The December Awethology - Dark Volume

  The December Awethology

  The Dark Volume

  An Anthology of December Themed Dark Stories from the #Awethors

  Copyright 2015 The #Awethors Group

  http://www.awethors.com/

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in

  writing from all the authors in the #Awethor

  Anthology, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Acknowledgements

  Without the following people giving up their spare time and expertise this anthology would not have been possible:

  Proofreaders: Anita Kovacevic, CK Dawn, Christie Stratos, JB Taylor, LE Fitzpatrick Rebecca McCray,

  Ryan Guy, and Travis West

  Formatting: Claire Plaisted

  Management: Claire Plaisted, L E Fitzpatrick, and Rocky Rochford

  Publising Sponsored by

  Plaisted Pubishing House Ltd

  New Zealand

  The Awethors would also like to thank the continued support from all members in the group.

  Contents

  Foreword

  That Couple

  Jingle Jars

  A Christmas for Everyone

  The Christmas Assassin

  A Christmas Tale

  The Lamb's Gift

  Piece and Quiet

  Crimson Kisses on a Cold Winter's Night

  Critical Mass

  A Curmudgeons Christmas

  A Christmas Treat: Spicy and Sweet

  The Lament of Vienna

  Gifts Both Light and Dark

  Christmas Dreams

  To All a Good Night

  Christmas with no Atmosphere

  The Cake and the Kumiho

  The Naughty List

  Seven Years Bad Luck

  Afterword

  Biographies

  A Foreword from L E Fitzpatrick

  The Awethors are a group of talented and mostly undiscovered authors who gather online to host events and publish anthologies. We are spread throughout the world and cover a multitude of genres and writing styles, but we all have one thing in common; a passion for writing and literature.

  We started our project asking our members to come up with short stories, based around the theme of “December.” These could be Christmas stories, Hanukah stories, bah humbug stories – anything as long as it was set in the month of December. With such a diverse group all of our compilations appeal to a wide range of readers, but sometimes things get dark – really dark. And in a few cases worrying. These are the stories I had to pull from the December Awethology. Stories that are too dark for those warm Christmas nights. Stories that will give you winter worries and icy chills.

  These stories are deliciously sinister, twisted, sometimes funny and in most cases quite disturbing. Above all else, as you would expect, they are awesome!

  So if you’re looking for a really terrifying nightmare before Christmas, on behalf of all of all of the Awethors,

  Happy Reading

  L E Fitzpatrick

  Author of paranormal thriller The Running Game

  and compiler of the December Awethologies

  That Couple

  Jack Croxall

  That Couple

  That couple in the hospital, the boy’s arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulder. He’s speaking Korean, I think. I can’t understand what he’s saying, but I know what he’s telling her: It will be okay, I'm here, I love you.

  I'm here too though, sitting beside the waiting room window. I came in with the draft, the other patients shivered when I entered.

  But that couple.

  They’re sitting across the room. The girl is crying now, nodding at everything the boy whispers to her. She’s trying, but it’s bad. It’s sad to see, even after all this time.

  Christmas isn't far, she might just make it. The boy might even remember it. He might spare a moment in Christmases to come when he’s with his new family, an instant to think of the girl. His eyes might even sting as he pictures her face. I hope he does remember her.

  I’ll take her soon.

  Jingle Jars

  Jennifer Deese

  This storm had to be the worst Christmas weather of the century. Sid was coming to terms with the idea that he may freeze to death in the whiteout when suddenly he stumbled into the wall of a structure. Keeping one hand on the wall he followed it to a door. Pulling against the drifted snow to open it he felt his limbs freezing; it took all he had to get it open enough to squeeze inside. Shutting the door against the elements, Sid found himself surrounded by an inky darkness.

  Sliding to the floor he strained to see something...anything but his eyelids were heavy and his mind befuddled. He had been lost in the storm for hours. His last thought before falling into an exhausted slumber was that it was odd to hear bells jingling in the space around him. As he pondered this his head slumped and he slept.

  Hours later, Sid woke with a gasp. For a moment he thought he was dead and this black void was Hell. Fumbling in his backpack his frozen hands found the flashlight. The beam of light cut through the darkness enough that Sid could see a fireplace across the room; a small pile of wood nearby. He forced his numb hands to search his pack for the matches he knew were there. Matches in hand, he crawled to the fireplace and with the wood, and some paper he found he managed to start a fire. Blowing the flame higher he heard, again, bells jingling. Sid thought his head was playing tricks on him...hypothermia maybe?

  He was stranded alone in an abandoned cabin. Why would there be jingle bells?

  As the fire began to throw off a minute amount of heat, Sid cast the flashlight beam around the room. The cabin had been abandoned for quite some time, that was obvious. His eye caught a glimmer from the other side of the room. Struggling to stand, he walked over to the glimmer. As he got closer he could make out a wall of jars. They were dusty and covered in old cobwebs but it was indeed a wall of jars. Through the grime he could make out lettering on them and he could see that some contained powders or sand. They were all filled; some full, some partially filled while others were empty. The dust made it hard in this light for him to discern any words on the old labels. Sid could feel the cold begin to seize up his limbs again and returned to the fire.

  As he huddled before the weak warmth he pulled some photos from his bag. Each photo a reminder of Christmas Eves past. His breath quickened as the familiar sense of excitement settled over him.

  Running an icy finger across the images he closed his eyes and reminisced. Sid could recall each and every one of those Christmas Eves, his special celebrations to pay homage to the Yuletide season. The most recent was from earlier in the day. He had really enjoyed those festivities. It had been one of his best Christmas activities to date. Oh what joy they had brought him; his own kind of joy. Flicking through the pictures, he relived each one and again he heard the mystery jingling sound.

  The noise filled the room with a crescendo of sound that put him on edge. He turned his head from one side to the other searching for the source. He dropped the photos on the floor next to him as he realized, with a bit of a start, that the sound, that damned noise, was coming from the wall of jars. They were jingling! His first thought was that the wind had found entry into the cabin and was rattling them, causing them to sound like jingle bells. Then he noticed that there was no wind outside. The storm, though still dropping a ton of snow, had lost its fierce wind. The
hairs on his neck stood up, and if you knew Sid you would know that nothing stood his hair on end.

  As he stood staring at the jars and covering his ears to the near deafening jingle, the door burst open. A flurry of snowflakes and a draft blew in around him as his fire sputtered and died. His flashlight was dimming as he swept the beam toward the door. All he could see was whiteness outside the cabin and a deep eerie silence fell over everything.

  Sid could sense the arrival of something. Suddenly he began to make out a shape approaching in the distance through the open door. As he strained to decipher what was approaching he caught the scent of sulphur and rot. The odor grew stronger as the shape in the swirling snow drew closer. Sid felt his heart quicken as his senses told him something about this was all wrong. As he watched, frozen in place, he saw that the quickly approaching figure was adorned in what looked to be a very tattered and dirty Santa Claus outfit.

  “What the hell!” Sid thought to himself as the figure stepped onto the porch and stood face to face with him. The stink was even more intense and the man's eyes were obsidian black. Sid stepped back as the man came through the door and shut it behind him. The noise from the jingling jars abruptly stopped.

  Sid knew he was in the presence of something sinister, dark and evil, and in a rare moment of honest introspection he almost wished things had been different in his life, normal even. He watched, frozen in place, as the Santa clad demon walked to the wall of jars. With his heart pounding Sid asked, “Who are you?”

  Smiling demonically, the visitor ran his dirty, clawed fingers along the jars, causing them to jingle eerily in the dead silence. Sid could feel the noise deep in his brain. It caused a blinding pain that brought him to his knees next to the dead fire. He felt his body wanting to give in, wanting to shroud him in the promise of death, but he wanted to live!

  As the thought of asking for redemption ran across his mind the demon turned toward him and whispered, “Tssk Tssk, my loyal human, I'm here to show you your jars, your jingling jars.”

  Sid had no idea what this thing, this demon meant. His Jars? This Christmas Eve had started out just like so many others. His special celebrations for the holiday had gone just as planned until he had gotten caught in the storm and ended up in this cabin. Now here he was face to face with evil. Why?

  He watched as the demon walked to the wall of jars causing them to jingle at an unbearable volume. Just as he thought his eardrums would burst it stopped and the entity picked up another jar. With his gnarled hand he swept the dust away. Cackling maniacally he hissed, “Chances.” Menacingly he spoke. “This jar is empty.No more chances for you, Sid. You chose your twisted path.”

  With fear settling over his body, Sid sank to the floor as the demon replaced the jar. The jingling began again as he walked the wall, fingers trailing along their surfaces. Sids’ body got rigid as the icy temperature bit his flesh. His vision was starting to blur. The demon grabbed another jar.

  “Compassion and sympathy”, he hissed through blackened lips. “In all of your Christmas festivities did you show compassion? Sympathy? Never! So we find another empty jar. No compassion, no sympathy. Your jars of bitterness, hate, and resentment overflow. The most important are empty.”

  The demon tossed a jar toward Sid and walked out into the night. With what would be his last breath Sid reached for it. Whispering the word on the label he felt remorse and wished that this particular jar was not empty.

  Christmas Day Headline News

  Holiday Hacker Found!!!

  In the early a.m. hours the body of the Holiday Hacker was found in an abandoned cabin. After twenty years of torturing, and dismembering women on Christmas Eve his reign of terror has come to a cold stop. A hunter found his frozen body inside a deserted cabin located about 100 yards from a main trail. Authorities presume the serial killer was caught in the storm and sought refuge there. His body was found lying next to a scattered stack of photos. The photos are being called trophies of his holiday kills. One of the photos was of the dismembered body of a woman found yesterday. Also found next to the Hacker’s body was an empty jar labeled TIME; something this prolific killer has run out of. We can now rest easy on future Christmas Eves knowing that the Holiday Hacker will kill no more.

  A Christmas for Everyone

  Rebecca P McCray

  Walter set the cane aside, shuffled over to the counter, and placed his plate next to the sink. Bracing himself against the cabinets, he made a few quick swipes with the sponge, then sat it in the strainer to dry. The cabinets were full of dishes, but all a sandwich required was a plate. No point in dirtying anything else, except a single knife, which he’d already cleaned.

  As he turned around, he held onto the counter for support. He grabbed the cane and returned to his comfortable chair by the bay window in the front room, Margaret’s favorite. When she’d become home-bound, she insisted they add it. At least she enjoyed it for a few years before cancer beat her.

  He settled into the recliner and flicked on the TV, since it was time for the news with that pretty little lady who always wore red. Red had been Margaret’s favorite color. A horn honked outside. Craning his neck to the side, he saw a family pile out of the car, waving at the house across the street. John and Ruth would have a houseful for Christmas. They’d decorated the tree in the main window nearly three weeks earlier.

  When had he last decorated? The last time Margaret had asked, perhaps. He plucked a red, paper napkin out of the holder on side table, folded it a couple of times, and set it by the lamp. That’ll do. As he pulled his hand away, his eyes rested on the family picture: he, Margaret, and Joe were all smiling. That was before Joe shipped out to Vietnam and before Margaret, sweet Margaret, became so ill. Life had been happy then, full of promise. Joe wanted to be a veterinarian like his old man and they had plans to go into practice together. After he’d opened a place, the news came through that Joe wasn’t coming home. He inhaled a shaky breath. He never took on a partner; how could he? The second office was Joe’s.

  A map came on the screen, so he turned up the volume. The blonde explained they might be in for a white Christmas. Well, that was great for Santa, but not so good for him. He was low on peanut butter and bread. Guess a trip to the store was in order. Pushing up from the chair, he checked to ensure he had his wallet, bundled up against the cold, and switched to his trusty walker for the trek to the corner mart.

  As he passed the wooden fence of the last property before the shopping center, a boy popped up, shoving his bare hands into baggy pockets. “Good morning, sir. Need any help in the store today?”

  The boy had been here a while back, then disappeared. Peering to the side, he wrinkled his nose at the dirty backpack leaning against the fence. The boy’s long-sleeve shirt was hardly enough clothing for such a chilly afternoon. What kind of parent let a kid out dressed like that. Back in his day, his father would have slapped him. He grumbled and trudged to the steps, taking his time to make sure the walker didn’t catch.

  After picking up the two items, he waited in line for the chatty register clerk. She’d ramble to him as soon as she could. He tried turning his hearing aid down once, but the blasted woman’s voice could wake the dead.

  As he neared the front, the manager walked over. “Kid is out there again. I thought the authorities were going to place him in a new home after his mother blitzed out on drugs.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Heard they tried, but he ran away. The kid’s been a handful since his father died in Iraq.

  “Just don’t need him loitering outside. Bad for business.” He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “If I call the police again, they may put him in jail and that’s no way to spend Christmas Eve. Let me know if he causes any trouble.”

  Walter paid for his items. The plastic bag pulled him to the right, but as long as he maneuvered carefully, he should be fine. As he angled the walker down the step, the end caught, and he pitched forward. An arm braced him across his chest as the walker clattered to the groun
d, the jar of peanut butter rolling across the sidewalk.

  “You okay?”

  He recognized the voice… and the foul scent.

  As the boy righted him, his sleeve pushed up, showing a long burn on his forearm. He tugged down the sleeve, then set the walker in front of Walter, before retrieving the food.

  “I’m fine. Just fine.” Heat rose in his cheeks.

  The boy wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. “I can walk you home.”

  “Just give me the bag. What, you think I’m helpless because I’m old?” He snatched the bag and steadied himself, then turned to leave. “Get a job. You’re old enough.”

  A rumbling started next to him and the boy rubbed his stomach. “I’ve tried,” he mumbled as Walter waddled away.

  After reaching the house without further incident, he unloaded the groceries and settled in to watch a game show—a ‘holiday’ edition. Why not just call it Christmas with the big tree and red bows? All this political correctness mumbo jumbo was ridiculous. Another horn honked outside. The Brewer’s daughter was home from college. She jumped out of the car and ran into her father’s bear hug.

  He smiled and looked around his drab room, then at the picture again, tears building in his eyes. Thinking back, he remembered the Christmas when they gave Joe his first bike. He had bounced off the walls with excitement. They’d gone riding that very day. He dabbed at his cheeks with the red napkin.

  As it neared dinnertime, he hoisted himself from the chair and made another sandwich. Leaning against the counter, he peeled and ate the last banana. Margaret used to put on a big spread for Christmas: turkey with all the fixings, broccoli casserole, and homemade mashed potatoes. He licked his lips, then looked at his sandwich. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?