It’s becoming an annual tradition for me, this. But it’s a labour of love too. I seem to have written an awful lot of Christmas scare-fare over the years. Several such stories were first published here on my blog, though there are plenty others that have never yet appeared here, usually because they were published somewhere else first (and though I use reprints on occasion, it’s not my preferred option).
I’m not sure why I so love this combination of Christmas joy and ghostly chiller, but it’s not just me of course. I won’t go into another of those rambling essays that I seem to post this time every year, detailing the origins of the tradition and listing the many other authors who’ve also followed this path. But suffice to say that this is a sacred time of year - not just to Christians, but to other groups as well; the majority of us seem to feel a sense of elation and a closer connection to each other late in December. Clearly, we are all moved by this strange spirit of the season, which it would be plain boring to write off as a simple product of the glitz and glamour driven by consumerism.
Of course, there are many folk out there who are quite content to dismiss the mysterious Yuletide aura as myth and make-believe – as fake news! – and hey, that’s their call. Who am to try to convince anyone of anything? But personally, I prefer the alternative explanation.
Whatever your position, have a great Christmas, and enjoy the story.
THE MERRY MAKERS
I was somewhere in the West Country. That was all I really
knew. Part way between Bournemouth and Bristol. I’m aware that sounds vague if
not a tad ridiculous. Bournemouth and Bristol are 130 miles apart. I could have
been almost anywhere. Or so it felt.
Especially when I had the misfortune to call at Mistletoe Hall.
*
My plan had seemed like a good one initially.
All-day meetings in Bournemouth on December 23, followed by
a night in the local Premiere Inn. The following morning, hotfoot it up the M27
and A34 to the M4, and I’d easily make Bristol in time for my afternoon
meeting, which, if it ended early, as I was optimistic it would, that day being
Christmas Eve, I’d be back on the M4 by teatime, from where it was only 120
miles to London. With luck, I’d be home and celebrating the season by 7pm.
And then it had snowed.
Not heavily. Just enough to put down a light covering on the
woods and fields of Hampshire. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but of course
the UK is a country where autumn leaves stop trains, where, even though we have
on-and-off rainfall for much of the year, heavy bursts can still overwhelm our
Victorian drainage systems and leave streets flooded. Even then, I didn’t
anticipate too much trouble. Town centres would be gridlocked as people vacated
their offices early in a dash to get home before they were snowed in (by two
inches!). But I’d be out in the countryside at that point. I ought to have a
clear run. And at first it looked as if I would. Okay, the roads were under
snow, but it was paper-thin, so I knew that with a little prudence I could
handle it.
Unfortunately, few others adopted the same approach.
Just south of Whitchurch, I found my side of the A34 blocked
by a lorry that had skidded and jammed itself crosswise across both
carriageways. I doubled back and sought out the A303, only to mire myself in
more slow-moving traffic because other inconsiderate drivers had caused similar
accidents. By now, of course, my schedule was slipping. But things only went
badly awry when I pulled off the main road, seeking passage via the network of
narrow country lanes for which this rural corner of England is so famous. My
blithe assumption was that at some point soon the sat-nav system would pick me
up again and show me another easily navigable route. Stubbornly though, it
continued to try to send me back to the A34. I was furious by now. My 1pm
meeting had been and gone and all I could do was plough resolutely on in what I
felt certain was the right direction, though I had no way to substantiate this
(in the age of the sat-nav, so many of us have foolishly discarded our road
maps). And now, of course, I was driving recklessly myself, taking turns at
random, getting my foot down along straight stretches even though they were
mostly single-track lanes.
I saw no other vehicles, no people. I passed lone farmhouses
rather than villages, though even these petered out after a while. Those
crossroads I came to were either unmarked, or displayed place names I didn’t
recognise. And all the while, the calm, measured voice of my sat-nav advised
that I turn around when possible.
“Bloody thing!” I snapped, wrenching it from my windscreen,
only to drop it into the foot-space beneath my feet.
I reached down for it before it got trapped under my pedals,
and fleetingly took my eye off the white ribbon of the road. It couldn’t have
been for more than a second, but when I looked up, that ribbon had curved to the
right and suddenly my nearside wheels were thundering through tangles of frozen
vegetation. I panicked, fighting the wheel. Snow exploded onto my windscreen as
bushes went down under my engine, the left flank of my Hyundai grinding and
tearing along the low rock wall, and with an air of grim finality, something crunching underneath me.
After I’d come to a stop, I sat numbed, the engine ticking
as it cooled.
My windscreen was opaque with snow and shredded greenery. When I turned the key, the only response was a clatter of broken parts. I checked my own extremities to ensure they were intact, and scrambled out, flinching at the biting chill.
My windscreen was opaque with snow and shredded greenery. When I turned the key, the only response was a clatter of broken parts. I checked my own extremities to ensure they were intact, and scrambled out, flinching at the biting chill.
Pulling my suit jacket on, I checked the car’s front end.
There was much damage, none of which I was qualified to diagnose. In addition,
my vehicle’s front nearside was buried not just in snowy, skeletal undergrowth
but in the semi-demolished rock wall, where it looked to have wedged itself in place.
I dug my phone out, though that would be no use unless I
knew exactly where I was.
I had no clue what I was going to do next. And
when I opted to call Laura, simply to pass on the news, I found that I had no signal. I wasn’t as
horror-stricken by this as you might expect. Generally, when marooned in a
cellphone black spot, one usually needs to move a short distance to correct it.
I donned my fleece and zipped it up, only to wonder
if maybe it would be better to wait with the car. It surely couldn’t be long
before someone else appeared.
But this was not a given.
On all sides, snow-clad meadows rolled to indistinct
horizons. There were no roofs; there was no smoke from any chimneys. I didn’t
even see farm animals. Save for the hiss of the glacial wind, it was completely
silent.
More problematic yet, it was turning dark.
My phone told me that it was just after three. Which meant
that full nightfall was maybe an hour away at most. Suddenly, waiting didn’t
seem like an option.
Collecting my
overnight bag, I commenced walking. With luck, it wouldn’t just help me find a
phone signal. Though I had my fleece on, underneath it I wore only a light suit
and a thin shirt. The exercise ought to help me keep warm and
should not have posed a problem – I was thirty years old and in good health –
but my leather, lace-up loafers were hardly ideal. Only two inches of snow
carpeted the road, but it seemed softer and more treacherous now that I was
treading on it. Several times, I slipped and fell. Meanwhile, the sky darkened,
and the temperature tumbled. Shuddering, I checked my phone again and again,
but with no luck.
For the first time I began to wonder if this might be more
than simply inconvenient.
And then I saw a light.
It was a mere pinpoint, far away to my left across open
land, its source concealed in the deepening dusk. But it was continuous and
bright. I hurried along the road, assuming that at some point there’d be a
connecting lane. However, when the light came on level with me, and I still
hadn’t seen a turn-off, I became worried again. Should I climb the wall and
head across country? Not wanting to trespass, I trudged doggedly on. But soon
the light was falling behind me. I stopped again, now riven with cold,
joints aching, chest wheezing. I checked my phone and was appalled to see that
not only was I still minus a signal, the battery was on the verge of expiring.
That decided it.
I clambered over the wall and plodded for several minutes
across snow-covered pasture. When I came to a bulwark of darkling trees, I lost
the light. Alarmed, I staggered left, and spotted it again, twinkling though
leafless, spidery branches. I threaded into a smallish wood. There was less snow in there, though I’d soon
reached a narrow road – a driveway, I guessed – which again was covered by an
unbroken sheet of white, suggesting that it wasn’t used very often. I followed
it, anyway, finally entering open space.
Mistletoe Hall stood in front of me.
*I knew that was its name because there was a tall brick post from which an iron bar protruded. Hung from this bar was an oaken plaque. The words inscribed on it were crabbed and mossy, but I was able to discern them thanks to the light, which shone from a downstairs window where the curtain hadn’t been closed properly.
Had I not been so relieved, it might have struck me that the house had seen better days. All I remember on first arriving was that it was an ugly, hulking structure built from dark brick, with shelves of snow on its turrets and roofs. It had many windows, but all save the one I’d seen were heavily draped. None of this mattered, as I blundered to its massive front door, hoping against hope that the absence of vehicles and tyre-tracks didn’t signify that the occupiers were away. There was no bell, just a heavy knocker, which resounded eerily through a vast, hollow interior.
When there was no response, I struck with the knocker again. More deep reverberations sounded, along with something else: the sudden, muffled thud of an internal door. I hung my head with relief as bolts and chains were withdrawn. The door opened a couple of inches and a white face peered out.
It was a woman of uncertain age, though she was
plain-featured and wore her dark hair scraped back and tied into a severe bun.
She looked vaguely startled.
“I … I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I hope you don’t mind …” She
tried to close the door, and I thrust my foot into the gap. “Please … I’ve had
an accident. And I’m lost.”
She regarded me strangely, as if trying to understand what I
was saying.
“Is there any chance I can come in?” The cold gnawed at my
very bones.
“For Heaven’s sake, Agnes!” came a chiding voice.
Another figure appeared and a hand pushed the door open
several more inches. The newcomer was male, and older than the woman by a
couple of decades. He was short and tubby, balding on top but with lengthy
white hair around the sides, a curled white moustache and white goatee beard.
“What happened to charity and kindness?” he asked gently.
The woman stepped aside as he opened the door properly. “Please,” he said,
“come in.”
I tottered inside. “Thanks …”
My first thoughts on entering what appeared to be a kind of
lengthy reception passage was that there was no discernible difference in the
temperature; my breath still smoked, and the only light, which was a pale
yellow colour, was some distance ahead of me. The passage itself was bare; I
glimpsed wood-panelled walls, a plaster ceiling, a stone-flagged floor. But I
was still grateful to be indoors.
“My name’s Tom Kelsey,” I said.
My hosts exchanged inscrutable glances, but the man remained
affable, shaking hands with me. “James Parnell. This is my sister, Agnes.”
The woman regarded me blankly.
“You guys are real life-savers,” I said. “But I won’t keep
you too long. I know you’ll be busy on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh no … no, no,” James Parnell replied. Rather hastily, I
thought. “We don’t celebrate Christmas here. It’s nothing to us.”
“If I can just use your phone,” I said. “I’ll obviously pay
for it. I need to call a pick-up truck or something. Then I need to call my
wife …”
My words tailed off because Parnell, rather solemnly, was
shaking his head. “I’m afraid we don’t have a phone.”
“You don’t?”
“We lead simple lives out here. We’ve no call for a phone.”
Briefly, and for reasons I couldn’t pin down, I felt as if
I’d transgressed simply asking for one. “Well, look …” I swung my bag to my hip
and unzipped it. “I have my own charger cable. My own phone’s dead, but if I
could plug it in with this, I’ll be able to place a call. I’ll pay for any
power I use.”
He regarded me confusedly, not as if what I’d said had
bewildered him, but as though he was trying to come up with an adequate
response. Then, abruptly, he smiled. “I’m sure that’ll be fine.” He offered his palm. “I’ll take
it to the kitchen.”
I handed the device and the cable over. “It won’t use much
… I promise.”
He ambled away. “Agnes, show Mr Kelsey into the parlour.
I’ll be with you shortly.”
I turned to the woman, who, instead of leading me down the
passage towards the light, pushed open the door to a side-room. For the first
time, she smiled. Rather sweetly – she wasn’t as plain as I’d initially thought
– but there was a curious degree of firmness there.
The room she showed me into, the so-called parlour, was as
bare as the corridor, wood-panelled, with a flagstone floor, a single light bulb
overhead, which gave off a dull glow, and heavy, dust-laden curtains on the
windows, though one pair were open by a couple of inches, indicating that this
was probably the room I’d seen from outside. At least it was warm; there was a
small fire burning in the grate, no more than a heap of embers really, but that
was adequate because the room wasn’t large. There were no furnishings aside
from a wooden table in one corner, with two rude benches placed one to either
side of it. Before I could pass comment, the door behind me closed.
I turned in surprise, thinking it rather abrupt of her, but
then decided that her off-hand manner, along with her lack of speech, might be
due to some kind of learning difficulty.
At least, as I say, it was warm. So, I sat down to thankfully thaw out.
And to wait … and wait.
When the door finally opened again, Agnes returned. Previously, she’d been wearing a scruffy old house-robe, as had her brother, but now she’d changed into a floor-length grey skirt, a grey, button-up tunic and a black shawl. To my surprise, she was carrying a tray on which there was food. She set it down, and I saw a bowl of what looked like vegetable broth, two slices of buttered bread, a mug of milk, a folded napkin and a spoon.
When the door finally opened again, Agnes returned. Previously, she’d been wearing a scruffy old house-robe, as had her brother, but now she’d changed into a floor-length grey skirt, a grey, button-up tunic and a black shawl. To my surprise, she was carrying a tray on which there was food. She set it down, and I saw a bowl of what looked like vegetable broth, two slices of buttered bread, a mug of milk, a folded napkin and a spoon.
I glanced up at her. She nodded, implying that it was for
me.
I hadn’t eaten all day, plus it would have seemed rude not
to. I tucked in, though it was a little disconcerting that my hostess then sat down
opposite me, watching closely. As such, I minded my manners, taking only small spoonfuls,
dabbing at my mouth with the napkin. Parnell now came in, closing the door and
sitting alongside his sister. He too had changed into plain, dark clothes:
black trousers, a black tunic, a grey shirt underneath.
“Is the food to your liking?” he asked.
I nodded. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Excellent. Nothing fancy, of course. Nothing excessive.
Just good solid nourishment.”
I didn’t mention that it could have done with a bit of
seasoning, though it wasn’t unpleasant even without that.
“When you’ve eaten,” he said, “I’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” I lowered my spoon. “I was hoping to make a
phone-call.”
Parnell frowned. “I understood your phone was not working?”
“Well … if you’ve plugged it in, it should be recharged
soon. Sufficiently for me to make a call, at least.”
He considered this. “I’ll check in a minute. Fortunately, we
always keep a guest room prepared. Even though this is a remote area, you never
know who’s going to turn up.”
“I doubt you’ll need to go to that much trouble,” I said.
“If I can make a call, it’s highly likely someone will come and get me.”
“Of course. Just so long as you know that if they don’t,
there is room for you here.”
“That’s very kind.” I continued eating. “Thanks.”
They nodded and smiled and continued to watch me, and I felt
vaguely irritated that he still wasn’t going to check on my phone.
“So …” I ventured, “people do come around here
occasionally?”
Parnell nodded. “Mainly at this time of year. I think it’s
to do with this house. You’ll have noticed the name?”
“Oh, yes, Mistletoe Hall. That’s rather …”
“I expect they think they’ll find feasting here,” he
interrupted. “Or some other form of papist idolatry.” He sensed my
bewilderment. “You must forgive us, Mr Kelsey. We’re rather set in our ways.
Our beliefs do not hold with Christmas as a religious feast. In scripture, no
holy days save the Sabbath are recognised, while December 25 as the date of
Christ’s birth is completely ahistorical.”
I still didn’t know how to respond. “Each to their own, I
suppose.”
“You don’t share these opinions?”
“I’m, erm … I’m irreligious, I’m afraid.” For the first time
in my life, I felt awkward admitting this. The twosome watched me, intrigued.
“If the signpost’s a problem for you,” I said, looking to change the subject,
“why not just take it down?”
Parnell sighed. “Too late. Agnes and I are well
known hereabouts as the occupants of Mistletoe Hall. Even if we rename it, it will always
be thus. But sometimes it attracts the right kind of people. Your good self,
for example.”
He nodded and smiled. Rather knowingly. Which seemed odd.
“I must confess,” I said, “I didn’t come here because this
is Mistletoe Hall.”
“That’s what you may say.” There was a twinkle in his eye.
“It is what I say,” I replied.
“So few in that noisy, decadent world are masters of their
own fate, wouldn’t you agree?”
I laid my spoon down. “Look, I’m sorry … but, while I
appreciate the offer of a bed here, and I certainly appreciate this meal, I’d
really like to get home tonight. There isn’t somewhere close by where you could
drive me, is there? A village where there might be a railway station or a bus
stop? Even if it’s quite a distance, I’ll pay for the petrol.”
As before, Parnell gave a sombre shake of his head. “Alas,
we have no car.”
Immediate other questions piled in the back of my mind.
Surely you travel out occasionally? How do you get your
supplies in? What if one of you was taken ill? No phone, no car?
But to voice all this would have seemed unnecessarily
impolite. Particularly as I would shortly have my phone back. I finished my
food and sat back expectantly.
Parnell sighed. “Well, I hope you don’t mind, Mr Kelsey, but
Agnes and I retire early.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “But if I could just have my phone?
I’m sure there must be a speck of power in it by now, and I really do need to
let people know that I’m safe.”
He stood. “I’ll bring it for you. In the meantime, Agnes
show Mr Kelsey to his room.”
They seemed quite adamant that I was to spend the night,
which maybe wasn’t a bad thing. If the worst came to the worst, and Laura
wasn’t able to come and get me, at least I had a bed. So, I picked up my bag
and allowed the Parnells to lead me out into the corridor, which was now
completely dark; whatever faint light I’d seen earlier, it had been switched
off.
Parnell melted away into the gloom, and I found myself stumbling
in pursuit of Agnes, who walked stiffly and primly, hands folded in front of
her. We rounded several corners and mounted a staircase, this too in darkness,
turning twice at small switchback landings, though as we arrived on the second
one, a light activated overhead. When we reached the top, it showed an upper floor that was
also bare of décor. Everything was spotless but the aura was bleak. The glow of
a single light bulb dwindled as Agnes led me a merry dance along more corridors.
There were so many rooms, all with closed doors, that it was difficult to know
how she picked one out for me specifically, but she did, suddenly stopping,
opening a door on her right, going inside and flipping a light-switch.
I followed her, entering a room as plain and unadorned as
every other part of this place, though it had what looked like a clean bed, a four-poster
no less (though minus a canopy), and a single table with a jug and a cup on it.
In addition, unlike the landing, it was warm.
“This is great,” I said. “But I really don’t think I’ll need
to put you out like this.”
She nodded again, as if she knew better, and retreated,
closing the door.
I stood bewildered and not a little bit aggravated. At length, I dumped my bag by the bed and
checking out my new surroundings. Beyond the curtain, the window looked down on the
forecourt, which thanks to the risen moon, lay shimmering and frigid under its
mantle of white. I discovered that the room was warm thanks to a single
radiator pipe passing along the skirting board. The jug, as I’d expected,
contained water, which smelled and looked fresh. It was almost as if the
Parnells had been expecting me. Or someone. But then I remembered that they
claimed to regularly have callers on Christmas Eve.
“Some Christmas Eve.” I sat on the bed and rooted in my bag.
There wasn’t much in there. Some spare toiletries and the
essentials I’d needed for the meeting I hadn’t managed to make. There was also
a dog-eared paperback. I don’t read much, myself, but I’d inherited a box of
books from my late father and had grabbed one off the top as I’d left, just in
case I’d have some time to kill. As this one was an anthology called In A Deep, Dark December, which promised to be A collection of Christmas hauntings, it was the
last thing I fancied. Frustrated, I stood up. I couldn’t understand what was
keeping Parnell with my phone. I opened the bedroom door.
She was standing outside.
Agnes.
Facing me from a couple of inches away.
As if she’d been there all the time, staring at the door.
She fixed me with a
steady, waxen smile. And made no effort to move out of my way.
“I, erm … I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I was just wondering
about my phone.”
“There’s no power yet,” came the voice of James Parnell, standing
somewhere out in the corridor. The lights had been turned off, so I couldn’t see him. “It’s still
dead, I’m afraid.”
“It’s okay …” I was semi-hypnotised by Agnes Parnell’s pale,
rigid smile. “Perhaps I can get it later?”
“Of course,” Parnell said. “Or if not later, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow … yes.” And I closed the door again.
The hell with tomorrow! I’d give them an hour, let them get
to bed, and then I’d retrieve the phone myself. This whole thing was beyond
weird. If there’d been a lock, I’d have turned it. The mere thought of that
woman standing sentry outside, gazing blankly at the door, was the most
unnerving thing I’d ever known. As it was, though, all I could do was sit on
the bed and watch the door from the other side.
As the time rolled by, I became sluggish, torpid. The room
was indeed warm, and the stress and anxiety of the day had no doubt taken a
toll. I lifted my legs and laid back against the pillow, still watching the
door as I counted down the seconds. Another few minutes, I told myself, and I’d
go out there and start mooching around.
I’ve no idea at what point my eyelids began to droop.
*
I snapped awake, and several questions hit me at once.
Firstly, how did I ever fall asleep in this predicament?
Secondly, how long had I actually been asleep?
And thirdly, why was my bedroom in pitch darkness?
I sat up abruptly and went dizzy. Fumbling out, I braced myself on the nearest bedpost. Was it possible that I’d been drugged? My memory
of the evening’s events was reasonably clear, and I recalled the broth they’d
given me. But it seemed like paranoid nonsense – I’d had an exhausting day,
after all. But then I wondered again how the light came to be off; it had been
on when I’d settled on this bed. That meant that someone had come in here
without my permission.
An even more unpalatable thought struck me. Suppose I wasn’t
alone in here even now?
I listened. There was no sound … not from anywhere in the
house, but that didn’t mean a thing. The woman, Agnes, had been right outside
my door and I hadn’t known about it.
I don’t think I’d ever been as disoriented as I was at that
moment.
“Is someone … here?” I whispered.
Again, no response. Nothing in the slightest.
I was alone surely, but the only way to be certain was to
find the light-switch. Not that I could remember precisely where it was.
Presumably on the wall near the door, but where was the door? In panic, I
jumped to my feet – and went groggy again, swaying where I stood.
A second or so later, I’d recovered enough to scan the blackness, and at last fixed on a square of it
that was slightly paler than the rest. I groped my way over there, constantly
wondering if I was about to trip over a crouching figure. When I reached the
window, I grappled with the dusty curtain, yanking it aside. Below me, the
snow-covered forecourt lay sparkling and still. When I turned, the snow-light
was sufficient to show me that I was alone. It wouldn’t be hard finding the
light-switch now. But then I spotted movement down on the forecourt.
It was no more than a fleeting glimpse, but I was suddenly certain that I’d just seen what had looked like an animal disappearing around the side of the building.
It was no more than a fleeting glimpse, but I was suddenly certain that I’d just seen what had looked like an animal disappearing around the side of the building.
I tried to tell myself that I’d been mistaken, but in my
mind’s eye I could still picture it.
It had been furry and four-legged, and literally in the act
of vanishing around a corner. I didn’t know what colour it was, I couldn’t even
be sure what size – somewhere between a large dog and a donkey – but the
strangest thing of all was that it hadn’t appeared to be walking. I know that
sounds ridiculous, but though it had been moving at walking speed, its
hindquarters had not been in motion.
It had glided out of view.
Letting the curtain fall back, I stumbled to the bed, and
sat there, cold.
I quite clearly could not spend the rest of the night here.
If nothing else, I had to contact Laura. She’d be out of her mind by now. I
crossed my room again, this time on tiptoes, harbouring the unavoidable fear
that Agnes Parnell might still outside my door. When I reached it, I took a few
seconds to compose myself before opening again.
Only the empty darkness of the landing greeted me.
The deep silence that seemed to fill this entire house
reigned on.
I was half-minded to locate the bedroom light-switch, and
give myself something to navigate by, but I resisted. Stealth now felt like the
most sensible course. I stole out, heading in the direction where I thought the
stairs had been. But before I got to the top of them, I halted, listening. From
some indeterminate place, I thought I’d heard a faint metallic squeak, repeated
several times in succession – though already it had faded to nothing.
I found the stairs and proceeded down them, stepping
lightly. Just as I reached the lower switchback, I heard that squeaking sound
again. Repeating itself over and over, this time coming nearer. I stood rigid,
one hand gripping the banister like a claw.
It was so dark down there that I couldn’t distinguish the
vaguest outline of anything, and yet those squeaks were suddenly so loud that I
fancied something was moving just below me. Sweat beaded my face as I waited,
the breath tight in my chest. Whatever it was, though, it passed me by,
receding again as it headed off to some other part of the house.
Finally, it fell silent.
I had no clue what I’d just heard. But I waited a little
longer – several minutes in fact – before continuing down to the ground floor.
Where I went from there was anyone’s guess. On first
arriving, I’d barely registered the layout of the place. So, I had no option
but to explore – and I could only do this by working my way to the nearest wall
and groping along it. I’ve no idea how many doorways I passed or corners I turned. I
could only marvel at the size of the building. It was a
literal rabbit warren, and still so dark that at no stage could I even see a hand in front of my
face.
At which point I heard that metallic squeaking again.
On this occasion it was behind me. Close behind me. I didn’t
wait, but took a passage on the left, walking quickly. And never even saw the
door that I strode headlong into. Fortunately, it was ajar, so it swung open
easily, though there was a still a shuddering impact, and, it might have been
my imagination, but I could have sworn that the squeaking sound behind me
briefly halted. Before speeding up.
This next room was equally black, but it was warmer than the
passageways, and, more perplexing yet, there was a smell of cooking. And I
don’t mean that plain vegetable broth. I was hit by a glorious array of odours:
cooked meats, pastries, all kinds of Christmas spices, nutmeg, cinnamon,
ginger. When I collided with the edge of a table, my hands encountered what felt like pies and tarts. I put a
fingertip to my mouth, and tasted icing sugar, raisins, jam. Then I struck some
kind of candelabra, which duly fell over. I snatched out, just catching it before it
hit the floor. In the process, another item was dislodged. This did fall, but
it only landed lightly. When I reached down and scrabbled around, I found a box
of matches.
Behind me, meanwhile, the door creaked open, and the squeaking thing entered.
I lurched on, meeting a bare brick wall with my hands,
which I slid along until I came to another door that was partly ajar.
Assuming it a closet or scullery, I opened it and stepped through – and fell
full-length down a steep, stone stairway.
The fact it was stone was, on one hand, good: when flesh
strikes stone it makes no sound. But on the other, I was viciously pummelled before
I reached the bottom.However, even as I lay down there in a battered heap, my ears were attuned to the room above. Was it my imagination, or did the squeaking sound come to a halt at that upper door? I held my breath, now hearing nothing. Then it occurred to me that whoever or whatever it was needed only to reach for a light-switch, and I’d be lying in full view.
Worm-like, using only my hands, I tried to ease myself away
from the foot of the stair. Still, no light came on up there. At length, I’d
travelled ten yards or so, following a curving path into what felt like an
adjacent chamber. Only there did I stop – and heard a dull clunk of woodwork.
Had the upper the door just closed?
A muffled squeaking receded across what I assumed was
the kitchen.
Even then I waited. What seemed like ages passed before I
allowed myself to sit up. I hurt all over, but nothing felt broken. As I got to
my feet, my foot touched something that rattled, and I recognised the box of
matches.
Desperate for some light, I extracted one match and struck it.
At first, its bright yellow spurt threw a huge area into
view. It quickly dwindled, but not before showing me several piles of gaily
wrapped Christmas presents. I was so stunned by this that I had to strike
another match. Damp brick walls indicated that I was in a cellar area, much
of which was indeed occupied by stacks of well-wrapped presents.
And they were all enormous. I swear, any one of them could have contained a bicycle or go-kart or an extra large doll’s house.
But how did this tie in with a family who never celebrated Christmas?
And they were all enormous. I swear, any one of them could have contained a bicycle or go-kart or an extra large doll’s house.
But how did this tie in with a family who never celebrated Christmas?
I struck more matches, the fifth and last one guiding me
back to the foot of the stair and subsequently throwing light into a deeper,
dingier recess, which revealed yet more over sized presents, this batch clearly
older as they were layered with dust and cobwebs.
Baffled as well as frightened, I ascended the stair and
listened behind the door at the top.
When I pushed it open, the warmth of the kitchen again
flooded over me, along with all the aromas of Yuletide. I worked my way
around the table to the other door. Stepping out into the passage, I listened
again and heard nothing, and reasoning that kitchens were usually at the rear
of houses, guessed that I had to be close to a back exit. I went right, moving
progressively more quickly as I fancied there was a hint of colder air ahead.
Rounding a corner, I saw a smudge of pale grey light. Moonlight reflected from
the snow and penetrating a frosted glass panel. But before I was halfway there,
that abominable squeaking started up again, now directly in front and coming
towards me. I even saw the cause, a dark humped shape rapidly advancing.
I turned and fled, still blind, taking corners at random.
And slammed headlong into another door. This one was firmly
closed, and I rebounded from it, my nose stinging, blood on my lips and down
the back of my throat.
I coughed and spluttered, the squeaking sound coming up
behind me. Almost shrieking, I scrabbled for a handle, found and depressed it.
The door opened and I hurled myself through, banging it closed behind me, bracing
my shoulder against the wood. As soon as I’d done this, the blackness in this
next room evaporated in a massive glare of light. First it exuded from a fire
roaring into existence on a hearth to my right, and then from a succession of
candles on all the other sides of me, which also flared to life of their own
accord.
I stood blinking.
It wasn’t a large room. More a reception chamber of some
sort, but compared to the rest of this austere building, it was sumptuously
furnished and decked for the season in the most eye-catching manner. My gaze
roved bewildered across glistening evergreens, polished woodwork, carved
Germanic toys. A Christmas tree stood in a corner, frosted white and hung with
scarlet baubles. I even heard carols playing. James Parnell, meanwhile, stood
by the crackling fire, in the process of lighting a clay pipe with a lengthy
taper.
Gone were his drab, black and grey garments. Instead, he wore green trousers and a green doublet, a golden shirt, crimson stockings, black buckled shoes and
ruffled lace at his throat. When he turned to face me, he wore makeup, and not a subtle amount, his features powdered white, his lips deepest ruby, ruby orbs on his cheeks, charcoal streaks where his eyebrows had been.
“Why, Mr Kelsey!” he said, “welcome!” For good measure, he added a hearty “Ho ho ho!”
“Holly logs provide the ideal fuel in deepest midwinter, wouldn’t you say?” Parnell moved to a sideboard, where an immense silver bowl stood alongside a row of crystal goblets. “Or perhaps you’ll warm yourself the more traditional way. Brandy punch?”
“Why, Mr Kelsey!” he said, “welcome!” For good measure, he added a hearty “Ho ho ho!”
*
“Holly logs provide the ideal fuel in deepest midwinter, wouldn’t you say?” Parnell moved to a sideboard, where an immense silver bowl stood alongside a row of crystal goblets. “Or perhaps you’ll warm yourself the more traditional way. Brandy punch?”
I could hardly think straight. “You … you think I’ll take a
drink from you? After you drugged me earlier?”
“We should have granted you free license? Is that what
you’re saying? I see you’re every bit as entitled as your wretched Roundhead namesake.”
“Parnell, what in God’s name is going on here?”
He chuckled through his pipe-smoke. “Your sort always calls
on the Divine when caught in knavery.”
“Knavery?”
“Snooping around our family home. Spying on us.”
“I was looking for my phone …”
“Which would have been restored to you on the morrow, had
you proved true.”
“On the morrow? Had I proved …?” Suddenly, the archaic turn
of phrase became intolerable. “What the hell is this?”
He spread his arms. “This is what you came to see, is it
not? What you always suspected? What your kind always suspect … simply because
we live where we do.”
“This has to be some kind of game.”
“Game?” His laughter faded. He scowled. “What would you know
about that? Something else our soulless Lord Protector has banned. We have
games aplenty, as you can see. And food. And drink. Merry making is our forte.
Which of course is what you suspected. Which is why you came here in the first
place. An accident indeed.”
I turned, unable to take any more of his lunacy. But before
I could launch myself along the corridor, now as well-lit as the room behind
me, something emerged from my right, simply rolled into my path. It was the squeaking thing, the cause of which sound was the
four wheels it travelled on.
Had I not already glimpsed it from my bedroom window, I’d have goggled in disbelief.
Had I not already glimpsed it from my bedroom window, I’d have goggled in disbelief.
The only way I could think of it was as a toy horse – set on
wheels, as I’ve said – and yet, while not life-size, much bigger than a normal
toy would be, perhaps three and a half feet at the shoulder, with an extra foot
added for the wheels, which were rusty and old as if they’d once belonged to a
thrown-away pram, and now were held in place by leather straps around the
fetlocks.
It was an odious, moth-eaten thing, purple in colour but patched
and darned. It would have looked comical, something from a pantomime, with its
floppy, mismatched ears, baubles with beads in them for eyes, and a tail of
genuine horsehair, had it not been for the stitched-back lips and the long,
yellow, peg-like teeth, which looked distinctly real.
It was an odious, moth-eaten thing, purple in colour but patched
and darned. It would have looked comical, something from a pantomime, with its
floppy, mismatched ears, baubles with beads in them for eyes, and a tail of
genuine horsehair, had it not been for the stitched-back lips and the long,
yellow, peg-like teeth, which looked distinctly real.
My mouth sagged open as the ghastly beast lifted and flicked
its right rear leg, the wheel swinging upright and locking into place, so that
it was able to balance on that hoof, which I realised belatedly was a human
foot. It then did the same thing on the left, rising up on two legs before
turning around to look at me. I don’t know what shocked me more: the face of Agnes
Parnell, beaming excitedly through an oval hole cut in the creature’s throat,
or her athletic female form, concealed by her drab, puritanical garb earlier
but now outlined snugly in ragged, tight-fitting fur.
“The Hooden Horse,” Parnell said, his garish features
appearing at my left shoulder.
I jumped away, but in my efforts to also avoid the madwoman
in the horse-costume, tripped over my own feet and fell onto my backside.
Before I could get up again, Parnell was pointing an antique firelock pistol
down at my face. With relish, he thumbed back its hefty hammer.
“The Hooden Horse is an import from our home county of Kent,
where the custom has sadly died,” he explained. “An emotional beast who runs
wild with anticipation on the eve of our Saviour’s birthday. A beast who must
be restrained or havoc will ensue.”
As though in full approbation, the horsewoman clashed her
front wheels together.
“Parnell!” I shouted. “This is sheer madness …”
“Havoc, Thomas Kelsey! The one thing an arch controller like
yourself should fear more than anything else. On your feet, sir.”
I had no option. I got up, and was marched at gunpoint back into the reception room. But if I’d thought that was festively clad, I was in for a shock. There was a door on the other side of it, and when I was pushed through this, I realised that it had only been an antechamber to a much larger compartment.
I had no option. I got up, and was marched at gunpoint back into the reception room. But if I’d thought that was festively clad, I was in for a shock. There was a door on the other side of it, and when I was pushed through this, I realised that it had only been an antechamber to a much larger compartment.
Amazed, I entered Mistletoe Hall itself.Clearly, this had once been the beating heart of the gloomy pile that the Parnells had somehow come into possession of. If there’d ever been a medieval structure here, I suspected this was all that remained of it. The walls were stone, but hung with sumptuous, brightly-coloured tapestries. The roof, far overhead, was vaulted, supported by great oaken hammer-beams, and now crisscrossed with swags of evergreen. At the far end towered a colossal Christmas tree, perhaps twenty-five feet tall; I imagined that it had been hewn down in some frosty Norwegian forest and brought over here especially. It reached as high as a stained-glass skylight in a slanted section of ceiling, and was hung with ribbons and ornaments, and glowed with myriad electric lights. Down the centre of the room lay a vast banquet table laid with all kinds of festive delicacies. My eyes skated perplexedly over yet more pies, puddings and pastries, over roasted fowl and baked fish, over dates, sweet meats and fat German sausages.
More important than any of this, there were guests. Guests the
like of which I had never seen; eight seated one side of the table, eight on
the other. Life size effigies, I realised, my blood chilling, lumpen
papier-mâché monstrosities clad in gaudy robes. As Parnell prodded me down to
the far end of the room, I was able to identify some of them.
Sinterklass in his bishop’s garb and mitre, a crozier
clamped in his gloved, beringed hand. Krampus, with his humped back and shaggy
goat’s head. Belsnickel, with his bearskin cloak and cap, his Mr Punch
features, and his vicious, many-tailed whip.
“As you can see, we’re in august company tonight,” Parnell
said. “Nevertheless, for you we’ve reserved a place of honour.”
A carved wooden throne sat in front of the tree. It was
huge and stiff-backed, and engraved all over with images of animals and foliage.
But fixed onto each of its armrests there was an open steel clamp.
“Sit!” he commanded.
I did so, and he kicked a lever at the side of the chair,
the clamps snapping closed on my wrists.
He stepped back, surveying his work. Behind him, his sister rode down the hall on all fours, using her right foot to propel herself, her wheels squeaking.
He stepped back, surveying his work. Behind him, his sister rode down the hall on all fours, using her right foot to propel herself, her wheels squeaking.
“The irony,” Parnell said. “General Cromwell has provided us
with our very own Lord of Misrule.”
He placed the pistol on the table, took something else up
and, stepping forward, put it on my head. I couldn’t see it at the time,
but from the feel of it and the jingle of its bells, I gauged that it was a
paper coxcomb. It felt like the final indignity, or it might have done, had I
not feared that worse was now to follow. How the Parnells thought we could resolve
this thing without the pair of them facing time either in prison or a facility
for the unhinged, I couldn’t imagine. But then, as Parnell commenced some
rambling, ludicrous speech about the joy and sanctity of a loyalist Christmas –
his sister seated cross-legged, clashing her front wheels together like symbols, his other guests sitting lifeless and twisted – I spotted something
to my right that literally set my heart pounding.
It was another of those huge, gaily-wrapped packages that
I’d seen in the cellar. But this one’s lid was open, revealing that it
was in fact a sturdy box. Covered in wrapping paper but made from plywood. More
to the point, it was empty. Thus far.
I peered at it, sweat-soaked. So distracted that at first I
didn’t that realise that Parnell had turned his attention back to me.
“You see how we treat our prisoners of note.” He was offering me a cup. “We don’t behead them. We honour them. Treat them as noble guests, bid them drink and be merry. This won’t entirely be to your liking, of course, but such is the price of principle, Kelsey. A fine old wassail to us is a heinous offence to a
Fifth Monarchist.” He chuckled. “We call it Smoking Pope.”
I gazed at him, uncomprehending.
I gazed at him, uncomprehending.
“Port wine,” he explained, “roasted lemons, cloves, brown
sugar from the Indies and best Burgundy.” A mischievous wink. “And a couple of
special ingredients of our own.”
Special ingredients of their own.
Close behind him, Agnes Parnell had got to her feet again. She cradled the firelock as she watched with an excitement that verged on the sexual. I glanced at the cup, a large, silver chalice. Whatever brew
it contained, it certainly smoked.
More so than any mulled wine I’d ever seen.
Open wide,” he coaxed, leaning towards me, a demonic painted puppet. “The wider the mouth, the much better for you.”
Open wide,” he coaxed, leaning towards me, a demonic painted puppet. “The wider the mouth, the much better for you.”
My wrists were manacled, but my legs were free. So, I kicked
out with my left. My foot caught his bulky guts hard, my knee the underside of
the wassail cup, which flew from his grasp.
Parnell lurched away, semi-doubled over.
Shrieking, his sister took immediate two-handed aim at me and fired. There were only feet between us, the ancient gun booming and flaring, and just to the side of my head, a heavy ball smashed a fist-sized whole through the throne’s backrest. The force of it tipped me over, the backrest splintering, the entire antique structure of the chair coming apart at the joints.
Parnell lurched away, semi-doubled over.
Shrieking, his sister took immediate two-handed aim at me and fired. There were only feet between us, the ancient gun booming and flaring, and just to the side of my head, a heavy ball smashed a fist-sized whole through the throne’s backrest. The force of it tipped me over, the backrest splintering, the entire antique structure of the chair coming apart at the joints.
The next thing my hands were free, though I still tumbled
backward, head over heels. I got to my feet as quickly as I was able, but my
path was already blocked. Parnell had straightened up, while his sister had produced a
second firelock.
I turned and ran at the Christmas tree.
It felt like a mad, desperate gamble. The tree was huge,
something you’d normally find in a town square. But I’d no clue whether it was
sturdy or not, and if I got to the top, there was no guarantee I’d be able to
smash my way out through stained glass skylight.
I took the chance, anyway, throwing myself up into its lower
branches.
As I climbed, it proved a solid structure, but the boughs
were flexible and prickly with needles. They jabbed my face and poked my
throat. Soon I was smeared with sap, draped in tinsel. Baubles fell and
smashed. And then a large one blew apart before I’d even dislodged it. I looked
down. Parnell was handing the smoking firelock back to his sister, who in her
turn, handed him the other.
He took aim again, barrel resting on forearm. And discharged, this second shot demolishing a crystal Nativity.
He took aim again, barrel resting on forearm. And discharged, this second shot demolishing a crystal Nativity.
“Christ’s sake, Parnell!” I shouted down. ‘Have you lost
your mind!’
He gave a mirthful ‘Ho ho!’, and his sister handed him the
first weapon back, now reloaded. I clambered frantically, but still he fired,
striking the heel of my left shoe, tearing it away, stinging the whole foot. Up
I went, regardless, the tree shuddering, creaking.
A fourth shot zipped through the foliage.
“Damnation!” Parnell shouted, though he didn’t sound
distressed; more as if he was amused, as if this was all great sport. “So much
time since Edgehill, since Marston Moor. My aim has diminished. Ahh … this should do
the trick!
I couldn’t resist looking back again, just as the
horsewoman, her tail twitching as though it actually lived, presented him with
a much larger, much heavier weapon.
An honest-to-goodness
blunderbuss.
“The Major-General’s time is up!” he declared, as he put it
to his shoulder.
I hung there helpless, branches sliding through my
sweat-moist hands. When he fired, it was a cannon blast, smoke and flame
bursting forth. But the recoil tottered him, and because of this his aim was
off, nails and screws scything the lower section of the tree, ripping through
the foliage, shattering the thick, fibrous trunk.
I clung on all the harder as I tilted forward, the tree
slowly keeling. Ornaments rained down, the tearing of green timber filled my
ears. When I hit the table, I was thrown the full length of it, scattering food
and flaming candlesticks. Only on reaching the end, did the falling tree engulf
me, meshing me in more branches, more strands of popping, fizzing lights.
For stunned seconds, I lay sprawled and tangled in wreckage.
It was the cloying reek of gunpowder, making breathing difficult, that dragged
me back to wakefulness. Coughing, I fought free of the tree and slid down to my
feet. On my right stood a hostess trolley on the top of which sat a richly
basted turkey, an ivory-handled carving knife buried to its hilt. Behind that
stood the open door. Still groggy, I glanced the other way. Smoke and dust obscured
much of the great hall, but I could see enough to deduce that the upper two
thirds of the tree had fallen. And with tremendous impact, because the far end
of the table, having been struck by a greater spread of branches and heftier
weight of trunk, had collapsed.
I pushed the trolley out of my way. Waiting, listening.
Hearing only the distant strains of the carol concert. Still nothing moved,
which made the motionless papier-mâché figures even eerier. The four closest to
me had survived and continued to regard each other across the table.
Until the closest one, Belsnickel, twisted in his seat. Rose up. And faced me.
Until the closest one, Belsnickel, twisted in his seat. Rose up. And faced me.
I stood nose-to-nose with a leering, garish horror that
perfectly matched the Tyrolean nightmare from which it had been conjured.
All I could do was scream.
And more by instinct than design, reach out, snatch the
ivory-hilted knife, and swing it.
Belsnickel’s head came off with a single blow. But the
crudely made torso stayed upright and lurched towards me. I hacked and slashed,
paper and cotton wool guts spilling out.
As quickly as it had come to life, it died again.
And was cast aside, a primitive, broken toy.
Agnes Parnell, the horsewoman of Mistletoe Hall, rose up from behind it. She had survived the fallen tree, and advanced on me underneath the table. I threatened her with the blade as I retreated. She watched me levelly, her waxen features dotted with sweat, her teeth set in a grimace that was easily as fiendish as that of the Hooden Horse itself. I spun out into the antechamber, halting only to grab the bowl of brandy punch and hurl it at the blazing hearth. Flames ballooned, igniting the stockings dangling from the mantel, roaring up the swags of evergreen, travelling at speed across the rich pile rug, the smaller Christmas tree erupting in a blinding sheet of flame.
Agnes Parnell, the horsewoman of Mistletoe Hall, rose up from behind it. She had survived the fallen tree, and advanced on me underneath the table. I threatened her with the blade as I retreated. She watched me levelly, her waxen features dotted with sweat, her teeth set in a grimace that was easily as fiendish as that of the Hooden Horse itself. I spun out into the antechamber, halting only to grab the bowl of brandy punch and hurl it at the blazing hearth. Flames ballooned, igniting the stockings dangling from the mantel, roaring up the swags of evergreen, travelling at speed across the rich pile rug, the smaller Christmas tree erupting in a blinding sheet of flame.
The horsewoman had now come to the door, but a fiery barrier
lay between us.
Taking my chance, I fled again.
The whole house was now illuminated, a sure sign that Parnell
had thrown some kind of central switch to bring his maniacal Christmas party to
life in one swoop. The austere part of it was lit by dim, brownish bulbs, but I
needed turn only a couple of corners before finding the passage to the front
door. When I reached it, inevitably, it wasn’t just bolted but locked. And with
no key sight.
Then I heard it again, that damnable squeaking.
Blundering left into the room they’d called the parlour, I
lugged the curtains aside, finding sash-windows, but on fitting my fingers
underneath the closest, could only lift it a couple of inches. The same applied
to the next one, and now I could hear those wheels in the corridor outside. I
tried to lift the nearest bench but found that it had been screwed to the
floorboards.
The door to the parlour crashed open. Bright light, intense heat and a foul
stink poured in.
I ran at the window myself, using the bench as a
springboard, arms around my head. The glass exploded outward, the impact all
but knocking me senseless. I landed on hard, snowy ground, jangling shards
falling around me. Streaming blood, weakened by shock, I stumbled across the
forecourt, vaguely aware that the room behind me was filled with smoke and
fire.
My heart hammered as I plunged into the trees. I was whipped
and torn by branches, and certain that all the way an immense fireball
followed me, igniting everything it touched, its hellish, blazing wheels
squeaking … squeaking …
I lost all sense of direction and when I fought my way to
the drive, took a gamble that heading left would not lead me back to the house.
My luck held, better than I could have hoped. When I reached the road, the snow
still lay firm and crisp, untrammelled by tyres. Nothing had been along here for
hours. But now a horn howled, and a pair of headlights dazzled my world. The
HGV slid thirty yards before its brakes locked, hitting a standstill only
inches short of me.
Gasping, I worked my way around to the passenger door and clambered up.
Gasping, I worked my way around to the passenger door and clambered up.
“Lord almighty!” came the voice inside.
I threw a glance behind, and through leafless trees, saw
flames rising ferociously, turning the whole of that sacred night a livid
molten red.
*
Laura and I are no longer together.
It’s not just that I don’t do Christmas anymore. Laura was
always a caring girl, and if that was all it was, I feel sure she’d have come to tolerate it. She’d have coped with the fear factor too, though that would have
challenged her more. I admit that I don’t travel much these days, especially
when the end of the year approaches and the nights fall early and the leaves turn crisp with frost, but there is
rhyme and reason to this.
It’s an overused phrase, ‘burned to the ground’, but that’s what Mistletoe Hall did. Thanks to the DIY gas-lines that fed its many fireplaces and even some of its candles, an astounding conflagration left only a blackened heap of ash and char.
And bones, of course. The older bones in boxes, and the newer bones – which, as it happened, came from only one person.
It’s an overused phrase, ‘burned to the ground’, but that’s what Mistletoe Hall did. Thanks to the DIY gas-lines that fed its many fireplaces and even some of its candles, an astounding conflagration left only a blackened heap of ash and char.
And bones, of course. The older bones in boxes, and the newer bones – which, as it happened, came from only one person.
Perhaps you’ll understand therefore, why any sound that
could now be construed as metallic squeaking unnerves me. Or why the faintest
scent of burn – bacon too long in the pan, or the pungent aroma when a candle
is snuffed out – has me looking behind doors, scanning every street and
passage.
Even so, as I say, Laura could have dealt with that; I feel
certain.
What ultimately did for us was the suspicion. Even now
people whisper and cast me strange glances. And why not? It wasn’t just that
when I emerged from that raging crematorium, I was battered, bruised and
bleeding as if I’d been in a hard fight. Or that later on, the story I’d told
and the insanity I’d described seemed too preposterous to be true. It wasn’t even that I’d shrieked hysterically at my lorry-driving
rescuer to get us away, and that when he grabbed his phone to contact the
emergency services, I tried to wrench it off him and shrieked into his face
again. It was more the words I used.
‘Let them burn … let them burn! Good God man … all heretics
should burn!’
The pictures used in today’s blog have, as usual, been pillaged from the internet. Most, I just found floating around unconnected to any info relating to the original photographer or artist. As always, credit will immediately be given if any such person wants to come forward and name themselves, or the pics can be taken down if so required. The two images I was able to trace are as follows: The evil elf at the top of the blog is from Creepy Collection (Halloween & Haunted House Props), while the sinister doll-like smile half way down comes from the 1989 movie, Death Doll.
***
The pictures used in today’s blog have, as usual, been pillaged from the internet. Most, I just found floating around unconnected to any info relating to the original photographer or artist. As always, credit will immediately be given if any such person wants to come forward and name themselves, or the pics can be taken down if so required. The two images I was able to trace are as follows: The evil elf at the top of the blog is from Creepy Collection (Halloween & Haunted House Props), while the sinister doll-like smile half way down comes from the 1989 movie, Death Doll.
