Unholy Nights: A Twisted Christmas Anthology (32 page)

“All those scary radio waves?”
he teases.

Funny.
“No.”

I get three more rows done before the screen flashes.

“How was the stew?”

I swallow hard.
“Great. Please thank Sandy for me.”

“You can thank her tomorrow. Come over.”

I desperately wish I could thank her in person, but I do not answer Gabe’s text. Suddenly I realize that I don’t want to disappoint him or make promises I will break.

*

I
stand just inside my front doorway with the crockpot in my arms. The sun is rising above the leafless trees and the snow in the field shines with a thin coat of ice.

Just knock, Katie.

My grip on the crockpot tightens, pressing into my flesh. My fingers are cold, my knuckles, white.

Maybe I can pretend that Mercy is with me. I focus on an image of Mercy in my mind—her short grisly hair and eyebrows, her pert nose, and the wry twist of her lips where a brown cigarette typically hangs—and try to envision she stands at my side.

I lift my foot. In answer, the tree branches’ blackened shadows lengthen across my front yard, crisscrossing over the snow powdered walkway.

I stare and blink. The black shadows remain, waiting for me to venture out.

I just... I can’t. Frustration stings the back of my eyes. Quickly, I set the crockpot on the welcome mat outside and close the door.

That night I finish the second scarf, this one pink and raspberry. The next day warm bread and slices of honeyed ham appear on my porch. I eat a small sandwich, now ever-careful of when my stomach fills to capacity. I give Pixie some ham, too.

By noon, I finish the third scarf and take stock of my basket. I’m out of good yarn. Contemplating using a lower grade that’s not as soft makes me feel guilty. The rest of my good yarn is in my craft room—the room I had hoped would be the baby’s room, before I miscarried.

I steel my heart from sad memories. There must be a way to get on with life.

I pause at the foot of the stairs and gaze up at the second floor. Even in daylight the upstairs refuses sunlight. I take a deep breath, swearing not to fail twice in two days.

I mount the first step, then the next. The darkness above looms closer so I look down at my feet. There will be plenty of time for me to consider that inky blackness before I flip on the hall light.

When I reach the fourth step from the top, it gives with a loud creak. Wincing, I dart a look to the railing. My eyes scan the walkway and move to the left until I peer into the dark bedroom that was my father’s. The faint light, which comes from between the closed blinds, trails down the wall and outlines the bed’s headboard and an old IV drip.

I take one more step, reach over, and flick on the light. The slapping sound of small bare feet racing down the empty hallway hits my ears. A moment later a high-pitched creak echoes across the ceiling, followed by the sharp click of a door closing at the end of the hall. I know it’s the closet in my craft room.

I dismiss the sounds. Rats. Squirrels. But I know what I’m doing, what I’m saying, and hiding. I shudder and push down my own protests. But the back of my neck tingles in warning before a heavy hand grips my shoulder. I snap my head toward the hand but no one is there.

“Stop it,” I whisper—to what I don’t know. My overactive imagination? A ghost?

I shake my head in vehement disgust. The action forces vertigo over me and my head grows weightless. My legs buckle, forcing me to kneel on the stairs. At the same time, the sensation of being watched overwhelms me. A sixth sense warns that someone—something—is seeking me with malicious intent.

My senses scream, “Get off the steps Katie!”

I stumbled down the stairs, tripping several steps in my escape. Without even stopping, I seek the kitchen and fill a glass with water. I drink it, then busy myself by washing the dishes and thinking of Christmas songs, willing myself to recite every verse I possibly can from little-known madrigals.

At three o’clock Gabe texts me that he is coming over. Relief rushes over me with the news. I have no idea how much I miss him until he is waiting outside my door with a heavy bag of wood under each arm.

I fuss, taking one bag from him. When I hesitate at the back door, he takes his bag outside to fill the previously nonexistent woodpile.

“Let’s light the fire,” Gabe suggests.

I quell my habitual misgivings. “Okay.”

“But first, give me the rest of the grand tour.” He waits for me at the foot of the stairs, where I had tried and failed but a few hours previously.

I swallow and slowly move toward him. He grasps my elbow. “It’s okay. We’ll do this together,” he assures.

He leads me up the stairs without a pause, though I step over the fourth stair, to be safe. When we reach the landing, I angle away from the first door so that I don’t have to look in it. “That’s my father’s room.”

“He was sick, huh?”

I nod and move away, but Gabe pulls me back. He looks into my eyes. “You took care of him.”

“Yes.” I had to; it was the right thing to do. His accident was my fault. But sometimes, in the back of my mind, doubts nag me. Did I read books to him that he didn’t like? Did I roll him into different positions often enough? During that time, I worried some subconscious hate would make me do terrible things under the guise of care. I barely slept, listening for his breath in the night.

Eventually Mercy insisted on a hospice nurse to help me twice a week. Mercy forced me out of the house, to do some shopping, to go to the movies, or to have lunch with her. But when I came back, I always watched for some reaction from my semi-comatose father, some hint that he knew I had left him with a stranger.

Gabe and I walk down the hallway together, arms linked. Upstairs is a mess. I find another broken mirror in my bedroom. In my craft room, my oil paints are sliced open and smeared all over the baseboards in strange designs, hinting of flowers. Bright red drips hint of torture.

I shudder and Gabe pulls me closer to his side. “Have you seen it like this?”

I shrug. “Rats.”

“Bullshit,” he answers.

I steal a glance up at him. His face is grim and his eyes glitter with a fury I know is not directed at me.

I leave his side and open my closet door. Nothing is there that shouldn’t be. I grab my good yarn. In the hallway closet, I find a few boxes of Christmas decorations and hand these over to Gabe. He smiles at me, happy I listened to his suggestion to decorate for Christmas.

I cannot believe that it’s been four months since I’ve visited the upstairs of my father’s house. But I have Gabe to thank for helping me face it again. It’s almost imaginable, coming up here by myself at some point.

As we pass by my father’s room a chill hits me and I stop. The hairs on my neck and arms lift. Behind me, Gabe sucks in his breath. A soft moan drifts from the darkness.

...You are a disgrace...

About to chastise myself once more, I end my destructive ritual. I clear my dry throat. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” Gabe answers softly.

We walk down the stairs, me first and Gabe following behind. I fear I will trip because my eyes are filling with tears. I blink them away as quickly as I can so that Gabe will not see.

Something has broken within me—something that was holding me back, stifling me, and filling me with self-doubt. I’m not crazy, I realize, not understanding how profoundly this truth would affect me.

Gabe heard the voice, too. I’m not crazy.

In silence, Gabe lights the fire. Even after what I’ve just witnessed in my father’s house, I feel safe with Gabe watching over me. He leans against the couch and I nestle under his arm. It is so natural, so effortless, that I feel as though I have sat there with him, before the fire, a thousand times. We share the rest of Sandy’s ham and bread. I keep our glasses of tap water well iced.

Listening to the crackling fire, I close my eyes and luxuriate in the warmth of Gabe’s thick sweater and his natural heat. He shifts his body. His warm lips press against mine.

Just the touch of his lips infuses me with pleasure. I feel instantly alive, as if awakened from a long sleep. And I want more sensations. I yield and his tongue slides past my lips, giving me a taste of the rush I desire. Our tongues touch and intertwine.

With a groan he pulls me closer, nearly crushing me and our kiss deepens. My fingers splay open against his broad chest, his sweater’s coarse fibers tickling my fingertips. I flex and clench my fingers, bunching up his thick sweater in my fists for balance while I wiggle onto his lap. He laughs softly over my lips. When I grind my bottom against him, he stirs and stiffens beneath me. Feeling him thicken against me is beyond delicious.

“Kathryn,” he whispers in my ear and nibbles.

I gasp as his hand pulls open my sweatpants’ waist string. A second later, his fingers are stroking my ribs, then caressing below my navel, and threading through my curls. I moan with pleasure when the tips of his fingers find my hot sex and stroke the slippery wetness within me.

I’m trembling against him, panting into his shoulder helplessly as he finds me. His thumb rotates slowly against my delicate nub as his fingers probe inside my hungry folds. One finger then two slide in and out of me, turning me on so bad my toes curl and my back arches. A third finger follows and I cry out.

Gabe draws back. “You okay?”

Okay? Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I nod. “Yes. Yes, I like it.”

He needs no more incentive. His hand returns to me and coaxes my body, stoking the fires within me to a fever pitch. Mindlessly I grind against his hand and feel him grow ever larger beneath my thigh while his hand pleasures me almost to the point of torture.

His lips sear a trail from the base of my throat to my shoulder and back again. He licks my neck, below my ear, my erotic trigger, and my stomach tightens. Expert, I think deliriously happy before his teeth graze my neck, pulling a moan from my lips. I shiver, my whole body, my entire world shrinking and expanding and shrinking again. His finger strokes grow broader, deeper and maddeningly slow, drowning me with pulsing sensual intensity. I find his ear and lick his earlobe holding it between my teeth. A rumble fills his chest.

“I want to take you,” I whisper in his ear. “Taste you with my mouth.” Just the confession nearly pulls me over the edge. In answer, his rhythm speeds up.

“Come for me, Kathryn.”

I pull away from his chest to look into his eyes. Their amber gleam burns into my soul like tropical sunrays. His nostrils flare with passion. I stare into the twin suns and a cry breaks free from my chest as the first wave of ecstasy hits me. I hold the sides of his face with my hands, my body convulsing, rocking against his skillful fingers, and I lock with him, give him my experience, and share what wonderful pleasure he is giving me.

His eyes drink in my face, devour my quivering mouth. I bite my lower lip and his eyes return to mine in surprise, his eyebrows arching. But he seems beyond pleased. His smile broadens. He pulls me to him and kisses me tenderly.

“You are amazing,” he tells me.

I blush. “I can definitely say the same for you.”

We stare into the fire until the logs burn down to embers. Gabe’s head droops to my shoulder. I stroke his rough chin and jaw and smooth back dark curls from his forehead.

The first hint of dawn lightens the room when I awake. I stand up, and instantly feel the cold without Gabe near me. This terrifies me—this feeling that inside I’m hollow with loss. Only when I hear him humming in the kitchen, can I relax a little. The perfect contentment I experienced the night before does not return completely. I don’t expect it to...especially after my dream.

I try not to think of it, but as I stare out the dining room window and note the morning shadows stretching across Gabe’s porch, the dream comes to me. In it, three women bar my way to Gabe. They stand in front of his house. On shaky legs, I walk toward them. Protectively, their arms cross over their chests as each widens her stance. They laugh openly at me and shake their heads, their shimmering hair lengthening into long threads of gold, silver and copper. The threads weave a tapestry in front of me.

The scene is of the downstairs’ bathroom. Thick black branches break through the window. Beyond the window, the body of my father dangles from a willow tree. Within the room, a crack splits the bathroom in two. Out of the gaping fissure, thick coiling roots creep across the checkered floor. I soak in a bathtub, filled to overflowing with blood. Mercy stands over me, holding above her head a tiny infant by its small leg. It is a cruel parody of death.

In my dream, I cower and grovel, hiding from the depiction of my pitiful life.

Since waking, I know that these are not the same nightmares composed of bodiless footsteps and whispers in the dark. These are dreams about reality, about my sins, about a house across from mine that might as well be on the other side of the world, and about the women who live there—three of them, living with the man who has just made me feel pleasures that I have never felt before—pleasures I never believed I deserved to feel before I met him. These three women will never accept me if they discover what I did. And maybe Gabe would not accept my past, either.

After pacing for a good half hour, I’m almost relieved when Gabe finally stirs. I tell him that I don’t mean to rush him, but actually I do. I need air—my own air, not scented with evergreen, or freshness, or fruity incense. He takes this without protest, though his expression is unreadable. Regret sags my shoulders. I’ve crossed a line that I shouldn’t have with him—not a line crossed last night but this morning. I don’t mean to hurt him, but...

At the door, Gabe finally speaks. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

I stare down at the floor. The last thing I need is a lecture and I certainly don’t want to talk. “I’m used to it,” I blurt out, the pressure inside me ready to burst. Once he is gone, I’ll think everything over.

“But you don’t have to be. You could stay at our house.” Our house? His and the other women’s home. His coven.