Lunatics Radio Hour
The history of horror and the horror of history.
Lunatics Radio Hour
Lunatics Library 44 - Holiday Horror Stories
Abby and Alan are so thrilled to present four haunting holiday horror stories. Cozy up next to a fire with a cup of hot coco, and prepare to shake in your snow boots.
Matches was written by Warren Benedetto and narrated by Jon C. Cook. Catch Jon's narration of A Christmas Carol every week, here.
Some Items Are Display Only was written by Sarah Jane Justice and narrated by Sara Luke. Follow Sarah Jane Justice on social media @SarahJaneJusticeWriting and Sara Luke @SaraLuke25.
The Snow Ones was written by Paul O'Neill and narrated by Mike Macera. Follow Paul on Instagram @Paul.on1984. Listen to Mike's band Beach Therapy anywhere you listen to music.
Spirit of The Seasons was written by Marisca Pitchette and narrated by Abby Brenker.
Get Lunatics Merch here. Join the discussion on Discord. Listen to the paranormal playlist I curate for Vurbl, updated weekly! Check out Abby's book Horror Stories. Available in eBook and paperback. Music by Michaela Papa, Alan Kudan & Jordan Moser. Poster Art by Pilar Keprta @pilar.kep.
Follow us on TikTok, X, Instragram and YouTube.
Join the conversation on Discord. Support us on Patreon.
hello everyone and welcome back to the lunatics radio hour podcast. I am abby Abby Brinker sitting here with Alan Kudan Hi. As we approach the end of this very spooky wintery month, it is tradition dating back, as we now know, thousands of years to tell ghost stories.
Speaker 3:Yeah, we learned all about that.
Speaker 1:So we are here today to participate in the time honored tradition of telling spooky, ghostly stories around Christmas Eve.
Speaker 3:Although do we necessarily need to tell ghost stories?
Speaker 1:Certainly not. I think we can tell any kind of spooky, ghostly, ghastly tale.
Speaker 3:Do we have any ghost stories?
Speaker 1:Well, that's something that will be uncovered as we listen.
Speaker 3:Okay, do you want to just start?
Speaker 2:Let's just jump right in it in Matches, written by Warren Benetello.
Speaker 4:read by John C Cook. Night was falling, settling over the city like a veil of black ash. A poor little girl trudged alone down the street, her snow-dusted hair glittering faintly in the lamplight, her cheeks reddened and raw from the blistering cold. She moved unnoticed past top hats and petticoats, carriages and coachmen, her bare feet leaving long streaks in the snow behind her. As she trudged weakly down the sidewalk toward her home, she was wearing shoes when she left the house, her mother's shoes, far too big for a girl of her age. But she had lost them both over the course of the day One to a puddle full of ice and sleet, the other to a starving dog drawn to the smell of wet leather. And so the girl limped on ice-deadened heels that felt wooden and numb, as if a pair of mannequin feet had been attached to her legs in place of her own. In the deep pockets of her dress she carried several boxes of matches, the same number with which she had left home at dawn's first light. She hadn't sold a single box, she hadn't collected a cent. Her only accrual was misery and cold, in that she had made a tidy profit. As she passed the shimmering storefront windows, the smell of roast goose tightened cruel fingers around her empty stomach. It had been days since she had last eaten what she would have given for a meal. Any meal would do. But she especially yearned for a holiday feast A crust of fresh-baked bread, a stew thick with beef and carrots, a generous slice of goose breast over a bed of roasted potatoes. It was New Year's Eve after all.
Speaker 4:As a frigid wind gusted down the narrow lane, the girl sidestepped into an alley to avoid the chill. She sat cross-legged on the cobblestone, drawing her feet into her folded knees to try and restore some feeling to her toes. She was freezing, but she dared not go home. Her father would be there waiting, expectant. How many matches had she sold? How many pennies had she earned? None, the girl winced involuntarily. She knew what was in store for her if she returned empty-handed. Her home was scarcely better than the alley. Anyway, she told herself. There was no heat to speak of and the roof was rotted through. The rags stuffed in the gaps did little to staunch the cold seeping in from outside. Melt water dripped from the fissures in the ceiling during the day, then froze to needle-thin icicles at night. It was as cold and inhospitable a home as one could imagine.
Speaker 4:The girl clenched her hands to her lips and blew warm air into her fists. She had no feeling in her digits, save for a spray of pins and needles that jabbed painfully into her fingertips. Oh, how she longed to strike a match, to feel the sharp heat of the flame cupped between her palms. She had several boxes, each with dozens of identical matchsticks. Surely no one would notice a single missing match.
Speaker 4:She drew a box from her pocket, then removed a match with trembling fingers, scratch. She dragged the match along the coarse boards of the wood-framed building. Beside her, a bright, brilliant flame burst forth, illuminating her face with a golden glow. She stared into the flame, entranced. What a strange, wonderful light. She felt transported to another place, a cozy living room in front of a great stone fireplace, the kind with a rack of wrought-iron pokers beside it on the hearth. She saw herself stretched out on the carpet in front of the fire, her face blasted with heat from the blaze. Her father sat behind her in an overstuffed chair, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, reading a book by the firelight. Then the little flame from the match went out. The fireplace vanished. Only the charred stub of the matchstick clutched in her fingers remained Fumbling.
Speaker 4:Another match from the box. She struck it against the wall. The light flared brightly in the gloom. The girl was surprised to see that the wall beside her had become transparent, as if she was gazing through a window into a dining room. On the table, a glorious spread of food was set out A pot of stew, bubbled and steamed, its mouth-watering aroma wafting past her nose. Golden butter melted on thick slices of freshly baked bread. A roast goose was set upon a silver platter, decorated with sliced apples and candied cranberries. Her father carved a slice of goose breast and put it on her plate. More please, she said. Then the match went out and the scene evaporated. The girl could see only the peeling paint of the soot-stained wooden wall.
Speaker 4:Again, the girl lit another match, hoping to recapture the vision, like a light sleeper grasping at the rapidly fading wisps of an interrupted dream. In the light, she found herself sitting at the dining room table, her father glaring down at her. More he sneered what have you done to deserve more, or any for that matter? He snatched the plate away from her and dumped it on the floor. The starving dog the one that had stolen her shoe appeared from under the table and began greedily gobbling the spilled meal.
Speaker 4:The girl felt tears welling in her eyes. A sob tightened her throat. She swallowed hard. It wasn't fair. She didn't deserve to be treated like that. She wished her mother was still alive to stand up for her again, like she had on the night that she died. But she wasn't and she never would be. The girl hated her father for that. She eyed the carving knife on the table. It was just within reach. As her fingers crept towards it, the match went out. The scene disappeared, twisting and swirling into the night like the fog from her breath.
Speaker 4:The girl snatched a trio of matches from the box and dragged them along the coarse wallboard. The wall became transparent once more in the triple bright glow. The dining room was gone. The girl was in front of the fireplace, again standing. This time. Her father was behind her, reading in the armchair, the girl's fingers wrapped around the wrought iron fireplace poker. The black metal was cool and heavy in her palm. It made a slight metallic scraping sound as she drew it from the rack. Her father didn't appear to notice. The girl hid the poker behind her back as she feigned a yawn. Good night, father, she said. I'll be heading to bed now. Hmm, he mumbled, ignoring her.
Speaker 4:The girl circled behind her father's chair, her fingers tightened around the shaft of the poker. Circled behind her father's chair, her fingers tightened around the shaft of the poker. She raised the metal bar above her head then brought it down with all her strength upon her father's skull. The hook-like spike at the end of the staff plunged into the top of his scalp, caving it in slightly. The blow made a dull, squelching sound like a fist punching, a rubber hot water bag.
Speaker 4:Her father sat bolt upright in the chair as if he was being electrocuted. A torrent of blood poured down his face from his hairline. More blood spilled from his ears. His mouth opened in a silent, airless scream. The girl wrenched the poker free from his fractured skull, then raised it and brought it down. Again and again and again. A spray of blood whipped across her face, stippling it with crimson droplets.
Speaker 4:Her father fell forward out of his chair and onto his hands and knees. He tried to climb to his feet but stumbled forward and landed face first in the fireplace. Flames consumed his head and set his hair and clothes ablaze. An avalanche of burning logs tumbled off the hearth and onto the carpet beside his body. Flames danced upward as a spray of embers circled toward the ceiling like a swarm of tiny sprites. The sparks formed a shape in the air A woman with an outline of a familiar face. A woman with an outline of a familiar face. Mother, cried the girl Again. The matches were extinguished.
Speaker 4:Desperate, the girl threw the still-smoldering matchsticks to the ground, then emptied the remaining matches from the box into her palm and dragged them along the side of the building. They ignited with a sustained hushing sound, consuming the girl's vision with their blinding brightness. The girl's mother stood luminescent in the glow, bathed in an angelic light. She was more beautiful than ever, more radiant than the girl had ever dreamed possible. Mother, the girl exclaimed please take me with you. I know you'll disappear when these matches burn out. I can't bear to lose you again, please. The girl's mother smiled then gathered the girl in her arms. The girl realized that they were no longer in the living room. Instead, they were flying through the night air, ascending skyward. They soared high above the earth, rising towards the sun where there was no more cold, no more hunger, no more fear. There was only warmth and light and heat forever.
Speaker 4:But in the alley, leaning against the wall, sat the little girl with red cheeks and a smiling mouth, her ragged clothes ablaze. The flames reached into her pockets, finding the other boxes of matches and igniting them. Her lifeless body slumped sideways as it was consumed by the flames. The inferno licked up the sides of the building, hungrily, devouring the peeling paint and the dry flammable wood beneath. It, spread to the roof, then to the neighboring building, then to the one beside that. Eventually it spread to the girl's apartment, where it found her father passed out in bed, an empty whiskey bottle on the floor by his dangling fingertips, the rags stuffed in the cracked ceiling, dribbling ribbons of flame onto the bedsheets below. Poor girl, the people said when her charred remains were found she was just trying to stay warm. They pitied her, but only because they didn't know the wonderful things she had seen and how happily she had gone with her mother into the light of the eternal sun.
Speaker 3:I don't think we've had a story quite like this in the podcast yet.
Speaker 1:I agree, but tell me what you mean.
Speaker 3:I don't think anything necessarily supernatural happened.
Speaker 1:Okay.
Speaker 3:I think this was just I don't know like almost like what happens when you're the delusions, when you're like going through hypothermia.
Speaker 1:Yeah, for sure.
Speaker 3:And it was really sad and really heartfelt and fucking cool. This is a. I really like the story.
Speaker 1:I like it a lot for many reasons, and one of the reasons is for me, when I first read it, it felt like, in a very unique way, almost overtelling, or like a visitation to A Christmas Carol, right yeah. But it's really interesting because Warren Benedetto, who wrote it, describes it as a darker reimagining of the Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen, which I've never read. So I'm really, really excited now that this has led me here. The story was originally published in New Tales of Old by Raven and Drake Publishing in April of 2021.
Speaker 3:It's a very polished story and you can always tell the mark of like a good short story when you have like a very contained thing, but the whole world just like feels so alive despite it being such a small, little contained thing.
Speaker 1:Yeah, I think that's absolutely right. The world feels very rich and visceral in a lot of ways, but the story, you know, follows a character or two or three, but really it's not sprawling. But I can kind of picture her walking around and the things that she would encounter. It's very beautifully written.
Speaker 3:I really love the writing style and I mean we've had Warren on the past a few times and every time it's just like spot on. Just the fact that we're listening to basically a self-immolation story maybe you know, whatever it is, it's, it's's, it's an immolation story regardless, and it has like this homey feel to it that's weird, that's weird and that's cool that's christmas magic at its finest exactly also great choice of narrators for this one well, it's not the first.
Speaker 1:I'm sure it won't be the last time that I've paired warren benedetto and john cook as a writer and a narrator, but john, as always, did such an incredible job with this and, I thought, brought the story to life in just the perfect way, with the perfect tone. I've said it before, but his voice really has this old-timey richness to it that I think adds a lot to a story like this.
Speaker 3:I can't imagine why you thought this story reminded you of A Christmas Carol.
Speaker 1:I know it's so weird. It's not like John Cook is perpetually reading A Christmas Carol all the time.
Speaker 3:It's one of our favorite yearly traditions. John C Cook reads A Christmas Carol. He does it live on YouTube and it's so fun.
Speaker 1:Yeah, so he reads them. He reads it stave by stave, live. So I think he does one a week between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But if you're not there to watch it live every week, of course the the recording, the video on demand, is available on his YouTube. We will link it below, but it is Fado podcast, I believe, on YouTube. Okay, so as excellent as that story was, we have three more to, uh, delight our ears. All right here. Our ears Alright here. Let's roll the tape on the next story.
Speaker 2:Some idols are display only. Written by Sarah Jane Justice. Read by Sarah Luke.
Speaker 6:Ho, ho ho, Merry Christmas. The grainy, robotic voice was distorted by the slow-motion war of dying batteries. The sound was grating but it paired perfectly with an animatronic Santa that looked like it had been built before the first CD player. Check it out. Mike nodded towards a scratched-up chalkboard next to the store's entrance. Not many names on the nice list. Everyone knows being naughty is more fun. Ashley grinned. She picked up the chalk and scribbled both their names in the naughty column. Yeah, whatever, mike smirked, I'll ask you to make good on that promise later. Ashley laughed, pushing past holly wreaths and dangling plastic angels to head inside. Ashley laughed, pushing past holly wreaths and dangling plastic angels to head inside Merry Christmas. The voice took Ashley by surprise, even though the woman was sitting in plain sight In her festive red and green dress. She was almost camouflaged among the discount candy and ornaments that lie on the counter. Yes, you too. Ashley forced a smile. We saw the signs down the road. This is quite a store you have, thank you. The woman smiled. Most everything here is for sale. Some items are display only, but those are labeled clear enough. Are you open all year round? Mike stepped forward to read her name tag Mrs Claus. Wow, we're meeting actual Christmas royalty. Ashley shoved him with one hand, but Mrs Claus didn't seem to notice. We open for the season, she replied. We have other business interests for the rest of the year. We, mike, repeated you, and Santa huh, the big man himself. Ashley shoved him again. And Santa huh, the big man himself. Ashley shoved him again. We'll have a look around, if that's okay, of course, dear Mrs Claus hummed. Follow the arrows through that door. Prices are listed throughout. Take care with the displays, thank you. Ashley grabbed Mike by the arm and pulled him along the arrows, led them into a small room that was filled with animatronic elves In clunking unison. Santa's robotic helpers waved their arms against a backdrop of bonsai Christmas trees and jingling carols. Ashley shivered, as if the fake snow lining the path had given her real chills. This is so weird. Mike led the way into the next room. Imagine owning a house with this many rooms and using it for this. I don't know, I kind of get it. Ashley shrugged. The owners probably live in the back. If they have more space than they need, it makes sense to use it for something that can make them decent money. There are a lot of really intense Christmas fans in this world. Yeah, okay. Mike leaned over to inspect a legion of garden gnomes dressed in various styles of Santa outfits. There's something so creepy about this. He picked up one of the gnomes flicking the bell on its hat. These little dead-eyed guys Dead-eyed. Ashley sneered. It'd be a lot creepier if their eyes had life in them, don't you think? Put it down, babe. Mike smirked, flicking the bell again. As he put it back, the room was crowded with angels posed under mistletoe. Mike smirked, flicking the bell again as he put it back. The room was crowded with angels posed under mistletoe, ceramic figures in Christmas colors and stuffed animals with wreaths around their necks. Mike and Ashley stepped carefully around them, following the arrows through another open door. This is so claustrophobic Ashley shivered again. So crowded with clutter and no windows that aren't blocked by displays Claustrophobic. Mike laughed, putting the claws in claustrophobic Love it Good one. Ashley shook her head, keeping her eyes on the decorative scene that spread around them. The wall to her left was decked out with a five-foot-tall dollhouse, complete with a glowing chimney. It was unusually large, in both width and depth. The front of it was spotted with little windows, but they were all blacked out, dark enough to prevent anyone from seeing inside A red door latched at the center indicated that it was designed to be opened. Ashley brushed a hand over the latch, pulling away when she caught something sticky. Ugh, she exclaimed, scowling at the red substance that coated her fingers. What is this? Looks like paint, mike shrugged. Ashley reached out to touch the dollhouse roof, holding back when the chimney started whirring with the distinctive clunk of rusty gears. She waited for another animatronic Santa to poke his head out the top, but instead was met with an explosion of vicious red liquid. Mike, she gagged, I think this is blood. The red liquid began gushing from the chimney. It slid in torrents down the walls of the dollhouse and stained the fake snow around their feet. Mike darted forward, pushing through crimson streams to grab at the latch that held the dollhouse shut. His fingers slipped over the wood until he managed to swing it open. Lit up with Christmas tree lights, the human torso displayed inside was cut open like butterflied meat Suddenly exposed. It dripped with blood that was still warm. Ashley did her best to run. As her feet slid over the red-stained path, she grabbed at a Christmas tree to steady herself, screaming when she realized that the hanging ornaments were made from teeth. With stubborn fury she pulled at Mike's coat as they both forged their way through the next door. The room on the other side was dark, lit only by red and green spotlights that flashed in a random pattern. Ashley took a blind leap of faith and ran as fast as she could along a path she couldn't see Slamming against a wall. She fumbled around, pulling back when her hand touched something warm and moist. When a flash of green light illuminated the room, she saw the body. It was butterflied open in the same way as the dollhouse torso pinned to the wall with an axe. She could barely hear her own screams as the music rose to a deafening volume. These ones are display only. Mrs Claus's voice echoed over the music. Display only to you. At least I find it safe to assume. You can't afford them. Ashley turned to see the woman striding into the room from the door behind them. Ashley turned to see the woman striding into the room from the door behind them. Beneath the frills and sashes on her dress. She wore heavy boots that gripped to the blood splash path In flashing light. Ashley saw Mike fall onto the snow and scramble to get back up. Mrs Claus marched over to him without the slightest stumble, pulling a long knife from the sack slung over her shoulder. You wrote your own name on the naughty list, she cackled. What did you expect, cole? Between offbeat blinks of strobing light, ashley saw Mrs Claus stab Mike through the thigh. The knife went all the way through muscle and flesh, coming out the other side to pin him to the ground. Mike screamed while Mrs Claus reached into her sack. Again, fueled by fear, ashley spun around and strained her eyes to scan the wall behind her. Her heart leaped when she realized that she could see the door. It wasn't far out of her reach, but it was secured with a heavy lock and chain. On the other side of the room, mrs Claus was still focused on Mike. Whenever the lights flashed, ashley could see more blood. Ashley knew that she needed to move faster than she could think. Stealing herself, she grabbed at the body pinned to the wall, fumbling through entrails until she had a firm grip on the axe. The body slumped to the floor and she swung the axe towards the door, heaving and striking at the lock until it shattered. Wood splinters bit at her fingers as she pulled open the door, keeping the axe held tight in one hand. The fresh air on the other side tasted like joy, but she couldn't stop to appreciate it. She summoned speed that she didn't know she had, powering towards the car. Still gripping the axe, she pulled the car keys from her pocket, locked the doors and started the engine. Her vision was shadowed by images of Mike pinned to the ground with knives that tore through his body. Focusing on the road ahead, she kept the axe in one hand as she slammed the accelerator. Ho ho, ho, merry Christmas. The animatronic Santa waved in her rearview mirror as she drove away.
Speaker 1:What I really love about this story is that it is just a very classic Christmas slasher. I thought that was so fun and refreshing, and a lot of these stories, of course, are very poetic and meaningful and spiritual because of their tie to Christmas. But I think Alan and I both feel like why we love Christmas horror. So much is the juxtaposition, like we talked about in the last episode, between holiday cheer and something horrible happening, and I think this story is exactly that.
Speaker 3:Sometimes you just need Santa or someone Santa adjacent to go on a murderous rampage.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 3:That's what we're here for.
Speaker 1:Yeah, that's exactly right.
Speaker 3:And this delivered.
Speaker 1:And I want to take a second to introduce Sarah Jane Justice, because this is the first time that we are featuring her work on the podcast. So Sarah Jane Justice writes fiction, poetry and music. Her work has been published in releases by Deadset Press, erie River Publishing, midway Journal and many more. She has written several episodes of Hawking Cleaver's award-winning horror podcast, the Other Stories, performed at the Sydney Opera House as a national finalist of the Australian Poetry Slam and released two full-length studio albums of original music. So she is a triple quadruple threat.
Speaker 3:But nothing is quite like the achievement of being featured on Lunatics Radio Hour.
Speaker 1:That's exactly right.
Speaker 3:Yeah, screw you. Sydney Opera House.
Speaker 1:So you can really follow Sarah everywhere at Sarah Jane Justice Writing, including Facebook and Instagram, and you can also head to her website, sarajanejusticeridingcom. When I read this story and realized how fun it was, the first thing that came to my mind was Sarah Luke, our friend Sarah, who is just like the slasher dream girl, and I thought she would be so great at narrating and telling us this story, and I think she had so much fun with it.
Speaker 3:I think Sarah really found her niche with depicting a murderous Mrs Claus.
Speaker 1:Yeah, sarah Luke did. Yeah, I got confused for a second because there are two Sarahs involved with this one, but yes, I thought she brought the story to life in a really, really fun way. That felt very Sarah Luke of her. You can follow her on Instagram at Sarah Luke 25 if you want to stay up to date with what's going on in Sarah's life.
Speaker 3:All right, what's next? All right, let's roll the tape.
Speaker 5:The Snow Ones, written by Paul O'Neill, read by Michael Sherrill. Emily's tapping at the patio window. Again, she sings in a low, mesmerized lilt that drifts its way through the kitchen where I'm hiding. Her sleepy melody swarmed my brain First sign of the snow tumbling down, and all she does is stand at that door, eyes too shiny. I hoped we could make it through Christmas without this Stupid snow. Snow ones are here. Her voice mists through to me. No need to be afraid, friend, it's just me. You know me. Do you have a home of your own out there in the cold?
Speaker 5:I place my elbows on the kitchen counter, bury my face in my hands. My nostrils fill with the spice of Jack Daniels in the glass below me. There's something about the worsening of our family situation that makes me want to down the whole bottle and not care about what happens next. Guilt plagues me for hiding in here, but I can't handle this level of creepy on my own. I can imagine our five-year-old daughter, a little palm pressed against the glass, breath steaming the window every time she lets out a merry giggle or a wondrous gasp.
Speaker 5:Something's wrong with that girl. It only happens when the snow comes. It first happened when she was just ten months old, a wee thing with heart-stopping dimples. When the snow littered the back garden for the first time in Emily's life, she crawled over to the patio, licked the window and giggled incessantly. I had never been able to make her laugh like that. She'd crane her neck, haul herself to a shaky standing position and stare up at nothing. She'd giggle away for hours, making the hairs on the back of my neck do a cold dance. That first winter with her, the snow fell like Christmas card snow for weeks on end. She creeped me out so much I started seeing impossible footprints crunched into the snow on the other side of the patio door. We forgot about the whole thing until she did it the year after, calling her visitors the Snow Ones.
Speaker 5:Daddy, Daddy, Snow Ones are here. Come to Emily House for warm. They silly, big old, stuffy noses. The only thing my wife and I could do is laugh it off, Make fun. When Scotland bared its winter teeth, we'd joke around When's the snow ones getting here? Oh, looks like the snow ones are coming. That was back when Valerie still had a laugh. In her. I itch at the center of my forehead. I take a gulp of the jack. Those first three winters with Emily had me certain we'd have to take her to a head doctor, but the next year the snow never came. All that global warming we joked.
Speaker 6:No snow ones.
Speaker 5:No escaping the snow. This year, though, it's been falling nonstop the last three days It'll be a white Christmas. Would Emily even notice her stacked presents if she spends her whole day at the Bloomin' window? What's wrong with her, Dad? What are you doing through there? The snow ones want to see you. All my alarm bells go off and the rest of my drink goes down the hatch. I see the breath through my teeth, tasting how cold the air is. Why don't you go upstairs? I want to tell her Go play a game of. Why's mommy crying in bed? Again? Anything to get Emily away from that window and the things in her head.
Speaker 5:Daddy Coming, lollipop Just give me a minute she takes up her ghostly humming again. The sound of it bothers the space between my shoulder blades. She's tapping at the window, chortling away. Each tap on the glass makes my neck tense. Another flash of the ten-month-old version of Emily came. How had she grown so fast? How could the fairytale time of her infancy wrap into this cold family environment? Those snow ones started it all, I whisper. Eyeing the ceiling. Valerie would be curled up in bed, streaming tears into the pillow, doing nothing to wipe them away. Just let them fall. Just let it all fall apart. Why don't you? Emily's giggles make my skin want to turn inside out.
Speaker 6:Tee hee.
Speaker 5:She says that's nice, missed you like a candy cane without its colors. It's no fun when the snow doesn't happen. What do you mean Really, is that? So Come on in. Then you look so cold. The glass of Jack slips out of my hand. It clatters on the counter, spitting foamy droplets. It's gone too far. I should go. Tear her away, get blackout blinds, shut her away from those imagined snow ones. Tell Emily to grow the hell up. She's almost five, for God's sakes.
Speaker 5:A click sounds, then the ear-catching squeal of the patio door as it slides open. Emily, those doors are heavy. Takes me to set my feet to pull them sideways. The fingers of winter blew their way to me from the frigid day outside. Sweetheart, you know not to go out there. What are you up to? Nothing. But the sound of the wind howling into the house it reaches me casts me into a shiver. Emily, my heart floods with relief when I hear her shift about. Come on in. Then she says what are you waiting for you? What Need me to say it aloud? Oh, okay, you can come in. You're very welcome here.
Speaker 5:I feel something primal in my gut urging me to march through. Check that my flesh and blood is okay, my chicken feet stay rooted to the ground. Who are you talking to, emily? The snow instead. They've been cold for too long. I'm helping because I'm a good girl. Oh, can we make them cocoa with the marshmallows? We need to have a long word about these things. You're seeing they're not. A heavy thud slams my words dead. Cold leaks its way about my chest. I can almost taste the silence. She could be out there getting kidnapped by a weirdo who's jumped into our garden and I'm sitting here just mucking about in the kitchen. Grow a pair, man. Get out there. Sort this mess once and for all.
Speaker 5:I march through on legs that feel like I've just stepped off a boat. She's standing in her usual spot, dressed in a pink woolly jumper, as cute as any daughter anyone could ever dream. How did you open the door? I say, tasting the ghost of her strawberry shampoo in the space between us. Outside, the snow tumbles down in cartwheeling shapes Against the bank of white in the sky. The flakes are like black, angry beasts. Emily raises her hand and points to nothing beside her. I undid the lock and he helped budget.
Speaker 5:Emily, this needs to stop. There's, there's snow in the house, two footprints right where Emily is still pointing. They look like a cross between a bird and an alien monster Four splayed toes, each with sharp ends. The same tracks appear on the patio steps, right outside the window, just like the ones I saw all those years ago, the ones I stamped out when Emily was little, telling myself I was going mad. This isn't possible, I say. Emily lowers her hand, starts humming to herself.
Speaker 5:I gaze into the space above the white footprints. Something burns into me like a predatory thing, is glaring. A promise at my chest. Tell it to go away. Emily. My voices waft for thin. Promise at my chest. Tell it to go away. Emily. My voice is waif for thin. I clear my throat. I don't know what you've done, but this needs to stop right now. Make it go away Away. She twists around, gives me all she's got with those big brown eyes. That's not fair, daddy. He's our guest. I've said he can come in. That's all it's ever wanted, all it's ever wanted. A sloppy noise is followed by a splat. The thing is moving, shuffling, slowly. Each footprint carries less snow, but I can still see its impossible impression on the laminate floor.
Speaker 5:I step back arse hitting the wall. It moves again closer. I reach out for something, anything to beat the thing away. Plastic noises tumble about as I lift Emily's Playmobil vacuum over my shoulder like a baseball bat. Emily slowly come here, get away from it, you big silly.
Speaker 4:He won't hurt me Promised.
Speaker 5:Its slow steps aren't coming directly for me. I realize, as I let out a long breath that was aching my lungs, it's passing by me now, cold radiates biting into the skin on my bare forearms. My teeth want to chatter. Its breaths are a click, click, click of a monstrous insect. I can feel it leering at me.
Speaker 5:Its footprints have dried up. Now I hear its slow thudding steps, but I no longer see them. Where's it going, I whisper. Emily, what did you do? The living room door creaks open. The thing is walking through it down the hall as it steps on the stairs. The entire house moans with the weight of this invisible beast. Emily places her hand in mine and I jump at how cold she is. Her lips are purpled. Her breath puffs out white when she giggles. What does it want? I say it sniffs. Mummy Says he can help her, says he can help all of us. More creaking of the stairs.
Speaker 5:I realize I'm still clutching the multicolored vacuum cleaner, but I can't think of any other weapon to use. The floorboards bow above us with the creature's weight. I'm too late. I've just let a nightmare thing enter our house and watched its slime pass on its way to the person I miss the most. There's a crashing sound. The toy vacuum clatters to the floor. Valerie curses, mumbles, something then lets out a noise I've never heard anyone make, not even in horror films. Emily giggles, squeezes my hand. You, you're laughing. How can you laugh? What are you?
Speaker 5:I fumble my phone out my pocket, cursed when I can't hold, still long enough to let it read my thumbprint. Valerie lets out another scream and I drop it. The shriek from upstairs cuts off with a gargled, wet yelp. I lean down, pick up my phone, begging my frantic thumbs to calm down enough to call the cops. Look, emily tugs my other hand. They're all here. What the snow ones? Come in, come in. Stop it, emily. Tell them they're not welcome. Tell them oh, you look so cold. It's not fair. Come on in, my friends. I've waited so long. The wind picks up outside, whistling through the open patio doors. The brittle sound of something crunching snow aches my ears. I see their footprints. They scrunch snow as more of them make their slow way up the steps outside. Emily, tell them to go away Now, emily, right now, please Sludge and ice explode around. A fresh footprint inside the house.
Speaker 3:This one's here for you, dad I feel like this one would be a fun movie I love this story so much because it feels like something net new net new it's a new to me anyway, a totally new like mythology that that you know.
Speaker 1:It's not like drawing on folklore that I know of, but this but it's still quite horrifying and understandable right to have your child see something that you can't see and then there starts to be like tangible physical proof about it. But I don't know, I just love how we enter this story at the point in the timeline when we do so that the parents are so shaken yeah, they're beaten down beaten, downaten down, sad or drunk, horrified.
Speaker 3:Or both.
Speaker 1:Yes, and so it's just like really rich with tension and drama and fear, and it brought me back to feeling like a little kid and being afraid, and I also could think of it as an adult and realize how scary it could be to have your kid acting this way.
Speaker 3:Well, I found this story completely unrelatable.
Speaker 1:Oh, why You've never been afraid. No, You're very brave. I want to also take a second, because Paul O'Neill is also debuting his work on the Lunatics Radio Hour podcast. Paul O'Neill is an award-winning short story writer from Fife Scotland. His works have been published by the no Sleep podcast, Crystal Lake, Sinister Smile Press, Scare Street, Vanishing Point Magazine, Hellbound Books, Eerie River, Grinning, Skull Press and many other publications. He runs Short Story Club on Substack where he and over 150 readers analyze the classics on a regular basis, which sounds incredibly fun, and I will absolutely be joining, and you can follow him on Instagram at paulon1984. But, Paul, I just have to say I was such a big fan of this. Again, it felt like incredibly unique. You built a world that was new and not overdone and refreshing, and it just had this like very stark bleakness in my brain. You know, like, like it was very simple and that made it, I think you know like it was very simple and that made it, I think, a little bit chilling and clinical, almost when everything unfolded.
Speaker 3:I think this blended very well into science fiction.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 3:Because, I don't know, I got like, for lack of a better term, you know extraterrestrial vibes?
Speaker 1:Yeah, sure.
Speaker 3:Where you have these types of beings that are. You know, know definitely not your typical monster. They are interfacing with the child, right, and it's not malicious.
Speaker 1:Or maybe it is, who knows but you mean with the child, with the child right.
Speaker 3:so now you have like an extra set of motivations that's, which you know is insinuating higher intelligence. I don't know, it's't know, it's just a couple layers on there, and then, once they start coming after the adults, that's a whole other story.
Speaker 1:Have I ever told you about this nightmare that I had when I was a kid? That still sticks with me to this day.
Speaker 3:You're going to have to be more specific.
Speaker 1:Well, I'll tell the story. But I think when I read this story I just was picturing this like the like the scene of this nightmare that I had, and I kind of read this whole story in my head in that setting, which was really interesting. But when I was little I had this dream. I mean, I wasn't that little, I was 23. No, I was probably in middle school, I think.
Speaker 1:But I had this dream that I was in my house. It was like exactly as my house was, and kind of in the dining room you would look out this big window to the backyard and there was like a window seat. It was very open, lots of windows, so you could see the backyard, and it was nighttime and it could have been winter, I think it was. But I remember being inside with my family looking out and seeing this creature, that kind of looks.
Speaker 1:Now, now that I know what this is, it kind of looks like the fresno nightcrawler, what, which is like this cryptid that is kind of like a head with legs, almost, and nothing else in between, which I've written a bit about on patreon. So if you would like to know more about some of the internet horror tropes, I I do an internet horror series on the lunatics project patreon. But, that being said, it was like this really scary dream because it was like this creature was stalking us around our house and nobody could see it except for me and I was a kid at the time, right. So when I read this story, I kind of placed it in that, like, I think, emotional space for me I just googledled the Fresno Nightcrawler.
Speaker 1:It looks scarier in my dream.
Speaker 3:It looks very silly.
Speaker 1:I know, but it was scary in my dream. I know that it looks like it's wearing kind of like floppy hammer pants, mc Hammer pants, but anyway, paul, thank you so much for sharing your story with us. I thought it was the perfect chilling like truly chilling story to add to this curation of holiday horror. And, of course, our friend you know him by this point and love him Mike Massera narrated the story for us. Mike is part of Beach Therapy, which is a very good band that you can listen to anywhere you listen to music. So definitely give Parking Lots by Beach Therapy a listen and then you'll be hooked for life.
Speaker 3:Earlier this month we had the pleasure of seeing Beach Therapy perform live.
Speaker 1:For the first time for us.
Speaker 3:Which was such a good show. They are a band that plays super, super well for a live audience.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 3:So if you're in New York City or if you're in any major city, because the world tour is coming, that's right.
Speaker 1:Be on the lookout. And they performed on krampus night, which I love december 6th. Yeah, december 5th. Okay, alan, we have one more story to close out this very spooky christmas eve campfire tales session okay shall we listen?
Speaker 3:yeah, I guess so.
Speaker 2:Spirit of the Seasons, written by Mariska Pichette, read by Abby Blanco.
Speaker 1:There's a package under the tree I can never open. It's been there every year as far back as I can remember. I didn't buy it, I didn't wrap it, I didn't put it under the tree December 24th. It arrives December 26th. It leaves the paper changes, but the shape doesn't. One year it was wrapped in snowflakes, another in candy canes, once reindeer with cartoon smiles, once plain brown paper and string like a bomb. I know it when I touch it, lift it up. It weighs too little, less than an empty box should weigh, less than the paper that covers it. Nothing worth anything could weigh so little, take up so little space. This morning I feel it arrive.
Speaker 1:Christmas Eve, like always. Coffee in hand, I walk into the dining room. The tree stands in the corner shedding needles on the hardwood floor. Where nothing should be, there's a small box. This year it's wrapped in silver. Glitter dusts the floor around it. I haven't touched it in years. I know what it says on the label. I should leave it where it is, wait until it goes again.
Speaker 1:I used to have to dig to find the box with its folded label. The message inside burned into my memory better than any face. Now it's the only gift I get On my mantle. I have only one Christmas card Standing across from the tree. I'm tempted to open the box. In my family we had a tradition One present could be opened on Christmas Eve. One I set my coffee down, palms sweating.
Speaker 1:Will it work this year? I kneel in front of the tree and drag my only present across the floor, leaving a trail of glitter and needles. I'll never get another gift. No one's left to remember me. Fingers shaking, I bend the label back, reading a note written in blood, my blood, my handwriting. Take me back. Eternity isn't worth this.
Speaker 1:I fold the note closed. The paper has no edge, no weakness. I tried cutting it, smashing the box flat Light as it is, it never tears, never gives in to me. I push the box away. It weighs almost nothing. My soul On the mantle, my only Christmas card, stands alone. I stop and pick it up. Even this weighs more, feels more real than the box under the tree. Inside is a note written in gold pen have a wonderful year. The message hasn't changed once in a century of cards. I touch his signature and try to remember my name. I didn't think to write it on the note after he wrapped me up and promised to grant my Christmas wish. In the light of the tree, his words shimmer like flames. With love, lucifer.
Speaker 3:Who ever loves a story about a good wish gone bad?
Speaker 1:I love a Faustian tale.
Speaker 3:Is this a Faustian tale?
Speaker 1:A thousand percent. You signed away your soul to the devil in exchange for eternal life. There's nothing more Faustian than that.
Speaker 3:Well, you got me there. I cannot think of something more. Faustian, this is good. Another little short and sweet contained Edgar Allan Poe-ish type monkey's paw. What other illusions can?
Speaker 1:I throw in there good reference. So this story is a reprint. It was originally published in the ghost orchard press anthology a very ghostly christmas in 2002, and I also just have to say that this was by our friend, mariska pichette. Again, you should be very familiar with them by now, but Mariska's first novella is coming out in the spring of 2025 from Ghost Orchid Press, so we are incredibly excited for that and we will keep you posted when there's more to come and you can actually buy the novella. But yeah, I just I love Mariska's writing because I feel like very often there's a very immersive, beautiful worlds and it's super contained. Like you said, they're usually a little bit shorter, I think, and I love that. I love the effectiveness of bringing us in and telling this spooky, dark story that gives us chills really quickly. You know, I think there's something really powerful and skillful about that and I, as someone who is a bit antsy when it comes to ingesting long form content, very much appreciate it.
Speaker 3:Yeah, You're. You're Gen Z at heart.
Speaker 1:Yeah, like Mariska's writing keeps me at the edge of my seat the whole time.
Speaker 3:I think there's been something super special about every time we featured their work.
Speaker 1:Yeah, I absolutely agree. I think that's very accurate.
Speaker 3:And just from like a rules standpoint. Yes, you love rules. Just I was really curious of why the person couldn't open the present or just like wasn't opening the present. Like after a while curiosity gets the best of everybody. But then we find out that it's been forever and it's physically impossible to get through the wrapping, which is just kind of fun forever and it's physically impossible to get through the wrapping, which is just kind of fun, yeah.
Speaker 1:Yeah, that is super cool Because, of course, at some point, right when you're living in isolation for eternity, you want to probably just end the whole thing and you are stuck. You can't.
Speaker 3:Who can say?
Speaker 1:Who can say Until that happens to us, we don't know.
Speaker 3:And I do feel like this story was really elevated by the narration.
Speaker 1:Oh well, thank you, that's very kind of you. Well, my friends, that concludes this sort of gather around the radio Christmas Eve night. Continuing on with this, you know thousand year old tradition of listening to and telling scary stories around this time of the year, which I hold very near and dear to my heart. I find a lot of joy in learning about pagan histories and being able to kind of understand traditions and holidays and cultures a bit better but also take part in really ancient traditions. That feels really cool to me. So thank you all for being on this journey with us. If you celebrate again, happy holidays. If not, I hope you have a very warm and cozy winter as we close out 2024. We'll talk to you again next year. Hold your loved ones tight, Stay safe, Stay warm, Stay spooky. We'll talk to you soon.
Speaker 3:Bye, bye, thank you.
