Eerie Christmas 3: Eerie Christmas, #3

By Black Hare Press and Jodi Christensen

Explore the sinister side of the holiday season with this spine-tingling Christmas anthology. Uncover the mysteries of this special night, where unimaginable horrors and grotesque creatures may come to life amidst the twinkling rooftop displays. Prepare to be captivated by a collection of bone-chilling Yuletide tales, previously concealed in the shadows, making this Christmas a truly terrifying experience like no other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Hare Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223821328

Book preview

Eerie Christmas 3

Various Authors

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Black Hare Press

EERIE CHRISTMAS 3 title is

Copyright © 2023 Black Hare Press

First published in Australia in December 2023 by Black Hare Press

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The authors of the individual stories retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

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Cover design by Dawn Burdett

Editing by Jodi Christensen

Interior formatting by Ben Thomas

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Also available from Black Hare Press

Also available from

Black Hare Press

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EERIE CHRISTMAS 1

EERIE CHRISTMAS 2

EERIE CHRISTMAS 3

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Contents

1.Little F**king Donkey

1. By L.N. Hunter

2.No Disassembly Required

2. By Wondra Vanian

3.Like a Bowl Full of Jelly

3. By A.C. Bauer

4.The Wandering Stranger

4. By Corinne Pollard

5.The True Spirit of Christmas

5. By L.N. Hunter

6.One Hell of a Dying Wish

6. By Pauline Yates

7.A Game at Christmas

7. By Charlie Walls

8.Letters to Krampus

8. By Matt Jean

9.Gelt Trip

9. By Christine N. Rifkin

10.Just in Time for Christmas

10. By Jodi Jensen

11.Hefnd

11. By Geoffrey Hart

12.Hans Trapp

12. By Don Money

13.Deathly Delivery

13. By Derek Dunn

14.The Ballerina

14. By Daphne Fauber

15.Dirty Santa and a Bottle of Rum

15. By C.L. Sidell

16.Feed the Children

16. By Andreas Flögel

17.All I Want for Christmas

17. By Tim Law

18.Christmas Eve at Lucky's Piano Bar

18. By Donna Cuttress

19.A Golde Family Christmas

19. By Jessica Gleason

20.Crack of the Whip

20. By Joachim Heijndermans

21.The Naughty List

21. By Jodie Francis

22.Midnight Mummers

22. By Matt Jean

23.The Man Who Embodied Santa Claus

23. By Lisa H. Owens

24.The Christmas Gift

24. By Lynne Phillips

25.The Christmas Lottery

25. By Andrew Kurtz

26.Silent Night, Holy Fright

26. By Sean Sullivan

27.Rites of Advent

27. By John Ward

28.Bury the Wren

28. By Rosetta Yorke

29.The Christmas Watch

29. By Tim Law

30.The Fair Trade

30. By Tim Tobin

31.The Puzzle Box

31. By Lynne Phillips

32.Noelsferatu

32. By Zack Zagranis

33.Dinner Games

33. By Sophie Wagner

34.A Teddy from Nana

34. By Stephen Herczeg

35.Christmas at the Market

35. By Wondra Vanian

36.Christmas Eve on the Rudolph Express

36. By Sheri White

37.Author Autobiographies

38.Acknowledgements

I sense there’s something in the wind

That feels like tragedy’s at hand.

Sally’s Song

The Nightmare Before Christmas, Tim Burton, 1993

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Little F**king Donkey

By L.N. Hunter

What the effing Hell? There’s a baby in my manger!

There’s a fucking baby in my manger?

Today started far too bloody early in the morning. Even before I’d had my eagerly-anticipated just-woken-up first dump of the day, that fat scrote of an innkeeper turfed me out of my stall to let some scruff and his preggers bint bed down in there instead. My own stall, the heartless son of a disease-ridden whore.

Mind you, I do wonder how he convinced them to shack up in this shithole of a stable instead of the Travelodge down the road. If hotels ’round here had star ratings, this inn would barely twinkle. The food’s more alley cart than à la carte, and let’s just say that the beds are teeming with life—and that’s in the inn. The stable’s worse, in case you’re wondering.

So there I was, unceremoniously shoved into Bessie’s stall, trying not to set my hooves in her shit. God really fucked up when he designed cows’ arses to spray steaming brown jets everywhere, not like my compact, dry and stink-free donkey turds—perfect for the flowerbeds.

Eventually Mr Innkeeper Git opened the stall to let me and Bessie out, and dumped a load of hay on the filthy ground outside. If he’d hung ’round long enough, I’d’ve given him a good arse-kicking for expecting me to eat off the dirt, but he had to run off to see the people in my stall. The scruff’s missus was screaming blue murder, threatening to kill the innkeeper, the midwife, and anyone else who came near, but most especially the scruff, whose name turned out to be Joseph. Or, as she put it between contractions, Joseph You Fucking Bastard Let’s See You Pass A Bowling Ball.

I decided to avoid my stall for a while and quietly eat the hay off the ground.

Anyway, that was this morning, and the excitement didn’t die down until early evening, about ten minutes ago.

It’s been a long time since that breakfast and I’m feeling peckish. The gate to my stall’s open, so I figure things are back to normal, and I amble up to my manger for a tasty nibble. I’m about to shove my chompers into some nice crisp hay that hasn’t been on the floor, and fuck me if there isn’t a bastarding baby in the thing. And the runt’s pissing in my sodding dinner. It’s got some sort of glowing frisbee on his head—that’s not normal, is it?

Fuck this nonsense, I’m going to bed.

In Bessie’s stall.

If I can find a shit-free spot to sleep on.

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For pity’s sake, now what?

Some drunken sheep-shaggers are banging on the stable door and shouting that a bloke with great big wings sent them. That’s right lads, get leathered on a Friday night, cheeky Nando’s after closing time, then find somewhere to crash because you’re too pissed to drive your sheep home safely. Frankly, the youth of today are an embarrassment.

Well, Joseph lets them in, and bloody hell, that’s ten of us crammed into the stable: the rugrat, of course, Joseph and Mary having a barney about who the father is, three shepherds, Bessie and me, and two chickens. It’s a bit niffy, what with the baby shitting in the place where I eat, Bessie’s four stomachs doing their bit for the environment, and the shepherds. Don’t they have soap and water in the hills? Maybe sheep aren’t too fussy who they play hide the sausage with.

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Oh, come on, you’re taking the proverbial! What’s a respectable elderly donkey got to do to get a bit of sleep round here? The sheep-shaggers finally drank themselves to sleep after three hours, and just as I’m nodding off, there’s another ruckus outside. Well, looks like there’s no more shuteye for me tonight, so I might as well have a shufti.

Bugger me! What sort of arsing deformed horses are those? Biggest, ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen, with sour faces and huge humps on their backs. Are those things even real, or the result of some perverse fantasy? Hope they’re not thinking about coming in here—they’ll never get through the door.

On top of each hump is a bloke wearing a posh dress and a poncy crown, singing something about We Three Kings of Orient-R—what the hell’s an Orient-R? Even more pissheads, that’s all we need. Is it get-blind-drunk-and-come-to-the-stable night or something?

Oh, as if it makes a blind bit of difference, they’ve brought presents for the kid. It’d be nice if someone brought me a present for putting up with this racket, not to mention giving up my stall. Gifts of wonder, they say.

Wonder? I don’t even know what the fuck frankincense and myrrh are. And what do they think the brat’s going to do with gold? I can see the innkeeper eying it, mind—I bet JoMa won’t be leaving with all of that particular gift come morning. Why don’t people ever bring new parents something useful, like a carrycot, so the little bastard doesn’t have to bed down in my fucking food?

I’ve had enough of this shit! Why don’t you lot just piss off home, and take that sodding searchlight in the sky with you.

Don’t you know it’s Christmas, people? Nothing ever happens at Christmas. Quietest time of the year, it is—and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Nothing special in the calendar at all—the only day of the whole sodding year which isn’t the birthday, death-day, marriage-day, or whatever-the-fuck-day of some saint or holy man or queen’s niece or king’s favourite hamster. The one day when there isn’t some stupid parade or other, and there’s nobody calling out, ‘Blessings of the whatever upon you.’

Nothing to celebrate, nothing to think about. Peace and quiet, a silent night in Bethlehem. At least it should be.

And has been up until this year.

Just bugger off, you lot, and have your happy-clappy kum-ba-yah sing-song somewhere else.

What’s so special about this bloody baby? Jesus Christ, who is he anyway?

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No Disassembly Required

By Wondra Vanian

The corpse on the front porch was odd. Odd—but not the oddest thing about the scene that greeted Brenden when he answered the door that evening. No, that honour belonged to the bow. The enormous, vibrant red, glittering bow tied by a wide, winding ribbon crisscrossed around the corpse’s midsection, trapping its lifeless arms to its torso.

Brenden stood in his pyjamas as snow slowly drifted in through the open door. Well, he commented absently, his breath puffing in the frigid air, isn’t that…festive?

Elissa appeared, slippers whispering across the hardwood, when Brenden failed to return after answering the doorbell. Her nightgown was obviously no match for the late December chill; she shivered as she tried to peer over his shoulder, tugging her dressing gown tighter.

Who is it, honey?

Brenden shifted so his wife could see the gift-wrapped corpse.

Oh! Her hand went to her mouth to catch the gasp of surprise that escaped. "Who could that be?"

Shrugging, Brenden bent to pat down the body. It was stiff as a board and offered no clues.

Nothing, he said, straightening.

Well, Elissa said with a frown, isn’t that…?

Odd?

Yes, very odd.

They stared at the corpse in confused silence until their oldest, Thomas, wandered into the hall.

Sheesh, Thomas complained, it’s colder than the North Pole in here! What’s going—oh. He frowned when he saw the corpse. Who killed Mr Reynolds?

Brenden and his wife exchanged a glance before they turned to stare at their son.

Mr Reynolds? they asked in unison.

Thomas nodded. You know, Nancy’s math teacher.

Oh…

Oh, no.

Well, that explained that. It left just one question to answer.

Nancy, honey! Brenden called. Can you come here a minute?

Nancy shuffled into the hallway in her purple, claw-footed monster onesie. What’s up? she asked around the stub of a candy cane poking out of her mouth. Pink-dyed pigtails poked out of the toothy monster hood pulled up over her head.

Honey, do you know why there’s a dead teacher on our porch? Brenden asked his daughter.

The girl poked her head outside the door, squealing in delight when she saw the corpse. Oh, that’s so sweet! She clasped her hands over her heart as she danced a little on the spot.

Brenden’s wife gave him a look before turning to their daughter. "What’s so sweet, baby?"

Jacob remembered exactly what I wanted for Christmas!

Now just hang on a minute, Brenden said, brows knitting together in a scowl. Who’s this Jacob?

Elissa barely glanced his way. Fred and Maggie’s boy, she said dismissively. As if that explained everything. As if that explained anything.

My boyfriend! Nancy supplied. She beamed around the candy cane.

Oh, baby, your first boyfriend! Isn’t that wonderful? Elissa gushed, bending to hug the girl. Thomas mimed gagging and wandered off. Apparently, not even a dead teacher was interesting enough to face the possibility of being dragged into girl talk. Brenden would have been more than happy to have joined his son’s timely escape—if it weren’t for the whole boyfriend thing.

No, no boyfriends, he insisted, pulling himself up to his full six-foot-four. (Although the effect was less than imposing, considering the tiny reindeer on his pjs and the antlers on his slippers.) You’re only thirteen! That’s far too young to be dating.

Nancy just rolled her eyes, clearly unfazed by her father’s bluster.

Oh, pish, his wife said, dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand. "We were a whole year younger than that the first time you left a corpse on my porch, remember?" The look she cast him was misty with nostalgia.

Brenden squirmed. The tips of his ears burned. That’s not the…

Elissa ignored him. Why don’t we go finish that game of Monopoly? she said to their daughter. Then we’ll make some hot cocoa, and you can tell me all about Jacob.

Nancy agreed with an enthusiastic nod. She bounced on her fuzzy-booted feet. They started to leave, arm in arm, but Brenden stopped them with a, "And what am I supposed to do with that?" He gestured to the dead math teacher.

His wife looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. I’ve already defrosted the turkey for tomorrow. Just stick him in the freezer. We’ll save him for New Year’s dinner.

Brenden grumbled as he dragged the late Mr Reynolds across the snow-covered lawn to the shed where he could dismember it without prying eyes watching. Their neighbours hadn’t been as blessed as they had this holiday season. No need to rub a whole corpse in their faces.

While he wasn’t happy about his daughter seeing someone at her age, he was forced to admit the boy had an eye for detail. As Brenden unwound the long ribbon, the corpse fell into several easy-to-store pieces.

Nothing like a pre-disassembled present.

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Like a Bowl Full of Jelly

By A.C. Bauer

Iwaited up all night to see him. The man in red .

When I heard the thud on the roof, I knew he had landed.

I could barely contain my excitement. I quietly snuck out of bed and headed downstairs to the living room. When I arrived, he was already there, setting out presents.

I hung by the doorway and watched as he took the last of the presents from his bag and put them under the tree. He placed them with such care. He even patted one of them on the top of the bow like it was a dog.

My heart thumped inside my chest. Maybe it was a dog. I had always wanted one.

Suddenly, my little bare feet carried me into the room, closer to the man in red than I ever dreamed possible.

Sure, I had seen Santa in the mall before, but this was different. This was the real Santa. This was Santa on his night. It was like catching the Easter Bunny hiding eggs, or the Tooth Fairy leaving a quarter under your pillow. It was magic. And it was all mine.

The closer I got to him, the larger he became. He didn’t seem to notice me either. He was still facing the tree, adjusting the movable branches here and there.

Santa? I said as I gently poked his back.

He turned, a cheery smile on his face.

What are you doing up, little girl? Shouldn’t you be in bed? His words were smooth and sweet. Like grandpa’s before he passed away.

I had to see you, Santa. I just had to.

Throwing myself at him, I gave him the biggest hug I could manage. My arms barely stretched across his belly, it was so wide. He placed his gloved hands on my back, returning the embrace. I pressed my face deeper into his bulging belly. His thick red coat smelled like cinnamon. Smelled like home.

I nuzzled the side of my face into his stomach, and suddenly, there was a strange gurgling sound. It almost sounded like when Dad had eaten too many slices of pizza on movie night, but louder. Wetter and angrier, too.

I backed away from him. I raised a finger and pressed it into his side.

My finger sunk deep into his belly. Another wet squeal was quickly covered up by the jolly old man’s bellowing laughter. His stomach shook up and down with each chuckle.

What was it that one story said? His stomach shook like a bowlful of jelly? Yes, it was just like that, but there was something else too. A noise. A wet noise.

Santa… I said slowly, why does your belly shake like a bowl of jelly?

Ho, ho, ho, he chuckled. Are you sure you want to know, little girl?

I paused for a second. There was a mischievous look on his face, like he was lying or something. But he couldn’t lie. He was Santa Claus, after all.

I nodded my head.

He raised his gloved hands, and one by one, unbuttoned his coat. As the white fur trim pulled away from his body, it revealed something underneath. Something reddish brown. Something slick with sweat. At first, I thought it was just a dirty undershirt, but it wasn’t.

Santa was shockingly thin under his coat, but the thing that clung to his stomach was huge. It was wrapped around him with thin, stick-like arms. I could see right through its moist, muddy-brown skin. See its organs and its insides. See the open wound on Santa’s stomach and the blood pumping from it into the creature like a giant tick. As it pulled the blood, the thing throbbed up and down on his stomach.

Like a bowl of jelly, I realised.

Horrified, I took a step back, tripped over my own two feet, and crashed onto the carpeted floor. Santa, wh-what is that?

He took a step toward me. A sinister smile spilled over his rosy-red face. Do you know what a parasite is, my dear?

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The Wandering Stranger

By Corinne Pollard

G ather round everyone. I have the Yule log ready for your wishes, and then we must speak of the dead.

After decorating the tree and gathering the presents underneath, no one would indulge Nana Rowena. Fatigue had settled onto their bones like snow, a thick blanket that had grown heavier as the evening marched on. Their eyes burned and their mouths unleashed yawns, but it didn’t deter Nana Rowena.

Chuckling, the sixty-six-year-old patted the wood on her lap and pushed up her cardigan sleeves, intending to carry the log towards the glowing fireplace.

Enya’s mother hurried forwards. No, no, stop. You’ll break your back. Let me.

Enya rolled her eyes as Nana Rowena assured them she was fit enough. The two adults quarrelled softly, mindful not to disturb Pan, who was asleep in his baby bouncer, until they agreed to deliver the wood together.

Enya tutted to herself and slouched down on the sofa, refusing to make eye contact with anyone but her iPhone. She didn’t understand what the big fuss was about. Why did Nana Rowena keep such