Holiday Horror -e

A Collection of Horror Stories for the Holidays

by Marie Prato

Escape into an alternate universe with each horrific tale. Leave the weariness of Christmas shopping, holiday meal planning, cleaning and all the "company" preparations behind in the real world. Believe us, you'll find worse fears in this collection of horrific short fiction.

ISBN 1-59431-506-X Horror / Short Stories

Cover Art: Maggie Dix

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



A ROAD TO NOWHERE

Christmas Eve, 2002

“Where’s Santa Claus’ sled?” whispered Steven. Looking like he was ready to bolt, the child peered nervously through his Coke-bottle glasses at the dark woods.

“Santa’s sled is right behind those trees,” I answered, pointing to the dim outline of a clump of Alaskan pines about 20 feet from where we stood. “Come with me. Then you can pick out a whole bag of toys.”

“Are you sure Santa won’t be mad?” asked the five-year-old. Chilled mist poured out of Steven’s mouth as he ran his tongue over his lips.

“Juneau, Alaska is Santa’s last stop before going back to the North Pole,” I answered, repeating what I had told him yesterday. “The elves put a lot of extra toys on Santa’s sled just in case they forget someone. Santa will be happy if we take the toys you want off his sled so he won’t have to carry all those extra presents back home.”

“Are there footballs and bikes still on the sled?” asked the kid, waiting expectantly for my answer.

I nodded my head. “But remember what I told you yesterday. If you tell anyone, anyone at all, that you are meeting me and where we are going, you’ll have to share the toys with them.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” replied the boy. “Not even Billy.”

A greedy child. Mother hated greedy children almost as much as she hated imperfection and holidays. Mother said that gift giving and partying was the work of Satan. Taking Steven’s hand, I led the boy into the woods.

***

From my sheltered area provided by the low hanging branches of the pines, the city of Juneau looked like a snow-globe. Through the gusts of wind and thrashing snow the few lights from the main street seemed to flicker in and out. Even though I could not see the streets from my wooded vantage point, I knew they were deserted. No one would be out on Christmas Eve. For that matter, once tourist season ended and the majority of the merchants packed up for sunnier shores, the capital of Alaska closed up tighter than a clam’s shell by dinner time every night.

Looking down, I prodded the boy’s inert body with my shoe. His broken glasses lay next to him. Where the offending glasses had sat on Steven’s face, the kid’s skin was pale and puffy.

Stooping down, I wrapped a blanket around the boy’s body. For a second my fingers brushed lightly against his thigh. I quickly pulled my hand back. I had made Steven do things to me but I had not done anything to him. Never touch yourself or anyone else. That had been one of Mother’s rules. “I’ve been a good boy,” I said, raising my eyes reverently toward the sky. Then I slung the child over my shoulder and hurried deeper into the woods.

July 3rd 2003

Just before the road curved on the way to town, I stopped walking. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air.

“Hi, Bob,” said a slurred voice.

Startled, I opened my eyes. “Hi, yourself, Beverly,” I answered as she walked toward me, hugging her bag of groceries. As the bag tilted up, I noticed there were a couple of bottles of gin in it.

“Going into town?” asked the stout, elderly woman, leaning toward me on the uneven back road. Next to Beverly stood her ten-year-old deaf and dumb grandchild, Jessica. A pug, looking more like an inflated football than a dog, clung to Jessica’s leg.

As Beverly leaned closer, the stale smell of gin assaulted me. It was common knowledge that the old widow did more than her share of drinking, especially on holidays when she would pine for her deceased husband.

“I felt like having a good breakfast in town this morning,” I said. While the woman shifted the bag of groceries on her ample hip, I stared at the girl standing beside her. Brown hair framed her big brown eyes and then cascaded to the girl’s thin shoulders. Jessica had come to live in Juneau only a month before.

As we stood on the side of the road, another neighbor drove slowly by in his beat-up Chevy.

“Hi, Lou,” I yelled as Beverly turned to waive to him. Ignoring us, he kept his eyes straight ahead and drove on.

“Sometimes Lou can be as friendly as a pup,” said Beverly. “Other times, he won’t even look at you.”

“I know,” I said.

“Lou’s odd,” continued Beverly, “but he’s a good neighbor all the same.”