Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (38 page)

Nonetheless, Saint Andrew remained the patron saint of Scotland and is remembered with Saint Andrew's Day on November 30th. The event is considered a bit more important by Scottish expatriates than by those still living in their homeland. The X-shaped cross of Saint Andrew is still used in the national flag of Scotland, reputedly the oldest national flag in Europe.

-John Edward Lawson

By Alex Severin

St. Andrew's Day is hardly recognised in Scotland, never mind celebrated. St. Andrew's is a place for golfers in garish sweaters and plus-fours these days, rather than a man, a Saint.

But it wasn't right to Ruaridh. As a child his dreams were haunted by the age-old tales his Great Grandfather told him about the bloody history of Scotland - the great battles, the martyrs to the cause, the injustices and the outrages.

The old man was a fierce patriot; Ruaridh had inherited it from him. Even as a middle aged man now, he had never forgotten those tales and his dreams still ran with red as his subconscious mind re-told those dusty old stories.

But it was always the story of St. Andrew that came back to him, his moans seeping into Ruaridh's sleep. What would stab him through the heart was that St. Andrew refused to be crucified on a cross the same as Jesus's; he beseeched his persecutors to change the shape of the cross - he felt unworthy of dying in the same way as the Messiah.

His dreams of St. Andrew were so vivid that he would awaken slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, pyjamas sticking to his skin.

The dream was always the same, right down to the minutest detail, but its regularity and his familiarity with it did not dilute its potency. The images never ceased to horrify and outrage him - the Saint would hang there, a limb painfully nailed to each bar on the Saltire cross he was crucified on, a cross-shaped like an X.

Something had to be done about the apathy of this country. He would sit and think to himself, staring out the window at the driech day…when did we lose the pride, that rabid patriotism that used to make us walk tall and sing loud? And not just at bloody football matches either. That's what we're reduced to - cheap kilts and tartan tammies with ridiculous curly ginger monofibre hair attached and a slurred rendition of Flower of Scotland in the face of the auld enemy. Football. The only battle left. Things have to change.

A simple fisherman from Galilee he may have been, but he was loved by Jesus Christ and was one of the Apostles - and died for his crime of spreading the word of Christianity.

How dare the world forget about the Patron Saint of Scotland.

But what could he do to make them all remember?

The image of Saint Andrew on the cross burned behind his eyes and…a moment of epiphany. It was clear to him now. He knew what he had to do to make them all remember.

It was only a few weeks until 30th November was here again - St. Andrew's Day. He had to begin preparations immediately.

Ruaridh sat at his computer; he'd never used the graphics software before and turned the air blue with curses, unable to decipher how to use it. He got the manual out and studied it for an hour and finally managed to put together a simple flyer and save it to disc. He immediately went to the local copy shop and had one thousand flyers printed - flyers advertising his free-for-all street party on St. Andrew's Day.

It would cost him a fortune but he didn't care - he had the money to do it and whatever the cost, it would all be worth it, worth it to re-establish St. Andrew's Day in the memories of Scots. He'd have to pay the price, of course, in more ways than monetarily.

Next on the list was ordering one hundred 10 x 6 oak beams. Even Ruaridh, as liberal with money as he was, gasped at the quote the salesman at the sawmill gave him over the phone. He recited his credit card number and requested that the wood be delivered the next day.

On to the food and drink - professional caterers would, of course, be employed for such an important function. No point in skimping here - he wanted every revelers who turned up for the party to stay the course - at least until he revealed his work of art in honour of St. Andrew to everybody.

He spent days fashioning the expensive beams of oak into fifty saltire crosses. The neighbours tolerated the hammering and banging and the cursing at smashed thumbs after he told them of his plans to re-instate St. Andrew's Day as a day in the calendar that would be remembered from now on. He didn't elaborate, of course - they would all be witness to the surprise too and he told them he didn't want to spoil it for them. Once he was done, he'd told them, November 30th would be permanently etched on the minds of every Scot in Scotland, every Scot around the globe and every other arsehole who claimed Scottish descent.

'Fucking synthetic Scots,' he would call them; like the fervent Americans he frequently ran across in Princes Street wearing tartan trews and waistcoats, blethering on a bout their 'Clan' and declaring that 'Edinboro, Scatland is so neat!' He very nearly punched one in the face in 'Deacon Brodie's.' The pub was always full of tourists and the only reason he went in there was to annoy himself, to fuel his xenophobia. This one was Japanese though, not American - he was a unilateral bigot; if you weren't Scottish born and bred, and left the country for more than two weeks of the year for your annual holiday in Benidorm, well, you just weren't worthy of even talking to him. The poor Japanese guy only asked him for directions to Edinburgh Castle.

'How in the fuck can you miss the castle! It's in front your nose!'

He walked away from the bewildered tourist and grunted a barely audible racial slur under his breath. The tourist did likewise in Japanese.

News of the party spread fast and the whole of Edinburgh was talking about it. There was much speculation as to what the 'unveiling' that the flyer mentioned was all about. Some thought that it might be a commemorative statue to St. Andrew but that couldn't be - Bonnie Prince Charlie Road was a residential street - there wouldn't be anywhere suitable for something like that, really. But what else could be unveiled except a statue or something similar, some work of art or other? Ah, but the party was actually in the field behind the road. That road's on the outskirts of Edinburgh, almost in the country. Nobody had a clue what was in store, but the buzz got louder and hundreds of people were sure to show up on St. Andrew's Day. Hundreds.

Ruaridh had to purchase three hundred heavy-duty tarpaulins to cover his work. He had to build a tunnel out of them to take the crosses one by one as he made them and set them up in the field. This, of course, would have to be completely obscured from view until they were ready to be unveiled. But how to stop prying eyes in the meantime? 24-hour security. Under strict instructions not to peek. They would also be under scrutiny, recorded 24/7 and if any of them peeked - curtains. Sacked. Fired.

The dream changed - the night of the 29th November - it was different. The first time in his entire life that the dream of St. Andrew had deviated from its original formula. This troubled Ruaridh. This troubled him a lot. Why now? What did it mean? Surely the timing of the change was significant. It had to mean something.

Instead of the suffering saint, it was himself nailed to the saltire cross, him bleeding onto the heavy wooden beams, him feeling life ebb and flow from his wounds. Then the meaning hit him - the result of his plan for the coming Feast of St. Andrew would be his sacrifice of self, an act of martyrdom for the reinstatement of St. Andrew into the culture of Scotland. The loss of his own liberty would be worth it. And he was sure that his place in Heaven would be secured.

All day people were arriving. Hundreds of them. Perhaps there were even thousands now, he thought as he looked down from his window at the throng of bodies in the back field. Like ants, he thought. Little ants I could step on and crush under my feet.

Time for him to make an entrance.

Ruaridh walked silently through the people; they parted to let him pass. Some stared slack-jawed at him and others stifled sniggers behind hands. Others just out and out guffawed. Edinburgh in November was no place for a man in a dress. He wore a robe made from sacking material - one that would have been extremely uncomfortable to wear and tied at the waist with a rough rope belt. His shoulder-length white wavy hair made him look every bit the biblical hero. He made his way to the front of the crowd, stepped up onto the small platform and raised his hands, Moses-style.

'Children, today marks the beginning of a new dawn for the people of Scotland.'

People nudged their neighbors and winked, charmed by he eccentric old fool in the fancy dress costume in front of them.

'Today is a day you will never forget. The entire population of Scotland and every Scot world-wide will never forget. Today, the Feast of St. Andrew, will now be celebrated in the manner it deserves. I demand it.'

The crowd roared with laughter, shoulders heaving with mirth, eyes watering, sides being held as the silly old fool began to fumble with strings attached to a row of tarpaulins behind him.

The tarpaulins fell.

The crowd was suddenly silent.

A lone voice began to laugh, a hysterical laugh, a laugh that said the owner wanted to believe this was a joke, a prank, but the sound of the laughter, the mania in its tones belied that.

It wasn't a joke.

It wasn't faked.

It was real.

The crowd began to run in all directions like cornered rats, fleeing, stumbling, falling, trampling other people in their wake.

But some people did not move.

They just stood there.

Staring.

They watched as the life flowed from the wounds of the fifty crucified Scots, people chosen at random. All ages and all walks of life were represented by the victims Ruaridh selected to represent his beloved St. Andrew.

Some in the crowd even moved closer to inspect the crucifixions, raised tentative hands to touch fingertips to the blood that flowed from the ripped hands and feet, touched the warm flesh wounds just to make sure that they were real.

Ruaridh never stood trial. Instead he was found incompetent and institutionalized. But Ruaridh wasn't insane - that was an insult to him. What he did, he did for the love of St. Andrew the Apostle, did for the love of his country and the love of his countrymen - past, present and future.

St. Andrew's Day would never be forgotten in Scotland ever again. Not that it would be celebrated in the way Ruaridh desired, but it would never be forgotten, at least.

Almost twelve months on: a young man stands in the field where he stood nearly one year ago. It's as if they still hang here in this field; he can still hear the death-rattle in the throats of the crucified, still feel the pattering of blood on his face as he looks up at a girl who stares down, her eyes pleading, immanent death and injustice in her stare. He can still smell the blood in the air, see the rivers that flowed from palms and feet, still taste that sharp copper explosion on the back of his tongue.

He stands there still, playing the scene over and over, a scene that never erases, never fades - like the dreams that Ruaridh has - pristine memories.

The man in the field realizes that people have short memories and begins to make plans for St. Andrew's Day.

ALEX SEVERIN

Alex Severin is a writer, editor and hell-bound blasphemer, apparently.
She has been widely published on the web on such prestigious sites as
Fangoria, Horrorfind, The Dream People, Short, Scary Tales, Suspect Thoughts, Ophelia's Muse, House of Pain and Death Grip to name but a few. In print she appears in Peep Show Magazine 1 & 2.

Alex is the editor and webmistress of the exquisite BDSM, Fetish & Erotic Horror e-zine, Shadow of the Marquis (www.shadowofthemarquis.com), and owner and webmistress of custom written erotica website Personal Erotica (www.personalerotica.co.uk).
Alex is the co-author of BROKEN - Twisted, Gore-soaked Tales of Sex, Death & Pain with Hertzan Chimera & Wrath James White, released in 2002 by Medium Rare Books (www.mediumrarehorror.com) and BoyFistGirlSuck, a deviant collection of horror/fetish-erotica co-written with Hertzan Chimera and due for release in February 2003 from Massacre Publications (www.massacrepublications.co.uk).

Alex Severin is married to horror author and publisher Kailleaugh Andersson.

The holiday celebrations in the world are numerous and varied-129-139 days in Japan and Korea, 145 in France, and 172 in Sri Lanka. While some of these are certainly religious events and others commemorate important national history, many are simply leisure days. Bearing that in mind, travel remains one of the most popular holiday activities. The experts provide us with some cheerful advice on the matter:

-luxury cruise liners are often registered in other countries, thus they are not under any obligation to report rape, theft, battery, or any other crimes to authorities in your nation.

-don't look lost or vulnerable.

-always check all areas of your quarters upon returning; cleaning crews often leave doors hanging open as they work and unscrupulous sorts might sneak in. Examine closets, showers, under beds, etc.

-keep all money and valuables locked in the central vault. The safes provided in your quarters won't be covered by insurance.

-insure that somebody you trust is watching your home while you are away.

As many of us know certain holidays provide an excellent chance to indulge in excessive amounts of alcohol, frequently resulting in poor behavior and vehicular deaths. Consumer-oriented holidays sometimes result in deaths and injuries as masses of parents crush each other in an attempt to snag the few "must have" gifts for children. Throughout the ages human sacrifice has been a feature of rituals and celebrations; the Aztecs had 20,000 human sacrifices per year, while unsubstantiated reports suggest sacrifices in the United States of America are in the tens of thousands.