A Little Death for the Holiday

By Cheryl Dyson

Holidays are typically happy occasions, but what if there was a terrifying twist? An unexpected guest? A day trip that took an unforeseen turn? A long-awaited holiday that becomes an anxiety-inducing door at the end of a dark hallway? From Christmas to Bastille Day, these stories will chill and horrify you, and give you a new look at old traditions. Enjoy the first season of Scifimonkey Storytime!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronnie Mason III
• Release date: Apr 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463667439

Book preview

A Little Death for the Holiday

A Sci-fi Monkeys Storytime Anthology

Edited by Ronnie Mason and Cheryl Dyson

Published by Sci-fi Monkeys at Smashwords

Copyright 2017

All rights reserved. Any reproduction of this book, in part or in whole, or transmission in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher or author is theft and will be punishable by law.

Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Carmen Harrington ©2017

Cover design by Lisa Vasquez

Waiting for Independence Day ©2017 by Cheryl Dyson

Room Service ©2017 by T.J. Tranchell

’La Guillotine Will Claim Her Bloody Prize’ ©2017 by Jason Zachary Pott

The Little People ©2017 by Jason Zachary Pott

Where My People Are Buried ©2017 by T.J. Tranchell

The Saints of October ©2017 by Nick Manzolillo

The Prank ©2017 by Rachel Villalobos

Communion ©2017 by Mikael Abrahamsson

Roogcha ©2017 by Patrick Winters

The Good Son ©2017 by Liam Hogan

You Shouldn’t Have ©2017 by Darren Todd

Mrs. Ishtar Claus ©2017 by Bryan Nickelberry

Season’s Greetings ©2017 by Edward Ahern

Take a ride through the holidays with 13 Horror Stories from 11 exciting authors. From Christmas to Bastille Day, your year of holidays will never be the same.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Waiting for Independence Day by Cheryl Dyson

Room Service by T.J. Tranchell

’La Guillotine Will Claim Her Bloody Prize’ by Jason Zachary Pott

The Little People by Jason Zachary Pott

Where My People Are Buried by T.J. Tranchell

The Saints of October by Nick Manzolillo

The Prank by Rachel Villalobos

Communion by Mikael Abrahamsson

"Roogcha" by Patrick Winters

The Good Son by Liam Hogan

You Shouldn’t Have by Darren Todd

Mrs. Ishtar Claus by Bryan Nickelberry

Season’s Greetings by Edward Ahern

Waiting for Independence Day

by Cheryl Dyson

JULY

She was seated at the kitchen table when Bob slumped in to find breakfast. Her gaze bored into the tabletop as if she read an invisible newspaper. Bob poured himself a bowl of cereal with a splash of milk. He sat down across from her and began to eat.

It’s been so nice out, she said. We should go to the farmer's market. It's been so long and this place could use some fresh flowers. Look at this kitchen, it's so... dingy.

Bob shoveled the cereal into his mouth, chewing loudly to drown her words in the resultant crunch crunch crunch.

AUGUST

There wasn't much on television, but the weather had turned wet and windy, making the indoors the best option. Bob pressed the UP arrow on the remote, flitting through channels like a bee searching for a choice flower, except the selections were more like weeds: infomercials, cooking shows, and true crime stories with the sensationalism turned up to fifty and the lack of evidence nearly on mute.

Carolyn sat three feet away, curled up on a corner of the sofa with her legs drawn in and her chin resting on one knee.

We never talk anymore. Remember when we used to read together and then talk about things for hours? I miss those days so much. Her voice was thick with longing.

Bob shut off the television and put on his coat. The corner pub was only a short walk away and it wasn't pouring that hard. Plus, they had alcohol.

SEPTEMBER

Bob sat up, heart pounding and hands flailing as he reached for his phone, the switch to the lamp, something! Carolyn stood next to the bed, sobbing and clutching her nightgown into bunches with her fists.

I dreamed that you left me! Please don’t leave me! I’m sorry! I’ll try harder to be better! I can be the person you need me to be! I can! I promise! Just don't—!

"Will you shut up?" Bob yelled. He rolled over and snatched a pillow to cover his head, clamping it tightly against his ears to muffle the sound of her crying. Morning was a long time coming.

OCTOBER

Bob opened the closet and let out a high-pitched squeak. Carolyn stood motionless, staring at his shirts that hung in a neat row next to his pressed trousers. The other half of the closet was empty.

Your mother is coming this weekend. Her hand brushed the sleeve of his pale blue shirt, his favorite. I don’t know what to wear. She hates me so much. She’ll never let us get married. I wish I knew what to do to make her like me. She sighed. Maybe the pink dress. It's isn’t really trashy or frumpy. Is it?

Bob shut the closet door, leaving her inside.

NOVEMBER

Bob was busy. Year-end was a terrible time in his department. His presentation was due the next day and he’d only received the most critical information the day before. His fingers flew over the keys of his laptop, his attention fixed on the data before him. Even so, his gaze would occasionally stray to the bank of windows. She stood there, staring out at something only she could see, saying nothing. The silence lasted for hours.

DECEMBER

He was frying a steak for dinner when she appeared at his elbow.

I know about Alice, she said.

What? He was startled enough to respond and turned down the heat lest he set the apartment on fire.

I understand. She's an attractive woman and you’re a man. With needs.

Bob glanced at the pepper, wanting to season the steak, but reluctant to move. A serrated steak knife sat next to the pepper, shining with malicious promise.

I hope if it's something more than a temporary fling that you’ll let me know. Okay? I just need to know.

Bob turned off the heat. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

JANUARY

It was cold. Rain hammered against the window and poured down in rivulets hampered by ice crystals. Bob wished he had leased an apartment with a fireplace. Hell, he wished he had leased any other apartment anywhere.

Carolyn was pacing. The movement was erratic, agitated. Bob stared harder at the book he was trying to read, forcing himself to concentrate on the words.

It rained like this the night you killed me, she whispered. Do you remember?

FEBRUARY

The library was quiet, as libraries are. The table was piled high with books. Most of them had been worthless, but Bob made a list of notes anyway. At this point he was willing to try anything.

Later, he hummed to himself as he walked from room to room with a bell in one hand and a bowl of smoldering sage in the other. He noted her absence with satisfaction and hoped it was for good.

MARCH

Remember that Easter when we were at the little cabin and it snowed? I hit you with a snowball and you held me down in the snow until I passed out. Why did you do that? I never understood how you could do that to me.

Bob put earbuds into his ears and turned up the music. All the sage and chanting and bells hadn't convinced her to leave. Go to the light! he had begged.

I like it here, she had replied.

APRIL

A late season blizzard had made roads impassable. Worst spring snowstorm in a decade! the news channels exhorted with inflated drama. Bob hunched under a blanket on the sofa and cursed the weather. The ancient radiant heat was not adequate to keep the place warm and it was too difficult to get anywhere should he try to leave.

A sultry voice spoke from the hallway that led to the bedroom. "Do you want to take me to bed?

Surprised, he looked over to see a putrid corpse standing there. One eyeball slowly plopped out of the socket and trickled down her cheek, stopping just short of her jawbone, dangling by something red and organic-looking. Her teeth shone through rotting, distended lips.

Bob shuddered and stared at the television screen, sorry he had looked away. He hunched deeper into his blanket. I hate you so much, he muttered.

Didn’t you always? she replied

MAY

Despite the weather turning warmer and finally promising an end to the wet and cold of winter, Bob was near-overdosing on medication for anxiety. He had taken to sleeping on the sofa because there was a lesser chance of rolling over to find a putrescent corpse grinning at him from the next pillow.

His distress seemed to please her; her appearances had been rare in the beginning, but now he saw her almost daily. These days he was actually grateful when she appeared as a normal woman and not something that had clawed its way out of a grave.

JUNE

Bob poured a glass of bourbon and swallowed half of it in two gulps. He had discovered that half a bottle of the liquid gold each night made it easier to deal with his unwanted guest, even though staggering to bed was difficult and waking up was akin to facing the judgment of a vengeful god.

She was human-like tonight, thank all the gods of whatever fucked up pantheon had created her.

Marcus, do you remember—?

He slammed the glass down on the counter, causing a mini tidal wave of bourbon to splash out of the glass and onto the faux marble. "For the millionth time, lady, I am not Marcus! According to the newspaper, Marcus was your boyfriend. Remember? The one who strangled you and then shot himself to death, probably to escape your ghost. Funny how they didn't disclose any of that in my rental agreement, but hey! My lease is up at the end of this month and then it is sayonara supernatural psycho!" He downed the rest of his drink and poured another, ignoring her to mentally count the days until his escape from this apartment from hell.

JULY

Bob stretched out on his sofa and admired the clean surfaces of his ghost-free apartment. The floor plan wasn't as nice as the last place, and it was twenty minutes farther from his job, but the drive gave him a chance to reflect on how nice a normal, unhaunted life could be. He would have made twice the drive, if necessary.

He swallowed a mouthful of beer and burped loudly, snorting when he realized he'd even been suppressing his bodily functions for fear of giving the ghost of Carolyn something else to complain about. He burped again for good measure and got up to cook a blue box of mac & cheese, which he planned to eat straight from the pan with a mixing spoon.

He hummed while he cooked, danced a little jig in time with the tune, and then carried the pot of steaming noodles into the living room, intending to eat it on the sofa in front of the tube while watching televised fireworks shows. It was the fourth of July, after all. Independence Day. Cheers to Independence Day, he murmured fervently. Hell, he might even be able to see some fireworks from his--he stopped dead three feet from the sofa. The pan slipped from his fingers and bounced on the carpet, spraying orange noodles in a parody of vomit.

Carolyn stood on the other side of the sofa; she looked angry. It took me a long time to find you, Marcus. Did you really think you could leave me?

Bob struggled to find his voice. His throat felt stuffed with cotton. I'm not Marcus, he whimpered. "I'm not Marcus."

She sidled closer and smiled seductively. You are now, she said and cackled as her pretty face melted and bloomed into stinking, skeletal decay. Now give us a kiss.

Bob screamed.

Room Service

by T.J. Tranchell

Hannah should have known not to book a room next to the honeymoon suite over Valentine’s Day weekend, but she and Greg needed to get away.

It’s the sound your eyes can follow, honey, Greg said, as he searched for his slippers. Remember our honeymoon?

Remember the hotel that didn’t have any doughnuts? Hannah said.

Greg snorted as he shuffled to the door. I’ll get some ice and maybe knock on the door.

Don’t. Get the ice and come back.

Greg’s middle-aged body passed through the door and into the shadows of the hallway. Hannah sat on the bed, flipping channels with the remote but not watching anything. Her thumb stretched for the OFF button just as she heard a thump from the next room.

And then nothing.

No soft whispers, no toilet flushing, no I’ll just have a quick shower. The nothing felt worse to Hannah. She had made the sounds of newlywed lovemaking herself twenty-five years before. She had stayed in dozens of hotels and motels since, sometimes with Greg, sometimes alone, and the noises from the next room were normal, even soothing.

The silence that that now passed through the wall was not normal. She wished Greg was back with her.

Hannah stifled a scream as someone began knocking on her door. Greg must have forgotten his room key again.

She didn’t see the thick liquid seeping beneath the door until she stepped in it. Hannah looked up as Greg’s dead body fell on top of her.

La Guillotine Will Claim Her Bloody Prize….

by Jason Zachary Pott

I.

7/14/2017. 9:16 am.

He is bored. He is always bored. And now he has to do this which is even more boring. How much longer does he have to endure this? He hates the White House with every fiber of his being—not obtaining the level of gilded opulence he craves—but he would rather be there than here.

Mister President?

It is the pathetic sycophant he has for and aide, poking his narrow face—accentuated with Buddy Holly-like glasses—into his personal space. God how he hated the little bloodsucker! Ever since the campaign, the little fucker had been bugging him to give his fat frump for a wife a job somewhere in his administration. Maybe he will after makes the little shit watch his pudgy wife suck the President’s cock. Maybe he’ll fuck her ass in front of him. He hasn’t decided yet, but it’ll be one for the memories. He knows the tiny butt-licker will let him do it too. As a candidate, his private investigators revealed the little leech married the bitch for her family’s fortune. He’s a predator, like him, but small change. He knows how to manipulate people like him.

And he does, using unbridled chaos.

What is it? the President asks, annoyed.

The President of France would like you to join him at the podium.

The President of the United States looks out across the large gulf between him and the French President as he stands on the side of the massive stage, waiting for an introduction to the multitudes gathered for the event.

Oh, would he? smirks the Commander-n-chief.

He doesn’t answer to anyone—no matter the circumstances or the decorum—home or abroad. He didn’t even want to come to this fucking event in the first place! What did it have to do with him? What the fuck is Bastille Day anyway?

His advisors had briefed him on the French holiday, about its history, meaning, that Canada also celebrated it and a bunch of other bullshit he couldn’t give two shakes of a rats ass about. But they had told him he was to be a very special—important—guest; an honor he could not ignore with a round of golf. At the very thought of golf, he immediately begins to long for the fairway to the ninth—that pesky ninth hole ruining his game—gripping the shaft of his club as he walks to where his ball has landed. The loving crowd are following him as he strolls to the green, doting and heaping adoration upon his person….

Mister President?

What? Right. The French President is waiting at the podium.

Crossing the huge white floor of the stage, the President makes a half-hearted attempt at an appearance of gratitude, leaking false humility as he weakly waves to the crowd who are cheering, but not as much as he likes. The roar doesn’t seem as sincere as the ones he heard on the campaign trail. He’ll have to talk to the French President about this—this wasn’t part of the deal. Something must be done or there will have to be consequences.

Baiting his host into a handshake