I wrote this short Christmas horror story a couple years ago. It was published in the anthology Christmas Under The Covers edited by Marc Damian Lawler in 2021. I’m really happy with how it turned out. I’m going to leave it up here through New Years and then will likely remove it.
“THE CAROLERS” By Matt Cowan
FROM THE ATTIC
Even if Johnathan Cartwright went on to live in the little stone cottage off Copper Road for the next fifty years, locals would still refer to it as the Vale House. A Vale had built it back in the 1800’s, and a member of their lineage had possessed it throughout until recently when Leonard, the last of them, failed to pay the property taxes and lost it to the bank. As it was located close to the new job Cartwright had moved there to take, he snatched it up at auction for a great price. It came as a cluttered mess, full of junk and old furniture – apparently Leonard had been a hoarder – and it needed a lot of repairs, but Johnathan was handy and didn’t mind the work.
He’d stepped up his efforts to clear things out of late as he planned to invite some friends down for Christmas. They still lived in New York, so the prospect of spending the holidays in a cottage on the outskirts of the vast Talbot Forest might entice them to make the trip.
Getting a fire started in the fireplace proved difficult to start, but its rippling heat proved worthwhile in staving off the outdoor chill seeping in through the cabin’s drafty doors and windows. Christmas was still a few weeks away with a lot to get done, but as freezing rain was falling and snow predicted later Cartwright decided to focus on indoor chores for the day. That decision led to his discovery of the carols. While teetering atop a wobbly wooden stepladder to grab a box of Christmas ornaments he’d found in the musty attic, he noticed a thin box wedged against the wall just out of reach. As the attic was unfloored he didn’t want to explore too deeply, so he raised up on his tiptoes and stretched as far as he could to grasp it. Finally managing to catch its edge with two fingers, Cartwright strained to flip it closer. Somewhere off in the distance there came a loud jangling of bells which sent a sudden chill down his spine, startling him enough to overbalance on the ladder which tumbled out from beneath him. Thrusting out his arms, he caught the edge of the attic access, leaving him dangling several feet off the floor seconds before slipping to fall the rest of the way down, the thin box following directly afterward to land atop his prone form.
DISCOVERY
Sitting on the couch holding a couple strategically placed ice packs, Cartwright examined the parcel which had caused him so much pain. Unlike everything else he’d seen in the attic, the box looked fairly new – devoid of the dust and peeling tape so otherwise apparent. By contrast the book inside looked very old. It was an oversized, thin hardcover with a monochrome navy-blue cover ornately embossed with the image of a man’s face wreathed in holly and ivy. Cartwright initially thought the face looked as though it were vomiting up a torrent of foliage that swirled out from its widely stretched mouth, but upon closer inspection he decided the lines flowing from it were meant to depict a scream – or more likely, considering what it turned out to be, singing. Inside were three thick pages of song lyrics, penned in excessively florid cursive which made it nearly illegible. Intricately designed artwork bordered each of its age-yellowed pages depicting interlocking leafy vines occasionally interrupted by pairs of long, bony fingers pulling aside the foliage to reveal devious looking hook-nosed faces, grinning maniacally.
While Cartwright assumed the book must have been used for singing hymns, he didn’t recognize any of the songs and after reading titles such as “Traveling Down a Blighted Road”, “Midnight’s Scorched Agents” and “The Coming of the Infernal Four”. He came to realize the book wasn’t meant for any church.
The chirping of his phone caused Cartwright to cast the book aside. Montague Benson’s name flashed across the screen.
“Hey Monty, how’s it going?” Cartwright answered. Ever since they had become friends in the third grade he’d insisted everyone call him that rather than Montague.
“Quite well, quite well,” came Monty’s still thick British accent despite his having lived in the U.S. the past twenty years. “How’s the new place coming?”
“Still whipping it into shape. I’ll have it ready by the time you and Karen arrive next week. That’s assuming you’re able to make it, of course.”
“Indeed! We’ll be there with bells on.”
“Not literally, I assume.”
“One can never tell.”
The two carried on their conversation a bit longer longer before signing off. Dusk was shifting to night and he wanted to get started putting up the old, artificial tree he’d found in the attic. He just hoped the musty smell it had acquired from its time there dissipated before his friends arrived.
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
The large tree proved a nightmare to assemble. Each branch had to be locked in place, then bent into proper shape, but by the time he finished, it did indeed resemble a proper Christmas tree awaiting its adornments. He’d poured himself a second glass of wine and was setting about untangling a string of colored lights when a soft rapping came at the back door. Looking up, a brightly shining moon caught his eye through the window. Beside it, the grandfather clock showed 11:00. He couldn’t imagine who’d be stopping by so late. He didn’t know anyone local besides those who interviewed him for his new job.
The shadow of a slight, ill-defined shape darkened the stained glass window of the back door.
“Who is it?” he called out.
The voice that replied had a tinny quality to it which normalized to distinctly feminine as it continued. “Selene. Can I come in?”
Cartwright tried to see his visitor through the window over the kitchen sink, but the angle wasn’t right. He only saw the heavy line of trees behind the house. Why had she come to the back door? Had she come through the forest? He considered the possibility she could be attempting to perpetuate some sort of scam, but too much wine had bolstered his confidence enough to open the door anyway.
The woman was a little over five feet tall. Her age was difficult to discern but likely somewhere between her mid-twenties to late thirties. Her shoulder-length, auburn hair draped down to the collar of her too-thin, tan jacket.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
A half-smile creased the pale, smooth features of her luminous face as she regarded him with eyes which looked too full and dark. “Wanted to introduce myself. Welcome you to the neighborhood and all that.”
Cartwright frowned. “It’s hardly a neighborhood. I didn’t even think anyone lived within walking distance.”
A chime, like the ringing of a set of bells echoed from the forest behind them – late night hunters possibly.
Then he caught the smell wafting off her – strong, earthy, herbal – marijuana perhaps. That would explain why her pupils were so dilated. “My place is back through woods. It can’t be seen from here,” she said. “So, can I come in?”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” he was saying before noticing her eyes widened.
“Cool tree, man!” she said as she pushed past him into the house.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he objected, but she was already kneeling before the Christmas tree in the next room,.
“You’re decorating it. I’ll help,” she said, picking up the tangled mass of lights and starting to work the knots free with remarkable ease.
Cartwright stood in stunned silence a moment, then shrugged, took a swig of his wine, and joined her on the floor with the lights.
HE’S NOT FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU
They spent an hour decorating the old tree with even older decorations. The light strands required lots of bulb replacing before they would work, but eventually they managed it and the end result was beautiful.
Upon finishing they each took a seat in view of the tree and the crackling fireplace. Cartwright opened a second bottle of wine to share. He made sure not to pour her much as he didn’t know what mixing alcohol into a system which had likely consumed some kind of drug would do.
“It’s been years since I decorated a tree,” Selene said, wistfully watching the twinkling lights.
“But, you must see so many potential subjects during your trips through the forest,” Cartwright said with a grin.
“You mean cut one from the Talbot? Can’t. It’s forbidden.”
“Forbidden? By whom?”
“There are forces which linger in the hidden places of the world,” she said, motioning toward the trees out the back window. “The Talbot is one of them. Do you know how many bodies have been found there whose cause of death remains unknown? Many more simply vanish from it without a trace. The Talbot’s a hungry beast waiting for its next victim to devour.”
“If that’s so, it must worry you to travel through it.”
“Nah, I have a special place there where I like to meditate. Besides, I know how to ward myself,” she said, producing a silver necklace from beneath her shirt. A small, silver cage hung from it containing something that looked like a misshapen hunk of amber which smelled like lemon and pine.
“What is it?”
“It’s Frankincense – like what those guys presented to the baby Jesus in the manger.”
“And that works?”
Selene shrugged. “So far, so good.”
Cartwright grinned and shook his head, his thoughts returning to his discovery from the attic. “Did you happen to know the family that lived in this house before me?”
Selene fixed him with an intense stare. “Old Leonard. He was not a nice man. Not many knew him well and most who did avoided him.”
“I see. I wonder why he didn’t take his stuff when he moved out.”
“I imagine because he thinks he’ll get it back eventually, house included. Leonard isn’t one to let things go. You shouldn’t forget that as I’m certain he hasn’t forgotten about his house or you.”
Selene left soon afterward. Cartwright offered to call her an Uber, but she declined, promising a return visit as she slipped through the back door towards the swell of trees. With her gone the house fell silent again except for the crackling of the fire. Weary from the activity of the day and too much wine, Cartwright slumped into his chair and watched the snowflakes floating leisurely toward the ground through the front window. As his heavy eyelids were closing he heard the bells again, still sounding a good distance away but clearer than before. The chimes were accompanied by a constant, dull murmuring which was too vague to make out. Its rhythmic pattern had a melody to it which drove him further into the inescapable embrace of sleep.
THE FESTIVAL
The Christmas festival in Merriville was a short ten minute drive from the cottage. While the town wasn’t large, the turnout made finding an available spot in the nearby 4H fairground parking lot a struggle. He arrived at the onset of dusk, which perfectly accented the glimmering lights strung along the makeshift craft booths that lined the blockaded street. He was perusing the wares of one selling dioramas of Christmas scenes made from pinecones, bark and tree sap “salvaged exclusively from our own Talbot Forest,” according to the ruddy-faced salesman, when he heard voices emanating from somewhere beyond view. A chime of bells rang out, then the voices came intoning.“The road was porous and filled with scabrous mites, yet the journey was necessary for yon bloodthirsty wights.” Thechorus came from at least four unified voices somewhere beyond the encroaching trees. The singers were not visible, yet their voices came through full and strong.
“Well, that’s certainly not the sort of Christmas song you normally hear.” Cartwright said to the shopkeeper.
“What’s that now?” he replied, looking confused.
“Those carolers in the forest singing that morbid song.”
The shopkeeper eyed him. “Guess I missed it.”
Cartwright continued scanning the trees for several moments but saw and heard nothing more from them. Replacing the diorama, he left the shop and moved on. The smell of searing roast beef and toasted almonds drew him to the food booths.
Holding a cookie gingerbread man whose icing-crafted features made him look like a deranged elf, Cartwright purchased a cup of mulled wine and was moving toward another batch of shops when he heard the bells again, louder this time as he was closer to the forest line. The ensemble of voices followed immediately after. “Their footprints laid bare, lined all in a row, still sizzling with heat trekking toward your door.”
Cartwright pushed through the throng of people past the booth heading toward the forest and its singers, but already their voices were receding deeper into the mass of trees. He managed to make out four shadowy figures, at least two of which looked to be male. He thought they must be part of some re-enactment troupe as they were wearing Victorian-era clothing and hats. Seeing no path wide enough to follow them, Cartwright turned and headed back to the festival booths.
A NOTE OF WARNING
When he arrived home carrying a handful of items he’d purchased from the Christmas Market, Cartwright found a note stuck to his door with tree sap. It gave off a now familiar herbal smell.
I focused my meditation at the grove today on you. I sensed something terrible, old and dark which has set its sights on you. Be careful . They are coming.
Selene
Cartwright chuckled at the note. He was certain she believed what she wrote and meant well by it, but he didn’t believe it as he moved into the cottage to prepare for Monty and Karen’s arrival later that evening.
HOUSE GUESTS
The snow-dowsed duo ofMontague and Karen arrived at Cartwright’s door late the night of the 23rd. He felt proud of the progress he’d made clearing refuse from the house and trimming it in festive adornments. The aroma from the turkey, mashed potatoes and fresh baked rolls he’d prepared permeated the cottage. After he got them settled into the spare room, they gathered around the oval dinning room table where he began laying out the food. Leaving off the overhead lights, Cartwright lit a series of tall candles atop the table and stoked the fireplace into a pleasant blaze. After talk of new jobs, old classmates, and future plans began to wane, the conversation turned toward the weird singing Cartwright had heard earlier that day.
“What were they singing again?” Karen asked, her eyes heavy from the long day’s travel.
“I don’t remember the exact words. I’m not even sure I made them out correctly. The singers’ voices weren’t normal. They sounded too high-pitched and warbly, like listening to a recording of blasphemous Christmas songs on the wrong speed. They definitely made mention of “scabrous mites” and “bloodthirsty wights,” which seem like odd choices.
“That’s quite peculiar,” Monty noted, rubbing his chin the way he always did when he had a mystery to chew on, “quite peculiar, indeed.”
Karen scrunched up her nose at him. “Alright, out with it. Whenever you get that look it means something’s clacking around in that brain of yours.”
Monty didn’t respond immediately, obviously preoccupied by his thoughts. “Probably nothing useful. What you said just reminded me of something I heard many years ago, back when I still lived in Merseyside.” Then he drifted off into his thoughts again.
Karen leaned back in her chair, releasing an exaggerated sigh. “For heaven’s sake, Monty! Just tell us what it is.”
“It’s been so long since I heard it, and I was very young at the time, so the details are hazy, but I remember I’d been irritating my dad by repeatedly singing Christmas songs throughout the house one Christmas Eve. He decided to try and frighten me into stopping by telling a couple of scary stories. First he referenced an old historical text about a group of unruly carolers in a church that were cursed by the clergy to continue their singing non-stop for a full year as punishment. When that didn’t do the trick, he told another which he said wasn’t recorded in any official manuscripts but was told to him by his great grandfather who had lived in the village where it happened.
He said the young daughter of a wealthy landowner had disappeared one night a few days before Christmas. She’d been seen out with a troubled local named Patrick Delmoss whose family had been excommunicated from the church for reasons unremembered, but he was known to have a dark influence on those he encountered. Officials went to the house where he and his mother lived in the forest for questioning, and while he initially denied having been with her, too many witnesses had seen them for it to stick. He then told them a most extraordinary tale,” Monty said, staring up at the ceiling as he drifting further into thought.
“You wanna fill us in?” Cartwright said after Monty’s silence stretched too long.
Snapping out of his revery, he returned his eyes to them. “Apparently, Delmoss claimed that they’d been at his house that night when a group of carolers came singing at the door. He tried to send them away which only enraged them, causing them to threaten revenge. He believed it must have been them who’d taken the young lady after she left for home that evening. As no one else had seen these carolers, Delmoss was not believed, and when her murdered body was found on the shore of a lake that ran through the forest close to his house, he was arrested. While awaiting trail in prison and virtually assured subsequent execution, four strangers arrived in town. They were only seen at night when they went door-to-door singing carols with horrid lyrics in bizarre, unnatural voices. People who opened their doors to them said the faces of the singers were hideously scarred and demonic looking. They believed Delmoss’ mother, who was reputedly a witch, had attempted to summon up shadows resembling the four from her son’s story in hopes it would validate his claims, but the things that arrived proved harder to control than she expected. In the end, she was found torn to pieces in her house and the same for her son in his prison cell. Local priests were brought in to perform rights on the entire village, and eventually the demonic carolers vanished.”
“But, that was in England, not here in the U.S.,” Karen said, now fully awake and engaged in her husband’s tale.
“That’s true, but both experiences seem so similar, I thought there might be some connection.”
The conversation moved onto other things, but Monty’s story stayed with Cartwright deep into the night.
CHRISTMAS EVE ENCOUNTERS
Cartwright was forced to brave the crowds in the packed grocery the morning of Christmas Eve to pick up some last minute items. He’d left Monty and Karen at the house lounging in the front room drinking coffee in their pajamas watching Albert Finney playing Scrooge on TV. They had plans to go to the movies later that evening, then likely stop off for dinner and drinks before returning to the cottage but needed to recuperate after the previous day’s travels first.
Despite its emptying shelves, a problem exacerbated by the prediction of an incoming snowstorm, the aisles were packed with frantic shoppers. Having fought his way through an excruciatingly long checkout line with most of what he needed and workable substitutes for stuff they were out of, he headed toward the car.
Selene was there leaning against its hood. He’d wanted to to talk to her about the note she’d left but didn’t have a way of contacting her.
“Hey,” he said as he approached. She wore a coarse-looking sweater and plain, uneven jeans.
“Are the couple staying at your place your friends?” she asked.
The question unnerved him. Had she been spying on the cottage? “Yes,” he answered.
“You should send them away before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“I don’t know exactly what they are. I can only tell you what I’ve seen. There are four of them. Sometimes they’re nothing but hazy shadows drifting through the trees. Then they coalesce into fully solid beings. They aren’t of our world. They don’t belong here, but they’re here anyway, and I sense power from them – dark power, and for some reason they’re focused on you.”
Cartwright rubbed his eyes. He liked Selene, but whether it was due to stuff she smoked or something else, she obviously experienced strange delusions. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, opening his car door.
“You don’t believe me,” she said, moving in close enough to prevent his getting inside.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
Her dark eyes bored into his. Then she reached forward to pull him into a tight, unexpected embrace. “Old Leonard set all this into motion somehow to get revenge on you for buying his house. I know it. You should prepare yourself and your friends as well. These things, whatever they are, will come tonight.”
Then she released him, turned abruptly and headed back toward the forest.
ARRIVAL OF THE CAROLERS
The heavy band of snowfall arrived earlier than expected, making the roads treacherous by the time the movie let out, but Cartwright had been talking up the food at Dalby’s Steakhouse ever since he’d moved into town, so they pushed on. The meal proved worthy of his accolades, but a steep price was paid on the drive home. They decided not to go for drinks in favor of heading straight for the cottage. Still, the ride took much longer than expected, pushing their arrival well past ten o’clock. They had just exited the car to trudge through ankle-deep snow toward the cottage when a jangle of bells echoed forth from the trees. It had an eerie, hollow quality to it that quickened their pace.
Once inside, Cartwright made sure the door was securely locked and recalling Selene’s words from earlier, checked the back door and windows as well.
“Is something wrong?” Karen asked.
“No,” he answered, “I just like to make sure everything’s buttoned up.”
Things were silent long enough for them to find themselves seated around a small folding table in the front room each with drinks beside them and holding a handful of playing cards. For reasons they couldn’t explain, a pall had befallen them.
Monty was the first to speak. “Dear heavens, what has become of our festive disposition? It’ll be Christmas morning in five minutes. We should be carrying on like loons, not sitting here quietly mumbling two-word sentences as though we were attending a wake.”
“You’re not wrong, my dear,” Karen said with a sigh. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been on edge ever since hearing that weird jingle of bells, like it were a literal death knell or something.”
Cartwright set his cards down. “What your feeling is probably my fault. I ran into that local girl I was telling you about at the store today. She claimed that some… spirits or something would be coming for me tonight and that we shouldn’t stay here because of it.”
“You mean like Jacob Marley and his lot?” Monty quipped with a grin.
“I honestly have no idea. I don’t believe in that kind of thing, and she’s obviously under the influence of some mind altering substances, but for whatever reason her words put me on edge.”
“Well, let’s forget all that and make ourselves merry. I say we put the cardsaway and,” Monty’s words died on his lips as the hollow-sounding bells rang out again, much louder this time.
All three raced to peer out the back window to see four figures emerging from the trees – one tall and broad shouldered wearing a battered top hat, another who was slighter but obviously male wore a bowler lurched with a pronounced limp. The other two were women, both wearing heavy knit scarves and widely projecting bonnets. One was missing her right arm while the other carried a bell in each hand occasionally giving them that much recognized ring. As they moved closer toward the cottage, the two male figures each pulled an oversized book from inside their long coats.
“Who are they?” Karen whispered.
“They look like characters from a Charles Dickens book,” Monty mumbled, not taking his eyes off the ever advancing crew.
“They’re carolers,” Cartwright said.
“This late at night? Coming from the woods?” Monty said with a frown.
“I recognize those books they’re carrying. I found one just like them in the attic last week.”
“You think they’re coming to get it back?” Karen asked.
Cartwright didn’t answer as the carolers had moved close enough to be more fully seen. The skin of their faces were withered and blotched with deep fissured scars. They formed a semi-circle around the back door. The one-armed woman stood beside the tall, top-hated man to share his book. The bell-ringer likewise took position next to the man with the limp. They took in a deep collective breath, fixed Cartwright and his friends with hateful glares, and began to sing.
“Christmas morn has born to our great delight, granting respite for saints and sinners alike,” they sang in unison with the same bizarre, warbling voices Cartwright had heard at the festival, but it was far more disturbing at such close range.
“This must be some sort of elaborate prank,” Karen gasped. “Like one of those hidden camera shows or something.”
Both Monty and Karen turned fear-filled eyes at Cartwright which he mirrored back at them.
“Donning our lost skin and bone in full might, out we go to feast and to fight,” the carolers continued, loud enough the cottage windows began to vibrate in rhythm with their voices.
“Do you have a gun?” Monty asked.
Cartwright shook his head. He hadn’t thought he’d need one in the quiet, little town – a decision he now regretted.
“Call the police” he said, searching for his phone, but Karen already had hers out.
She paled as she removed it from her ear and showed them the screen which read “No Service”.
As the caroler’s song grew increasingly louder, the cottage began to shake as if in the midst of an earthquake.
“Let’s get out of here!” Cartwright yelled as he raced toward the front door, grabbing his car keys on the way. Monty and Karen followed close on his heels, losing their balance as the floor shook beneath them.
Reaching the door, Cartwright tugged on it repeatedly, but it refused to budge.
“You won’t get that door open!” Monty hollered over the intense sound of the singers hellish song. “It’s… changed.”
Taking a closer look, Cartwright saw what he meant. The door hadn’t just gotten itself wedged into the frame, its entire shape was altered. Where moments before it was a non-descriptive, normal door, both it and the frame had stretched into bizarre, excessively uneven angles.
“Everything’s changing!” Karen yelled, and she was right.
A mass of grotesque beetles swarmed the large wreath he’d hung above the fireplace. A wide, bulbous-nosed face was stretching itself out from the base of the brass table lamp beside his recliner – the light it cast now a deep, blood-red hue. The blaze inside his fireplace intensified and seemed to have twisted imps dancing inside it. Worst of all, his Christmas tree was growing in size, rapidly enveloping the room.
“We have to get out of here!” Karen screamed.
Monty snatched up a chair moving to smash it against the window, but it shifted in his hands, a flurry of thin roots growing from it to wrap around his arms and pierce his skin.
Cartwright grabbed the nearby axe firewood and used it to cut Monty free with a couple hacks.
The Christmas tree had swelled large enough to encompass the front door and window, forcing them back through the kitchen to the back door again.
The carolers were singing a different song, their mangled skin tearing with each verse. “Come sing with us amongst the trees, to celebrate every Christmas when we’re set free.”
“Give them back their book, maybe that’s all they want,” Karen suggested, blood beginning to trickle from her ears.
It wasn’t a bad suggestion, he thought. Maybe that’s what had drawn their attention to the cottage in the first place. Without saying another word, Cartwright handed the axe to Monty, then took off toward the storage closet where he’d stashed the book. Its door was beginning to warp as well, but he was able yank it free with enough force. The face on the book’s cover grinned wickedly at him as he picked it up and ran back to his friends, both of whom were knelling on the floor covering their ears from the hideous, screeching of the carolers.
The Christmas tree was cracking the walls to push its way into the kitchen and beginning to breach the ceiling in the process. With no time to spare, Cartwright gave Monty a nod before opening the back door and heading out toward the monstrous carolers, who smiled gleefully at him as they continued to sing.
“Join in our torment, join our song, the Infernal Four will gleefully carry you along.”
Cartwright could feel the skin of his face tearing as he drew near the unnatural force of their voices, but he pushed onward until he stood directly before them.
“There’ll be no rejoicing, we’ll do nothing but wrong, and we’ll continue to sing until everything’s gone.”
“This is yours,” Cartwright yelled, as a gust of frigid wind attempted to steal his breath away. He held the song book out toward the one-armed woman. Up close, he saw more of her face had fallen off revealing bits of skull beneath. “Take it and go!”
The singing suddenly stopped as all four of the carolers focused their attention on Cartwright and the book.
“Keep the songbook and take it along, so that you may join us in singing our songs,” they sang to him in perfect unison.
“No thanks,” he said, remaining polite even under these most dire of conditions.
When none of them reached forth to take the book, he threw it into the snow at the large one’s feet. “Take it and go!” Cartwright yelled, trying to project false bravado as he turned his back on them and began heading back toward the house where he could see Monty and Karen watching, wide-eyed from the back window.
An enraged, piercing screech from the four unified voices lanced out from behind as seven hands grasped him from all sides. Their fingers felt exceedingly thin and boney but remained incredibly strong as fetid-breathed voices sang in his ear. “You’ve read from the song book and all its notes sour, this binds you to us from henceforth to devour!” they sang as they began to wrench at his limbs.
Frantically searching for some way to defend himself, Cartwright thrust a hand into his pocket searching for his flip-knife, but found something else instead, something he hadn’t put there. As soon as he grasped it, the hands tearing at him dropped away. Stumbling from them, Cartwright fell into the snowy ground and watched as all four carolers began to disintegrate, horrified expressions contorting their skeletal faces. Within a few moments they had dissolved into pitch black silhouettes which then faded away into nothingness.
Scrabbling to his feet, Cartwright ran back toward the cottage. The door opened easily this time as he staggered in and looked at the item he’d pulled from his pocket. He instantly recognized the silver necklace with its little cage holding the small chunk of amber colored material.
“What’s that?” Monty asked. “Did it come from them?”
“It’s frankincense,” Cartwright answered, thinking back to the deep embrace Selene gave him when he’d seen her at the grocery. “It was a gift from a friend – a perfect Christmas gift when I needed it the most.”
THE END
Horror Delve 