Dark December [A Holiday Filled Horror Anthology]

Nightwalker's Christmas by @JessicaBFry

Nightwalker's Christmas by JessicaBFry 

Cold blows the wind and loud it howls, but all its rage and all its pain is not enough to trap me indoors this night, this wretched Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, not Halloween, the great darkness that encloses our town is said to be at its weakest. That if anyone is to escape, then tonight is when that task must be done.

Every Christmas Eve, I have dreamed of summoning up the courage that has always eluded me and dare to brave that pitch fog. Those who were here before the darkness fell claim that the dark is filled with all manner of terror. That all the venom we birth slithers to make the darkness thicker and all manner of demons and hellions wait there to tear us apart joint by joint.

I don't know if this is true, but I have often watched through soot and salt stained windows as the creatures borne from our fear, greed, rage, and pride devour and then slink to that thick blackness. Whether gorged or starving, sleek or dull, they disappear into it. At times when I dare to dash to the well and thrust my cracked pail into the frigid waters, I am convinced I can see...see their beady shimmering eyes staring back at me.

But the time to escape will soon be forever passed. Not just for me but all in this place. I don't know who else has survived. Sometimes I wonder that I have made it this far. What I do know is that if I do not escape this Christmas Eve, my fear or the beasts shall devour me.

So now I walk through the darkened streets. Withered and drained bodies lay about the cracked cobblestone road. Though houses with thatch roofs and tall chimneys stand on both sides, not a single light dances in one. Our candles are gone. Our fires won't light.

This does not surprise me, and it does not feed the goiter of fear building along my back. Ever since I was a child, I have known that the short grey days that dim the darkness would not last any more than the brief periods of warmth that drive back the winter. One day, I told myself, one day all light and all warmth would leave and never return.

It is strange how knowledge of a terrible thing's coming is not always the same as fear. I could say that I know the great wolf with its slavering tongue and burning coal eyes is coming, but that does not mean I am afraid. I have learned to save my fear for when the evil comes. If I can.

Screams rise from a hobbled house three streets down. I lift my head and then pull my hood down closer and hurry along. It sounds cruel to not chase after the cries, but I know this place. If you can hear a scream, it's too late. That person is dead. And if you charge in, you might as well line up to be eaten or crushed to pieces instead.

Maybe this is why it is always so wretched here. It was just before my birth that our fool of a mayor decided we would become the most enlightened of all by rejecting all notions of religions, magics, spirits, and gods. That nothing was to be given and nothing to be received except that which we deserved. No gifts, no presents, no kindness, no protection, no mercy, no peace. He would call upon the spirits one last time to ask that they leave us to our ways and banish all who might make requests or demands.