Volume 1 Issue 6
Contents Fiction James Newman
1
Under The Mistletoe
Quinn Cunningham
3
Red Snow
Ron Larson
8
Iris and Desmond
Justin Boote
9
David Lohrey
14
A Christmas Tale Depths of Disaffection
Christopher Powers
15
Ghosts of the Artic North
Edward Brock
22 Christmas Tree
Austin Allie
24
Is Free Uncle Santa
Editorial
Our Staff
December 23rd, 2016
W
hen I started Shotgun Horror Clips, I was pleased by the response from all
of the talented folks who also happen to be
David M. Wilson Editor
fans of Horror. The stories, the poetry, the art ... we've been very lucky to have published a number of great, new names.
This is our sixth issue, and our last issue,
and our last of 2016. It's also our Christmas Issue! The E-Zine started up just before the holiday season, and I wasn't sure about asking
Want to join the team? Contact Us: deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com
for theme-based stories, as our mag was so fresh and new.
Of course, looking back, I'm glad we put out theme-based issues, because some of the
holiday stories we've recieved were top-notch; some of them were creepy as all get out. This issue is no different. The stories we recieved for this issue are great and I hope they add a little Christmas Cheer to your holiday season.
For some reason, be it the cold or the dark, Christmas has its own horrific feel, as though
the holiday has wrapping paper that's been taped around it to tight. And the smiles. All those smiles, be they real or fake. You know what I'm talking about here: the smiles that almost hide what's behind them from the rest of us, the ones that say: me? I'm not crazy. Not me. No way,
no how. Christmas has its own horrific feel, alright, as though it were peeking out at you, peering around the edges of decorated Christmas Tree, its claws sharpened and teeth white. Going to find out who's naughty or nice ... Chilling.
I hope you enjoy (and stay safe) over this holiday season.
We'll see you next year ... -David M. Wilson
December 23rd, 2016
Avaliable on Amazon Today!
The New Novel: ODD MAN OUT By: James Newman Praise for Odd Man Out: "'Odd Man Out' is a stunning and brutal look at the deadly combination of homophobia and mobmentality. Not since Jack Ketchum's "The Girl Next Door" has a book left me feeling gutted." - Tom Deady, Amazon
Under The Mistletoe James Newman James Newman has written the novels MIDNIGHT RAIN, THE WICKED, ANIMOSITY, and UGLY AS SIN, the collection PEOPLE ARE STRANGE, and the quizbook 666 HAIR-RAISING HORROR MOVIE TRIVIA QUESTIONS. Most recently, the short film STILL WATERS was released, based on his original screenplay. Next up is DOG DAYS O' SUMMER (co-written with Mark Allan Gunnells), scheduled for released in early 2017 from Cemetery Dance Publications.
I
t’s a parasite, ya know,” she said. After the deed was done.
Overhead, its leaves waggled in the breeze like flirtatious fingers as the air-conditioning
kicked on with a low hum.
They were an unlikely couple: the company’s VP of Sales, and the man who mopped the
floors and scrubbed the toilets every night.
Elsewhere in the building, their fellow partygoers laughed and sang (a husky-voiced
woman was currently butchering “O Come All Ye Faithful”, somehow making the carol sound obscene).
“We should get back—”
“—before the others get suspicious.” ***
Ten minutes later, she returned to her office, this time with her administrative assistant.
He was gay, but tonight it did not matter. She brought him here, beneath the mistletoe, under the guise of business that couldn’t wait until after the New Year.
She took his face in her hands. He dropped his Midori Sour. Any other time, he would
have been mortified; he would have apologized profusely as he bent to clean up his mess.
But once it was done, his only concern was sharing with others the gift she had given to
him. ***
Next was the chubby temp from Accounting, the one with the fiery red hair and the
tramp stamp she thought no one knew about. 1
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS ***
The company’s I.T. support guy. ***
The mailroom supervisor. ***
An H.R. representative, who should have known better. ***
The silver-haired wife of a recent retiree. They hadn’t been invited—a last-ditch effort to
cut costs this year—but the boss didn’t bring it up.
The more the merrier. ***
“Happy Holidays,” she said, each time she finished with one. “Pass it on.” ***
From the center of the thing-that-was-not-mistletoe’s cluster of spiny leaves, one bile-
colored eye blinked wetly.
It was pleased.
And so were the others of its kind . . . across a festive, oblivious Earth.
About The Artist Alex Harvey
Alex Harvey is a longtime Horror fan with a love of the works of H.P. Lovecraft and a talented artist. If you want to see more of his work, ask him a question, or commission your own art you can find him here: alexharvey000@gmail.com www.alexharveyillustration.com instagram.com/alexharvey0000/ https://www.facebook.com/Gooseycomic/ http://alexharvey000.deviantart.com/
2
Red Snow Quinn Cunningham Quinn Cunningham, a young author from Indiana, is working his way into the world of publication. His first published short story, "The Monster in the Closet," was accepted by DeadLights Magazine, and he has written a number of articles for the Hartford City News-Times. His advice to other authors is to keep sending in stories and keep writing, even when it seems impossible. Publication has happened to him, so it can happen to you
T
was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, two creatures were stirring, a man and his spouse.
“Are you ready for your present, you naughty girl?” Santa Claus asked Kathy, but of
course it wasn’t the real Santa Claus. It was her husband, Eric, dressed in the big red-and-white suit that he was much too skinny to fill out.
“What’s my present, Santa?” Kathy whispered in his ear, lifting up a corner of the Santa
hat to do so. She breathed her warm breath on his earlobe, a sexy change of temperature from the cold room, and pulled him on the bed with her, unbuckling his pants. The fake white beard tickled her chin and she giggled. “Do I get to see those sleigh bells jingle?”
“I know what my present is,” he said, and helped her with her endeavor. “You just have
to promise not to tell Mrs. Claus.”
Little did they know, there was another Santa Claus in the house with them. Snow fell
through the open window like God’s dandruff, the window the other Santa Claus used to get in the house. The door was locked and there was no chimney for him to climb down, not that he would have done that anyways. Here he sat, in Eric’s rocking chair, snow melting at his feet like pools of sweat. Crumbles of snicker doodles fell onto his suit (which he did indeed fill out quite nicely). He brushed them off with a gloved hand, and threw the remainder of the cookie into his mouth. Chomping down on the sugary goodness, he picked the glass up off the table in front of him, and washed it all down with a swig of milk.
Santa stood up, knees popping like a pine knot might have done, had there actually been 3
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS a fireplace in this suburban residence. To his jolly old surprise, a small child of about four or five was standing in the hallway, dimly lit by the colorful holiday lighting of the Christmas tree. He saw the twinkle of childlike joy and disbelief in the kid’s eyes. Oh yes, Santa thought with a cheery grin, I’m going to turn the snow red with you.
Santa, whispering: “Hello, little girl, what’s your name?”
“Santa!”
He chuckled to win the girl’s affection, forcing himself to do it quietly. The last house
he had stopped at in Goshen, he hadn’t been quiet enough and had to beat a single mother to death with her fireplace poker before throwing her in the fireplace and warming himself by the heat of her burning corpse, then stealing her baby straight from the crib.
“Little girl, I believe I’m Santa.”
“Santa!” she repeated, and then realizing that he had asked for her name, she squeaked
out, “I’m Jessica!”
“Jessica! What a pretty name! Say, Jessica, you’ll help Santa out, won’t you?”
She nodded her head vigorously.
“Good, now come outside with Santa.”
She hesitated. “Santa?”
“Yes?”
“My uncle Tommy says you aren’t real.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” He chuckled again, resting his hands on his fat belly.
“Prove to me you’re real.”
He wanted to stomp her head in with his shiny black boots right there, but instead he
pulled on his beard to show her it was real, not fake like those phony Santa Clauses in the mall. “Is that good enough?” he asked.
“I kind of feel like I’m dreaming. Am I dreaming?”
“No, this is real life. Pinch yourself.”
She did as Santa Claus told her and smiled from ear to ear at the little bit of pain she
had inflicted upon herself.
“This is real! I’m talking to Santa!”
“Quiet down, darling, we don’t want to wake your parents.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why not? They love you.”
“We’re leaving, and they wouldn’t want you out in the cold, but Santa will keep you
4
December 23rd, 2016 warm.” At the thought of keeping this little girl warm, he felt a little warm himself. Down in his lower regions.
“Where are we going?”
He thought of something quick. “… I’m making you an honorary elf!”
Her eyes lit up brighter than all the Christmas decorations in the world. “Can I see all
the toys?”
“See them?” He waved his hand at this remark like it stank. “You get to make them, and
you can test each and every one as long as you want.”
“Oh boy!” she cried a little too loud, and ran at Santa with her arms outstretched for a
hug.
Santa crouched down to pick Jessica up for a long, pressing hug. He squeezed her, feeling
her tiny body so frail and vulnerable against his own. Resisting any urges he might have had, he set her down and held out his hand for her to take. His giant hand closed around her petite fingers and they opened the door, walking out into the snowy wonderland together, closing it quietly so Jessica’s parents didn’t hear.
Back in the bedroom, the skinny Santa Claus was only wearing his red-and-white hat
and his fake beard. Kathy broke their kiss and held him against her, motionless. “Did you hear something, Eric?”
“No.” Eric said, burying face in her neck.
“Eric, I’m serious.” She pulled his face from her neck so she could look him in the eyes.
“It sounded like the door opening.”
“Maybe it was the real Santa…” He had no idea how close to the truth this was, and
would have been appalled if someone were to tell him what had just happened seconds before.
She wrinkled her nose at his joke and kissed his mouth. “Oh, shut up and keep giving
me my present.” They continued with their holiday cheer, and it was an hour before they saw the open window blowing in snow, and the wet boot marks leading out the door. Kathy quickly ran into Jessica’s room at the sight of this, and when she wasn’t tucked in bed like she was supposed to be, Kathy knew exactly what had happened and screamed. She knew they were too late.
Outside, Jessica asked Santa where his sleigh was. He told her that her first mission as an
honorary elf was to help him get his sleigh unstuck from the roof of the courthouse. She was 5
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS a little skeptical of getting in the idling van at first, but then she asked herself if Santa Claus would lie to her. Of course not. Santa drove away with her in his white van, perfectly blending in with the fresh snow being sprinkled on the earth like powdered sugar.
Something on the floor of the van between the seats caught Jessica’s eye. She smiled and
reached down to touch it. “Is this your bag of toys?” Jessica asked.
“No!” Santa snapped, and turned towards her. But it was too late. Jessica had already
opened the bag and seen what was inside. Several pale faces of cold, dead children stared up at her with their lifeless eyes. Their hair was matted with frozen blood. Their mouths hung open as if they were trying to moan.
She screamed and tried for the door handle, but it was locked. Moving quickly, she jumped
out of her seat and made a dash for the back of the van. Santa grabbed at her hair, snatching it at the last second. Her head jerked backwards like a paddleball. She cried out and beat at Santa’s arm. Completely focused on catching her, he lost control of the wheel and the van slid on the snow and ice, losing traction, then violently barreled down the slope of the ditch. And then – BAM – the impact of the tree.
They both flew forward through the shattered remnants of the windshield and landed
in the freezing snow. Jessica had scratches all over her body from the glass that had cut her on the way through the windshield, but other than that she was fine. She got up to run but the snow in the field was piled on too thick. She wasn’t big enough to plow through it. About ten feet from her, the fake Santa Claus groaned in pain and held his leg.
“Get back here, goddammit!”
“Uncle Tommy was right! You’re not real! You’re fake!”
He tried to stand up, and heard an unhealthy crunch. He fell back down, spitting curses
that would land him on the naughty list, for sure. “You’re mine, you little bitch!” he spit at Jessica, and began crawling for her.
She turned away and tried to run, but the snow wouldn’t let her get anywhere. She’d get
to the top of it and fall through, and she wasn’t strong enough to displace it. She scrambled through it like someone stuck in quicksand, tears stinging her face in the immense cold. Some of them actually froze before falling from her cheeks. Her body turned red like a boiling lobster, only she was freezing to death, not boiling. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes anymore, yet they worked hard to break through the never-ending field of snow. 6
The fake Santa was close to her now. He grasped for her, and she felt his fingers brush
December 23rd, 2016 her pant leg. She kicked at him and screamed, falling deeper into the snow once again.
And that’s when she heard … what was that? No, it couldn’t be. Sleigh bells?
She turned around just in time to see a dark, long, moving shape swoop down from the
left and trample the impostor that was crawling towards her. He screamed a very uncheerful scream. Hooves smashed his body. The skids of a sleigh sliced him in half. His insides steamed as they hit the snow, melting it. Sleigh bells jingled. The snow turned red with his blood.
7
Iris and Desmond Ron Larson Adapted from a story by Ethel Lina White They were thought to be the perfect loving couple.
His coat was shabby; she shuttered in disgust.
Their friends believed that they would be married soon.
The bus wasn’t full; she shrunk down in her seat.
But both Iris and Desmond had money trouble,
At the next stop, she planned to leave the bus.
And when she met rich Syd Hirt, they were doomed.
But, alas, Iris was to meet complete defeat.
Aspiring actor, Desmond, was devastated.
From his seat, Desmond both did and did not rise.
He raged for an hour and then left, still angry.
One Desmond faced her and began to choke her.
Then she thought: “Now I’m a woman who’s hated.”
Iris was terrified, as she looked into his eyes.
For Iris, love was less important than money.
Yet he was still seated, was her former lover.
When Syd Hirt died seven years later, she was free.
She struggled, tried to cry out; and no one came.
Yes, she was a rich widow who still had her looks.
The passengers were oblivious to her plight.
Desmond had seen Syd Hirt’s obituary,
It was a futile fight, as deadly terror reigned.
And he thought: “Who’ll now feel her cruel hooks?”
It was an invincible force that took her life.
It so happened that just a week or so later,
Desmond learned of her death in the newspaper.
They were in the same city bus one afternoon.
He was shocked they had been on the same bus.
Desmond was seated two rows in front of her.
He knew he would do no crying over her.
And neither had any thought that doomed loomed.
But the hatred he had felt for her was over.
Ron Larson is a retired community college professor (Ph.D.), and one of his hobbies is writing rhymed poetry. He has work published in such diverse magazines as Westward Quarterly, Aphelion, Soul Fountain, The Horror-Zine, and The American Dissident. www.ronlarsonclassics.com
A Christmas Tale Justin Boote
Justin Boote is a 41 year old Englishman living in Barcelona, Spain working as a waiter in a busy restaurant. Currently he has 3 stories accepted for publication. All his stories are suspense/horror based. He is also a member of The Write Practice-a members only forum for new writers where he shall be acting as judge in a winter contest starting soon.
I
’m sorry, Lisa, but after listening to your companions, I’ve decided not to renew your contract. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s great Phil! Just what I needed and at Christmas as well! Thanks a lot!” An all
too familiar knot began to form in her stomach. This was a phrase she had heard far too many times: I’m sorry, Lisa.
“I know, but I have to listen to the collective. I have no complaints about your work,
but the others say that you can be a little, um, conflictive sometimes, and they’ve been here a lot longer, so …”
“But,” he said as an afterthought, “your contract finishes on the 22nd, and seeing as my
birthday is on the 23rd, why don’t you stay till we close? We’re going to open a couple of bottles of champagne and have a little petit comité, being Christmas and all that. You’re welcome if you want to.”
Lisa’s first idea was to tell him exactly where to put the bottle and open it afterwards, but
suddenly she had a vision. It wasn’t the first or fifth time she had heard the same incriminating sentence, and she was fed up. Her vision of the future didn’t contemplate working the next forty years as a waitress- it was just a means to pay for her studies and drinks at the week-ends with friends- but that didn’t mean she had to work in half the restaurants in town to do so. And at just 24, there was a grotesque possibility that she might end up working in all the restaurants before she finished her studies.
Laying on her bed that night, after taking out her frustration on the pillow with the
picture of her favourite dog, Lisa began to reflect on her bad luck and why she never seemed to congeal with colleagues. She was pretty, had lots of friends and her phone was constantly 9
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS ringing. So, she figured, a freaky, she couldn’t be. There had to be something else. Cuddling up to the pillow, a shallow stream of tears began to run down her face until, swinging from her chin, they plopped one by one into the face of the dog.
She knew that she was a good worker-all her ex-bosses had said so—yet for some reason,
after just a few weeks, something changed in her relationship with the others. There was a minor possibility that her philosophy of refusing to do extra hours may have a slight influence on her bosses’ decision, but she had always made it clear that she could only work part-time—she needed the rest of the day for her studies—so since when was sincerity a crime? There were too many hypocrites in the world already without me becoming one as well, she often thought.
And for how long will I have to continue this ritual until I find my real place in the
world or until I finally get accepted? As this thought hit her with the force of a flying brick, she remembered a phrase from a song by her favourite rock band; And then one day you find, ten years have got behind you. The idea of spending the next ten years subjected to the same torture filled her with a horror and foreboding that made her shiver.
I am not going to be still doing this in ten years. Absolutely no way. Something will
happen. It has to.
She thought of friends to whom just that had happened; condemned to a life of monotony
and routine and where it was now too late to change anything. Unless they won the lottery of course.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish-bowl, year after year, running over the same
old ground, what have we found, the same old fears, wish you were here. The words from another song reverberated in her head over and over again like a stuck needle on a record. It was like when she was younger and her dad took her to the fair, almost forcing her to sit in the giant tea-pot that spun round and round at the speed of a comet. Her life was becoming the same. Spinning round and round in search of an answer, a solution. And she was already getting dizzy. “This can’t continue,” she said to the dog, drying her eyes, “I’m not going to let this happen anymore. I’m better than they are and I think it’s time to demonstrate it. After all, a little vengeance never really hurt anybody …” ***
“Do you need any help Lisa?”
“No no, I’m fine. I’m just making some pasties for the guys at work—it’s my boss’s
birthday. I want to give him something he’ll never forget …” she replied rather abruptly. And 10
December 23rd, 2016 for good reason. If her mother knew what she was concocting in the kitchen, she might not have been too willing to help.
“What a good girl you are. Someday you’re going to make some guy extremely happy,”
said her mother smiling. Damn right I will, although he just doesn’t know it yet. ***
The next day was her last at the restaurant and the eve of her boss’s birthday. Lisa worked
her shift as though nothing had happened, a smile on her face all day which did little to cure the tightening in her stomach as the evening progressed. Her colleagues had said nothing to her-although they surely knew it was her last day—and so she mentioned nothing either.
“Okay, get everything cleaned up quickly whilst I get the champagne,” said Phil. A cheer
erupted as they sped about sweeping and mopping the floor. It was almost Christmas, the boss’s birthday and all were eager for free drinks.
Fucking hypocrites, she thought. Let’s see whose laughing tomorrow. As Phil returned
with three bottles of mildly expensive champagne, Lisa rushed to her locker to retrieve her bag.
“Seeing as it’s my last day and you’ve all been so good to me, I made some pasties to share
with you. One for each. Hope you like them.”
A murmur of surprise and approval arose from her companions as they all finished the
last of the champagne, red blotches on their faces indicating that the drink had taken effect.
“Abdel, this one is for you.” Abdel was one of life’s more grotesque specimens. With
absolutely no principles, he had no qualms about trying his skills (which were zero) with any girl that he met; be her white, black or green; fat, thin, ugly or pretty. All were ‘conquests’ as far as he was concerned, and if she happened to be a colleague’s girl-friend; well, bad luck. As such, he’d also extended his tentacles towards Lisa, suggesting a romantic night in a hotel that she’d never forget. Lisa hadn’t forgotten. The proposal that is.
Abdel was also Mussulman, although that didn’t prevent him from drinking alcohol.
What he couldn’t eat was pork.
“What’s inside?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, its chicken,” she replied, smiling as he took a bite. That it was chicken was
not entirely correct. It looked like chicken, mainly because the pork chop had been languishing in the fridge three days past its’ sell-by date with a little sauce added to disguise the effect. Oh, and the fact that the sauce was red and that Lisa had had her menstruation at the same time was almost entirely coincidental, also. 11
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
Ann was her favourite colleague in the restaurant although she had certain tendencies to
reveal to Phil all the little ‘perks’ that others enjoyed; be it a quick beer when Phil wasn’t looking or a quick snack. Thus, Lisa’s name had been mentioned on several occasions. And Lisa knew it. What Lisa also knew is that Ann had a phobia of creepy-crawlies, especially spiders. She discovered this wonderful news when Ann had seen a spider in the restaurant and had almost suffered a heart-attack as she jumped up onto a chair, begging Lisa to kill it.
“Ann, this one’s yours.”
“Oh thank you! But can I eat it later? I think I’ve drunk too much champagne. It might
not agree with me.” Lisa told her it’d be fine. She’d been expecting and hoping it in fact. She knew that Ann couldn’t hold her drink and well, the two live Black Widows inside might not look too good when she bit into it. Let’s see you tell tales now bitch, when they bite you.
Adrian was gay. He had no problems with anybody knowing about his status, but seemed
to have internal issues with it. Therefore, he tended to take out all his stress and anger on the girls; especially with Lisa, who he often shouted at. Lisa had often considered kicking him where it might hurt most, but she’d had a new idea. It was also the birthday of Adrian’s boyfriend, and he had bragged that he was going to take him, this very night, to a five-star hotel. Everybody would have to use their imagination to guess what they’d get up to.
Lisa did.
Adrian bit into his pie, and then devoured the rest. This was good. This way, the five
laxative pills would have a wonderful effect later on.
Just one more was left. The icing on the cake so to speak.
“Happy birthday Phil,” she said as she presented him with his pie. Phil took it and began
munching away immediately; the fact that he had received it from somebody he had just sacked seemingly irrelevant.
“Wow, that’s great! What’s inside?”
Lisa had had more work putting this one together. She wanted something that would
last for ever, remind him of her every day. And then she thought of John.
“Something you’ll remember forever.” ***
The party ended, and everybody left. No-one wished her good luck for the future, or
even said goodbye. She didn’t mind, hadn’t expected anything different, in fact. 12
When she arrived home, she kissed her mother, poured herself a large glass of wine,
December 23rd, 2016 and sent a photo to Abdel of the pie she had prepared for him. Underneath, she wrote a small message: think of me every time you sit down to dinner. You deserve it. ***
Lisa put down the phone. Phil had died after a year-long battle with illness. She felt
indifferent. It was almost Christmas and her friends were waiting for her. Her friend John had also died recently. The one that had helped her with the last pie. He had died of Aids, just as Phil.
13
Depths of Disaffection David Lohrey Are churches meant as cold storage?
Nothing more than mommie dearest,
Nothing more than closets for Christian artifacts,
episodes of human anguish, dramatizations
bins for Renaissance rubbish?
of belief and superstition; a house full of Halloween
A filing cabinet for foolishness,
masks, a closet of soiled kimono,
a site for buried knights,
a toilet with no plumbing.
retarded kings and perverse priests, with postcards: two for a dollar.
What an end to human charity.
To be closed off and boarded up like an old vaudeville house, like theatres on the Keith/Albee circuit, silent movie houses of the soul, demonstrations of human folly and a little devil worship, like LA’s Ambassador Hotel, where Robert Kennedy bled to death, right next to the Coconut Grove.
David Lohrey grew up in Memphis. He graduated from U.C., Berkeley. He teaches in Tokyo. His plays have appeared in the UK, Switzerland, India, and, most recently, in Croatia. His poetry can be found in Softblow, The Blue Mountain Review, Dewpoint, Otoliths, and Quarterday. He is currently writing a memoir of his years living in Saudi Arabia.
Ghosts of the Artic North Christopher Powers Christopher Powers lives in Essex, United Kingdom, with his wife, and works full-time as a content copywriter. He began writing scary stories from an early age, and loves to scour charity shops and market stalls for horror paperbacks — the more yellowed and grimy the better! He can be reached at powers1902@yahoo.co.uk
T
hey walked in an untidy single-file over creaking ice, their tired legs and frozen faces eager to find warmth. After so many days of trekking, the red light thrown by their beacon was
a welcome sight as it flickered overhead a hundred or so yards away. Just seeing the base, small and domed like an igloo, windowless save for a single skylight, drew comfort into the three men’s hearts.
“A couple more feet, boys, and we can sit back and enjoy a job well done,” Lokman
shouted over his shoulder, struggling to be heard above the howling, icy wind.
“I hope we left some of the warm stuff in the cupboard,” Kellerman said from the middle
of the pack. “Or did Turner polish it off before we left?”
“Screw you, man,” Turner said behind him. “You know I’m teetotal.”
Kellerman choked out a dry laugh. “Yeah, me too!”
“I am,” Turner protested. “This body is a temple. No bad shit passes through it.”
“Cut it out, Turner,” Lokman broke in. “We all saw you necking a glass of scotch before
we headed out.”
“It’s Christmas! Everyone drinks during the holidays.”
“And Boxing Day, and New Year, and birthdays…”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Kellerman.”
“No, sure I don’t.”
Lokman suddenly raised a gloved hand into the air, and the others halted.
He stood dead still, letting the drifts of snow roll over his thermal suit.
“You hear something?” Kellerman asked. His jovial tone after spotting the beacon had
vanished. 15
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
“I’m not sure.” He turned his head slowly, listening for something behind the near-
deafening wind. “I just got a feeling.” He shook his head. “Alright, let’s keep moving.”
“Sounds good to me,” Turner said. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here, and I don’t
much fancy catching frostbite this close to Christmas.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have signed up for the expedition then,” Kellerman quipped.
Turner opened his mouth to reply, but was drowned out by a chest-thumping growl
drifting on a bank of whistling snow from the west.
“What the hell was that?” Kellerman asked, lifting his goggles to peer into the white
thicket of gloom.
“I have no idea,” Lokman said. “Let’s get inside the base; we’ll recon the area later, after
we’re warmed up.”
“I don’t like the sound of it,” Turner said. “I don’t like the sound one bit.” ***
The ice station was designed to accommodate up to eight people, leaving plenty of room
for the three men to find a place to warm their bodies.
In the spirit of the holiday, they had decorated the drab and grey surroundings with old
tinsel found in one of the storage boxes stacked against the back wall, and it dangled in front their faces like colorful spiders’ legs. There were even a few paper stars hanging from the skylight by thin strands of string.
It didn’t quite feel all that Christmassy out here, but it was the effort that counted.
Turner sat close to the heater, rubbing his hands together so hard that Lokman wouldn’t have been shocked to see his fingers catch alight. Kellerman was nearby, half peeled out of his suit and standing at his bunk, holding a small photograph in hand. Lokman lay on his own bunk, boots kicked off to give his toes a chance to thaw.
“You’ll see them soon,” Lokman said, looking at Kellerman.
“Yeah, I know. But by then it won’t be Christmas anymore.”
“What did you get Kayleigh this year?”
“A bike. It has this goofy little pink bell on its handlebars which plays some kinda melody
when you ring it. That’s what she wanted.”
Lokman nodded. “What did she say when you told her you’d be travelling to the North
Pole?” 16
Kellerman’s face brightened. “Aw, man, she went into overdrive. I’ve never seen a little girl
December 23rd, 2016 so excited. Usually, she’s begging me not to leave, but this time…” He whistled, then reached into his rucksack and withdrew an envelope “…she gave me this. It’s a letter to Santa Claus.”
“That’s sweet,” Lokman said, smiling himself.
“She gave me a couple of carrots for the reindeer, too, but I ate them on the way out
here.”
As a single man who had never been married, this expedition felt like any other to
Lokman. He didn’t think how it might affect guys like Kellerman, whose family would be enjoying Christmas Eve right now without him at their side.
“You can make it up to them when we get back,” he said, knowing how feeble that
sounded.
Kellerman sighed, and gently replaced the photograph and letter to Santa back under
his bedsheet, before walking over to where Turner was still cooking his hands. He gave him a playful nudge before sitting down.
Just then a sudden hard jolt rattled against the door, so loud it made them jump.
“What in God’s name …” Lokman rolled off his bunk. Pulling on his boots, he said,
“... someone check for damage. This place needs to last us another four days at least.”
“I’m on it,” Kellerman said.
Snow pelted the skylight in furious flurries, the small white wisps bunched so close
together it was like snowballs thumping against the glass.
Turner was hunched over his laptop resting on the table. “Looks like we’re in the midst
of a blizzard,” he said.
“What’s its speed trajectory?” Lokman asked, glancing up at the skylight.
“Winds in excess of 45mph,” Turner replied grimly.
“Visibility?”
“Poor. Less than ¼ mile in any direction.” He looked up. “It’s a whiteout.”
“Christ.” Lokman shook his head. “Why the hell didn’t we get a Winter Storm Warning?”
“According to the computer, we did,” Turner said, his brow furrowed. “Only nothing
showed up this morning. And the sky was calm. Even you thought we’d have a clear day.”
Lokman shook his head. “Alright. Looks like our research is on hold for now. I wanted
to head back out later, but that plan seems to have hit the buffers. Turner, keep an eye on the weather. Let me know if it changes again. I don’t know, maybe the bad weather’s affecting the satellite signal.” 17
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
“Certainly possible,” Turner said.
Another hard jolt rocked the ice station, knocking Kellerman to the ground.
“There’s something out there!” he said, wide-eyed.
“Is the computer picking up any heat signals?” Lokman asked.
“Nothing. Not even a blip.”
Lokman rushed from the room, returning a moment later carrying a rifle in both hands.
“If it tries to get in again, we’ll have to go out there and put it down. We can’t risk our base being destroyed. Especially during a blizzard.”
The same chest-thumping growl rose out of the storm, louder this time. And close.
“I’ve never heard a sound like that before,” Kellerman said, finding his feet. “And I’ve
studied polar bears in the wild for sixteen years.”
Something crashed into the base again, rocking its foundations.
“Fuck this,” Lokman said, snapping his goggles back into place. “Everyone suit up. We’re
going out there.” ***
The cold stung like a thousand lashes to raw skin, and, even in their suits, the three men
barely found enough strength to wade into the growing whiteout.
“Do you see it?” Turner asked. The unease in his voice was palpable, and like an airborne
sickness, it quickly infected the others.
“I can’t see shit out here!” Kellerman hissed.
“Just stay vigilant,” Lokman advised, cocking the rifle onto his shoulder. “No sudden
movements. Speak in low tones--until we know what we’re up against.”
“Shouldn’t we all have guns?” Turner asked.
“This is the only one,” Lokman replied. “But feel free to relieve me of the duty.”
“I’ll pass,” Turner said.
From up ahead, they could see a fresh wave of snow tumbling towards them, spinning
and fluttering like pieces of paper trapped in a fan. And behind the snowdrifts, large hulking shadows rose, so large they seemed impossible, headed in their direction.
Lokman fired his weapon into the sky, trying to scare them away. The report set their
ears ringing, but the shadows did not stop or scurry away; they didn’t so much as slow, instead drawing closer, their roars as loud as thunderclaps. 18
“What are they?” Turner asked.
December 23rd, 2016
“I have no idea,” Lokman admitted. He looked to Kellerman. “You’re the animal guy,
what the hell are we seeing here?”
“They look like elephants,” Kellerman said, “but that’s impossible. Elephants are native
to Africa, not Antarctica.” He peered through the thick snow. “Damn, they look like elephants. But that’s just not possible.”
“I think we should get back inside,” Turner said.
Suddenly, the herd broke into a run, angry roars echoing across the snowy plains, wide
hoofs splintering the ice, but somehow none of the creatures fell into the frozen lakes beneath. One of the creatures broke free of its snowy prison, throwing off the shadows which shrouded it. It wasn’t an elephant—not quite—but close. Instead of hard, grey skin, this creature’s body was covered in an outer layer of thick coarse hair of such deep orange that it looked black, with straggly vines dangling in sodden knots below its enormous frame. A large, single-domed head reared down to reveal two spiralling, pointed tusks, sloped back with a high shoulder hump, and a tubulous, snorting trunk rose and fell like a weightlifter’s arm. Its tiny black eyes simmered like burnt coals.
Turner barely had time to cry out before the mammoth reached down and gored him
through the abdomen, tearing a wide hole in his thermal suit and lifting him into the freezing air.
“Get back!” Lokman screamed, steadying his weapon, aiming at the beast’s tall forehead.
Kellerman stood stunned in place, watching with dumb horror as Turner’s body came down on a block of unbroken ice with a sickening impact. He barely felt the fingers of Lokman digging into his shoulder, dragging him away from the advancing creature as it bellowed out stale air inches from his face.
Another stampede powered past them, heading north towards the Pole, their purpose
within this snowdrift a mystery.
“We have to get inside! Kellerman, we have to get inside!”
“No!” Kellerman rushed forward, half out of his mind, stumbling like a drunk toward
his dead friend, ignoring the oncoming blur of death.
He reached Turner and cradled him in his arms, using one hand to stem the blood which
still pumped from the tusk wound.
“Kellerman, get back here!” Lokman screamed.
Too late. The stampede bounded over Kellerman, crowding him out completely behind 19
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS a heaving wall of matted fur and wild swinging trunks.
The first mammoth still leered over Lokman, blood dripping from its jagged tusk, but
suddenly it began to skid backwards, kicking up plumes of fallen snow. It hollered and roared, but whatever invisible force controlled it would not relent, and eventually it was sucked back into the fold, immediately losing interest in its target, and falling back in line without issue. Lokman watched the mammoth with its kin, noticing only now how shadowy the others looked inside the snowdrift. They moved as one, mere shadows in the white; devoid of features. And now this mammoth, the one which had killed Turner in cold blood, was also little more than a shroud; its beady eyes and sodden hair was completely gone.
Lokman turned his attention to Kellerman, not wanting to see the carnage left behind,
but knowing he didn’t have a choice.
Kellerman slumped in the snow, head bowed, still holding Turner in his shaking arms.
“You’re alright,” Lokman said, relieved. “How the hell did you survive that?”
Kellerman glanced up.
His black hair was tinged a silvery white, his pupils dilated to milky orbs.
“Jesus,” Lokman whispered.
Kellerman gently placed Turner’s head back on the ground, then rose slowly, accepting
Lokman’s offer to help him back to the ice station.
“They weren’t real,” Kellerman said, his voice rough and dry. “I mean, they were real, but
they weren’t supposed to see us.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t supposed to get loose.”
“Kellerman, what are you talking about? Those were mammoths! They shouldn’t be here,
period! Jesus, I thought those things died out years ago.”
“The snowdrifts.” He stared up at Lokman, who resisted the urge to pull away.
“What about the snowdrifts?”
Kellerman turned his head slowly, and pointed towards another flurry of snow skating in
from the west, heading in the direction of the North Pole. The large shapes were coming again, but this time there was something else walking with them.
“Ghosts,” Kellerman whispered. “Of the North Pole.”
The shape was familiar, and Lokman registered what it was moments before it came into
view. 20
December 23rd, 2016
Trapped in the twilight between Christmas Eve and Day was Turner, walking with the
mammoths, a ghost of the Arctic North.
21
Christmas Tree is Free Edward Brock Edward Brock is an avid reader, writer & skeptic. He collects vintage Horror Paperbacks & the occasional Monster Magazine—and loves Superhero & Monster Movies/TV (even the bad ones) and Mythology. He’s published in a variety of magazines/anthologies—such as Antiques & Collecting Magazine, Filmfax, Scary Monsters, G-Fan, AlienSkin, Halloween Forevermore, In Creeps The Night & others. He’s also published a few books—which you can find at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo & Smashwords.
M
ckenzie sneaked quietly down the stairs, thinking the sound she heard must be Santa arriving with her presents. She stopped a few steps from the top and leaned over, peeking
through the banisters.
No Santa.
She frowned, disappointed, because she was certain she had heard something. She looked
over at the cookies and milk that sat on the living room table. Neither the milk nor the cookies had been touched, meaning Santa had not come and gone while she slept.
She turned to head back upstairs when movement caught her eye. She stopped and peered
at the Christmas tree again.
It was moving—by itself.
She gasped, then quickly covered her mouth, afraid it—or whatever was moving it—
would hear her. She knew that sounded strange, but a Christmas tree that moved on its own was weird all by itself.
She watched the tree’s limbs slowly moving—like they were stretching. Then the branches
reached out and began pulling off each ornament and carefully placing them on the floor. It even peeled away the silver tinsel Mckenzie, herself, had put on it.
When all the ornaments had finally been removed, and lay in a small pile on the living
room carpet, she watched the tree reach down and unscrew itself from the tree stand. The tree 22
December 23rd, 2016 limbs then reached down to the floor and pushed. She heard a wet, popping sound as the tree pulled itself out of the tree stand and quietly sat itself on the floor.
A crackling sound soon followed and she watched the trunk of the tree split and grow
legs, then begin walking across the floor. Each step sounded like the creak of a rocking chair. Mckenzie was frozen in place as the tree headed slowly towards the door. She watched it crawl across the floor like some giant spider.
When it finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the tree stopped. A couple of its limbs
suddenly snaked out, shot up the stairs and grabbed Mckenzie's arms and legs. She started to scream, but another limb wrapped itself around her head, covering her mouth with its sticky needles. She was pulled down the stairs. She bounced off each step and hit her head against the wall. Each time she tried to fight against the branches, its grip grew tighter.
She could only watch as the tree grabbed the doorknob, turned it and opened the door.
The cold night air swept inside. The tree pulled her allong as it stepped out into the night.
Mckenzie shivered as cold air assaulted her. But, what really made her shake was all the
other trees, from all the other houses in the neighborhood, dragging all the other kids out of their homes. She was pulled across the yard, over the sidewalk, and into the street—which scraped against her back, tearing at her pajamas.
As she felt the cold asphalt cut into her skin, she looked up at the sky and saw a gigantic
black shape blotting out the stars. As she continued to be pulled along the street, unable to scream, she couldn’t help but notice how the dark shape in the sky looked an awful lot like a giant Christmas tree. It even had twinkling lights.
Links: https://edwardbrock.com/ https://www.facebook.com/2edwardbrock https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5283603.Edward_Brock https://twitter.com/2edwardbrock
23
Uncle Santa Austin Allie Austin Allie is a graduate of UT with a Major in Writing and Rhetoric Major and a Creative Writing Minor. A native Texan, he was born in Fort Worth but moved to Brenham when he was five years old. He considers Brenham his hometown, and tries to go back as often as possible to enjoy the Blue Bell ice cream. Some of his passions include writing, photography, theatre, singing, etc. His future plans include lots of writing and possibly grad school. We’ll see ...
M
y uncle was Santa. You know, the mall kind.
It wasn’t always like this. There wasn’t always the shadow of Him everywhere. It was
there July Fourth in the smoke of the grill like a body being cremated. It was there Halloween amongst the white-sheet ghosts at the front door with neon tape wrapped around their pant bottoms. It was there at Thanksgiving, his eyes peering unblinking in a photograph behind the turkey, out of focus in the background, but leaching everyone’s attention like a quickly draining battery. And he’s here now at Christmas, amongst the lights glittering outside an artificially frosted window.
Yes, my uncle was Santa. With the red suit lined with the virgin-white trim, soft like fresh
snow. The boots were big and black, Army-style. The beard was fake, my uncle’s face smooth underneath the itchy cotton clouds of tuffed white beard. The rosy cheeks were real though. Like he was always toasty.
He died a year ago to this very day. 365 days come and gone. And here’s my family, their
grins peeled back into what is starting to look like sneering grimaces. The way a Christmas card looks when there’s a small, red-eyed child in the photo. Forced.
“This is what my Online Grief Support Group says to do,” my grandma says. “To just
go on.”
These people are the new “it crowd” in our lives. The trendsetters. They control what is
and what is not in season. 24
December 23rd, 2016
“There’s no wrong way to honor someone’s memory,” my grandma said the day of his
funeral, that urn cradled into the crook of her arm. Their words straight from her mouth.
“It’s called an angel-versary,” she says about Christmas day. In science class, my teacher
said that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Christ was born. Uncle Santa died. Give. Take.
The stories you hear on these sites are enough to make even the most ungrateful person
go from “bah-hum-bug” to “I love you” in under sixty seconds.
GrievingMother64 misses her dead, alcoholic son.
Come_Back_Angel misses his pre-teen daughter, losing her after her third remission of
leukemia.
My family is in the living room, playing charades. Boys vs. Girls. My grandma is up to bat
and is writhing her hands around in a mysterious fashion. The girls are desperately attempting to decipher her obscure and unusual hand movements, but there are no leads.
In my head, I guess.
Four words: Elephant. In. The. Room. Sounds like, “Uncle Santa.” He would come every
year dressed in that stupid suit, sweating despite the cold outside. My little brother and sister loved it. Maybe I was too old. It just didn’t feel right.
“What the fuck is it?” my mom screeches when the timer dings. She screeches, you see.
Grandma is exasperated, and puts her hand on her hips the way she does when she’s frustrated.
“Steel. Magnolias,” Grandma hisses, repeating the flowy movements of her hands again
as if now it would all make perfect sense. “Mother,” my mom huffs, the way that makes her shoulders rise and then fall. “How were we supposed to get ‘Steel Magnolias’ from that?”
“What’s a steel mag-nol-na?” my little sister asks.
No one says anything. It’s too close to verging on the topic of Him. My mom, instead,
turns to the boy’s team.
“Who picked that?” she spits.
All the boys look around. It wasn’t me, and I seriously doubt anyone else would be so
reckless.
“Well, I picked it,” Grandma says. “My Online Grief Support Group suggested it.”
It’s always said in its full entirety. Online Grief Support Group. Like the way you always
say a celebrity’s full name. 25
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
“Mom. That’s not how you play the game,” my mom says.
With family, there’s always something reminding someone of something. With so many
people over for Christmas, the family closet gets so full of skeletons that a few can’t help but to fall out.
Now the family is all there thinking about Him. The ghost. They’re all stewing in their
crushing sense of betrayal. Shock. Shame. Confusion.
It’s funny. You think you know someone, but really you don’t at all.
You think you know someone until they take over your room, forcing you to share a
room with your little brother. Because Uncle Santa isn’t making ends meet. He moved in about two years ago. After all, he was family. And that’s what families do.
You think you know what’s real until your Uncle Santa moves in, and you start to see
things. Of course, it’s easy to ignore at first. After all, you never really see much of anything. It’s never straight ahead. Just these little tickles in the peripherals of your vision.
I said nothing, because no one ever said anything either. It’s not exactly table talk, you
know. You can’t just say, “At night, I hear things. Like whistling, long but quiet. Like the AC wheezing. But sometimes, I swear, it sounds like singing. Maybe it’s just music playing from another room. You never can never really tell.”
I wasn’t really scared until Uncle Santa was babysitting one night. I’d thought I’d heard
something in the hall behind the couch that led to my uncle’s room. My old room. I looked back and had the vague idea that I had maybe seen a shape of something. But at that point, it was easy to talk myself out of having seen anything at all. But then my uncle said something to me.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
It was then that I stopped feeling crazy, and started feeling scared.
Let’s just say things were never normal having Santa for an uncle. At family events, it
was always “Ho, ho, ho!” this and “Merry Christmas!” that. It could be June, and Uncle Kris Kringle would pull jingle bells and mistletoe out of his pockets.
“For Christ’s sake,” my dad would say.
No, things were never normal.
After he started staying with us, I noticed things around the house would start moving
around. I would never actually see them being moved by whoever. It was just one moment, I’d be looking for socks in my drawer, and then the piggy bank would be facing a different direction. 26
December 23rd, 2016 Towards the wall, time-out style.
Then my toys would start disappearing. My brother and sister never noticed. They were too
small. But at my age, if you touched my toys, I would know. I would look around everywhere, in every corner of the house I could think to search. But the toys were just gone.
I was livid, but knew I should stay quiet. I silently mourned my lost toys. Didn’t whoever
took them know how much they meant to me? Didn’t they realize?
Let’s just say things were never normal. Never quiet. It could be nighttime, and my little
brother would be fast asleep. But I was awake. I would hear.
“Why don’t you get a real job?” my mom would scream at my uncle from the living
room. My mom had this wildness in her voice whenever she got that mad.
“I have a real job!” Uncle Santa would scream back. This would happen often. It would
be late when Uncle Santa got home from the mall. Or maybe from the bars. One could never be sure.
I would sit in bed and listen. Not like I had a choice. I just remember the way the light
under my door would be this beacon until Uncle Santa would walk by. His big, Army-grade boots would stomp past, sometimes even stopping at the door. Those boots would eclipse the light, but only for a moment. Then he would shuffle off to his room. My old room. No, things were never quiet. Not awake. Not asleep.
A few months into Uncle Santa staying with us, I began having these night terrors. That’s
what the Internet called them when my parents searched what was wrong with me. With the Internet, everyone is a doctor.
Night terrors are the grand poobah of nightmares. When you wake up from nightmares,
you’re just scared. Shaken. When you wake up from night terrors, you’re screaming. You’re thrashing.
No, things were never quiet.
The thing about night terrors is that you never really remember what they were about.
Sometimes you don’t even know you had one until you wake up with your parents at the foot of your bed with that concerned look in their eyes. Maybe they even have a few scratch marks from when you lashed out at them with your fingers arched tight like claws. Maybe they’ll have bruises. Maybe you’ll have bruises too. You know, from the thrashing. You never can tell with night terrors.
I never told my parents that there were things I remembered from these episodes. There’s 27
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS just some things you never really tell anyone about.
From these night terrors, I remember a boy. There might have been lots of boys. Girls
too. But I remember one distinctly. He was always wearing one of those god-awful Christmas sweaters. The kind with jingle bells sewed on. This kid’s sweater had this hand-painted Rudolph on it, the nose this red puffball. And his name in green, pop-up craft paint. Ben.
His stupid sweater would jingle as he cracked open the door to my room. I would see
his silhouette in the doorway, red puffball and everything. I would throw the covers over my head, but I knew he was still there. I could hear the bells.
I would hear those bells as this boy stepped closer, very slowly. Step, jingle, pause. This
would go on forever--this step, jingle, pausing--up until the moment I would hear this soft voice sing from the other side of the sheet.
“You better watch out ...”
I could see nothing through the covers, my shield. It was too busy, the layers and layers
of blanket and sheets covered in stripes and cartoon bears.
“You better not cry …”
This is when I would shut my eyes real tight.
“You better not pout, I’m telling you why …”
This is just a dream, I told myself. Just a night terror. Like the Internet said.
The room would grow quiet, but I wouldn't move from beneath my sheet. I barely dared
to breathe. After what seemed like hours had passed, I would slowly take the sheet from my face. I would look around the room, and there he was. Stuffed into the far corner of the room, in the shadows. His white, shaking hand would be pointing. I’d follow the point of his pale finger, and look towards the open door. Nothing. I would look towards the corner, but the boy wouldn’t be there anymore. No, he’d be much closer, right by the edge of the bed.
So close, I could see everything.
That is when I would start screaming.
With night terrors, you usually can’t wake the child. And even then, you’re not supposed
to. The parents have to wait patiently at the foot of the bed while their child is trapped in their own mind of nightmarish things. Like a prison. Like hell.
With night terrors, the child wakes up confused. My eyes would open, and I’d see my
parents scrambling into the room. My eyes were open and I was awake, but my mouth would still be screaming without my permission. I didn’t know why. Just that lingering hint of a familiar 28
December 23rd, 2016 song.
These night terrors continued for months, the bags under my eyes growing darker and
darker with each passing night. It got so bad, they had to move my brother into my sister’s room. At bedtime, I would sob to my parents.
“Please,” I’d beg. “Don’t make me go to sleep.”
But whether I fought it or not, the dreams would come. I was beginning to look tired
all the time. Sick, the way Uncle Santa would look after coming home from the mall, his lap sore from the masses of screaming children. Some kicking. Others pinching and grabbing at his fake beard, making the elastic snap on the soft skin under his jaw.
Sometimes, he would come home smelling like alcohol. Sometimes, he’d come home
in the full outfit. You know, the one with the red velvet. The one with the white-fur trim all clumped from over-usage. From the plump, dirty fingers of children grabbing at the stuff.
“You can’t come home in the suit,” my mom would fuss. But sometimes he did it anyway.
My mom was always telling Uncle Santa what to do.
“You should find a nice wife,” she’d say.
“Go back to school. Get a degree.”
“Do something with yourself!”
Conversations like these could go on for hours.
Let’s just say things were never normal having Santa for an uncle. There were nights when
he wouldn’t come home.
“I don’t know where he goes,” my mother would say.
“He doesn’t have any money.”
She has this way of always emphasizing one word in all of her sentences. He doesn’t have
any money. I don’t know where he goes. It was all very accusing. All very suspicious. All very finger-pointing.
I heard my dad on the phone one day with one of his old college buddies.
“Yeah, you heard me,” my dad said. “He’s a mall-Santa.”
The way he said “mall-Santa” was the same way he said “democrat.”
Let’s just say living with Uncle Santa was always weird. I never felt like I could be bad, or
else I wouldn’t get any presents that year. Not that I thought he was the real Santa or anything. But I sure wasn't going to roll the dice on that one. A lump of coal in my stocking didn’t seem worth the risk. 29
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
I wouldn’t say living with Uncle Santa was all that appealing.
After all, he had taken over my room. And after that, the door was always closed tight. Out of bounds. Do-Not-Enter.
I imagined that rent-a-suit draped on a plastic hanger, just occupying my closet. Encroaching
on my space. I remember standing outside my own door, wanting to go inside. I wondered if he had that list in there somewhere. You know, the one he’s always checking twice. There was one day, towards the end, when I felt adventurous. Uncle Santa was at work, even though I heard my parents say that he had never really worked a day in his whole life. My mom was on the phone in the kitchen, my dad watching some football game on a TV so big, it almost filled up an entire wall of our living room.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take, mom,” I heard my mother say, cracking
open one of those silver cans of diet-something or other.
I found myself in the hallway, in front of Uncle Santa’s door. My door. I opened it, the
familiar way I used to before it became his room. Once inside, I shut the door behind me. I sat there in the dark, trying to decide if the room had always smelled so stale.
I started to open the dresser drawers, from the top-downward. It was mostly the usual
sort of stuff. Tighty-whities in clumped bundles. Socks in different shades of stained. Blue jeans, faded and dingy. Old, white t-shirts.
It wasn’t until the bottom drawer that I found the list. You know, the one he checks
twice. It was neatly folded, just this plain piece of notebook paper. The edges were still torn from when Uncle Santa had ripped it from the spiral.
I unfolded it, revealing a list of names in Uncle Santa’s writing—that “chicken-shit,
chicken-scratch” as my grandma called it sometimes after a few too many glasses of wine. You know, the white kind that comes in a box.
Beside each name, he had written “NAUGHTY.” Not a single kid had been marked as
“nice.”
I remember seeing my mom’s name on there with a roughly scratched “NAUGHTY”
beside it. My name was on there too.
By the time I heard the door to my old room open, it was too late to stuff the piece of
paper back into its place. The hall light revealed the silhouette of Father Christmas in full-gear, standing like a colossus in the frame of the door. 30
“What are you doing in here?” Uncle Santa barked. With those big boots, he stomped
December 23rd, 2016 towards me and grabbed both sides of my arms, lifting me up from off the floor. Once I was on my feet, he yanked the list from my hands and crammed it into his velvety, red pocket. You know, the one with the white trim.
“I’m going to tell your mom you were snooping,” he told me, only inches from my face.
His breath was hot and sour, the kind of smell that makes you nauseous. The kind of nauseous you are when you’re sitting over a toilet trying not to throw up, but you know you’re gonna.
“No! Please. Don’t,” I beg. He never did tell on me. Just stared for a second, and then
released his grip on my arms. Where his hands were, my skin was white. Devoid of blood and color. Just these two massive handprints. Like a finger-painting accident. The hand-marks disappeared before dinner. I was glad, because I didn’t want my mom asking questions and figuring out I had been snooping.
No, nothing was ever normal having Santa for an uncle. But I was still excited when
my siblings and I got out of school for Christmas break. There wasn’t any snow. There never was. But it still felt like Christmas. My dad had put up these lights on our house that made the place look like a landing strip. My favorite was the Christmas tree you could see from the street, peering out from one of the bigger front windows.
“It was decorated by the kids,” my mom would tell anyone who entered within a certain
proximity of our house. Uncle Santa wasn’t there when we put up the tree, even though mom had told him he better be. “Or else!” she had said. But I never did find out what “or else” really meant. ***
Despite the holiday season, the night terrors grew worse. I got less and less sleep, but it
seemed as if that didn’t even matter anymore, because the children in my dreams were always there. Out of focus, but there. No one else ever saw them. Or, if they did, they never said anything.
“Who broke my one good ornament?” my mom would yell, standing over just another
pile of colorful glass shards.
No, things were never quiet. Especially not with Christmas just around the corner.
Especially not with the night terrors.
It was Christmas Eve, and Uncle Santa wasn’t home all day or all night. It was his busy
time, after all.
“Santa must be busy getting all those toys ready,” my mom said. 31
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
That night, all of us kids practically fought each other to be the first to bed, so eager
to fall asleep, awaiting the promised dreams of sugarplums dancing in our heads. Whatever sugarplums are.
But on that Christmas Eve night, long after my brother and sister has gone to bed, I
cried to my parents. The dreams had only been getting worse, with that awful boy in the room singing and jingling in the puffball sweater. But they tucked me into bed anyway.
“Or Santa won’t come,” they said.
But as they left, the scene was all too familiar.
“You better watch out …”
And me—under the sheets, the ones with the stripes and the bears.
“You better not cry …”
I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t stop it from happening.
“You better not pout, I’m telling you why …”
Then came the long silence, and the suffocating heat of my own breath under those sheets,
so hot I couldn’t stand it for one more second. I pulled the sheets down, and he was right there at the edge of my bed. All he could say was, “Please no,” over and over again.
I didn’t wake up screaming that night. I never woke up all, because I’m not sure if I ever
really fell asleep. I just remember my brother sneaking into my room later that morning in the way he always does on Christmas mornings.
“Santa came,” he would whisper. And the whole Christmas-morning ritual would begin,
like always. As was tradition.
But, remember, things were never normal. Not with Santa for an uncle.
My family and I gathered around the Christmas tree, tearing open present after present
with toys all boxed up inside. My parents looked tired, but happy-tired. Christmas-morningwith-kids tired.
Somewhere towards the end of the grand ungifting, that’s when Uncle Santa came home.
He stumbled through the front door, and we all watched in silence as he shuffled down the hallway to his room. My room.
“Why is Santa so tired?” my sister asked. My mom’s face was candy-cane red, her lips
pursed tight. “Because Santa must have been delivering toys all night,” my dad told her, and we resumed digging back into the remaining pile of gifts. 32
December 23rd, 2016 But from the front door, there arose such a clatter, like three booms of thunder that made the homemade trinkets on the tree shiver.
“It’s the police!” a voice announced, and before my parents could move, the door was
bust open. There was that sound of wood splitting, and that moment when everyone’s thinking,
Well, we won’t be able to fix that with glue. It’s then that we hear the caroling of sirens from outside the hearth of our broken, front door. It’s then that we see the red and blue flash of police lights on our curtains. It was funny the way they looked like just another string of Christmas lights illuminating our house from the outside in.
My mother screamed, but instinctively grabbed my brother and sister close. My father
stood, sectioning the family off from the slew of police pouring into our house. They were fat, like Santa, from their puffy, black vests.
“Where is he?” one of them screamed at us, and I just pointed down the hall to my old
door, where they flowed as one, single unit. Sitting amongst the ripped flesh of our once beautiful presents, my family and I heard the sound of another door being broken open. There was more yelling, and then the sound of glass breaking. There was the choir of sirens still screaming just outside. There was my mother crying. And I just stood there, pointing down the hall, because what else could I do?
That's when we heard the gunshots. ***
No, nothing was ever normal having Santa as an uncle.
When the dust settled and the paramedics wheeled a big, black sack out on a gurney,
that’s when the police brought us downtown. They said “downtown,” but they really meant “to the police station.”
“No, you can’t bring your toys,” my mother told us.
They talked to her first. Then my dad. Then all the kids. They brought us these toys, these
little dolls, but we didn’t know what to do with them. They asked us to point, but we didn’t.
My mom said nothing. Just cried.
They recited some names from a list.
“Alecia Bennett? Mariah Gonzales? Desmond Carr?”
My parents shook their heads. They just kept saying name after name.
“Zachary O’Connor? Alexandra Bolton? Tommy Stein?”
My parents shook their heads. My mom kept on crying. 33
SHOTGUN HORROR CLIPS
“Destiny Harmon? Elizabeth Koolman? Benjamin Catron?”
When they finally said my mom’s name, she cried even harder. But not as hard as when
they said mine. ***
And even now, a year later, as my family is playing charades, as grandma takes another
turn, as grandpa drinks his bourbon straight, I see pictures of a young Uncle Santa peeking at me from the golden frames on the wall.
Right next to the tree—you know, the one with the homemade ornaments—the radio
is playing. It’s been playing continuous Christmas music since the day after Thanksgiving.
“You better watch out …”
That song comes on as grandma takes another turn at charades. And what is that she’s
doing with her hands? Oh. Movie. Six words.
“You better not cry …”
First word. Two syllables.
“You better not pout, I’m telling you why …”
The night terrors stopped. Not right away. Not after Uncle Santa died. But after they
found those bodies of his. My parents didn’t tell me this. I overheard.
“Santa Claus is coming t—”
I stand, and turn the radio off. The orange, glowing screen of the radio fades to a dull
grey, and I go back to charades.
34
Sounds like …
December 23rd, 2016
The Fine Print: Shotgun Horror Clips, A Horror Fiction Magazine. ISSN Forthcoming. Vol. 1 No. 6, Whole Number 006. December 23, 2016. Published Bi-Monthly, unless otherwise stated on our website: www.deadlightsmagazine.com/deadlights-shotgun-horror-clips/. Shotgun Horror Clips is a free production of DeadLights Horror Fiction Magazine, trademark pending, ToBoldlyGo LLC. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without expressed permission is prohibited, except by the contributing authors and artists in regards to their original or reprinted works, to which said rights belong. To make a submission to this, or any other publication of ours, please visit our website: www. deadlightsmagazine.com, or email us at deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com Shotgun Horror Clips
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