Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (33 page)

"Oh, okay." Norma watched them exit the kitchen and as they said hello to their father, she heard the laundry room door open in the hall.

"Turkey smells great Mom," Karen called before entering her room and closing the door.

"Norma!" Henry bellowed yet again.

She couldn't remember the last time she dared to open the oven and baste the turkey.

"We told you, didn't we Norma. They couldn't give a rat's ass about you. You must make them see how important you are. What would they do without you? Taking care of them all these years, wiping their snotty noses and their soiled asses, waiting on them hand and foot and for what? Sorry Mom, we're toooooo tired...show them Norma. Show them how important you are. You know what you must do."

Norma sat at the kitchen table, her head swimming, her blood boiling. She gazed at the potatoes and yams in front of her. Setting them on the stove, she switched on the burners and waited for them to boil.

She put the finishing touches on her pies, layering them with spoonful after spoonful of whipped cream then sliding them into the fridge.

"Do it Norma...do it."

Beads of sweat rolled down Norma's face. She glanced around the kitchen, looking at the mess on the table, the dirty dishes in the sink, the overcrowded counters, the enormous meal cooking on the stove and noticed that she sat alone in the room. All alone. She was the only one that worked here, the only one that contributed to the household.

In her mind's eye she saw the faces of Henry and her children Steve and Karen, they were laughing, their faces distorted and twisted. There was maliciousness in their laughter, cruelty, an insulting taunting that Norma knew was directed at her.

"What did I do to deserve this?" She felt her heart beat faster, her pulse racing. Feeling a bit dizzy, she sat herself down, the calls and frenzy of the football game echoed in the background, other than that, the silence that surrounded her was deafening, stifling, swallowing her whole. "They are laughing at me." The laughter still rang in her head. "I do everything for them." A tear came to her eye.

"Do it Norma, do it."

Her fingers tingled; the hair on the back of her neck stood up and her legs trembled. She heard the turkey calling to her from the oven. She thought she could see it shimmying in the oven door window.

Rising from the table she approached the oven, yanked the door open and stared at the turkey. Among the sizzling and cooking she heard them, heard the whispers-speaking to her, encouraging her, egging her on.

"You know what you must do. You know. Do it, Norma, do it."

Leaving the door open, she searched within the kitchen drawers, shuffling through egg beaters, whisks, spatulas, spoons, tongs, skewers, knives, until it came into her hands; the flavor infuser.

Opening the cabinet under the sink she pulled out the ammonia and some other cleaning fluids. With the turkey baster she took some of the turkey's juices and poured them into a bowl. Into the bowl she added the cleaning solutions and stirred briskly.

With the infuser she sucked up the concoction and without hesitation injected it into the breast of the turkey. The whispers came to her again. "Yes...yes...teach them all Norma."

Henry's snoring filled the living room as Norma walked in. Shaking him gently, she watched his eyes pop open. "Jesus, you scared the hell out me," he grumbled, as he came to. "Don't you know not to wake someone like that? What is wrong with you anyway, Norma?"

"Nothing dear, I just wanted to let you know dinner is served."

After waking Karen and Steve as well, she walked back to the kitchen and sat at the table, a large grin on her face.

The table was filled with the fruits of her labor, steaming bowls of vegetables, mashed potatoes, candied yams, stuffing, squash and homemade gravy. Her crowning glory sat in the center of the table-a perfectly golden brown turkey.

Their eyes widened as they approached the table, they were salivating at the sights and smells before them.

As Henry took the carving knife to the bird, Karen and Steve began scooping side dishes onto their plates with reckless abandon.

"Wait a minute everyone," Norma interrupted the feeding. "We need to say grace."

She stared at Henry who rolled his eyes, as did the kids. "Okay fine. Um, we thank thee for this potato, vegetable and delicious meat, so if you don't mind, good God let's eat!"

Laughter rang out, Henry belly laughing to exaggerated effect, much like the snoring that kept poor Norma awake each and every night. The kids joined him

Norma was not amused.

Within moments, the family dove into the meal. As if they hadn't eaten in weeks, they devoured the meal in a mere fraction of the time it took Norma to fix it. She watched as they scoured and scavenged over the food, leaving the table to look like a war zone.

"Vultures," Norma whispered to herself. "Ungrateful vultures." She nibbled on a vegetable and potato. Her plate was vacant of turkey meat.

"Becoming a vegetarian Mom?" Steve snickered, stuffing turkey and stuffing into his mouth.

"Not quite dear," she smiled, dining delicately on squash and yams.

"Y'know, this is a great meal Norma but there's something different about the turkey. It taste's different somehow."

"Does it?" She acted surprised. "I prepared it the same way I have every other year."

"Daddy's right," Karen said. "There is something different about it."

"Oh you're right," Norma smiled widely. "I did just add one new thing to it. Retribution."

As the words filtered through them they froze, forks dropping out of their hands. Norma watched as her family was overwhelmed by coughing fits, that shifted into gagging, gagging so severe she could see their faces turning red.

Norma ate her dinner calmly as they vomited on the table. Henry fell out of his seat and began to crawl across the floor, blue fluid trickling out of the corners of his mouth.

Karen held her throat as she reached for the water in front of her but instead knocked it across the table in her panic. Norma watched the water soak the table like a flood but was oblivious to it.

Steve gasped and choked, falling face first into his plate and lying still.

Henry made it to the kitchen door before vomiting one last time and then going still as well.

Slumping back in her seat, head bobbing, Karen let out one solitary cry: "Momma, why?" It was all that escaped her before she died.

Norma quietly finished her dinner.

The turkey carcass, nothing but skin and bones now, shuddered a bit, its platter vibrating until two shadowy, wispy forms slipped out of it and into the air. Norma looked up to see two tiny black creatures hovering above her. They were black as pitch, their bald heads sporting blunt horns, their eyes blood red, their clawed hands and feet webbed.

Floating on bat wings they cackled to each other, giggling and laughing maniacally, their pointed tails curling like pigs' tails. "Another has been damned," one cackled to the other.

"Stupid, weak-willed humans," the other giggled. "They make it too easy."

"The Father will be very pleased," they said lastly as they vanished into the air as if never there.

As if coming out of a dream state, Norma blinked and screamed, staring at the bodies of her family. "What have I done!"

Stumbling out of her chair she fell to the floor and cried. She looked up again and saw the turkey remains sitting on the table. There were no more whispers.

Norma always knew that there were bad things in the world, dark, frightening things. She knew of evil but no one ever warned her that turkeys could be possessed.

JOHN GROVER

is a thirty-two year old writer residing Massachusetts of the United States. He's been writing since he was 18 and has taken a creative writing course at Fisher College in Massachusetts.

His credits include over 60 tales both in print and online in such markets as "Rogue Worlds, Dark Dungeon, Horrorfind.com, Blood Moon Rising, Thirteen Stories, Eternal Night Ezine, Shadowkeep, Abstracts magazine, Alternate Realities, Art of Horror and many more.

He also has been recently accepted into the upcoming Anthologies Of Flesh and Hunger, Vicious Shivers, The Fear Within and Scriptures of the Damned.

He is the co-author of Space Stations and Graveyards published by Double Dragon Publishing and Poisoned Graves soon to be released by DDP.

His story "Black Out" was recently made into a 4-minute short film by a group of Canadian Film students. "Black Out" can be found on the website "Short Scary Tales."

He is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Visit his website at www.shadowtales.com.

Christian countries celebrate the springtime holiday of Easter to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. The period of Lent leads up to Holy Week, which starts with Palm Sunday-the day Jesus entered Jerusalem and crowds reverentially laid palms at his feet. The Last Supper is remembered on Maundy (Holy) Thursday, followed four days later by Easter itself. For Christians this is the most holy of days.

However, the many traditional customs surrounding Easter have "pagan" origins. The very name alone is derived from the names of two pre Judeo-Christian goddesses. According to the English scholar St. Bede, who lived in the 6th century, the Teutonic Eastre (as known as Ostern) and Scandinavian Ostra were fertility goddesses who were celebrated at the onset of spring.

Both rabbits and eggs-long-standing signs of fertility-are also associated with Easter. The rabbits are typically used as marketing ploys or are giving to children as pets. These pets are soon neglected and either given away or killed. As for the eggs, every Christian culture has a different custom. In Greece eggs are dyed crimson to signify the blood of Christ, whereas Slavic peoples use gold and silver to decorate eggs. In omnivorous cultures the contents of the eggs are drained through a small hole and used for cooking. The remaining hollow shells make excellent ornaments are are hung from trees during Easter week. Easter eggs are also used in various children's games, including Easter egg hunts and the Easter egg rolls.

In Europe many refer to the holiday as Pasch, which is derived from Pesach (the Jewish holiday Passover). Most early Christians had been raised as Jews and merely considered Easter a new addition to Passover. Those Christians still residing in, or close to, the Middle East frequently hold Easter according to the Passover festival. The Western churches don't adhere to historical elements, instead opting to observe Easter on the Sunday after the full moon on/after the spring equinox, which occurs March 21. Therefore Easter can occur anywhere between March 22 and April 25.

-John Edward Lawson

By Jason Brannon

When I finally crawled beneath the covers, Jessica was already dozing peacefully. It was the general order of things around our house. Because of my insomnia, I needed the rhythm of her breathing to help me get to sleep, and Jessica was usually more than willing to turn in first. I'm sure I could have gone to sleep much sooner each evening if it weren't for the eyes of the enormous ceramic Christ staring down at me from his illuminated cross, judging me for each and every sin I had ever committed. But the hideous thing had belonged to Jessica's grandmother who had passed away only a few months earlier. Which meant I was stuck sleeping under Christ's watchful eyes.

On that Good Friday, however, I didn't even pay the hideous fluorescent god much attention. I was too busy thinking about Easter. The day of resurrection was coming up in two days, but the Christian significance was lost on me. All I could think about was getting dressed up, going to church, and having to endure a painful afternoon of being dissected like a med school cadaver by Jessica's parents. I was already dreading it. Fortunately, the dread soon turned into drowsiness.

As I slept, I imagined that I heard the noisy clanging of a massive sledge being used to drive railroad spikes into unyielding steel. Once, I even thought I heard the wielder of the large hammer strike his hand and scream out in pain, but I didn't stir from the noise. Instead, I simply tried to dream of something else, like a silent bedroom. Almost instantly, the clanging stopped and I dropped off further into that nocturnal abyss.

Sometime later during the night, I remember kicking the covers off of my legs, sweating desperately in the heat. The ceiling fan spun erratically overhead like the rotor of an out-of-control ship, but it didn't seem to help much. Maybe the night was just too humid for comfort, or maybe it was the Lord's penetrating stare making me nervous in the dark. With the gaudy ceramic crucifix hanging over my head like a cheap neon sign outside a Las Vegas hotel, I listened for the metronomic pulse of Jessica's breathing to lull me back to sleep. Yet where there should have been inhalations and exhalations, there was only the whir of the overhead fan and the perpetual hum of electricity running through the Messiah like an unspoken litany.

"Jessica," I mumbled. But she didn't answer. Her side of the bed was empty.

I listened for the flush of a toilet or the sound of water draining from a tap. I think I may have even dozed off again while listening. But Jessica didn't return.

Needless to say, I was slightly bothered by Jessica's disappearance, but only because I was unable to go to sleep without her. More than likely, she had just gotten up to get a drink of water. It was at that very time, while dreaming of a cool drink on such a hot night, that I felt something moist splatter on my forehead. Still not entirely awake, I wiped the wetness from my brow with the back of my hand, realizing by the sticky touch of the stuff that it wasn't water. Another drop hit me in the face, splattering on my cheeks. Immediately, I opened my eyes and sat up in bed.

The ceramic cross was empty. A sign still hung above the dogwood crucifix.

"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?" it read.

Thinking detachedly to myself in the way that people do when they're still dreaming of sleep, I staggered to my feet and hit the light switch. Frozen to the spot by shock and fear, I couldn't help but notice that the plaster Christ hadn't taken the crucifixion spikes with him as I had previously thought. Instead, he had used them to tack my wife to the ceiling like a frail, torn butterfly in an insect collection. Hers was the flood that pattered on my forehead like the blood of martyred saints. And what was more, her arms were outstretched in a crucifixion pose. I suddenly realized that the hammering and screaming hadn't been a dream after all.