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It was only the slightest of exaggerations to say that Quinlyn would've preferred to have a millstone hung about her neck and subsequently be tossed into the sea rather than brave the mall on Black Friday. For her sister, though, the day after Thanksgiving was her high water, and Victoria liked nothing more than fishing for that perfect deal. And, of course, for Quinlyn to putter along in her wake feigning enthusiasm. It was the least that she could do for V given the divorce and custody battle, right?
Quinlyn had tried, really tried, but the outing wasn't exactly set up for success. Victoria prioritized discount percentage over the actual product and preferred to purchase items en masse. A single Louis Vuitton or Cartier would've tided Quinlyn over for years. Not that inflation and the economy left her much hope. A coffee, though? That she could manage.
A tap on V's shoulder, a grunted negative at the offer of Sumatra, and Quinlyn was out of Nordstrom Rack. Bing Crosby assaulted her eardrums as crowds milled around the silvery minimalism of the Apple Store, the flaunty lace of Victoria's Secret, the shut-and-guarded doors of Tiffany's.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the stores started to change to ones she didn't recognize. Ones that (she grew to understand) had no place in a 21st century commercial establishment. A wood-walled store offering ribbon and calico, flour and molasses, ax heads and a steel bear trap. A shop filled with piles of dusky paprika, daffodil-yellow turmeric, and carnelian-colored dried peppers. A clothier whose displays proffered hoop skirts. That was when Quinlyn tried to turn back — and struck the crowd's impenetrable mass, always a foot stomping on hers or an elbow in her ribs or a blocking torso.
So she whirled and went on, her pace quickening as she passed farriers and swordsmiths, past cattle yards and feed lots, past a butcher stropping a blade over a bound, bleating goat and painted-and-powdered women displaying themselves in windows and men in togas arguing over the purchase price of other manacled men, and she was running, sprinting, hurtling herself forward ...
Into darkness and emptiness.
No, not emptiness. There was a table and a man seated behind it, and for a moment, Quinlyn wondered how she was able to see him if it was dark. Then she wondered how he could look so old. Then so young. And then he was speaking.
"Why, hello," the man said. "What brings you here?"
"W ... who are you? What is this place? W-where is the mall?" Quinlyn managed.
The man smiled (or frowned) thinly. "Names. Such unimportant things. This place, and the mall are mine. All the kingdoms of the world and their authority and glory, if you must know."
"I ... don't understand."
He chuckled (sighed). "Of course you don't. Why don't you have a seat —" And suddenly there was a seat for her where previously none had been. "— because this story ... Well, it's a lengthy one."
* * *
Writerly friends, once again the year swings close to solstice, and we gather to celebrate the old traditions. Not only trees and stars and managers and the giving of gifts. This Advent Ghosts 2023 marks a continuation of an old British tradition of telling spooky ghost stories right before Christmas, a tradition this blog and a likeminded group of writers has been keeping for well over a decade in our own special way. To learn more about the custom, read History's How Ghost Stories Became a Christmas Tradition in Victorian England" and check out Bustle's Nicholas Was ..." by Neil Gaiman. We welcome all, asking only that you follow a few simple rules:
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 16, to Friday, December 22. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4 ) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.
Please note that we're altering the submission process a little bit this year by providing a more flexible window during which people can submit their stories. Want to see what people submitted last year? Click here.
Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.
The lights stayed on.
The first night, you suffered through, digging up the old sleep mask you bought for that long-haul flight three years ago. The second night, you popped two Vicodin left over from your months’ long battle with back pain. The third night, you broke every bulb in the house, stripping the tree of its lights and crushing every bulb beneath your feet, then staring in horror as the filaments flared even brighter from where they lay tangled in the carpet.
Tonight (if, indeed, you could even call it night anymore), you go down into the basement and root through tools you haven’t used in years.
You start with the sledgehammer, splintering the tile you laid by hand, turning the concrete beneath into rubble, pounding until you hit dirt. Then you take up the shovel and sink its blade in, turning and lifting and turning and lifting until the shaft accommodates you disappear up to your knees, your shoulders, your head. Then you dig perpendicularly, deepening the passageway until the light mercifully shrinks to a distant dim glow.
You sit in the closest to darkness you’ve experienced for days. You breathe in the scent of dust and try to brush off the grime that must cover your blistered palms. That’s when you hear it. A distant scratching. The clink of metal on stone. The shifting of soil.
You begin to dig again, navigating by sound, not caring that your blisters have burst, that the serum has slicked your hands. They will tell their own story both to you and the other seeking to survive the never-ending light …
• "White Coat Ceremony" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• “The Collector” by S.G. Easton (see below)
• “Upon a Midnight Fare” by B. Nagel (see below)
• ”Guest Story” by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• “A Few Good Elves” and “It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas” by William Gregory (see below)
• ”3 Siblings” by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• “A Diptych (with two one-hundred-word panels)” by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "No Place Like Home” and “Ritual” by Becky Rui (see below)
• ”I Told You So” and ”Silent Night” by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• ”Look To The Sky” by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• ”The Naughty List” by Rhona Parrish on Rhona Parrish: Author, Editor and Hydra-tamer
• ”Grandma’s Recipe” and ”Bring Me His Head!” by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• ”Life, Death, and Pizza” by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA – THE IRISH DEPARTMENT OF SCIENCE FICTION
• “仕方がない” by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• ”Traditions” by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• ”Good Deeds” by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• ”The Farewell Wave” by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• ”Remember Them” by Ben Mann on Ben Mann
• ”Can’t Even” by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• ”The Ghoul” by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• ”Midnight, Christian” by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• ”A Star, A Star Dancing in the Night” by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• ”What Am I” by Bart Hopkins on BartHopkins.com
• “No Time for Christmas” by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• “Inside Job” by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
* * *
"White Coat Ceremony"
By Dale Nelson
Olson, the retiring Med School chief custodian, advised the new man, Nyquist.
“When you’ve cleaned the auditorium after the grads’ White Coat ceremony, lock the doors but leave the lights on.”
“Why?”
Olson told the truth. “For decades, from what I was told when I took over, lost spirits of the doctors return here, if they betrayed the traditional vows.”
Months later, midnight after the annual ceremony -- Automatically Nyquist turned off the last lights. In the dark, there were white shapes, a rustling. Olson flicked on the nearest light switch, turned all the lights on, locked up, and left.
("White Coat Ceremony" copyright 2022 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)
* * *
“The Collector”
By S.G. Easton
View post on imgur.com
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View post on imgur.com
("The Collector" copyright 2022 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)
* * *
“A Midnight Fare”
by B. Nagel
One last pick-up to pay off the credit card. What’s the harm of one more gig?
Now, the babe lays in my arms, swaddled tightly in a car blanket, weakly testing the limits of her freedom. Sweat drips down my collar and the heat fogs my glasses. The unfortunate mother lays dead across the backseat.
It’s not true. Look, she’s moving.
She crab walks out of the car, dragging blood and viscera, her eyes pure void, clicking and chittering like an arachnid chipmunk.
Without turning her head, the babe swivels the skin of her face to look back at me.
("A Midnight Fare" copyright 2022 by B. Nagel; used by permission)
* * *
“A Few Good Elves”
By William Gregory
Mrs. Claus were you aware that the deceased had a severe nut allergy?
“Yes.”
Mrs. Claus are you familiar with the term “Code Green?”
“Enlighten me, sonny.”
Code Green is a clandestine order for the elves to put pistachios in Santa’s cookies.
“Is there a question here, sonny?”
Mrs. Claus, did you order the Code Green? Did you order the Code Green!!!
[Judge interjects: You don’t have to answer that question!]
“I’ll answer that question! You want answers, sonny?”
I want the truth!
“You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! You’re goddamn right I ordered the Code Green!”
("A Few Good Elves" copyright 2022 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
“It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas”
By William Gregory
I smell pig! The porcine scent makes me salivate uncontrollably. The alpha female, smelling of perspiration, franticness, and wine, gathers the pack. The alpha male reeks of beer and Doritos. (I love Doritos.) The elders, who don’t visit often, emit a fragrant tang of feces, urine, and powder. They smell like baby, but with a foreboding sense of decay. The boy stinks of sweat and cannabis. The girl saturated with her monthly bloody spoor is first to hand me a tender morsel under the table. My eyes roll back in my head. My tail wags in delight. I love Christmas!
("It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas" copyright 2022 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
“A Diptych”
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Saint Nicholas A.D. 1096: Ill-Met by Moonlight in the Ionian Sea
Count Robert (following Bohemond) hired a huge pirate ship and sailed, as stealthily as possible with 1500 men, for Illyrium. Admiral Nicholas, alerted, ambushed him, becalmed by full moon, on Nicholas’ Name Day.
Marianus, bilingual, sailed in full armor to parley for peace – and got a crossbow bolt through his helmet – unscathed. Another through shield and breastplate – only grazed. A Latin priest, grabbing a bow, shot at him repeatedly. The envoys defended themselves – from midnight till noon, when the Franks asked armistice. The wounded priest fought on – quiver empty, with sling-stone shattering shield and helmet, felled Marianus – but he survived.
Saint Nicholas A.D. 1096: The Bread and the Cup
Marianus, up again, took bow and wounded the priest three times. Blood-drenched but undaunted – and out of arrows and sling-stones – he started whizzing barley-cakes: no treat, full-impact on Marianus’ cheek.
Meanwhile, Count Richard surrendered with ship and crew, gladly following Marianus to shore. Peace finally made, the priest went searched far and wide for Marianus, and, finding him at last, embraced him, saying cheerfully, “If we’d met on land, I would have managed to kill a lot of you.” Then, rummaging around, he produced a large silver cup, presented it to Marianus, smiling broadly – and dropped dead at his feet.
Post Script: Based on the Alexiad of Anna Comnena, Book Ten, Chapter Eight (as translated by E.R.A. Sewter for Penguin Books, 1969).
("A Diptych " copyright 2022 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
“No Place Like Home”
By Becky Rui
“Mom, Sally and I are going to the park!”
“Ok, John, but be back in an hour for dinner. Stay together.”
“I know, Mom!”
Chop, stir, knead. Into the oven. Pot pie, Sally’s favorite.
The sky grows dark and the oven timer chimes. They should be back by now.
The doorbell rings. She opens the door to two policemen.
Her hand covers her mouth. “Oh my God, what’s happened?”
Suddenly John pushes forward and she wraps her arms around him.
“Oh, thank God, you’re safe.”
A moment of silence. She looks up into the officers’ grave expressions.
“But where’s Sally?”
("No Place Like Home " copyright 2022 by Becky Rui; used by permission)
* * *
“Ritual”
By Becky Rui
He gathers his tools first. He has methods that are almost ritualistic and he likes it that way.
He likes to crack them first, feel the crush and hear the hard break under his bare hands. He is strong and loves using his brawn this way.
Next, he flays the skin. It is thinner than most people think, but he knows. It is thin and delicate and he peels it off with the utmost care, even tenderness.
Afterward, he looks down at what he’s made. Is proud of it.
Then slowly, reverently, he pops one into his mouth.
Yum. Pistachios.
("No Place Like Home " copyright 2022 by Becky Rui; used by permission)
Note: A higonokami is a Japanese folding knife. The title of this piece transliterates into shikata ga nai, which means, “It cannot be helped.”
The limestone cell in which Aki unexpectedly awoke on Christmas morning would’ve thrilled Unit 731, especially how the walls of the countless chambers around her gradually constricted.
The rate varied to judge by the screaming, crunching, dripping. Aki’s cell steadily shrunk by millimeters. She beat her fists bloody against the stone, broke nails, screamed against the impossibility and unfairness.
Eventually, she found the higonokami in her pocket. Opened it. Held it to her throat. Then whipped it into the wall.
She carved kanji slowly:
My blood must be spilled.
With it, I will ink these words.
Stone, my printing press.
And then all of the lights simply went on.
It started with the lamp by your bed, its energy-efficient LED flashing on unprompted at 3 a.m. It remained on even as you toggled its switch and flipped the breaker. You eventually slipped a sock over your hand to insulate it and gingerly pried the bulb from its socket — and still it continued to burn.
Then your bedroom's overheads flared on. And the lights in the bathroom. The hall flooded with brilliance, and the darkness was as light in your living room and kitchen and main doorway.
Rushing to the window, you watched the neighborhood flare like a monochrome nebula, your neighbors' homes light like small suns, the condo across the street flare constellation bright.
It's the talk of every 24-hour cable-news channel despite the early hour, and social media is in a full frenzy, status updates and tweets and shakily filmed shorts increasingly dire and panicked. You hear the sounds of argument somewhere across the street, voices raised near to the pitch of shouting in the unnaturally bright, not-so-silent night.
Even without hearing the words, you know what the argument's about. When every dark corner disappears, where can secrets hide — and what stories will come to light?
* * *
Dear writerly friends, welcome to Advent Ghosts 2022, the thirteenth annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. Thirteen may not be an auspicious number in genre fiction, but it represents something of an enduring tradition for this humble little blog. Over the years, a group of us have celebrated that peculiarly British tradition of telling spooky stories right before Christmas. Smithsonian Magazine has an informative article about the practice, and you can learn more yourself by reading selections such as Elizabeth Gaskell's "Old Nurse's Story," Algernon Blackwood's "The Kit-Bag," or E.F. Benson's "Between the Lights." To get more of an idea of what we do here, though, check out Neil Gaiman’s "Nicholas Was ..." This little story clocks in at exactly 100 words — which is exactly what our tales do as well. We welcome anyone, and the rules are simple:
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 17, and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.
If you’re new to the group and would like to see some examples, give last year’s stories a gander.
Note: This post will be updated early and often throughout the day. Check back regularly for more stories! Additionally, you can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day, Lady Penelope Hill knew. She had wandered in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning, but since dinner, the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds and a penetrating rain. And anyway, Lady Hill thought, who would want to stroll the estate this time of year alone? For though her maid technically remained in the manor, she knew that she truly was, for all intents and purposes, alone.
The realization had settled on her as slowly as the dusting of snow shifting down out of the slate-gray sky. Her letters to her mother, her sisters, her friends had all failed to draw replies by post. Indeed, she could not recall when the postman had last visited. Just yesterday, she had roamed the great hall, calling aloud for the butler, expecting his hunched, turtle shape to materialize from one of the gloomy passageways. Instead, her voice had drawn her maid. “He has left, my lady,” was all that Penelope had gotten out of her.
Perched tipsily at the head of the dining room table, Penelope lifted a third glass of wine to her lips, musing that I seem to be acquiring all of Billy’s trices. Spices. She hiccupped. Bad habits. But as the claret burned in her stomach, she realized that wasn’t precisely true. And so she found herself swaying before the bookcase in Billy’s study, her finger stroking one book’s spine after another, each in turn.
I suppose it’s preferable that he always wanted to touch these rather than me, she thought a tad drunkenly. Easier now without children. She let her fingers fold around a volume. Draw it down and open it. Let her eyes traipse over the archaic Latin. Let her lips form the strange syllables.
A crash jerked her upright, yanked her eyes to the doorway where her maid stood, a constellation of broken crockery at her feet. “Oh no, my Lady,” the girl moaned, “you mustn’t, no, you don’t under —”
The world shivered. Writhed. Tore.
Lady Penelope Hill blinked and shook her head against the ringing in her ears, the only thing she could hear besides the maid’s frantic mantra of “O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Every candle in the room flickered and died.
They died, but not before she saw squamous skin and a mouth like a hole and magnesium-white eyes. Then, through the darkness, hands — too many hands — seized her arms, shoulders, throat.
The voice in her ear was wind-stirred ashes in a dead hearth. L̲͉̏ͨet ̏͆̾n͍͌ot̼̥̅̊hͮḭnğ ͨbuṯ̰͇ͥ̊̃ ̥̪b͓͉̰rë́ͅath ̹̺̪p̫̘̣ͫͫ͛aͪs̤̬͕͒ͮ̍s̥͑ ̇y͙̮ͫͣo̘̘͓ů̫͕͐r ͍̃ḹ̘̾ĭ͖͙̩͌̏p̽̓ͭs͚̾,̩̻́ͧ fo̤͒r͍̥ͧ̓ hë̖̫̀ is al͆r̘̋eaͮdy̜̔ ͌h́̑ͫe̼͚ȑ̯̞̟̌̚e̞͈̥ ̻̞ḁ̚n̎d͓͇̺̑ͧ̌ ͉̼̀̐h̲̣ͧ̌e ̮̘͇̄ͨͣis̮̝ͥ̆ ̳̒l̙is̖̍t̟̪e̮͑ň̪̖̩ͦ̇ing͈̫ͮ̐.̏̈
I do believe, some small, still-sane part of Lady Penelope’s mind thought, that it is trembling.
The voice was dead autumn leaves rasping together. I͂ mͫͫ̈́u̯͍ͬ̓s̲̅t̟͔̒̏ t̗ͮell͉̼̼ͮ̈́ͩ ̝̗̋̄ẙ͂̒o͖̽u̩͕ͩ̚ ̭͈͎a ͖̣ṣ͍̂̽to͙͍̙͆ͯͫr̫̪y̯ͪ ̯͓..͚.
• "Grail" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "The Plantation" by James D. Witmer on James D. Witmer
• "Frosty the Disappointment" by Geoffrey Miller (see below)
• "Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Shortcut" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• "World of Spirits" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "His Wings" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Sozman Borkstapple’s Ghostly Adventure" by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA:
Brian Sexton's Stories From Outer Space
• "The Yule Cat's Fury" by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "The Cracker" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "The Dreaded Trip" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "I'll Be Home for Christmas" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Author, Editor and Hydra-tamer
• "Evergreen Altar, Coal Fire White" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "The Long Tail" by Ben Mann on Ben Mann
• "Life" by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
• "Despair and Anguish" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "The Season of Giving" by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• "Dirty Hands" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Flying With the Angels by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "Presence" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Split" by Leanne Stowers on Leanne Stowers
• "Cookies for Santa" and "CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Tired Eyes" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "The Ghosts of Christmas" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• "Out of the depths, it calls to me" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Who Comes This Night, This Wintry Night?" by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Untitled" by Ollwen Jones on GitHub Gist
* * *
"Frosty the Disappointment"
By Geoffrey Miller
Frosty was nearly perfect! Just like in the song, the snowman had a corn cob pipe, a button nose, and two eyes made of coal.
But despite Joanna's efforts, he would not dance. Not even Mr. Thompson's top hat did the trick. She wondered if Frosty looked too human. She packed on more snow. Better! But why wasn't the magic working yet? His arms were twiggy enough. That wasn't the problem.
Suddenly, Frosty sighed with life!
A smile lit Joanna's face but soon faded. Blood dribbled from the corn cob pipe. Frosty still wasn't living; Mr. Thompson was just dying.
("Frosty the Disappointment" copyright 2021 by Geoffrey Miller; used by permission)
* * *
"Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Worse than corpses, what stench from No Man’s Land? Krampus loose! That claw stabbing his shoulder. Fangs nearing neck... Snapped away on shortened chain – by St. Nicholas, smiling gravely. Rudolf leapt awake, told me his dream. I lost track of him as we advanced... realized the Tommys had retreated!... charged after through trenches full of abandoned... everything! Rudolf outpaced me, avoided boobytraps, discovering first where they took their new stand by coming under fire...
Arms and gear cast away, he advanced toward me smiling, shoulder bandaged, flesh-wounded out of combat, good arm embracing a huge sack of pillaged British rations.
Note: Inspired by details of Carl Heller’s memoirs, De oorlogsbrieven van Unteroffizier Carl Heller, ed.
J.H.J. Andriessen (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2003), sadly not available in translation.
("Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich" copyright 2021 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"World of Spirits"
By Dale Nelson
The first spirit showed him himself as a boy absorbed by Pac-Man. He didn’t want to go outside and play. The second spirit showed him his present-day self, hunched over in his cubicle. Olivia walked sadly past him. The third spirit showed mourners glancing at their smartphones as a coffin was lowered.
"Must these things be?" he cried to the mute and terrible form.
He woke. Snow-light shone up into his bedroom. He leaped out of bed and flung up his window.
"Merry Christmas!" he cried to the street where no one passed. They were all inside with their devices.
("World of Spirits" copyright 2021 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)
* * *
"His Wings"
By Becky Rui
Every time…
The snow crunches underfoot. The railing is icy under his grip. Cars speed by, blowing frigid wind against the back of his thin coat.
a bell rings…
Arm muscles quiver under the strain of pulling, stretching, reaching.
an angel…
The water below seems to rush with the beats of his heart, its dark surface foamy with ice. Numbing.
gets…
His loafer slips and he grabs for the metal. Almost fell. He unclenches his fingers. One by one.
his…
He thinks of what the doctor said. His ex-wife. His estranged children.
wings.
No bells ring. But he does fly.
("His Wings" copyright 2021 by Becky Rui; used by permission)
* * *
"Cookies for Santa"
By William Gregory
My name is Amanda. I’m seven and the smartest kid in school.
My parents tell me not to be average. I’m better than that.
My mom says I hold a grudge too long. I haven’t spoken to Billy Wilson since he pushed me two years ago.
I’m mad at Santa too. Last year he didn’t bring me AirPods. I’m going to sprinkle rat poison on Santa’s cookies to teach him a lesson. I’m a good baker.
… My daddy died Christmas morning. Daddy ate Santa’s cookies. Why would daddy do that? That makes me angry.
Santa got lucky. This time…
("Cookies for Santa" copyright 2021 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
"CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project"
By William Gregory
Code Name: Project Jabberwocky
Status Report: 12/25/21
Vaccination Rates: Global 50.75%. US 74.35%. UK 85.25%. China 92.88%.
Micro-Implant OS Version: Windows 11 ServicePack 25RFID3
Global Satellite Receivers: Online | Ready
Global RFID Status: Ready
Projected Transponder Efficiency: 98.5325%
MissionOps: “We’ve crossed the 50% Global-VR threshold. Global satellites are online and ready. Shall we proceed with the activation sequence?”
Mr. Gates: “Make it so.”
MissionOps: “Microchip activation sequence in T-minus 6:24:52:01…”
Mr. Gates: “We are on the cusp of a historic new frontier in big data. Kudos to our Project Pangolin team in Wuhan, we couldn’t have done it without you.”
("CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project" copyright 2021 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
"Out of the depths, it calls to me"
by B. Nagel
The voice from the closet said to bring them or else. Midnight, new moon nearest Christmas. Terrence found wet ditch sludge in his empty closet.
Terrence set the saran-wrapped plate on the curb by the storm drain. A whining laugh rose from the catch basin. The voice thanked Terrence as his sneakers slapped back down the street. A boy crawled from the missing grate and crouched, unwrapping the cookies.
Something wrapped around the boy’s leg and jerked him below the street, head cracking on street, then curb. Another dark tendril crept up for the cookies. ‘Mine,’ said a different voice.
("Out of the depths, it calls to me" copyright 2021 by B. Nagel; used by permission)
The doctors of the arcane stopped short of calling it omniscience. But William cared little for scholastic debates. He sees you when you’re sleeping, knows when you’re awake — and judges.
And still so many had escaped his wrath.
On this question of theodicy, the doctors remained silent. William cared even less. Any esoteric being could be bound if you knew the shape of the world. Had the will.
Evergreen altar, coal fire white, horn and hoof and yew berry bright.
William had made his list. He would be a Lord in more than name — a Potheride worthy of the title.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, thought Lady Penelope Hill, the Baroness Hill of Potheride, that a widowed lady in possession of no fortune must have been in want of a husband adverse to speculating. Or gambling. Or drink. Or wenching. Or in the case of the late Baron Hill, who had gone on to his eternal reward while tipsily attempting to mount a stallion he’d won in a card game, all four.
Lady Hill, formerly Miss Penelople Smith, merchant’s daughter — lover of unladylike pursuits such as playing cricket, riding on the hunt, and laughing at ear-ringing volume over her father’s notorious limericks — passionately hoped that what her deceased husband would receive for his deeds done in the flesh would include sulfur and brimstone and fire. Lots and lots of fire. Even before the funeral, tales had tortuously wound their way to her about his many mistresses, more than she could count on both hands. The whispers and pointed looks had not exactly vexed Penelope, who’d not remained entirely ignorant of Billy’s dalliances.
The resignations from the household staff, though, that had caught her off guard. So had the balances (or lack thereof) in Billy’s bank accounts. And so had the news from a grim-faced solicitor that the proverbial vultures were circling and her days in the estate were numbered unless the Almighty shed a special dispensation of his grace upon her, a grace denominated in pounds and with a great many zeroes at the end of the sum. So far, the much-needed miracle had failed to materialize, and Penelope was down to a pair of servants: a bowed-backed butler who pulled double duty as a cook and a Bulgarian lady’s maid with a wen-marred cheek.
And for all that, Lady Penelope Hill (who knew any paper on which her title was inscribed would soon be worth more than the honorific itself) suspected that she knew only the outermost edges of her husband’s transgressions.
There were hints, clues, traces of something … something … Penelope didn’t know what. Something other. Something worse. The collection of books in indecipherable languages secreted away in a clandestine compartment in Billy’s desk. How the maid would twister her hands into foreign warding gestures whenever she passed by Billy’s old chamber. The way the flames in the hearth seemed to take on bizarre colors in the wee hours that Penelope couldn’t describe. The old blood stains she’d discovered beneath a scattering of straw in the stables, stains upon stains upon stains.
Those stains told stories, and she was afraid what she would hear if she listened ...
* * *
Dear writerly friends, welcome to Advent Ghosts 2021, the twelfth annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. For more than a decade, a group of us have kept alive the peculiarly British tradition of sharing spooky stories around Christmas time. Think of Neil Gaiman’s "Nicholas Was ..." or Jeanette Winterson’s "Dark Christmas" or anything by M.R. James, the best-known figure for spooky Christmas stories. (A couple of my personal favorites are "The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral" and "The Malice of Inanimate Objects.") That’s what we do — except in a very, very short form. Like, 100 words exactly. Anyone can participate, and the rules are simple:
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 18, and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.
If you’re new to the group and would like to see some examples, give last year’s stories a gander.
