the far corner of the kitchen. He waited...waited...then jabbed underneath the fridge in a flash. Dad proudly held up his fork, which now had an impaled, squealing mouse on the end of it.

  My sister and I clapped. My brother-in-law complimented Dad on having the reflexes of a cat. And my sister’s in-laws, along with my mother, no longer had an appetite for Thanksgiving dinner.

  —Stacey Longo

  www.staceylongo.com

  TINSEL

  by John Boden

  Avery stood on the stoop as the wind and snow swirled around him. His cheeks were raw yet hot, even in this weather. The frigid sting of the cold was welcome.

  He slipped the key into the lock, and with a turn, he was inside. Leaning back against the door, he drew a deep breath. The house still smelled like Marie, that faint flowery smell of her shampoo, the powder-diffused tang of sweat emanating from the recliner. He took a slow visual tour of the living room and basked in all the memories there—the basket beside the chair, the crossword puzzle book that still lay open to the page she was working on when she had the stroke, the barrister bookcase...

  They were in their twenties when she spotted the bookcase from across the parking lot at the flea market. Dark mahogany, etched glass in the pull doors...it was beautiful. Over the years, her nimble fingers must have danced countless times over every nick and scrape along its aged veneer.

  “How much?” she had asked that day, with her bubbly giggle so lovely.

  The man behind the counter removed the cigarette from his cracked lips to answer: “Two hundred. That’s an antique.”

  Avery held out his hand, Marie took it, and they made to walk away.

  “I can take a hundred, just so I don’t gotta lug the damn thing back on the truck.”

  They stopped and smiled at one another, proud of their charade’s success.

  “Sold!”

  Now it sat in the corner of the living room, as it had for these last fifty years. Half a century worth of books and gewgaws. Worn, pulp paperbacks and hardcovers had long ago filled it to capacity. The piece now stood nearly hidden behind stacks of books and magazines.

  Avery sighed and dropped his wool coat on the floor. “Hang it up, Ave,” he could almost hear Marie holler as he went to the kitchen.

  Fifty-seven years with the woman. A lifetime.

  They had met when he was twenty. Marie a clerk at the Save-U-Mor, and Avery a long-haired hood who worked at The Sound Pound, a record shop next door. When shopping, he would make a point of going to her register, telling her stupid jokes. She pretended not to find him amusing. He asked her out but made it sound like she was doing him a favor. She accepted but disguised it as a pitiful gesture.

  They saw Night of the Living Dead and had a great time, so they went out again. Love notes clipped to timecards, under windshield wipers, roses on car seats. He once gave her a bottle of rain. With Marie, a mundane trip to the grocery store was a loving adventure. The years fluttered by like birds.

  Until now.

  Avery heated up a can of chicken soup, and set a steaming bowl of it down on the only clear spot on the dinner table. Staring ahead, he slowly sipped
the broth.

  All the mail from the week—bills, junk mail, newspapers—sat in a heap beside him. There were pencils and pens, a pile of clipped coupons, a roll of paper towels, a dismantled cuckoo clock he had been fixing for the last three years, a Mason jar full of pennies. He shook his head and smiled. “How ever did you tolerate me, woman?”

  Sipping golden broth, it was hard to get it past the lump in his throat.

  They had been watching Jeopardy when the stroke hit.

  “What is Pygmalion?” she had uttered, followed by a strange noise.

  Avery sat with his nose in one of his old pulps. “What?” he responded to the question he assumed she must have asked him. No answer came. After a few minutes, he looked over and saw her slumped in the chair, breathing fast and heavy, her face drawn on one side. Her blue eyes, wide and full of panic, fixed upon him. She whimpered like a child.

  “My God,” he said, and jumped for the phone.

  In the hospital, he had sat in the uncomfortable chair and watched her wane, a beautiful picture fading before his eyes. With their gnarled fingers intertwined, he reminisced about their courtship, their wedding day, how divine she had looked in her dress, and how he had made that silly face when they raised their toast because he hated the taste of alcohol. But most importantly, how very lucky he was. He whispered about the birth of their son, and how beautiful she had been while she carried him, and how blessed he was to have spent every one of the last 20,805 days with her as his wife. He told her how much he loved her, no less than one hundred times.

  Small sighing breaths were the only response from Marie, until even they disappeared on that fifth day.

  Avery recalled all of this as he stood at the sink and washed the soup dish.