A Christmas Horror Story

On the night before Christmas, lock the doors to the house…

Forget the jolly old man in his red, big-buttoned suit. Because another creature is up on the roof, preparing for his annual visit to little children everywhere.

With a belt of knives round his waist, a writhing bag on his back and a Santa-sized appetite, he’s a little…different to the St Nick you might be expecting.

And you can leave out all the carrots and mince pies you like…but it’s you he’s after.

A horrid Christmas to all, and a terrible night.

Praise for Sebastian Gregory

‘It reminded me of Tim Burton’s ‘The Corpse Bride’ and ‘The Nightmare before Christmas’ which I really loved - Candy’s Bookcase on The Boy in the Cemetery

‘Within the pages of The Boy in the Cemetery, I found that incredible part of my imagination that I realise I’d lost somewhere in the process of growing up. I was enthralled, entranced, and completely enchanted. I would happily, happily, happily read anything by Sebastian all day long.’ - 5 cupcakes from Becca’s Books to The Boy in the Cemetery

‘Every now and then you come across a book that blows you away, this is one of those books.’ - 5 stars from Nicky Peacock to The Asylum for Fairy Tale Creatures

‘This novella is magnificent. It is hauntingly magical.’ - The Modest Verge on The Gruesome Adventures of Alice in Undeadland

Also by Sebastian Gregory

The Gruesome Adventures of Alice in Undeadland

The Asylum for Fairy Tale Creatures

The Boy in the Cemetery

A Christmas Horror Story

Sebastian Gregory

SEBASTIAN GREGORY

(pronounced Gre-gory) writes from a cabin in the middle of a haunted wood. His inspiration comes from the strange and sorrowful whispers amongst the ghastly looking trees. Sebastian is only permitted to leave the shadowy candlelight of the cabin once a story is complete, when it is unleashed upon the world of the living. Sebastian writes for the younger readers as they are easier to terrify than adults whose imaginations died long ago.

When not writing in a cabin in the middle of a haunted wood, Sebastian lives in Manchester with his family and various animals.

You can email Sebastian on writtenbyseb@hotmail.co.uk—he would love your feedback.

You can follow him on Twitter @wordsbyseb

You can stalk him on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/writtenbyseb

For naughty children everywhere.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

Prologue

The forest of Bern, Saint Nicholas’s Eve, 1514

It was Saint Nicholas’s Eve and, like all the children in her village who had been tucked into their beds, Greta could not or would not sleep. Her tummy was full of butterflies and her head brimmed with fairy dust. Her six-year-old little girl’s imagination was teasing her with things that Saint Nicholas would bring. A new wooden doll, called Anna or Freda. No, definitely Anna, she decided. No, Freda. And perhaps Saint Nicholas would be even more generous than usual, and bring new gloves or boots or a scarf to protect her from the cold. Greta had made efforts to be especially good this year, always helping Mama with her chores, fetching water from the well when asked, feeding Henry the cat, bringing wood from the outskirts of the forest to fuel the fire.

Of course, presents were only the beginning, Greta thought, and warm excitement bubbled through her as she imagined tomorrow’s feast. Mama would cover the table with hazel, berries and sweet yellow forest potatoes. Papa would prepare a freshly hunted pheasant, the succulent meat dripping, and he would make dark gravy from the bird’s fat. For pudding there would be a dark dumpling of fruit and goats’ cream. Her mouth watered at the thought. Throughout the day, Mama and Greta had worked hard to decorate the wooden lodge. Mama hung evergreen holly leaves on the wooden tree trunks that were the lodge’s walls. She’d fetched a stool and stood higher to wrap fir tree branches and mistletoe around the wood beams that crossed the ceiling. Greta had filled a bowl with mint leaves and pumpkin bread for a hungry Saint Nicholas as a thank you for what he would bring. Papa had watched and smiled through his dark beard as he sharpened his cleaver on a stone, smoking his bone pipe and sitting in his quilted armchair. With each stroke of the small stone against the blade, tiny orange sparks had escaped, hissing at times when they landed on the wooden floor.

Greta had been put to bed hours ago, as the sun went down and the wolves of the forest howled their evening chorus. Papa had lifted her up in his huge arms and placed her on his shoulders, cantering and neighing while jumping around and, finally, hoisting Greta up the stairs made from oak branches to the mezzanine where her handmade, wooden bed overlooked the lodge. Greta had giggled so hard, she thought her sides would split with joy.

‘Schlaf gut meine tochter, ein traum von liebe und abenteuer,’ said Mama, telling her daughter to dream nice dreams while at the same time plaiting the tiny girl’s long, blonde hair into pigtails. With her nightgown on, Greta lay on her goose-feather mattress and snuggled under the patchwork blankets. Mama and Papa kissed her forehead and told her they loved her and to sleep well, just as they had done every night for the last six years. Papa lit the river-stone fireplace and started burning the logs before barring the oak doors and window shutters, just as he did every night. And so the bitter cold of winter and the singing wolves were kept at bay, and the family who lived in the woods were safe. Greta really should have been asleep by this time. But tonight was not a typical night. This was the night that Saint Nicholas visited.

It was dark in the lodge except for the orange glow of the fireplace. Flamed shapes danced into the rafters. Greta gasped as she heard the clatter on the roof above. Reindeer hooves, perhaps? Yes…the sound was unmistakable. Greta knew exactly who it was, as certainly as any child would, and Greta knew with even more certainty why he was here.

‘Samichlaus ist hier! Samichlaus ist hier! ’ Greta squealed as she escaped from her bed prison. She stepped on the wooden floor and pattered along to the stairs. She passed her Mama and Papa’s room where, from the archway, she saw the dark figures of her parents sleeping amongst furs. She climbed down the stairs slowly, one at a time, steadying herself against the banister before creeping in the shadows, wanting to see but not be seen. For the moment, Greta could only hear her own excited heartbeat until, suddenly, there came a subtle sound. A jingle of sleigh bells, so distant and yet nearby, tempting her with its magical call, far away and faint at first but stronger with each tiny step Greta took.

‘Samichlaus, ist daß Sie?’ Greta asked to the air. The bells stopped as if their owner had heard the question, before jingling in reply with even more excitement.

Greta was transfixed by the sound and, as if to entice her more, the shadows of the fire now danced to the magical bells’ tune. They became orange fairy folk, swirling upon the walls, twisting and somersaulting to each jingle of the bells. Greta, knowing that she had to let Saint Nicholas in, ran to the entrance door.

The door was barred closed by a huge log, held in place by iron hooks. She strained, trying to push the wood that refused to move even a hair’s breadth. Disappointed but not deterred, Greta turned her attention to the window shutters. Pushing a stool against the wall, she climbed up and tried the latch. The shutter opened with a creaking, revealing a small window, frosted as if Jack Frost himself had pushed his hands against the glass. Greta peered into the darkness, the sound of the sleigh bells now louder than ever. However, all she could see was the moonlit snow and the ancient trees holding their vigil over the lodge. That was, until a huge shadow passed by the window, darting out of Greta’s sight as fast as it had appeared, but not before tapping on the window. Tat, tat, tat.

Now she knew without any doubt that Saint Nicholas was here. She had to let him in, and she suddenly knew how. By the fireplace, Mama kept a bucket of water just in case the fire became too enthusiastic. Greta, with great strain but more determination, tipped the bucket into the fire. Most of the water poured over her nightgown and the floor, but the bucket and the rest of the water streamed into the fireplace, and the fire died with a dramatic and smoky hiss that made Greta cough. Instantly the music of the bells stopped, and the dancing shadows went dark with only slivers of the moon seeping into the lodge. Black water ran over the fireplace and over Greta’s toes, turning them murky and chilling them with the cold dirty water that ran like blood.

‘Samichlaus?’ Greta called up the chimney when the smoke cleared, being careful of the orange embers that were slowly turning black. She invited him down the chimney and into her home.

‘Samichlaus, hereinkommen. Samichlaus, hereinkommen,’ she said in her little voice.

Soot fell from the chimney stack and, with smoke filling the dark of the tunnel, Greta strained to see movement. She stood on tiptoe and leant further forward, and she smiled as Saint Nicholas crawled towards her.

Except, too late.

It was not Saint Nicholas that came hungrily for the child this night.

Mama and Papa woke suddenly to Greta’s shrill screams. A piercing that went through the night and into the hearts of her sleeping parents.

‘Greta, ich komme. Greta, Papa kommt,’ Papa shouted as the two ran in the dark, crashing into furniture, and entered Greta’s room. Mama pulled the blankets back, searching for her daughter. Greta screamed again, and her fearful parents, in their terror, followed the horrid sound.

On the stairway they stopped in their tracks at the sight that befell them.

‘Greta?’ whispered Mama, her hand covering her quivering and fretful lips.

From the dark and the embers and the silver slivers of light they saw their daughter—sweet, succulent Greta, young and tender and plump. She stood by the fireplace and from it an elongated arm with black scales and lengthened fingers wrapped around the tiny girl’s waist.

‘Mama? Papa?’ Greta replied with tears in her eyes. And with a terrible movement, as fast as darkness murders light, the arm disappeared up the chimney stack and away taking Greta with it, leaving only a cloud of wet soot where she once stood.

From the edge of the forest where the mountains begin, a pack of sleeping wolves, huddled together in the cold, were woken. Travelling on the crystal air was a sound to fear in the night—the sound of parents calling out in anguish and loss.

A sound that would even chill the souls of beasts.

Chapter One

Moorside, Glossop, England, 23 December 2014

Katie woke to the sound of her mobile phone humming from the floor. She tried to move but was pinned down by her sister, Emily, on one shoulder and her brother, Jake, on the other. All three had fallen asleep on the sofa. In the partial darkness of the living room, the television was playing to itself. Katie blinked as, from the corner, an orange-looking man in a grey suit sold jewellery to whomever was watching. Her mobile phone screen lit up in time with each vibration. She slipped out from under her siblings, and they stirred but did not wake. Wiping a spot of drool from her chin, she pulled loose strands of hair from her mouth, before bending down to retrieve her phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, honey, it’s me,’ said me. Me being Katie’s mother.

‘Hey,’ Katie replied, yawning. ‘How’s work?’

‘Did I wake you?’ Mum asked.

‘Not really, I was just resting my eyes. And I just had the weirdest dream.’ Katie stretched in her seat.

‘About what, hon?’ Mum asked sympathetically.

‘Nothing really, a family living in a forest…somewhere in Europe, I think. Years and years ago, and something else’…’ Katie shuddered, a tingle running down her spine as if someone had walked over her grave. She quickly changed the subject. ‘So, work?’

‘Well, it is nearly Christmas Eve, so I’ve had every drunken accident you can imagine coming into the emergency room. I’ve had my shoes ruined by bloodstains from a guy who got into a fight. And I’ve been vomited on twice, so there go my trousers too.’

Katie laughed affectionately; she could almost see her mother rolling her eyes at the other end of the phone.

‘That’s why you became a doctor, Mum. Seven years of medical training to be vomited on.’

‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Mum replied. ‘How are Jake and Emily?’

Katie looked at the pair lying on the sofa. Jake was nine but he was tall for his age, and wide too. Chunky but not chubby, and such a worrier. He lay asleep in his black pyjamas and with his precious ‘Tome’ tucked under his arm. He cuddled the thick book he’d recently latched onto like it was a teddy bear. Emily, at thirteen, was three years younger than sixteen-year-old Katie. She looked like a slightly smaller version of her sister. Tall and slim with blue eyes and long blonde hair. She was curled up in a ball, still wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with the words ‘Bite me’ on the chest. Each of the three children had inherited the family genes of blond and blue. But while the girls’ hair lay gently down their backs, Jake’s hair was always big and wild, not too long, but it hung over his ears and was a mass of mess. He resembled his father so much it made Katie stare sometimes, and it hurt her heart to look. It was as if when Dad had died, he had passed his spirit into Jake, making a much younger copy.

‘Are you there?’ asked Mum, bringing Katie back to the conversation.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ apologised Katie softly. ‘I’m here. And, yes, they’re OK—they’re both tucked up in bed, nice and tight.’

‘Good,’ said Mum. ‘OK, I have got to go, more drunks to see to. As if they’ll ever stop coming! You get yourself to bed. I love you. See you in the morning.’

‘OK, Mum. Have fun,’ Katie replied.

‘Oh and Katie…’

‘Yes?’

‘Nearly Christmas. This one’s going to be the best yet, I promise.’

‘I know, Mum. I know.’

There was a click from the other end of the phone as Mum went back to work. Katie put her phone in her jeans pocket and gave her siblings a gentle shake. They murmured before opening their eyes, confused and dazed.

‘What time is it?’ Emily was the first to ask, yawning as she did so.

‘Eleven. Time for bed. We fell asleep watching the shopping channel again’,’ Katie replied.

‘I thought we were watching The Singing Factor’,’ Jake added.

‘Still sulking about that, are you?’ Emily swiped.

Previously in the evening, after a meal of beans and cheese on toast (Katie’s signature dish), Emily and Jake had bickered over what to watch. The Singing Factor for Emily, or a programme on alien abduction for Jake. Katie had intervened as the two were firing insults at each other, each word more inventive than the last. Katie, seeing no better solution, had decided to toss a coin, and Emily had won.

Katie turned the lamp on, and the room lit up with a warm, yellow glow. The family living room was as cosy as could be expected for a cottage in the middle of nowhere. The floor was polished wood, with a large red rug taking up most of the floor space. The walls were a cream-painted brick, and wooden beams lined the ceiling. Four square wood-framed windows looked out to utter darkness but, if it was daylight, that would be replaced by snow-covered hills and a grey, cloud-burdened sky. In the corner of the room by a large bookcase full of dusty paperbacks stood a Christmas tree, turned brown by the light and, in truth, turning brown anyway. It held on to a meagre assortment of silver baubles. The Christmas decorations were a token effort and had an air of sadness, as if something was missing from the celebrations. In fact, it was more of a question of who was missing that made their hearts sink and Christmas feel less meaningful.

‘Let’s not argue,’ Katie said. ‘I’ve just heard from Mum. She will be back tomorrow, so it would be nice if you two hadn’t killed one another by then.’ She walked over to the television and sent the orange man into oblivion.

Emily stood up and stretched. ‘Well, I’m going to bed. You can see to him.’

‘Hey,’ Jake protested, and Emily sauntered over to her brother and landed a kiss on his head. She made her way to her bed, waving at Katie as she left the room.

Jake stood and opened his book. This was the ritual they’d had every night for the last year. Ever since Dad had…well, you know. It had started when Mum had taken Jake to a second-hand bookshop in town one afternoon. He’d come home with the Tome of the Dark and Mysterious, which he’d proceeded to read from cover to cover. The next thing anyone knew, Jake believed that Dad had died from supernatural means and was insisting that, before they went to bed, there were certain precautions he had to take to protect the family. Mum wasn’t worried; she said he would grow out of it. And ever since then, they’d all taken turns supervising Jake’s nightly obsession.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘First: shutters.’

Katie nodded. Sometime before World War Two, the owner, a Farmer Partridge, had installed metal shutters on the windows to help prevent damage from bombs. The bombs never landed anywhere near Moorside, where the cottage was, but by means of a crank handle the shutters still worked after all these years. Katie stood by one of the windows where the green handle jutted from a box attached to the wall. A chain ran from it and into the ceiling. Katie took hold with two hands and began to turn the crank. It spun slowly and noisily, and the green shutters squeaked closed, encasing the windows in metal.

‘Done,’ Katie said when she finished, rubbing her arms.

‘Good,’ Jake remarked seriously. ‘So if zombies ever attack we’ll be safe.’

‘Indeed, although not from Emily.’

He smiled. It was good to see him smile.

‘OK, has there been a full moon tonight?’

‘Not that I know of. It’s pretty cloudy out there—the weather man said we’re in for snow.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Have you invited any strangers into the house recently?’

‘Recently no and also never.’

Jake thought for a moment. ‘OK, I’m ready for bed.’

They walked hand in hand down the hallway with its cold wood floor and up the creaking cold wood stairs. Katie flicked an old light switch and two dull bare bulbs lit the hallway, stairs and landing in a buzzing neon. Katie had to duck under another beam as she reached the top. In the bathroom another bulb flicked into life. The bathroom smelt damp and mould had conquered the sickly yellow-green paint. They cleaned their teeth, smiling behind the mint foam. Then Katie tucked her brother into bed. He lay there in the glow of his night light, his ever-present book by his side. Katie always thought there was a sadness to her brother, despite his smiles. It was there behind his blue eyes. Nothing seemed to faze Emily. She was the toughest person Katie knew, but Jake…Jake was always hiding sadness.

‘Can you check my bed?’ he asked.

Katie smiled and nodded. She crawled on the floor, which was a minefield of action figures and dirty clothes.

‘Nothing under the bed a hoover wouldn’t cure,’ she remarked before standing up and checking the wardrobe. ‘Nor here’,’ she added.

‘OK then, goodnight,’ he said, turning onto his side and closing his eyes.

‘Goodnight,’ Katie replied, but he was already asleep.

And while he was asleep he dreamt. But more than a dream…it was a warning.

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