Tag: Christmas Takeover

Christmas Takeover 8: Mark Slade: Merry Christmas, Joo-Joo

megHan

Merry Christmas, Joo-Joo

A Story by Mark Slade
2,242 words

“I need presents,” Vance said through dried, chapped lips.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Brian shivered, clutched the flannel blanket close to his neck.

The apartment was cold, at least ten degrees, Vance was sure of it. He and Brian hadn’t the money to pay the electric bill, with Brian being the only one to hold down a crappy job at Burger Hut. The apartment was a simple one bedroom, the bedroom belonging to Brian, because he found the apartment and his Father had paid deposit. Vance sat on his bed, a green sofa with springs coming through, often poking him in his ice cold ass. He had three shirts on, two pairs of dungarees, and his True Blue mountain climbing coat with fur inside the lining. The Oakland Raiders toboggan on his head still didn’t keep his ears warm, which irritated Vance to no end. It wasn’t like Vance didn’t want to get a job. He just hadn’t found anything he liked yet. His parents were tired of floating him money and friends had dwindled to just one, Brian, who was always broke.

“We can’t keep breaking into people’s houses and stealing their stuff. Anyway,” Brian sighed. “We never get very much money at Ted’s Pawn shop when we sell things to him. Cheap crook.”

“No, man,” Vance fumbled in his coat pocket for cigarettes, only to find his lighter. “It’s Christmas, right?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“We wait for the mailman, or UPS or Fed ex, or whoever and watch to see if no one gets the package.” Vance smiled and nodded like he’d just laid out the plans to Fort Knox and steal gold.

“That’s just… low, dude. I mean, steal Christmas packages from people. You are a sick man.” Brian rose from the dirtiest, dingiest Ez chair this side of the Milky Way. So many stains on a cream colored furniture and cigarette burns, the cream color was now a rust brown. ”I’m making some coffee.”

“I’m a desperate man. I need presents for mom, Janice, and Helen.”

Brian looked at Vance. He blinked twice. “Helen Spotter doesn’t even know you exist.”

“She will after the cool present I give her.” Vance rose from the couch, danced in a crouching position, and then sat down again. That was something he did when he was excited, which was often. Vance’s mom admitted to Brian that a quack doctor convinced her that Vance needed Ritalin to calm down her six year old son. After six more years of this medicine, that her child did not actually need, she noticed a breakdown of a mental attention span, sporadic illusions, and an inability to stay focused on one subject after more than ten minutes of conversation. She said she had never told a soul, but felt she had to confide in Brian.

“Sit down, you fool! We are not stealing from the neighbors, okay? It’s wrong, especially Christmas. Only jerks do that crap.” Brian went into the kitchen, turned on Luke-warm water from the faucet and dropped four spoonfuls of instant coffee in a cup. “Furthermore,” He reentered the living room and sat in his Ez chair, sipping the coffee. “Helen Spotter will never know who you are, because you are not friends with anyone she knows.”

“Oh… my friend,” Vance said. “You are wrong. Tommy Longdale has a girlfriend who is friends with Helen.”

“I’m trying to dissuade you as gently, carefully as possible, Vance,” Brian told him. “They go to Sparrow University. You are an unemployed looser. What makes you think Tommy Longdale will set you up with his girlfriend’s friend?”

“I once gave him some E at a party,” Vance responded after a long pause.

“Oh yeah. Now that is the kind of logic that could fix this country’s problems.” Brian said.

“I think so, too, man.”

“You don’t even have any money to take her out,” Brian slurped his barely warm coffee and made a face.

“No! No, I don’t. But you do.” Vance raised an eyebrow.

Brian snarled at him. He hated it when Vance did his Jack Nicholson impersonation.

“That’s a lame Jack impersonation, butthole.”

“You know it’s not…” He continued, now going back and forth between early Nicholson and later Nicholson. “I want you to hold it between your knees. What are you, on your period?”

“He didn’t say that in THE DEPARTED. Ray Winston said it.”

“No, Jack said it.” Vance insisted.

“You are a twerp. Half the time you don’t remember what you were talking about ten minutes before.”

“I do too! God, you can be so… so… whatever!”

“Okay, what were we talking about?” Brian prodded Vance. He knew the answer, he just wanted to have some fun with him. He liked making him feel small.

“We were talking about Jack Nicholson. There! Whoosh!” Vance threw an imaginary basketball through a goal, net and all.

“No.” Brian laughed. “I thought we were talking about stealing from the neighbors again.”

Vance looked lost for a few seconds. Then he remembered. He smiled as it came to him. “Yeah, man. We could wait for the mailman, or… or Fed Ex…”

“I’m not doing that.” Brian said.

“You have to. In three days, it will be Christmas. And you get paid next Wednesday. Your mom will be disappointed.”

Brian made a face again. “You are a turd.” He said. ‘You use my mom all the time.”

“It’s because you know I’m right. She thinks you are the sweetest boy she ever knew. She says it all the time.”

“Shut up.” Brian was stewing, getting angrier at Vance just looking at him.

“Hey,” Vance rose from his couch and looked out of the window, keeping the curtain partly open. “There’s Fed Ex delivering to Mrs. Hoppa.”

“No, we can’t take from an old woman. She bakes cookies for us and brings us her left overs, Vance.”

“Yeah,” Vance put a hand on his stomach. “That island food gave me the screamers. It’s too freakin’ spicy.”

“What do you expect, dummy. She is from Haiti.” Brian snorted.

“I’m going to snag that box before her daughter brings her back.” Vance headed to the front door.

“You jerk. You’ve been scoping her all morning.”

“Be back. Wish me luck.”

“I hope she catches you!” Brian yelled to him as Vance slammed the front door.

Brian jumped up from his Ez chair and ran to the window. He pulled the curtain a bit to the left to view Vance’s theft.

Vance crept up Mrs. Hoppa’s slither of a driveway to her apartment door, past a small bush that was turning a sick yellow. He looked around, smiling like an imbecile.

He bent down, looked at the small box. There was writing on a tag that even if Vance could read past third grade level, he wouldn’t be able to understand it. He just shrugged, then snatched the box and jogged as fast as he could back to the front door of their, quickly opened the door. He took one step and his left foot clipped the molding in front of the door. Giggling, Vance fell hard on his face. The box slipped out of his hands and slid across the living room floor like a hockey puck.

Vance laughed hard, rolled over on his back. He kicked the front door shut with both of his feet. “That was too freakin’ funny!” Vance yelled.

Brian stood over Vance, his hands on his hips. He was giving Vance that “wife” look, his head tilted to the left, a disappointed expression his face.

“What?” Vance was confused.

“Don’t ‘what’ me.” Brian spat at Vance. ‘I told you not to steal from that poor woman.”

“So,” Vance’s bottom lip drooped, hurt he was being told off. “I’m a free man. I can do whatever I want!”

“One day,” Brian wagged a finger at him. “You’ll get caught and I will not be there to bail you out!”

“Don’t… You… hey! You know, you helped last two times. All that weed you stole from Mr. Dillinger. That was a poor old man who has cancer, douche bag!”

Nothing more was said for about fifteen minutes. Both were at their own places, sulking, sitting on the sofa and the Ez chair.

Finally, in a spur of the moment, Vance hopped from the sofa and retrieved the box. He sat back on the sofa, began opening the thin layer of tape on the box. He placed a hand inside the box. When he pulled his hand out of the box, a yellow beaded necklace was caught in his grimy fingernails.

“Yeah!” Vance said, excitedly. He squatted and did his little dance. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look at this, Bri.”

Brian laughed. He shook his head. “Yeah, man, that’s nice.”

“You know what it is?”

“No,” Brian scrunched up his nose. “A necklace?”

“Not just a necklace,” Vance whispered like it was secret. “A Joo-Joo necklace.”
“I don’t know… what a Joo-Joo is, Vance.” Brian was tired mentally. Vance always did that to him.

“Man, it means good luck! And I heard on the History channel you can use it to make people do what you want. You’re own slave, dude.”

“You really believe that?” Of course he does, why even ask, Brian thought. “So… you want Helen Spotter to be your own personal slave?”

“Damn right.” Vance said. “I might even get laid.”

“Go for it, dude,” Brian said, smiling.

Vance felt his coat pocket vibrating. He took out his phone, looked at a text message. “Hey… things going right for me finally. That was Tommy Longdale. I got a date with Helen Spotter. Of course, Tommy and his girl will be there. So what, huh?”

“Way to go, Vance. I’m happy for you.” Brian rose from the Ez chair and patted Vance on the shoulder.

“I’m gonna get some and have a slave. Merry, Christmas, Joo-Joo!”

There was a loud rapping at the front door. Night had fallen and it was even colder inside the apartment. Brian was groggy. He turned in his chair, yawned. He didn’t want to get up.

But somebody was relentless with their knocking and the noise was hurting his head. Brian clumsily got to his feet. He slowly ambled to the door. He bet it was Vance. He probably forgot his key.

Brian opened the door and saw a short old, black woman in a handmade dress and a multicolored scarf on her head. It was Mrs. Hoppa.

“Where is it?” She spoke in harsh island dialect.

“Where’s what?” Brian said, trying to wake up.

“My package!” Mrs. Hoppa lowered her eyebrows. Her nostrils were flaring, cold air snorted through them. “You are a thief. The pair of you. I treat you like my own sons. That package was from my own son, still in Port-au-Prince. I may never see him.” She fought back tears, held a handkerchief to her nose, and looked away from Brian.

Brian cleared his voice. “We didn’t take that package.” He said.

“You didn’t?” Mrs. Hoppa looked at Brian suspiciously.

“No. We saw Mr. Dillinger around your door. He was even talking to the Fed-Ex guy. I’m not sure, he… might have took it.”

“Pity be him,” Mrs. Hoppa said. “That necklace… bad… if worn, you become the slave of whoever give you that necklace.”

“Oh… yeah?” Brian was nervous. He began tapping his foot without knowing it.

“Oh yes. To pay for the deeds you master or mistress wishes you to do, you have to make a human sacrifice. Eat the flesh of the innocent.” With those words, Mrs. Hoppa lunged at Brian.

Brian jumped back. “We don’t have it!” He screamed, slammed the door in Mrs. Hoppa’s face.

Brian paced the living room. No, he told himself. That crap is not. It can’t be.

There was another round of knocking at the front door.

Brian hesitated. He touched the doorknob, then withdrew. “We don’t have you’re package.” He yelled at the door.

“Brian,” A muffled voice could be heard. “It’s me. I forgot my key. Open the door, will you?”

It was Vance.

Brian was so happy to hear that it was Vance at the door, he swung the door open violently.

Vance was standing there, smiling like an imbecile. He was covered in blood, his clothes were torn. Still, Vance was on top of the world.

“Dude,” He said. “What an evening!”

“What the hell happened to you?” Brian threw his arms up in the air, shocked.

“Nothing, really. Just wild time. You gonna let me in?” Vance tried go through the threshold, Brian blocked him with an arm.

“You kill somebody?”

Vance shook his head. “No. God. Things got a little weird. I gave Helen that necklace. I told her I wanted to make out. We did, she went nuts and ate Tommy Longdale and his girlfriend… about ten more people in the restaurant.” Vance said non-nonchalantly.

It was too much to take in. Brian leaned against the door. He rubbed his face a few times with his hand. “Vance?”

“Yeah, Bri?”

“Where is Helen Spotter?”

“Right here, buddy!”

Helen appeared from behind Vance, her dress ripped in many places, her olive skin drenched in blood. She had deep dark circles under her eyes, and pieces of flesh at the corner of her mouth. She was looking straight at Brian, looking very ravenous.

Christmas Takeover 7: Mark Slade: Santa’s Bag

megHan

Santa’s Bag

A Story by Mark Slade
2,796 words

On a lonely street corner, off Main and 3rd, a bag lay on the opposite side of the trash cans scattered in a dark alleyway. Once in a while a street light would shine its florescent blue light on the pavement to reveal movement inside that bag. Just tiny inklings that something was definitely inside it. The sound of scratching, and a low growl. But the bag never moved from its spot.

On other street corners in the city, the hustle and bustle of people and cars making their way to their destinations. On one of those particular streets, Dave Lomax was fighting his way through a crowd outside an Adult theater to find a seat to spend his third night of restless sleep while men in trench coats explored themselves watching people have sex on the screen.

Just as he was sneaking through a side door, a hand grabbed him. The hand belonged to extremely large black man in a leather coat.

“You don’t think you were goin’ in there without payin’, were you, Chief?” He said pushing Lomax into a brick wall outside the theater.

Lomax felt the pain in his back surge. He shook his head no. “I actually got confused what door to go through.” Lomax smiled.

The black man’s nostrils curled up. He sniffed the air. “Shit, man. Go get cleaned up. Look, I don’t want to be a hard on, but you can’t keep sneakin’ in my house smellin’ up the place. You need a place to sleep, I know the Boys club has some beds open for the holidays. If I give you a twenty, you promise not to drink it all up?”

“You’d do that?” Lomax was stunned. The couple months he’d been kicked out of his house by Lisa, he’d witnessed the dregs of humanity. He’d gotten a place at hotel with a roommate, Charlie Day…a real scumbag-drunk—stole the last fifty from him, then kicked him out when Lomax couldn’t procure the rest of the rent.

The black man smiled. “Dude, I know what it’s like on the streets. I might run a movie house that shows tits and ass, but I still follow the laws of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Here you go. Don’t–” He placed the twenty in Lomax’s hand, pulled it away, Lomax still had a piece of it. “Don’t drink it up. Understand?”

Lomax nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t usually drink, just lately–“

The black man shoved Lomax into the gutters. He fell into the icy snow caked on the vents.

“Merry Christmas. Get cleaned up,” The black man wagged a finger.

Dave Lomax just sat there. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, his spirit crushed.

Lomax picked himself up and headed down the street the opposite way. He stopped a minute to stare at the many HD TV’s that were in a store window. On the screens was the Charlie Brown Christmas.

Christmas is not what it used to be, he thought.

He shuffled along, kicking snow with his boots, letting some of it ride on the top for a few feet. Before he realized it, Lomax was down an alley that had no outlet. He looked up and he was on Main and 3rd. He heard a noise behind the trash cans. He saw a stray dog sniffing at a yellow bag that resembled potato bags at grocery stores. The bag moved to the left and the dog jumped at it, wagged its tail.

“I’m not drunk,” Lomax said to himself. “I haven’t even started. But that bag… oh… its cat in it.” He rubbed his tangled, greasy hair. He laughed, walked toward it. “Hey, you dumb dog. That’s just a cat in that bag–“

A thin green arm reached out. Its three fingered claw took hold of the stray dog by the back of its neck and pulled it inside the bag. The dog gave out a yelp and disappeared into the dark opening of the bag.

Lomax stopped dead in his tracks. Stunned, he staggered back a few steps. “What the hell?” He cried out, his voice bounced off the cold dark night.

Lomax looked behind him. No one there. No one saw it. He rubbed his three day old stubble, put a hand in his pocket. His eyes grew wild. He felt in a once empty pocket and found paper there. He pulled his hand out. Lomax was holding several hundred dollar bills. A few minutes before the event with the dog and the bag, he was thinking about having money–lots of money—so much, in fact, his pockets would never be empty. The twenty was still in the other pocket.

Lomax knew this to be strange. I’m not dreaming, he thought. Because he’d just pinched himself. He looked behind him, no one standing there. He trotted to the bag, which was still moving on the pavement. He heard rustling, a low growl. He hesitated at first. Then decided to scoop up the bag.

“Funny,” He said. “On Christmas eve I find Santa’s bag.” He slung over his shoulder and heard the thing growl louder. The stray dog yelped. “Hey,” Lomax yelled at the bag. “I don’t know what you are, but you be nice to that dog.”

He walked to the other side of Main and hailed a taxi.

The hotel room was dingy and smelled of garlic salt. That was because Lomax’s roommate, Cedric, cooked everything with garlic salt. Even toast. Lomax didn’t need a key to get in, the lock never worked. All he had to do was jiggle the door knob and the door was open.

Cedric was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, a bottle of Jack Daniel in his hand.

The room was a mess. Take-out boxes from various places littered floor along with dirty laundry. The TV was on, the weather man showing a map where Santa Clause was last spotted, Turkey it seemed.

Lomax sat on the torn sofa, bag beside him. He kicked Cedric a few times. Cedric looked like a gulley dwarf from the latest Peter Jackson movie. His brownish-red beard hung past neck, inching toward his chest. He must have grown it to make up for the lack of hair on his head. His round, plump body heaved and he coughed every time Lomax kicked him.

Cedric shot up, ready to run. He yelled out something inaudible, waved his hands around wildly.

“Cedric,” Lomax said. “It’s just me. Cedric, its Dave.”

Cedric looked confused, staggered where he stood. Clarity came to him. He looked at Lomax, snarled.

“I kicked you out, you bum,” Cedric tried to pick up the bottle twice without falling. The third go was success. But he soon tossed the bottle when he found out it was empty.

“Yes, you did, my so-called friend. I’m here to pay my share of the rent,” Lomax threw down a hundred dollar bill on the floor. Cedric’s eyes grew big, he leaped for the money, fell on his face.

“Oh, yeah, and tell you to fuck off.” Lomax stood grabbed his bag. Cedric held on to his legs. “Get off!” Lomax shook Cedric off.

“Don’t go, my friend! Please take care of your Cedric! He will do anything–well almost anything–for you! For you!” Cedric was on his knees, pleading, praying to Lomax. “I don’t care how you get financial aid, even if you sell yourself on the street–“

“I don’t do that, you idiot.”

Cedric’s eyes moved back and forth, he was thinking. “No?”

“No. I think it’s this bag.”

Cedric stood. He only came up to Lomax’s chest. He scratched his bald head. “A Santa bag?”

“I thought the same thing when I saw it,” Lomax said happily. “I found this bag—I was thinking of money—oh, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Stay. Explain it to me. I know I could relate–we’ll order a pizza. Yes?”

Lomax thought about it. He was hungry. Oh, Cedric was alright.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Lomax turned his back to call from Cedric’s cell phone when he heard a scuffle and Cedric screamed.

Lomax turned back around. On the phone a voice kept repeating “Hello, hello?” His Santa bag dropped to the floor.

Lomax sighed. “Shit,” He said, pressed a button on the cell phone and the voice disappeared. He threw the phone on the sofa and picked up the bag. He heard a low growl from the bag and more scuffling. Then he heard Cedric call out for help.

“Hi,” he heard a female voice.

Lomax nearly jumped out of his skin. A short brunette was standing in front of him. She was wearing a blue halter top and a short mini skirt. Lomax dropped the bag. His mouth hung open. He couldn’t believe it. Just as he was calling for pizza his mind roamed. He began thinking about sex, then his thoughts became a lot more specific.

“You called for a date,” The brunette kissed Lomax.

Later on, Lomax just sat in the hotel room, bored out of his skull. It was eleven pm now. The brunette had long disappeared. He was sick of hearing the dog whine, Cedric cry and beg for help, and whatever that thing was in the bag growl and terrorize the dog and Cedric.

“This is shit,” He said. He should be with Lisa and her kids, getting smashed, opening presents. He should be with Lisa. Yes. She should not had kicked him out, settled in with Jack. All because he lost his job at the plant and he couldn’t handle her taking his spot as the breadwinner.

Well, all that has changed now, Lomax thought. I’ve got money. Endless money. Now I can take Lisa back, buy her anything she wanted. Jack can be out on the street, like Lomax was.

“Yeah… I’m going over there and bring loads of presents… food… booze…”

Lomax stood in the driveway of his ex’s trailer, the only trailer in an upper-middle class neighborhood. Her father had left it to her, never thought of building a house because he thought it was too much work and a waste of money, he already had a home. The trailer was old, at least twenty years, and the aluminum siding was not silver anymore but a depressing rust color.

Good, Lomax thought. Lisa is home. He could see her Toyota in the driveway, but he also saw Jack’s Prius.

“Shit,” He said to the thin layer of Christmas lights on the telephone pole. The lights blinked on and off, telling Lomax not to worry about Jack. It told him he was in charge of the situation. Plus, he had two plastic bags of groceries and his Santa bag.

The trailer was lit up with way too many lights, at least ten strands crossing each other. And in the front yard was a snowman missing an eye and his plastic carrot meant for his nose, was now comfortably in his crotch.

Lomax knocked on the screen door.

Lisa opened the front door. She stepped outside on the step, shut the door. Her short brown, wavy hair was stirring slightly in the cold breeze. She was cold, the Christmas sweater exemplified her best assets, but those green eyes always melted Lomax’s heart.

“Hi, Lisa,” Lomax grinned at her.

“What do you want, Dave?” She said coldly, folded her arms.

“I wanted to see you and the kids,” Oops. I didn’t get the kids anything. He thought. Trish, 9, Cory, 6, what would I get them anyway? I never took time to get to know them—

“You know Jack is here. And after the last shenanigan you are not welcomed here.” She turned to open the door, Lomax touched her shoulder. She shot a cool look his way that was like a knife through his heart. Lomax withdrew his hand.

She was referring to a drunken incident when Lomax climbed through their bedroom window and passed out in their bed. Jack beat Lomax with a baseball bat, thinking he was burglar. After the ER room, Jack was apologetic.

“Who is it, Lisa–Oh, it’s Dave. Let him in, Lisa.” Jack was the best looking guy Lomax had ever seen and the nicest. That’s one of many reasons he hated him.

“He was just leaving–” Lisa’s nostrils flared up, and that cold stare–all Lomax could do was avert his eyes.

“Nonsense, Lisa. Come inside, Dave. God, the kids really miss you. They will be glad to see you. “OH yes, they were glad to see me, Lomax thought. He’d been there thirty minutes and the kids said hi, rushed off to bed. Lisa went to her bedroom. Jack was the only one happy to see him. Loads of endless fucking questions. It was a slow death. Being with a man who stole your life and he was happy to eat his cake too. The fucker.

“So, what’s with the bag? Are you playing Santa this year?” He was smirking. Thinks he can tell a joke. The fucker. “Is my present in there?”

Suddenly an evil grin overthrew a depressing scowl on Lomax’s face. “Actually…it is. Would you like it now?” Lomax stood from the couch and walked toward the corner where the Christmas tree was. Jack followed closely on his heels.

“You didn’t have to–yes. Yes. I’m honored… look I really want to be friends, Dave… could that…?”

The bag was gone.

They heard a noise in the hallway to the bedrooms. Something loud hitting the tin floors of the trailer. Lomax and Jack rushed to see, they found the bag there. It was inching across the floor. They heard Lisa’s voice, the kid’s, of course the dog and Cedric. All of them simultaneously making a horrible mash of noise. Then there was the growling, the sound of something scraping the inside of the bag, followed by them screaming.

Jack backed away from the bag. “What’s in there, Dave? You’ve got the devil there haven’t you?”

Lomax didn’t know what to say. He shook his head half-heatedly. “I don’t know what’s in there. I don’t… maybe it is… but I don’t think it hurts anyone… all I know is it takes things, then whatever you wish for… magically appears…”

There was a knock at the screen door, very loud pounding.

Someone has called the police on us, Lomax thought. Jack ran to answer it. Lomax pushed him out of the way. They found a short, over-sized man in a monk’s frock. The Monk bowed, removed his hood.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late. I think you have something that belongs my temple.” The Monk said.

Lomax was pushed aside as the monk made his way through the front door. The monk smiled. He nodded. “Yes, you surely do have it.”

“Is that the devil in that bag? Your here to do an exorcism, right?” Jack came to the monk, wild-eyed.

The Monk laughed. “No, far from it. Gumar is not a devil… but a poor unfortunate creature that seemingly tricked one of my brothers to take him into the city.”

“Will he–does he hurt anyone in the bag with him?” Lomax interrupted the monk’s jolliness.

“No, by all means. Gumar loves to have fun—well his fun is scaring people, holding them in the darkness. He harms no one. He is a bit aggressive. It was terrible for Brother Sella. He apparently was robbed at gunpoint, beaten and left in an alley. He came back to Temple with that story.”

“How did you know where the bag was?” Lomax said. “Can you get them out of the bag?”

The Monk shrugged smiled. “I followed the smell. Do you not smell the terrible stench?”

“I thought it was Dave, since he is homeless.” Jack said.

Lomax cut his eyes at Jack.

“As far as releasing everyone,” The Monk sighed. “That depends on you,” He turned to Lomax. “Would like to keep receiving presents from Gumar? Or…give the bag back to the Temple. It’s up to you.”

Lomax thought a minute. “Yeah… I’d like to give the bag back to the Temple.”

The Monk smiled. Lisa appeared, as did the children. They immediately clung to, she hugged them nervously.

Then Cedric appeared, the dog ran from one person to another, happy it was out of the bag.

The Monk threw the bag over his shoulder. Lomax saw him to the door.

“Look,” Lomax placed a hand on the Monk’s arm. “I don’t get it. Where was my last present when Lisa and the kids were in the bag?”

“Remember,” The Monk walked outside. He turned to Lomax, laughed. “You wished this would be over. And it is.”

Christmas Takeover 6: A.J. Brown: Unknown Boy, Aged Four or Five

megHan

Unknown Boy, Aged Four or Five

A Story by A.J. Brown
2,835 words

Marcia looked out the windshield at the throngs of people standing outside the toy store. They were wrapped in coats and hats, many of them wearing gloves, some wearing scarves. The sun was still an hour away from getting up, itself, yet people lined the sidewalk and stood in the parking lot six and seven deep. Few people talked, and those who did used soft, almost hushed tones, as if they had secrets they wanted no one to know.

She took a deep breath, the cold filling her lungs. There was no way she would find what she wanted with this many people here. She shook her head, flipped her hair back over her shoulders and let the breath out. Her hands were buried deep in her jacket pockets. Even with gloves on, she felt the cold in her fingers. Her bottom lip quivered. Occasionally, her teeth clattered together.

“I should have done this sooner,” she whispered to herself.

But she knew she couldn’t. It had to be on this day. It had to take place on Christmas Eve. She stood near her car, debating getting in and coming back later when the rush of last day shoppers had done their worst. Instead, she looked at her watch, one her sister, Donna, gave her. Minnie mouse made up the face, her arms the ticking hands of the watch. There was no digital display that told her the time. It was all lines and numbers and a simple glance at it wouldn’t do the trick. She had to really look at it. Minnie told her it was one minute until six. When the clock rolled over one more time, she walked toward the crowd.

At the toy store’s door stood two young women who might have been in high school, or possibly college. They wore red Christmas caps and the store’s light blue shirts with the logo on the front—two kids on a teeter totter—the name Teeter Totter’s Toys in black print above it. They looked at each other. One nodded and they grabbed the handles of the glass double doors. They pulled and the doors came open. People pushed forward, the quiet murmurs from earlier suddenly a rush of thumping feet and people yelling as they hurried toward the doors.

“We’re going to be like sardines in there,” Marcia whispered and stayed back.

After most of the patrons had gone inside, Marcia made her way to the doors, took another breath, bracing herself for the craziness she was about to face, and stepped inside. One of the two women—clearly a teenager who didn’t wish to be there—greeted her with a ‘Welcome to Teeter Totter’s Toys.’ Though she smiled, Marcia thought it was forced.

“Thank you,” she said and left the small entrance way and stepped fully into the store.

It was worse than she feared. People pushed by one another without an ‘excuse me,’ or a ‘pardon me’ or anything even close. Some folks with buggies had no problems bumping into others to get them out the way. She thought there might be a couple of fights as some customers gave dirty looks or snippy, sarcastic remarks.

Marcia eased her way by the other shoppers, detouring in and out of aisles where the crowds were the worst. A few times she had been bumped into by other shoppers and once, a buggy clipped her heel. She glanced back then to see a stuffy looking woman wearing too much makeup and smelling of too much perfume. The woman gave her a dirty look, then shoved by her, bumping into others as she went. She was, in Marcia’s mind, the equivalent to a semi on the interstate: I’m bigger than you, so get out of my way or I will run you over.

Though she walked and shuffled nonstop, it took twenty minutes to get to the back of the store where the stuffed toys were. Thankfully, there were only a handful of people in the section that boasted the toys that weren’t highly sought after and worthy of being fought over. She thought it a shame that so few people thought their children might like one of the plush bears, dogs, rabbits and kitty cats.

Marcia frowned. The pickings were thin. All the rabbits and doggies were gone. There were still a couple of kitty cats, but none that screamed ‘buy me.’ The small teddy bears were mostly the same, each one a solid color, either white, brown, tan or gray with a bowtie around their necks, glass eyes, pink stitched noses and mouths. She shook her head and stood straight; her hands went to her hips. She knelt down, then got on her knees. Near the back of the bottom shelf was a teddy bear much like the others, only pink and without a bowtie around its neck. She smiled. It was perfect for one of the two gifts she needed. Still, there was the other one, the one she knew would be harder to pick.

Marcia left the aisle and went to the next one over. No stuffed animals. The next one over from that one also held no stuffed animals. Neither did the next two. She backtracked and looked at the original aisle of misfit stuffed toys. She dropped to her knees again and searched through the various teddy bears near the front of the bottom shelf. She pushed them aside, shoving them all over to the side of the shelf that had been completely empty. Just as she began to give up, Marcia saw it, the animal that called to her, that said, ‘I’m the one.’ She reached for it, pulled it free.

It was a white lamb. Its eyes sparkled blue. Its lips and nose were the same pink stitched type as on the teddy bears. On the tips of each foot was a split hoof. Its tail was a curly-q and the fur was fluffy and soft. Marcia hugged it and knew it was the one.

She didn’t mind standing in line for almost an hour, occasionally listening to someone argue with one of the workers or another customer. She didn’t mind putting the purchase on her credit card, something she rarely did. She didn’t mind sitting in traffic for another hour, trying to get out of the mall area, even as other people honked their horns and cut in front of her. One woman with gray hair who could have been a grandmother flipped her off before cutting in front of her, almost hitting her car. She didn’t mind that she got home well after lunch, her hands hurting from her grip on the steering wheel, muscles bunched up in her neck from tension. She didn’t even mind that she would have to get up early again the next day to make the two-hour drive to Century Falls, South Carolina, a little do nothing town on the edge of the nowhere. She was happy—well, as happy as she could be on this day. She found the toys she hoped to find, which was better than not finding them. It was a small measure of joy she claimed for the season.

Morning came too soon for her after a night of very little sleep. She had stared at the ceiling fan that hadn’t been on since early October. To her the five blades appeared skeletal. Though that uneased her, she had a hard time looking away from it. When she finally pulled her gaze away, she reached over, shut the alarm off on the clock and swung her legs from the bed. The sigh that came from her was neither frustrated nor tired. It was sad.

Marcia stood, stretched and left the bedroom. Half an hour later, after brushing her teeth and her hair and putting on jeans, a sweater and her old sneakers, she grabbed her coat, keys, the two stuffed animals and left home. It was barely half past five when she hit the road.

She drove in silence. No Christmas music on the radio, no talking heads discussing politics, religion or sports. It was just her, her thoughts and the sound of the car as it sped along in the darkness, its headlights casting two bright cones of light that came together out in front of her. She passed few cars going in the opposite direction, the rest of the world still, somehow, asleep at that hour of morning.

The sun was up and trying to peek through the heavy clouds by the time she turned off the interstate and onto the secondary road that would lead her to her destination. She drove through the little town of Century Falls, the small houses all tucked in, some of the Christmas lights still on, having been lit throughout the night, maybe as a beacon for Santa Clause. She went across the overpass where a big, black man sat on a five gallon paint bucket and stared off into nowhere. She drove down a road with sleepy houses on either side. She made a left and drove a couple of blocks. She made a right and slowed to a crawl. Then she came to a complete stop.

The iron gates stood open, the blacktop of the road giving way to gravel and dirt at the entrance. That path went straight with other ones branching off like dead limbs on a dead tree, winding their way through the cemetery, its headstones like leaves along the road. The clouds hung thick in the sky, hiding the sun’s face away and promising snow at some point that day.

Marcia took several deep breaths. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

Just turn around. Go home. You don’t have to do this.

“Yes, I do,” she said to her thoughts. “I must.”

Marcia let off the brake. The car rolled forward and crossed into the cemetery. She had dreaded this day all year long, dreaded it, not because it was a cemetery, but because of the memories it represented. She eased along the path, veering off to the right on one of its many side roads. She drove, not quite to the end but close enough she could see a walled off section that dated back to the early 1800’s. This is where she parked, along a grassy patch where no bodies lay beneath.

She stared out the windshield. It was dirty and there was a crack she never noticed before in the lower right corner. The wipers looked too worn to do much good against any type of precipitation, rain or snow.

“Come on,” she said and grabbed the lamb. It was colder out in the open cemetery on Christmas day than it had been in the parking lot of an old toy store the morning before. A soft breeze blew through the graveyard, sending sharp chills through her body. She zipped her coat up and her body gave a shiver. Marcia crossed the lawn, passing gravestone after gravestone, touching some as she went. Finally, she stopped near a chipped marker with the carving of a square wooden wagon on it. Just below the wagon was the word UNKNOWN BOY. Below the name were the words, AGED FOUR OR FIVE.

The first time she came here was eleven years previous. Donna had been six then and her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail that bobbed when she walked. Her green eyes dazzled, and she had been excited to go on one of Marcia’s Christmas traditions, this time to the little cemetery in Century Falls.

Donna had a fake flower in one hand and she gripped Marcia’s hand with her other one.

“Why are we here?” she asked in all her innocence. She was looking up at Marcia, her eyes wide and full of so much wonder.

“One of the things I do at Christmas is visit a cemetery—usually one I’ve never been to. I take a flower with me. Then I search the headstones for the grave of a person I think would like a visitor. I place the flower on the grave and tell the person, ‘Merry Christmas.’”

“Why do you do that?”

Marcia smiled. “Because everyone should receive love on Christmas day.” That wasn’t the total truth, but it was really all Donna needed to know. She didn’t need to know a friend of hers does something similar at the cemetery where her father was buried, telling the dead, ‘Someone loves you’ instead of ‘Merry Christmas.’

“Oh.” Donna stared at her flower for a minute. It was pink and white with bright green petals lined in a lighter green. Then she looked up with that wide-eyed innocent look of hers. “Can I pick the grave?”

“Sure,” Marcia responded. “Go. Find the lucky person.”

Donna hurried toward the rows and rows of graves. She searched, diligently, pondering each stone by tapping her chin with the index finger of her right hand. She asked questions about the names and ages of each person. Then she came across the stone with the wagon on it.

“What does that say, Marcia?”

“Unknown boy. Aged four or five.”

“He doesn’t have a name?”

“I guess not.”

“And he was four or five?”

“I guess so.”

“What does that mean?”

“I guess they didn’t know who the boy was, and they thought he was maybe four or five years old when he died.”

“That’s younger than me.”

“It is.”

Donna looked at the flower again, then placed it at the base of the headstone. “Merry Christmas, Unknown,” she whispered, and patted the top of the stone three times gently.

As they walked back to the car, Marcia holding tight to Donna’s little hand, she asked, “Why did you tap the headstone three times just now.”

Donna looked up, those green eyes full of that innocence. “Three taps means I love you.”

Marcia smiled, repeated her little sister, “Three taps means I love you.”

“Yes,” Donna responded, as if Marcia had asked a question. Then she asked one of her own. “Can we come back next year, but bring him a toy instead of a flower?”

Marcia nodded, her smile growing wider. “Of course.”

That’s what they did. On Christmas Eve the next year, they went to the toy store—the same one Marcia has gone to since.

“What type of toy would you like to get him?”

“A stuffed animal.”

“A stuffed animal it is, then.”

“But it can’t be just any stuffed animal. It has to be the right one.”

Like when searching the graves the year before, Donna took her time seeking out the right stuffed animal. When she found it, her eyes shimmered, and her smile was as bright as it had ever been. It had been a unicorn, one with a spiral horn jutting from its forehead. Its eyes were brown, and its mane wasn’t so much flowing as it was fluffy. They went to the cemetery, parked near the back on a patch of grass where no graves were. Donna placed the stuffed unicorn by the headstone, said, “Merry Christmas, Unknown,” then tapped the top of the marker three times. I. Love. You.

That was a long time ago, and so much had changed since the first year Donna went with her and now. Marcia stood in front of Unknown with the lamb in her hand and tears spilling down her cheeks. Her heart hurt, but she thought it would break later. She knelt, set the lamb in front of the headstone, said, “Merry Christmas, Unknown,” and then stood straight again. She tapped the top of the headstone gently three times. When she took a deep breath this time, she let it go with a rattle and a sob.

Marcia tucked her hands into her pockets, protecting them from the cold. She hunched her shoulders and walked away. When she reached her car, she looked back, saw the little ghost of a boy standing at his grave. He was pale and his hair was black. He wore a white button-down shirt and dirty black pants. His eyes held bruised bags beneath them. He was holding the lamb in his arms. When he looked up, he raised a hand in a wave.

Marcia’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand lifted and her fingers moved in a slight wave. She watched as the boy faded, leaving behind the stuffed animal where she had placed it.

Marcia got into her car and looked at the stuffed bear on the passenger’s seat. Fresh tears formed in her eyes. It was time to make the drive home, to a different cemetery, one with a grave still not a year old. She will go and sit next to it, ignoring the cold. She will set the pink teddy bear on the grave and she will say, “Merry Christmas, Donna.” Then she will pat the headstone gently three times.

And she will cry.

A.J. Brown is a southern-born writer who tells emotionally charged, character driven stories that often delve into the dark parts of the human psyche. Though he writes mostly darker stories, he does so without unnecessary gore, coarse language, or sex. More than 200 of his stories have been published in various online and print publications.

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Christmas Takeover 5: Tristan Drue Rogers: Invierno Nino

megHan

Invierno Nino

A Story by Tristan Drue Rogers
3,644 words

Edgar Gonzales started getting tense again, sweating profusely even though the A/C was on full blast, and whenever his son asked to play a game with him or help him with his homework, he’d be short with him, never really answering the question, either. It obviously frustrated his son because Edgar noticed that he simply started playing alone with his toys in his room, day by day, no longer asking his father to join in. It was because Christmas was less than a month away and even though he hoped his son wouldn’t have known, he knew he’d overheard his mom on the phone mentioning things about his grandfather that he wished would go on deaf ears. Some things his son didn’t understand, Edgar knew this, but he also knew that his son recently learned how to apply context clues in Mrs. Darlene’s class, so that hope was thrown out of the window. The video games were connected to the living room T.V. and although he was in the kitchen, Edgar saw his son peak out to play before noticing his father smoking a cigarette, leant up against the refrigerator, and he popped back out, closing the door to his room.

He loved his son, Chewy Hernandez Acosta Gonzalez. He knew he’d be a big strong man someday, completely the opposite of him, if only he treated him correctly and kept him away from that mushy stuff that filled his own heart after what had broken him so many years ago. He’d been called a hippy before and in certain corners of the Hispanic community, that was a seething indictment.

Edgar looked out of the window where he could see across the street where the Carmona family lived. They were decorating. Thanksgiving ended not a week ago and Christmas decorations had been piling up around his neighborhood. Some people didn’t even wait for the table to be set with turkey and brisket before they started pulling Santa’s blow-up sleigh out onto their lawns. He started fidgeting with his wedding ring. It was worn out, more a static pink brass color than gold anymore. Edgar recently got laid off, so his wife Rosa Carmen Iglesias Gonzales had to pick up the slack, and they all knew that the money they had wouldn’t be sustainable for long. Edgar thought if they only didn’t have a son yet, they’d be able to make it. At first Edgar nodded, but then upon realizing the horrible attitude taking hold of his thoughts, shook his head as he gave his noggin a light tap with the palm of his hand. Undirected anger achieved by a succumbing torment can eventually cause any known person to blow up in ways they’d at first conceive as unfathomable before. Edgar’s therapist—it was his wife’s idea; his family doesn’t know—listened to him talk about all of this and more every week, and she’d tell him that he’s simply going through PTSD. Apparently, this wasn’t something that only soldiers and first responders went through. Although his therapist always pushed against comparing his suffering to others, Edgar felt a sense of belonging in knowing that he was included amongst heroes, even if he never saw himself as one. And how could he? Edgar wasn’t known for sticking his neck out for the good of others.

He took one last drag of his cigarette and put it out. Attempting to grab some bastion of sanity back within him, he took an even deeper breath than before and started toward his son’s room. The closer he stepped in that direction, the louder a clunking sound began to form. Eventually, Edgar put his ear to the door and it stopped as he heard his son grown in pain.

“Ow,” said Chewy.

Edgar burst open the door. “Is everything all right?”

He saw his son sitting on the ground, looking at his finger, building something out of wood with the nails and hammer from the tool box above the washer and dryer.

“How’d you get those?”

Chewy turned away from his finger and looked to his father with watery eyes. It was then that Edgar noticed that Chewy had slammed the hammer too hard onto his finger.

“Dang, son,” he told him. “That looks like you’re going to lose that fingernail.”

“Lose it?” Chewy’s eyes widened in disbelief and fear.

“Yeah, you slammed it so hard that it lost all connection to its nerve, so it’ll fall off in a day or two.”

“Gross,” said Chewy, in awe at his zombiefied fingertip. He put it in his mouth, practically gnawing on it.

“Yeah,” said Edgar. “Mucho gross.”

They both smiled at each other. It was strange to Edgar that this was how they were connecting. It went to show him how little every day man stuff they actually partook in together. Stuff that a little boy really needs. Stuff like playing ball, or anything that involves falling down in order to get back up, and just plain old conversation. Since Edgar’s been out of work, he kept their routines as they were before: they’d have breakfast before school, after he’d drop his son off at the bus stop, and then just dinner at 6 and goodnight at 9. Since he was home all day long now, he’d try to make an effort to be in his life more.

“Say, mijo, what do you think about me driving you all the way to school from now on and picking you up, when I can, too?”

Chewy took his finger out of his mouth—the slime from his mouth and fingers lingered together before finally breaking apart, slinking down further onto his chin and mouth—and smiled real big. “That sounds awesome!”

“Great.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, mijo.”

That morning, Chewy had a fully completed wooden train stuffed into his backpack. Edgar had helped him finish building it and Chewy’s mom helped instruct him on painting it. They had a perfect family evening together and in the morning Rosa made her famous migas.

“Okay, Chewy,” said Edgar. “Have a great day at school, and try to remember there’s just one more day until Friday.”

Chewy gave a thumbs up and hopped out of their car.

As he made it a quarter of the way to the entrance, his father hollered out for him. “Mijo, I forgot to ask. How did you learn how to make that train and where did you even get the wood for it? You did such a good job.”

Chewy proudly stepped forward, his smile engulfing his face. He said, “Santa showed me how.”

The bell rang. Chewy was going to be late. He turned around and booked it inside. It was Edgar’s fault as he forgot to set an alarm to wake up earlier, being used to sleeping in as of late. That’s going to change, he told himself.

Edgar sat there in his car completely frozen. His heart raced like never before, but he wouldn’t show it. He simply grinned, waved to the attendants outside, and drove off.

“I should have known,” he told himself. “Santa was back in town.”

It’s only been 9 months since Edgar brought his family to live in his home town of Invierno Niño, TX by the border. After all of the fighting and shooting going on around the south, Edgar spoke to his mother, who told him that everything was still peaceful over here. Nothing ever happens in this town. Tiny Niños play, grow up, and they leave, often never coming back unless they have children of their own. Starting a family is hard enough without comfort surrounding them and coming back home is the hot chocolate to your family’s warm fireside blanket.

Edgar remembered little of his childhood. His mother told him this was due to playing so much football when he entered into high school, but if Edgar recalled correctly, he always sat on the bench. Sports were the only thing he cared about growing up, though. And building things for other people. He just couldn’t think back to any of the holidays leading up to Christmas. He knew he dressed up and had candy for Halloween, that he ate turkey and brisket on Thanksgiving, but when it came to receiving presents, all he could envision was an ethereal fog surrounding his tiny hands. Oh, no. There were times when he built things, he thought. Times when he would cut himself or something, causing blood to gush out, but his hands were fine, so nothing to fuss about.

Someone started honking at him from behind Edgar’s car. The green light just turned red again and Edgar couldn’t help but realize that the light pole was already adjourned with reeves, candy cane decorations, and bells that jingled to the wind.

The honking continued until the light turned green again. Edgar flipped the bird as he drove away slowly, but the car stayed behind him.

Edgar couldn’t see who was following him. Probably due to the dark tint of the windows, he thought. Or maybe it was something else. He noticed that he could still see the evergreen steering wheel turn as the car followed him. It was a bright red 1967 Corvette with a thick blue stripe down the middle and a green steering wheel. If we were at the North Pole, Edgar would have assumed it was the company vehicle. He wondered what all the fuss was about as it mirrored his every movement. Edgar was driving a beat-up old 2006 Honda Accord that his father-in-law found for Rosa after she crashed her finally paid off Kia Soul. How could one simple hesitant go at a light cause such dismay for this driver?

Edgar, finally mustering up the courage to be the man he wants to be for his son, pulled over to the side of the neighborhood rode and stepped out. The jingle bells mobile stopped behind him, but no one stepped out of the car to meet him. Edgar raised his hands to his side as he approached the driver side window. Before he could see whose butt was sitting in the seat, the car sped in reverse a few feet back and turned forward onto the road, taking off.

Edgar left his hands in the air, only this time he raised them above his head and literally guffawed at the nonsense of it all.

“I’ll never get that time back,” he said.

It had been a few weeks and Chewy had built himself a cornucopia of old fashioned toys and even a few newfangled whatchamacallits. Half of his fingernail had grown back, too. Edgar had been helping him. Edgar had also been hiding the creations in his son’s closet and asking his son not to mention anything to his mother. Every day after dropping Chewy off from school, that same car followed him. Sometimes even all the way to his home, but every time it sped off after Edgar got out. One time Edgar stayed in the car for hours and so, too, did the shiny Corvette stay behind him. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew no matter what it was it would just be too much unneeded stress for his wife. It’s already been hard enough trying to explain where all the wood and parts to their bed frame went, or their tables, or really most of their heavy duty spare parts.

Rosa showed up home early today, surprising her family with Whataburger. This is an awesome surprise, both to be with her two hours early and to have fast food, which they didn’t eat so much for the sake of their child, but the thing about it is, Chewy had already a few minutes before she showed up removed his father’s foot from the rest of his body. Chewy needed the bone to help carve the tusk for a rhinoceros toy that Chewy explained to his father would be the perfect gift for someone Santa told him was named Edgar, who loved animals with horns and stuff like that.

“That’s like my name.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Chewy, forgetting that his father’s name wasn’t really papá or dad.

Edgar sat there in pain, but also astonished at his son’s ability to stitch him up with little loss of blood. It hurt like an SOB, but his son certainly had a future in him if he wanted to be a surgeon or even a woodworker. That’d be something, he thought. He has good grades so far. Maybe he really could be something that society actually needs and go to trade school.

They heard her come inside the front door and Edgar sunk as Chewy kept at his building over the tarp they laid out for all the blood his detached appendage continued to expel.

“Eddie,” she said in the living room. “My little mijo, come and eat! I got off early and I miss you all!”

“Hey, mijo,” said Edgar. “Can you whip me up a wooden leg or something so mamá don’t freak out?”

Chewy shook his head. Edgar noticed that his jaw shrank in size, but was perfectly fine before, that his ears grew pointier, and it seemed like he was wearing blush on his cheeks.

Edgar froze, completely exasperated. “C’mon, kiddo! This could be bad for us!”

“I can’t unless you’re on the list.”

“List?”

Chewy nodded his head just as he peeled the final slab of flesh from his father’s lifeless foot. “The Nice List of children that Santa’s going to deliver these toys to,” he said. “After I’m done with all of these toys, he’ll release me.”

Mami Gonzales began to open Chewy’s door. “I can hear y’all in hear—don’t you want your Buffalo Chicken Strip sandwiches?”

At first she didn’t understand what she was looking at, and with a husband who gives out only the most deer-eyed look beside her son, she didn’t have an easy time figuring it out, but what she did know was that her husband was mutilated and that her son was covered in blood as he held pieces of a skeleton. Her abject horror was so distraught that her vocal chords took millennia of weary-eyed salvation to catch up to it. The blackness crowded her sorrows as she passed out due to what was laid before her. She half fell onto the bed. Mostly, she was dehydrated.

Edgar gave a light smack to his son’s shoulder. “See what I told you, wey. She’s been through so much lately.” Edgar gently tapped Rosa’s dangling leg. “Tell Santa that fool better help me make a foot or things are going to get mucho difficult, okay?”

Chewy didn’t answer him.

“Make sure he knows, fool,” said Edgar. “And grab me a Modelo from the fridge. I feel like I’m dying here.”

Chewy got up to fetch his father a beer and Edgar watched him as the shoes on his feet dangled bells. He jingled with them on in every step.

Now that it’s Christmas morning, Chewy was able to kick back and relax. More so, he seemed to be confused and without much memory of what happened. Rosa didn’t seem to remember much, either. Which is good, thought Edgar. A lot happened in-between the Whataburger incident and now—mostly missing animals around the neighborhood for use of their fur, stolen jewelry, Chewy’s weight loss and bountiful energy, and the smell of Christmas cookies never leaving the house. No one left the house in those last weeks. The children of the town were in crunch time.

For now, Chewy was asleep. Thank God because he hadn’t slept a good night’s rest in a long while. Edgar’s wife was asleep in their bedroom. Edgar sat out to watch the fire place. Everyone had a fireplace and chimney in Invierno Niño, TX, which was odd for such a high temperature town. He waited for the man who owed his son his winters back. He waited for the man who took all of Edgar’s winters away from him and his family when he was a child. He knew he’d be here. They even, as a family, laid out the traditional Gonzales reindeer food—basically sugar, pretzels, and whatever else was leftover from deserts—that night. The curse of this town was truly unbelievable to anyone who hadn’t been through it themselves, but the safety of the town from outside interference was guaranteed if they continued to go along with it, although Edgar felt that he knew better. The right to choose what his child may do in his own time as opposed to working like a sweatshop worker for no pay at all and for kids who probably don’t deserve the toys that were made for them anyway was a great negotiator in Edgar’s decision making.

Edgar had far too many cigarettes and even more glasses of eggnog—that Chewy made for Santa’s visit—with whiskey than he knew he shouldn’t have, but the barrel of his father-in-law’s shot gun was already primed and in waiting, so he thought it couldn’t hurt any.

His in-laws were disappointed that they didn’t visit for Christmas at the ranch where they were celebrating, but something kept them in town this year and it wasn’t hard to figure out what was pulling them back after visiting for Rosa’s birthday early December. It could be the curse or it could be what Edgar had planned.

Edgar’s foot itched, which was weird because he was missing it, although the crutches helped some so that he could refill his drink. He downed the last of his eggnog, looked through the glass, which also shown through to the window outside beside their Christmas tree. Santa’s blow-up sleigh was starting to deflate—Edgar went outside earlier and haphazardly stuck it with a safety pin—causing him to long for the days before he remembered all this evil that that fat red man brought to his family. And he missed his foot. That was my favorite foot, he thought, chocking on his laugh.

Then he saw it. The real Santa’s sleigh was landing atop of the Carmona’s house. A big bright light was in front and all those reindeer that have harder to remember names than the kids these days stumbled about the roof. Edgar knew he shouldn’t think like that, especially about the innocent kiddos, but he was piping mad and so he felt it was okay because soon he would be the hero in his son’s story. Soon his home town would be free and soon he might just free himself, too.

Eventually, the Gonzales house was next in line to bring further merriment. Edgar’s chest started to pulsate and his breathing quickened, but he never lost sight of what he was prepared to do. In the blink of an eye Santa’s big black boots appeared where there would be a fire and Edgar widened his mouth just before sealing it in a crispy grin. Edgar waited until he saw his entire body push out of the chimney and off from the fireplace, waiting still until Santa turned around.

When he finally locked eyes with ol’ St. Nick, Edgar pulled back on the trigger of his father-in-law’s shotgun. Edgar pictured a multitude of paint and body parts washing over his decorations, but he knew it was too late when that fat man in a red suit smiled back at him. He smiled back at him in a “I’ve got a secret” sort of way.

The shot gun released nothing but confetti and a barrel of monkeys. The sound that sparked the gun shot reminded Edgar of Christmas caroling. After the long silence of Santa watching him fidget in his chair, he pulled out from his bag an elongated gift wrapped present and handed it to Edgar before going about filling the space below their Christmas tree beside the window. Edgar was shaken and in dismay, but he looked down onto his lap anyway and saw the gift from Santa and began to open it. Finally through the meticulous wrapping paper, he discovered a prosthetic foot. Edgar looked back up and Santa was gone.

A beautifully designed envelope was taped onto the prosthetic. With golden raised lettering, the note inside said: “Thank you for all that you’ve given this town, my little helpers. See you and your family next year. With love and Merry Christmas—Signed, Santa Claus”

Edgar began to sob uncontrollably as his family woke up from each of their slumbers, too excited not to head straight for their gifts.

Chewy was the most excited as he tore through his many gifts already. “Did Santa come?”

Rosa told him to go and check the cookies they laid out.

“Yep,” said Chewy. “He ate them all up! And this present says from Santa!”

Rosa smiled at him, asking “What is it?”

Edgar saw his wife and son truly happy for the curse of Christmas had been lifted and the magic of it had finally settled within them, allowing the family to enjoy the holiday together. Edgar knew it may be fleeting, but he’d enjoy these moments with them while they lasted.

Chewy opened his present and tilted his head.

“What is it, mijo?” Rosa asked.

“How weird,” he said.

Edgar turned his head to his son. He noticed for the first time in a month that his son no longer held the features of an elf. He was pudgy, tired, and so beautiful. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, dad, but I got a little rhinoceros,” Chewy said. “How random.”

Rosa looked at her husband’s missing foot and shined her teeth. “Yes, mijo,” she said in a vocal tone that wasn’t at all her usual self. “That is so random.”

Tristan Drue Rogers is an author living in Texas. His stories have been featured in fanzines such as Weird Mask and M, literary magazines such as Genre: Urban Arts, and horror anthologies such as Deep Fried Horror and 100 Word Horrors Book 3. His novel Brothers of Blood is available now in paperback and e-book.

Christmas Takeover 4: Dev Jarrett: Here We Come A-wassailing

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Here We Come A-wassailing

A Story by Dev Jarrett
2,990 words

From his recliner in the living room, Ed heard the Bittermans’ dog going apeshit. Not just barking—the damned mutt was howling to wake the dead. He picked up his phone from the coffee table.

“One of these days, Jack, somebody’s going to call Animal Control on your dog. I know he’s not mean, but he’s so goddamned loud. What is he even yapping about?”

“Carolers,” Jack answered. “They’re on the front lawn singing, and holding up a sign asking for donations. Don’t worry, as soon as they’re gone, Elvis will calm down.”

Ed sighed. “It’s okay, man. He’s not really bothering me, but I know Butt-Lick’s probably already calling the Homeowners’ Association about it. You know, Wahh, they’re violating the covenants, and I’m a little brat.”

Butt-Lick, the mutual next-door neighbor between Ed and Jack, was a real piece of work. His actual name was Gene Snavely, but they’d both called him Butt-Lick since the Independence Day Block Party five years ago.

Ed and Jack had been talking about an upcoming fishing trip when a woman near the cornhole boards screamed. Gene, a retired car salesman, lurched into action, dropping his paper plate of potato salad and barbecued ribs onto the grass.

A kid was choking. She had apparently taken a huge bite of a bratwurst and tried to swallow too quickly. Her face was turning purple, and before anyone else could react, Gene grabbed her around the belly.

He used the Heimlich Maneuver on the kid. After the offending chunk of brat had popped out, Gene had looked around with a huge barbecue sauce-smeared grin on his face and said Yep, that Hind-lick Maneuver works ever’ time! Ed had snickered and whispered his thoughts to Jack, and from that moment forward, Gene’s new name between the two of them was Butt-Lick.

Butt-Lick could be considered heroic by his quick thinking and saving that kid, but he more than made up for it with everything else. He was truly the worst kind of neighbor to have. He constantly gave unsolicited advice on everything from killing weeds in the front lawn to investment banking, whether he knew anything on the subject or not. Also, every time he saw something on the street that he didn’t like, he’d file a complaint with the Homeowners’ Association instead of stepping across the lawn and simply suggesting that the guy next door put away his empty trash cans or move the car parked in front of his mailbox.

Ed was a widower and spent most of his time at work, and as a result had relatively few encounters with Butt-Lick. On the other side, though, Jack Bitterman was young and married, with two happy kids and an obnoxiously friendly Golden Retriever. Somehow, Butt-Lick always managed to see every move the Bittermans made, and he always found something to bitch about. Dog barking, dog poop, toys in the yard, trash cans left out, anything was fair game.

“You’re probably right,” Jack said now. “That guy is such a knob. Anyway, thanks. And if I don’t see you between now and Tuesday, Merry Christmas!”

“You, too, Jack—” Ed began, but Jack started speaking away from the phone.

“Lindsay, honey, don’t open the door, we don’t know those people. Lindsay, stop! Hey, excuse me, please back out of my house. What do you think you’re doing? Out! Get out! Right now, before I call the cops! You—”

The line disconnected.

Lindsay was Jack’s daughter, seven years old last month.

Ed took the phone away from his ear and cleared the call, then lay the phone on the coffee table. He went to the front door and opened it. Standing on his front porch, his breath fogging with each exhale, he could see the line of young pine trees Butt-Lick had planted along the property line in an effort to get some privacy from the Bittermans’ lives, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the trees clearly. The front porch light shone on the driveway and the lawn, but the furtive movement he saw was mostly obscured by pine boughs. He heard high-pitched snatches of a Christmas carol on the chill breeze, but couldn’t identify the song.

Elvis’s yapping grew more frantic, then abruptly cut off with a yelp. A child’s giggle filled the silence.

That doesn’t sound good. Frigging creepy, actually.

His first instinct was to call 911, but he wanted to make sure he wasn’t overreacting. He knew Butt-Lick had called the police on Jack’s kids before because of a misthrown football breaking a window. Ed grabbed a flannel shirt to throw on over his t-shirt and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers, then stepped out into the evening darkness.

The December night was chilly, but not cold. Maybe upper forties, but Ed was getting to that age when he’d rather be sweating his balls off in heat than spending even a moment in actual cold. He’d had a few real White Christmases as a kid when he’d lived further north, but he wasn’t expecting one here in South Carolina anytime soon. Still, the wind went through the flannel like it was nothing, and the chill grabbed hold of his spine in a grip that he knew would ache the rest of the night.

Ed stepped off of his driveway and into Butt-Lick’s yard, psychically daring that halfwit to start griping about him trespassing. The dry, dormant Bermuda grass crunched beneath his slippers as he shuffled forward. He saw no movement of the front window curtains, and the old bastard’s porch light didn’t flare to life.

Ed found himself standing before the line of pine trees, trying to find a clear line of sight into Jack’s family’s yard. Butt-Lick had been thorough, though, and Ed only got glimpses. The carolers wore mixed colors of clothing, but all seemed to be wearing red stocking caps. The song he heard was clear enough now, sung by a small group just beyond the trees. It was The Wassail Song, but the lyrics sounded off. The song wound down and ended, and in the new silence, Ed heard a muffled scream from inside the house.

That’s it. I’m calling the cops.

Behind him, a sound softly rang out. A single person, slowly whistling the opening bars of The Wassail Song. The sound was haunting, almost echoing in the sudden stillness of the night. Ed jumped, turning with a jerk.

The man standing before him was tall and thin. In the dimness, Ed couldn’t make out much of the man’s facial features, except for the shiny, dark spatters on his cheek. The spatters looked black in the darkness, but they could only be blood. The man’s mouth changed from a whistling pucker into a grin. A crisp voice spoke from beneath the knitted red stocking cap.

“Come along, my friend. Well met.”

Ed jerked backward, but too late. A hand closed like a vise over his arm, and propelled him with wiry strength around the stand of pine trees as the carolers began singing again where the whistler left off. The carolers, adults and children, looked gaunt, almost feral, despite their cheesily matching red stocking caps. Their full smiles looked sharp, hungry and expectant.

“Here we come a-wassailing, with knives so keen and bright,” they began.

Those are not the words, Ed thought as the man yanked him helplessly up the front steps and through the door into the Bitterman household. Ed thought he heard crying, deeper inside the house, but the voices of the carolers intruded.

“We’ve come to take your sacrifice, to join our sacred rite.” Then the singers launched into the chorus, which in itself sounded like the lyrics Ed knew.

The front hall of the house was a shambles. Jack and Tara’s efforts at interior decoration were a complete wreck. Picture frames were on the floor, their glass kicked in and the pictures torn. Fans of blood were sprayed onto the wall instead. The table by the door was nothing more than varnished kindling and silver shards of shattered mirror. The wiry man dragging Ed into the house yanked him forward into the living room and threw him into an overstuffed chair. Ed saw Jack’s cell lying on the floor, its dead black screen a thousand-faceted mosaic.

“Hey! Stop!” he said when he finally found his voice.

“Keep the axe on him,” said a huge, round, baritone voice, and Ed turned to the fireplace as an axe head thumped heavily onto his left shoulder. Ed reflexively turned toward it, and felt the cold, sharp edge of the blade press into his neck. He imagined the thin one holding the other end of the axe handle. Shuddering, Ed refocused on the large figure before the fireplace.

A huge man, practically a giant, stood before him, his arm resting on the mantlepiece. The man’s shoulders were broad, and behind him, over the mantle, Ed could barely see Jack’s wall-mounted television playing A Christmas Story. The man wore a knitted red cap like the others, but his was different, floppy cloth over a tighter headband, with a jaunty puffball on top. A tam o’shanter, and at the front one side of it slouched over the big man’s face, obscuring his left eye.

“What is this? What have you done to this family?”

The man erupted in hearty laughter, dramatically gesturing with outstretched arms. “Ah, good neighbor, have you not heard our song? We’ve come a-wassailing.” He paused, then smiled good-naturedly. “Forgive me. Allow me to explain. You do know where the tradition of caroling originated, don’t you?”

Ed didn’t answer this crazy man. He shifted, shrugging the bruised shoulder that held the cold weight of the axe head.

“The turn of the seasons depends on sacrifice,” the giant said matter-of-factly. “It began with the Wild Hunt, a beautiful spectacle. My hunters and I rode through the winter solstice night, hunting souls for sacrifice. We grease the wheel of seasons and keep it turning, so that Winter may pass and life may return in Spring.”

Sacrifice? What the hell is he talking about?

“Yes, those were heady days. Riding Sleipnir across the night sky and stirring up storms as we hunted souls. Ah, such glorious times. But we found we didn’t need to harvest souls to turn the seasons. We only needed the willingness of mortals to sacrifice of themselves.”

Ed gripped the arms of the chair. He had to get away from here and call the police. He slowly shifted his body infinitesimally to the right, away from the axe. The axe head didn’t move.

“In time, the Wild Hunt became wassailing, where groups of the devoted went from house to house chanting and asking for offerings. In return for an offering, the households were blessed. Those who did not give, naturally, were cursed. The faithful did the work, and I was allowed to rest.”

Outside, the song ended. After a silent moment, the thin man behind Ed began his slow, melancholy whistle of the song’s first few bars, then the singers outside began to sing again.

“Here we come a-wassailing,
To take your pound of flesh,
We’ve come to take your sacrifice,
Your soul from body thresh…”

The big man smiled again. “Mortals continued to give to the wassailers, and eventually the threat of a curse was no longer needed. The wassailers eventually became modern carolers. You have probably even seen in your lifetime when carolers came around and sang, many people offered them snacks, or warm beverages, or even—” he winked his visible eye “—a tipple of spirits.”

Ed did remember carolers coming to the house when he was a child, and his mother always gave the singers a cup of hot chocolate to send them on their way. She’d said it was just the right thing to do, to give them something for their musical entertainment. Ed didn’t see things like that these days, though. People were too scared to open their doors to anyone, and with good reason.

If this crazy person was to be believed, Mom had been more right than she’d known.

“Sadly,” the man in the tam said, “that time has passed, and I must again take my place at the head of the Wild Hunt. The seasons must change for the earth to live, and the turn of the seasons demands sacrifice.”

Ed shifted again, slightly. If he kept his movements small, maybe he could eventually lunge away and get clear of the axe resting on his shoulder. Beyond that, he had no idea. Escape through the kitchen, out the back door, maybe. He needed time to stall.

“But, ahh,” he said, “this family didn’t have extra to give. They’re both schoolteachers.”

“Friend, look around yourself. This house, this neighborhood, this very quality of life?” He turned and smashed a fist through the TV screen, sending sparks flying. Ralphie, dressed in a pink bunny suit and glasses too big for his face, stuttered, blinked, then disappeared. A wisp of smoke rose from a crack in the screen. “The way they—and you—live is obscene, profligate! This family has plenty, they give nothing, and the universe demands their sacrifice. Theirs, and yours, and many others. You know this is the truth.”

He leaned forward, putting his large shaggy head level with Ed’s. “And believe me, I know about sacrifice.” He lifted the fold of tam o’shanter from the left side of his face, smiling as he revealed a wet, empty socket where his eye should be. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story. A long time ago I gouged out my own eye and dropped it into the well in order to gain wisdom.” Ed shuddered.

“But why are you here?” Ed strained to lean back, away from the big man.

“We go wherever the hunt takes us next.”

The back door crashed open, and a small figure backed into the kitchen, bent over and dragging something heavy.

It was a small girl in a dark brown coat, the red knit cap askew on her head. She turned to the big man.

“What about this one, Father Odin?” she asked. Her mouth and chin was smeared with blood and her eyes were bright silver coins. She dropped Elvis’s limp forelegs onto the floor, and the dog didn’t move. The crest of the little girl’s ears were long and pointed through her hair.

Odin? An elf? Ed thought he must be going crazy. These were creatures from myth. The story of the eye and the Wild Hunt? No way.

“An excellent start, child.”

The elf girl beamed at the praise.

The back door was blocked now, by the Bittermans’ dead golden retriever and the elf child.

There was one other way out. Ed knew that Jack and his wife had a door onto the back deck from their bedroom. He could get out that way and get to his house, where he could call 911.

The thin man behind him whistled the first few bars of the song, and Ed took his chance. He ducked to the right, at the same time shoving the axe head away from his neck with his left hand. He tumbled from the chair and went in the only available direction, the hallway toward the bedrooms.

“Ha!” the rich voice of Odin roared behind him, laughing triumphantly. “Just like the old days!”

Outside, the carolers sang louder.

“Good master and good mistress,
While we cleave from you your life,
The earth shall drink your blood
From ev’ry dripping hunter’s knife…”

Ed raced into the master bedroom, then stopped. Jack, Tara, and both of the kids had been killed and gutted and tossed onto the bed. Their bodies made a bloody, lifeless heap on the quilted bedspread.

OH GOD! his mind screamed. They’d been slaughtered, butchered.

The back door was on the far side of the bed. Ed ran around the foot of the bed, avoiding looking at the ropes of viscera piled on top of the bodies. He tried and failed to ignore the thick smell of all the spilled blood. He reached for the door.

From the hallway, the axe came spinning out of the darkness. It chopped through Ed’s outstretched hand and buried its head in the doorframe. Ed’s fingers fell to the floor as his hand began to jet blood onto the wall.

Ed shrieked, looking down at his twitching fingers on the carpet. He reversed direction from the door to the window, on the side of the house. He yanked the curtains out of the way, bringing down the rods and drapes together.

“Yes!” Odin sang out joyfully behind him. “The Wild Hunt rides tonight!”

Ed slammed his fist against the glass, but it didn’t break. Across the side yard, he saw Butt-Lick peering disapprovingly out the window, looking directly at him.

“HELP!” he screamed.

Butt-Lick raised a stern eyebrow at him, his frown unmistakable even at this distance. He shook his head and picked up his phone. Ed watched helplessly as his neighbor dialed and put the receiver to his ear. He pointed to Ed, and then, meaningfully, to his phone. He was no doubt either reporting to the Homeowner’s Association, or calling to make a noise complaint to the police.

From out front, the singers continued through the chorus, their voices in perfect harmony. They stopped again at the end of the song.

“GENE! STOP! HELP ME!” Ed shrieked again, smearing blood over the master bedroom window as he scrabbled at the glass. Butt-Lick disappeared from the facing window, and the light in that room winked out.

Behind Ed, the thin man began to slowly, softly whistle the opening bars of The Wassail Song.

The End

Dev Jarrett is a writer, a father of five, a husband, and one of those guys the US Army trained too much. He speaks Arabic, he can break ciphers in his sleep, and can still break down and reassemble an M4 rifle and an M9 pistol while blindfolded.

He’s visited many different countries in the past quarter century, and can’t talk about most of the adventures he’s had. On the other hand, it’s public record that he’s received a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, so make what you will of that.

He’s represented by Barbara Poelle of the Irene Goodman Literary Agency, and all he wants is to scare the hell out of you.