The Undead That Saved Christmas Vol. 2 (8 page)

Mister Insides has a sickle from the roof. Momma runs in, then she falls down. She just looks up and up. She screams loud. The sickle comes down sharp. There is a crunch and blood, and gushy stuff, bad stuff in her head and out of her head.

Momma is hurt but it is okay. Her face is white like snow and the lights make it red and blue and yellow and pink. Momma looks pretty. Mr. Insides bends down. He likes it. No-no shows me how. This is good. It is good and the lots of monsters like it. There is a girl monster and some guy monsters and an old guy too. I stay close to No-no. No-no holds my hand and Mr. Insides holds my other hand. He is strong. It doesn’t hurt. He is nice monster. Momma won’t be mad anymore. It is all right.

We dance around the Christmas tree with twinkle lights and tin-cicles.

Story Art Cover

By Jess Smart Smiley

www.Jess-Smiley.com

Dedication

For Pops.

Thanks for making every childhood memory a special one

Author Bio

Emma Ennis
comes from Ireland, but has been living in Norway for two years. Though she had attempted a brief stint at writing back in her younger days, it was only in November of last year that she got back into it and started to get published. Since then she has had almost thirty short stories published or accepted for publishing in various anthologies in US and UK. October of this year will see the release of her first, solo collection of short stories to be entitled 'Red Wine and Words,' achieving a lifelong dream.

The Last Christmas

By Emma Ennis

Michael was sick. Terminal they said. Incurable they said. At first Harry Kinsey refused to accept it; that his Tiny Mikey would be taken from him. His wife, Catherine, had humored this denial until Christmas was just around the corner.

“We have to face facts, Harry,” she said. “There's a good chance this will be Mikey's last Christmas. We have to make it the best.”

Harry didn't like the facts. But he could not change them. He had to put on the show--the brave face— for his son who did not understand. Every evening he asked the same question, “Daddy why am I dying?”

“We're all dying son.” Harry's vague answer never quite managed to soothe the lump that rose in his throat.

“But you're old.” The kid was smart. And blunt. “You're not dying like me.”

“Life is shorter for some than it is for others,” he tried, struggling to keep the tears at bay. “It's just the way the world works, son.”

What else could he say? Tiny Mikey asked questions his parents could not answer. How could they explain to him that God wasn't
cruel
? That he took the ones he loved the most early, because he could not wait to be with them? How could they lie, when nightly, in place of prayers, they cursed that very God for his cruelty, for taking their only child before they'd had a chance to truly enjoy him? Six years? They had hardly even gotten to know him.

* * *

The whole world was sick it seemed. Old Mrs. Crawford from next door had not stepped out in almost a month. Every day for two weeks Dr. Shelborne had called to the house, and then he stopped coming. Maybe she was on the mend, Catherine said.

And Mr. Prior, the bald butcher. Catherine had been talking to his missus, and she told her he was laid up, had been for nearly a week. Catherine had not seen his missus for days now; they presumed she had caught it too.

Mr. Cox the greengrocer, young Stacey Smith, the school mistress, Miss Brigsby, the old widower Gordon who owned the big farm on the edge of town, all had caught the mysterious virus. But the Kinsey family had not the time to dwell on the pandemic; they had a Christmas to plan for. Everything became about that Christmas. No plans were made for anything beyond. It was like doomsday – all roads led up to it, none left from it.

The bird had been ordered, big and fat. The tree had been selected from the market, bigger and fatter. There were red bows to decorate it, multicolored baubles, twinkling lights by the hundreds. The works.

Santa had a flashing sign at the end of the driveway to direct him. Tiny Mikey had written his letter, checked it twice, and stuffed it up the chimney to be collected. Harry and Catherine had read it the same night, their foreheads crinkling as they scanned the long list of expensive gifts. But money was no object that year. Mikey might not have the gifts for long, but by God, he would play with them on December twenty-fifth.

Daily, great stacks of wrapped and ribboned presents were carted in and placed under the gargantuan tree. Shopping bags bristling with nuts and fruits and other delectables, were unloaded onto the cupboard shelves. In the evening Christmas puddings rattled as they boiled in their pots. The cake was baked and iced; tiny little figurines skated around the frozen pond decorated atop. The table was set. Sparkly napkins were folded in place, candelabra populated, crackers lined up, waiting to be pulled.

So immersed were they in their preparations that they did not notice what was going on in the village around them. Until it drew so close to Christmas that they could not overlook it any longer.

Harry was the first to notice. It was the night of the twenty-first, and he was closing the curtains in Tiny Mikey's room after tucking him in. He looked out at the rows of houses along the street, and frowned. He found Catherine in the sitting room, sewing a large 'M' onto a giant red sock with gold piping.

“You know,” he said, sitting down and taking up a string of lights to unravel, “why we have the best tree in town, the brightest lights, the biggest turkey, the most presents?”

“Hmmm,” Catherine mused, not taking her eyes from her project. “Why?”

“Because everybody else seems to have forgotten about Christmas.”

She looked up now, one eyebrow raised in a simple invitation – 'do go on Dear.'

“Every house on the street is in darkness. Not one silhouette, not one fairy light.” Harry threw up his hands in indignation, as if it was beyond his comprehension. “Not one have I seen bring in a tree, or even a ladder to get decorations from the attic.”

Catherine shrugged. “Everyone has been sick, maybe it has set them back. Besides,” she paused and stretched out the stocking, admiring her handiwork, “what does it matter?
We
will have Christmas, and it will be the best.”

* * *

December twenty-second. Harry was struggling into the yard, lugging his own weight in holly. It was the most verdant holly, with the thickest, brightest clusters of berries. He was passing the greenhouse when Whiskers, Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door's cat, suddenly leapt up on the fence.

Harry shooed it and waved whatever free fingers he had to try and startle it. They couldn't have her digging up the fake poinsettia or scratching at the outdoor Christmas tree. Not when it was so close to the big day. He craned his neck, trying to see around his load, almost tripping on the trailing branches.

The cat ignored him. Well, she ignored his order, at least. She hissed at him, her kitty spittle spraying. Her back was arched, the hair standing up on it, reminding him of one of those crazy hairdo's you see on kids in the city.

He stopped, a little wary of the animal. It was skinny. Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door probably hadn't been looking after it properly, in her convalescence. Harry kicked the foot of the fence below where Whiskers was perched.

“Get lost you mangy article,” he muttered.

The cat leapt at him, hissing through the air. She landed on the back of his head, digging her claws in to cling on. Harry roared. The cat hissed. She kicked with her back legs, the nails dragging deep chunks out of his neck. He dropped the holly and grabbed her. He pulled, she clung on, yanking his skin along with her. She hoisted herself on top of his head, using his scalp as leverage.

Harry batted at her paws, trying to keep them away from his eyes. Her forepaws latched onto his cheeks and she pulled herself down, clamping her jaws around the tip of his nose. He screamed and caught her by the neck. Her hisses turned to gurgles and her claws instinctively relaxed; not much, but enough for him to tear her off and fling her over the fence.

He stood in the garden, panting. His pile of holly surrounded his feet, as though he sprouted from it. Some of the lovely berries had gotten squashed in the struggle and he felt a tang of regret.

When he came into the kitchen, all scratched up and bleeding, Catherine yelped and sat him down. While he explained, she mopped and patched. He felt ridiculous with a large swaddling of gauze covering his nose.

“The poor thing was probably starving,” she said when she had done what she could. “Perhaps I should go and check on Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door.”

Harry slapped the table. “To hell with Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door!” he barked. “I've just been attacked.”

Catherine smiled, but it looked forced. Her eyes warned him – 'we do
not
shout at Christmas.'

“The cut on your nose looks nasty, but you'll live.” She put on her coat and went to the door. “Now go deck the halls. It's only three days until Christmas.”

When she came back Harry was on the ladder in the hall, caught in another life-or-death brawl with holly boughs.

“I've just been over to see Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door,” she informed, passing him another sprig. “There was no answer and the door was locked. I looked in the window but the whole place is in darkness.”

“Maybe she went to her step son, by the sea?” he suggested around a mouthful of tacks.

* * *

December twenty-third. Harry stayed at home to look after Mikey while Catherine went to the shops. They needed an extra pâté. She woke up at the crack of a sparrows eyelid, and decided they did not have enough. They agreed she should pick up the turkey too, when she was out. It was a day early, but just to be on the safe side. Who wanted to deal with any unforeseen circumstances on Christmas Eve? Certainly not the Kinsey's, that's for sure.

Harry and Michael used the time to wrap up their presents to her, and were watching some Christmas movies in their pajamas when she came in, bursting with news.

“So, I called by the butchers,” she said, dumping her bags and adjusting some bows on the tree. “It was closed.”

Harry gulped, his eyes bugging, until his greater sense told him, in no way, shape or form, would Catherine be tweaking the decorations if they had no bird for Christmas day. It was only when he relaxed that he realized he had been gripping a clump of Tiny Mikey's pajamas. Lucky it was only the material and not the poor kid's knee.

“I went around back, but everything was locked up tight. I was about to call Joan down at the precinct, when I saw Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher, walking up the street. I shouted for him, but he completely ignored me, just kept on walking as if he was oblivious to everything around him.”

Harry tutted, scandalized. How unprofessional.

“By that stage I was getting quite frustrated.”

Harry could only imagine.

“I didn't know what else to do, so I went round the house.” She said it like it was nothing, but the Priors lived almost two miles out of town. “His missus answered the door. She looked terrible. She was grey as ash, her hair was a mess and she looked like she hadn't eaten in days. Skin and bone she was. Anyway, I told her I needed my order, and she just handed me the key to the shop! Can you believe that?”

Harry shook his head and threw his eyes up.

“Between you and me, I think there's something going on there. You've heard the stories about Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher and The School Mistress Miss Brigsby. Anyway, I let myself into the shop and there was our order, all packaged up, ready for collection. I found some pâté, and left the money on the counter.”

And so concluded her recitation of the days events. Tiny Mikey, weak as a kitten, had dozed off somewhere in the middle. He could hardly keep his eyes open for more than a few hours at a time those days. Catherine saw that he was sleeping and muted the TV. She wound up a snow globe on the mantelpiece and it tinkled to the tune of jingle bells.

She smoothed his hair back, and kissed his clammy forehead. Harry felt that lump rise in his throat again. It seldom went away of late, and he began to wonder if it wasn't something malignant. He just couldn't imagine what life would be like when Tiny Mikey was gone. He didn't
want
to imagine it. Before he had been diagnosed, he and Catherine discussed the possibility of starting again, of making a little brother or sister for Mikey. But of course, after that fatal day in the cold, sterile waiting room, it had been the last thing on either of their minds. Maybe they should have gone ahead; would they ever find the heart to do it after Mikey was gone?

No! This would not do. It was Christmas. The best Christmas, ever.

“Well, I had a similar experience.” His voice came out an octave higher than was normal; the effect of having to squeeze around the lump. “I saw old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door, wandering up the sidewalk. I was about to give her a good telling off about her crazy cat, when she ran off down a side alley after someone.”