This week we celebrate seasonal slaying, come to grips with a British serial strangler, & talk grief and grandparents as we review Justin G. Dyck's, Anything for Jackson. Want even more? Join the Frightday Society, at http://society.frightday.com You'll have access to all Screamium content (Behind the Screams, It's Been a Weird Week, A Conversation With..., Toast to Toast PM with Wine Kelly, Cinema Autopsy, the Writers' Room, bonus episodes of Captain Kelly's Cryptids & Conspiracies, Byron's Serial Corner, and so much more!  You'll also be part of our interactive community dedicated to the advancement of horror, hauntings, cryptids, conspiracies, aliens, and true crime. All things frightening.  Keep our mini-fridges full of blood...I mean...not blood...normal things that people drink...by going to http://shop.frightday.com Theme music by Cemeteries Produced by Byron McKoy Follow us in the shadows at the following places: @byronmckoy @samfrightday @kellyfrightday @frightday http://frightday.com http://facebook.com/groups/frightday http://instagram.com/frightday http://facebook.com/ffrightdayy   John Christie Transcript: -December, 1939 In the days approaching christmas, as a bitter cold whispered outside ,a family sat around the breakfast table. Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast. The father sat hunched over the day’s newspaper, filling out a puzzle. Mother at the stove, stirring eggs in a pan. A quiet lull in conversation was shattered with a question. Something that’s on the minds of most kids during this time of year, even today! ...Christmas presents.   “Hey, Dad. I’ll bet you’ll never guess what I got you for Christmas”. The old man, breaking his gaze, cocked his head back, towards the ceiling with a look of desperation on his face, “A new furnace”. An ironic wisecrack that was well received by the room due to his reputation for being one of the most feared furnace-fighters in Northern Indiana. With only mere minutes left before being forced to leave the table for school, the oldest son, on tenterhooks about what he would say next, could feel the Christmas noose beginning to tighten. A question that both excited and terrified him was shot in his direction. “What would you like for Christmas?” -Now...what he said in response certainly wasn’t important. The request was met with reasonable resistance, you may hurt yourself, or something like that. And although slightly more somber, breakfast continued, and the old man went out to start the family car. An Oldsmobile. But something was wrong...during the night, the vehicle had frozen up.  While filling up a large pot with warm water, the father turned, and shushed his family. Beyond the quiet sounds of a radio, he heard something. It was coming from the basement… A vent whose purpose is to provide invisible comfort and warmth, was emitting something much uglier. A cloud of black smoke creeped in, like an unwanted guest, as the sounds downstair grew louder. ”It’s a clinker!” The father grabbed his gloves, and stepped into the basement, a black cloud welcoming him, patting his back on the way down.  13 years after the fictionalized events that i’ve just described, based on the semi-autobiographical accounts of Jean Shepherd originally published in Playboy magazine in the mid-1960’s, made famous by the Bob Clark holiday classic , ”A Christmas Story, and almost 4000 miles away, on the other side of the pond, a string of unfortunate events would transpire over five days in December, 1952 -that when dissipated, would leave between 10,000 and 12,000 residents dead -100,000 more sick   -Citizens strangled by the exhaust of poor fuel meant to keep them warm -capped by a weather anomaly  -which filled the city faster than A Christmas Story kitchen.   -And surviving inside this tragedy, a soft spoken, tall, thin, pathetic man  -who had been luring women into his home under the guise of assistance -had been doing some strangling of his own..   -and it’s at this point i’d like to recognize my s