Five Christmas Season Horror Tales
By Gary Morton
All of my collections and novels are available as low-cost e-Books or free for low-income people online at Fright Library.
Contents
All I want is Santa
A Short Vampire Christmas
Long Way Down
Grim is Coming to Town
There is no Rest for the Stupid
All I Want is Santa
© By Gary Morton
Wind and snow ghosted high above him and huge wet flakes began to swirl down. They spun into his reddening eyes and for a moment the Christmas lights, decorations, the crowd and reflections melted and formed crayon scenes of a massacre. Something bright came around the corner, and as his vision cleared, he recognized the man as Santa.
Sheltered by an alley doorway and a garbage bin, jolly Santa lit a cigar and pulled a bottle of cheap sherry from his sack.
As he frowned at Santa, he remembered his father saying - Santa is a bad man, teaching children to be greedy. Yes, he’s a bad man, he thought as he crept up and swung his metal bar, cracking Santa on the head. Santa, the nasty fella must pay, he said as he hit him again and again, watching some chocolates, cherries and mints rolling in the spattering blood.
Inside in the washroom he washed the blood out of Santa's costume, then put it on and strolled across the tiled floor to the exit. Adjusting his suit, he looked across the mall and focused on the fake reindeer and Santa's booth. Sticky gumby men, sugarplums and the instruments he’d use in a New Year's torture chamber fell through his mind as he walked to Santa's throne.
He was early, no lineup yet - an adorable little blond girl came out of nowhere and jumped to his lap, and he couldn't spot any parents with her. The only person watching was a nasty looking freckle-faced boy.
Lucky day, I've found a stray already, he thought, as his eyes went to her ghostly pale face.
What’s your name, little girl? Angela, that's nice. And where are your parents? Oh, you've run off from your mom. So that's why you’re so pale. Well, well. How about telling Santa what you want for Christmas?
As she spoke, he really felt like Santa, soaring with his sleigh through a shaken bubble of blue and flurries. Cones, needles, wreathes, presents showering down as he flew. But the people below were greedy, their uplifted faces twisted mean, and his good gifts turned to fluttering money and a shower of gold coins. Angered, he swooped down, grinding hooves and runners into the crowd.
Blood showered his dreams, no one was watching, he was about to stuff a sock in the little girl's mouth and thrust her into the bag. Then it would be off to the North Pole and his mistletoe.
But the weird little boy was still watching, and in an uncanny way -- the vile urchin had teeth like cat fangs and he grinned like he was hungry for a taste of Santa’s leg.
White Christmas was playing in the mall -- he was somehow picking up on the boy's thoughts, and he shook his head, trying to get rid of the images. But he couldn't, and he saw things through the boy's eyes -- the colorless faces in the crowd, pale reflections in shop windows, eyes full of tinsel and silliness, mouths that were an empty stamp. Then there was Santa - his nose a pink-veined knob, cheeks like rosy wine, a plump bottle of sweetness. Santa brightened Christmas with red firelight. And he longed to sink his teeth into . . . .
A sudden bang and shattering glass startled them, and the girl cut her wish list short. Gunshots; it was a robbery over at the fur shops. A wounded clerk was falling, his face mashed to cherry pie by a shotgun kick right between the eyes. Two masked crooks flashed their sawed-offs as they fled with some goods.
All eyes were on the armed men. It was Santa's moment - grabbing a sock he moved to stuff it in the little girl's throat. And he was just getting it in when the little boy landed on him.
He howled -- his best Santa yell, but the kid had the strength of a tiger. Fangs penetrated, Santa could choke but he couldn’t shout. His blood flew up in ribbons as he kicked and slid down in his throne.
Pinned on the floor, he had the feeling of looking up from the bottom of an immense black chimney. The little girl was above him with the Christmas stocking in her hand --- pale and ghostly, she floated straight up to the higher levels. And he heard her singing as the hungry boy growled and sucked his blood.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
---The End---
Grim is Coming to Town
© By Gary Morton
(Grim Reaper tells a Christmas tale)
Author’s note: I’m not alive or dead or in the past or present. English is not my first language, so stay with me as I try to tell a human sort of tale.
She perished in a catastrophe at one of the Moon-Belt Space Stations. A final freak explosion reduced her remains to radioactive spores of frozen blood.
I showed to collect, finding space an infinitely cold horror. Foolish flesh-and-blood pioneers think they can endure outer space, but I prefer it naked, radioactive and untamed. Rescuing her vitals in my own style of black hole, I returned and scattered the ashes over December’s northern sky.
In the upper gloom, fire then ice formed a cocoon that kept me secure, and I managed to land wearing a mane of fused snowflakes. I shivered and shook them off. My eyes glossed over with cold tears and at first I saw nothing but charcoal outlines. Raising my head to the sky, I viewed dark streaks brushed into a canvass of dull mercury, and though it was 4:30 in the afternoon, it was so dark it seemed like night had fallen.
Usually I arrive in random city locations as a way to kill boredom. This time I’d picked a forgotten semi industrial zone near Toronto’s waterfront. A spot so dull and destitute it made even the strong feel wretched.
There wasn’t a soul on the narrow street. Snow powder sifted down on a lot filled with frozen mud crust and rusty machinery. I could see Christmas decorations and signs on a new condo & shops tower two blocks away. The rush of distant traffic drifted to my ears, and I gathered that this was one of those tiny pockets of nowhere that exist in every city. The area apparently owned by a stray black cat scampering north to a fence at the end of the lot.
I decided to follow him into the city, but paused to choose my mode of travel. One of the good things about my line of work is having the power to do anything, if it’s required to insure death and the maintenance of the supernatural status quo. Unfortunately, I lack imagination and in modern times, I’ve often turned to comic books and movies for inspiration. It would be possible to … leap into town like the Incredible Hulk … or slide in like the Ice Man … how about adding some sizzle and scorch to those huge corporate ads as the Flaming Torch. Then there’s plain old Superman or Bizarro … or maybe plain old me.
… and that became my decision. Go in on foot and mask myself with the usual cloak of shadows. There really wasn’t a reason to hurry, and I often go for a reflective walk near Christmas.
Exhaling a gust of wind, I tumbled the yellow-painted machinery aside and crossed on a curled lip of frozen mud. A section of the fence slammed into a concrete wall; I went through and around to a wide avenue. Traffic raced in a smoggy underpass. I strolled past a handful of homeless people resting by a fire burning on cement shelves under the steel beams. Rancid odors filled my nose as I reflected on misery. Around the world people perished like flies and my minions didn’t have a sack of black magic big enough to sweep things clean.
Global economics and war favored the extinction of all but the rich celebrity and consumer classes. Even devils lost in this game … innocent bodies piling to mountains, leading to an overcrowded heaven and a hell populated by corporate CEOs, investors
, warmongers, terrorists and the guests of celebrity talk shows. Oil, greed, meanness and spite had polluted the environment and were the basis of the contemporary Christmas spirit. As the Grim Reaper and CEO of Death Incorporated I’ve always viewed myself as a nice guy compared to some of them … and of course they all fall into my clutches in the end. Squashing some of the big fish has always been the most enjoyable part of my job.
The scene and my mood began to brighten in the commercial core, beginning with the sparkle and flash of lights in an open area of decorated outdoor trees. A scatter of signs and ads on a street of malls spilled blurred designer neon through swirling snow. The ads spread like tattooed skin, blemishing nearly every open area of public space.
If the denizens of this city were a product of their environment, they were all on sale … but in spite of that they hurried by looking somewhat dazed and frustrated. Many of them were out shopping for presents, and I began to wonder – what to give? There are no letters asking for gifts from me, but every Christmas I give a gift of some kind to the locals … wherever I happen to be.
It’s always an original gift idea … but this year a