Good evening! It’s Christmas week and time to be very merry and spooky! This week in Sandcastle people and the supernatural alike like to put aside their differences and magically get along like something beautiful in the air while they all sit and listen to the terrifying and spooky stories told on the KSND radio waves just like you’re listening right now. So grab that glass of wine and a nice warm blanket and listen to these spooky Christmas stories.
First I’d like to thank the listeners of the program and Patreon members including Ivy Iverson, madjoe, P.A. Nightmares, John Newby, Patrick, and 933TheVolt.com. If you would like to support the program please visit www.scarystorytime.com/support where you can find links to merchandise such as t-shirts and mugs, Venmo, PayPal, Patreon, and even a cute miniature figurine. And thank you Ivy for the wonderful gift 🙂
Be sure to visit my youtube channel at Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time on Saturday nights for a livestream chat where you can ask questions, listen to stories, and other fun topics. Subscribe at www.youtube.com/spookybooscarystorytime and be sure to hit that notification bell.
Now let’s begin…
Patrick Finn arrived home from his Christmas conquests, beating out the snowstorm by mere miles, mere minutes. He felt not only the foreboding presence of a hazardous blizzard, but also that of something else. Something darker. It felt as if it resonated not only within his soul, but also within the souls of those around him, within the very ground itself.
Patrick had never bothered to check, but he was sure that beneath the grass and soil of Winter Harbor, Maine, there in hungered a gaping mouth or a chasm yearning for the flesh of the innocent, and anchored to the physical world only by a desire to seem normal. It had not yet been appeased because the residents of Winter Harbor were all but innocent.
Patrick had moved to Winter Harbor hoping to escape the despondency and despair he had felt in his hometown, Belmont, Maine. So far these feelings had only amplified, magnified, by both the wintry death that he felt tip toeing in the town’s midst and the lingering scent of paint that seemed to permeate every building in the city. It was as if the town was constantly being repainted in some sort of halfhearted attempt to cover something up.
Still, he felt it necessary to stay, so as not to make matters worse for his wife, whom he barely saw anymore, and his son, who always seemed so distant. He and his wife were going through a rough time in their marriage and their son was feeling its effects. It was akin to what one may feel after a tumultuous earthquake. Patrick felt that he had to make it up to his son, so he went out and bought him the most expensive and extravagant thing he could get his hands on this late in the shopping season, a brand new video game system. He had assured his son that, even though he had acted out often this year, Santa would bring him something good.
Throughout these charades, Patrick felt empty at the prospect of shopping for a boy that he knew nothing about, a boy whose existence was forgotten every so often.
On the Eve of Christmas, Patrick arrived home before the snowstorm and quickly crept into the garage to wrap the present and place it under the tree. It was in this garage that he often felt abrupt changes, as if within its small space, it contained secrets beyond human comprehension. The musky smell of the old holiday decorations coupled with the omnipresent scent of fresh paint, varnish, and gasoline all seemed to meld into one personified force, whispering sweet nothings to Patrick as he exited his car. This caused him to shudder heavily, as if beset by a fit of delirium tremens. He shrugged off the dull headache and dry mouth before quickly and sloppily wrapping the gift.
Following this, he slipped it under the tree and began to creep upstairs. He couldn’t help but grimace at the thought that he was as far from Santa as humanly possible.
As he reached the top of the landing, Patrick glanced over at the clock. It read 11:49. He stood there, as if to wait for some fleeting childhood feeling that may accompany the arrival of Christmas. It did not come, as he soon found. Nor did cheery music, nor the scent of evergreens and cookies. Just deafening silence and that damnable scent of paint. It was everywhere, inescapable. The arrival of yet another disappointing Christmas struck Patrick like a blow to the face. He fell to his knees then subsequently onto his stomach. He couldn’t tell if he had passed out or not.
Suddenly, a loud sound in his son’s room jarred Patrick awake. He quickly got up and stumbled into the room. The popping sound he had heard made him wonder what made it, and when he finally found out, he was confused even further. A large, black humanoid, adorned with goat horns and a tongue that writhed like a snake, stood before him, clutching his son. Patrick stood dumbfounded, seemingly incapable of recognizing not only the creature, but anything else before him.
“What do you want?” Patrick asked. Innately, he knew that the creature wanted something.
The creature smiled, licking his lips.
“Thine tender fruit, not spoiled by the worms of new but by the tree that bore it… ripened not into ambrosia but a rotten, hollow core…”
Patrick stared at the creature. Sweat began to collection on his brow. He felt as if his brain itself had been lit afire. He couldn’t breathe.
“I… I can’t say I understand…” Patrick stammered out.
The creature smiled again.
“Not by love of a dying star can a a planet be adorned, but by the eruption of its most sacred peaks? I desire the treasures from which you hope to find salvation. The gift to your boy. It is a gift for me, now.”
Patrick couldn’t understand why the creature would want the game system, but he felt it necessary to give it up. He quickly bolted downstairs, grabbing the box and, clutching it tight, he sprinted back up to his son’s room. The creature, upon his arrival, thrust Patrick’s son to the floor and held out one long, beckoning hand.
As Patrick handed over the present, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were Faust himself, exchanging an eternity for one single moment of gratification. The creature licked his lips once more and disappeared in the time it took Patrick to blink.
When he was sure he was alone, Patrick fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his son. He expected a “thank you,” an “I love you,” something. He heard nothing. He looked down. He found that his son was withering away, becoming the very shadows that inhabited the night around him. Patrick knew at that moment that he was entirely alone, swallowed finally by the chasm beneath his feet.
He stumbled to the garage before sitting down, embracing his solitude and his communion with the musky smell of paint that seemed to beckon invitingly.
Final View
Written by ZugZuwang
It’s December.
I don’t feel anything for the month anymore. Not for myself anyway.
I’m not some sort of misanthrope that hates Christmas; seething at the very sight of a holly wreath or mistletoe. I’m no Scrooge, no. The concept of Christmas has been wonderful to me since I was a boy; sharing seasonal joy with my youthful friends and showing them the cherished gifts I’d been given. I enjoyed Christmas then, and many memories still exist in my head of many a twenty-fifth spent at my now late relatives’ houses; cousins rarely seen coming over to celebrate and hopefully give me gifts too.
So why do I express nothing towards the very holiday I know I have loved?
Because I no longer can love it. It’s not that I choose not to; I physically cannot, and I cannot because my condition does not allow me to.
The beginning of what I’m talking about began on my seventeenth birthday. My birthday falls on the thirtieth of November, and as such it became a theme that my relatives liked to get me all sorts of advent calendars among my other gifts, as a sort of running in joke that admittedly I did find funny for a time.
I got all kinds of calendars to signify the countdown to Christmas Day. Cheap, store bought ones, novelty ones, kids-themed ones, even some adult-themed ones a few times. Occasionally, though, I’d get the more expensive ones; ones that were made from certain types of material, that displayed pictures rather than having candy within them.
It was on my seventeenth birthday that I got one of these.
We were sat in our lounge in my mother and father’s modest house; everyone gathered to see me open my gifts. Up until I got to my Aunt’s carefully wrapped gift, I’d had a whale of a time opening everything. The moment I’d laid my eyes upon it; I had sensed something was wrong with it. It was a gut premonition, and I was absolutely right.
But in a public setting where a dozen people are watching you expecting you to enjoy something, you can’t really say that you suddenly dislike something because of a gut feeling. That’d be rude.
And so, I had looked over the advent calendar in my hands, pretending to drink in what I’d been given in awe. It was an ornate thing, carved from mahogany and the illustrations on the doors were hand-painted in a way that reminded me of the artwork on Russian dolls. The edges were gilded with swirling gold designs, and each numbered tile was painted to look like a heavyset brown planked door with a frosted window where a painted shadow was displayed to give the illusion of a person standing behind it.
For some reason, I could feel them looking at me.
The numbers themselves were painted in the center of each door in red and white alternating colors reminiscent of a candy cane. I didn’t know what I know now, but I knew that holding that calendar in my hands did not feel right.
“Well, do you like it Alec?” My Aunt had asked.
I had done my best to give a positive answer despite the creeping sense of unease that I could not shake off.
“Yeah, thank you aunt Greta, I’ve never owned a calendar like this one before.”
I wasn’t lying; I hadn’t.
After the pleasantries had ended and everyone had left, I retreated to my room, with plans to look over this calendar one last time, and then get rid of it. Being seventeen now, my family wouldn’t pry it too much and wouldn’t question why they couldn’t see it displayed in my room anymore after I had disposed of it. They respected my privacy.
My hands reached for it, and honestly I still remember its’ beauty. Despite the discomfort I felt, I admired the craftsmanship and artwork. Wherever she’d got it from, my aunt had probably paid way less for it than something like this was worth.
I peered at the hand-carved wooden details, flipping it over and examining the back. Written upon it in etched letters was:
“Patience is a virtue”
Now I had never cared about these gimmicky teachings that calenders of the religious variety liked to peddle; but something felt different. This calendar had already made me feel uncomfortable, so I did take a little more notice of this particular message than I usually would; stopping to think about what that could be referring to.
Not long enough to understand what it actually meant, though.
The following day, I took my calendar to a thrift store that was local to my hometown; hopefully I’d be able to get a few bucks for it.
The store clerk took it in my hands with a lack of any of the unease that I’d had when touching it. This threw me off a little.
“Where did you get this, son?” He’d said to me with a look of wonder on his face. His hands traced themselves over the doors, going to open the first one to inspect it. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t feel the same apprehension I had felt about holding that thing.
Door number one swung open on its’ hinges, revealing an illustration of a reindeer in a snowy woodland environment. It was painted in the same kind of style as the rest of the calendar, wavy ridges making up its’ brown fur and antlers. I noticed that this illustration’s beady black eyes seemed to follow me wherever I looked at it; trained on me intently, almost alive.
I swiftly averted my gaze.
“It’s lovely, just wonderful!” The cashier had said as he handed me ten dollars. I hadn’t really cared what the hell was up with that calendar; I just wanted it far away from me, and so if that man liked what he saw, then that wasn’t my problem once he’d bought it.
I thought I hadn’t cared, that is.
You see, I can’t prove exactly what caused my condition. But I have my suspicions, and it’s not farfetched to come to the conclusions I have.
It developed that Christmas. It began as a general feeling of emptiness; I felt plain and indifferent. Walking and talking with friends and family became slowly less and less meaningful as December crept onwards. I gradually felt odder and odder emotions, like I was being pulled every which way in the middle of a conversation.
It began to wreck my winter life; starting to ruin it in every way possible.
To start with, my joblife became strained; complaints became a problem as customers began to complain to my manager about my supposed lack of motivation and monotonous conversation; I simply looked as if I didn’t want to be there. I had no idea why I had begun to feel this way; I liked my retail job, it paid my bills and my co-workers were nice enough.
My love life also began to decline come December. Every relationship I’d had ended before the year was out; all it would take was one seed of doubt, and I’d subsequently ruin all I’d had with the women in my life.
It was utterly hopeless; I felt physically exhausted.
And it’s still happening.
Today is the fifth of December, and I’m already seeing the effects. I’m twenty six now, to put that into perspective. The only difference between now and when it first began is that I know what it is.
I’ve become a mirror-man.
It’s what I call it to make sense of it.
I live my life as a blank slate now, feeling muted and indifferent without interaction; no real feelings or traits of my own. But when I pass by someone in the street, even if they consider me for a moment, I begin to feel an array of things. I’ve noticed a pattern. Whatever they think when they speak to me, even their thoughts become my emotions and actions. I am literally shaped by everyone else now. I can’t even cry about it, because sadness is no longer something I can comprehend anymore without someone telling me that they think I look sad; or perhaps thinking that I may be upset about something.
And so, if one thinks I am a liar, I will become a liar. If one thinks that I am a creep, that is what I become. I have tried to limit my interactions around December because it physically exhausts my body to flit between so many emotions and traits. It inevitably ruins my relationships, because I become what they think of me once I slip up in some way around them, even once. The alternative is sitting in a blank state of barely any thoughts, though; a vague conscious recollection of myself among the white noise is all I get.
I’ve thought long and hard about what caused this. I’ve even tried therapy for a while, but the professional conclusion was inconclusive, because they’ve never had a case where extreme and erratic changes in mood and personality are localized to December. No, this isn’t medical. This is because of that thing. That thing did something to me, and I don’t know what I did to have that happen. I am not waiting any longer for this to end; I’m not sitting around for a month every year to minimize the physical exertion on my brain and body.
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take the white noise and static in my head constantly when I’m alone for an entire month. I can’t take being aware that I’m becoming what someone else thinks I am from a passing comment or thought; yet being unable to stop it or alter how I am afterwards until I’ve left their presence.
And so, that’s why I’m standing at the edge of a suspension bridge high above the swirling, churning water on a cold winter night.
My car sits next to me, my only remaining ally in this world of isolation. It’ll soon be forgotten though. I think back one last time through my Christmas memories, watching them like a movie in my head. I can see myself having fun; I know logically that I am enjoying myself, but I simply cannot feel it. There is nothing there, not anymore.
My legs swing over the edge, dangling as I now sit down. I close my eyes. I don’t fear death because I can’t. All that I know is that I can’t keep being a passenger in my own body, nursing migraines after changing my personality so many times, odd and foreign thoughts causing chronic pain that no medication can stop.
No more waiting, no more enduring.
I lunge forward, falling toward the icy depths.
My body hits the water, and though I feel my nerves begin to work overtime from the freezing temperature of the liquid; my mind is at peace.
I sink below the surface, eyes glazed over as I begin to descend, thoughts growing misty. The white noise begins to overtake everything as I drift towards my salvation.
As everything becomes blurry and muted, I see a spectral shape flowing through the water towards me, beginning to take form as it seems to gallop.
It stops just in front of me, and in my indifferent delirium; I recognize it from my memories.
Those beady, staring eyes, boring into my soul, unblinking, unmoving.
That deer.
It watches me in the almost serene silence as I drift further and further away. Its’ mouth cracks into a smile, sinister and cruel, full of mocking malice.
But as my vision begins to fade, I realize that I understand why.
As I succumb to the water, white noise giving away to nothingness, I smile back as finally a semblance of clarity reaches me; a natural thought unplanted by others manifests in the abyss of fuzzy static.
I just couldn’t wait.
