Heri za Kwanzaa!

 May your meditations and re-assessments help
you become the person you want and need to be!

 

Happy Boxing Day!

 

Merry Christmas!

 

New Poetry for the Christmas

 

Far Away in a Manger

Hail Mary, full of grace

Did childbirth hurt on that first Christmas

Or was labor immaculate too

Free of contact

Free of pain?

Blessed art thou among women

If that were truly the case

Pray for us in our hour of death

Because we seem to be racing toward it

O come, O come Emmanuel

To ransom faith from religion

To remind those who claim to follow

That love still covers multitudes of sins

Until the Son of God appears

Not that they’d recognize you today

Because you’re not white, or Protestant,

Or born in the United States

Rejoice! Rejoice! And mourn in lonely exile

Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!

Oh, the little town of Bethlehem

Seems light-years and centuries away

From our land of the free

Our home of brave believers

Who disregard and disrespect the stranger

Who mock and ignore the poor

Who hide our nation’s sins under a bushel

And tear them from the pages of school textbooks

How far away is that manger now

As we trade no crib for a golden ballroom

And worship a painted calf

Parading in the skin of a bull

The only lowing of cattle

Is the bellowing

From the pulpits of government

The baby is crying

We should all be crying

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb

Of all wombs: red, yellow, black, white

Both foreign and domestic

Created in the image of God

Endowed with inalienable rights

The stars look down where they lay

To see what? —

Hail Mary, full of grace

Remember us in this, the hour of our death

We do not live in the blessings of the immaculate

We live in the world of touch and pain

Where beings from man to woman and back again

Must bump against

The bulk of the other

All day, every day, and I imagine all that bumping

Must be what causes us to hate each other

Enough to put people in cages, enough to bomb innocents

Be near me, I pray, our King of Peace. Amen. Amen.

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Incarnate

 

They say the secret miracle of Christmas

Is Immanuel, God with us,

They say it is the Word becoming flesh

And dwelling among us.

I hear their words,

But I feel they miss the point:

We are already incarnate.

Here from the moment we stood upright,

The day we fashioned clubs,

The year we scribbled pictures onto cave walls.

God has always been with us

Because we were already here.

 

Some say the meaning of Christmas

Is the newborn king,

The Prince of Peace, the son given,

And yet again,

The words fail to reach

Our incarnate ears of flesh.

Lips praise peace, hands and wills abhor it,

A grand idea, but it’ll never work

In the real world of mucous and muscle.

A beautiful notion fluttering too high above the garbage

For us to attempt,

So we sing songs about it instead.

 

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Free Ghost Story for Christmas: The Kit Bag by Algernon Blackwood

 

The Kit Bag 

by Algernon Blackwood

In the grand tradition of the Christmas ghost story, here is a seasonal tale from one of the greats, Algernon Blackwood (certainly one of my favorite horror writers). For more fantastic classic gothic and ghost stories for the holidays, visit The Classic Horror Blog.

Or find the audiobook version here or here.

======================

When the words ‘Not Guilty’ sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC, and leader for the triumphant defense, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

‘It’s what we expected, I think,’ said the barrister, without emotion; ‘and, personally, I am glad the case is over.’

There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the face felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

‘I’m glad too,’ said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. ‘Ah, I remember, yes,’ he said with a kind smile, ‘and you want to get away for Christmas. You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age I’d come with you.’

Holiday Short-Shorts 2025-- Our Contributors' Gift to You!

 

As the Grinch learned, "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store." The best gifts come from somewhere inside you, and if you're a creative, that's doubly so. 

In that spirit, our regular contributors to the blog are giving you the gift of holiday fiction. These are all original holiday-themed short-shorts written by our regular contributors. Thrillers. Horror. Crime. Drama. Family. It's all there. 

Happy holidays, everyone!

Note: All stories below are © 2025 by the author and are used here by permission.

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Last Christmas

I found him at last: Nick, skulking beneath the peppermint rafters where the toyshop’s shadows knot themselves into darker tidings, his trembling breath frosting the air like a naughty whisper. For centuries he’d dodged me, unraveling my spells, undoing my careful work, poisoning the holly with his sanctimonious shine. But tonight, sleigh bells rang for me. I crept closer, boots silent on sugared snow, heart humming with the warm thrum of justice long delayed. Now the North Pole is quiet again, and in the stillness, I savor the sweet, sweet taste of a world set right beneath my merry, crimson grin.

        -- Evan Slash Reed Peterson

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A Show for the Holidays

"Thank you," said Byron, as he took the mug of hot chocolate from his P.A. "It's just what I wanted. Well, more like what I needed."

"Sugar and just a little bit of the cold coffee poured in for caffeine and a kick."

Byron smiled. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Enjoying the party?" Janet asked. "You don't strike me much as a partygoer."

"I'm not. I'm just here..." His voice trailed off. "Well, I'm here for something I want to see later."

"Oh," Janet mused. He meant the announcement of the big layoff for the lowest rung. His own suggestion for cutting 'unnecessary costs.'

The antlers on her Christmas moose sweater flopped as she motioned for him to take a sip. He did, downing a gulp before stopping with a weird facial tick. 

"Ooh. Cardamom? Nice touch."

She nodded. 

Cardemum, she thought. And the assload of thallium sulfate I put in the mug. There would be something to see, all right, but not the show her boss expected. 

        -- Sean Taylor

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Home for Christmas

Evie stepped up the familiar redstone steps to the front door of a house she once knew like family. She turned back to look down the steep hill toward the pine trees and the street and was sure, for half a second, she caught a glimpse of another house at another time, far but not so far from her. 

“Get on in here. It’s gettin’ chilly out.” Evie jumped and turned back to the door. 

“Momma?”

The woman smoking a cigarillo and dressed in a bright red sweater pushed the door wide to let Evie in. “You weren’t expecting Santa, were you?” She smiled. 

Evie couldn’t help but laugh. She’d forgotten that joke. It’d been so long. “Not yet.” She rushed to hug her momma, door slamming against her back. 

“I know. It’s been a long time.” Momma wrapped her arms around her. “But don’t you worry. We’re all here, and now we can have a real Christmas.”

The living room was lit by the enormous live Douglas fir in one corner of the room. Evie’s daddy was on a ladder hanging handmade wooden ornaments. It glistened with silver tinsel and huge colored lights, just like momma loved. She remembered how he used to give them to her children and her sister’s children when they were little. Her daughter still put them on her tree. 

Her daughter…

She gazed out the large window decked in large bubble lights. Just on the edge of the horizon, she could see her girl making ribbon cookies like she used to make until the year she couldn’t read the recipe properly. 

A tug at the shoulder brought her back. “Evie! Evie! Did you bring any cookies?”  She turned and saw the soft, impish face of her brother. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She should be with her daughter, not here. This is the wrong place and time. 

“I need to sit down, I think.” 

Momma led her to the couch. “Leave her alone, Mikey. I wondered when it would hit her.” 

Evie took in the scene. She was at home with her family at Christmas. There were bowls of candy on every flat surface, just as always. It felt normal and right, but then there were the other memories and other family just past her reach and on the edge of what felt real now. Daddy came down from the tree and sat with them. 

He patted her hand. “We’re all here. We’ve waited for you for a long time, Evie.” 

“You and momma keep saying this. Does that mean?”

“It means we are all together again!” Momma smiled and clapped her hands. “Your brother and sister will be here soon and we’ll have Christmas dinner, and it will be fine.” 

Evie went to the window and pointed out. “And what about them?”

Daddy joined her and squinted as though he could see what she saw. “She’ll bake those cookies and tell your stories. They’ll be with us soon enough.” He hugged her. 

Behind them, the dulcet voice of Brenda Lee began a verse of Jingle Bell Rock. Momma danced in with a plate of homemade cookies and hot chocolate. 

“Here’s those cookies you wanted, Mikey.” 

The teenaged boy laughed, and Evie couldn’t help but laugh too. It was good to be home.  

        -- Jessica Nettles

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An Encounter With Santa

“Santa!” the boy exclaimed.

He hoped the kid wouldn’t see him. Dressing as Santa to rob a bank during a Christmas party was smart, but he regretted sneaking into his ex’s place to hide a few bills in his kid’s stocking. He hoped the kid didn’t see the large roll of hundreds peeking out of his red pocket. 

Playing it cool, ‘Santa’ deepened his voice and whispered, “Well, Bill...you caught me. I was just about to leave you a special present.”

“But where’s your bag of toys?” Billy sighed. “Mom’s always complaining about how Dad never has enough…”

Always about the money, ‘Santa’ mused. Part of the reason they divorced was that he was a hard-working Joe who was hardly working in this economy. Ask her and she had “high standards”, but he felt she was more “high maintenance.” He did all he could to see his son, but he never seemed to have time…

Remembering where he was, ‘Santa’ crouched by the boy and whispered, “You want to see your dad, huh?”

“More than anything!” Bill beamed. 

“Tell you what,” Reaching into his pocket, ‘Santa’ withdrew a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be bringing your toys later tonight, but you have to be asleep. I’ll also...uh...swing by your dad’s place and let him know. I’ll make sure you meet him at your favorite place tomorrow.”

Clutching the money in his hand, Bill beamed as he went back to bed.

Glancing around the room, ‘Santa’ saw two stockings pinned to a decaying entertainment center. One said “Mom” and the other said “Bill”.

Pulling off a few hundred-dollar bills, he placed them in the stocking marked “Mom.” He hoped that she would spend them on Bill, but he knew better. 

As he heard her stir from her sleep, ‘Santa’ crept out the door. He already had plans to launder his stolen loot, hidden in a cubby hole in his apartment. Tomorrow, he would hopefully meet Bill at their favorite park.  He doubted it, but if it happened, it would be the best Christmas present ever. 

That and avoiding arrest. 

        -- Gordon Dymowski

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If Only In My Dreams

The house felt warm and cozy. Familiar. Loving. Safe. Inviting. The crackling fire in the living room filled the air with a hint of pine. Pleasant, it mingled well with the aromas emanating from mother’s kitchen. That mixture clung to his memory as powerful now as the first time. Mother’s voice, the sound of an angel, sang an old Christmas tune. She was slightly off-key, but that only added to her charm. He missed that sound. Father would avoid the kitchen, of course, cutting his beloved a wide berth until time to fix his plate. Turkey, ham, potatoes, dressing, gravy, green beans, and cranberries with fresh-baked rolls on the side. If nothing else, the family ate well on Christmas Day.

Just the way he remembered it.

It had been at least a decade since he last saw them. Even more time passed since those early holiday treats where family came together in love and compassion. One big mistake brought his life crashing down around him. Things were never truly as wonderful as his fractured memory, of course. No. Things were never as good in reality. That’s why he slipped so frequently into fantasy. Pulling the threadbare blanket tight around him, he closed his eyes and once more opened the front door and stepped back into a fond memory, slightly rewritten to recall only the good memories. Smiling, he stood in his mother’s kitchen and closed his eyes. It was good to be home again for Christmas.

If only in his dreams.

        -- Bobby Nash

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The Christmas Spirit

The holidays are always pregnant with memories. They used to be the happy ones, cooking the ham and mac and cheese together with Mom, tugging the fake beard off Dad's face and laughing, those kinds of things that made up the Norman Rockwell part of my life. 

Now the memories are darker, more melancholy, what I used to call bittersweet. Now I see only the open casket, the flowers that were already dying in the church, the people crying, the mechanical clicking as the expensive funerary box was lowered into the dark womb of soil. 

The fire in the hearth no longer gives me warmth. The feast has no flavor, so I have given up on trying to enjoy it. I ignore the presents under the tree. None are for me now anyway. 

My room is cold. Everything remains just as it was before, all my posters still in place, mostly just a little crooked, my cheap brand Les Paul guitar silent on its stand, my bed never unmade, not even when I lie down and try to sleep. 

The family gathers as usual. I watch without eating. I wait and listen. No one even attempts to draw me into the conversations. 

But they will later. They will after dinner, at least those who still visit the graveyard. I will travel with them, for then, they will remember I'm still a part of the family. Then, and for most, only then, will they speak to me.

Of course, they will never hear my answer-- nor even expect a response. Never again. 

-- Sean Taylor

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Down Through the Chimney

I opened my eyes. A sound from the roof woke me. “Santa?” I mumbled in my half-awake state.

The tin roof gave the distinct sound of sharp clicks followed by the soft tread of a padded foot. My mind recalled the old song, but it definitely wasn’t reindeer paws. Rolling out of bed, I ran to the window. Something growled from above me. I closed and latched the window, stepping back.

The sound, which started furtive, grew louder as something rushed towards the chimney on the other side of the house. I tracked the unseen visitor’s path as it thudded across the roof. The large open space gave me a perfect view of the fireplace. Too warm for a fire, it sat empty, a dark maw in the far wall. No stocking hung, no tree decorated. Just a sad room not ready for the current season. Grunts and scrapes drew my attention; this wasn’t Saint Nick descending. My feet refused to move as my heart pounded. Each echoing sound drew an involuntary flinch. The metal flue, still closed, groaned as an immense force pulled at it. Each bolt popped free, and I heard it drop to the metal grate where burning embers would sit in cooler weather. 

A dark shape lowered within the recess, a shadow within the shadows.  Bright yellow eyes turned and glared at me. My bladder emptied. No gifts this year, I must be on the naughty list.

        -- Seth Tucker

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The Night After Yule

Yule feast was done; trenchers stacked,

Pine needles underfoot, offerings packed.

All slept in the turf-house, children and gran;
Father lay dead-drunk like a felled, snoring man.

Only Mother stayed awake by hearth’s red glow,
Stitching knotwork on cuffs, sewing slow.

Through a shutter-gap Father swore he’d mend “soon,”
The aurora ran green on the snowlit dune.

Then bells—jangle, clatter—on leather drew near,
Not neighbor-folk homing; too many, too queer.

“Is it her?” breathed Daughter, as shutters went tap.
Mother murmured, “Hush now. Stay deep in your nap.”

“Will she take what we left?” whispered Son, pale with dread,
“My brightest cloak-pin? The sausages, the bread?”

“It isn’t the gifting,” said Mother. “Be still.”
“It’s how you’ve behaved; every deed, every ill.”

They remembered the summer: Father gone to the sea,
Grandmother ignored; the loom toppled with glee;

And sheep chased for sport till the byre rang with cries,
So they pleaded, “Hide us! We’ll help! We’ll be wise!”

“We’ll tend all the fires, wash dishes, and mind cows!”
Mother sighed, set down the thread, and slipped out, making no vows.

A whisper in darkness. The door swung with cold.
Grýla stooped inside, sack yawning wide, so bold.

Cat-eyes flashed ember; one finger: “Hush—hush.”
She drifted to Father like smoke in a rush.

She hefted drunk Father, still snoring, half-fed—
In the sack, he disappeared like a log from the shed.

Bells skated off. Night swallowed her track.
“Next Yule,” Grýla growled, “if they’re trouble, we’ll be coming back.”

        -- H. F. Day

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The Cold Side of the Bed

My wife died two days into Hanukkah but was back by Christmas. Her side of the bed remained empty only between her death and the evening after the funeral. She rested soundly, but never slept, never spoke, never offered a single argument against me, nor volunteered an explanation of why she had returned. 

She simply smiled using eyes, teeth, mouth, and dimples. Sometimes she stared, reclining in the dark green dress in which she had been buried, the silk gown that matched the one hanging in my side of the closet, for when we chose to "twin" on our dates. Each morning she was gone, and the sheets beside me were a good ten degrees colder than my side. 

Only once did she sit up and reach for my hands. I had made the mistake of drinking too much coffee before bed and couldn't sleep. She lay still until she saw the little dirt-colored bottle of pills. But she sighed silently and lay back down when she saw I only swallowed two of the round tablets. 

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I really am. I know we agreed, but I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the courage." 

She said nothing, merely smiling and staring, while I turned away so she didn't have to see me weep.

-- Sean Taylor

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Home for the Holidays

“Tonight is the fifth Christmas Eve since she died,” Jeremy said.

Dr. Morst nodded. “And how are you feeling about that?”

“I’m kind of used to it now,” he said. His hands twisted in his lap, squeezing and rubbing his fingers as though they ached. That would be difficult, since they were only stubs now. He’d lost most of his fingers when he was found in the snow, weeping and digging into the ice-cold earth of the cemetery with his nails, not long before he was assigned to Dr. Morst’s service.

“This is the night, then?” 

Jeremy stared down at what remained of his hands. “She scared the hell out of me the first time. Just her voice, on the other side of the shower curtain. Thought for sure I was nuts. Now I guess we know it, eh?”

“I don’t really care for the word ‘nuts,’ but I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough credit for the work you’ve done so far,” Dr. Morst said. 

“Not enough to get out,” Jeremy said. “The second time was while I was driving, and I crashed the car. The third time I tried visiting her grave, and that’s how I came to your tender graces, doc.” He finally stopped rubbing his stubs together and instead tugged at the soft restraints. 

“What about last year?” Dr. Morst asked. “You were committed before Christmas, but you still weren’t speaking to me.”

“I guess I have made progress then,” Jeremy said. “Last Christmas Eve, she was whispering under my bed in the ward. Home for the holidays. I screamed a little bit, and the orderly gave me a shot. I could use more of those shots, doc. It’s the only time I sleep.”

Dr. Morst tried not to check his watch. There was no clock in the room, but the shadows were getting long, and he was really hoping to make it home in time to wrap his wife’s present before she came home from work.  “Do you only hear her, or do you see her?” 

Jeremy looked up at him. “Her voice is terrible enough. I don’t want to see her. She’s louder every Christmas, ever since she died. Please, doc, I need you to make her stop.”

Despite himself, Dr. Morst felt a tug of pity. Jeremy was so earnest and quite articulate since he regained the power of speech. “Your new meds have been working so well, Jeremy. Trust in yourself, trust the progress you’ve made.”

“That’s worse, doc,” Jeremy said, tears starting in his eyes. “If I keep getting better, I’m afraid she’ll get angry. So angry. Every Christmas Eve.” He paused. “She’s probably upset about me killing her.”

A knock at the door told Dr. Morst it was time to stop. He waited while the orderlies took Jeremy back to his cell, and then he could glance at his watch. Barely enough time left to get home before Sandra, so he hustled back to his office to put on his coat and grab his briefcase. 

As he checked out of the ward, he could hear the commotion back behind the bars. It was Jeremy, screaming again. 

-- Elizabeth Donald

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Heavenly Peace

Wind screamed around the tent, threatening to cave in the canvas and polyester on top of me. In the midst of the banshee-like weather, another sound fought to cut through. A howl. Long and mournful, with a sort of rumble in it, like gargling a chainsaw. 

When the winds paused every ten or so seconds, I heard footsteps crunching the leaves around my tent. I had chosen my spot for privacy rather than a public campground to be alone for the holidays, and my view of the valley and the river below had been worth it -- at first. But now, alone at night with god-knows who -- or what -- stamping around outside, I wasn't so sure. 

A single point of pressure pushed in on the canvas wall, and I jerked around to shine the flashlight on it, but just as quickly, it was gone. Moments later, the other side bubbled in and then straightened. 

Trembling, I crept to the front and unzipped the flap a few inches, just enough to see out. A huge silhouette stood enshadowed by the bright moonlight. It reeked. It turned, and I caught only the glow of its eyes, the same shine as any other wild animal at night. In its hand -- it had hands, not paws -- hung a dead rabbit. 

Leaning down, the beast-man placed the animal on a stone beside the still flickering embers of my fire. It turned to face me. The chainsaw of its voice rumbled again. 

Then it was gone. 

After a few minutes, when I could no longer sense it nearby, I stumbled outside and checked the fire and the rabbit it had left. A clean kill. A broken neck. No pain. 

I forced a grin. 

"Merry Christmas to you too, big guy," I said. 

-- Sean Taylor

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See the Blazing Yule before Us

Tim patrolled along the backside of the graveyard behind the Maple Street Methodist Church as snowflakes began to flutter around him. He remembered a time when the cold would have bothered him, and he would have rushed to the small brick house not far from here to start a fire, make a hot toddy, and settle in with a good book. 

He wondered who sat at his fireplace now. It’d been almost a full year since he’d taken the mantle of grim and been transformed into the semi-eternal black-dog guardian of this congregation, both dead and alive. The former grim, a gentleman who’d served as grim for more than eighty years, faced off against a gang of young, ambitious vampires, but it came close to ending him. He searched out a replacement and discovered Tim, who’d just been buried after a terrible motorcycle accident over on 41 Highway coming back from karaoke. 

So here he was now, patrolling. After the vampire thing, there’d been a few stray vandals and a couple of witches who wanted to raise some hell in his cemetery that they’d dealt with together, but Tim knew that Jez was fading. His time of training was coming to an end. It was more than most grims got, to be real. He’d discovered he could enter buildings without being seen, even beyond the church grounds, so he went to the library and read up on his new career. Being a grim was serious business. Guarding the church against demons and evil, death announcements, and generally being a good dog. It wasn’t like being a human, but it was better than an eternal dirt nap for sure. 

Tonight, he felt a difference in the fabric of things around him. The air, the snowflakes, even the lights from the houses and the trees that were decorated outside seemed thin and strained. 

A cough drew his attention. “Jez?” he woofed. 

“Quit dawdling, kid. It’s almost time.” The elder grim, a broad-shouldered black Shepherd with flecks of silver around his face, stepped from around a gravestone that looked like a small angel. 

“I’m not dawdling, dude.” Tim sniffed the crisp air and nipped at the flakes, which were getting fluffier by the second. “Besides, we’ve got until the end of the year, right? It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

Jez dropped his head and sighed, the way he did when Tim said something stupid. 

“What did I say?”

“Tonight is Yule…winter solstice,” said Jez. The snow began to stick to his fur, adding to the silvery halo around his face. 

Tim blinked. “And?” 

Jez nosed him hard and woofed, “You dumbass. I thought you’d read up on traditions. The Inside, here with the living, and the Outside, where those who are not living reside, the veil thins. My time ends tonight. I leave for the Outside permanently. This gig becomes yours.” 

“Well, shit.” Tim knew but thought he had a few more days…weeks. 

A jaunty fiddle rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy”  from the center of the graveyard. Jez chuckled. 

“Ol’ Bobby-Jack is warming up.” Tim saw a tall, lean figure of a man wearing overalls begin wandering through the stones. 

Jez howled and trotted toward his friend. Tim followed. 

The lights from the neighborhood around them dimmed as a single bright glow of gold, silver, green and red rose at the center of the graveyard. What should have been silent and dark was filling with people Tim hadn’t met before, dressed in all manner of ways from various times. There were three young ladies in pink and green fitted dresses with skirts poofed out by crinolines and decorated in tacky 50s-style Christmas trees. Nearby were several gentlemen in top hats and tail coats, checking their pocket watches and exchanging small gifts. An entire group of tiny children was running around, giggling and playing like they hadn’t had a chance to in a while, and several younger women dressed in longer skirts chased after them. One lone gentleman wandered among them, making sure everyone had a bite of candy out of a white bag he held in one hand. In one corner of the graveyard, the fir that looked so alone and grim most of the year stood tall and was covered in tinsel. Tim was sure he could smell hot cider. 

The man with the candy bag climbed up on a rather large stone, and a cup appeared in his hand. 

“Blessed Yule, my friends! Blessed Yule! Tonight, we welcome our dear friend and guardian, Jeziziah Mason. He has been our grim for lo these eighty years.”

“Here! Here!” Several voices shouted from around them. The man shushed them. 

“He comes to join us in the Outside and leave the hard work to young Tim McBride here, who I believe is worthy to fill Jeziziah’s shoes…or rather paws! Anyway, here’s to them both!” He lifted his cup as did the whole party. 

Tim glanced at Jez. “So this is it?” 

“Consider it your Christmas gift, kid.” Jez bumped up against him. 

“Gee, thanks. I don’t even get an instruction guide?” 

“You’ve had a year with me. You’ll do fine.” 

Jez stepped forward and shook his body. His fur began to fade away. He put his front legs up on the gravestone where his friend stood. Then he shifted from dog to his former human form. Tim was not shocked that Jez was broad-shouldered and built like a blacksmith. What did surprise him was the dark black hair and the dance of joy the man did as he changed. 

Jez turned to him and gave him a broad grin. “Blessed Yule! Now go kick some ass.” 

        -- Jessica Nettles

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While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Hazel stood in the cold wind, her skin bubblng up with goose pimples. She looked like a plucked chicken, she knew, but what did she care. She was way past her glory days. Who the hell was she planning to impress now? 

The little row of fir trees on the other side of the road were strung up with lights, and a wooden, hand-painted sign that read "Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One!" was nailed to the base of the center tree. 

She pulled the phone from her back pocket and took a photo, but when she searched her contacts, she realized there was no one to send it to, not really. No one who would be expecting anything from her, especially something like a photo of something she thought was cute. Only friends did that. 

Her friends sat squarely in her rear-view. 

The motorized rattling of the cab -- a converted minivan -- emerged from the curve about a hundred yards to her left. It stopped on the road barely a yard from where she stood. 

"Happy Christmas!" said the driver, a Middle-Eastern man with a large bald spot. "Big day, huh?"

Hazel shrugged. 

"Where to, Miss?"

"Is there a diner close where I can get some hot chocolate?" she asked. 

"Sure. Good pie too." He held on to his big, wide smile as though it kept his face from falling apart. "After that?"

She shook her head. "After that, it doesn't matter."

She climbed in and dropped her duffel bag on the seat beside her. As the cab made a U-turn and rattled away back up the road from where it had come, she glanced back long enough to see the Hollis Country Penitentiary sign disappear behind the trees.

        -- Sean Taylor

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Krampus at the Bass Pro Shop

“You ain’t Santa!” roared the great horned figure that pushed its way through the front window of the Bass Pro Shop. 

My fake beard dropped to my feet as I stood up and pushed the small girl who moments before sat on my lap, asking for a toy I’d never heard of between me and my plywood throne. “And you ain’t the clerk I sent to get me hot cocoa and cookies either.” 

The parents screamed louder than the kids, as the hairy demon bashed the gigantic moose near the registers with his holly-bound staff and clacked his hooved feet against the tile floor. 

A voice in my head whispered, He knocked ‘Rain clear out like she was a doll. Ava is froze. 

That was bad news. I’m pretty powerful, but not Krampus powerful, and familiars can only do so much. I guess I should explain. I’m ‘Rain’s familiar, Zeke. I can appear in lots of different ways. Usually, I’m a possum. Today, I’m a really bad Santa. I don’t human that well. 

The demon paused and grabbed one of the clerks in the gun department and stuffed him in the bag. “You’ve been stealing from the store, mister!” 

The little girl behind me bolted and when the rest saw her make a run, the others followed, even the adults. Krampus turned and snapped his clawed fingers. “Not yet. I get my due. It’s my night.” He pointed at me. “And YOU know it even if you ain’t Weihnachtsmann.” The crowd froze in place, and the only sound in the store was George Michael singing “Last Christmas.” Not only was I being threatened by some angry German Christmas demon, but he managed to send me to Whamhalla.

“I don’t know who that is, so you’re right. I ain’t that guy. Still, you don’t get to scare little kids on my watch!” I focused and shaped my magic into a sword. He’d try to kick my ass, but not without a fight. 

‘Rain’s up and she’s pissed. Iva, one of ‘Rain’s sisters and fellow witch spoke in my head. 

Well, get your asses over here pronto. 

Krampus laughed as he moved through the aisles of sportswear and fishing equipment. “Weihnachtmann…he has possums working for him now?”

“It is the South? Who did you expect? Some guy named Bubba?” I raised my weapon. 

He dropped the bag filled with gun clerk and drew back his staff. It glowed a menacing crimson. “Don’t mention that name.” He growled. 

“Bubba. What? Is he on your naughty list too? Oh, that’s too bad. I’m gonna take you down long before you get to him.” I began to chant an ancient spell I learned from an old Scotswoman 200 years ago. My sword glowed bright gold like a star. I felt a lightness fill me and song flood through me. All I could do is laugh. 

What the hell is that, Zeke? Iva’s voice punched through the choir in my head. 

All I remember is rushing him and seeing his eyes go from cold and confident to mortal terror in two seconds flat as I swung my sword and it bit into him. The scent of pine, hot cocoa, and the sharp edge of fresh snowfall surrounded me as I attacked over and over again. When it the energy, light, and scent faded, all that was left was the sack and the young gun clerk passed out on top of it. Before I passed out myself, I swear it was snowing in the Bass Pro Shop. I guess Christmas magic and maybe this Weihnachtmann guy is real after all. I mean, why the hell not? 

        -- Jessica Nettles

The Holiday Watchlist

Holiday flicks I try to watch each year:

• Anna and the Apocalypse
• The Hogfather
• Rare Exports
• Black Christmas (1974)
• Gremlins
• Violent Night
• Christmas in Connecticut
• Muppet Christmas Carol
• Santa's Slay
• Scrooged
• Slay Belles
• It's A Wonderful Life
• Letters to Satan Claus
• Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
• The Little Drummer Boy
• How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• A Charlie Brown Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

 

Io Saturnalia!

Enjoy your celebration of the solstice!

Happy Hanukkah!

 

Holiday-Themed Writing Prompts

 If you find yourself needing a little push or a little help getting started, try some of these prompts for Season-Themed tales:

https://minds-in-bloom.com/20-christmas-writing-prompts/

http://www.build-creative-writing-ideas.com/christmas-writing-prompts.html

A free gift to you! "The Little Match Girl" read by me!

  

Folks, this is my favorite seasonal tale, and I'm happy to share it with you here. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy New Year!

Heri za Kwanzaa!

 May your meditations and re-assessments help
you become the person you want and need to be!

Happy Boxing Day!

Merry Christmas!

Happy Hanukkah!

 

The Blockhead's Awesome Tree

Free Ghost Story for Christmas: The Kit Bag by Algernon Blackwood

The Kit Bag 

by Algernon Blackwood

In the grand tradition of the Christmas ghost story, here is a seasonal tale from one of the greats, Algernon Blackwood (certainly one of my favorite horror writers). For more fantastic classic gothic and ghost stories for the holidays, visit The Classic Horror Blog.

Or find the audiobook version here or here.

======================

When the words ‘Not Guilty’ sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC, and leader for the triumphant defense, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

‘It’s what we expected, I think,’ said the barrister, without emotion; ‘and, personally, I am glad the case is over.’

There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the face felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

‘I’m glad too,’ said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. ‘Ah, I remember, yes,’ he said with a kind smile, ‘and you want to get away for Christmas. You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age I’d come with you.’

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of twenty-six, with a delicate face like a girl’s. ‘I can catch the morning boat now,’ he said; ‘but that’s not the reason I’m glad the trial is over. I’m glad it’s over because I’ve seen the last of that man’s dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that-‘

‘Don’t dwell on it, my dear fellow,’ interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes, ‘don’t think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.’ He paused a moment. ‘Now go,’ he added presently, ‘and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don’t break your neck skiing.’

Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.

‘I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,’ he said. ‘Would you mind lending me one of your kit-bags? It’s too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.’

‘Of course; I’ll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.’

‘I promise to take great care of it,’ said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within thirty hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in winter. The thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.

He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. The floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he looked forward heartily to a change. The night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were about. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.

In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the draughts with her thin hand. ‘This come by a man from Mr Wilbr’im’s, sir.’

She pointed to what was evidently the kit-bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. ‘I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs Monks,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave an address for letters.’

‘And I hope you’ll ‘ave a merry Christmas, sir,’ she said, in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, ‘and better weather than this.’ ‘I hope so too,’ replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.

When he got upstairs he heard the sleet volleying against the window panes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee, and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence. ‘And now I must pack–such as my packing is,’ he laughed to himself, and set to work at once. He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him, and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing–a stout canvas kit-bag, sack-shaped, with holes round the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow-boots, and ear-caps; and then on the top of these he piled his woollen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. The dress suit came next, in case the hotel people dressed for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. ‘That’s the worst of these kit-bags,’ he mused vaguely, standing in the centre of the sitting-room, where he had come to fetch some string.

It was after ten o’clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, whilst he was skimming over snowy slopes in bright sunshine, and dancing in the evening with rosy-cheeked girls—Ah! that reminded him; he must put in his dancing-pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting-room to the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.

And as he did so he heard someone coming up the stairs. He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs Monks’s step, he thought; she must be coming up with the last post. But then the steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down, and he came to the conclusion they were too heavy to be those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress-shirts as best he could.

The kit-bag by this time was two-thirds full, and stood upright on its own base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him—certainly not a new one, or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought, and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs Monks had not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was almost certain he heard a soft tread of someone padding about over the bare boards—cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible—and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly nearer.

For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom, having just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the kit-bag lopped over towards him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. The canvas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow—or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell exactly—looked like hair. It gave him rather a turn, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk, the murderer.

He laughed, and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.

‘That horrid case has got on my mind,’ he thought; ‘I shall be glad of a change of scene and air.’ In the sitting-room, however, he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs, and to realize that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping about on the upper staircase at so late an hour.

But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house, and was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep—everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.

‘My absurd imagination, I suppose,’ he thought. ‘It must have been the wind after all, although—it seemed so very real and close, I thought.’ He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on towards midnight. He drank his coffee up and lit another pipe—the last before turning in.

It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers upon the surface of still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognition from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he felt nervous—oddly nervous; also, that for some time past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in his mind, but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to acknowledge them.

It was a singular and curious malaise that had come over him, and he hardly knew what to make of it. He felt as though he were doing something that was strongly objected to by another person, another person, moreover, who had some right to object. It was a most disturbing and disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience: almost, in fact, as if he were doing something he knew to be wrong. Yet, though he searched vigorously and honestly in his mind, he could nowhere lay his finger upon the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it perplexed him. More, it distressed and frightened him.

‘Pure nerves, I suppose,’ he said aloud with a forced laugh. ‘Mountain air will cure all that! Ah,’ he added, still speaking to himself, ‘and that reminds me—my snow-glasses.’

He was standing by the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy, and as he passed quickly towards the sitting-room to fetch them from the cupboard he saw out of the comer of his eye the indistinct outline of a figure standing on the stairs, a few feet from the top. It was someone in a stooping position, with one hand on the banisters, and the face peering up towards the landing. And at the same moment he heard a shuffling footstep. The person who had been creeping about below all this time had at last come up to his own floor. Who in the world could it be? And what in the name of Heaven did he want?

Johnson caught his breath sharply and stood stock still. Then, after a few seconds’ hesitation, he found his courage, and turned to investigate. The stairs, he saw to his utter amazement, were empty; there was no one. He felt a series of cold shivers run over him, and something about the muscles of his legs gave a little and grew weak. For the space of several minutes he peered steadily into the shadows that congregated about the top of the staircase where he had seen the figure, and then he walked fast—almost ran, in fact—into the light of the front room; but hardly had he passed inside the doorway when he heard someone come up the stairs behind him with a quick bound and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was a heavy, but at the same time a stealthy footstep—the tread of somebody who did not wish to be seen. And it was at this precise moment that the nervousness he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line, and entered the state of fear, almost of acute unreasoning fear. Before it turned into terror there was a further boundary to cross, and beyond that again lay the region of pure horror. Johnson’s position was an unenviable one ‘By Jove! That was someone on the stairs, then,’ he muttered, his flesh crawling all over; ‘and whoever it was has now gone into my bedroom.’ His delicate, pale face turned absolutely white, and for some minutes he hardly knew what to think or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay only set a premium upon fear; and he crossed the landing boldly and went straight into the other room, where, a few seconds before, the steps had disappeared. ‘Who’s there? Is that you, Mrs Monks?’ he called aloud, as he went, and heard the first half of his words echo down the empty stairs, while the second half fell dead against the curtains in a room that apparently held no other human figure than his own.

‘Who’s there?’ he called again, in a voice unnecessarily loud and that only just held firm. ‘What do you want here?’ 

The curtains swayed very slightly, and, as he saw it, his heart felt as if it almost missed a beat; yet he dashed forward and drew them aside with a rush. A window, streaming with rain, was all that met his gaze. He continued his search, but in vain; the cupboards held nothing but rows of clothes, hanging motionless; and under the bed there was no sign of anyone hiding. He stepped backwards into the middle of the room, and, as he did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with a sudden spring of alarm he saw the kit-bag.

‘Odd!’ he thought. ‘That’s not where I left it!’ A few moments before it had surely been on his right, between the bed and the bath; he did not remember having moved it. It was very curious. What in the world was the matter with everything? Were all his senses gone queer? A terrific gust of wind tore at the windows, dashing the sleet against the glass with the force of small gunshot, and then fled away howling dismally over the waste of Bloomsbury roofs. A sudden vision of the Channel next day rose in his mind and recalled him sharply to realities.

‘There’s no one here at any rate; that’s quite clear!’ he exclaimed aloud. Yet at the time he uttered them he knew perfectly well that his words were not true and that he did not believe them himself. He felt exactly as though someone was hiding close about him, watching all his movements, trying to hinder his packing in some way. ‘And two of my senses,’ he added, keeping up the pretence, ‘have played me the most absurd tricks: the steps I heard and the figure I saw were both entirely imaginary.’

He went back to the front room, poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down before it to think. What impressed him more than anything else was the fact that the kit-bag was no longer where he had left it. It had been dragged nearer to the door.

What happened afterwards that night happened, of course, to a man already excited by fear, and was perceived by a mind that had not the full and proper control, therefore, of the senses. Outwardly, Johnson remained calm and master of himself to the end, pretending to the very last that everything he witnessed had a natural explanation, or was merely delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly, in his very heart, he knew all along that someone had been hiding downstairs in the empty suite when he came in, that this person had watched his opportunity and then stealthily made his way up to the bedroom, and that all he saw and heard afterwards, from the moving of the kit-bag to—well, to the other things this story has to tell—were caused directly by the presence of this invisible person.

And it was here, just when he most desired to keep his mind and thoughts controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day upon the mental plates exposed in the courtroom of the Old Bailey, came strongly to light and developed themselves in the dark room of his inner vision. Unpleasant, haunting memories have a way of coming to life again just when the mind least desires them—in the silent watches of the night, on sleepless pillows, during the lonely hours spent by sick and dying beds. And so now, in the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face of John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every corner of his mental field of vision; the white skin, the evil eyes, and the fringe of black hair low over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days in court crowded back into his mind unbidden, and very vivid.

‘This is all rubbish and nerves,’ he exclaimed at length, springing with sudden energy from his chair. ‘I shall finish my packing and go to bed. I’m overwrought, overtired. No doubt, at this rate I shall hear steps and things all night!’

But his face was deadly white all the same. He snatched up his field-glasses and walked across to the bedroom, humming a music-hall song as he went—a trifle too loud to be natural; and the instant he crossed the threshold and stood within the room something turned cold about his heart, and he felt that every hair on his head stood up.

The kit-bag lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to the door than he had left it, and just over its crumpled top he saw a head and face slowly sinking down out of sight as though someone were crouching behind it to hide, and at the same moment a sound like a long-drawn sigh was distinctly audible in the still air about him between the gusts of the storm outside.

Johnson had more courage and will-power than the girlish indecision of his face indicated; but at first such a wave of terror came over him that for some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare. A violent trembling ran down his back and legs, and he was conscious of a foolish, almost a hysterical, impulse to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his very ear, and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably a human sigh.

‘Who’s there?’ he said at length, finding his voice; but though he meant to speak with loud decision, the tones came out instead in a faint whisper, for he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.

He stepped forward, so that he could see all round and over the kit-bag. Of course there was nothing there, nothing but the faded carpet and the bulging canvas sides. He put out his hands and threw open the mouth of the sack where it had fallen over, being only three parts full, and then he saw for the first time that round the inside, some six inches from the top, there ran a broad smear of dull crimson. It was an old and faded blood stain. He uttered a scream, and drew back his hands as if they had been burnt. At the same moment the kit-bag gave a faint, but unmistakable, lurch forward towards the door.

Johnson collapsed backwards, searching with his hands for the support of something solid, and the door, being further behind him than he realized, received his weight just in time to prevent his falling, and shut to with a resounding bang. At the same moment the swinging of his left arm accidentally touched the electric switch, and the light in the room went out.

It was an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not been possessed of real pluck he might have done all manner of foolish things. As it was, however, he pulled himself together, and groped furiously for the little brass knob to turn the light on again. But the rapid closing of the door had set the coats hanging on it a-swinging, and his fingers became entangled in a confusion of sleeves and pockets, so that it was some moments before he found the switch. And in those few moments of bewilderment and terror two things happened that sent him beyond recall over the boundary into the region of genuine horror—he distinctly heard the kit-bag shuffling heavily across the floor in jerks, and close in front of his face sounded once again the sigh of a human being.

In his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall he nearly scraped the nails from his fingers, but even then, in those frenzied moments of alarm—so swift and alert are the impressions of a mind keyed-up by a vivid emotion—he had time to realize that he dreaded the return of the light, and that it might be better for him to stay hidden in the merciful screen of darkness. It was but the impulse of a moment, however, and before he had time to act upon it he had yielded automatically to the original desire, and the room was flooded again with light.

But the second instinct had been right. It would have been better for him to have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. For there, close before him, bending over the half-packed kit-bag, clear as life in the merciless glare of the electric light, stood the figure of John Turk, the murderer. Not three feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black hair marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the whole horrible presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he had seen him day after day in the Old Bailey, when he stood there in the dock, cynical and callous, under the very shadow of the gallows.

In a flash Johnson realized what it all meant: the dirty and much-used bag; the smear of crimson within the top; the dreadful stretched condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how the victim’s body had been stuffed into a canvas bag for burial, the ghastly, dismembered fragments forced with lime into this very bag; and the bag itself produced as evidence—it all came back to him as clear as day. . .

Very softly and stealthily his hand groped behind him for the handle of the door, but before he could actually turn it the very thing that he most of all dreaded came about, and John Turk lifted his devil’s face and looked at him. At the same moment that heavy sigh passed through the air of the room, formulated somehow into words: ‘It’s my bag. And I want it.’

Johnson just remembered clawing the door open, and then falling in a heap upon the floor of the landing, as he tried frantically to make his way into the front room.

He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was still dark when he opened his eyes and realized that he was lying, stiff and bruised, on the cold boards. Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back into his mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he woke the second time the wintry dawn was just beginning to peep in at the windows, painting the stairs a cheerless, dismal grey, and he managed to crawl into the front room, and cover himself with an overcoat in the armchair, where at length he fell asleep.

A great clamour woke him. He recognized Mrs Monks’s voice, loud and voluble.

‘What! You ain’t been to bed, sir! Are you ill, or has anything ‘appened? And there’s an urgent gentleman to see you, though it ain’t seven o’clock yet, and—’

‘Who is it?’ he stammered. ‘I’m all right, thanks. Fell asleep in my chair, I suppose.’

‘Someone from Mr Wilb’rim’s, and he says he ought to see you quick before you go abroad, and I told him—’

‘Show him up, please, at once,’ said Johnson, whose head was whirling, and his mind was still full of dreadful visions.

Mr Wilbraham’s man came in with many apologies, and explained briefly and quickly that an absurd mistake had been made, and that the wrong kit-bag had been sent over the night before.

‘Henry somehow got hold of the one that came over from the courtroom, and Mr Wilbraham only discovered it when he saw his own lying in his room, and asked why it had not gone to you,’ the man said.

‘Oh!’ said Johnson stupidly.

‘And he must have brought you the one from the murder case instead, sir, I’m afraid,’ the man continued, without the ghost of an expression on his face. ‘The one John Turk packed the dead body in, Mr Wilbraham’s awful upset about it, sir, and told me to come over first thing this morning with the right one, as you were leaving by the boat.’

He pointed to a clean-looking kit-bag on the floor, which he had just brought. ‘And I was to bring the other one back, sir,’ he added casually.

For some minutes Johnson could not find his voice. At last he pointed in the direction of his bedroom. ‘Perhaps you would kindly unpack it for me. Just empty the things out on the floor.’

The man disappeared into the other room, and was gone for five minutes. Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag, and the rattle of the skates and boots being unpacked.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the man said, returning with the bag folded over his arm. ‘And can I do anything more to help you, sir?’

‘What is it?’ asked Johnson, seeing that he still had something he wished to say.

The man shuffled and looked mysterious. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but knowing your interest in the Turk case, I thought you’d maybe like to know what’s happened—’

‘Yes.’

‘John Turk killed hisself last night with poison immediately on getting his release, and he left a note for Mr Wilbraham saying as he’d be much obliged if they’d have him put away, same as the woman he murdered, in the old kit-bag.’

‘What time—did he do it?’ asked Johnson.

‘Ten o’clock last night, sir, the warder says.’

A Gift for You! -- "The Little Match Girl" Read by Yours Truly

 

Folks, this is my favorite seasonal tale, and I'm happy to share it with you here.