Death Throes Webzine: Horrific Holiday Issue

By Death Throes

Death Throes Webzine Presents: Horrific Holiday Issue. Ten outstanding authors come together to darken your holidays with short stories that'll make Krampus check under the bed before turning out the lights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Death Throes
• Release date: Dec 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005880163

Book preview

DEATH THROES WEBZINE

HORRIFIC HOLIDAY ISSUE

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PUBLISHED BY: DEATH THROES WEBZINE

DEATH THROES WEBZINE: HORRIFIC HOLIDAY ISSUE © 2020 by Death Throes Webzine. All rights reserved

Cover art provided by:

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or his agent.

This is a work of fiction. All persons in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Short Stories

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FEATURED STORY

The Yuletide Depredations of Father Adrian, by Tara Flaherty Guy

HORRIFIC HOLIDAY STORIES

Workshop, by Marshall J. Moore

Bones, by G. Miki Hayden

Dear Santa, by August Smith

Last Supper, by Liam Hogan

OBSEQUY, By Michael Summerleigh

A Cup of Kindness Yet, by W. Ross Teal

The Christmas Tree at the Door, By M.L. Domsky

The Vampire War on Xmas, By Bill Diamond

The Feast of Saturn, by, Nick Morrison

The Yuletide Depredations of Father Adrian

by Tara Flaherty Guy

At first, the message hadn’t seemed like a threat, Father Adrian mused, lifting the chalice aloft. More like a prank, he thought as he began the words of the consecration for the Midnight Mass. As always, he was remotely amused – titillated really - by the annual juxtaposition of the profane and ancient witching hour with the sacred candlelit Christmas Eve service so beloved of his parishioners. The air was redolent with the fragrance of pine from the requisite boughs decorating the crèche at the back of the church and the blandly insistent scent of candlewax from the flickering sconces on every stone pillar. He found it cloying.

Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant…. Offering the familiar invitation for his congregants to drink his blood caused the usual pleasurable stirrings below the wide elastic binder he used to secure himself. A stiff peak tenting the front of his robe as he presided over Mass would be noticed, as he had learned years ago while still at seminary. The stirring surged into tumescence as he thought of the exsanguinated corpse stowed in the locked sacristy closet behind the altar. He had enjoyed – gorged, if the truth were to be told - on that body, so warm and alive for a time last night. An early Christmas feast, he thought archly, enjoying his private joke. A vestige of the usual contented warmth remained. Proximity was important for preserving the afterglow. He never left the bodies in situ, he always brought them home to savor their nearness for a day or so longer. The nearness invigorated him, energized him, which was fortunate, he reflected, as he had two remaining Christmas morning masses to preside over in a few short hours. But he would prevail over his usual holiday exhaustion. He always did.

But still…. that message. Unbothered at first, he now felt vaguely troubled. I know you. That hoarse, whispered message left on the rectory voicemail this morning. In between the merry holiday wishes left by some of his flock and a panicky message from the liturgist -about a last-minute change in the scheduled lector, the voice was indistinguishable as male or female, despite his excellent ear, finely tuned to the nuance of voice, even whispers. After hearing years of vapid sins susurrated in the dark of the confessional, he was skilled at identifying the parishioners behind the screen. He lowered the chalice back to the altar, momentarily comforted by the vessel’s soft gleam in the mellow flicker of the altar candles. He also briefly admired the shimmering fabric and fluid drape of his chasuble, a simple, unadorned purple for the final mass of Advent but still a handsome garment, undeniably elegant. The results of last evening’s manicure also pleased him; the vigorous buffing had left his well-shaped, beautifully tapered nails looking rosy and healthy. That the manicure had been necessary as a result of the savage murder committed that same evening was inconsequential, but he did regret the harsh scrubbing to remove the maroon stains from around his mouth and the creases in his knuckles, now a raw, oozing pink. It was for this very reason that he had for many years avoided activity on Saturday evenings, he reflected, let alone during the most sacred church seasons during which he was highly visible. Perhaps he was weakening…maybe it was age…or was it the compulsion, simply growing stronger? It was true, he reluctantly acknowledged, he felt less able to control it, no matter the day of the week, and this was worrisome. He had never before indulged his compulsion during Advent or Lent, those detestable seasons of waiting. He hated waiting. But he had always waited, sublimely