Collected Christmas Horror Shorts (Collected Horror Shorts Book 1)

  Collected Christmas Horror Shorts

  Tales for a Terrifying Christmas

  Collected by Kevin J. Kennedy

  Collected Christmas Horror Shorts © 2016 Kevin J. Kennedy

  Collected by Kevin J. Kennedy

  Edited by Brandy Yassa

  Cover design by Lisa Vasquez

  Each story in this book has been published with the authors’ permission. They are all copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  First Printing, 2016

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Nev Murray

  Better Watch Out

  Willow Rose

  Tommy’s Christmas

  John R. Little

  Naughty or Nice

  Veronica Smith

  All Naughty, No Nice

  Michael A. Arnzen

  Slay Bells

  Weston Kincade

  Santa’s Midnight Feast

  J. L. Lane.

  The Christmas Spirit

  Lisa Morton

  Thy Will Be Done

  J. C. Michael

  Psychopath Remix

  J. C. Michael

  A Tome of Bill Christmas Carol

  Rick Gualtieri

  Christmas Market

  Amy Cross

  Deck the Halls

  Xtina Marie

  Merry Fuckin’ Christmas

  Kevin J. Kennedy

  Santa Came

  Peter Oliver Wonder

  Hung With Care

  Ty Schwamberger

  Killing Christmas

  Andrew Lennon

  A Disappointed Shade of Blue

  C.S. Anderson

  The Present

  Israel Finn

  Christmas Carole

  Lisa Vasquez

  Stuffed Pig

  Steven Murray

  The Last Christmas Dinner

  Christina Bergling

  The Veil

  Rose Garnett

  The Night Before Christmas

  Suzanne Fox

  In The Bag

  Tim Curran

  Foreword

  By

  Nev Murray

  “It’s the most wonderful time, of the year.” – Andy Williams

  “I’ve got all the company I need, right here!” – The Grinch

  Christmas eh? In my experience, people fall into one of the two categories above. Oh, you didn’t realise they were categories? Well let’s face it, you either love it or hate it. I don’t think there is any in between.

  There are people who start planning for Christmas from last year’s Christmas. They love everything about it. Absolutely everything. These people fall under the Andy Williams category.

  Then you have the people who hate it. They hate everything it stands for and would like nothing better than to poke the Andy Williams people with a big shitty stick. These people fall under the Grinch category.

  Which do you come under? I know where my loyalties lie.

  I used to love Christmas. Well, one part of it in particular. It involved presents. Now, before you think I am materialistic in nature, I’m not. There was always one present I looked forward to every year. I would say it came from my parents but my Dad had nothing to do with it. It was all down to my Mum. I know this because of what it was. I always got my main presents but as well as being delighted with whatever the main present was, I was always secretly looking for one of the smaller ones.

  It was a very modest thing. Not the latest craze and nothing overly expensive. It was quite simply, a book.

  Every year my Mum would buy me a nice big hard back book. I never knew what it would be, only that it would be something that was just out, so I had to be careful with what I bought in the run up to December. She knew I was a horror freak so it was always something scary. I honestly don’t know how she knew which one to get because she was a Mills and Boon woman and knew nothing of horror. She always managed to pull it off, though. I knew it was her alone that picked it because my Dad would have nothing to do with those evil horror books. That’s a story for another day, however.

  So, Christmas used to be wonderful. Every year I would get excited about opening that book to see what I got. Then, one year, all my Christmases came crashing down around me, in one rip of that tacky wrapping paper. It was the first year I had ever cried upon opening a present. It wasn’t a flood of tears of joy, oh no, it was a rampaging torrent of tears of absolute terror and sheer hell.

  It was still a book, but, I can hardly bring myself to tell you, it wasn’t the latest James Herbert or Shaun Hutson or Graham Masterton. It wasn’t even horror. My mother, had bought me, deep breath, The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown!

  What the actual f……. I looked up at my Mum and she saw my tears. She started crying. She thought I was so ecstatic. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she may as well have went out into the street and picked up the nearest lump of dog mess and wrapped it for me instead. The fact that I didn’t get my yearly horror book was horrific in itself.

  From that day forward I threw off my Andy Williams jumper and painted myself Grinch Green!

  But what has that got to do with the book you now hold in your hands I imagine you are asking? If you’re not, I will tell you anyway.

  I have never been able to get into the Christmas spirit since that experience. You see Christmas is about being nice, and friendly and singing and pulling crackers and garish jumpers. I hate all that. I just want to sit in the corner and read a book, so I always see Christmas as boring.

  I love reading a good anthology at Halloween because that’s when you get the best collections of horror stories. It’s the time of year that weirdos like me actually fit in. Not Christmas. I mean how can you make an anthology of Christmas horror stories that will be genuine horror? Seriously? It doesn’t fit, does it? Christmas is jolly and nice, not evil and nasty.

  Or is it?

  Enter Mr. Kevin J. Kennedy. He mentioned to me a while ago that he was planning on putting together a Christmas horror collection. My initial reaction to that was good luck mate, although I didn’t tell him that, of course. To me, it just doesn’t scream ‘scary theme’ for a horror book. He persevered though, and the result of his labours is now in your hands. I’m just sorry you have to read my ramblings before you get to the stories.

  There is one simple reason for this: Mr. Kennedy has pulled together a collection of stories that has given me my scary Christmas back. I feel that, for the first time in about thirty years, I can smile again at Christmas.

  The stories you are about to read are a mixture of tales that will make the ‘Andy Williams’ ones amongst you poop your pants and make you rethink everything you thought about Christmas. A cheery time of year for all to enjoy? Think again. Everything you ever believed about Christmas is going to be turned on its head and left there to think about what it’s done, like the stereotypical naughty child.

  For those of you in the Grinch camp, you will just want to lock yourself away in your own little world with your own little thoughts because they will not be as scary as reading some of the sto
ries within these covers.

  The big friendly fat guy with the beard? Turns out he may not be so friendly. Turns out he may not be anything like you would have wished. The term polar opposites springs to mind.

  The wonderful sights and sounds of the Christmas Market you go to every year? Forget it. Once you read this book you will do all of your shopping on line. Sod the egg nog and sod the wonderful winter smells you get when you venture out in December. Stay indoors or the only thing you may be smelling is the coppery tang of blood. Masses of blood.

  Those beautiful Christmas songs that you hear every year? With a subtle twist and a little change of the lyrics, their possible true meaning comes out and they will never sound the same again.

  You know the extra roll of bin bags (trash bags for you American types) that you buy every year to cope with the enormous amounts of rubbish you accumulate? Switch them for body bags.

  Christmas being the time of year to spread happiness and joy? Forget it. For some people Christmas brings so much pain and misery that they feel they must share it with others. For revenge.

  Have you got the picture?

  What you hold in your hands is, indeed, a celebration of Christmas. The alternative Christmas. The Christmas that all us horror freaks dream of. We can be happy people, but we are at our happiest when we read about all the nasty, gory, sadistic, horrifying scary stuff.

  Kevin Kennedy and the host of authors who have contributed to this collection have made sure that for those of us who have darker tendencies, we can learn to love Christmas again.

  I finally forgive you, Mum. Thanks to Kev.

  Nev Murray.

  November 2016

  Confessions of a Reviewer

  Scream Magazine

  Better Watch Out

  By

  Willow Rose

  1.

  "I guess I have always been afraid of Santa."

  The man in the chair in front of Sara is sitting up almost too straight. It looks awkward. Unpleasant. She's guessing he's as uncomfortable with this situation as she is. Doctor Hahn doesn't look up from his notepad, which is leaning on his knee as he talks to her.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. It was sort of my thing growing up. Other kids were scared of the dark, or monsters, or clowns. For me, it was always Santa."

  "Really," he repeats, this time more as a statement than a question.

  "Yes. Really. I mean, what's not to be afraid of? He's creepy. He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. That's really scary. Don't you think?"

  She knows it will be an uphill battle with this guy, but she needs him to understand where she is coming from. She doesn't need him to judge her or even look at her the way he is right at this moment.

  "And why do you think you feel that way?" he asks with a deep sigh, as his eyes return to the notepad.

  "I guess it started when I was eight. The first memory I have of Santa is from when my mom took me to the mall; you know Merritt Square Mall on Merritt Island…?"

  "I know that mall, yes."

  "Well then you probably know that every year, they—like most malls—have a Christmas exhibit where you can meet Santa. And that year my mom decided to take me. Well, that's not exactly true. She decided we should go Christmas shopping, and then I saw the exhibit with Santa and his elves up on the big stage and started to beg her to let me go sit on his lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas."

  "Like most kids do."

  "Yes. Exactly."

  "So you weren't afraid up until then?"

  "No. But I have no memories of any Santa in my life earlier than that."

  "You never saw him at your house? You never accidentally snuck out and saw him eat the cookies and drink the milk?"

  "No. I was always sleeping, I guess."

  "Okay. Let's get back on track. So, you got in line, and then what happened?"

  Sara sighs. She really doesn't feel like telling this story, but she has to. She needs to.

  "I got in line and waited for a very long time till it was my turn. It took maybe half an hour and I was dying of excitement. I wanted to tell Santa how much I wanted a Gameboy. My brother got one the year before and I wanted one so badly. It was like the biggest thing back then…"

  Dr. Hahn clears his throat.

  "I’m sorry; I’m rambling," Sara says. "I do that sometimes. I'll get to the point."

  "Please do."

  "When it was finally my turn, I walked to the man in the big red suit, my stomach exploding in butterflies, and sat in his lap."

  Sara pauses. She sucks in air between her teeth and prepares herself to go back to that day, even though she doesn't want to...even though it scares the crap out of her.

  2.

  Ho. Ho. Ho. So, what do you want for Christmas, little girl?

  "The words and the laugh were both perfectly normal for a Santa, and everything about the situation was familiar and seemingly very innocent. I started to talk, to tell him about my brother and how he has a Gameboy, and how my parents say they can't afford one this year and I am really upset about that, and that's when I see it."

  "See what?"

  "His fingers."

  "What's wrong with his fingers?"

  Sara wrinkles her nose in disgust. "He had these…these long nails. I noticed them when his fingers were drumming on his thigh. They were crooked and pointy and brown and so…so long."

  Dr. Hahn shrugs. "What's wrong with that? Isn't he allowed to have long nails?"

  "Yes, of course, but there were other things as well and, curious as I was, I asked him about them. I asked, ‘But, Santa, what long nails you have?’

  “And then he replied, ‘That's to better be able to scratch myself on the back when it itches.’

  “Then I said, ‘But, Santa, what red eyes you have!’

  “And he answered, ‘That's because I work so hard around Christmas and don't get enough sleep.’

  “So then I said, ‘But, Santa, what long teeth you have and pointy as well and…and…and what is that in your white beard? It looks like blood!’"

  "Blood?" Dr. Hahn asks and looks up from his pad.

  "Yes, blood. There was blood in his beard."

  Dr. Hahn shrugs again. "So maybe he bit himself or something. What happened next?"

  "He told me to go back to my parents. My mom said I was shaking when I got back to her. She didn't believe me, of course, and told me I was being silly."

  "It does sound like you exaggerated a little or let your imagination get the better of you," Dr. Hahn said dismissively. "As children tend to do."

  "That's what my mom said, but it gets worse. A lot worse. I’m not done with my story."

  "How so?"

  "That Christmas night, I snuck downstairs when I heard a noise, and I saw him. In my living room."

  "Was he kissing your mom?" Dr. Hahn asks with a chuckle.

  Sara ignores his remark.

  "I saw those…those long dirty nails sticking out from his sleeves. I was terrified of him and ran back to my room and shut the door. Panting, I leaned my ear against the door and listened. My parents slept in their room downstairs, so I couldn't get to them. I heard steps on the stairs and, at one point, I think he was right outside my door, because I could hear his heavy breathing behind it. It was almost like a wheezing."

  "Maybe he was out of breath from the stairs," Dr. Hahn says, still sounding amused. "He is quite heavy."

  "Later, the breathing disappeared and it all went quiet. When I thought it was safe, I opened the door and snuck into the hallway, my feet quiet across the thick carpet. I walked to my brother's room, where the door was left ajar. I pushed it open and looked inside; that's when I saw it: there he was… Santa bent over my brother's bed.

  “‘Santa?’ I exclaimed.

  “And that's when he turned his head and looked straight at me, smiling from ear to ear, showing me his pointy teeth. They were covered in blood. My brother's blood."

  3.

 
"It says here in your file that your brother was found dead in his bed on Christmas morning, 1992. It says nothing here about blood. There was no obvious cause. They concluded it had to be Sudden Infant Death Syndrome."

  "But he was five, doctor. He was no infant. Santa killed him," Sara says and lifts her head up from the couch.

  "So you claimed, even back then when you were questioned about it by the police."

  "Here we go again," she says and rolls her eyes. "All of my life I have had to live with this. Everyone believed I had done it. The kids and teachers at school, the doctors, the police. Even my parents believed I had somehow killed my brother. Just because I was in the room. Just because my parents found me there, bent over his dead body."

  "Well, you were awfully jealous of him, weren't you?" Dr. Hahn asks. "You said so just before when you mentioned he had gotten a Gameboy and you didn't."

  "Who wouldn't be jealous? He was always their favorite. Three years younger than me and he gets a Gameboy when it was my biggest wish. Of course I was jealous!”

  "So it is safe to say you resented him for being favored?" Dr. Hahn concludes, taking off his glasses.

  "I know what you're getting at," Sara says. "Not falling for it. Santa killed my brother. End of story."

  "Except it’s not, is it? The end of the story?"

  Sara sighs and leans her head back on the couch. "No, it's not."

  "Tell me the rest."

  "Okay. Well, after the death of my brother, I developed a fear of Santa and dreaded every year when Christmas came around and he was everywhere. When I was sixteen, I met a boy I soon started to date. Rob was his name, and he was gorgeous: captain of the lacrosse team and tall and handsome. He was perfect; even had good grades. And he loved hanging out with me. It wasn’t easy getting the boys to like me when my nickname was Sara the Slaughterer, and when everyone thinks I killed my own baby brother. But with Rob it was different. I met him at my high school, Merritt Island High. He was new in town and he didn't know those old stories; luckily for me. Then that year, when December came along, we were out for a walk in the park with my dog, Scotty. It was almost sunset and it was getting darker as we walked and talked about our future and how it would be awesome to live closer to the beach, maybe in Cocoa Beach on the canal one day; you know, buy one of those houses that are so close to the beach that you can ride your bike there or walk. Anyway, there we were, walking, chatting, and laughing when suddenly I spotted something between the trees-something red. I stopped and pointed, my hand trembling.