A VERY SCARY CHRISTMAS
by
O. Penn-Coughin
Published by You Come Too Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 O. Penn-Coughin
YOU COME TOO PUBLISHING
Introduction
A Very Scary Christmas attempts to bring together a few of my favorite things: Halloween and Christmas.
If the ghost of John Lennon were here, he’d tell you that the world would be a better place if scary stories, good will toward men, free candy, and peace on earth could just get along. And he would be right.
Like the stories in the entire They’re Coming For You: Scary Stories that Scream to be Read series, these tales can be read out loud. (Instructions are included.) Some end with a scream. So, if you are sharing them with someone else, cut loose when you see an AAAAH! And if you should find yourself alone on a silent night, treat yourself. Go ahead and scream, too.
All right then. Scary Christmas to all, and to all a good fright.
AAAAH!
O. Penn-Coughin
The South Pole
TOMBSTONE OF CONTENTS
A VERY SCARY CHRISTMAS… 17 brand-new holiday stocking stuffers
WINTER NIGHTMARES… 15 chilling tales (stories with an icy theme collected from the first six volumes of They’re Coming For You: Scary Stories that Scream to be Read)
A GIFT… A special present for fans of O. Penn-Coughin
Frosty was gone. All that was left of the jolly snowman was a corncob pipe, a button, two lumps of coal, an old silk hat, and a sad puddle of water.
“I’ll save you, Frosty,” Karen said through her sobs. “I’ll save you.”
But first she needed something to put the melted snow in.
The hat, she thought.
Then she took off a sock and used it to soak up the water. She held it over the hat and wrung it dry. She repeated this more than a hundred times until there wasn’t a single drop left.
Karen raced home and transferred the contents of the hat into a plastic water bottle. Then she labeled it Frosty.
“I’ll bring you back to life on the first cold day,” she whispered as she put the bottle in the back of the freezer. “I promise.”
As it turned out that wasn’t until mid-January.
“The weatherman says it’s going to snow tomorrow,” Karen’s mom said.
“Yippie!” Karen shouted.
She went to the refrigerator and took out the water bottle. The ice inside looked dark and murky.
The next day it snowed so much they closed the schools.
Karen called her friends and asked them to help her build a snowman. When they were finished she poured the water bottle into the old silk hat and then put the hat on the snowman’s head.
“Come back to me, Frosty,” she whispered with her eyes closed. “Come back, Frosty.”
Suddenly thunder crashed and the smell of sour milk and Munster cheese filled the air. (Not the pasteurized, American kind either.)
When Karen opened her eyes, the snowman was scratching himself. He then stared at her with hate in his eyes.
“What are you looking at?” he said. “Do I know you or something?”
“Don’t you remember me, Frosty?” Karen said. “I’m Karen. I’m the one who brought you back to life, Frosty.”
“Who’s Frosty?” he asked. “My name’s Chilblains.”
The snowman then picked up a hard chunk of ice and nailed one of other kids in the eye with it. Then he kicked a dog that had been sniffing at his feet.
“Boo!” he shouted, scattering the rest of Karen’s friends.
“What’s wrong, Frosty?” she said.
“I told you, my name’s Chilblains. I’m outta here.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a score to settle with a certain magician.”
“But, Frosty,” Karen said. “Santa forgave Professor Hinkle.”
“Santa and this Frosty you keep talking about can do whatever the hell they want,” he said. “Chilblains doesn’t forget. And he doesn’t forgive.”
“What about the Christmas spirit?”
“It’s January, girly,” the malevolent snowman said, his eyes glowing with evil. “Christmas is over.”
Karen began to cry.
“You only have yourself to blame,” he said, walking away. “Who knew the sock juice of a little girl could hold so much evil? So much putrid, reeking, stinking, delicious evil. Try washing your feet sometime.”
Then he started laughing. There was a darkness in his laughter that caused Karen to start shivering and shaking and drooling uncontrollably.
That was the last day anyone ever saw Professor Hinkle.
When the police went to his house, the only trace of the magician they found was his barbershop quartet moustache… still attached to his upper lip.
Frosty or Chilblains—whoever or whatever he was—had turned cannibal.
Ears Looking at You
Walter Peabody had his friend Brad take the North Pole Toy Making Test for him.
“I gotta have that job,” he said.
But once he was hired, there was no hiding the fact that Walter was the worst toy maker that ever was. His disastrous creations were so bad that they were even rejected by the Island of Misfit Toys.
The old man was patient with him at first, but the other elves grew tired of covering for him.
“We all have to work that much harder to make up for your crap,” Ernie said.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Santa needs to can your ass-paragus and hire an elf with some skills.”
Walter’s days were numbered.
One day in early January, Santa called Walter into his office.
“I’m letting you go,” he said. “I’m sorry, Walter, toy making just isn’t in your blood.”
“Just give me one more chance,” Walter pleaded.
“What’s gonna change if I give you another chance?”
“Please, Santa. Just one more chance. You’ll see.”
“Oh, all right. Cupid’s swamped this year. I suppose I could let you work on Valentine’s Day presents for him.”
“Thank you. Oh, thank you, Santa. You won’t regret it.”
But as Walter walked away, he didn’t know what would be different or why Santa wouldn’t come to regret his decision.
Maybe he’s right, Walter thought. Maybe toy making’s just not in my blood.
That night Walter had a dream.
“My blood,” he kept mumbling in his sleep. “My blood. My blood. My blood running down the side of my head.”
When he woke up, Walter knew what he had to do.
He went into the kitchen and found a sharp knife.
The screams could be heard all over the Arctic Circle.
“What do you have for me, Walter?” Cupid said a few days later.
“Okay, here it is,” Walter said. “And I even have the advertising campaign to go with it.”
“Hit me,” Cupid said.
“Well, you know the story of how Van Gogh cut off his own ear, right?”
“Yes, go on.”
“Okay, here’s the slogan: ‘You may not be a world famous artist, but you can still show her how you feel this Valentine’s Day by giving her the ear of one.’”
Walter then handed Cupid a small red velvet box.
“What is it?”
“Look for yourself.”
Cupid opened the box.
Inside was a gold-plated ear attached to a chain necklace.
“It’s amazing,” Cupid said, shooting himself with one of his own arrows. “Such detail… it’s so realistic. I love it!”
Walter didn’t say anything. He just smiled.
Cupid got on the phone to Santa.
“This kid you sent me, Nick, he’s all right,” the happy cherub said. “I tell you he’s all right!”
“I’ll take 200!” Cupid shouted after he hung up.
“Two hundred?” Walter thought. “Where am I going to get 200 ea—”
Then he looked out the window and saw the other elves returning from lunch.
He smiled.
The Nutcracker
Fritz was snoring loudly as the snow fell silently outside his window on Christmas Eve.
He suddenly awoke to the sound of the floorboards creaking.
“Who’s there?” Fritz whispered.
A large shadow was standing at the foot of the bed.
“Who are you?” Fritz said, hoping it was St. Nick. “What do you want?”
“You shouldn’t have broken my jaw with that walnut tonight,” the shadow said.
With shaking fingers, Fritz lit the candle on his nightstand. A giant nutcracker was standing there. He had a terrible look on what was left of his face.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” he mumbled, holding out his bloody wooden jaw in his hands. “Now it’s your turn!”
The nutcracker came closer. Fritz screamed and screamed and screamed some more. The pain was horrible. Horrible. So horrible…
In the morning Fritz reached up and felt around his face.
“Oh, good,” he said in a freakishly high-pitched voice. “It was just a dream.”
And then he started screaming again.
Fruitcake
The holidays had come and gone. The ornaments and lights had been put away. The tree hauled off by Boy Scouts for $5. The bottles of Christmas cheer, now sad and empty, crowded together for warmth in the dark recycle bin dreaming of another chance. The presents were all but forgotten.
And still it remained. There in the middle of the kitchen table. Untouched. Invisible? Sacred? Both? Neither?
More like nether. As in the netherworld below our feet.
Wrapped in red ribbon. How apropos. Waiting. Waiting in cellophane silence. Waiting for its chance. To corrupt. To take over my will. To cannibalize my soul. With its cherries and cranberries and walnuts. With its Scrooge-rationed flour and powdered sugar and bits of glowing green weirdness.
I feel its evil growing with each passing day. All I seek is to be rid of it. A little peace.
But it will not let me be.
Oh, fruitcake most vile, away with thee.
You laugh, of course, thinking me mad or comical, safe in your easy chair in front of the fire. By the way, is that a Snuggie you have on? If so, are you in any position to laugh? In any case, you would not do so if you were here in its presence.
I have conducted an investigation as to how it got inside the house. As with most things evil, I have to believe that someone invited it in.