Year's End: 14 Tales of Holiday Horror (15 page)

One of the men hungrily eyed the Styrofoam cooler on their way through the door.

“You’ve had enough,” the woman said sharply, seeing the man’s gaze. This, then, was her husband.

“Poor bastard,” Mike whispered.

“One more!” Joe said.

Mike tried to stay calm, but felt a panic rising. The next car down the lane would have the final person required for Joe’s victory. Why? He asked himself. Why did he have to make that stupid bet? Losing was about the worst feeling on earth. He would rather cut off a toe than lose. Literally. If pulling out a knife and lopping off a toe would somehow reverse defeat, he’d do it. The difference between winners and losers was that winners did whatever it took to win. Whatever it takes. Winners do whatever it takes to win. Mike suddenly had an idea.

“I’m hitting the pisser,” Mike said, turning around and going inside.

“Hurry up. You don’t want to miss the last guy walking through the door,” Joe said, goading.

Mike went inside, through the kitchen and into the living room. Behind grey curtains with white accents, a set of sliding glass doors led to a concrete slab that served as the back porch during summer months. Mike took a quick look around, but everyone was too busy drinking and talking to pay him any mind. He slipped behind the curtains, slid open the door, and stepped outside. Mike crept out the back gate and followed the fence around to the edge of the woods. If he lost the bet, no one was going to say it was because he failed to go the extra mile.

In the woods, Mike found a spot to hunker down. It was ghostly quiet and dark, lit only by the reflection of moonlight off branches and brush. After a minute, he lamented not bringing a couple of beers along for the wait. After two minutes, he began to feel the cold, and wished he’d thought to grab his coat. He tried to focus on the prize. He fortified himself by imagining the look on Joe’s face at midnight, and the thought of a crisp Benjamin. There were only fifteen minutes to go. Maybe he would get lucky and no one else would show. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, headlights flashed through trees, coming from the lane.

Joe must be ecstatic, Mike thought, but the rules said a hundred fifty people had to be at the party. Still, in the parking area wasn’t at the party. Rules were rules. Mike smiled. He would win this thing yet and snatch victory from Joe’s stubby, grubby hands.

As the car drove into the field, it paused. Mike imagined the driver looking left and right, across the parked cars, assessing the area for a parking space. The car slowly turned right and bounced along the frozen, uneven ground. It drove along the line of erratically parked cars, heading right for Mike’s position, crouched down in the darkened woods. He said a silent prayer that a flash of skin or clothes wouldn’t be revealed in the headlights.

The car carefully inched into the last place in line, right up next to the dense brambles marking the wood’s edge. Mike recognized the driver. It was Lisa. She was a friend of Joe’s from way back, and Mike had known her for a decade. He’d always liked Lisa, and regretted what he would have to do to her, but the balance of victory and defeat was at stake.

“Whatever it takes,” Mike whispered to himself.

Lisa pulled out and readjusted her car. Branches rubbed up against the passenger side fender and windows, sounding like fingernails across a chalkboard and probably scratching the paint. Lisa shifted into park and turned on the overhead headlight, looking into the rearview mirror and checking her makeup. She was decent looking, Mike thought, but getting a little long in the tooth. It was sad, really, a woman her age trying so hard to attract a man, while the younger women drew them in with so little effort.

As smooth and quiet as mist, Mike rose from his hiding place and worked his way around the rear of the car, crouching down to avoid being seen. He eased his head up above the trunk for a second to get a look. His eyes met Lisa’s in the rearview mirror. Like a prairie dog seeing a wolf, Mike ducked his head back down, cursing. Of course she saw him. She probably didn’t recognize him, but she was alert to his presence. Now his task became that much more difficult.

After a tense moment, the car door opened. Lisa stepped out, looking around, her face alert and concerned, if not scared. She set her eyes on the party and, fixated, began walking in a rapid gait. Luckily, her stilettos frustrated her progress across the uneven ground. Mike slipped up behind her and wrapped an arm around her neck. His goal was merely to knock her out. In another ten or fifteen minutes, she could party to her heart’s content.

Lisa struggled, but Mike kept up the pressure on her carotid, trying to choke her out. Although he’d never done it himself, he’d seen the move a hundred times on YouTube. For some reason, they never seemed to struggle this much. Finally, Lisa went limp. Mike lowered her to the ground and rubbed his jaw. It hurt from gritting his teeth. He looked down at Lisa. She didn’t look so good. Was she dead? Mike couldn’t tell. If she died, there would be problems.

Gripping Lisa just above the ankles, Mike dragged her to the other side of the car, out of sight. He checked his watch. Ten minutes. Hopefully Lisa would be the last to arrive until after midnight.

Once again, no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Mike detected headlights filtering through the trees. A car was coming down the lane.

Mike got down in front of Lisa’s car, hugging the grass, watching the latest car’s progress from behind the front passenger tire. Where was this car going to park? Lisa had taken the last spot. Anywhere else would risk blocking someone in. Perhaps they would have to go back and park along the lane.

The car followed Lisa’s path, pausing at the head of the lane, turning right and making its way slowly across the field. It would have to turn around. Mike looked over at Lisa’s body slumped against the passenger side, her head lolling to one side. There was a chance the driver might see her as he turned around. Mike cursed. He should have taken the time to put her in the woods, but how was he to know another car would follow so soon?

As he feared, the car came to an abrupt stop halfway through a three-point turnaround. By the way the car rocked on its suspension as the brakes engaged, Mike knew the driver had seen Lisa. Mike felt around him, and found a wrist-thick branch lying in the grass. He pulled the wood closer. It was about three feet long, its smooth bark still intact. It would have to do.

The driver’s side door opened. Mike rose, and as stealthily as possible worked his way around behind the car. Hopefully the occupants would have some night blindness from the headlights, or at a minimum be fixated on Lisa’s prone body.

A fit looking man in his late twenties, dressed in khaki pants and a modish, lightweight wool jacket, stepped out of the driver’s side. Mike closed the last ten feet in a flash. He saw a shadow in the passenger seat. A bloodcurdling scream cut the air. Before the man had a chance to turn around or otherwise respond, Mike hit him over the head with the branch. Vibrations from the impact traveled up the wood into Mike’s arm. The man crumpled to the ground, an arm flopping into the V where the door met the car.

Mike saw a woman reaching across from the passenger’s side, trying to shut the driver’s side door. She managed to get a hold on the handle and slam it, but it hit the man’s arm with a meaty thud and popped back open as if spring loaded.

Mike paused. If he stayed by the driver’s side, she might try to make a run for it out the passenger’s side. If he went around to the passenger’s side, she might make a run for it out the driver’s side. He sighed. This was getting out of control, but he was in too deep to turn around. Whatever it takes, he reminded himself. He could be inside drinking beer right now. Mike shook off his feelings of doubt. Whatever it takes. In ten minutes he would be the victor, collecting his money and downing a celebratory brew.

“Hey,” Mike said, trying to get the woman’s attention while keeping his face above the doorsill where she couldn’t get a good look at him. He blocked the open driver’s side doorway with his body. The woman scuttled back across the front seat and huddled against the passenger’s side door, as if Mike were a leper and she lived in an age before antibiotics. Mike checked his watch. Five minutes. He realized he didn’t need to subdue her, he just needed her to stay in place until midnight.

“Hey,” he said a little louder. “I’m going to let you lock the doors. I’ll be in the woods. If you step out, I’ll kill you.” Mike had no intention of killing anyone, of course, but she didn’t know that. “Wait until five minutes after midnight, and you can come inside.”

The woman whimpered something unintelligible. Mike took that as a yes and ran into the woods the way he’d come, being careful not to turn his face toward the car. He retraced his steps through the backyard, opened the sliding glass door, and slipped inside. No one was paying any attention as he stepped out from behind the curtain and made his way through the revelers to the front porch, where Joe was maintaining his vigil.

“Took you long enough,” Joe said as Mike pulled a fresh beer from the cooler and popped the tab.

“There was a line at the pisser.” Mike took a big gulp of the beer. He’d earned this one. A roar of “Happy New Year” passed through the party. After lowering the can and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mike said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, like thick cream from a cat’s muzzle, “It’s after midnight. Looks like you lose.”

“A couple of cars rolled in,” Joe said lamely.

“Did anyone come through the gate?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter. The bet was for people at the party. They’re probably out there necking, or maybe it was lost strangers.”

“I guess you’re right,” Joe said begrudgingly, digging out his wallet and forking over five twenties. “Damn. You always win.”

“Of course I do,” Mike said. He pocketed the money and reached for another beer. “Happy New Year.”

The Rat

Steve Bartholomew

The rat slumbered, but awoke when the door slammed. It was the Man. The rat had not eaten for a while. Actually, it had been about two days, but the rat did not count days or nights. With some hope, it rolled over and peered through a crack in the wall so it could see the room below. It wasn’t the only crack, but it was the one it usually used because it had the best view. The rat could see the Man standing in the middle of the room. He did not have food with him, or at least none that could be smelled. He held a bottle, which he set on the desk next to his laptop. The rat knew about bottles; it neither knew nor cared about laptops. It made a sudden scrabbling sound with its feet, to see what the Man would do. The Man glared at the wall and swore under his breath. He knew the rat was there and probably watching him.

The Man twisted off the cap of his bottle and poured some whisky into a glass, and then swallowed some without water or ice. The rat watched. From time to time, the Man had brought wine. Usually he had spilled some on the floor or on his desk, and the rat had come down after the man was asleep. It had developed a taste for wine, but lately the Man had been drinking only whisky, which the rat did not care for. The Man took a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. While waiting for an answer, he spoke to the wall and the rat inside. “One of these days, I’ll buy a shotgun and blast hell out of you,” he said. He had already tried traps and poison bait, but the rat was a highly evolved city creature that knew all those tricks. It liked it best when the Man brought home Chinese food in little cartons, and then passed out before eating it all.

Someone answered the phone and the Man said in a loud voice, “Stu! Randy here. How the hell are you? I hear you’re having a New Year’s party tonight.” He listened for a few seconds, then put the phone down. Then he took another drink. “Screw you too,” he said. The rat made some squealing noises.
The Man should have brought food
. Randy, the Man, took off one of his shoes and threw it at the wall, where it made a BONK sound. It also made a new tear in the wallpaper. The rat didn’t mind, the Man had done that before. The reason there were cracks in the wall was that Randy paid really cheap rent so he could afford to buy whisky. It was what they called a Piss-in-the-Sink hotel room. He’d been living here since Irene kicked him out, in October. Now here it was, a New Year.

Randy stood up and stumbled, forgetting he wore only one shoe. He took that one off too but decided not to throw it. Maybe he should eat something. Going to the little fridge in the corner he looked inside—there was some stale bread and three cans of beer. Randy had a hot plate, but didn’t do much cooking. Pizza and Chinese food were what he lived on. He found some salami behind the bread, took it out and picked up a knife to slice it. The salami stared at him. Changing his mind, he dropped it with the knife on a small table. Couldn’t leave that stuff out, though, the rats might get it. He shoved the salami back in the fridge, but left the knife, which was still clean and wouldn’t attract anything.

The thought of Irene gave him an idea. Picking up his phone, he punched another number. It rang several times; he was about to hang up, but then heard a click and a sleepy hello.

“Yo, Irene. Guess who. Sure, it’s me. I just called to wish you a very happy New Year. Wha’s wrong with that? Yeah, I’ve had a couple. New Year’s Eve, what you expect? I’m not going to any parties, though. Stu made me pershona non grata after the last one. You know of any other good parties going on? No, guess you wouldn’t. Okay, I’ll let you go, I know you have to get up and go to work at the hospital in the morning. Nurses don’t get holidays, you told me that often enough. Oh, by the way. The child support might be a little late next month. Guess what happened today? Right, you guessed it. I got laid off. Okay, fired. Yeah, again. I’m goin’ to fight it though. Bastards can’t do that to… Yeah, okay, g’night honey. Happy New Year.” He put the phone down.

The rat had been listening. The smell of salami had made it drool. Of course it did not understand the Man’s language, but it knew he was communicating with another of his species. It made another scrabbling sound. The Man looked at the wall and snarled. Several times in the past, the Man had brought females to his room. The rat understood the mating behavior of larger mammals. It had delighted in raising a commotion within the walls as the Man reached his heights of passion. This trick had infuriated the Man and spoiled his fun. After the third or fourth time, he had stopped bringing females to the room. Now the rat moved so he could peer through a different hole.