| General Fiction posted December 10, 2017 |
  |
horror story
Christmas Eve Gift
by LIJ Red
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Bill thought it was Christmas Eve, but he wasn't sure. Usually he looked it up on a calendar when they scotch-taped the felt-tip marker notice to the diner door. Nobody handed out calendars anymore, so he had no idea. The snow began in the dark hour before dawn, soggy flakes that fell hard, did not waft down. It melted a little slower than it descended, and gathered on everything. At ten AM, somewhere along the many miles of high line, the sticky snow snapped a hefty tree trunk or branch that fell on the electrical wires, and the lights went out.
Bill had called himself ready for this, but he had to open the blinds to search for his pen maglite. It did not work.
He had some AA batteries, so he unscrewed the end of the light, to find that the old batteries had swollen and were jammed in the strong alloy tube.
No matter, some traces of light from the dirty windows provided enough illumination for him to move around inside the house.
He dreaded having to huddle near his "clean-burning" kerosene portable heater. It would keep one room warm enough to survive, but the reek was torture to his scarred, aging lungs.
He had debated whether to go to propane gas, with a two-mantle lantern and 15000 BTU heater hooked to a twenty-pound canister. The propane was now as easy to find and purchase as K1 kerosene, and only a bit more expensive..
Like testing his flashlights, he simply had not gotten around to it.
The heater tank was empty.
The temperature was rocking up and down past the freezing mark, as usual for snowy days. The dark house was slowly cooling.
He had not picked up bottled water, and only two twelve-ounce bottles remained. He had chosen not to go with the incredibly foul-tasting chlorinated "city" water, and since no minor children lived with him, the Welfare department would not condemn his well. So with a dead pump, he had two bottles of water, and one flush in the WC tank.
Food would be no problem for a few days, the kitchen was fast approaching fridge temps. Eating the packaged biscuits and canned food cold would suck, but...
He had stored the two five-gallon plastic cans of K1 in the basement, because they smelled, and it was easier than carrying them into the house. If he nursed them, he could keep the house's pipes from freezing for two days.
He sighed and started down the stairs.
Pluto was under the bottom step of the un-trimmed stairs, covered with dust and cobwebs. Bill glared at the black eyes painted on the crackled rubber face and groaned.
Then the pain in his arms and back cut in, and he cried,"Oh, shit. Oh, God!"
His left eye was not working. He was miserably cold. He was upside down.
"I've fallen and I can't get up." How he hated that old silly bitch in the TV commercial. Worse than, "Where's the bleeping beef?"
And now...
He tried to writhe and slither down the last stairs.
One arm hurt so badly he screamed. And from his waist down there was no pain. No sound of motion when he tried to move. Nothing.
Bill had fallen and he couldn't get up. His eyes grew accustomed to the almost total darkness of the basement. The blood rushed to his head and it swam, and the second, or minutes, or hours stopped accounting for themselves.
He became lucid for a few seconds. There was hazy light at the top of the stairs. No carollers for a while, if any happened to come. Last year none did. Bill wondered how long the cold and pain could go one. He saw his wife, as she looked years ago, laughing, laughing. He saw the two dead sons smirking and flipping him off.
The torment went on for a few seconds or eons. Bill's mind came and went.
The he snapped awake. Someone was creaking down the stairs.
"Ho ho ho. Have you been a bad boy, Billy?" Santa Clause beamed and shook.
"Screw you lardass fraud," Bill croaked.
"Now Billy. No sticks and coal for you, if you talk like that."
"If you want to know what I want, just stop the bullshit. So many years of hurting and...just stop."
"Don't run off, Billy my boy, my number one elf will be here shortly," Santa said, and capered up the stairs.
Bill came around as a car passed on the street, the kaboom kaboom of bass notes jarring the neighborhood.
"Help. Help," Bill rasped, a feeble wheezing.
He was so cold.
So cold for so long.
The walking clicked and clacked, like a woman in whore-heels. Bill opened the unswollen right eye.
Like black fog around a dead tree, the robe swirled. The long blade glittered even in the darkness.
"Are you ready, William?" the fleshless jaws asked gently.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Bill whispered.
Bill thought it was Christmas Eve, but he wasn't sure. Usually he looked it up on a calendar when they scotch-taped the felt-tip marker notice to the diner door. Nobody handed out calendars anymore, so he had no idea. The snow began in the dark hour before dawn, soggy flakes that fell hard, did not waft down. It melted a little slower than it descended, and gathered on everything. At ten AM, somewhere along the many miles of high line, the sticky snow snapped a hefty tree trunk or branch that fell on the electrical wires, and the lights went out.
Bill had called himself ready for this, but he had to open the blinds to search for his pen maglite. It did not work.
He had some AA batteries, so he unscrewed the end of the light, to find that the old batteries had swollen and were jammed in the strong alloy tube.
No matter, some traces of light from the dirty windows provided enough illumination for him to move around inside the house.
He dreaded having to huddle near his "clean-burning" kerosene portable heater. It would keep one room warm enough to survive, but the reek was torture to his scarred, aging lungs.
He had debated whether to go to propane gas, with a two-mantle lantern and 15000 BTU heater hooked to a twenty-pound canister. The propane was now as easy to find and purchase as K1 kerosene, and only a bit more expensive..
Like testing his flashlights, he simply had not gotten around to it.
The heater tank was empty.
The temperature was rocking up and down past the freezing mark, as usual for snowy days. The dark house was slowly cooling.
He had not picked up bottled water, and only two twelve-ounce bottles remained. He had chosen not to go with the incredibly foul-tasting chlorinated "city" water, and since no minor children lived with him, the Welfare department would not condemn his well. So with a dead pump, he had two bottles of water, and one flush in the WC tank.
Food would be no problem for a few days, the kitchen was fast approaching fridge temps. Eating the packaged biscuits and canned food cold would suck, but...
He had stored the two five-gallon plastic cans of K1 in the basement, because they smelled, and it was easier than carrying them into the house. If he nursed them, he could keep the house's pipes from freezing for two days.
He sighed and started down the stairs.
Pluto was under the bottom step of the un-trimmed stairs, covered with dust and cobwebs. Bill glared at the black eyes painted on the crackled rubber face and groaned.
Then the pain in his arms and back cut in, and he cried,"Oh, shit. Oh, God!"
His left eye was not working. He was miserably cold. He was upside down.
"I've fallen and I can't get up." How he hated that old silly bitch in the TV commercial. Worse than, "Where's the bleeping beef?"
And now...
He tried to writhe and slither down the last stairs.
One arm hurt so badly he screamed. And from his waist down there was no pain. No sound of motion when he tried to move. Nothing.
Bill had fallen and he couldn't get up. His eyes grew accustomed to the almost total darkness of the basement. The blood rushed to his head and it swam, and the second, or minutes, or hours stopped accounting for themselves.
He became lucid for a few seconds. There was hazy light at the top of the stairs. No carollers for a while, if any happened to come. Last year none did. Bill wondered how long the cold and pain could go one. He saw his wife, as she looked years ago, laughing, laughing. He saw the two dead sons smirking and flipping him off.
The torment went on for a few seconds or eons. Bill's mind came and went.
The he snapped awake. Someone was creaking down the stairs.
"Ho ho ho. Have you been a bad boy, Billy?" Santa Clause beamed and shook.
"Screw you lardass fraud," Bill croaked.
"Now Billy. No sticks and coal for you, if you talk like that."
"If you want to know what I want, just stop the bullshit. So many years of hurting and...just stop."
"Don't run off, Billy my boy, my number one elf will be here shortly," Santa said, and capered up the stairs.
Bill came around as a car passed on the street, the kaboom kaboom of bass notes jarring the neighborhood.
"Help. Help," Bill rasped, a feeble wheezing.
He was so cold.
So cold for so long.
The walking clicked and clacked, like a woman in whore-heels. Bill opened the unswollen right eye.
Like black fog around a dead tree, the robe swirled. The long blade glittered even in the darkness.
"Are you ready, William?" the fleshless jaws asked gently.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Bill whispered.
Bill had called himself ready for this, but he had to open the blinds to search for his pen maglite. It did not work.
He had some AA batteries, so he unscrewed the end of the light, to find that the old batteries had swollen and were jammed in the strong alloy tube.
No matter, some traces of light from the dirty windows provided enough illumination for him to move around inside the house.
He dreaded having to huddle near his "clean-burning" kerosene portable heater. It would keep one room warm enough to survive, but the reek was torture to his scarred, aging lungs.
He had debated whether to go to propane gas, with a two-mantle lantern and 15000 BTU heater hooked to a twenty-pound canister. The propane was now as easy to find and purchase as K1 kerosene, and only a bit more expensive..
Like testing his flashlights, he simply had not gotten around to it.
The heater tank was empty.
The temperature was rocking up and down past the freezing mark, as usual for snowy days. The dark house was slowly cooling.
He had not picked up bottled water, and only two twelve-ounce bottles remained. He had chosen not to go with the incredibly foul-tasting chlorinated "city" water, and since no minor children lived with him, the Welfare department would not condemn his well. So with a dead pump, he had two bottles of water, and one flush in the WC tank.
Food would be no problem for a few days, the kitchen was fast approaching fridge temps. Eating the packaged biscuits and canned food cold would suck, but...
He had stored the two five-gallon plastic cans of K1 in the basement, because they smelled, and it was easier than carrying them into the house. If he nursed them, he could keep the house's pipes from freezing for two days.
He sighed and started down the stairs.
Pluto was under the bottom step of the un-trimmed stairs, covered with dust and cobwebs. Bill glared at the black eyes painted on the crackled rubber face and groaned.
Then the pain in his arms and back cut in, and he cried,"Oh, shit. Oh, God!"
His left eye was not working. He was miserably cold. He was upside down.
"I've fallen and I can't get up." How he hated that old silly bitch in the TV commercial. Worse than, "Where's the bleeping beef?"
And now...
He tried to writhe and slither down the last stairs.
One arm hurt so badly he screamed. And from his waist down there was no pain. No sound of motion when he tried to move. Nothing.
Bill had fallen and he couldn't get up. His eyes grew accustomed to the almost total darkness of the basement. The blood rushed to his head and it swam, and the second, or minutes, or hours stopped accounting for themselves.
He became lucid for a few seconds. There was hazy light at the top of the stairs. No carollers for a while, if any happened to come. Last year none did. Bill wondered how long the cold and pain could go one. He saw his wife, as she looked years ago, laughing, laughing. He saw the two dead sons smirking and flipping him off.
The torment went on for a few seconds or eons. Bill's mind came and went.
The he snapped awake. Someone was creaking down the stairs.
"Ho ho ho. Have you been a bad boy, Billy?" Santa Clause beamed and shook.
"Screw you lardass fraud," Bill croaked.
"Now Billy. No sticks and coal for you, if you talk like that."
"If you want to know what I want, just stop the bullshit. So many years of hurting and...just stop."
"Don't run off, Billy my boy, my number one elf will be here shortly," Santa said, and capered up the stairs.
Bill came around as a car passed on the street, the kaboom kaboom of bass notes jarring the neighborhood.
"Help. Help," Bill rasped, a feeble wheezing.
He was so cold.
So cold for so long.
The walking clicked and clacked, like a woman in whore-heels. Bill opened the unswollen right eye.
Like black fog around a dead tree, the robe swirled. The long blade glittered even in the darkness.
"Are you ready, William?" the fleshless jaws asked gently.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Bill whispered.
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