Initially, it was intended to be part of an all-new collection of mine, A YEAR IN THE DEATH, as inspired by my esteemed ancestor, Mr Dickens's ALL THE YEAR ROUND magazine, the plan being to include twelve scary stories, each one carrying the name of a month as its title. It didn’t quite happen as I planned, though all the stories were written, DECEMBER eventually finding publication in a chapbook from the late lamented Gray Friar press.
Obviously, it’s been quite a while since then, and I imagine that this tale has passed out of most readers’ memories, if they ever read it at all, so now would seem like an opportune time to resurrect it.
I should point out that I was a much younger author when I wrote this story. Though I think you’ll find the writing to be of the required standard, it refers to the world of my young adulthood rather than today, a society that is no longer with us in the 21st century. Hopefully, you can tolerate that, and simply sit back and enjoy this Christmas ghost story.
Just remain for me to now say a very merry Christmas to everyone, and a happy New Year.
DECEMBER
Tattier by the year, she thought, as she made her way through the bustling streets, a totally manufactured feast. The sheer length of time the decorations had been out left them shabby. It wasn’t as if coloured streamers and gaudy glass baubles were especially seasonal anyway. Even with a carpet of snow underfoot, it all seemed so phony.
It didn’t make her angry as much as sad. But then there were other reasons for that too.
Towards the end of the day before Christmas Eve, she entered one of the department stores to pick up a few bits and pieces, and almost inevitably found herself in a section reserved for decorations. She might as well look, she supposed. She’d have to face reality at some stage, and it wasn’t fair on Josie to make no effort at all.
The place was thronging with jabbering, pink-faced shoppers, excited kiddies hanging on mothers’ arms, harassed-looking fathers carrying piles of colourful parcels. A fake spruce fir, sprinkled with glitter, sat on each counter. Everywhere she looked there were ornaments, cards and clockwork elves working on toys. One wall had been transformed into a Victorian fireplace – a pair of legs in red velvet and black boots were descending into view. Seasonally patterned stockings hung along the mantel, each one sporting a different price tag. Somewhere in the background, Bing Crosby was crooning.
Brenda moved uncertainly from one display to the next. She didn’t really have an excuse not to buy anything. There was money in her purse, and Josie had been so caring and sisterly since the bereavement that it was a shame to pretend this was just any other time of year. But if she was going to buy, it would be something nice, not something tacky like tinsel.
She bustled around the stalls, picking up sprigs of holly and mistletoe. She also bought an ivy wreath to hang on the front door, and several pine twigs, each one thick with needles and cones. Living symbols of joy, she tried to tell herself. She’d tried to tell herself that so often, of course. But at the checkout, the till girl priced her wares and when she rang it up, it came to £19.82.
Brenda’s hand froze on her purse.
“Nineteen-eighty-two,” the girl said, somewhat unnecessarily.
Not a great year all said and done, ’82, Brenda thought, as she again smelled raw alcohol, again heard her mother’s shrieks, again saw foliage mysteriously twitch. And then she focused on the till girl’s puzzled expression – and, smiling inanely, handed over her credit card. It wasn’t as if she was buying a full-sized tree, she advised herself tautly. There was surely no harm in these little spatters of winter vegetation.
Outside, the cold gripped her, and she wound her scarf around her neck. It pained her to think that she’d be spending Christmas with her younger sister instead of Jack. But then Jack was dead. That fact was irreversible, and she was now quite used to it. Or so she assumed. She’d know for sure when she sat down for her Christmas dinner and found only Josie looking over the turkey at her.
“You’ll be sorry,” said an old man standing against a wall.
Brenda glanced curiously round. He wore a scruffy coat, and a flat cap pulled down on thinning grey hair. His eyes were sunken and glassy, his face bristling. He was no one Brenda knew, though he was staring at her without blinking. Then she saw the collecting tin in his hand, with its ‘Blind Association’ sticker, and realised why. She turned to leave.
Brenda looked back at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, Missus?” he asked, as if suddenly coming awake. “It’s for the Blind Association.”
“I can see that. Were you talking to me?”
“Don’t follow, Missus,” he said, with seeming genuine innocence. His voice was different as well. It bore a strong Irish accent but was also high-pitched and bubbly with ill-health. Before, it had been clear and resonant – and English. A bit like Jack’s.
Brenda cleared her throat. “My mistake. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright, Missus. Something for the blind before you go?”
“Oh ... yes, of course.” She slotted a couple of pound coins into his tin. “You definitely didn’t say anything?”
“Not as I know of, Missus.” His breath smoked thickly. “Not allowed to, you see. We can only stand here. That’s the law.”
Brenda felt as if she should say something else, but couldn’t think what, and instead, walked quickly away. She glanced back once, but he was already lost in the crowd.
*
Brenda and Josie had pooled their resources after Jack’s death and bought themselves a semi-detached in the suburbs. Brenda had paid her way via the insurance, and only needed to work part-time. At present, she was between jobs. Josie, on the other hand, had a full-time position with a high street bank, and brought home a reasonable wage. Together they’d managed to furnish the house nicely and now lived in some comfort.
The younger sister got home around six, to find the house, as always, warm, lamp-lit and as neat as a new pin. Brenda was in the lounge, kneeling in front of the real-flame gas fire, laying out the items she’d bought.
“Hi,” Josie said, stripping off her gloves and scarf.
“Hi,” Brenda mumbled.
“Getting into the spirit, are we?”
“Thought we could put it all up tonight,” Brenda said. “Not going out anywhere, are you?”
Josie shook her head as she took her coat off. She sat on the sofa and slipped off her high heels, then hiked her skirt up and unfastened her suspender straps. She rolled down the stockings luxuriously, before untying the bun at the back of her head and shaking out her long brown hair. She was ten years younger than Brenda, and it was a constant source of amazement to the older woman that she’d never married. Josie usually shrugged this off as “never having met the right bloke”, which was even more astonishing to Brenda, as her sister certainly seemed to meet enough of them.
Josie stood up. “I’m off for a shower. Mmm ... something smells good in the kitchen.”
Brenda nodded, acknowledging the compliment, then turned back to her purchases. Despite her earlier reservations, there was something undeniably wholesome about fresh-cut evergreens. The smooth, rich texture of leaf and spine; the way they glistened in firelight; the bitter-sweet fragrance of sap and berries. She might make something of this Christmas yet, she thought.
They got around to decorating at about eight o’clock, having first eaten, washed up, and then changed into dressing gowns and slippers. Josie brought the fake tree down from the attic and dusted if off, while Brenda hung up the holly and mistletoe. They’d received a large number of cards, and these she arranged on the mantelpiece. By the time they’d finished, the room was snug and festive. The silver tree looked drab, it was true, but Josie had hung only the most tasteful ornaments on it, and the fairy lights twinkled prettily. Meanwhile, snowflakes pattered on the window, and the gas flame crackled warmly on its imitation logs. Things could have been worse.
Josie poured them both a glass of Pimms.
“You don’t suppose Brandon will be coming home this year?” she asked, curling up on the sofa.
Brenda stiffened in the armchair. She could never think about their younger brother without it bringing a black edge to the day. “This isn’t his home,” she finally said.
Josie took a sip of Pimms. “Oh, come on, Bren. Where else has he got?”
Brenda stared blindly at the TV screen. “Doesn’t he have lodgings in Spain?”
“He sells Timeshare options. He doesn’t live there. And it is Christmas.”
“He certainly doesn’t live here.”
Brenda had always played the stern older sister with Brandon, and why not? She’d practically raised him on her own, thanks to their late father’s unremitting drink habit. What she didn’t want anyone to know, though, especially Josie, was how much she feared him. It wasn’t just his bulk, though the Lord knew, that was bad enough – how many twenty-five-year-olds were the size of a bear? It was the other things: his odd eyes for example – one blue, one green; his gross black beard; the foul temper that had once landed him in prison for a year after he’d battered someone unconscious in a pub fight.
Then there were the real other things – the things she couldn’t mention. The way he’d been conceived. She’d never forget walking into the lounge after a late party that Christmas Eve way back in 1982 …
“He adores you,” Josie said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well ... that’s what he said in his last letter. Course, if you insist on not reading them, you’ll never know. He’s doing quite well, by all accounts. Says he’s made a lot of money. Reckons he might treat us.”
Brenda gave her sister a cynical look. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Josie, now slightly tipsy, returned the gaze boldly. “You know, Brenda ... you can’t go on blaming him for Mum’s death. She was too old and too ill, that’s all.”
Brenda looked back at the television. “I don’t blame him for that.”
She didn’t. How could she? Their father carried the can for that – their brutish, whisky-breathed father, who’d never take no for an answer and simply refused to accept that their ailing mother shouldn’t risk getting pregnant again. Oh no, Brenda would never forget Christmas Eve, ’82: the pleas, the gasps, the drunken grunts. Or the way that huge spruce fir had spread its quivering boughs over the events taking place beneath it; the way it had visibly spread them as she’d watched …
Brenda downed her Pimms and glanced at the bedraggled excuse she’d used for a tree these many Christmases past. She was glad Josie never asked why she didn’t replace it with a real one. She wouldn’t tell her. Likewise, she wouldn’t replace it. Not ever. Of course, she’d be more sure of that if Jack was still here to boost her courage.
Later on, she dreamed about him. They were walking on the beach at Blackpool together, then driving in the Yorkshire Dales. She saw sun-splashed woods and picnic hampers. Then they were home again, her bedside table sporting bouquets of flowers on the morning of her birthday, chocolates on Valentine’s Day. And then she saw Jack himself, booming with laughter over a frothing pint in the pub, friends clapping him on the shoulder, the life and soul of every party. And then she heard the heartbeat – the dull, repetitive heartbeat. Across the pub table, Jack’s handsome face drained white. Suddenly he looked startled. Then he was grabbing at his ribs, at his arm, his voice a strangled squeal, and all the time that heavy and now faltering heartbeat.
Brenda moaned as she awoke. Somebody was knocking on the front door.
“Alright, Jack ... alright ...” she muttered, pulling on her dressing gown and fumbling her way to the top of the stairs. “You’ve never been this late before.”
Somewhere in the pitch-black shadows below, Jack was still knocking. She set off downstairs. There was almost a pattern to it, she thought. It could have been a heartbeat.
Then she woke fully. At first Brenda didn’t know what she was doing. She looked round; she was at the foot of the stairs, the house in complete darkness around her. Of course, there was nobody knocking – it was still the middle of the night. The only sound was the whisper of flakes on the windowpanes.
She padded into the lounge to check the digital clock and saw that it was 2:16 am. She turned wearily away – but something struck her: the scent. She sniffed the air. It was cool and fresh, yet faintly sour. Then she remembered the evergreens. They hung around the room in dark clumps. She hadn’t realised that they smelled this strongly. She could have been in a pine forest. Shrugging, she walked back into the hall. All part of the dream, she supposed. She’d have forgotten it by morning. Before mounting the stairs, she glanced down the hall towards the front door.
Someone was standing in the porch.
Brenda froze. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She blinked, but the figure was still there, its silhouette visible through the frosted glass. He knocked again. Brenda felt icy prickles down her spine. This was not possible.
In a dreamlike state, she ventured towards the door. Her breath came hard and heavy. She felt sweat on her brow. For a brief second, she thought about Brandon – but no, this late-caller wasn’t nearly large enough. Not that he wasn’t large: he was foursquare, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. Broad, coal face-working shoulders.
Jack.
Brenda felt her hair stand on end. The terror gripping her heart was set to overwhelm her. Yet she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was virtually paralysed. And all the while, the faceless figure watched her through the patterned glass. Only after what seemed like an age did it suddenly lurch away into the murk, feet crunching in the snow. It gave a single, chesty cough as it went. She knew that cough. Pit-dust. He’d suffered it to his dying day, even though he hadn’t worked underground for years by then.
The next thing Brenda knew, she was swooning – her legs buckled. She managed to cry out Josie’s name once.
Mindless moments passed before the light came on, and her sister knelt down beside her. Weakly, Brenda allowed herself to be helped up and led into the lounge.
“It was a nightmare ... it must’ve been,” she stammered, sitting on the sofa.
Josie stood up. “I’ll put the kettle on. Just wait here.”
Five minutes later, they were huddled together over mugs of tea, Brenda still shivering.
Eventually Josie spoke. “Look love ... I’ve not wanted to say this, but it was always going to be difficult this year. Your first Christmas without him.”
Brenda took another swallow of tea. “I could’ve sworn it was him outside, Jose. I mean ... I’d know him anywhere.”
“You’ve already admitted that at least half of it was a dream.”
Brenda shook her head. “It was so real, though. It was so real ... and now he’s out there, in the snow.”
Josie took her by the hand. “Brenda, nobody’s out there. If they were, they’d still be trying to get in.”
“But he went off when I didn’t answer.” Brenda felt growing panic. “He knew I was here and he knew I wasn’t going to answer! What else could he do?”
Josie put an arm round her shoulder. “Brenda ... listen to yourself. Jack’s dead, for heaven’s sake! You know that!”
“I know ...”
“So how could he be outside?”
“Well, who was it, then?”
Josie stood up abruptly. “Why don’t we find out?”
“What?” Brenda felt sudden alarm.
“Come on,” her sister said, striding into the hall.
“Oh God no!” Brenda hurried after her. “What if it’s some madman?”
Josie was already by the front door, drawing back bolts. “You said yourself … he went off. Besides, it was a dream.”
She opened the door, and the icy wind howled in, snowflakes gushing with it. Initially they were blinded and deafened, but when it subsided, they were able to see – nobody. The front gate was still closed and laden with snow. The garden path and the lawns to either side bore unbroken mantles of white. Even the front step was smoothly clad.
“I don’t understand,” Brenda said, as they went back into the lounge.
“I do,” Josie replied. “And I’ve got the solution.”
Brenda glanced curiously at her.
“You’ve been in your widow’s weeds too long, love.” Josie smiled mischievously. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. I’m not working, so we’ll go out in the afternoon and get the turkey and trimmings and everything, and after that ... me and you are going to enjoy ourselves.”
*
She was on the verge of calling the whole thing off when Josie appeared behind her in bra and miniskirt, feet bare, hair still in rollers. Even then, she looked trim and sexy.
“This is ridiculous,” Brenda said. “I’ve haven’t been to a club for over ten years.”
Josie touched up her mascara. “This isn’t some kids’ disco. The Roxy’s really upmarket these days. Caters for people of our age.”
Brenda snorted. “Our age? You mean your age!”
“For God’s sake, you’re only forty-three!” Josie chided her. “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You’re still a looker ... have you seen yourself?”
“Yes. That’s what’s worrying me.”
“I wish I had boobs like yours, that’s all I can say.”
“Oh the boobs are fine,” Brenda agreed. “It’s just everything else.”
Josie planted a moist kiss on her cheek, before hurrying out again. “Relax. You’ll knock ’em dead, I guarantee it.”
Brenda sighed, then placed her hands on her hips and turned slightly to view herself side-on. She wasn’t entirely convinced that knocking ’em dead was either what she wanted to be doing or should be doing.
*
Shimmering brocade hung down everywhere. Rivers of drunken revellers blundered back and forth, discordant lights playing over them in a kaleidoscopic frenzy. Seasonal hits thumped out at multi-decibels, dry ice spurting in noxious clouds from the base of the DJ’s podium, now guarded on either side by gigantic spruce firs, both festooned with crackers and candy sticks.
Brenda was astonished at how little everything had changed since her own nightclubbing days back in the early ’80s. Styles were different, but it was just as noisy, sweaty and swimming in alcohol fumes. The music wasn’t much different either, but then it was Christmas.
Beside her at the bar, Josie was ordering two more cocktails and trying to fend off a man who wanted a Christmas kiss. Brenda had been approached too, though in her case the would-be beau had been a lot younger than she was and staggering-drunk. She’d found it more insulting than flattering and had sent him away with a flea in his ear. She kept telling herself that she wasn’t here to be picked up. It was a bit of festive fun, that was all.
This was a highbrow philosophy that her sister patently didn’t share. Though Josie had brought them both out with the best intentions, Brenda knew that she was a party girl at heart and found the attention of men, of which she was always the centre, irresistible. The more she drank, the more she got into the mood. Her polite dismissals soon became flirtatious teasing, and eventually three or four male presences were permanent fixtures around them, which Josie was doing progressively less to discourage. Even on the dance floor the two sisters had company, and jostling, lumbering company at that. Brenda drew admiring glances as well, but essentially, she was the second choice. As midnight approached, she found herself wandering the stairways and balconies alone. The seasonal songs, the laughing and shrieking and clinking of glasses seemed more inappropriate than ever.
Someone pinched her bottom.
Brenda turned to face him, preparing her most withering stare. But there was nobody there. She’d been standing with her back to one of the gigantic Christmas trees. It towered above her. She stepped back, suddenly, absurdly afraid. She smelled again the ice and pines of the northern forests. Then she looked deep into the tree, past its be-ribboned canopy to the shadows underneath: hard, chocolate-black shadows where vague things seemed to twitch and move and gaze soullessly back at her.
Abruptly, she broke away. The next thing Brenda knew, she was running – or rather, trying to run; fighting her way through the frenzied mob. The clock was just striking twelve as she staggered outside into the frosty air, coat and handbag clutched to her chest. She put her coat on and started to walk. She wasn’t sure where too, but just walking was an improvement on being in the Roxy.
Or so she thought. Only now did it strike her that getting a taxi was going to be hell, and that the town centre would be crawling with drunken gangs. As if that wasn’t enough, the snow had stopped falling but what covering there already was had frozen into a slippery crust. She was just negotiating a particularly icy patch when she looked up and saw the man waiting at the next corner.
Brenda halted in her tracks. Not because she feared assault, but because she recognised him. Or at least, she recognised his outline – from the porch step the previous night. He was standing perfectly still by the edge of the pavement, his back to her, wearing a flat cap and scruffy overcoat, but she’d have known him anywhere. Only one man had that solid frame, those wide shoulders.
“Jack ...” she whispered.
He was forty yards away at least; he couldn’t have heard her, but even so he turned slowly. And it was Jack. Waxy pale, the way he’d been that night they rushed him into theatre, but blowing on his hands as if by some cruel miracle even the dead could feel the cold.
“Oh God ... Jack.”
He gave her a single mournful look, then shuffled out of sight around the corner.
Brenda called out for him to stop. She hurried forward, those ridiculous heels clicking on the ice, but when she got to the corner and looked around, he was already at the end of a narrow alley and moving out of sight again.
“Jack ... wait!” She virtually ran down the passage after him, skidding and stumbling in heaps of frozen garbage.
At the far end, she stopped short. The alley gave out to a cobbled access-road running between huge buildings, all now locked and silent. She advanced slowly and glanced in either direction, but there was no sign of anyone. The only light came from a distant security lamp.
“Help you, Missus?” a voice asked.
Brenda whirled round, her heart in her mouth – and noticed two things straight away: firstly, the man standing there wore the same coat and hat that Jack had been wearing not two minutes ago; secondly, he wasn’t Jack. He didn’t even look like him. He was short, shrivelled and old. Dull, sightless eyes peered out from beneath his ragged, grey fringe. It was the blind Irishman from outside the department store.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Nothing I can do?” he wondered with a leering smile. As with every other man she’d met that day, his interest in her was anything but pleasant.
“No,” she said in as firm a tone as she could. “No, I’m sorry.” She turned to leave.
“Nice dress, Brenda.”
She looked sharply back at him – and wanted to scream with horror. His eyes were now wide and alert, his mouth clamped into a hard frown. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t the old man anymore. His breadth was greater, his neck thicker. And down below, through an opening in his coat, she saw a cavity in his chest – the straight, surgically-precise sort of cavity made on the operating table. Within that cavity, a mass of grey and yellow muscle was convulsing irregularly.
“Oh my God, Jack ...”
“Look pet,” he began, in his stern but reassuring tone, “you’ve got trouble, see. Tried to warn you, but you weren’t having none of it.” He coughed a dry, chesty pit-cough.
She stared at him askance. It was Jack – but then it wasn’t. His features ran like water-colours, various portions of face appearing and disappearing, merging together then breaking apart; at one moment her husband, the next a blind Irishman, then a composite of the two.
“Jack, I ...”
“Let me talk, love ... time’s short.” As he spoke, his voice also fluctuated: first it was fluting rural Irish, then gruff northern English. “Remember that old story your mam told you, pet? When you were a nipper?”
Brenda shook her head dumbly. She couldn’t remember anything at this moment. “Jack ...”
“Just listen, pet. You’ve got trouble. You remember that tale ... when you used to ask for Christmas stories, while your dad was out pubbing it and only you and your mam got to share Christmas Eve together? You remember, before the others came along?”
She nodded slowly. She thought she did.
“You ought to, pet. It was so cute, you told it to me. About the elves ... the real elves. Not them Enid Blyton things. How they took refuge in evergreens during the winter ... up in the old Viking and Saxon lands. And how folks as took ’em inside, where it was warm, got good luck. Remember, pet? That old tale? Supposed to be the reason we hang the green stuff up at Christmas.”
“Yes, Jack.” She couldn’t stop her voice quavering, but she did remember. It was her favourite Yuletide myth – at an age, of course, when she’d had time for myths.
“Now listen, love.” Jack’s features again swapped, his accent shifted. “Who’s to say them spirits have always got our interests at heart, eh? You’ve felt it, I know. The change. Look at this Christmas, darling ... what’ve you got? You don’t see no Baby Jesuses lighting up the streets, no Angel Gabriels in the pub windows ... too many snowmen and Rudolfs and Seven bloody Dwarves.” His eyes widened. “There’s a shift of power, Brenda.” His voice was suddenly strained, the lump of gristle in his chest juddering. “It’s slow …” He had to heave the words out. “But ... it’s happening. Someone ought to make a stand against it. And who’s got better reason than you?”
She wanted to reach out and clasp him but knew she couldn’t. He was a drifting, twilight figure; a shape seen through smoked and faulted glass.
“Jack, I don’t know what to do!” she blurted.
“Yes, you do, pet.” His voice now sounded distant. His face was firmly the shabby old tramp’s again.
“Jack ...”
“Name’s not Jack, Missus,” the blind man chirped.
“Jack, come back!” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Missus?” He sounded genuinely bemused.
Brenda turned and fled, scrambling back up the alley to the main road, and, by sheer fortune, emerged just as a prowling cab slid by. She flagged it down and it stopped. A few minutes later, she was cruising home through the glistening streets.
“Proper white Christmas this year, eh?” the taxi driver said cheerfully. “Radio reckons it’ll be snowing again by morning. Just like in the old days.”
Brenda looked up sharply. “What did you say?”
She noticed his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He quickly averted them. Then she saw why: he’d adjusted the mirror’s position so that he could look at her legs, which the open coat and ridiculously short dress had revealed to the thigh. Though at present it hardly seemed to matter.
“What did you say ... about the old days?”
“Oh, nothing.” He tried to laugh, embarrassed at having been caught peeking. There was a sudden crackle of static, and relieved, he scooped up his PR to take a message.
Brenda lapsed back into her thoughts. She remembered the story Jack had been talking about. The old days, the very old days: woodlands frozen and deep in snow; the long-hall hearths decked with holly and ivy and mistletoe; greenery everywhere, dangling from the beams, nailed over the doors, always there in the background – abundant, fresh, full of life. She’d never made the connection until now, until this particular Christmas, which of every one she’d ever known had seemed the least concerned with Christ’s birth.
She was home before she knew it, and the taxi a swirl of frosty exhaust.
Brenda glanced at her wristwatch – Josie would be another hour at least. She looked up the path. The curtains were drawn on the ground floor windows, but lamplight shone out. With snow in the front garden, there was a midwinter coziness about the place. At least there would’ve been had she not sensed the presence inside. This house was not empty. She knew that now.
Slowly, she made her way up the path. As she dug into her purse for her key, fresh snow began to fall.
Inside, the house was warm and snug. But the silence chilled her. It should be silent, she told herself; it was the middle of the night. But this silence was different: this was a listening silence. They were waiting for her. Even as she stood there on the mat, she could smell them: pinecones, spruce twigs, rich, sticky sap.
Determined to ignore it, she went upstairs, changed into a nightie, dressing-gown and slippers, and scrubbed off her make-up. It was ridiculous, she told herself, as she stood before the mirror. This was her home. It was Christmas Eve – in fact now it was Christmas Day. There was nothing to be afraid of. But then she fancied she heard a faint rustle from somewhere below. It was the sort of rustle foliage might make in the wind.
It took a couple of minutes to muster the courage to go downstairs, but eventually she managed it. Why not? There was nobody there. She walked straight into the lounge and switched on the real-flame gas fire. A cheery blaze roared up. Then she looked round – and noticed the evergreens.
She was dumbstruck. She didn’t remember hanging so many. Swags of spruce fir ran in loops from corner to corner; twists of mistletoe hung from mantelpiece, lampshade, lintel; clumps of holly glistened behind every card and ornament.
Several seconds passed before she realised what she had to do. She opened the lid of the music-centre, and rather than going for a CD, took an old LP from the shelf, fitted it onto the spindle and pressed ‘play’. The dull chords of the great organ at Salisbury Cathedral rang out. The ‘castrato’ voices of choirboys followed:
Oh, come all ye faithful ...
Brenda glanced warily around. Stillness hung over the room like a drape of green velvet. Boldly, she turned the volume up. When the carol finished, another started:
I saw three ships ...
By the second verse, Brenda was in the kitchen, going through the drawers. Eventually she found what she was looking for: matches. Growing in confidence, she went back into the lounge and, one by one, lit the Christmas candles on the mantelpiece. Candles symbolised the light of the world that Christmas had originally brought, she reminded herself. By the time she’d finished, the record had gone into Stille Nacht, and, for the first time that holiday, something like peace descended. It was Christmas Morning after all. Then an ugly thought occurred to her. They’d accepted the carols – and why not? They always had. They’d tolerated much over the centuries in return for a warm berth in the depths of winter.
Well, she’d see about that. She wasn’t finished yet.
She ran upstairs, took the stepladders from the wardrobe and climbed to the attic. A few minutes later, she was down again, dusting off a cardboard box. She carried it into the lounge and unpacked it. The first thing she took out was a miniature wooden shack with an open front. Following this came plaster figurines of an ox, an ass, Mary, Joseph and the Christchild in his manger. They were old and cracked, but noble in their simplicity. Triumphantly, she turned to the mantelpiece and began to move ornaments and holly aside.
And almost immediately, she pricked herself.
She looked at her thumb, shocked. Blood welled from a deep puncture. A rustling sound caught her attention. She glanced up, just in time to see the holly – several sprigs of it twisted together in a tentacle – sliding off the mantelpiece. She snatched at it, pricking herself again in several places.
Blood dripped on the carpet, and she cursed aloud. Then the other end of the tentacle went, dropping heavily onto the hi-fi turntable and tangling with the needle. An agonised squeak followed and While Shepherds Watched crashed into silence.
“No!” Brenda cried.
When one of the swags came down, it slapped her hard in the face. She staggered and grabbed out to keep her balance, only to plunge her hand onto more holly. Another length of swag unlooped onto the imitation tree, knocking it sideways, ornaments clattering and breaking. Brenda looked wildly round, more angry than frightened. That was when she smelled the smoke. Instantly, her rage was dispelled by fear. All but one of the candles on the mantelpiece had toppled over, and the holly had caught fire.
She tore off her gown and dabbed at it. In seconds, however, the garment itself was alight – it seared one of her wrists. She hurled it to the floor and trampled on it. And all the while the flames spread along the top of the mantelpiece, leaping from sprig to sprig, Christmas cards charring and curling.
Wide-eyed, she backed away. Smoke furled around her. And then, suddenly, she snapped. “Alright! You want fire ... you can have fire!”
In a rage, she grabbed at the first hank of greenery she saw, yanked it down and thrust it onto the gas fire. It ignited as if petrol had been thrown over it. But Brenda wasn’t finished. She dashed from corner to corner, dragging down evergreens and tossing them onto the inferno, which now rose and rose with intensifying heat.
“How do you like that?” she screamed. “Warm enough for you ... go on, burn! You little bastards!”
She leaped up to retrieve the utmost shreds of ivy and mistletoe, even scorched her fingers grabbing at the embers of holly on the mantel. It didn’t matter – she got them all. Every single piece. And one by one, she fed them into the flames, laughing all the while.
Her mirth was short-lived.
When the bundle of burning foliage suddenly began to shift, she assumed she’d overloaded it. That was frightening enough, but what happened next was something else completely. To her incredulity, Brenda realised that it was moving of its own accord. The blazing vegetation was reorganising itself into something symmetrical, something with arms and legs, something vaguely humanoid.
With painstaking slowness, every leaf and stem still brightly aflame, it sat up on top of the fire and placed its feet on the carpet. Then it rose to full height.
Brenda screamed.
What stood before her defied any law of science or nature: a being composed almost entirely of living flame. It turned to look in her direction.
Brenda staggered from the room, still screaming. But the fire demon followed, patches of burning carpet left in its wake. Once in the hall, she grabbed up a glass vase and turned to face it. It seemed to fill her vision as it approached, its heat overpowering. Above its head she saw the ceiling blacken. Items of furniture around it began to smoulder. Still, it came on. She flung the vase blindly, but it exploded on contact, blobs of melted glass blowing back on her like pellets.
She retreated into the dining room, but it followed her there too. Then into the kitchen, from where there was only one retreat – outside. Brenda opened the back door on swirling snow. The cold was mind-numbing, but it didn’t matter. She dashed out, immediately slipping and falling. When the thing appeared in the doorway, she crawled away. But this time it made no move to follow. It simply watched, the wind fanning its flames. Then it slammed the door, and she was plunged into icy blackness.
“I tried, Jack,” she stammered. “I ... I tried.”
The snow bit her near-naked flesh as she clambered to her feet and hugged herself. She didn’t know what else to do. Through the thin curtains on the kitchen windows, she could see a glowing shape leaping and cavorting in triumph, before moving out of her vision. She staggered around to the front of the house, and there again, through the closed drapes, saw a demonic capering as the invader flung itself from room to room. Far overhead, black smoke pumped from the chimney. The stench of burning woods and fabrics was overwhelming, even in this bitter cold.
This unbearably bitter cold.
Brenda hung her head, trying to blot it out, but the wind whipped her without mercy. She felt a darkness opening in front of her …
And then someone caught hold of her arm.
“Brenda!” The voice was full of panic. “For God’s sake, Brenda ... what on Earth are you doing?”
Brenda looked weakly up. It was Josie, now in the process of taking off her coat and throwing it around her sister’s shoulders. A young man in a suit was with her.
“For God’s sake!” Josie said again. “You’ll catch your death.”
“The house ... in the house,” Brenda whimpered.
Josie glanced at the front door. “What do you mean? Somebody’s in the house?”
She looked at the young man. He nodded and said: “I’ll check it out. Got a key?”
Josie handed one over.
Brenda shook her head wildly. She didn’t know this guy; likely as not she’d never meet him again – he was just another of Josie’s endless suitors – but she wouldn’t wish death by fire on anyone. “No,” she said forcefully, “nooo!”
“Brenda ... Jesus Christ!” Josie hugged her tightly. “Go on, Eddie.”
The young guy moved lithely away; light fell across them as he opened the front door. Brenda gazed at it in awe, expecting an explosion of smoke and flames, expecting a prolonged male death-shriek.
But none of that happened.
“There’s no-one here now,” he said, when he reappeared.
Brenda was almost too weak to resist, but still tried to struggle as Josie steered her firmly back into the house. When the door shut behind them, Brenda closed her eyes, refusing to let the warmth embrace her.
“You weren’t having another nightmare, were you?” Josie asked.
Brenda shook her head again. She couldn’t answer. She wouldn’t answer. But when she finally opened her eyes, she reeled at what she saw. The hall should have been a charred shell. In fact, it was untouched – hardly a single item of furniture was out of place. The vase she had thrown lay in pieces on the carpet, but that was all. The lounge should certainly have been burned out, but even that was undamaged. There were faint traces of smoke and a slightly pungent odour, but these were easily explained. Eddie indicated the mantelpiece, where one of the candles had fallen over and set a couple of holly leaves alight. The small fire had gone out of its own accord, however. Aside from that, the room’s livery of evergreens was untouched.
“About that nightmare,” Josie said again.
Brenda began to cry. She moved away and sank onto the sofa, head in hands.
“Oh God ...” she heard Josie saying. “This is all my fault. Look I’m sorry, Eddie. Perhaps another night?”
The man made a muted acknowledgement, but Brenda straightened up quickly. “Wait!”
They looked round at her.
“I want it out! All of it!”
Josie and Eddie exchanged bemused glances.
“All this green stuff!” Brenda rose shakily to her feet. “All out ... every scrap!”
“What are you talking about?” Josie asked.
“This!” Brenda grabbed at a holly sprig and ripped it down. “All of it outside ... NOW!”
“Alright, alright.” Josie made a calming motion with her hands. “Whatever you say, don’t worry.”
She glanced at Eddie and, shrugging, he began to circle the room, taking down evergreens. He tried to ignore one of the higher spots, but Brenda made sure he didn’t.
“All of it please,” she said sternly.
They’d almost beaten her, she thought. But not quite. She’d hung out long enough for help to arrive, and now she’d turned the tables. Jack would be proud.
“Fancied a bare house this year, did we?” Josie asked, her bemusement giving way to what sounded like mild irritation.
Brenda pursed her lips. “Tinsel will do fine.”
It took Eddie five minutes to strip the room, and when he’d piled up every scrap of vegetation, he carried it out to the back and threw it on the compost heap. When he’d finished, he told Josie that he thought he’d better be going. She nodded.
After the twosome had left the house, Brenda walked back into the lounge. The room seemed naked, the silver Christmas tree looking drab and forlorn. Brenda didn’t care – she was in charge again. She’d been warned what could happen back in 1982, but sometimes it took the experience of a lifetime to bring reality home.
She glanced round the curtain and saw Josie and Eddie standing by a red Porsche, kissing. Eventually they climbed inside it and continued to embrace. Brenda let the curtain slip back into place. Maybe this one would lead to something? He seemed like a nice young man, this Eddie.
She surveyed the lounge again. She was still badly shaken, still sore where the flames had licked her wrist, but at least she’d won. She glanced at the clock: 1:36. It was well into Christmas Day. Time for a celebration perhaps? She walked to the drinks cabinet but was just opening the Pimms when she sensed a presence behind her. She stiffened.
There was a rustle of cloth, a husky intake of breath.
Slowly, she turned.
Brandon was standing there, clad in jeans, jacket and gumboots. If anything, he seemed to have grown even larger. His beard was thicker and blacker. He smiled at her in that chilling way, one eye blue, one green. “Hi Brenda,” he said.
And all of a sudden, it struck her what it was about him that she’d always feared. She thought of the trouble he’d been in all his life: the pub fights, the prison sentence, the drinking and the rages and the tendency to smash things. And then she thought about old wives’ tales, and what they’d said about odd-eyed people who behaved that way. What was the word – oh yes, ‘changelings’. She remembered his violent conception under the boughs of that ancient emblem of pagan winter, the spruce fir. And now it all made sense.
He stepped into the room. Involuntarily, she retreated. He smiled again – it really was the most unpleasant smile she’d ever seen. It brooked no argument.
“Told you I’d be home.”
She tried to reply but couldn’t. The glass slipped from her hand.
“Things are going to be different from now on, Brenda,” he added. He looked at the fake Christmas tree, and his smile became a grin of triumph. “I’ve made a lot of dosh, and I’m going to treat you both. You can get rid of that thing for a start.” He turned to something lying behind him in the hall. “Just look at this.”
Brenda didn’t need to look to know what it was.
A spruce fir. A gigantic spruce fir, freshly cut. It was so big that Brandon had to yank it hard to get it in through the door. It was perhaps the biggest she’d ever seen; as if he’d been and torn it down in the middle of a forest. The shadows in its depths were utterly black. Brandon laughed raucously.
As he hauled it across the carpet, the tree’s vast and prickly branches seemed to quiver with excitement.
“There’s no-one here now,” he said, when he reappeared.
Brenda was almost too weak to resist, but still tried to struggle as Josie steered her firmly back into the house. When the door shut behind them, Brenda closed her eyes, refusing to let the warmth embrace her.
“You weren’t having another nightmare, were you?” Josie asked.
Brenda shook her head again. She couldn’t answer. She wouldn’t answer. But when she finally opened her eyes, she reeled at what she saw. The hall should have been a charred shell. In fact, it was untouched – hardly a single item of furniture was out of place. The vase she had thrown lay in pieces on the carpet, but that was all. The lounge should certainly have been burned out, but even that was undamaged. There were faint traces of smoke and a slightly pungent odour, but these were easily explained. Eddie indicated the mantelpiece, where one of the candles had fallen over and set a couple of holly leaves alight. The small fire had gone out of its own accord, however. Aside from that, the room’s livery of evergreens was untouched.
“About that nightmare,” Josie said again.
Brenda began to cry. She moved away and sank onto the sofa, head in hands.
“Oh God ...” she heard Josie saying. “This is all my fault. Look I’m sorry, Eddie. Perhaps another night?”
The man made a muted acknowledgement, but Brenda straightened up quickly. “Wait!”
They looked round at her.
“I want it out! All of it!”
Josie and Eddie exchanged bemused glances.
“All this green stuff!” Brenda rose shakily to her feet. “All out ... every scrap!”
“What are you talking about?” Josie asked.
“This!” Brenda grabbed at a holly sprig and ripped it down. “All of it outside ... NOW!”
“Alright, alright.” Josie made a calming motion with her hands. “Whatever you say, don’t worry.”
She glanced at Eddie and, shrugging, he began to circle the room, taking down evergreens. He tried to ignore one of the higher spots, but Brenda made sure he didn’t.
“All of it please,” she said sternly.
They’d almost beaten her, she thought. But not quite. She’d hung out long enough for help to arrive, and now she’d turned the tables. Jack would be proud.
“Fancied a bare house this year, did we?” Josie asked, her bemusement giving way to what sounded like mild irritation.
Brenda pursed her lips. “Tinsel will do fine.”
It took Eddie five minutes to strip the room, and when he’d piled up every scrap of vegetation, he carried it out to the back and threw it on the compost heap. When he’d finished, he told Josie that he thought he’d better be going. She nodded.
After the twosome had left the house, Brenda walked back into the lounge. The room seemed naked, the silver Christmas tree looking drab and forlorn. Brenda didn’t care – she was in charge again. She’d been warned what could happen back in 1982, but sometimes it took the experience of a lifetime to bring reality home.
She glanced round the curtain and saw Josie and Eddie standing by a red Porsche, kissing. Eventually they climbed inside it and continued to embrace. Brenda let the curtain slip back into place. Maybe this one would lead to something? He seemed like a nice young man, this Eddie.
She surveyed the lounge again. She was still badly shaken, still sore where the flames had licked her wrist, but at least she’d won. She glanced at the clock: 1:36. It was well into Christmas Day. Time for a celebration perhaps? She walked to the drinks cabinet but was just opening the Pimms when she sensed a presence behind her. She stiffened.
There was a rustle of cloth, a husky intake of breath.
Slowly, she turned.
Brandon was standing there, clad in jeans, jacket and gumboots. If anything, he seemed to have grown even larger. His beard was thicker and blacker. He smiled at her in that chilling way, one eye blue, one green. “Hi Brenda,” he said.
And all of a sudden, it struck her what it was about him that she’d always feared. She thought of the trouble he’d been in all his life: the pub fights, the prison sentence, the drinking and the rages and the tendency to smash things. And then she thought about old wives’ tales, and what they’d said about odd-eyed people who behaved that way. What was the word – oh yes, ‘changelings’. She remembered his violent conception under the boughs of that ancient emblem of pagan winter, the spruce fir. And now it all made sense.
He stepped into the room. Involuntarily, she retreated. He smiled again – it really was the most unpleasant smile she’d ever seen. It brooked no argument.
“Told you I’d be home.”
She tried to reply but couldn’t. The glass slipped from her hand.
“Things are going to be different from now on, Brenda,” he added. He looked at the fake Christmas tree, and his smile became a grin of triumph. “I’ve made a lot of dosh, and I’m going to treat you both. You can get rid of that thing for a start.” He turned to something lying behind him in the hall. “Just look at this.”
Brenda didn’t need to look to know what it was.
A spruce fir. A gigantic spruce fir, freshly cut. It was so big that Brandon had to yank it hard to get it in through the door. It was perhaps the biggest she’d ever seen; as if he’d been and torn it down in the middle of a forest. The shadows in its depths were utterly black. Brandon laughed raucously.
As he hauled it across the carpet, the tree’s vast and prickly branches seemed to quiver with excitement.
***
Thanks for your attention, folks. If you’ve enjoyed this one, perhaps you’ll be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years: THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE and IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER.
If you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for SPARROWHAWK, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England.
In the meantime, once again, all the best for the season.
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