Estronomicon Christmas 2007

Christmas Edition 2007

Contents

ESTRONOMICON The Official SD eZine *** Published by Screaming Dreams *** Edited by Steve Upham *** Cover Artwork

Page

The End Is Near Santa Claus Is Dead The White Astronaut Snow Jetting Galaxy Coming To Town Polar Princess Wolves And Angels The Winter Hunt Kathy's Korner Christmas List Christmas Gift The Darkest Doorway Death Takes A Holiday The Trench Christmas At Yew Tree Farm Holiday Lights The Homecoming Christmas Angels Winter Sunflake Infinite Night Losers' Club

'Seismic Operations On Titan' Š David A. H ar d y 1972

All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without written permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you.

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The End Is Near : 1

The End Is Near

by Steve Upham

The end of another year is fast approaching and I guess many of us will be asking ourselves the same old questions ... What did I do with my life during the past twelve months? Was it a productive year or did I waste my time? Did I keep any of my New Year's resolutions? Probably not! What does 2008 have in store for me?

Whatever the answers I hope that all of you enjoyed a good 2007 and are looking forward to a creative year ahead. But first it's important that you switch off, sit back, put your feet up, relax, eat too much chocolate, get merry on the festive wine and generally laze around the house over the holiday season!

So here's wishing you all a fun-filled Christmas and happy New Year. A huge thank you, as always, to all the authors and artists who were kind enough to contribute their work to this issue of the eZine. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Special thanks to David A. Hardy for providing the fantastic cover artwork. A rare chance to see the original version of this painting from 1972. Dave created a new version of this scene in 1978 though, to reflect new findings about Titan's atmosphere. You can see both images in his book Futures : 50 Years In Space, which can be ordered from his website at : www.astroart.org It has certainly been a very busy year for Screaming Dreams and not without its fair share of ups and downs! The eZine schedule has been erratic due to a lot of my time being taken up with getting the book publishing up and running. Even that didn't go quite to plan either, with a few titles slipping over into next year for various reasons. But overall I've been pleased with the progress made during 2007 and think it offers a strong foundation on which to build over the coming months.

So please keep watching as there's a lot of work going on in the background here which I hope to be sharing with you soon.

2 : Santa Claus Is Dead

Santa Claus Is Dead

by Steven Hitchins

Children, listen to me. Santa Claus is dead… and you have killed him.

I will not say do not fear. But come with me under the boughs of this Christmas tree, and I will tell you why its foliage appears almost black this year, and why the baubles have wrinkled to shrunken heads and the tinsel crinkled to dead leaves, and why the festive ornaments around the hearth begin to resemble crudely carved wooden idols in the dancing fire's light, and why the snowglobe shaken clouds with blood… *** Children, listen to me. Santa Claus is dead… and this year Der Weihnachtsmann is coming instead.

Do you know Der Weihnachtsmann? From the dark woods of Bavaria this one comes, the one that some call The Christmas Man. Once a jolly old toymaker, walking home drunk one night, he was caught up in a blizzard. He would have died had not a group of pixies taken him, in a bewitched trance, to a log cabin deep, deep in the woods. There the toymaker lived for many years, alone but for the pixies. In return for his life, as he had no gold or jewels, they stripped his soul of all its goodness, chipped all kindness from his mind, peeled his old heart like an onion.

Now he shuffles down the street, stooped over with a sack on his back. A round little man with a long bushy beard, a thick fluffy coat and a big floppy hat.

When the children see him in the distance, they point and shout, 'Santa! Santa!'

But as the figure approaches, mothers grab their little ones by the hand or lift them into their arms, as everyone rushes indoors.

For Der Weihnachtsmann's coat is black.

And Der Weihnachtsmann's hat is black.

Santa Claus Is Dead : 3

And Der Weihnachtsmann's beard is dirty and grey.

He has little round glasses and a wrinkled-up nose, a furrowed frowning brow and thick bushy eyebrows, fierce and black.

The street is deserted when Der Weihnachtsmann passes. But wait… one very small child has been left sitting on the pavement.

Der Weihnachtsmann runs a leather-gloved hand over the child's cheek.

'You're not Santa,' the child sobs.

Der Weihnachtsmann licks his grinning lips.

Children peep through windows, as the black figure shuffles away down the street, his sack bulging, like there's something inside, kicking and wriggling, trying to get out. *** Children, listen to me. Santa Claus is dead… and this year Ded Moroz is coming instead.

Do you know Ded Moroz? From the ice palaces of Russia this one comes, the one that some call Father Frost.

He strides down the street, ten-foot-tall with flesh as clear as an ice sculpture.

His hair sticks up in spikes of white frost. A long red cape sweeps about him, jewelled with silver and pearls. He twirls a crystal cane.

On his arm, at his side, his Ice Maiden strides, as tall as him with flesh like ice.

Her hair flows in long tresses of white frost. She's wrapped in a coat of snowfox fur. Snowflakes dangle from her ears and her fingers are ringed with silver and pearls.

The breath of Ded Moroz is pneumonia; the touch of his cane, hypothermia. The look in his eyes is a chill to your bones. Kiss him on the lips and you'll catch your death of cold.

Hush… Hear the icy crack of his skeleton crow's-feet outside. He's walking up

4 : Santa Claus Is Dead

the side of the house. He's skating on the windowpane. I hope you remembered to lock the latch.

Hush… He's tiptoeing away across the roof. He'll light upon another household tonight… perhaps an elderly couple in their bed… or a baby in its cot.

In the morning, the bare trees will be clothed in leaves of crystal, each blade of grass will be sheathed in a hoarfrost scabbard, drainpipes will be hung with icicles, the street will be paved in glass… and here and there, the frozen corpse of any creature foolish enough to be caught out in the open – be it bird, mouse or child. *** Children, listen to me. Santa Claus is dead… and this year Joulupukki is coming instead.

Do you know Joulupukki? From the wintry wilds of Scandinavia this one comes, the one that some call the Christmas Goat.

A clip-clop of hooves on the pavement outside. A knock upon the door. Daddy goes to answer. There stands Joulupukki, ten-foot-tall, covered head-to-foot in shaggy hair, with an enormous pair of curly horns – a goat stood upright like a man.

Joulupukki butts Daddy out of the way and charges into the hall. On his two hind hooves he can gallop at pace. He butts Mummy up the bum and barges into the living room.

'Are there any good children here?' bleats Joulupukki, glancing around.

Then he races round the room, head bent forward, jaws drooling, snout snorting steam. He gobbles children whole, swallows them all up one by one.

'I didn't think there would be any good children here,' Joulupukki bleats, before leaping out through the window.

By the time Mummy and Daddy come into the room, all that are left are dollies lying twisted on the floor, upturned toy cars with wheels still spinning, and a ball rolling… slowing… slowly… to a stop.

Santa Claus Is Dead : 5

*** Children, tell me. Where did all the good children go? Show me one good child and Christmas could be saved.

But no… I think I was the last of them… and I am old, I'll soon be gone…

So get out! Get out! The lot of you! Get out from under the boughs of my Christmas tree!

I will not say do not fear. For Santa Claus is dead, you beasts, you brutes… and you have killed him!

*** Copyright © Steven Hitchins 2007

Steven Hitchins is the editor of The Literary Pocket Book, a little magazine publishing contemporary poetry in South Wales.

From Abercyon he studied in Aberystwyth and is currently living in Pontypridd.

He was also poetry editor of A Mouthful of Fur, a small Abersytwyth literary publication, and wrote journalism for Big Issue Cymru and Buzz magazine.

6 : The White Astronaut

'The White Astronaut' : Copyright Š Marilynn Flynn 2007

See more space-related wonders at : www.tharsisartworks.com

Snow : 7

Snow

by Gary McMahon

Robert had never liked snow. It was too white, too pure and representative of something so much larger than him. If he was honest, it scared him; made him feel uneasy and slightly lost. Whenever he looked out of the window on a winter’s morning and caught sight of the white-gleaming landscape immediately after a night-long snowfall, his felt his heart sink past his knees and the skin on his back tighten like leather.

So much white. Too much white. It was like an overdose of absence; a total cessation of visual input. The truth was, looking at virgin snow made him too aware of himself against its pristine backdrop.

On the morning of December 8t h he stared out at the snow with a sense of impending doom. It covered everything: the cars parked along the street, the ragged trees in the verges, the road itself, obscuring the markings. The snow had consumed the land, flattening everything out apart from a few white humps and bumps. For all he knew there could be people under there – dead people – lying on their backs covered in the stuff, mouths open, throats and eye sockets packed with ice.

Robert pressed his hand against the window pane and when he took it away it left an impression on the glass. Condensation appeared and slowly degraded the image, robbing it of shape and form. Just like the snow out there, the way it stole the identity of even the strongest shapes, blurring and softening the edges. Cars became small white hills, bushes were gentle slopes. Nothing was as it seemed, nothing looked as it had the day before. It was all so desolate.

When the telephone rang he was jolted out of his reverie. He picked up the receiver and waited for whoever it was to speak.

“Hello? Rob…it’s me, Rob. Are you there?”

“Hi, mum. It’s early. I’ve just got up.” He closed his eyes but saw only white behind the lids.

“I just thought I’d ring to see how you are…it’s…snowing here.” She paused, waiting for his response, giving him time to shape his thoughts into words.

8 : Snow

“Same here. Last night. It’s all so…everything’s so white.”

“It’s OK, son. Just remember your therapy. The breathing exercises. It won’t last forever, especially nowadays, with all this climate change. Next week it’ll all be thawed and we’ll probably have rain.” He detected a smile in her voice and felt himself relax.

“Yeah, I know.” He stroked the side of the receiver with his finger, wishing he was not so alone.

“OK, Rob?” He nodded. “Yes, mum. I know.”

She told him she loved him before hanging up the phone and he wished he could believe it. All he felt was her pity, the duty to which she was bound because he was her only son. Fear had become so much a part of his life that he was afraid of everything, even that which was meant to offer reassurance.

Turning his back on the window, and the disturbing Christmas-card scene outside, he headed downstairs. The postman had been. Envelopes were scattered on the floor in the hall, and lumps of snow had slipped through the letterbox and onto the mat, where even now they were melting to fluid. He wondered how long he’d be forced to remain indoors this time. Last year had been a mild winter, with no snow to speak of; this year the forecast was not so good.

The kitchen had been under attack during the night. Snow had piled up in the corners of the windows, supported by the outside sill. It was creeping diagonally across the pane, feeling its way towards the centre. Grainy fingers of frost clutched at the glass, caught in the act of trying to break in. Rob looked away, unable to bare the sight. He sat at the dining table and held his head in his hands, breathing deeply, just as they’d taught him at the clinic all those years before.

After breakfast he watched some TV. The news reported more storms in the north, heading this way. His eyes ached from not blinking as he stared at the screen, his tears turning to ice. Switching channels, he sat through a talk show where incoherent couples in tracksuits discussed their tawdry infidelities. Snow twitched at the edges of his vision, a squirming mass of white waiting to pounce.

The room remained dark even when he turned on the lights. Beyond the window, the sky was low and black, like the belly of some enormous beast. The snow gleamed beneath its threatening weight, a sharp bright sheet that concealed

Snow : 9

so much from the world. Robert drew the curtains but nothing could hide the fact that it was out there, waiting, watching.

He crossed the room and picked up a faded photograph of his parents from the mantelpiece. His mother was smiling, her arm wrapped around his father’s thick waist. She looked so young and uncaring, a different person from the anxious shrew she’d become since the accident. His father stared directly into the camera lens, his face a white blob. Time had corroded the image, corrupting the cheap chemicals on the photographic card, but to Robert it resembled the pudgy face of a snowman.

It happened when he was seven years old.

Two weeks before Christmas, and it had snowed heavily overnight. His parents had argued the day before, and his father left late in the evening to go to the pub, where he’d drink away his worries with his cronies. Robert was still awake at 2 am; he had not been aware of his father coming home. But he had heard his mother weeping…

He put down the photograph and tried to divert his thoughts, but the memories came at him like a blizzard.

He’d been thrilled that morning. The snow was untouched, not a single boot print to mar its beauty. The garden was quilted with white, the concrete footpath lost beneath the swollen covering. Robert left the house by the back door, delighted at being the first person to defile the layer of snow. He laughed at his footprints, retracing each step as he made it before resuming his journey forward.

The path was slightly sunken; he could just about trace its route across the garden. Here and there were lumps, objects covered up by the hungry snow. He’d left his bike outside, and could just about describe its outline on the hidden lawn.

The rockery was lost; the pond hidden. He approached the hump on the path with caution, puzzled at what it might be. It was long, bent in the middle, as if someone had left a rolled-up carpet outside to rot.

He stopped before the shape, suddenly delighted. Why, his dad must be home – he’d left this as surprise for his boy. A snowman, a lazy snowman! The figure was lying down, as if sleeping, one arm thrust out above its flattened head. Robert knelt before the sculpture, marvelling at its smooth curves, and reached out a hand to touch it. The head was firm beneath his fingers, frozen. He dug them into the snow, and was shocked to feel resistance against his gloveless fingertips…

10 : Snow

Robert turned away from the fireplace, rejecting the photograph and the images it invoked. The incident had shaped his life, but he refused to dwell on it any longer. No matter what he did it was always there, hovering in the background like a vast white shadow, but at least he could fight to relegate it to the back of his mind.

Something rapped against the living room window, a light knocking sound that made him wince. Shadows played behind the curtains: the branches of the tree he kept meaning to cut down, or perhaps a clump of snow falling from the roof as it melted and shifted. He backed away and stood against the wall, the TV flickering from the corner.

The room no longer felt so safe.

He went to the front door to pick up the post, but the snow there had not yet melted. Indeed, there seemed more present than before; huge clumps of it clinging to the carpet, rolling up the wall and along the top of the wooden skirting.

“No,” he whispered, barely even aware that he’d done so out loud. A muted crackling-crumpling sound came from behind him, in the kitchen. When he turned to look through the open door, something slid slowly across the worn linoleum floor and out of sight. He raised his eyes to the window, visible as it was from where he stood, and felt panic grip his chest as he saw that snow was now packed hard against the outside surface of the glass, forming a barricade.

He was under attack.

The letterbox rattled, summoning his attention. Robert turned and watched in numb terror as fat white fingers oozed through the gap, bits of them crumbling and falling away to land wetly on the floor. Gripped by panic, he bolted for the stairs – snow couldn’t climb; it was frozen water, with no will of its own. Surely it could not follow him up through the house.

He took the stairs two at a time and was on the landing in seconds, breathing hard due to fear more than physical exertion.

The upstairs windows strained in their frames as massive pressure was exerted from outside. Glass began to crack, not yet breaking, and the lights flickered several times before going out. Robert became aware of a low moaning sound, like wind through the eaves; it took him several heartbeats to realise it was coming from his own mouth.

Snow : 11

The phone started ringing.

“Mum,” he said, clinging on to a sudden sense of hope.

Running into the bedroom, he scooped up the phone in a shaking hand and placed it against his ear. It was freezing cold, as if taken directly from an icebox.

“Mum. Help me, mum.”

There was nothing but a slow steady crackle; icebergs shifting in a frozen ocean, moving gradually towards him across a continent rendered nearly immobile because of the unearthly cold. His breath misted white before his eyes, a flurry of airborne particles forced from his lungs to dissipate in the icy room.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, looked at the receiver, the tiny perforations through which he should be able to hear the caller’s voice. Thin albino worms threaded through the holes, wriggling along the plastic towards his rapidly chilling hand.

“No!” he hurled the receiver across the room and approached the window. Snow was heaving against the glass, obscuring the view, but when he looked down into the garden he saw a vague hump in the snow moving towards the house like an oversized caterpillar. Its stiff arms where pushed out above its head, legs frozen together like fish sticks, lumpy body hitching along the white surface. When it raised its misshapen face to the sky, looking up at him through holes that where obviously meant to represent eyes, much more than snow slid from the unclad bone: wet white mulch that looked far too fluid to be flesh.

Behind him, snow formed in the corners of the room, crept across the floor, slumped down from the ceiling, where it hung in matted clumps. The window misted over; he could see each single flake as it struggled to join with the rest.

Small bare patches remained; they were just enough for him to see what was out there.

His father had come home, home at last. This time he had not stumbled drunk in the snow, to be concealed by the false white promise as it drifted over his fallen body. This time he was back for good – or at least as long as it might take him to thaw.

As slowly the figure began to stand and assume the rough proportions of a human figure, as it came limping along the path and slumped onto the step in a solid drift, Robert finally unfroze and started to scream.

12 : Snow / Jetting Galaxy

*** Copyright © Gary McMahon 2007

Don't forget to visit Gary's site at : www.garymcmahon.com

'Jetting Galaxy' : Copyright © David A. Hardy 2004

You can find more of David's artwork at : www.astroart.org

Coming To Town : 13

Coming To Town

by Charlotte Bond

'Get out of the way, Michael!' the headmaster yelled as he strode down the corridor. The offending pupil almost leapt into the coat rack in his haste to obey.

'Lydia, stop crying. Eric – pull your finger out of your nose – right now! And Simon, you are by far the most slovenly sheep I have ever seen. We're supposed to be entertaining your proud parents with this Nativity play. If you don't get a move on, it'll be New Year's before it's even begun. Move!'

Kevin Potts gave a satisfied smirk as the quivering mass of small faces scattered with chirrups of: 'Yes, Mr Potts'.

He had many ways of motivating the children in his care. Yelling was his favourite, yet he was also particularly proud of his ruse of setting the school clocks five minutes fast. Admonishing the tardy was one of the simple yet gratifying pleasures of his life. Kevin threw open the door to the staff room and nearly somersaulted over a pair of legs stretched out at an awkward angle.

'Who the devil are you, sir?' bellowed Kevin, staring in barely constrained fury at this unknown interloper. The stranger returned the headmaster's stare levelly – an event unheard of in the last five years of Westlands Primary – and his sparkling green eyes held a hint of amusement which only served to inflame Kevin's anger further. The door opened again and a flustered young teacher entered, pulling nervously at her navy cardigan.

'Ah, I see you've met our Santa Claus, Mr Potts,' Miss Donald said timidly.

'Santa Claus?' Mr Potts spat, narrowing his eyes. The young stranger held out his hand amiably.

'You can call me Saint Nicholas, if you like,' he said. He had thick black hair and Kevin frowned in distaste at the single white streak which flowed through it.

Young people these days had such ridiculous ideas of what was "cool".

'You don't look very realistic to me,' said Kevin as nastily as he could. He glowered at the lanky young man. 'Shouldn't you be fatter?'

14 : Coming To Town

'I have a special suit,' Nicholas replied, the epitome of calm in the face of Kevin's stormy disapproval.

'So what are you doing sitting around in here when you should be getting ready?' growled Kevin.

'I was just making my list,' Nicholas said with a wink before leaving.

'Come on, Miss Donald,' said Kevin, strangely perturbed by the young stranger's smile which had seemed, for the briefest of moments, to slip from being amused to sinister. 'Let's get on before those brats mess it all up.' *** 'Thank God that's finally finished,' said Kevin to Miss Donald two long hours later as they walked down an empty corridor. 'I need a drink.'

'We're all going for a –' the woman began but Kevin interrupted her emphatically.

'I would rather saw my own leg off.'

'Oh,' she replied, awkward and disheartened. 'Well, good night then'. She paused, as if about to add something, then changed her mind and left without a word. Kevin opened the door to his office and stared aghast at the man sitting in his imposing leather chair.

'What the hell are you doing in my office?' he yelled, anger momentarily dampened by simple shock. Nicholas looked up unconcernedly.

'I'm checking my list,' he said, holding up the paper for inspection. 'It's a list of every naughty person in this school.'

'Then why is it so short?' asked Kevin, barking a laugh at his own joke. 'And who do you think you are, the really Santa Claus?'

'Yes,' said Saint Nicholas simply. Kevin's mouth snapped shut; there was little a human spirit can do against such a bland assertion. Nicholas held the piece of paper closer for Kevin's inspection.

Coming To Town : 15

'It may be short,' he said, 'but have you seen whose name leads all the rest?'

Kevin looked closely and saw the name "Kevin Potts" written in an overly elaborate flowing script. He tried to ignore the unpleasant prickle at the back of his neck.

Kevin felt suddenly unnerved by the whole situation, not least his inability to believe it was simply a ridiculous prank. 'Even if you are the real Santa,' he returned uncertainly, 'it doesn't mean anything that I'm at the top of your naughty list. All it means is I won't get any presents, which is no big deal. I never bother with that sort of thing anyway.'

'Oh no, it's much more than that,' said Nicholas, his ivy eyes twinkling. 'I dish out presents for the good and punishment for the bad.' Even as his mind processed these words, a searing pain shot through Kevin's head, down his spine and went screaming into every limb. He doubled over onto the floor, every breath a searing agony. The hours passed and he remained curled up whimpering, praying for a release, any release – even death. Then suddenly, after what seemed like a lifetime, the pain lifted. Gingerly opening his eyes, Kevin watched Nicholas' smirking figure advance towards him.

'Uncomfortable, was it?' Nicholas asked. 'All thirty seconds of it?' Kevin groaned as Nicholas bent down and held up his watch as proof the truth of his words. Nicholas' voice fell to a whisper. 'Didn't it occur to you that any being who can deliver millions of presents in one night might be able to manipulate time? I can make a second last an eon, or shrink centuries to a single breach.' Kevin could hear the icy smile as the words poured into his ears, mingling with the ferocious pounding of his heart. 'You've been a miserable bastard all your life, Kevin Potts.

You've never given a Christmas present as a genuine show of affection. You don't open the door to carol singers, and you called your nephew a stuttering idiot when he performed in the family play last Christmas. You spurn all festive cheer, and I know for a fact that no one has wished you a Merry Christmas this year. Not a single person. You really have to be special to evoke that kind of hatred.'

Nicholas leaned closer, his breath as cold as his voice on Kevin's ear.

'But I'm feeling charitable, full of Christmas spirit you might say. I will be checking my list a second time at midnight, and if you can get anyone to wish you a Merry Christmas before then – just one person, Kevin – then I'll spare you the decades of pain which you would otherwise endure before tomorrow morning. Be quick – it's already ten-thirty.'

16 : Coming To Town

Kevin waited until the sound of footsteps had faded away down the hallway. He got up and staggered groggily out onto the street. He needed Christmas spirit – and fast. Looking around he saw a beggar hunched on the pavement. Kevin had passed the guy everyday, his cup held out for coins. Kevin had always given him a wide berth, which had still never saved him from the disgusting stench which surrounded the wretch. Now Kevin realised the man's potential – if anyone would be grateful for some kindness, it would surely be a beggar a few nights before Christmas. Scraping around in his pockets, Kevin found a shiny two pound coin and, holding his breath, he walked up to drop it into the cup.

'Oi!' yelled the beggar, glowering angrily up at him. 'What d'yer think yer doing?'

'Merry Christmas,' beamed Kevin generously.

'Get stuffed!' the beggar fumed. 'Yer just dropped summit in me coffee and spilt it everywhere. I saved all day fer that, yer idiot! Clear off!' Confused and dismayed, Kevin stumbled away.

Serves me right for putting my hopes in such a useless piece of humanity, Kevin thought bitterly. As his mind raced through possibilities, the sound of carol singers caught his attention. Kevin looked up at his salvation. Standing at the entrance to their parish church was the local vicar, Graham Malcolm. The man never had a bad word to say about anyone – no one was more certain to wish him a joyful yuletide.

'Merry Christmas,' cheered Kevin, launching himself up the steps towards the vicar. Graham looked startled.

'Mr Potts, isn't it?' he asked.

'That's right,' agreed Kevin. 'Merry Christmas!'

'Hmm,' said Graham thoughtfully. A block of ice began to form in the pit of Kevin's stomach but he kept his smile fixed. 'You're my granddaughter's Maths teacher, aren't you?' he mused. 'You failed her in her Maths test last week, didn't you?'

'I may have, but –'

Coming To Town : 17

'And then you tore her paper up in front of the class.'

'It's possible –' 'And,' finished the vicar, his brows furrowed thoughtfully, 'when she started to cry in distress, you gave her fifty lines for disrupting the class.' Kevin's jaw was working, but no excuses were coming out. The ice-pit in his stomach was spreading through his intestines.

'Then all I have to say to you is good night, sir,' Graham said brusquely, turning on his heel to disappear into the cheery warmth of the church, leaving Kevin in the darkness outside. *** Kevin sat alone on a park bench – exhausted, disheartened and afraid. His left hand was numb with cold, having been held in front of him while he stared at the second hand of his watch flicking unceasingly towards the twelve. The icy fear that had begun in his stomach had spread throughout his body. He shivered violently.

His evening had been a wealth of disappointment and failed attempts. Now, at the end, he realised what an embittered old fool he'd been, so selfish and ignorant that he had exhausted everyone's good opinion of him. He felt desolate.

Maybe he won't come, thought Kevin with a warm glimmer of hope. Or maybe he'll understand – I really did try, surely that must count? He swallowed hard – fifteen seconds until midnight.

Or maybe I'm just imagining all this…

With a soft click, all three hands converged on the twelve and Kevin heard the crunch of gravel. Someone walked up and sat down next to him. Kevin's eyes stared straight ahead, unfocussed.

'I really tried…' he began. There was an amused snort from beside him.

'Would you accept such a pathetic excuse from one of your pupils?' Nicholas asked and Kevin's spark of hope dwindled to nothing. 'What's that?' Nicholas pointed to a crumpled plastic bag beside Kevin.

'Oh, just a toy I bought for the orphanage,' Kevin muttered. He had stopped

18 : Coming To Town

shaking now, his nerves deadened by inevitability. His voice held the monotony of the damned. 'The woman on the desk didn't want it. I tried to get her to take it, but then she slapped me. Then she said she'd call the police if I didn't leave.'

'A bit drastic,' commented Nicholas.

'Probably not,' conceded Kevin. 'I guess I must've seen quite wild and desperate, possibly even insane.' He took a deep breath. 'So can we just start now so it's over quicker, please?' he said, turning to Nicholas, but something tugging at his sleeve made both men look round. A small boy stood next to them, eyeing Kevin with no small degree of nervousness.

'Uncle K-Kevin?' he said in a quiet but steady voice.

'Andy?' said Kevin in shock. 'What are you doing here?'

'I saw you in the park. Mum said I could come and say hello, if I was quick.'

Andy pointed to an impatient figure beyond the park fence. Kevin raised a hand in greeting and she turned away. His gaze returned to Andy who was looking up at him with large, hopeful eyes. 'I wanted to ask if you were c-coming for Christmas this year?' Kevin glanced at Nicholas who raised an eyebrow.

'Unlikely,' Kevin replied, 'I'll probably be busy.' The kid looked at him earnestly and Kevin felt an unexpected stab of regret that he had to turn down the first genuine invitation he could remember receiving.

'Please c-come,' Andy persisted. 'I want you to see the play I'm in.' Kevin felt shame stab at his guts. He could feel Nicholas's eyes on him.

'Even after what I said last year?' asked Kevin. Andy blushed a little but kept his head high.

'You mean, when called me a s-stuttering idiot?' he murmured. Kevin squirmed in discomfort as Andy went on. 'I cried for ages, Mum said you were just n-nasty, but I knew you were right. So I went to see the nurse at school, and she helped me a lot, gave me exercises and things to do, so now I hardly s-stutter at all. Miss Jones said I did s-so well, that she said I c-could be Joseph in the school play this year.' Andy beamed up at him and Kevin felt pride mixed with guilt.

'Here you go, kid,' Kevin said, passing him the plastic bag. 'You may as well

Coming To Town : 19

have your present now, since I can't make it at Christmas.' Andy thrust his hand excitedly into the bag but frowned as he pulled out a cuddly pink rabbit. 'The receipt's in there somewhere,' said Kevin hastily. 'You and your mum can take it back and exchange it for something you want.'

'Thank you, Uncle Kevin,' smiled Andy shyly. 'I have to go now, but thanks for the present. Merry Christmas.' Kevin watched in shock as the kid scampered away, then he glanced at his watch – four minutes past midnight. Despite his predicament, a droll smile lit his face.

'So close, and yet so far,' he murmured, before he turned to Nicholas. 'I don't suppose –' 'No,' replied Nicholas with a dread finality. 'Fulfilment of the condition after the allocated time period does not merit absolution.' Kevin shrank back fearfully as Nicholas leaned towards him. His voice seemed to slice into Kevin's brain like a shard of ice. 'Lucky for you then, Kevin, that you're the kind of mean bastard who sets his watch five minutes too fast simply for the joy of complaining.'

As the meaning of the words sank into his numb brain, Kevin heard a faraway clock strike the midnight hour and a manic grin of relief split his face in two. It froze as Nicholas gripped his arm tightly.

'Don't be too jubilant,' he warned, his voice low and menacing. 'I'll be making another list next year, and woe-betide your fragile human body if the name "Kevin Potts" appears anywhere on it.'

With this final admonishment, Nicholas got up and left, vanishing into the darkness before the last chime of the hour had tolled. *** Copyright © Charlotte Bond 2007

20 : Polar Princess

'Polar Princess' : Copyright Š Stanley Morrison 2000

View Stanley's work at : www.stanleymorrison.com

Wolves And Angels : 21

Wolves And Angels

by Michael Kelly

Wolves, the old woman had said. The wolves are at the door.

Bryn grimaces, remembering mother's clear, strong voice. It was as if she were in the same room with the woman, not hundreds of miles away over a phone line.

There was a note of resignation in mother's voice. And something else. Hope?

The car winds its way through the icy, back country roads, wheels spinning and the car sliding around every bend. The heater in the car is failing. The radiator is leaking, and Bryn, panicked and rushing from Mother's sudden phone call, forgot to add the anti-freeze to the rusty radiator. So the windows are icing over, little filaments of frost creeping in on the edges.

Since her father's death, Bryn has felt dark shadows slinking around at the edges of her vision, invading her life, ice-like at the corners of her eyes. She was viewing the world through a camera obscura, a dim vignette.

She sprays windshield washer fluid and lets the wipers clear away some of the slush and ice. But the ice creeps back, making an already treacherous drive all the more dangerous.

Bryn hates this road. Hates her mother for making her drive it again.

As a child, in summertime, Bryn and her parents would take this winding road into their cottage. The road twists its way through thick stands of pine and birch; through massive rock cuts that jut out like an angry fist. Traveling through the dark pine forest, Bryn always imagined golden eyes staring at her with intense curiosity. It made her shiver and cringe in the backseat of the car. Her young mind dreamt of all the things that could happen to her if she were lost in the forest.

Mostly Bryn hates this road because it once meant leaving the city and her friends behind for the summer. It was just her and her parents in the tiny wooden cottage. No television, no indoor plumbing; and millions of spiders and mosquitoes. Every time she went outside, shadows lurked nearby, watching her.

She heard branches snapping, birds shrieking, and the heavy crunch of some forest

22 : Wolves And Angels

beast lumbering through the pines. So she'd sit in the cottage, reading, and playing board games or cards, the smell of pine a cloying, oppressive entity.

Rounding a bend in the road, a dark shape darts in front of the car. Bryn hits the brake pedal, cranks the steering wheel to the right. The car swerves past the fleeting shadow and slides onto the narrow shoulder, then into the ditch. Bryn curses, punches the steering wheel. Glancing up she sees the dark shape moving among the thick pines. A deer, she thinks. There are lots of deer in eastern Ontario.

She steps from the vehicle, walks around to the front. The ditch is wide but shallow. The front bumper leans into the narrow rut. Aside from the neon green trail of fluid leaking into the snow, it doesn't look too bad. Shaking, she pulls her cigarettes from the purse in the car and smokes one while leaning on the vehicle's hood. Bryn gets back into the car, starts it, puts it into reverse, and hits the gas. The tires spin. She smells rubber burning. Gently, she presses down on the accelerator.

For a brief moment the tires spin uselessly, then they catch and the car backs up onto the road. The engine makes a coughing noise. Bryn straightens the car and continues on her way. It isn't far now. ***

She stands in the doorway of the bedroom, stares at the frail, old woman; the stranger; her mother. The room is hot and smells like piss.

She's dying, Bryn thinks. And she isn't surprised. Since her father's death, she has witnessed her mother slowly wither and fade like an ancient oak long past its prime. Her mother's eyes are dull flat stones. Her skin pale and sagging. Soon, Bryn thinks, she'll be nothing so much as a cracked leaf blowing in a chill autumn wind; breaking up, dissolving, scattering like ashes.

The old woman's eyelids flutter like butterfly wings and open. Her cloudy, milk-white gaze roams the small, stuffy room, and come to rest on Bryn.

"Hello?" croaks the old woman. She raises a palsied, shaking hand; points at Bryn. "Who's this? An angel?"

Bryn steps into the bedroom, sighs. "It's me, mother. Bryn. Your daughter."

The old woman's face crinkles. "Oh," she says. "Oh. Yes, now I remember you.

Wolves And Angels : 23

You're my daughter. But my daughter is dead."

"No. Dad... your husband, he's the one.... Oh, never mind." Bryn moves to the side of the bed. "You called, mother. I'm here." She sees a large, wide, ceramic bowl on the floor, filled with urine. She blanches. "Dear, God, mother. Why didn't you call me sooner?"

Her mother sits up, stares at Bryn with small dry eyes. "Ah, it's you, Bryn. I never thought I'd see you again."

Bryn flinches. "I'm your daughter. Family. That's why I came."

"Family," the old woman whispers. "Yes. Me, you‌ and your father." The old woman turns her head, looks out the window. "He's just taken the boat out. James loves the lake. It's a fine day, isn't it?" She grabs hold of Bryn's arm, squeezes, looks up at Bryn like a child asking for a treat. "He'll be back soon." It's more a question than a statement.

When her father retired, Bryn's parents poured their savings into the cottage; adding rooms, plumbing, and electricity. They sold their city home and moved into the cottage. They loved the country life. By that time Bryn was away at university and rarely visited the old homestead, no matter the many modern amenities. Besides, she reasoned, her parents deserved their time together.

Then father became gravely ill, his mind and spirit slipping away like smoke on a summer breeze. More and more frequently he'd appear confused, forgetful.

Dementia gripped him. And one summer morning at the cottage he wrote a long note, a love letter, to Bryn's mother, left it on the table beside a vase of fresh-picked country lilies and a faded photo of the two of them during their courtship, and took the rowboat out into the lake and -- according to the note – slipped quietly into the cool waters. His body was never recovered.

In her mind's eye, she sees a misty morning, an empty rowboat, and small ripples spreading out on the glassy lake surface.

Bryn blinks, pushes the memory from her thoughts.

She shakes off her mother's fierce grip, pulls a ratty orange afghan up to her chin, tucks it in. "Can I get you anything, mother?"

24 : Wolves And Angels

The old woman considers for a very long time. "No," she says, finally. "I'm going to rest now, dear."

Bryn tries a smile. "That's a good idea. I'm here now. I'll check in on you." Her voice is reedy, unconvincing. "It'll be alright."

"Tell me, dear," the old woman asks, "did you see them?"

"See what?"

"The wolves."

Bryn snorts. "You're dreaming, mother."

"Yes, I suppose I am." The old woman closes her eyes. "They were at the door.

You can let them in."

Bryn lets out a heavy held breath, bends to lift the urine-filled bowl. Her mother whispers, "I'm not afraid." ***

Standing on the outside deck, Bryn shivers. It's snowing. Fat flakes cascading from a pearly sky. If she squints, she can make out wispy, amorphous clouds. Some look like angels. Ragged angels pulled asunder by the winter wind.

Despite her parka, the cold leaks into her. She trembles, stamps her feet like a nervous stallion. Bryn fishes a cigarette pack from the coat pocket, shakes one out, lights it, inhales deeply and blows out a stream of blue smoke. She watches the smoke catch on the chill wind and dissolve like so many things in her life.

The cottage is built high on a promontory, overlooking the small finger lake below. With the gentle snow falling, it is a beautiful view. The pines to the left and right are limned in frost, glowing with spectral light; the lake is a sheet of sparkling glass dusted with snow. She feels as if she's caught in a snow-globe; shaken and disoriented. Bryn recalls sitting on this deck in summertime, sipping Coke, watching the magenta sunsets and the neon fireflies, swatting black flies.

She smiles. Such simple beauty, she thinks. Why didn't I see it? She wonders how she could stay so long in Toronto, the grey city, in her grey work cubicle, wearing her

Wolves And Angels : 25

grey clothes.

The words reverberate in her head. My daughter is dead.

Bryn stamps out the cigarette, goes down the deck stairs, and across the yard to the edge of the lake. She takes a tentative step, then another. Frozen solid. She doesn't hear any cracking. Bryn moves carefully along the ice, skating on booted feet. She kneels down, bends and draws a stick figure in the snow. Then she draws a big happy face. A smiley. Bryn lies down on the ice face-up, staring at the wide canvas of sky. Soft snow falls steadily from the vast pewter expanse. She opens her mouth, sticks out her tongue, tries to catch the flakes. Then she presses her arms and legs tight to the cold ground and moves them along the ice in sweeping motions. A snow angel! Bryn hasn't made a snow angel in a very long time. She stands, examines the angel. Smiles. You can't make snow angels in the city, she thinks. And Bryn realizes she hasn't been outside all winter. Day after grey day, she walks from her apartment to the subway to the office building. And on the weekends she shops, and reads, and runs errands. All inside. She hasn't been outside, living.

My daughter is dead.

Standing on the lake ice, Bryn imagines she's a figure skater. In her heavy boots, she strides out further on the lake. Bryn spins, jumps. She skates along in great sweeping arcs. She twirls, falls to her knees, throws kisses to her adoring fans. For once she's the drama queen, the center of attention. Laughing, panting, Bryn lies down on the thin webbing of snow. She catches her breath, then makes another snow angel, moving her arms and legs until the ice is smooth and polished.

Gleaming mirror-bone.

Bryn rises, shakes the wet snow from her arms. From this vantage, the cottage is a small dark stone, ringed in stands of pine and birch; their skeletal branches like fingers reaching. Turning, she inspects her snow angel. It's a bright, shining, symmetrical jewel. In the fold of one wing, something catches Bryn's eye. A sliver of movement under the murky ice. She kneels, brushes the spot on the ice, leans close and sees a slim pale hand.

Bryn gasps, pedals backwards along the ice like a drunken crab. Scrambling to her knees, Bryn crawls slowly forward, peers at the ice. And there's the pale hand, the arm trailing into the darkness. Heart racing, she rubs her eyes, blinks. And the hand is gone. Under the ice, something stirs. Bryn leans close. A wan pale face

26 : Wolves And Angels

swims up to view. She's stricken; frozen in stasis. Father! There's a half-smile on his face. His eyes are closed. Relaxed. Content. He's an angel, Bryn thinks. She reaches out, touches the ice, rubs a gloved hand over the smooth surface, a tender caress. When she lifts her hand, there is nothing there but gleaming ice and wet snow. No hand. No face of an angel.

Bryn blinks. Her eyes are wet. Full of snow, she thinks. She spreads her arms, falls to the ice, rests her cheek on the frigid surface, and closes her eyes. She thinks she can stay here a very long time.

***

Looking down at her mother, Bryn can't see any movement. No chest heaving, or facial ticks or stirring. She gently shakes the old woman, whispers. "Mother?"

The old woman stirs, opens her sleep-encrusted eyes. "James?"

Bryn breathes a sigh of relief. "No, mother, it's me, Bryn."

"Ah, Bryn, you're back." The old woman smiles warmly. "It's good to see you. I was having the most wonderful dream. There were angels. Beautiful angels." The old woman glances at the frost-covered window. "Did you see your father?"

"Yes," Bryn whispers. "Yes. I did." And she doesn't know why, but she lies. "He'll be along shortly, mother."

"It won't be much longer," the old woman says.

Bryn pulls the dresser chair up to the side of the bed and sits. She takes her mother's hand in her own. So small, she thinks. Skin and bones. She can see the thin pink webbing of skin, like angel's wings, between thumb and index finger.

The old woman coughs, blinks. "Bryn? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me." She strokes her mother's hand. A tear wells up and slips from Bryn's eye. She can't blame it on the snow. "It'll be all right."

"You'll take me to see him?"

Wolves And Angels : 27

"What?"

The old woman stares in earnest at Bryn. "James. Your father. I'll see him again?"

And Bryn lies again. "Yes, of course." A long pause, then, "I promise."

With some effort and help from Bryn, her mother sits up. "Did you see the pack?" her mother asks.

Bryn shakes her head. "The what?"

"The wolf pack."

Wolves, her mother had said. The wolves are at the door.

"No," Bryn says. "I haven't seen any wolves." But then she recalls a dark shape bounding past her car, and she shivers.

"They're beautiful, dear. Each winter they come across the ice to feed on the deer. There's a family of them." Her mother is grinning, lucid.

Suddenly Bryn is crying. She sobs, stares at her mother through tear-blurred eyes. "I'm sorry, mother."

"It's okay, dear," the old woman says, stroking Bryn's arm. "You've nothing to be sorry about."

Bryn wipes a hand over her eyes. "I -- I should have been around more."

"Nonsense. You've your own life to live." The old woman's eyes are shining.

"Besides, you're here now. That's all I wanted. To see you. And soon I'll see James."

"Mother – The old woman leans forward, her eyes bright and fierce. Cogent. "Shush, now, Bryn. It's all I want. I'm old and tired." Then her face collapses and a sob wracks her body. "It's all I've ever wanted."

Bryn stands, leans over and wraps the afghan tight around her mother's body.

Then she scoops her mother up and carries her out of the bedroom. Her mother

28 : Wolves And Angels

weighs hardly anything, and somehow Bryn isn't surprised. There isn't much left of her. If she were to take her outside, throw her in the air, she'd scatter like a ragged angel. A smoke ghost.

The old woman stares curiously at Bryn. "What are you doing? Where are we going?"

Bryn walks through the living room and pushes through the back door, onto the deck. She places her mother gently in a chair, bundles the afghan tightly around her.

"I want you to see the view, the snow, the lake," Bryn says.

The old woman smiles weakly. "Bryn? Is that you?"

"Yes." "Not an angel?"

"Hardly."

Bryn's mother turns, looks out at the lake. "Oh. I thought… for just a moment… well…."

Bryn follows her mother's gaze. "Yes. I know. He's out there."

The two women sit and watch the swirling eddies of snow. Bryn breathes deeply. The scent of pine prickles her nose. Once, she hated that smell. Today it is as pleasant as the most exquisite perfume. The air is cool, but the light is warm, soft.

Far across the frozen lake, Bryn sees movement, a dark shape on the far horizon.

"They're coming," the old woman says.

And Bryn sees them, the wolves, four of them bounding across the ice, shadowy grey specters in a snow-white world. She watches them approach, moving swiftly across the ice with a loping grace she'd never imagined. They draw nearer, their eyes glinting, breath fogging the air. She wonders about their sharp teeth, their hot breath, their hunger. She can almost feel their single-mindedness, their sense

Wolves And Angels : 29

of purpose. For a brief, terrible moment Bryn wants nothing more to do than to dash out onto the ice and run with the wolves.

"I envy them," the old woman says. There's a broad child-like grin creasing her mother's face.

"What?" Bryn asks.

"The wolves. All they need is right here." The old woman sighs. "And everything I wanted is here." She closes her eyes. "Tired."

Bryn watches her mother rest. Her face shines with serene silver light. Another angel. Shortly, her head lolls to the side. Bryn scoops her mother up in her arms and carries her inside, places her on the bed. Her mother's mouth moves silently.

She settles into sleep. Bryn sits with her for a while, watches every shallow breath, every twitch and tick and rustle, then moves back outside to the deck. She's disheartened to see that the wolves are gone.

Standing at the deck rail, staring out at the silver and grey world, Bryn lights a cigarette and tries not to cry. Twilight brings a strange melancholy. Tiny specks of ice float in the air, borne on gentle winds. The air shimmers and glitters as if someone has waved a wand and sprinkled fairy dust. She sits on a deck chair, smoking, shivering, until dusk turns to night, until the world goes from grey to black. She sleeps and dreams of icy angels, her dead father, and hungry wolves. ***

She wakes cold and shaking. A golden sun is shining in a denim sky. The lake is flat and silvery, a tarnished mirror. Clumps of wet snow drop from the pines -- the trees sloughing off winter's weight. She moves to the deck rail, lights a cigarette.

Gazing down the side of the hill, Bryn sees the thin grey wolf standing where the lake meets the pines. The wolf stares up at her, unmoving, black eyes flashing in the sunshine. Bryn thinks she can see shadowy movement in the trees. She lights another cigarette, watches the wolf watching her. After a long while, with the wolf still staring up at her, Bryn turns and goes into the cottage.

Bryn goes to her mother, gently puts a hand on her face. The face is cold but smiling, the eyes closed, at rest. Peaceful. It reminds Bryn of her father's frozen face. She gathers her mother in her arms, kisses her cheek. Carries her out to the

30 : Wolves And Angels

deck. The wolf is gone.

Carrying her mother, Bryn moves down the deck stairs to the side of the house.

She walks to the car, places her mother in the passenger seat, fishes out her keys, and slides into the driver's side. Bryn places the key in the ignition, but doesn't turn it. She lights a cigarette, instead. She smokes the cigarette down to the filter, grinds it out in the ashtray, then looks at her mother. Bryn strokes her mother's arm. She pulls the key from the ignition and pockets it.

Crying, Bryn takes her mother from the seat, carries her down to the bright, frozen lake. She slides out onto the slushy surface, places her mother down. Bryn had wanted to make another snow angel, to show her mother, but the snow has melted. She sits cross-legged on the ice, stares at the sun, stares at her mother, and wipes the tears from her eyes. Bryn bends, wipes a spot of ice clean, peers into the frozen lake but doesn't see anything. Looking up, she gazes toward the horizon, but again sees nothing. She reaches over, wraps the afghan around her mother's body as tight as she can, then she stands. Bryn turns and walks across the melting lake, toward the shore, toward home.

Back in the cottage she makes a cup of instant coffee and carries it out onto the deck. She can see mother on the ice, a bright bundle of orange. Bryn sips her coffee, smokes two cigarettes. Soon, she sees them. The wolves. They move swiftly across the lake, with purpose, and stop at her mother. The pack circles, sniffs, and the Alpha howls. Then their mouths latch onto mother and they drag her away, her passage leaving a wide trail in the slush.

Bryn watches until the dark spots disappear along the horizon, then she turns and goes into the cottage. *** Copyright Š Michael Kelly 2007

Michael Kelly's fiction has appeared in numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies. His first collection Scratching the Surface is now available and the novel Ouroboros (co-written with Carol Weekes) is due out in 2008. He is also a contributing editor for City Slab magazine.

The Winter Hunt : 31

'The Winter Hunt' : Copyright Š Ben Baldwin 2007

Get more familiar with Ben's work at : www.benbaldwin.co.uk

32 : Kathy's Korner

Kathy's Korner

by John Grover

They'd been traveling for hours, turning down unfamiliar roads, passing through strange towns, searching for a place that seemed to be eluding them all night.

It was a freezing winter night. The streets were lightly dusted with powdery white and glittered subtly in the pale moonlight.

It was two weeks before Christmas and the temperature was expected to drop to below zero after midnight. That was two hours away. " I can't believe this," Todd griped, folding his arms and turning to stare blankly out of the car window. He watched the bright-colored lights and decorated houses stream by him in multi-colored blurs. "We're lost."

"We are not," Dennis replied. "I know where the place is. We'll get there."

"Bull Dennis!" Todd shouted growing angrier with each passing street. "Admit it, you have no idea where we are or where we're going. We've been trying to find this Christmas party for hours. You said you knew where it was."

"I do," Dennis said as he stomped on the gas pedal and took an extremely sharp left. He roared dangerously down yet another deserted street. "I was at Wendy's house once before, she asked me to help her move some furniture into it when she was first getting settled. I could have sworn it was right around here somewhere."

"It started at eight, we've missed a good part of it wandering aimlessly. You said we could spend the night cause we were going get so drunk and that there would be plenty of girls there. And that we would get dinner. I haven't eaten all day and I don't see any booze or girls in the near future either."

"Alright!" Dennis screamed, silencing his friend for the time being. "I'm sorry, I thought I knew where it was. I must have taken a wrong turn or something. So what do you want me to do now, Todd?"

"Do you even know where we are? The truth this time."

Kathy's Korner : 33

"No, but I think we're somewhere in or near Hallsworth."

"Let's just find a place for the night. A room or something and in the morning we'll start back home. I'm tired anyway and starving. Maybe we can find a place with some food around here. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Dennis mumbled, avoiding eye contact with Todd.

"I know you didn't mean it. Let's just stop bitching at each other. We'll be a lot happier after some sleep."

They drove on and managed to find some main roads again. For another twenty minutes they searched for something that remotely resembled civilization. Todd found it very strange around here, where ever here was. He hadn't seen any road signs or traffic lights. Not one indication of where they were or what was ahead of them.

Dense forest rose up all around them seeming to encircle them with dark barriers that would not allow them to escape. Gazing from window to window, Todd stared out into the streets, the woods, the darkness... there was something unusual about all of this. Sure, he'd been lost before but never like this.

At last salvation: something of the real world had appeared before them. Dennis smiled when he saw it, Todd sighed with restrained relief. It was a sign that read: Kathy's Korner. Below it in small red letters read: bed and breakfast.

An arrow painted onto the sign pointed left where a path burrowed deep into the darkness. Dennis slowed, put on his signal, and took the turn.

About fifty feet in was an old fashioned house made of brick and wood, colonial style with smoke billowing out of its red-bricked chimney. Black shutters adorned its many bay windows. Tiny balconies, mostly meant as decoration, jutted from top floors.

A flagstone path led up to the door, illuminated by golden light that they quickly discovered were Christmas lights as they approached the front door.

An authentic pine wreath hung on the door as they stood examining it as if it were a figment of their imaginations. One last time they glanced back at their car, parked silently to the right of the house in a dirt and gravel lot. There was only

34 : Kathy's Korner

one other vehicle beside theirs here, a white van.

The guys watched their breath in the night air as they debated opening the door.

The pair said nothing as they took notice of the vacancy sign under the wreath.

"Well," Dennis finally broke the cold silence, turning to stare at Todd. "Let's go in. They're open and they've got room."

"Okay," Todd answered. "Lead the way."

The first thing they saw when walking in was the enormous Christmas tree in the corner of the lobby. It too was real and smothered in silver tinsel, silver and gold ornaments glinted underneath as white lights spiraled around the entire thing, giving the whole room a soft glow.

In the back of the room was a large fireplace, a crackling fire within giving the place a toasty feeling. For the first time tonight the cold was beginning to melt away from them and with it some of Todd's concern. How could it not? The place looked absolutely enchanting.

"Hello," a voice came from beside them, jolting the men.

To their left, within the doorway, stood a slender woman. Her brown hair was short and well kept and a warm smile was on her face. Adjusting her glasses, she gave them the once over as they did the same to her. She wore a red wool sweater, green slacks and a comfortable pair of brown loafers. She completed her festive look with Christmas tree earrings that dangled from her ears.

"What are you two boys doing out on such a cold night?" she chirped.

"We need a place just for tonight," Dennis said, smiling as he scanned her over once again. "We came out looking for a friend's house and got lost. We'd like to stay here for the night and return home in the morning. And we were also wondering--" He paused momentarily, feeling embarrassed at his own direct approach.

"Spit it out," she said cheerily, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Wondering if we could get something to eat. We haven't had anything all day."

Kathy's Korner : 35

"Of course," she answered merrily. "I was just about to warm myself up some stew any way. I'd bet you two could use some you look like icicles. I'm Kathy."

She put her hand out and each shook it. "Oh you're so cold," she said. "Come into the dining room, I'll cook the stew right now and get you your rooms afterwards."

"Sounds great. Thank you so much. Sorry that this is so late," Dennis said, nudging Todd to follow him into the dining room. Todd sighed again and reluctantly followed.

"Think nothing of it," Kathy answered. "I've been running this little place for almost fifteen years. I'm used to it by now. Please have a seat and I'll get that stew."

"Thanks again," Dennis said sitting down, Todd slowly doing the same across from his friend. Dennis shot a look towards Todd: "Why are you being so rude?

She's being nice taking us in like this."

"Oh, c'mon Dennis," Todd said finally. "Don't you think she's a little overly cheerful? There's something weird about her. No one acts like that."

"It's Christmas a lot of people at like that."

"I don't know, I still think she's weird. I've got to use the bathroom, I'm gonna ask her where it is." Rising from his seat, Todd walked over to the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He stepped towards it and paused when he heard voices.

"Please hurry, please."

"Relax," Kathy answered the gruff voice that Todd swore he heard. "I know it's been a while but you're going to be all right now. I promise."

"Tonight please. I need to. Not feeling well. Not feeling strong. You must or bad things will happen."

"No they won't. Everything will be fine, just as it always is. Have patience dear, have patience."

Todd pushed the door open and noticed Kathy alone in the kitchen. Cinnamon incense caught his senses as he watched her stir a pot of stew on the stove. She

36 : Kathy's Korner

quivered a bit as if a cold breeze caught her and turned to stare at Todd. "Oh, you scared me," she said. "Can I help you with something?"

"I was just looking for the bathroom."

"Up the stairs, second door on the right."

"Thanks," Todd left the kitchen and instead returned to the table with Dennis. "I just heard her talking to someone who wasn't there." Todd's face was flushed. His breath heavy.

"What are you talking about?" Dennis glared with a frown.

"She was talking to someone in the kitchen but when I went in no one was there."

"Maybe they left before you went in."

"Where, through the window?"

"Maybe she was talking to him through the window, you know how close everyone is in these small towns. It was probably just her neighbor."

"She doesn't have any neighbors."

There was silence for a moment and then anger began to show on Dennis's face.

"That's enough, no more stories. It was your idea to find a place to stay. Now we're staying here. I'm not going back out in that cold to search for another place to sleep."

"I'm not making this up. I know what I heard."

"Just shut up and sit down Todd."

"Here we go," Kathy beamed, bringing two bowls out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. The steam rose as the two men peered into the bowls. The stew was thick and brown, orange and white spots speckling it but not really identifiable as any one particular vegetable.

Dennis took up his spoon and immediately dug in, Todd was about to interrupt

Kathy's Korner : 37

and say something but the glare Dennis gave him cut him off swiftly.

"I thought you were having some," Todd asked his hostess curiously.

"Dear me no," Kathy answered. "I already ate. You two enjoy. I'll go turn down your beds."

After she left the room, Todd turned to Dennis again. "Didn't she say she was preparing the stew for herself?"

"No...I don't remember. Would you just cut it out. Like she's trying to poison us.

She runs a bed and breakfast for Christ's sake. Look, I'm eating and I'm fine. It's delicious try it. You're starving, remember?"

"I don't know, maybe you're right. I'm probably overtired. I really am hungry and it smells good." Todd stared into the stew, the smell of it intoxicating him, its heat warming and filling him with pleasure. The more he stared at it the more it seemed to hypnotize him until finally he felt himself taking the spoon into his hand. The two devoured the stew. Which did indeed taste delicious.

"Where's the meat in this stew? I don't see or taste any?" Todd whispered to Dennis.

"It's in there," Kathy answered from the doorway of the lobby, shadowed by the glowing lights. "I just like to grind it finely before cooking, gets all the flavor out and into the stew."

After they had finished all of the stew Kathy led them to their bedroom. They were so tired and weak that they couldn't even undress or turn out the lights.

Kathy extinguished the lights for them and disappeared down stairs.

Todd yawned loudly, his voice echoing in the pitch-black room. "I feel strange," he murmured. "Dennis, are you listening to me?"

"Yes," Dennis whispered.

"I'm gonna kill you if she's poisoned us," Todd moaned, his snoring starting almost immediately. ***

38 : Kathy's Korner

Downstairs Kathy sat in the den rocking in her rocking chair, listening to Silent Night on the radio. Methodically she rocked, glancing upwards now and then.

"Make it quick little one," she uttered under her breath. *** As the two men slept strange sounds rose in the room. A low, horrible growl grew louder and louder.

Todd woke slowly as his hands eased over his stomach, the growling having woken him. For that last instant of his life he discovered that it was coming from his stomach.

"Oh my God...Den---" the intense pain drowned Todd's words in cold silence but Dennis still heard him, managing to wake was well.

The wails of the men carried downstairs and when Kathy heard them, over her Christmas carols, she smiled.

Inside them something stirred and chewed‌the growling sounds now turning into chewing sounds. The stew began to eat the men from the inside out as they sat paralyzed, wracked with unimaginable pain, their faces frozen with silent screams. The only sounds now coming from the dark room were that of the stew-thing feasting.

There was a sucking sound as the men's skin shriveled and wrinkled, their eyes sinking and vanishing, their rib cages collapsing, their muscles dissolving. Every organ and bone in their bodies was sucked into the thousands of mouths of the protoplasm-like stew. *** At last nothing lay on the beds but skins, like flesh-colored rain slicks. The brown mass slithered out of the men's mouths and merged into one large body again. It slid down the stairs and shimmered into the kitchen where Kathy stood holding the refrigerator door open.

She smiled brightly. "Now see there I told you all would be alright. Are you happy now my little pet I've fed you for another few days? I know how you depend on me for survival. You were nearly dead from starvation when I found

Kathy's Korner : 39

you, having fallen from the sky, from the stars. You were so far from home and here I was all alone with nobody to take care of. It's lucky we found each other.

Now c'mon back to your home."

A slight burp came from the stew as it slithered into the fridge, hopping into a ceramic bowl. "Thank you," it said in a low gruff sound.

"But next time, can you at least wait until they pay first." Slamming the door shut Kathy began towards the bedroom to clean up, humming Deck The Halls all the way. *** Copyright Š John Grover 2007

Don't miss John's fantastic website at : www.shadowtales.com

40 : Christmas List

Christmas List

by Garry Charles

Santa found Bobby sitting in the den just as expected. The slob of a man was laid out in the reclining chair, fast asleep.

"Wake up," Santa slapped Bobby's cheek.

"What the f‌?" The sentence died on Bobby's lips at the sight of the red clad figure.

"You've been a bad boy," The usually jolly old man stepped forward and thrust out his leg, pinning Bobby to the recliner with a boot to his throat.

"And you know what bad boys get for Christmas?" Santa fished around in his pocket and pulled out an uneven lump of coal.

Bobby struggled and tried to scream, but the sound was cut off as Santa forced the coal into his mouth and down his gullet. Lump after lump he crammed into Bobby's face, holding the thrashing body in place with his boot until the job was done.

When he was finished he stepped back and admired his work, Bobby's face now a permanent smile of jet black with eyes to match.

From the top of the stairs little Joey watched and grinned, his bruised and beaten face showing a rare sign of happiness.

Santa had got his Christmas list after all. *** Copyright Š Garry Charles 2007

Be sure to follow Garry's work at : www.garrycharles.co.uk

Christmas Gift : 41

'Christmas Gift' : Copyright Š Steve Upham 2007

Watch the galleries at Screaming Dreams for more strange art

42 : The Darkest Doorway

The Darkest Doorway

by Allyson Bird

The door of room 42 creaked. It belonged to Jake Fairbrother and he had been wandering around the Nursing Home and moaning about the door all week. So I oiled it, along with a few others that needed doing. The next day he was found dead, which surprised me because he had just come through a medical with flying colours. Most of the doors still creaked a little or more after oiling but it was better than nothing. Of the six doors that I had decided to oil, the one I had oiled the most had resulted in the sudden death of the occupant. The resident behind the door of number 28, which I'd oiled the least, whose death had seemed imminent, lasted for another five weeks. It was through the quietest doors that Death slipped in unheard. I don't know why thresholds and doorways were important to Death, they just were. My name is Pete Sinclair and I used to be the caretaker of Superior Sunsets Retirement Home. My wife Rita was the Senior Care Worker for the Cunningham Wing of that same residence. I considered it my duty to try and give the oldies a few more weeks to live or even a month on one occasion, and this is how I did it.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and the cedar trees in the backwoods were heavy with snow. The snow didn't bother the residents much, as they were safe and warm inside. I see it just like it was yesterday but it was an age ago. The December nights were very long and the fog lingered around like an old ghost, settling in for the winter. Rita wanted me home early on those dark, slumbering evenings and I usually was, to help with the kids. Four children we had been blessed with. All lusty lads built like farmer boys and how I love them. The youngest was four; the oldest eleven and all were adopted by the oldies as their own. Sometimes I came home in a sour mood and couldn't play with my boys and Rita would know someone had passed away. Rita liked being there when they died, to give them a tender send off; she thought it an honour to hold the hand of the nearly departed and all that.

You would think I would get used to the death thing but one minute I would be moving an old dear's stuff in and the next she would be moving on out in a second hand, black body bag. Helen's Bancroft's furniture had spilled out of 27A and into the hallways. Her paintings lined the corridors and her fire and wooden surround was positioned on a corner opposite the laundry cupboard. The shelf above the fire was covered with little pottery cottages and churches. Ben Douglas would

The Darkest Doorway : 43

stand, warming his hands at the imagined heat, (the electric fire was never plugged in,) whilst waiting for the number 87 bus home which never came. I miss Helen I thought; when she smiled I just knew that her mind was full of the happiest of memories. She had been 93 when she had passed away and had only my sorry face close to hers, when she died.

That's why Rita and me had sex regularly, I think - to keep death away and remind us we were still young. Now that I have sussed the oily door business out, I must not oil Lenny's tomorrow. He was holding on for his grandson coming over from Hong Kong in a week's time. Poor sod. How Lenny's family loved him.

They came to see him every week. Every week he knew them less as each stroke took its toll. We could only hope that Death would avoid his door altogether for the time being.

It was a pity about Miriam Gerrard. She might have made it to her 100t h birthday if I had not given her door a good oiling the night before. The Matron had heard the door creak, on one of her infrequent rounds and Matron's orders are Matron's orders. Miriam would have given Death a run for his money, had the door been left alone. I'd found out, that in this nursing home, Death used a door like anyone else. Death did not glide through the walls in some sort of spirit form and materialize inside the room. Death used doors to gain entry and most of the doors in the nursing home creaked. When those, whose time was nearly up, heard him open their door; they would sometimes awake from their near death state and rally. The oldies would be alerted by the creak and he would move on to a quieter door. Death was always skulking in the shadows, biding his time and playing the game.

All I can tell you about Death is that his prescence his not felt by all these days but early man, afraid of his own shadow on the cave wall, knew him better.

Modern man has too many distractions, what with television and such things that help block out all thoughts of him. Our ancestors were more aware of him.

Perhaps Death had been there when an angel or two had been thrown from heaven. Perhaps he was one of them. Who knows?

I had put the oil can away in my work cupboard, which was in the dark, little office that Superior Sunsets had let me use. The room "was of no use to the residents," I had said, "unless they could sleep standing up." My youngest, my little helper Joe always laughed when I made that joke, it never failed to raise a smile.

Joe wore navy blue dungarees almost every day, just like his Dad, with a toy toolbelt and a little black toolbox all of his own. His jet black hair was just like

44 : The Darkest Doorway

mine too. The days when he wasn't at nursery he did the rounds with me, watching and helping whilst I put up shelves, fitting locks to cupboards and all the other jobs that a caretaker should do. I was always fiddling with the radiators and could never get the temperature right. It was always so damned hot. Sometimes, Joe would pinch his nose and say," bad smell Daddy," and I would hurry us on to the next job.

Some days the smell of urine was particularly bad and other days I never noticed it at all. We may all come to this, I thought. Why the hell did every sucker want to die in bed for God's sake? With the lingering and the dribbling and the not knowing who your nearest and dearest were and the nonsense of it all. And then they just stick you in the ground or burn you. How do you tell that to a four year old when Miriam disappeared? That blank look on Joe's face when someone said she'd passed on. And why did everyone think it was a good idea to bring angel dolls to the dying or cuddly teddy bears. Christ! Wasn't it bad enough that they missed their mouth with every meal, let alone remind them with baby toys, that their infancy had returned?

The day Ben died I had Joe with me. We had made a snowman out on the front lawn for the crows to play with. There were a lot of crows in the back woods. The old folk didn't like them but Joe did, so we built the snowman just for the crows.

Later that morning I was looking closely at the hinges on Ben's door. They looked liked they had been oiled to me but they couldn't have. The oil can was in the cupboard. Ben was on the bed with a crisp, white sheet over his lean, now dead face. I could see the jaw-drop beneath the thin cover. Joe was behind me in the hall, out of the way. Suddenly, he was too quick for me; Joe ran over to the sheet and pulled it off, exposing the upper half of poor Ben's grey body.

"Don't do that or you'll not breathe and die." Joe shouted at Ben. Grey and clearly gone Ben was. I could see the blackened edges of his tongue as I replaced the sheet. Ben had been good at holding back the years. His eyes, until this last week, had been bright and so very, very blue. Now the years had come rushing in and the death mask was upon him. What horror for a child to see that.

Now Ben's eyes were sinking into his head. I concealed my shock from Joe. "Now listen Joe, we have to go. Ben's fine. The cover is very thin but it keeps him warm. Let's put it back on, he knows what he's doing. Now, that doesn't mean that's alright for you to do. Do you understand Joe?" I said. I didn't know what else to say.

The Darkest Doorway : 45

"No," came the weak reply. His little innocent face looked so sad; my little boy would one day grow up and know nothing is forever.

I sighed and we left Ben to his winding sheet. I hoped that little Joe would not have a nightmare that night, and I definitely would not tell Rita. She had doubts about Joe coming with me to do my rounds and I did not want to take that away from Joe. He loved, "doing the rounds with his Dad," as he put it.

One day I came in to fix up a picture in Betty's room. She liked it, although the subject matter was a bit odd. Betty was in a strange mood and she insisted that I hang it. In fact, she had insisted that her son brought it in for her that day, as he had forgotten it twice before. The picture was a curious affair. Matron wouldn't like it but then again Matron never set a foot over the resident's doorways. I put the picture over the chest of drawers where the wardrobe would shield it from the door. There were three figures in the painting. The one on the left looked a tall Adonis type. The male on the right was ghost - like and the woman in the middle had the tail of a serpent. I read what it said on the back, "The offspring of Satan: Sin and Death by William Blake." Ah, Death again. I thought.

The next day Betty Laker died. One minute she was as right as rain, (well as right as rain as you could be with a fractured hip, which is why she'd gone residential,) the next she was gone. I checked the door. Sure enough it had been oiled and I felt that the picture on the wall was hammering the point home. Death will find a way, I concluded. Irreverent thief! To creep up on my residents when they were just not ready, that was plain cowardice. Death should at least give them a chance to plead their case.

"It wasn't me Dad. I'm honest." shouted Billy, my middle one, seven and suitably offended as all seven year old boys are, when for once they didn't do the things of which they were accused. My boys were usually good and didn't lie.

Over the next few weeks more deaths occurred and more of the doors fell quiet.

I couldn't understand it. The oil can was still in the cupboard, yet more doors were getting oiled and it wasn't me who was doing the oiling. Fred missed his 89t h birthday by a day. Crystal missed seeing her great, great grandson by a week and Luce went and died before her husband, Bill, (they had rooms opposite each other,) and that wasn't supposed to happen. Everyone knew it was the old men that went first. That was the natural order of things, when you got very old. It was women's reward for giving birth, well that's what I thought anyway.

46 : The Darkest Doorway

However it wasn't too long before I found out who had been oiling the doors. I asked some of the nurses if they knew. Would you believe it? It was one of my own who was messing with my doors and the youngest, Joe, at that. Why, he could only reach the first hinge. Once a week Rita had the habit of popping in with Joe on our day off, just to check everything was okay. It was also nearly Christmas and she wanted to dress the Christmas tree with Joe and apparently he had insisted each time that he should oil a door, just the one, so he could be Daddy's little helper. He had said that Daddy kept forgetting to oil the doors. Rita had unlocked my room and given him the oil can, my oil can. She had lifted him up to the hinges he couldn't reach. It was their little joke, waiting to be found out. Unknowingly, I was outwitted by my own son and he wasn't even tall enough to do a man's job, let alone give a helping hand to Death.

I got rid of the can for a time and thought I had solved my problem for a while.

A good few residents got to their next birthdays. Then just for some of them, I thought it only fair for the very poorly, that I oil their doors and let them go. At one point I questioned the morality of what I was doing. Who was I to mess with the order of things? Then I thought again. Life - surely life was worth fighting for – to be alive was what counted, wasn't it?

It wasn't long before I started up again and put my oil can away in my little office. I kept Betty's picture next to the oil can. By keeping the picture and by avoiding oiling the doors, I felt I was winning. I became adamant again that Death should be fended off at all cost. However, it was not long before the death rate began to rise again and this time I did not know why. It took a while but Joe had been caught out again, resorting to all manner of sticky things to grease the lowest hinge on each door. How he did it, without his mother noticing or without trapping his fingers in the door, I never knew. He did say he had used a wax crayon when his mother wasn't looking. Another time he had put some honey from the kitchen cupboard into a model cement mixer and managed to get it in unseen. Some kind of sweet had been rubbed into one hinge and done its job before it dried out and the creak returned. By that time it was too late for John Holt.

I was thwarted by my own son, and on numerous occasions. I took Joe to one side and asked him not to bring anything sticky or oily into the nursing home. He was a good boy and did what I said. He didn't bring anything in to oil the doors.

That didn't stop him from using Beth's Porter's back rub on the door when no one was looking. By God that boy moved fast. Well, he hadn't brought it in. The back rub was Beth's own home made remedy, (made years ago and still keeping well,

The Darkest Doorway : 47

avocado, grape seed and rose hip it was.) That would just about do it and Joe had used it against her. It was not her time. No one should die at Christmas. Beth, with her red berry lipstick and smelling of Christmas spices. Last year her grandchildren brought her a little Christmas tree with miniature garlands and tiny green marzipan apples with cloves in them. They sure smelt nice. They would be making this year's treat right now.

It had to stop. Either I would give up, or Joe would have to stay away from the nursing home. I couldn't stop. Driven by the need to take control I had tried to block Death and still I'd failed and now most of the residents were insisting that I oil their doors. Oldies, didn't they know what they were asking?

Then there came the day that I was forced to stop. Joe went missing in the nursing home. We searched everywhere, especially in the backwoods where the crows waited. Even the frailest of the oldies searched and called for him. The ones who couldn't shout whispered his name and held back a stifled sob. Rita was inconsolable and it was noticeably colder in the nursing home. Even the radiators gave up their warmth. A shiver swept over my body like a cold tide. I had gone too far. I had interfered once too often and Death had come for Joe. Joe, the innocent of the game had gone missing and would never return. We didn't find any trace of him ever again. Although once when one of the residents died, I thought that I heard a child's laughter. Another time when another soul was lost to us, I thought I could smell, sweet, sickly honey in the room and the handle was all sticky. The doors in that nursing home were never oiled by me again but they made no sound as Death entered. Joe was lost to us for ever. I wept. Death had waited, biding his time, until he had brought the game to a halt and taken Joe with him, to be his little helper. *** Copyright Š Allyson Bird 2005

Find out more about Allyson and her work at : www.birdsnest.me.uk

48 : Death Takes A Holiday

'Death Takes A Holiday' : Copyright Š Roz Eve 2007

Enjoy more artwork at : www.rozeve.com

The Trench : 49

The Trench

by J.W. Bennett

Belgium, December 1944 Santa brought him Hell this year. Snow has filled the trench. Most of it is red.

The soldier's boots slip in the slush. He edges forward on his belly, Bren carbine held before him.

Ammunition is running low but he won't think about this now.

There are fires in the sky. The bright bursts of falling bombs illuminate the no-man's-land. The plain stretches out from the lip of the trench, a white expanse of twisted machinery, blasted trees and ruined bodies.

It seems right there should be fireworks. It's Christmas, after all.

The soldier winces, remembering this. Sliding through the mud, he thinks of his wife back home in Illinois, gathered round the tree. He thinks of Bobby, their son, twelve years old today. He imagines he'll never see either again.

His thoughts are confused, shellshock playing tricks on him. The Belgians say this is the worst winter in years, and no Yank has the luxury of cold weather gear.

Patton has given them hope, but it ain't enough to eat on, no sir. Aunt Sally has not passed this way in days and the soldier is way beyond hungry. The Dutch call this the hongerwinter. The seven men who were with him in the trench, his corporal and his friends, have all been KIA. He thinks starvation would have been worse.

Merry Christmas, Bobby. I love you, Ann-Louise.

The soldier wonders if they can hear him.

The Allies are losing ground before the German advance. Panzers roll like carrion beetles out of the Ardennes. Bastogne will be a present for the Fuhrer. All his unit got was death.

50 : The Trench

The soldier crawls through ash and slush, following the zigzag of the trench. He does not know where he is going. Bullets zip above his head, flying either way. If he can make it to the trench behind, he may even stand a chance.

He knows he stands no chance. Still, he must try. For Bobby. For Ann. For the whole fucking world.

Somewhere over the lip of the trench, a grenade smacks the earth. Shrapnel flies, showering his helmet with mud. The soldier drags himself upright, fumbling for a Lucky. With shaking hands, he lights it with his Zippo, machine gun propped on shoulder.

If he's about to bite the Big One, he'll have a damn smoke first.

He sucks in nicotine, head spinning. His ears feel bruised from the grenade. As the soldier puffs, he notices blood and the sharp jag of metal jutting from his thigh. He does not feel pain, but he can tell the wound is deep. It is not just the smoke that is making his head spin. They got him. Bastard Nazis got him.

The soldier chucks the Lucky away. When he moves, there is agony, but he slides into the slush, hoping it will numb him. He can smell his sweat and shit, mixed with cordite in the air.

He struggles to the lip of the trench, props the Bren on upturned earth. He sees shapes through the drifting smoke, Krauts in their snowsuits.

He cocks the gun and fires. The Bren kicks his shoulder. He will not go down alone.

Someone screams. Fucking A. A tracer lights the night, whipping past his helmet. The soldier yells and tumbles down the slope, face first in the mud. He can hear his enemies' cries, harsh and taut, and understands guts have betrayed his position. He can barely move.

They will come now and shoot him. He will never see Bobby again.

With bloodied fingers, the soldier pulls the crucifix from around his neck; the one Ann gave him when he entered this unholy mess. With dirt-smeared lips, he kisses the cross, sends a prayer up to his maker.

Then the soldier crawls again, instinct and rage drawing him on.

The Trench : 51

He won't let the Krauts find him waiting for their guns.

There is bright light up ahead. A spotlight or a flare?

Neither. The glow is far too clean.

The soldier crawls toward the radiance, pale rays shining at the far end of the trench.

Is this how it happens then? The end?

He thinks that he is dead, but just doesn't know it yet. All the same, the soldier drags himself on, coming at last to where luminance crowns the trench, and the white figure standing there, smiling gently down at him.

It is tall. It is silver. It is winged.

It seems Hell has its opposite, even here in no-man's-land.

"Take me home," the soldier pleads, a hand stretched to the sky. "Please‌ take me home." *** Illinois, December 2007 The light is coming from the streetlights; the soldier can see that now.

He squints up through the fallen shrapnel, surprised to see shopping carts and old bean cans protruding from the snow. Sodden cereal boxes and empty bottles surround him, snarled between his legs. The smell is bad, but it is not death.

In his hand, the soldier grips the shaft of an umbrella, the spokes bent and broken. He stares at it, speechless, and then back to the lip of the trench.

A boy is standing there. But he does not have wings.

"Bobby?" the soldier hazards. The boy looks about his son's age, hair combed neatly to one side. The boy shines his torch in the soldier's face, then lowers it, shaking his head.

52 : The Trench

"So that's where the big pan went," the boy says. "Mom was looking for that."

The soldier frowns, puzzled. Then he touches his head, feels the metal there.

"Come on," the boy sighs. "Let's get you out of there. The turkey's getting cold."

The boy reaches down and grips the old man's arms. Together, they heave until the old man stands at the lip of the trench, breath pluming in the frozen air. The old man squints over the wasteland. He sees white silhouettes and tenses, then realises they are only snowmen. Coloured lights twinkle from the road. Tinsel winks from orange windows.

"Did you forget like last year, Granddad?" the boy enquires, his face calm and curious.

The old man shakes his head. Some things last forever.

The boy takes the old man's hand and leads him away from the dump. *** Copyright Š J.W. Bennett 2007

J.W. Bennett is a British writer of dark fantasy and the occasional contemporary fable. His debut novel Unrequited (published under the name James Bennett reserved for non-genre works) is presently available on Amazon.

The Trench is his first Christmas story.

Further info can be found on the author's site at : www.freewebs.com/waxlyrikal

Christmas At Yew Tree Farm : 53

Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

by Barry J. House

A lone Mitsubishi SUV left the country lane at a signpost marked, 'Yew Tree Farm'. Hanging at an odd angle, the sign's arrow pointed at the ground as if it were directing traffic straight to the netherworld. The road, hedges, trees, everything, was so white with snow that the driver almost missed the turning.

After rolling down a frozen dirt track for a quarter of a mile, the SUV arrived outside an old farmhouse. It shuddered to a halt next to a circular mass that carried more than a passing resemblance to a burial mound. The stone cottage, the mound, the faint outlines of the dirt track and a few wind-gnarled trees, were the only objects discernable on the snowy landscape.

A swing of the driver's door and Clive Sanders stepped out of the vehicle. Snow crunched softly underfoot as, hugging himself against the cold, he walked over to investigate the mound. His enquiring mind wouldn't rest unless he knew what it was. Scraping away some snow with the heel of his shoe, he discovered only a pile of gravel. His wife, Lauren, got out of the car and joined him at the rear, ready to start unpacking their luggage.

The man had always dreamed of spending just one Christmas on the moor, away from the commercial nightmare that the festive season had become. But there had always been other commitments. Family commitments. And Clive Sanders had never been one for family. Now, however, not only was his father seven years in his grave but his mother had joined the man earlier in the year. He hadn't spoken to his brother for a decade. Now, there was only his wife to worry about; and maybe his sister, Libby. Oh, and Sam, his son.

Not that Sam was of any real concern to Sanders. The boy had no mechanical aptitude whatsoever; there was virtually no hope of him joining his father in the family business. No, Sanders would have to soldier on alone, in the heady field of manufacturing fuel filters for the automotive industry. Why, the child was never happy unless his head was buried in a book; fiction, at that.

Today, it was Christmas Eve, no less, and Sanders was there with Lauren and Sam, ready to spend a week on Dartmoor. He intended to sit around for the entire break, stuffing himself with food and drink while watching the TV. If he felt up to

54 : Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

it, he might even convince Lauren and Sam to go for a little walk, or two. And perhaps, for once, they might even pretend to be a 'happy' family. But that was likely to be the hardest part.

As Sanders continued to stare at his son through the SUV's rear window, the boy pushed the door open and started to get out. Sam slipped the moment that both of his feet were on the ground. He would have fallen, too, if he hadn't been able to brace himself against the door at the last moment.

"Watch it," Sanders cried. Look at him, he thought. The boy's a gangling nerd. He can't even get out of a bloody car without falling over.

Sam simply turned and smiled at his father. "Whatever," he said. After reaching back inside the car for his Gameboy, the boy proceeded cautiously down the little path leading to the front door.

"Hey, what about a hand with the boxes?" Sanders yelled after his son.

"Oh, don't worry, Clive, we'll manage," his wife said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes," he muttered, shrugging her hand free. "Like we always do."

As the couple trudged down the path to join their son, the first flakes of the coming storm began to fall. It had been forecast to hit at around midday but a glance at his watch showed that it was 4:00pm. Despite the darkest of grey skies, Sanders had begun to think that it wasn't coming after all. Now, he welcomed the sight.

It would be a bonus if we were snowbound here for the entire week, he thought.

Lauren had the key. She unlocked the door and went on inside with Sam. Sanders deposited his suitcase on the doorstep and then returned to the SUV to collect the last box. After securing the car (as if anyone was planning to steal it out in the middle of nowhere, during a blizzard) he staggered back to the cottage, grabbed his suitcase and stumbled inside.

The instant that he stepped into the hall he was struck by the atmosphere of the place. And its simple beauty. The ceilings were low and beamed; the walls rough,

Christmas At Yew Tree Farm : 55

irregular. Although rustic, the furniture was clearly antique. He followed disembodied voices across the hall and through an arched doorway, into a sizeable kitchen dominated at one end by an enormous inglenook fireplace. His wife and son stood at a beautiful old dining table. Sam was examining a bottle, while Lauren was studying a sheet of paper that she had scooped up from the tabletop.

"Take a look at this," she said, handing the paper to her husband.

Sanders frowned as he snatched the sheet from her grip. "Merry Christmas and welcome to Yew Tree Farm," he read aloud. "Please accept this bottle of cider as a welcoming gift from us. Perhaps you can enjoy it after sampling one of our beautiful local walks."

After providing brief details of the accommodation and facilities at the farmhouse, the text went on to give directions to the village pub. Below that, a number of scenic walks were listed, together with a little map of the area. Further down the paper, however, something else caught Sanders' eye. This is what he read: Yew Tree Farm Cottage is steeped in history. Parts of the building date back to the 15th century: primarily the cellar and the stone-built kitchen fireplace and chimney. The house even has its own ghost. Read on if you dare!

The story goes that, hundreds of years ago, a young boy was murdered here by his own father (although nobody seems to know where the information came from–there are no records). The child is known only as John and it is said he had the face of an angel.

Nevertheless, he was a wayward lad, careless with the cows and sheep, idle with the crops and never willing to do his household chores.

After being defied by his son once too often, John's father staved in the boy's head with an axe. The man supposedly told the authorities the child had run away but legend has it the boy is buried somewhere on the property. However, no remains have ever been found... ...yet!

John is said to haunt the cottage and grounds to this day, seeking to avenge his brutal killing.

56 : Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

We hope you enjoy your stay! :-) The Tregowans.

"What a load of absolute bollocks," Sanders said. He was a respected businessman. A man of reason. "This type of credulous sentimentality makes me want to vomit."

Lauren sighed deeply. "I know it does," she said. "But lighten up, Clive, it's supposed to be a bit of fun, that's all."

Sanders grimaced. "Yes, well, superstitious claptrap like this just isn't my bag."

He dropped the welcome message back on the table. The paper floated like a forlorn spirit, clear across the polished tabletop, coming to rest at the far edge, close to the old stone fireplace.

The other two had already turned their attention to the inglenook. Lauren was scrutinizing a carved love spoon that hung from the wall there, its lime handle winding in a series of intricate Celtic knots. An array of corn dollies dangled beside it, a couple of which had been fashioned to represent human figures; another had been shaped into a bell-ended shaft窶田learly a fertility symbol.

Sam spotted an earthenware bowl next to the grate. He picked it up to find that it contained dried berries and nuts.

"An offering for the little folk," Lauren explained.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sanders darted forward. "Give it to me," he said, yanking the bowl away from his son.

"No," cried Lauren, "it would be bad luck to remove an offering without leaving something to replace it!"

"And how do you know that? The moment you walk in to an old farmhouse you suddenly inherit the petty delusions of your ancestors and become a bloody witch!"

Lauren stared blankly back.

Christmas At Yew Tree Farm : 57

"Right, that's it," he said, "I've seen enough of this goddamned kitchen!" He shoved the bowl back into Sam's hands, twisted, and marched out to search for a room with a TV set. *** Sanders refused to help with the unpacking, and the subsequent making of beds, choosing to remain both taciturn and aloof for the next few hours. After some prompting from his wife, however, he did get the fire going in the living room, leaving her to deal with the larger one in the kitchen.

He had expected the going to be tough with his wife and child over Christmas; they hadn't been getting on well with him, lately. In fact, he was surprised that they had even agreed to come. In spite of that, he still hadn't imagined they would kick things off so poorly. He stayed out of the way while Lauren prepared the evening meal, preferring to watch the TV, instead. Where Sam had hidden himself, the man neither knew nor cared.

This is their last chance, he said to himself. Their last chance. *** After an uneventful meal, Sanders returned to the living room while Sam helped his mother with the dishes. At 7:30pm, Lauren entered the room and announced that she wanted to visit the pub.

Sanders scowled and pointed towards the window. "In case you haven't already noticed, it's snowing."

"I've checked and it's hardly any deeper than when we arrived. The latest forecast says it's not likely to get heavy until around midnight."

"Why do you want to go to the pub on Christmas Eve? It'll be bloody packed."

"Look, I think we should go," Lauren asserted. "It's only half a mile away."

"Okay, then, you two go and I'll stay here." He used the remote to flick over to the BBC–he didn't want to miss the repeat of the classic Morecombe and Wise Christmas special. "That way we'll all be happy."

58 : Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

"Well, that's fine with us."

Sanders' gaze never left the screen. "Goodbye, then," he said. *** Later, he went out to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The Morecombe and Wise show had lifted his spirits a little. He hadn't left his comfortable armchair for the duration of the show and now he was dying for a cup of tea and a piss. Hopping repeatedly from one foot to the other, he began to fill the kettle. He hadn't bothered to switch on the light; the moon had battled its way through a minor gap in the clouds to bathe the sink and part of the worktop in pale, silvery light.

The kettle had boiled by the time that Sanders got back from the toilet. Still not bothering to switch on the light, he fumbled at the shadowy end of the worktop for a cup, finally locating the mug tree and pulling one free. He dropped a teabag inside and reached for the kettle.

At that precise moment, something caught his eye from over at the fireplace.

Nothing tangible. Just a tiny movement. Not something that you could hear–like a furtive scurrying, or something you could catch sight of–like the motion of determined limbs. No, it was more of a sensation; a feeling.

Sanders twisted his head, and, now that his attention was wholly focussed on the fireplace, he fancied that he could perceive a little figure, almost hidden within the interplay of light and shadow in the inglenook. By the amber glow from the dying flames of the fire, he thought that he discerned the outline of a child.

The figure's body was facing Sanders. It looked about the same height and build as Sam. The head was tilted downwards and slightly to one side Sanders took a few hesitant steps towards the fireplace and the shape became clearer. A boy, dressed in ragged hand-me-down clothes: knees poking out of frayed breeches, an elbow peeping from a linen shirt with a dark stain across one shoulder.

And then he glimpsed the child's face and recoiled.

The skin of the left cheek had been torn by a ragged fissure, widening near the base to expose a section of the lower jaw. Even from that distance, Sanders caught

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the glint of teeth.

The head turned a little and the boy's face appeared whole again–nothing but a child's soft features revealed by the flickering embers. The face of an angel.

With a burst of understanding, Sanders saw through the ruse.

His wife and son had crept back to the house and now they were making him pay for his earlier transgressions. It was all a trick. Just a silly trick. A mask.

He hastened towards the child. "Come on out, Sam, the game's up."

But the boy in the inglenook was not Sam. Sanders could see that now. This child was shorter. Younger. The tip of his nose was more rounded, the chin more pointed, the ears smaller and without lobes...

Sanders had got so close to the figure, now, that he could see a tear glistening darkly on the smooth cheek. The boy continued to stare ahead, his gaze seemingly fixed on thin air–on something that existed in some other time and place.

Struck by an overwhelming urge to reassure the child, Sanders reached out to touch him.

"John...?"

His hand was a centimetre from the bony shoulder when the boy flinched and spun his head. And Sanders noticed that there was, indeed, an injury there. Now, he saw the full extent of it–saw the gaping wound down the left hand side of the cranium. The scalp had been peeled back to reveal a split in the plates of the skull, fragments of which were embedded in the bloated flesh that surrounded it.

"J–John?"

The hair thereabouts was matted with blood, and a pale, jelly-like, almost clear fluid. And that fluid somehow made the wound seem all the worse–stamped it with finality. A little blood also oozed from the boy's otherwise-perfect left ear and from one of his nostrils.

Sanders barely had the time to emit a short gurgling cry before John started to

60 : Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

diminish before his eyes. But the spectre wasn't shrinking. It was sinking slowly into the floor, through one of the heavy flagstones of the hearth.

Seconds later, Sanders was left gaping at the bare flagstone, every little ridge and blemish of its surface forever scorched into his memory.

Under that flagstone, Sanders thought. That's where he is.

His heart fluttered against his ribs like a caged bird as he slowly backed away from the fireplace and out of the kitchen. His hands were like twin chunks of ice.

Oh, where are Lauren and Sam? Where are they, now, when I need them the most?

In the fucking pub, that's where.

He suddenly bumped up against something hard. In his eagerness to escape the spectre he had backed himself all the way out to the front door.

Sanders leaned against the solid wood for perhaps two minutes, breathing heavily. He rubbed his hands together, attempting to get some warmth back into them. The sight of the ghostly boy kept replaying in his mind as he fought to understand the recent events.

So, they buried him inside the house. Is that what they did?

Sanders twisted around and flung open the door, staggering out into the frigid night air. He faintly recalled having seen a shed at the side of the house; he hoped to find some suitable tools there.

"I have to know," he muttered. "I have to know."

Yet again, the weather forecast had been wrong. It was still a couple of hours before midnight but the snowstorm was well underway, now. For a few glorious seconds, Sanders thought that he spotted the comforting shape of the SUV looming out of the blizzard, but then he decided it was only the gravel mound.

He carried on, stumbling along the front of the house, regretting that he hadn't lingered to put on a coat. The instant he turned the corner of the house, he was pummelled by a ferocious wind. Stinging flakes assailed the exposed skin of his face and hands, making it difficult for him to find his way. He soon spied the shed,

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however, and struck out towards it.

The door was secured with a formidable looking padlock but, luckily, the hasp was rusty and loose in the old wood. The hasp flew off on the third kick, taking the padlock with it.

Sanders arrived back at the front door barely a minute later, carrying a masonry chisel, a lump hammer and a crowbar. There was a determined set to his features as he raced across the hall. Nevertheless, he paused at the kitchen threshold when he reached it, suddenly unsure of whether or not to continue.

"I have to know," he said, evenly.

With that, he launched himself into the kitchen, switched on the light and paced towards the waiting inglenook. As he passed the dining table, his wake finally sent the welcome note fluttering to the cold stone floor.

And then Sanders was there, in the inglenook, hammering away at the flagstone: the one that he already seemed to know so intimately. After loosening the heavy slab, he used the crowbar to lift it up and out of the way. He started digging with the chisel at the stony soil beneath, but quickly realised that he could do a better job with his bare hands.

It didn't take long to uncover a child-sized skeleton with a split skull.

The story's all true. It's all true.

Sanders sprinted up to one of the bedrooms and returned with a coarse grey blanket. He laid it out on the flagstones, next to the grate.

"I'll help you find your peace, John, I swear it."

His eyes were brimming with tears when he lifted a rib from the hole and reverently folded it into the blanket. After doing likewise with a fibula, he raised the sorrowful skull, cradling it to his chest. Tears spattered the damaged cranium as he considered the futility of the dead boy's life窶田onsidered the futility of his own life.

What if my son was to end up like this? How would I feel?

62 : Christmas At Yew Tree Farm

An epiphany pulsed through his thoughts like a laser beam slicing through a foggy night.

From this moment on, I am a changed man.

Sanders started to get back to his feet, his gaze fixed on the skull.

I shall strive to be a better father, a better hus– Something slammed into the man's head with such force that he was dead an instant after his nose smashed into the floor (into the flagstone, incidentally, that he had so recently removed). Was it just a remarkable coincidence that the wound in his skull was identical to that of the murdered child?

A boy stood over Sanders' body, holding a poker, his lips parted in an ugly smile. His mother stood nearby. The Christmas break on the moor was a sham, calculated to achieve just one thing. And now it was almost complete.

The boy turned to his mother and asked her a question. "Did you say it would be bad luck to remove something from the inglenook without leaving something else in its place?"

Lauren nodded. "Yes, son, I did."

Sam lifted the hammer and chisel. "In that case," he said, "I'll need to take up another flagstone." *** Copyright Š Barry J. House 2007

See what else Barry has to offer at : www.barryjhouse.com

Holiday Lights : 63

'Holiday Lights' : Copyright Š Julie Rodriguez Jones 2007

Sample more delightful images at : www.artfromthesoul.com

64 : The Homecoming

The Homecoming

by Peter Tennant

Arm in arm and still singing, their boots scrunching on the hard packed snow underfoot, Julie and her sister made their way back to Julie's house; two middle aged women walking home from an evening's carol singing.

Julie took a swallow from her hip flask and smiled. She felt really happy for the first time in ages. It had done her good to get out of the house and mix with people again. The outing had raised her spirits, just as Sarah had said that it would, and she was sorry now that it was over, but all good things come to an end. Julie knew only too well the hard truth of that old adage.

"Almost there."

Turning onto the path that led up to her front door Julie released Sarah's arm and dug in her coat pocket for the key. Suddenly her feet were swept out from under her and she sprawled inelegantly in the snow.

"Are you all right?"

Her backside hurt and she wanted to cry, but instead the sound came out as a laugh. Seeing her sister's look of concern change to one of annoyance she scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at her.

"You should get this path cleared," said Sarah, who'd always been the responsible one. "Someone could break their neck."

"Bill‌" Julie stopped, her good humour evaporating.

She'd been about to say that Bill would clear the path for her in the morning, jobs like that were his concern, but of course that wasn't true any more. Bill wasn't around to clear the paths or to do anything else for her now. Julie experienced his absence like that of an amputated limb; she kept expecting him to be there.

They'd been happily married for twenty-seven years and then six months ago Bill had walked out on her, manifesting all the signs of a mid-life crisis. He'd announced that he wanted to find himself. Instead he'd found Andrea, a girl

The Homecoming : 65

young enough to be the daughter they'd never had. The two of them were living together somewhere in France. In her moments of greatest bitterness Julie wondered how long the affair had been going on before Bill's departure from her life.

"Let's get inside."

Julie grasped Sarah's outstretched hand and pulled herself to her feet. Without another word she let them into the house.

Ted had promised to pick Sarah up at ten o'clock, after his evening class finished. While they waited Julie made them each a mug of strong black coffee, laced with whisky to take the chill out of their bones.

"That's so good."

"It's how Bill used to make it," said Julie and her eyes misted over briefly.

When Bill first left her all their friends had been supportive. Julie had never lacked for invitations or sympathetic visitors. They had talked knowingly about the male menopause and the mid-life crisis, offering Julie solid assurance that Bill would beg her to take him back once he'd worked this thing out of his system.

Some of them had told her frankly that she'd be a fool to do any such thing after the way he'd acted. Julie had thanked them all for their concern, outwardly calm and inwardly confident for reasons of her own that Bill would soon return. Her husband's departure seemed horribly unreal. Twenty-seven years ago they had vowed until death us do part, and Julie regarded that solemn oath as a statement of destiny, not a promise to be broken on a whim. She knew that, despite his current behaviour, deep in his heart Bill felt the same. They were and always had been meant for each other. It was only a matter of time before Bill realised the truth, and as the days without him stretched into weeks and then months Julie had clung to this conviction with all the strength of her will.

"Why don't you spend Christmas with us," suggested Sarah. "We'd love to have you and there's plenty of room now the children have all moved out. You can have Pam's old room. Frank will be coming over. You've always got on well with him and I know that he likes you."

"We've only met a couple of times." Frank was Ted's younger brother and Julie barely knew him.

66 : The Homecoming

"Well you should see more of each other. The two of you have such a lot in common."

Julie raised an eyebrow. "Matchmaking?"

A familiar expression settled on Sarah's face. It was the look their mother had always worn when about to tell them something unpleasant for their own good.

Julie thought of it as her 'sense of duty' look.

"Listen Julie, Bill is not coming back. You have to accept that. You have to start making a life for yourself again."

Julie laughed. "With Frank?"

"Frank's not the most desirable man in the world but he's a nice guy. You could do a lot worse. Frank's not the issue though. The issue is you letting your life go to waste moping over a man who's simply not worth it. You're an attractive woman with a lot to offer. Don't turn into an old maid before your time."

"I'm forty five in January."

"That's no reason to let yourself go. Look at you! When was the last time you had your hair done or bought some new clothes?"

"Sarah, I know you mean well but I really don't think I'm in the mood for this right now."

Wheels crunched on snow covered gravel and a car horn sounded.

"That'll be Ted." Julie helped Sarah back into her outdoor clothes and the two sisters embraced warmly, standing in the doorway.

"Thanks for a lovely evening."

"Think about what I said."

"I will I promise."

The Homecoming : 67

Seeing her sister's look of concern Julie wanted to tell her not to worry, that Bill would soon be home and everything would be all right, but she knew from past experience what sort of response that information would elicit.

"Will you come over for Christmas? I promise not to nag or match make."

Julie laughed. "I'd like to but I've made other arrangements."

Sarah looked puzzled. She was about to say something when Ted beeped his horn again. Sarah turned and ran to the waiting car. The two of them waved goodbye as the car drew away.

The house seemed terribly empty once Sarah had gone. Julie looked round the living room and felt cold inside. It was so bare and uninviting. Christmas was only three days away and she hadn't put up any decorations yet. That had always been something Bill had taken care of, like clearing the paths of snow. Everywhere her eyes turned there were reminders of their life together, the mementoes and keepsakes accumulated over so many happy years.

This would have been their twenty-seventh Christmas together. It seemed like a good excuse for a drink; not many marriages lasted so long nowadays. Fighting to hold her shaking hand steady Julie drained the whisky bottle into her mug. It was the third bottle she had finished in two days. Bill had always frowned on her drinking. Well, Bill wasn't here to disapprove now and really she needed something to get her through the long days and nights until he came back. She emptied the mug in one go, the fiery liquor burning her throat and going straight to her head, making the room spin round and round.

A photograph of Bill in a silver frame stood on the piano. Leaning against it was the hateful letter she had received two days ago, the one from Bill's solicitors requesting a divorce and threatening to tell dreadful lies about her if she didn't agree.

Julie stared at the letter, her head throbbing with pain. As she watched the letter blossomed into flame, its edges crumbling in the sudden burst of heat. Julie closed her eyes and when she opened them again a scrap of charred paper was all that remained.

Crying, Julie picked up the photograph and held it tightly clasped to her chest, repeating over and over again like a litany the words, "I want you back."

68 : The Homecoming

That night she slept alone in the big bed meant for two and for the first time in months she dreamed of Bill. It was their wedding night and no man had ever seen her naked before. Julie burned with embarrassment, but his hands were cool and his lips tender. "I love you," he whispered as he kissed and caressed her young body and made it right.

"I'll always be there."

Suddenly Julie stood outside herself and watched as the couple on the bed moved together in perfect harmony. The woman's ecstatic face turned towards her and although she'd never seen Andrea before Julie knew who it was instantly.

"No!" The bed burst into flame and the couple continued to copulate as the fire wrapped itself around them. The flesh of their bodies seemed to melt in the heat and their liquid features dissolved leaving no trace of identity. *** Julie's head ached when she opened her eyes the next morning. The hands on the clock stood at ten minutes to twelve. She sniffed. The air was heavy with the rich aroma of tobacco, the familiar smell of Bill's preferred brand.

Julie looked around. A smouldering pipe lay atop the cabinet on Bill's side of the bed, but as she reached for it the vision dissolved and her outstretched hand sent an empty whisky bottle crashing to the floor.

Slowly Julie climbed out of bed, still dressed in her clothes from the night before. She needed a drink to steady her nerves. Without thinking she slipped on a robe and made her way downstairs, each step aggravating the pain in her head.

The living room had been transformed overnight into a fairy grotto, festooned with gaily coloured streamers and hanging ornaments. In the far corner stood an artificial tree, its branches weighted down with gleaming baubles and twinkling fairy lights.

None of it looked right though. The decorations were all hung wrong, with streamers zigzagging here and there at random; no pattern to it or sense of symmetry. The tree in its pot leaned perilously sideways like a drunken sailor.

The Homecoming : 69

Julie pressed a hand to her mouth. With her heart beating faster she turned to the front window and looked outside. Someone had cleared the path and standing in the centre of the lawn was a snowman. Its pale features were familiar, but as she watched they suddenly melted in the noonday sun leaving only a shapeless mass. *** The post arrived early on Christmas Eve. Among a pile of last minute cards was a letter from Cavendish and Turner, the firm of solicitors taking care of Bill's affairs while he was out of the country. Julie put down her glass and prised the envelope open with trembling fingers.

"We regret to inform you‌" the letter began.

Bill and Andrea had been involved in a car crash two days ago. Rescuers had attempted to pull their bodies from the wrecked vehicle but the petrol tank had exploded and they had both died in the flames.

Julie folded the letter neatly and breathed in. The house smelled of Bill's tobacco all the time now. She picked up her glass and saluted the far corner of the empty room where one shadow seemed to stand far darker than the rest.

"I always knew you'd come back." *** Copyright Š Peter Tennant 1995

Peter Tennant is book reviewer for Black Static, proofreader for Interzone (both published by TTA Press : www.ttapress.com) and non-fiction editor for Whispers of Wickedness at : www.ookami.co.uk For more information go to : www.myspace.com/petertennant

70 : Christmas Angels

Christmas Angels

by Sean Woodward

The shewstone reflected none of the surrounding glass cabinet, none of the small and neatly typed label on its spherical surface. The ancient crystal sat like a worn-out Christmas shaker, its snow settled so flat as to be indiscernible. Worlds away, in its innermost depths, the child-like ones danced in fields of white, throwing snowballs that accelerated for miles across skies thick with snow. For five hundred years they had been travelling ever inwards, further and further away from the warming world without, playing their games whilst the world of humans outside slowly changed.

Stefan looked up from the old manuscript at his desk. Henri had told him that he had to fathom its secrets in one sitting. This was his fifth attempt. His teacher frowned upon the ease with which Stefan had constantly used technology to undertake such tasks faster and more easily.

"Its all very well, your megabytes and petrabytes, but these things require time.

Its like looking at a flurry of snow. Remember to look more slowly and more closely every time you are presented with the familiar. Only then do you see the geometric perfection of their construction. Only then do you allow time for the Others to speak to you." That was typical of his teacher, never taking a short-cut, never haggling over the price of the tools of his trade.

Briefly he peered around the vast space of the Reading Room, searching for the bald head of Mortimer Cotton. Even here, with the roof covered in a thick huge duvet of snow it felt distinctly colder than usual. He was glad to have kept his scarf and coat on. Besides he might have to follow Cotton quickly outside, through the Great Court and off on another of those circuitous tours of the Underground.

Cotton was habitual in his methods of subterfuge, but then Stefan knew that came with the territory. For once it was comforting to know that one of Her Majesty's servants was taking his duties with due diligence. After all, thought Stefan, it wouldn't become an Intelligence Officer to act in any other way. He looked around again, it would be closing time soon and there were still a few lines of symbols on the manuscript that he wanted to decipher. It would probably have been easier to ask Cotton to do that too, but the way Stefan was feeling about him at the moment, it was unlikely that he was going to ask. He hated the task or substituting curved scripts for words, felt far happier when he was scanning some image that would

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later make its way into one of his collages.

For the third, brief time, Stefan peered around the circular room. His mind consumed with the ciphers of the decaying grimoire before him, he hesitated in his visual scan of the room just long enough to notice the smartly dressed man with the goatee beard leaving. He was clutching a stack of books but as Stefan reached the doorway out onto the Great Court, Cotton had already vanished amongst the crowds starting to leave the Museum. Annoyed, he left, walking through the crunching snow of the outer courtyard and through the drifts to one of the black cabs lining Great Russell Street. Fresh snowmen flanked the railings as children ran amongst the throngs leaving the Museum.

Shortly afterwards, having negotiated the gridlocked, snowploughed traffic of Seven Dials and St Martin's Lane, Stefan was able to sip his coffee slowly in the vaulted depths of St Martin-in-the-Fields.

There was an echo in its steeple of the Sundial Pillar at Seven Dials that they had just passed. The cab driver had been impressed with the new golden pillar.

Thought it was a disgrace how few tourists visited it, too busy with Covent Garden and Les Miserables and God Knew What!

Stefan had first visited the crypt, adding to the worn footsteps across headstones with his old friend and mentor, Henri over twenty years ago. After lighting red votive candles in the church above Henri had poured dark filtered coffee and explained some of the secrets of the Cabal to him. He spoke of the ancient maps of London, the magical geometries that spread like webs throughout the city as commonplace as the twenty-odd sundials which cumulated in the solar temple of Seven Dials. The geometries had particular effects as well, Henri would explain, and it was always here, in this crypt, amidst the shoppers, tourists and homeless that he felt best at ease to do so. Sometimes Stefan couldn't help but notice the irony in such a master of esoteric studies feeling so relaxed in a Christian house of worship, but then Henri ultimately was a humanist and took a multi-faith approach to his work. In return for Henri's esoteric studies Stefan would often walk with him in the large galleries nearby, sometimes showing him new works of art that he had acquired for his own, more modest gallery of up and coming artists.

Stefan remembered the years of protest above, people camped out on the steps in support of the then imprisoned Nelson Mandela. Trafalgar Square had celebrated different victories during its life, this just the latest of them. He took his

72 : Christmas Angels

time; letting the caffeine slow his thoughts, wipe away the grime, as if he were some leafless London Standard, scrubbing the pollution with his bark. Behind him he could hear the rubbing of wax on ancient brass, scrubbing black outlines onto huge sheets of paper. To him, it seemed such an archaic way to replicate an image.

He would rather use the camera built into his phone and manipulate the image later, creating a faux version that could be endlessly altered and reproduced, hung with an extortionate price tag in his gallery. Reminded, he reached into the right-hand pocket of his long overcoat and took out the glossy black iPhone.

Gently sliding back the touch-screen's lock, he noticed the number increment on the mail application. He touched the rounded envelope icon at the bottom of the device and then in quick succession the new mail item to reveal that the meeting of the Cabal had been confirmed. It would be later this very evening, December 21st, here in London.

Drinking the last, sweet dregs, from his coffee cup he stood, tucking the Trinity College scarf snugly around his neck and fastening tight all the buttons of his overcoat. As he climbed the small flight of stone steps that led out of the crypt to the street above Stefan pulled the collar of his overcoat even higher. Further south, the Thames, long covered in ice, creaked quietly. For weeks the waterman and lightermen had slowly installed their tented stalls, puppet shows and alehouses.

Families flocked to the novelty of the city blanketed in snow, sheltering under the bridges as the strong Arctic winds blew along the new thoroughfare.

Stefan sucked in vast mouthfuls of the freezing air and continued to walk along Duncannon Street before turning south and heading towards the Embankment. It was tempting to halt before some of the more colourful window displays, find something bright and sparkling for his host. He would have liked to stop close to Waterloo Bridge and admire the skills shown on the new ice-rink below its expanse, but tonight. He did not have the luxury of time.

High above the city the first of the two Christmas angels materialised. The two servants, flames of fire, hesitated for a moment, shaking the scarlet and gold trumpets at their sides and then dropping in a spectacular cloaked dive towards the river. To any looking heavenwards this night they would only have seen two mighty shooting stars arching across the city and then disappearing as quickly and silently as they arrived.

Stefan shuddered as he shuffled east along the Embankment. So they were here.

He could feel them in the fresh flurries of snow which melted on his face, hear

Christmas Angels : 73

their voices distorted in the throated renditions of carols all around him. He wished now that he had brought one of the old grimoires with him, at least there were plenty of chain links along the Embankment posts should he need them.

As he continued his long journey his thoughts were taken back to autumn. The trees around the mound were finally shedding their leaves, stencilling themselves into the thick fogs that misted the fields. He carried the staff that Henri had given him shortly before dispatching him to the Welsh borders. He ran his fingers across the runes etched into its side. Older than Norse names of the gods, they were the dull colour of the wood now, visible only due to the shine his hands had brushed upon them. He loosened his grip on it, allowing its cold iron tip to drag along the ground, wrinkling another age-line to the mound's flank before it fell to the grass.

He returned to the verge at the field's edge where he had parked the four wheel drive vehicle, opened its rear hatch and carefully took the heavy cold iron chains from it. It took him a while to drag them back to the mound , to wrap and fasten them around the largest looking of the oaks. The chain seemed to get heavier , the closer he came to the mound. Just as he was about to fasten the ankle lock to his leg he heard a rasping voice.

"You are brave to visit us in our own domain human." He looked around for the source of the creaking voice, but saw nothing but the moving tendrils of fog. He tried to quicken the process of fastening the multi-chambered lock whilst reaching for the staff with his free hand.

"Perhaps you do not know who we are". This time the voice seemed to be right behind him. He turned, more quickly, the staff close, angled defensively before him.

"Why don't you tell me your name" said Stefan, through now drawn lips.

Laughter erupted around him, ripping through the sigil that he tried to trace in the air. He heard the rasping voice even closer now, almost at his ear.

"Our names are many."

Before he could answer he was blown backwards in a blast of violent light. It was as though the mist had ignited. He felt the burning sensation along his forearm, felt the stinging as the mist touched it, suddenly chilled.

Tonight in London, Stefan felt that same heightened chill in the air, rubbed his

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forearm more out of habit than irritation. He hurried on, nearly falling in the deep sludge which had accumulated at the street junctions. He searched ahead, along the row of shop signs that projected from buildings like medieval pennants. Ahead he could just discern the curve of the Black Moon's sign. Quickening his step, he put all other thoughts out of his mind and rushed towards the golden handle of the door.

"Bonsoire Stefan". She smiled as he entered the small shop. He thought she looked no different from when they had first met all those years ago in Paris, in the shadow of Sacre Coeur. "Come quickly, the others are here already." She led him towards the back of the shop, past the charts of tarot cards and handmade talking boards, towards the deep red curtain sewn with astrological symbols.

Her assistant, William, came through a divide in the curtain as they approached and took her chair by the till. She nodded briefly to him and then she and Stefan were in the dimly lit brick corridor that led towards the back of the building.

From the outside the rear of the Black Moon was a pastiche of overlapping buildings and rooflines, tight alleyways where snow drifts mirrored the architecture of their walls, weathered by the funneled gusts of wind.

"What news do you bring from England?" asked the tall Russian in the corner of the room, before Stefan had even had chance to get accustomed to the low light, or to study the finery of his part St Petersburg, part Dolce & Gabbana wardrobe. He couldn't even be certain if his bulky physique was the result of committed exercise or the latest black market injections. Still, at least just yet he wasn't straining the cut of his suit in his usual strategies of muscular intimidation.

"Yes, tell us. How is Monsieur Muller?" asked a woman at the Russian's side.

"He's dead. Henri Muller is dead."

"Are you certain?" asked Isak Kaplan. As the Russian stepped closer Stefan noticed the new chunky gold talisman around his neck and the protective tattoos beneath the rolled up shirt cuffs. "How could we not have known this?"

Stefan moved in step, towards the Russian. He quickly pushed the sleeves of his own shirt up and held out his forearms.

"Because of this".

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Klara Kaplan gasped. Stefan's forearms bore the signs of the Enochian Watchtowers, blistered marks above each wrist, like writhing black ink.

"There's more", said Stefan. Since Henri's passing and this happening to me, I've been able to feel them. They're here tonight, somewhere in the city.

"But. But it's not Christmas yet, not even the Solstice until tomorrow" said Klara, moving closer to her husband.

"We have to plan now" said Sophia. "It won't be safe to use my shop much longer. You've seen Stefan's Watchtower marks. Even Kelly never spoke of those.

We don't know what we're dealing with any longer".

"Henri knew" said Stefan. He looked around the room. There were others in the shadows who hadn't spoken, who perhaps would not speak at all. "He said Dee and Kelly had been hoodwinked, that the Angels were playing with them all along. Henri thought Cromwell's Parliament knew what bacchanalian revelry the Angels were inducing when it banned Christmas in 1647".

"You think England's Parliament knew that Uriel was bound here on Earth, 38 years after Dee had died?"

Before Stefan could answer a short, bald-headed man stepped out of the shadows of the room, the lines of his pinstripe suit flickering.

"Her Majesty's government has long known of the existence of Uriel since his timely warnings of 1583 regarding the Spanish. It would serve you well to remember that we have his confidence still."

"And you know that's the problem Cotton! I think Henri was right all along and it wouldn't surprise me if it wasn't your people that silenced him."

"How dare you!"

"Stefan! Mortimer! Stop this now. We have our own ways of determining the truth of Henri's accusations, as well as the manner of his death. As I said before, we have to plan now, not argue amongst ourselves." Sophia led Stefan away from the centre of the room, towards a large side window, covered in frost. She breathed on the internal pane and outside he could see that the snowfall had become heavier, streetlamps obscured by the curtains of white, snowflakes writhing in unison, like

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pale shoals of ice.

"How close are they?" asked Sophia.

"Close" said Stefan. "You know I can't give you details. They've always acted in accordance with their own timetables. Henri once to me that they operate completely outside of space and time as we know it. He used to gaze at the stars you know, tell me how many phantom galaxies were out there, similar to our own, concealed from sight in the depths of space."

Klara joined them by the window, her husband remaining behind.

"Why would they come here? I thought they were heralds of light."

"Henri always disputed that you know," sighed Stefan.

Inside the empty Enlightenment Room of the British Museum the shewstone began to mist inside Case 20. It's once clear chrystallum now alive with frantic movement. The wax edges of the nearby Sigillum Dei started to melt as the activity in the shewstone grew even more intense. As it became apparent that the wax would not reach the chain connected to it, a flurry of snowballs came from within, covering the area around the exhibit with small white patches. This too was fruitless as the temperatures within the Enlightenment Room ensured that they too soon melted away and the cold iron chain remained in place, as it had done for the previous five hundred years. High above new wedges of snow slid from the glass gridshell roof of the Great Court. Fee to fall to Great Russell Street they were soon added to the piles of snow being gathered by school children, whose new snowmen grew tall beside the railings.

"So what are your plans?" asked Isak, joining the three of them at the window.

"Perhaps we should consult Uriel, "suggested Mortimer Cotton as he too joined them, his gaze not on anyone present but reaching out through the large window now almost devoid of its earlier leafy frostings. "On balance, my superiors feel he has been of benefit to the Realm".

Stefan held his tongue. His forearm seemed to burn more fiercely. He looked to Sophia, hoping she would understand the regrets he had.

"Very well Mortimer." She turned to face the centre of the room, addressing the

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remaining members of the Cabal who had not spoken.

"Come, we have little time to spare."

As Sophia secured the multiple locks of the rear entrance to the Black Moon, Stefan counted the people standing in a small huddle as the harsh cold snows blew around them, quickly settling on shoulders and snow-webbing hair. Around in the tangle of backstreets he could see the blue and red blinking reflections of Christmas decorations, attempting to bring light into the darkness of the winter month.

Sophia was swift in her work and let the party of twelve across the back yard to a small out-house. It reminded Stefan of an old outside privy, only the construction , even now in its worn state seemed somehow more sturdy, as if built with longevity in mind. Sophia returned to her huge set of keys, hesitating as Mortimer stepped forward to join her. He too had an impressive collection and selected a key whose end had to be withdrawn from some kind of sheathing, rotated and applied to the lock in a horizontal action. Together they pulled the heavy door aside, it sliding sideways on polished mechanics. In the centre of the small space was revealed an ancient elevator, its criss-cross tangle of safety guards drawn across each other. Stefan stepped forward.

"No, we have to take the stairs, follow me" said Sophia and one by one the twelve started the spiral descent. Mortimer was the last to shut out the blowing snow and secure the entrance. Stefan noticed the steps above his head as he continued down the bleakly lit stairwell. Sophia, close by, noticed his inquisitiveness.

"Its a double-spiral" she noted , mater-of-factly "So as to ensure nobody is ever hindered in entering, or more importantly, leaving this place".

It took over twenty minutes to come to the bottom of the shaft. Looking around, Stefan noted it was the walls more than anything which stuck in his mind. So used to straight lines in all the buildings he had inhabited, the curving segments of arched metal, fastened with huge bolts which ran the length of the room were like the body of some huge rigid steel insect, buried deep below ground. Immediately he saw the hand of Mortimer's people in its construction. He waited to be met by a contingent of marines or private security professionals, all dark shades and bulging weaponry. Yet conversely the place seemed very low-key, almost derelict in its quietness.

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Sophia turned to address the group, who once again, had halted in the tunnel, as if unable to act without her direct sanction.

"Please go to the circlum chamber down there on the right. You'll find Harmonics Guards and Sidereal Incubators. Remember your training and don't leave until we return. Stefan, Mortimer if you please, we'll go direct to the audience chamber, this way". She led them through the piles of crates and archive boxes which littered the floor and climbed as far as the arched ceiling in places.

Stefan was still in awe of his surroundings.

"If you're wondering, this is a deep shelter" said Mortimer. " In places we're not far below Tube lines, but I wouldn't worry, this place was built to withstand more than the regular rattle of commuters".

"How do you mean?" asked Stefan, suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic.

"Its's bomb-proof. Nothing short of a direct hit down the lift-shaft would have any effect here. And you're unlikely to see smart-bombs dropping out the skies of London - we've made sure of that!"

"It's more than that Mortimer, as you well know" said Sophia. "The section I'm taking you to is under the Thames, Stefan. Its fabricated from lattice-works of cold iron within the structure, wrapped in high-grade harmonics guards, templargrams and classified sidearalia. Mortimer ensured nothing of man's making could penetrate this place and we made sure nothing from Outside could either."

"Or leave you mean!" said Stefan, realising from her words and the urgency with which she had bought the Cabal here exactly what she was describing. Mortimer sniggered and looked straight at Stefan.

"Yes, this is where we keep Uriel. And don't worry Stefan, those Christmas Angels have no chance of entering here".

Already he could hear the soft chanting begun by the members of the Cabal they had left behind. Gradually the Sidereal Incubators would become charged with the raw power of the Enochian words themselves. The Watchtower marks on his forearms began to burn brighter than at any time since the autumn. Up at street level, the two Christmas Angels, weary from their immersion in the river, perched upon the parapets of a high building. Each took softly their golden scarlet trumpet and raised it to their lips. Each wished to be with their lost brother, each heard the

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calls in the far off crystal of the Others. To onlookers they would see only the rich detail of their statutory, the fine realism of bent wings and not hear the sounds they made, an inaudible counterpoint to the harmonics far below.

In the near-below, children ran between the stalls of the frozen Thames, along parades of brightly decorated Christmas trees, the air thick with the aromas of roasting chestnuts and a dozen warm food-stalls. The strong scent of the fresh pine needles spiked the air. The children embraced the lifted spirits of the season, it was as if they danced as they gathered up hand-fulls of snow, quickly compressing them into balls which seemed capable of being thrown for miles. Slowly around them the world was changing, snowflake by snowflake, a new landscaping awaking in the night. *** Copyright Š Sean Woodward 2007

gothick.co.uk - seanwoodward.com - dragonheartpress.com zoshouse.com - wirksworthwriters.co.uk - planetdada.co.uk

80 : Infinite Night

Infinite Night

by Stephen Bacon

Alan spotted the yellow tape fluttering, as he pulled off the road onto the track that led to his farm. It had not snowed all day so the black and yellow tape contrasted against the stark whiteness of the car lights. The track was clogged with snow so he concentrated on steering safely along the quarter-mile to his house.

Still, the beckoning police tape disturbed his mind slightly. He had driven along this track countless times over the last month, but he hadn't noticed the tape before.

The police had closed the road off for the entire day, and in a farming community like this, that caused a major problem. Because of the layout of the valley, the diversion had added miles to his journey. The back road, at that time in mid November, was strangled with frosty vegetation and overgrown vines. It had taken the police all day to remove the body and investigate the death. Alan had read a few days later that they were satisfied it was suicide. Just a middle-aged business man who had cracked under the pressures of work and a recent divorce.

He had driven out from his detached house in Leeds and found this isolated valley up here on the Yorkshire Moors. After drinking a bottle of vodka, he had tied a long nylon rope around his neck, and the other end to a sturdy oak. Then he had driven at high speed away from it.

The yellow and black tape had cordoned off the incident, and now the only reminder of the tragedy had been a recent bunch of flowers that he'd noticed tied to the oak tree. Alan had assumed that the police had been thorough in their tidying of the scene. Apparently not, it appeared.

As he bumped along the slushy track, the only light burning in the valley was that of his farmhouse. As he drew up outside and killed the headlights, speckles of snow were beginning to drift into the beams. What could be more fitting than snow on Christmas Eve? The warmth embraced him as he stepped through the door. Mrs Grafton had done a good job before leaving at four o'clock. The fire was stacked well, the house was spotless. The envelope with her bonus was gone, replaced with a note reading 'Alan, thanks very much. Its very generous of you. Have a nice Christmas. See you at weekend. Anne.'

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Smiling, he hung up his coat and poured a glass of wine from the fridge. At the window he paused to draw the curtains. The lamp inside the room was casting a wide arc out into the snow, illuminating the thickening flurries that were silently falling. He was just about to draw the curtains when a sudden movement in the shadows caught his breath. A dark shape had stepped backwards into the safety of the darkness. He rubbed at the glass. Only the movement of quickening snow.

Behind him, the wood on the fire crackled sharply. He carefully shut the night out. Then he went and turned the key in the lock. It was probably just a cat or a fox. He drew the bolt across.

He could smell the food cooking from the kitchen. Mrs Grafton had set it going, but there was still plenty of time. He had planned to listen to the radio and take a long bath.

Upstairs, the house was welcoming and warm. He set the bath running and lit a candle on a tea-light holder next to the sink. Then he moved into the bedroom, where he began to undress. He clicked the switch on the radio and a soothing voice took over. As he stepped into a comfortable robe, he sipped from the wine.

The radio broadcast was one of his favourites – a ghost story for Christmas! He allowed himself to be lulled along with the narrator's voice. Since his wife had left, he found the company of radio a refreshing one. He carried it and his wine into the misty bathroom and positioned them carefully before sinking into the hot water that crept up and eased his chilled bones.

The bubble bath crackled around him as he lay back in the luxurious embrace.

The window opposite was frosted glass, but Alan could see the flecks and hear the whispering of snowflakes as they settled against the pane. He closed his eyes and drifted along with the story.

He awoke with a start, unsure of how long he'd been flowing along. The bathwater was still quite warm. Something, somehow had changed. The atmosphere was altered. Quite suddenly, he became aware of a sound that had entered the house. It sounded like a mobile phone, ringing downstairs. Puzzled, Alan stood and reached for his robe. The ring tone was unfamiliar to him. Surely, Mrs Grafton didn't possess a mobile phone, even as an emergency precaution in such a lonely valley as this.

He stepped into slippers and urgently padded downstairs. As he reached the hallway, the ringing stopped suddenly. He was able to determine the source of the

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noise by following the direction. As he entered the kitchen, he spotted it instantly on the floor and bent to examine it. It was a modern mobile phone with a flip mouthpiece, the ultimate in technology. Rather more sinister were the stains that covered the back and edges of the cracked display. At first it appeared to be chocolate, but as Alan rubbed at the stain and smelled the coppery tang, he realised it to be dried blood.

He dropped the phone instinctively and it bounced under the table. As he bent to retrieve it he noticed something which made him stop in fright. Hanging on the back of a chair was a rather muddy pinstriped jacket.

Alan stared at the chair for an eternity. His attention was finally returned with the need to breathe. He gasped deeply, his mind chasing down possible avenues.

Was somebody trying to scare him, could this be a joke, was there a perfectly rational explanation for the thing? Alan himself had never owned a pinstriped suit, this he knew for sure.

As he stood after picking up the cold mobile phone, he noticed that there were two places set at the table. The light gleamed off the cutlery. A strange atmosphere had suffused the house, settling over the familiar sights with a newer feeling of desperation. For the first time since his wife had left him, Alan felt lonely and afraid.

The house seemed cold now. Alan instinctively thought of his shotgun, safely stored in a locked cabinet in his study. He crept out of the kitchen.

The hallway was deserted, the house silent except for the voice on the radio, barely discernable from upstairs like a low hum. He pushed open the study door and clicked on the light. His fingers were shaking slightly as he turned the key in the lock and opened the metal door. He drew the shotgun out and felt instantly more assured. There were a couple of cartridges in the desk drawer, so he slid it open and retrieved them. As he loaded the gun, he glanced up to the window. It was still snowing outside – quite heavily now – and the fall of the flakes seemed to be making him drowsy and disorientated. He was just thinking how tired he must be, rather silly really and foolish, when a reflection in the window caught his attention as somebody moved behind him.

Whirling almost hysterically, he found the room empty. His hands shook. He turned again to the window. The snow was piling on the ledge of the window, attempting to obscure his view of the outside world, appearing to smother the

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house.

It took a few minutes of calm to restore Alan's nerves. He stepped out into the hallway and almost collided with someone.

The dark figure of a man stepped back. "Sorry to intrude." He was dressed in muddy trousers and a stained pinstriped shirt. "I knocked but there was no reply."

Alan realised he was holding his breath, and exhaled quickly. "My god, you gave me the fright of my life!"

"Sorry about that." The man laughed gently. "I'm afraid I've got car trouble. I saw your lights from the main road." He was middle aged and portly, and his hair was wet, giving him a faintly dislocated look. There was an unpleasant hollowness to his voice.

Alan nodded and was suddenly conscious of the shotgun in his hand. He lowered it discreetly to the floor, and pushed it aside with his foot. "Where's your car?"

"It's out on the track." He gestured vaguely. "I headed here 'cause of the storm.

Someone's on the way to pick me up." He glanced around, water dripping from his hair. "Only I've put my phone down and I can't find it."

"Oh, err – "Alan felt at the pocket of his dressing gown. "Here. I just found it on the floor." He regarded the strange man carefully, as he walked ahead of him, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. The aroma of the cooking food seemed to nuzzle at their senses.

The man paused suddenly and appraised the room. He turned to Alan. "Very homely."

"Thanks." He hesitated. There was a strange atmosphere in the house. Alan felt almost as if he had caught the man in an awkward situation. "Do you want a drink?"

The man shook his head slowly. "No, no thanks. I'll be on my way soon. "His eyes met Alan's suddenly. "You've probably got a lot on tonight‌family, and all that."

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"Honestly, it's fine – please have a drink." Alan moved towards the kettle. "I live on my own - I'm not going out tonight." He regretted the words as soon as he'd said them, closing his eyes momentarily in annoyance. As he busied himself with filling the kettle from the tap, he watched his visitor through the reflection of the chrome cooker hood.

The man was dressed in formal clothes; pinstriped shirt and dark trousers, both damp and stained with mud. His rotund belly bulged over the black belt of his waist. He was silently staring into space, as if trying hard to remember something.

The man's demeanour was unsettling.

"Tea?" Alan's voice was unrecognisable in its pitch.

The man turned, frowning slightly. He absently shook his head. "Are you married?" His movements were strangely unnatural, almost robot-like.

"No," Alan announced, glancing at the temperature dial of the oven, "I'm not."

"Widowed?"

Alan swallowed. He felt decidedly uncomfortable with the man's behaviour – even more so with the questions. "No, divorced. Look, actually, I've just remembered –" He jumped as if he'd been shot. The loud 'text received' tone of the mobile phone rang out, disturbing the silence of the kitchen. Alan almost laughed in relief.

The man glanced at the phone and slowly replaced it into his pocket. "They're here to pick me up." He drew the jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on, all the while looking at the floor as if contemplating something. Again, Alan was struck by the unnatural manner of the visitor's movement. "Thanks for the shelter." He stepped towards the door.

Alan eagerly hurried to help the visitor out. As he brushed past he felt an uncomfortable cold air surrounding them. He reached for the door.

Breath froze in his chest as he spotted the drawn bolt. He suddenly remembered locking the door after he'd arrived home. Functioning on autopilot, he automatically turned the key and slid the bolt, the hairs on the back of his neck

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bristling in anticipation of something unseen.

The visitor moved passed him as he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. From the narrow rectangle of light cast from the door, snow flurries danced, as if trying to catch Alan's attention. The man turned a few feet from the door. Already the thick flakes were obscuring his shape. When he spoke, the wind increased in speed, trying to snatch away the words, snowflakes changing direction in the rage of the gale.

"I hope you have a nice Christmas," the man said, "despite being alone." Alan could see the pinpricks of light reflected in his eyes. He nodded and turned silently into the night.

Alan stared out at the snow for a moment, seeing only the relentless flakes. Its randomness captivated him. He was mesmerised by the infinite desolation.

He slowly closed and locked the door. Glancing down, he suddenly realised he was still wearing the gown, and he shivered violently. A strange chill had penetrated the farmhouse. He peered around the room, as if noticing the sparseness for the first time. The utensils and adornments which before had suggested rustic familiarity, now appeared cheap and pathetic.

Sounds from the radio upstairs reached his ears, the cruel reminder of an absence of voices, the one thing the house lacked. He drifted into the hallway where the sight of the rifle reminded him of the isolation up here on the dales.

The radio was clearly audible now. The presenter's voice – normally a comforting sound – was an intruder within the house, the tone held sinister threats. Disorientated, he turned and looked into the kitchen. The table settings for two mocked his solitary status.

It was time for a lie down. He switched off the oven and removed the tin containing the browning turkey, sliding it onto the worktop with the aid of the oven-gloves. Almost as an afterthought, he turned the gas dial back on and opened the door of the oven. As he walked into the hallway he could hear the hiss of the gas as it escaped into the kitchen.

He watched the snow for a while through his bedroom window. The countryside was dark and impenetrable, but Alan could sense the eyes that observed his movements; shapes awaiting his arrival, huddled around the

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farmhouse, just out of the periphery of vision. Their vague outlines were encouraging. If he strained his eyes, he could almost imagine his visitor sheltering under the spread of an oak tree along the track. He smiled reassuringly before he drew the curtains.

The bed was comfortable. It had been many years since he'd shared it with anyone, but he relaxed into the duvet like it was a gentle embrace. Alan closed his eyes and thought about the endless possibilities of life and death, pondering their multitudes like the infinitely different snowflakes that fell outside. The house creaked and settled and Alan waited.

Waited for the solitude to end. Would it be the ignition of the boiler, or the candle that still burned in the bathroom, or the spark from a lit bulb, or the way the gas crept a poisonous path around the house? Alan rejoiced in the final moments of his life, relishing every tick and gentle bump, until his isolation would end, and he would join the others that watched and waited for his arrival. *** Copyright Š Stephen Bacon 2007

Stephen lives in South Yorkshire with his wife and two sons. His work has seen publication in Aoife's Kiss, Whispers of Wickedness, Darkfire Fiction, The Willows, Black Petals, plus in the anthologies The Horror Library Vol II (Cutting Block Press) and the forthcoming The Harrow Anthology 2007.

I'm sure you will also be seeing more of his work in the Estronomicon eZine during 2008, so please keep watching and reading!

Losers' Club : 87

Losers' Club

by Hugh MacDonald

The nicotine encrusted mirror above the bar provided a distorted image as Jack placed the half-filled bottles on the counter. A strand of blinking Christmas lights lined the perimeter of the mirror, casting short bursts of colour as Jack examined his reflection. He rubbed the palm of his hand down his right cheek, across his chin, and up the other side. The three day stubble had reached the point to where it had started to feel soft, and for a moment he considered growing a beard. He quickly dismissed the idea. Most days he awoke to a heavily-soddened pillow from drooling throughout the night. His morning face-cloth wash wouldn't get rid of the congealed spittle from a bearded face.

He inserted two fingers into his mouth and ran them along his smooth gums.

Dr. Majory, the dentist who pulled teeth for the welfare kids, had taken three healthy molars when Jack was fifteen. He shook his head in disgust when he remembered how his mother had hurried him out the door to make sure he wouldn't be late for his check-up. She'd made sure that a dentist in the neighbouring Lewistown would be the one to see him, rather than one in Harris Township. She didn't like the fact that her kids had to go to a welfare dentist because their father was too lazy to work. But at least she'd try to save them whatever embarrassment she could. Jack had often heard her yell at his father, telling him he gave Cape Bretoners a bad name. His usual response was: "Fuck off back to your mother if you don't like it here."

The dentist's only supplies seemed to consist of a cylinder of knock-out gas and a pair of pliers to extract teeth. Jack felt sure that welfare kids didn't get fillings in those days -- at least he never had.

He glanced again in the mirror and opened wide. Now forty, he had managed to keep the rest of his teeth, but he hadn't been so lucky with his hair. His hairline had moved back an inch or so, and the widow's peak, which was a present from his father's side, was painfully obvious. His thin, high cheek-boned face was deeply lined from too many nights spent drinking. His love of liquor was something else he'd gotten from his father's side of the family. At average height and twenty pounds lighter than he should have been, Jack looked five years older than he actually was and felt worn beyond his years.

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The bouncy Christmas carol that came on the radio helped improve his dark mood, and he sang along. Although never much of a church-goer, Jack liked the Christmas season best. He didn't know why he liked Christmas; perhaps it was because it was the one time of year he hadn't felt poor. His mother had worked so hard so that he and his kid brother, Joey, would each have a present and lots to eat–if only for the day.

The economy of Cape Breton had always been uncertain. Steel, fish, and coal, the natural resources that should have assured a vibrant economy, had been mishandled by scores of inept politicians. Jack tried his hand at the steel mill and fish plants but had tired of the constant layoffs. He had considered going underground to mine for coal, but apparently his religious and political ideology was not the flavour of the day when he had applied. He had been secretly relieved when turned down for the pit–the thought of going into a hole as black as pitch terrified him. The carol ended and Jack's dark mood returned.

"What a dump!" Jack stated. "How the hell did I manage to sink so low?" he said.

"Workin' on Christmas Eve." He continued talking out loud although he was the only person in the room. The place had always spooked him, even before he'd worked there. The cheap strings of Christmas lights, haphazardly strung over dart boards and around window and door frames, did nothing to soften the starkness of the room. He popped the lid on his first beer. It was ten minutes shy of one a.m., and the bar had been closed since midnight. His three customers had left by quarter past twelve, a woman and two men. The men had spent the evening vying for the woman's affections. She had fared off okay, with the two men taking turns buying her drinks.

At closing time, the threesome had gotten into the same taxi after agreeing to share and share alike. Jack felt sorry for the trio, particularly for the woman, for he noticed when her hands weren't on her drink they were busy under the table. But there were no victims ... or perhaps they were all victims.

Jack used his time well since ushering them out the door: doing his cash, cleaning, and restocking the bar. He liked this time of night, because he was a solitary person. However, he did not like being alone in the Club, especially on Christmas Eve. But it was quiet, and he enjoyed a beer or two after a ten hour shift.

He was careful never to drink while working the bar. The one time he had, things had gotten out of control. Now he rewarded himself for being good by having a few after closing up.

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He shuddered when he thought of the day he'd begun drinking at four in the afternoon, only two hours into a ten hour shift. A few of his buddies, or so he'd thought, had dropped by with a couple of young women in tow. Actually, Jack had taken them to be around seventeen or eighteen at the time, but as he thought about it now, they were perhaps as young as sixteen. By nine-thirty the girls had been quite tipsy. Sadly, Jack recalled, shit-faced was closer to the truth. He took a long swallow of beer. It tasted bitter as he remembered that night.... *** Jack noticed the girls were very receptive to the openly sexual advances his friends were making. He announced that the bar was closing early at ten o'clock, but that the next drink was on the house. After escorting the regular patrons out, promising them a free drink to start tomorrow evening off, he locked the door.

Using the sound of the lock's tumblers falling into place as their cue, the girls stripped down to bra and panties. The next hour and a half was filled with drinking and debauchery, rivalling anything Jack had ever experienced. The girls were game for anything, and Jack got caught up in the moment passing out free drinks and sampling the wares the ladies offered. The blonde performed best south of the border, and far be it from him to refuse a lady.

There was a loud banging on the door at eleven-thirty. Jack shushed everyone.

He peered through the window of the door relieved that it was only Robby Campton, a young guy who helped him clean the Club twice a week. He didn't have a lot of social development, but was a great worker.

Jack believed Robby's biggest drawback was his mother who treated him like a baby, and she was doing nothing to prepare him for independence. Jack opened the door and told Robby he didn't need him tonight, as there was no day-shift the next day. He asked Robby to meet him at one tomorrow afternoon to clean before the Club opened.

Jack was pushed aside by two of his friends who reached out and pulled Robby inside. "Hey guys let him be. He's just a kid," Jack said, slurring his words.

"Lighten up Jackie, we just want to show the boy a good time," one of the two said loudly with a laugh. Robby looked questioningly at Jack as the men steered him toward the girls, neither of whom had their bras on. Jack noticed Robby blushing at the girls' nakedness. Unfortunately, one of the girls noticed that along

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with the blushing, Robby was sexually aroused.

"Look," the blonde girl laughed pointing at the front of Robby's pants, "The boy's got a stiffy." She made her way to Robby, and still laughing, rubbed the front of his pants proclaiming, "I'll take care of that for you. Robby, is it?"

"Yes ma'am, that's my name," Robby said, pushing her hand away. "Mama says all this sex stuff is a sin."

The men who had pulled Robby through the doorway now held his arms, as the young woman unbuckled his belt then pulled his pants to his ankles.

Jack came rushing forward. "C'mon guys, enough is enough. Leave him alone!"

The bigger of the two, using the momentum Jack had built up rushing from the doorway, pushed him sideways. Jack crashed into the wall then slid into the corner. His head made a cracking sound, like a coconut being split, as it hit a cast-iron radiator. An old-fashioned hot water heating system heated the Club, and the radiators, as well as being efficient, were huge.

Robby's anguished-filled voice reverberated throughout the small club, as the blonde girl knelt in front of him. She smiled up at him and, in an alcohol-laden voice, stated, "You're going to enjoy this, Robby boy."

Robby watched the girl in shocked amazement. Then tears streamed down his face, as he cried out, "Please stop! Mama said it's a sin--oh please stop. Mama said I'd go to hell for doing this."

"There now," the blonde said, standing up. "Wasn't that fun?"

Robby tripped and stumbled as he tried to pull up his pants, all the while crying, "Now I'm going to go to hell just like Papa did." He fell in a heap in the corner opposite Jack, both facing the doorway.

Hearing Robby crying, Jack pushed himself from the prone position to all fours, then finally to a kneeling position. Putting his hand to his head, he felt a gash on his forehead. The blood had started to dry, but it still felt sticky where it had run down the side of his face. Jack tried to stand, but the vertigo was so bad he dropped back to his knees.

"What have you done to my boy?" a shrill voice filled the Club. All eyes turned

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toward the door where the woman who uttered the question stood. Robby's mother's enormous girth appeared to block the entire doorway.

Jack managed to get to his feet and looked from Robby to his mother. He remembered how he had reassured her nothing would happen to Robby, and that he would pay him fifteen dollars each evening he worked. He had added that he wouldn't let Robby near alcohol, but now tables were strewn with open bottles and half-filled glasses of liquor and beer. As he stood facing the woman, he saw an all-consuming hatred burning in her eyes. He was responsible. Regardless of what happened, he was responsible. Jack made a few unsteady steps towards her. She put up her hand dismissing him, as she stomped to where Robby still sat in the corner, mumbling something about hell and his Papa.

Jack heard a chair scuff against the floor, and for the first time noticed an old man sitting in the corner to the right of the doorway. As he squinted to get a better look, his eyes locked with the ancient looking man. He was dressed in a black suit from an earlier time period, reminding Jack of the clothes his grandfather had worn. His hair was combed off his forehead displaying severe facial features. Jack continued looking into the eyes of the man. He felt the cruel, piercing gaze penetrate his soul. He tried desperately to look away but was powerless to do so.

He stood frozen as the old man walked past him to where the two girls and three men were seated. Jack watched as the strange man pulled out a wad of bills.

After a brief moment, the old man turned and walked to the doorway--the group of five followed closely behind and went outside.

As he passed Jack, the old man spoke. Barely a whisper, it was enough to terrify Jack. He smelled the foulest breath he'd ever encountered, conjuring up nightmares from his past and bringing forth his inner most fears. It embodied the worst things that Jack had ever experienced: the damp, sour earth under his grandmother's sunporch where one of his cousins had told him his grandma had buried a stillborn baby; the smell of his grandpa's corpse that had been on display one day too long; the last time he had hugged Shep....

Jack remembered sitting in his grandma's parlour, across from where grandpa lay in his coffin. Once everyone moved to the kitchen, he'd gone and knelt on the pad in front of the coffin. He'd bent and kissed his grandpa's cold cheek, his nostrils filling with rancid decay. Even as an adult he could never rationalize away seeing his grandfather's hand lift toward him, anymore than he could dismiss the fluttering of his eyelids as they tried desperately to open. The thread the

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undertaker had used held them closed.

The whispered voice and foul breath of the aged man at the bar brought back the memory of finding his dog, Shep, tied to a tree where Jack's father had shot him. Shep had been guilty of fighting with the other dogs in the neighbourhood, but his biggest crime had been that he'd always won. His punishment had been meted out quickly.

Jack remembered bending down to hug Shep, not knowing he was dead. The fur had fallen away as he put his cheek against Shep's face. The smell had stayed in his nostrils for days. His hands had broken through Shep's underbelly where large black, flesh-eating beetles and hundreds of fat white maggots were feasting. Some were clinging to the putrid flesh as Jack pulled his hands out. He'd scrubbed his hands raw, but the memory and odour lingered. He'd awakened many nights thinking he could hear Shep at his window, too afraid to draw back the curtains, knowing in his heart that Shep would be there peering in with empty sockets.

Jack heard his friends and the girls laughing in the parking lot.

"I'll be seeing you soon Jack," was all the old man said, but it was enough to make Jack sober up. If it hadn't, the next verbal assault would have.

"Damn you to hell you bastard! I hope you rot in the hell fires for what you've done to my innocent lamb," Mrs. Campton screamed in Jack's face. Jack heard the old man chuckle as he stepped through the doorway and out into the night to join the group of five. He hoped Mrs. Campton didn't get her wish, but feared that she might.

"No Mama, Jack tried to help me," Robby said, coming to Jack's defence. Mrs. Campton would listen to none of what Robby had to say. She continued to curse Jack body and soul into damnation.... *** "What a night that was," Jack said to the empty Club, as he popped the top on another beer. He'd spooked himself by remembering that evening. "C'mon Jack, that was six months ago. Time to put it outta your head, Christmas cheer and all that," he told himself. He'd changed to day shift for awhile after that night, and in fact this was only his second week back on the graveyard shift. He and Melvin, the other bartender, called the two till midnight the graveyard shift because of the

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clientele, most of whom were old and resembled corpses.

Jack looked at his watch and saw that it was twelve fifty-six -- still the witching hour. Still Christmas Eve as far as he was concerned. Christmas Day wouldn't happen until he had his night's sleep. Suddenly, he wanted to be anywhere but at the Club. He heard the scuff of a chair as it slid out from a table, then coins being dropped into the jukebox. The music that came from it was nothing he'd ever heard before. He was sure he had locked the door and slid the bar in place, but it now stood open. The inch thick steel bar lay bent on the floor. No one could bend that bar, he reasoned to himself.

"Bartender, bring us some drinks," an ice-filled voice called from the small alcove that housed the jukebox and a couple of tables. He knew that he'd heard that voice before but didn't want to believe it. He began to tremble. He felt a hot stream of urine shoot down his pant leg, pooling in his sneakers.

"We're clo-closed, you'll have to leave," Jack said, somehow finding his voice.

The cold December wind blew through the open doorway hitting Jack's wet pants, causing him to shiver. At least the coldness was keeping him alert.

"Jack we're waiting," the voice said. There was a bored patience present in it, the voice of someone who'd played the game many times before. Although knowing the outcome, he continued to play. "Serve us."

Jack wanted to run out the door, and was about to when he heard several chairs scuff on the floor. He knew he'd never make it. His mind raced, searching for an out while he popped the tops on several beer and placed them on a tray. He included whiskey, rum, and glasses, then walked towards the alcove. Turning the corner, Jack came face to face with the same old man from the night six months earlier.

"You've kept me waiting. I like Christmas too, but not as much as Hallowe'en," the ancient one said. Jack didn't respond. He simply laid the tray down. He was shocked to see the two girls and three men whom he hadn't seen since that night six months earlier. They were playing cards, but Jack didn't recognize the game or the deck of cards being used. He saw strange images flash on the faces of the cards--moving--alive. As he neared the jukebox, he saw the records were playing backwards, which accounted for the horrible sounds coming from it.

The atmosphere had taken on a surreal feeling. The Club's walls appeared to be

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closing in on him–the Christmas lights dimming first, then arcing to a bright white before turning pitch black. Jack prayed that he was in the middle of a lucid dream. But he didn't think so. He saw the table where the six people sat start to spin. The table spun faster and faster, the people reaching out to him. Jack felt himself being drawn into the vortex, as the floor underneath the table splintered and broke away. The table began descending into the bowels of the earth with the centrifugal force pulling Jack closer to the widening, gaping hole.

Holding on to a table, with its legs wedged firmly against the jukebox, Jack looked into the hole. He saw the old man's face change, the features no longer resembling anything human. His teeth appeared too large for his mouth and his eyes, which seemed able to peer into your soul, stared at the group that sat around the table. As the old man turned toward him, Jack quickly averted his eyes to avoid making eye contact. Jack got a glimpse of those cruel eyes which were sunken in the sockets, and stared at a face that was the demon of his childhood nightmares. The group of five continued to play cards as they made their descent.

The ancient one looked up at Jack, beckoning him to come join them.

Jack felt his grip on the table leg slipping, as his feet slid over the edge.

Immediately, fingers and hands reached toward him and pulled at the soles of his sneakers. One shoe came loose, and he heard it hit the table below with a muffled thud. He began to pray. Really pray. It had been many years since he had done so, but he now believed there had to be a God, because some demon was surely dragging him into the pits of Hell.

"Help me Lord, forgive me," he cried, as his fingers relinquished their hold on the table leg. Jack felt strong hands grasp his wrists. He looked up into the face of Robby Campton.

"Hold on Jack, I'll save you," Robby said, as he pulled Jack's arms.

The skin on his chest tore, as splinters from the floor became imbedded. Jack swung his legs and got a foothold. Robby continued to pull until Jack was free of the chasm. He was exhausted but tried to rise, remembering what was in the hole behind him.

Robby helped Jack to his feet, and Jack hugged him tightly. Taking Robby by the arm, Jack ran through the doorway and into the crisp Christmas night. A light dusting of snow had fallen, making everything look clean, fresh, and new.

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Jack heard Robby say, "You know Mama says you gotta walk in the light of what you know to be true." Although he didn't think Robby's mother was the best person to be quoting scripture, he quickly agreed with Robby.

"Ain't that the truth Robby boy, ain't that the truth," Jack said placing his arm on Robby's shoulders. As they walked through the snow breathing in the frosty night air, Jack reached down and brushed the snow from his shoeless foot. He glanced back at the collapsing building. Seeing it fold in upon itself, Jack picked up the pace, wanting to get as far away as possible. He knew that the destruction would be blamed on a gas leak. Knowing the difference was terrifying and he shuddered inwardly at the knowledge. *** Copyright Š Hugh MacDonald 2007

Hugh has a passion for writing horror fiction. He lives with his wife Joanne and son Keith on scenic Cape Breton Island on Canada's east coast. He believes that when you look into dark places, something looks back.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS and a creative

NEW YEAR to all Estronomicon readers!

Thank you for your support during 2007 and please keep reading the eZine next year