December 19, 2024 • 50 mins
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.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:17):
hello everyone and welcome back to the lunatics
radio hour podcast.
I am abby Abby Brinker sittinghere with Alan Kudan Hi.
As we approach the end of thisvery spooky wintery month, it is
tradition dating back, as wenow know, thousands of years to
tell ghost stories.
Speaker 3 (00:34):
Yeah, we learned all about that.
Speaker 1 (00:36):
So we are here today to participate in the time
honored tradition of tellingspooky, ghostly stories around
Christmas Eve.
Speaker 3 (00:44):
Although do we necessarily need to tell ghost
stories?
Speaker 1 (00:47):
Certainly not.
I think we can tell any kind ofspooky, ghostly, ghastly tale.
Speaker 3 (00:53):
Do we have any ghost stories?
Speaker 1 (00:54):
Well, that's something that will be uncovered
as we listen.
Speaker 3 (00:57):
Okay, do you want to just start?
Speaker 2 (00:59):
Let's just jump right in it in Matches, written by
Warren Benetello.
Speaker 4 (01:09):
read by John C Cook.
Night was falling, settlingover the city like a veil of
black ash.
A poor little girl trudgedalone down the street, her
snow-dusted hair glitteringfaintly in the lamplight, her
cheeks reddened and raw from theblistering cold.
She moved unnoticed past tophats and petticoats, carriages
(01:33):
and coachmen, her bare feetleaving long streaks in the snow
behind her.
As she trudged weakly down thesidewalk toward her home, she
was wearing shoes when she leftthe house, her mother's shoes,
far too big for a girl of herage.
But she had lost them both overthe course of the day One to a
(01:54):
puddle full of ice and sleet,the other to a starving dog
drawn to the smell of wetleather.
And so the girl limped onice-deadened heels that felt
wooden and numb, as if a pair ofmannequin feet had been
attached to her legs in place ofher own.
In the deep pockets of herdress she carried several boxes
(02:15):
of matches, the same number withwhich 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 andcold, in that she had made a
tidy profit.
As she passed the shimmeringstorefront windows, the smell of
(02:36):
roast goose tightened cruelfingers around her empty stomach
.
It had been days since she hadlast eaten what she would have
given for a meal.
Any meal would do.
But she especially yearned fora holiday feast A crust of
fresh-baked bread, a stew thickwith beef and carrots, a
generous slice of goose breastover a bed of roasted potatoes.
(02:59):
It was New Year's Eve after all.
As a frigid wind gusted down thenarrow lane, the girl
sidestepped into an alley toavoid the chill.
She sat cross-legged on thecobblestone, drawing her feet
into her folded knees to try andrestore some feeling to her
toes.
She was freezing, but she darednot go home.
(03:20):
Her father would be therewaiting, expectant.
How many matches had she sold?
How many pennies had she earned?
None, the girl wincedinvoluntarily.
She knew what was in store forher if she returned empty-handed
.
Her home was scarcely betterthan the alley.
Anyway, she told herself.
There was no heat to speak ofand the roof was rotted through.
(03:44):
The rags stuffed in the gapsdid little to staunch the cold
seeping in from outside.
Melt water dripped from thefissures in the ceiling during
the day, then froze toneedle-thin icicles at night.
It was as cold and inhospitablea home as one could imagine.
The girl clenched her hands toher lips and blew warm air into
(04:05):
her fists.
She had no feeling in herdigits, save for a spray of pins
and needles that jabbedpainfully into her fingertips.
Oh, how she longed to strike amatch, to feel the sharp heat of
the flame cupped between herpalms.
She had several boxes, eachwith dozens of identical
matchsticks.
Surely no one would notice asingle missing match.
(04:28):
She drew a box from her pocket,then removed a match with
trembling fingers, scratch.
She dragged the match along thecoarse boards of the
wood-framed building.
Beside her, a bright, brilliantflame burst forth, illuminating
her face with a golden glow.
She stared into the flame,entranced.
What a strange, wonderful light.
(04:49):
She felt transported to anotherplace, a cozy living room in
front of a great stone fireplace, the kind with a rack of
wrought-iron pokers beside it onthe hearth.
She saw herself stretched outon the carpet in front of the
fire, her face blasted with heatfrom the blaze.
Her father sat behind her in anoverstuffed chair, glasses
(05:12):
perched on the tip of his nose,reading a book by the firelight.
Then the little flame from thematch went out.
The fireplace vanished.
Only the charred stub of thematchstick clutched in her
fingers remained Fumbling.
Another match from the box.
She struck it against the wall.
The light flared brightly inthe gloom.
(05:34):
The girl was surprised to seethat the wall beside her had
become transparent, as if shewas gazing through a window into
a dining room.
On the table, a glorious spreadof food was set out A pot of
stew, bubbled and steamed, itsmouth-watering aroma wafting
past her nose.
Golden butter melted on thickslices of freshly baked bread.
(05:56):
A roast goose was set upon asilver platter, decorated with
sliced apples and candiedcranberries.
Her father carved a slice ofgoose breast and put it on her
plate.
More please, she said.
Then the match went out and thescene evaporated.
The girl could see only thepeeling paint of the
soot-stained wooden wall.
(06:17):
Again, the girl lit anothermatch, hoping to recapture the
vision, like a light sleepergrasping at the rapidly fading
wisps of an interrupted dream.
In the light, she found herselfsitting at the dining room
table, her father glaring downat her.
More he sneered what have youdone to deserve more, or any for
(06:38):
that matter?
He snatched the plate away fromher and dumped it on the floor.
The starving dog the one thathad stolen her shoe appeared
from under the table and begangreedily gobbling the spilled
meal.
The girl felt tears welling inher eyes.
A sob tightened her throat.
She swallowed hard.
It wasn't fair.
She didn't deserve to betreated like that.
(07:01):
She wished her mother was stillalive to stand up for her again
, like she had on the night thatshe died.
But she wasn't and she neverwould be.
The girl hated her father forthat.
She eyed the carving knife onthe table.
It was just within reach.
As her fingers crept towards it, the match went out.
(07:24):
The scene disappeared, twistingand swirling into the night
like the fog from her breath.
The girl snatched a trio ofmatches from the box and dragged
them along the coarse wallboard.
The wall became transparentonce more in the triple bright
glow.
The dining room was gone.
The girl was in front of thefireplace, again standing.
(07:47):
This time.
Her father was behind her,reading in the armchair, the
girl's fingers wrapped aroundthe wrought iron fireplace poker
.
The black metal was cool andheavy in her palm.
It made a slight metallicscraping sound as she drew it
from the rack.
Her father didn't appear tonotice.
The girl hid the poker behindher back as she feigned a yawn.
(08:11):
Good night, father, she said.
I'll be heading to bed now.
Hmm, he mumbled, ignoring her.
The girl circled behind herfather's chair, her fingers
tightened around the shaft ofthe poker.
Circled behind her father'schair, her fingers tightened
around the shaft of the poker.
She raised the metal bar aboveher head then brought it down
(08:32):
with all her strength upon herfather's skull.
The hook-like spike at the endof the staff plunged into the
top of his scalp, caving it inslightly.
The blow made a dull,squelching sound like a fist
punching, a rubber hot water bag.
Her father sat bolt upright inthe chair as if he was being
electrocuted.
A torrent of blood poured downhis face from his hairline.
(08:53):
More blood spilled from hisears.
His mouth opened in a silent,airless scream.
The girl wrenched the pokerfree from his fractured skull,
then raised it and brought itdown.
Again and again and again.
A spray of blood whipped acrossher face, stippling it with
crimson droplets.
Her father fell forward out ofhis chair and onto his hands and
(09:16):
knees.
He tried to climb to his feetbut stumbled forward and landed
face first in the fireplace.
Flames consumed his head andset his hair and clothes ablaze.
An avalanche of burning logstumbled off the hearth and onto
the carpet beside his body.
Flames danced upward as a sprayof embers circled toward the
ceiling like a swarm of tinysprites.
(09:37):
The sparks formed a shape inthe air A woman with an outline
of a familiar face.
A woman with an outline of afamiliar face.
Mother, cried the girl Again.
The matches were extinguished.
Desperate, the girl threw thestill-smoldering matchsticks to
the ground, then emptied theremaining matches from the box
into her palm and dragged themalong the side of the building.
(09:59):
They ignited with a sustainedhushing sound, consuming the
girl's vision with theirblinding brightness.
The girl's mother stoodluminescent in the glow, bathed
in an angelic light.
She was more beautiful thanever, more radiant than the girl
had ever dreamed possible.
Mother, the girl exclaimedplease take me with you.
(10:22):
I know you'll disappear whenthese matches burn out.
I can't bear to lose you again,please.
The girl's mother smiled thengathered the girl in her arms.
The girl realized that theywere no longer in the living
room.
Instead, they were flyingthrough the night air, ascending
skyward.
They soared high above theearth, rising towards the sun
where there was no more cold, nomore hunger, no more fear.
(10:44):
There was only warmth and lightand heat forever.
But in the alley, leaningagainst the wall, sat the little
girl with red cheeks and asmiling mouth, her ragged
clothes ablaze.
The flames reached into herpockets, finding the other boxes
of matches and igniting them.
Her lifeless body slumpedsideways as it was consumed by
(11:07):
the flames.
The inferno licked up the sidesof the building, hungrily,
devouring the peeling paint andthe dry flammable wood beneath.
It, spread to the roof, then tothe neighboring building, then
to the one beside that.
Eventually it spread to thegirl's apartment, where it found
her father passed out in bed,an empty whiskey bottle on the
(11:30):
floor by his dangling fingertips, the rags stuffed in the
cracked ceiling, dribblingribbons of flame onto the
bedsheets below.
Poor girl, the people said whenher charred remains were found
she was just trying to stay warm.
They pitied her, but onlybecause they didn't know the
wonderful things she had seenand how happily she had gone
(11:53):
with her mother into the lightof the eternal sun.
Speaker 3 (12:01):
I don't think we've had a story quite like this in
the podcast yet.
Speaker 1 (12:04):
I agree, but tell me what you mean.
Speaker 3 (12:06):
I don't think anything necessarily
supernatural happened.
Speaker 1 (12:11):
Okay.
Speaker 3 (12:11):
I think this was just I don't know like almost like
what happens when you're thedelusions, when you're like
going through hypothermia.
Speaker 1 (12:19):
Yeah, for sure.
Speaker 3 (12:19):
And it was really sad and really heartfelt and
fucking cool.
This is a.
I really like the story.
Speaker 1 (12:26):
I like it a lot for many reasons, and one of the
reasons is for me, when I firstread 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 interestingbecause Warren Benedetto, who
wrote it, describes it as adarker reimagining of the Little
Match Girl by Hans ChristianAndersen, which I've never read.
(12:49):
So I'm really, really excitednow that this has led me here.
The story was originallypublished in New Tales of Old by
Raven and Drake Publishing inApril of 2021.
Speaker 3 (12:57):
It's a very polished story and you can always tell
the mark of like a good shortstory when you have like a very
contained thing, but the wholeworld just like feels so alive
despite it being such a small,little contained thing.
Speaker 1 (13:12):
Yeah, I think that's absolutely right.
The world feels very rich andvisceral in a lot of ways, but
the story, you know, follows acharacter or two or three, but
really it's not sprawling.
But I can kind of picture herwalking around and the things
that she would encounter.
It's very beautifully written.
Speaker 3 (13:29):
I really love the writing style and I mean we've
had Warren on the past a fewtimes and every time it's just
like spot on.
Just the fact that we'relistening to basically a
self-immolation story maybe youknow, whatever it is, it's,
it's's, it's an immolation storyregardless, and it has like
this homey feel to it that'sweird, that's weird and that's
(13:49):
cool that's christmas magic atits finest exactly also great
choice of narrators for this onewell, it's not the first.
Speaker 1 (13:57):
I'm sure it won't be the last time that I've paired
warren benedetto and john cookas a writer and a narrator, but
john, as always, did such anincredible job with this and, I
thought, brought the story tolife in just the perfect way,
with the perfect tone.
I've said it before, but hisvoice really has this old-timey
richness to it that I think addsa lot to a story like this.
Speaker 3 (14:18):
I can't imagine why you thought this story reminded
you of A Christmas Carol.
Speaker 1 (14:24):
I know it's so weird.
It's not like John Cook isperpetually reading A Christmas
Carol all the time.
Speaker 3 (14:30):
It's one of our favorite yearly traditions.
John C Cook reads A ChristmasCarol.
He does it live on YouTube andit's so fun.
Speaker 1 (14:37):
Yeah, so he reads them.
He reads it stave by stave,live.
So I think he does one a weekbetween Thanksgiving and
Christmas.
But if you're not there towatch it live every week, of
course the the recording, thevideo on demand, is available on
his YouTube.
We will link it below, but itis Fado podcast, I believe, on
YouTube.
Okay, so as excellent as thatstory was, we have three more to
(14:59):
, uh, delight our ears.
All right here.
Our ears Alright here.
Let's roll the tape on the nextstory.
Speaker 2 (15:07):
Some idols are display only.
Written by Sarah Jane Justice.
Read by Sarah Luke.
Speaker 6 (15:16):
Ho, ho ho, Merry Christmas.
The grainy, robotic voice wasdistorted by the slow-motion war
of dying batteries.
The sound was grating but itpaired perfectly with an
animatronic Santa that lookedlike it had been built before
the first CD player.
Check it out.
(15:36):
Mike nodded towards ascratched-up chalkboard next to
the store's entrance.
Not many names on the nice list.
Everyone knows being naughty ismore fun.
Ashley grinned.
She picked up the chalk andscribbled both their names in
the naughty column.
Yeah, whatever, mike smirked,I'll ask you to make good on
(15:57):
that promise later.
Ashley laughed, pushing pastholly wreaths and dangling
plastic angels to head inside.
Ashley laughed, pushing pastholly wreaths and dangling
plastic angels to head insideMerry Christmas.
The voice took Ashley bysurprise, even though the woman
was sitting in plain sight Inher festive red and green dress.
She was almost camouflagedamong the discount candy and
ornaments that lie on thecounter.
(16:18):
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 forsale.
Some items are display only,but those are labeled clear
enough.
Are you open all year round?
(16:40):
Mike stepped forward to readher name tag Mrs Claus.
Wow, we're meeting actualChristmas royalty.
Ashley shoved him with one hand, but Mrs Claus didn't seem to
notice.
We open for the season, shereplied.
We have other businessinterests for the rest of the
(17:03):
year.
We, mike, repeated you, andSanta huh, the big man himself.
Ashley shoved him again.
And Santa huh, the big manhimself.
Ashley shoved him again.
We'll have a look around, ifthat's okay, of course, dear Mrs
Claus hummed.
Follow the arrows through thatdoor.
Prices are listed throughout.
(17:29):
Take care with the displays,thank you.
Ashley grabbed Mike by the armand pulled him along the arrows,
led them into a small room thatwas filled with animatronic
elves In clunking unison.
Santa's robotic helpers wavedtheir arms against a backdrop of
bonsai Christmas trees andjingling carols.
(17:50):
Ashley shivered, as if the fakesnow lining the path had given
her real chills.
This is so weird.
Mike led the way into the nextroom.
Imagine owning a house withthis many rooms and using it for
this.
I don't know, I kind of get it.
Ashley shrugged.
The owners probably live in theback.
If they have more space thanthey need, it makes sense to use
(18:17):
it for something that can makethem decent money.
There are a lot of reallyintense Christmas fans in this
world.
Yeah, okay.
Mike leaned over to inspect alegion of garden gnomes dressed
in various styles of Santaoutfits.
There's something so creepyabout this.
He picked up one of the gnomesflicking the bell on its hat.
These little dead-eyed guysDead-eyed.
(18:40):
Ashley sneered.
It'd be a lot creepier if theireyes had life in them, don't
you think?
Put it down, babe.
Mike smirked, flicking the bellagain.
As he put it back, the room wascrowded with angels posed under
mistletoe.
Mike smirked, flicking the bellagain as he put it back.
The room was crowded withangels posed under mistletoe,
(19:01):
ceramic figures in Christmascolors and stuffed animals with
wreaths around their necks.
Mike and Ashley steppedcarefully around them, following
the arrows through another opendoor.
This is so claustrophobicAshley shivered again.
So crowded with clutter and nowindows that aren't blocked by
displays Claustrophobic.
(19:21):
Mike laughed, putting the clawsin claustrophobic Love it Good
one.
Ashley shook her head, keepingher eyes on the decorative scene
that spread around them.
The wall to her left was deckedout with a five-foot-tall
dollhouse, complete with aglowing chimney.
(19:41):
It was unusually large, in bothwidth and depth.
The front of it was spottedwith little windows, but they
were all blacked out, darkenough to prevent anyone from
seeing inside A red door latchedat the center indicated that it
was designed to be opened.
Ashley brushed a hand over thelatch, pulling away when she
caught something sticky.
Ugh, she exclaimed, scowling atthe red substance that coated
(20:06):
her fingers.
What is this?
Looks like paint, mike shrugged.
Ashley reached out to touch thedollhouse roof, holding back
when the chimney startedwhirring with the distinctive
clunk of rusty gears.
She waited for anotheranimatronic Santa to poke his
(20:26):
head out the top, but insteadwas met with an explosion of
vicious red liquid.
Mike, she gagged, I think thisis blood.
The red liquid began gushingfrom the chimney.
It slid in torrents down thewalls of the dollhouse and
stained the fake snow aroundtheir feet.
Mike darted forward, pushingthrough crimson streams to grab
(20:48):
at the latch that held thedollhouse shut.
His fingers slipped over thewood until he managed to swing
it open.
Lit up with Christmas treelights, the human torso
displayed inside was cut openlike butterflied meat Suddenly
exposed.
It dripped with blood that wasstill warm.
Ashley did her best to run.
(21:10):
As her feet slid over thered-stained path, she grabbed at
a Christmas tree to steadyherself, screaming when she
realized that the hangingornaments were made from teeth.
With stubborn fury she pulledat Mike's coat as they both
forged their way through thenext door.
The room on the other side wasdark, lit only by red and green
(21:33):
spotlights that flashed in arandom pattern.
Ashley took a blind leap offaith and ran as fast as she
could along a path she couldn'tsee Slamming against a wall.
She fumbled around, pullingback when her hand touched
something warm and moist.
When a flash of green lightilluminated the room, she saw
(21:54):
the body.
It was butterflied open in thesame way as the dollhouse torso
pinned to the wall with an axe.
She could barely hear her ownscreams as the music rose to a
deafening volume.
These ones are display only.
(22:20):
Mrs Claus's voice echoed overthe music.
Display only to you.
At least I find it safe toassume.
You can't afford them.
Ashley turned to see the womanstriding into the room from the
door behind them.
Ashley turned to see the womanstriding into the room from the
door behind them.
Beneath the frills and sasheson her dress.
(22:41):
She wore heavy boots thatgripped to the blood splash path
In flashing light.
Ashley saw Mike fall onto thesnow and scramble to get back up
.
Mrs Claus marched over to himwithout the slightest stumble,
pulling a long knife from thesack slung over her shoulder.
You wrote your own name on thenaughty list, she cackled.
(23:01):
What did you expect, cole?
Between offbeat blinks ofstrobing light, ashley saw Mrs
Claus stab Mike through thethigh.
The knife went all the waythrough muscle and flesh, coming
out the other side to pin himto the ground.
Mike screamed while Mrs Clausreached into her sack.
(23:23):
Again, fueled by fear, ashleyspun around and strained her
eyes to scan the wall behind her.
Her heart leaped when sherealized 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.
(23:47):
Ashley knew that she needed tomove faster than she could think
.
Stealing herself, she grabbedat the body pinned to the wall,
fumbling through entrails untilshe had a firm grip on the axe.
The body slumped to the floorand she swung the axe towards
the door, heaving and strikingat the lock until it shattered.
Wood splinters bit at herfingers as she pulled open the
(24:09):
door, keeping the axe held tightin one hand.
The fresh air on the other sidetasted like joy, but she
couldn't stop to appreciate it.
She summoned speed that shedidn't know she had, powering
towards the car.
Still gripping the axe, shepulled the car keys from her
pocket, locked the doors andstarted the engine.
Her vision was shadowed byimages of Mike pinned to the
(24:34):
ground with knives that torethrough his body.
Focusing on the road ahead, shekept the axe in one hand as she
slammed the accelerator.
Ho ho, ho, merry Christmas.
The animatronic Santa waved inher rearview mirror as she drove
(24:56):
away.
Speaker 1 (25:01):
What I really love about this story is that it is
just a very classic Christmasslasher.
I thought that was so fun andrefreshing, and a lot of these
stories, of course, are verypoetic and meaningful and
spiritual because of their tieto Christmas.
But I think Alan and I bothfeel like why we love Christmas
horror.
So much is the juxtaposition,like we talked about in the last
(25:24):
episode, between holiday cheerand something horrible happening
, and I think this story isexactly that.
Speaker 3 (25:29):
Sometimes you just need Santa or someone Santa
adjacent to go on a murderousrampage.
Speaker 1 (25:36):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (25:37):
That's what we're here for.
Speaker 1 (25:38):
Yeah, that's exactly right.
Speaker 3 (25:39):
And this delivered.
Speaker 1 (25:41):
And I want to take a second to introduce Sarah Jane
Justice, because this is thefirst time that we are featuring
her work on the podcast.
So Sarah Jane Justice writesfiction, poetry and music.
Her work has been published inreleases by Deadset Press, erie
River Publishing, midway Journaland many more.
She has written severalepisodes of Hawking Cleaver's
(26:01):
award-winning horror podcast,the Other Stories, performed at
the Sydney Opera House as anational finalist of the
Australian Poetry Slam andreleased two full-length studio
albums of original music.
So she is a triple quadruplethreat.
Speaker 3 (26:17):
But nothing is quite like the achievement of being
featured on Lunatics Radio Hour.
Speaker 1 (26:22):
That's exactly right.
Speaker 3 (26:24):
Yeah, screw you.
Sydney Opera House.
Speaker 1 (26:26):
So you can really follow Sarah everywhere at Sarah
Jane Justice Writing, includingFacebook and Instagram, and you
can also head to her website,sarajanejusticeridingcom.
When I read this story andrealized how fun it was, the
first thing that came to my mindwas Sarah Luke, our friend
Sarah, who is just like theslasher dream girl, and I
thought she would be so great atnarrating and telling us this
(26:48):
story, and I think she had somuch fun with it.
Speaker 3 (26:51):
I think Sarah really found her niche with depicting a
murderous Mrs Claus.
Speaker 1 (26:55):
Yeah, sarah Luke did.
Yeah, I got confused for asecond 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 ofher.
You can follow her on Instagramat Sarah Luke 25 if you want to
stay up to date with what'sgoing on in Sarah's life.
Speaker 3 (27:12):
All right, what's next?
All right, let's roll the tape.
Speaker 5 (27:27):
The Snow Ones, written by Paul O'Neill, read by
Michael Sherrill.
Emily's tapping at the patiowindow.
Again, she sings in a low,mesmerized lilt that drifts its
way through the kitchen whereI'm hiding.
Her sleepy melody swarmed mybrain First sign of the snow
tumbling down, and all she doesis stand at that door, eyes too
shiny.
I hoped we could make itthrough Christmas without this
(27:48):
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 ownout there in the cold?
I place my elbows on the kitchencounter, bury my face in my
hands.
My nostrils fill with the spiceof Jack Daniels in the glass
below me.
(28:08):
There's something about theworsening of our family
situation that makes me want todown the whole bottle and not
care about what happens next.
Guilt plagues me for hiding inhere, but I can't handle this
level of creepy on my own.
I can imagine our five-year-olddaughter, a little palm pressed
against the glass, breathsteaming the window every time
(28:28):
she lets out a merry giggle or awondrous gasp.
Something's wrong with that girl.
It only happens when the snowcomes.
It first happened when she wasjust ten months old, a wee thing
with heart-stopping dimples.
When the snow littered the backgarden for the first time in
Emily's life, she crawled overto the patio, licked the window
(28:49):
and giggled incessantly.
I had never been able to makeher laugh like that.
She'd crane her neck, haulherself 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, thesnow fell like Christmas card
snow for weeks on end.
(29:09):
She creeped me out so much Istarted seeing impossible
footprints crunched into thesnow on the other side of the
patio door.
We forgot about the whole thinguntil she did it the year after
, calling her visitors the SnowOnes.
Daddy, Daddy, Snow Ones are here.
Come to Emily House for warm.
They silly, big old, stuffynoses.
(29:32):
The only thing my wife and Icould do is laugh it off, Make
fun.
When Scotland bared its winterteeth, we'd joke around When's
the snow ones getting here?
Oh, looks like the snow onesare coming.
That was back when Valeriestill had a laugh.
In her.
I itch at the center of myforehead.
I take a gulp of the jack.
Those first three winters withEmily had me certain we'd have
(29:55):
to take her to a head doctor,but the next year the snow never
came.
All that global warming wejoked.
Speaker 6 (30:01):
No snow ones.
Speaker 5 (30:03):
No escaping the snow.
This year, though, it's beenfalling nonstop the last three
days It'll be a white Christmas.
Would Emily even notice herstacked presents if she spends
her whole day at the Bloomin'window?
What's wrong with her, Dad?
What are you doing throughthere?
The snow ones want to see you.
All my alarm bells go off andthe rest of my drink goes down
(30:25):
the hatch.
I see the breath through myteeth, tasting how cold the air
is.
Why don't you go upstairs?
I want to tell her Go play agame of.
Why's mommy crying in bed?
Again?
Anything to get Emily away fromthat window and the things in
her head.
Daddy Coming, lollipop Just giveme a minute she takes up her
ghostly humming again.
(30:45):
The sound of it bothers thespace between my shoulder blades
.
She's tapping at the window,chortling away.
Each tap on the glass makes myneck tense.
Another flash of theten-month-old version of Emily
came.
How had she grown so fast?
How could the fairytale time ofher infancy wrap into this cold
family environment?
(31:05):
Those snow ones started it all,I whisper.
Eyeing the ceiling.
Valerie would be curled up inbed, streaming tears into the
pillow, doing nothing to wipethem away.
Just let them fall.
Just let it all fall apart.
Why don't you?
Emily's giggles make my skinwant to turn inside out.
Speaker 6 (31:23):
Tee hee.
Speaker 5 (31:24):
She says that's nice, missed you like a candy cane
without its colors.
It's no fun when the snowdoesn't happen.
What do you mean Really, isthat?
So Come on in.
Then you look so cold.
The glass of Jack slips out ofmy hand.
It clatters on the counter,spitting foamy droplets.
(31:45):
It's gone too far.
I should go.
Tear her away, get blackoutblinds, shut her away from those
imagined snow ones.
Tell Emily to grow the hell up.
She's almost five, for God'ssakes.
A click sounds, then theear-catching squeal of the patio
door as it slides open.
Emily, those doors are heavy.
Takes me to set my feet to pullthem sideways.
(32:06):
The fingers of winter blewtheir way to me from the frigid
day outside.
Sweetheart, you know not to goout there.
What are you up to?
Nothing.
But the sound of the windhowling into the house it
reaches me casts me into ashiver.
Emily, my heart floods withrelief when I hear her shift
about.
Come on in.
Then she says what are youwaiting for you?
(32:28):
What Need me to say it aloud?
Oh, okay, you can come in.
You're very welcome here.
I feel something primal in mygut urging me to march through.
Check that my flesh and bloodis 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.
(32:48):
I'm helping because I'm a goodgirl.
Oh, can we make them cocoa withthe marshmallows?
We need to have a long wordabout these things.
You're seeing they're not.
A heavy thud slams my wordsdead.
Cold leaks its way about mychest.
I can almost taste the silence.
She could be out there gettingkidnapped by a weirdo who's
jumped into our garden and I'msitting here just mucking about
(33:11):
in the kitchen.
Grow a pair, man.
Get out there.
Sort this mess once and for all.
I march through on legs thatfeel like I've just stepped off
a boat.
She's standing in her usualspot, dressed in a pink woolly
jumper, as cute as any daughteranyone could ever dream.
How did you open the door?
I say, tasting the ghost of herstrawberry shampoo in the space
(33:32):
between us.
Outside, the snow tumbles downin cartwheeling shapes Against
the bank of white in the sky.
The flakes are like black,angry beasts.
Emily raises her hand andpoints to nothing beside her.
I undid the lock and he helpedbudget.
Emily, this needs to stop.
There's, there's snow in thehouse, two footprints right
(33:54):
where Emily is still pointing.
They look like a cross betweena bird and an alien monster Four
splayed toes, each with sharpends.
The same tracks appear on thepatio steps, right outside the
window, just like the ones I sawall those years ago, the ones I
stamped out when Emily waslittle, telling myself I was
(34:15):
going mad.
This isn't possible, I say.
Emily lowers her hand, startshumming to herself.
I gaze into the space above thewhite footprints.
Something burns into me like apredatory 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.
(34:35):
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 allshe'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 asplat.
(34:57):
The thing is moving, shuffling,slowly.
Each footprint carries lesssnow, but I can still see its
impossible impression on thelaminate floor.
I step back arse hitting thewall.
It moves again closer.
I reach out for something,anything to beat the thing away.
Plastic noises tumble about asI lift Emily's Playmobil vacuum
(35:18):
over my shoulder like a baseballbat.
Emily slowly come here, getaway from it, you big silly.
Speaker 4 (35:25):
He won't hurt me Promised.
Speaker 5 (35:32):
Its slow steps aren't coming directly for me.
I realize, as I let out a longbreath that was aching my lungs,
it's passing by me now, coldradiates 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.
Its footprints have dried up.
Now I hear its slow thuddingsteps, but I no longer see them.
Where's it going, I whisper.
(35:54):
Emily, what did you do?
The living room door creaksopen.
The thing is walking through itdown the hall as it steps on
the stairs.
The entire house moans with theweight of this invisible beast.
Emily places her hand in mineand I jump at how cold she is.
Her lips are purpled.
Her breath puffs out white whenshe giggles.
(36:14):
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.
I realize I'm still clutchingthe multicolored vacuum cleaner,
but I can't think of any otherweapon to use.
The floorboards bow above uswith the creature's weight.
I'm too late.
I've just let a nightmare thingenter our house and watched its
(36:36):
slime pass on its way to theperson I miss the most.
There's a crashing sound.
The toy vacuum clatters to thefloor.
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?
(36:57):
I fumble my phone out my pocket,cursed when I can't hold, still
long enough to let it read mythumbprint.
Valerie lets out another screamand I drop it.
The shriek from upstairs cutsoff with a gargled, wet yelp.
I lean down, pick up my phone,begging my frantic thumbs to
calm down enough to call thecops.
Look, emily tugs my other hand.
They're all here.
What the snow ones?
(37:19):
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 somethingcrunching snow aches my ears.
(37:41):
I see their footprints.
They scrunch snow as more ofthem 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 thehouse.
Speaker 3 (37:53):
This one's here for you, dad I feel like this one
would be a fun movie I love thisstory so much because it feels
like something net new net newit's a new to me anyway, a
totally new like mythology thatthat you know.
Speaker 1 (38:13):
It's not like drawing on folklore that I know of, but
this but it's still quitehorrifying and understandable
right to have your child seesomething that you can't see and
then there starts to be liketangible physical proof about it
.
But I don't know, I just lovehow we enter this story at the
point in the timeline when we doso that the parents are so
(38:34):
shaken yeah, they're beaten downbeaten, downaten down, sad or
drunk, horrified.
Speaker 3 (38:40):
Or both.
Speaker 1 (38:40):
Yes, and so it's just like really rich with tension
and drama and fear, and itbrought me back to feeling like
a little kid and being afraid,and I also could think of it as
an adult and realize how scaryit could be to have your kid
acting this way.
Speaker 3 (38:57):
Well, I found this story completely unrelatable.
Speaker 1 (39:00):
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 theLunatics Radio Hour podcast.
Paul O'Neill is anaward-winning short story writer
from Fife Scotland.
His works have been publishedby the no Sleep podcast, Crystal
Lake, Sinister Smile Press,Scare Street, Vanishing Point
(39:21):
Magazine, Hellbound Books, EerieRiver, Grinning, Skull Press
and many other publications.
He runs Short Story Club onSubstack where he and over 150
readers analyze the classics ona regular basis, which sounds
incredibly fun, and I willabsolutely be joining, and you
can follow him on Instagram atpaulon1984.
(39:43):
But, Paul, I just have to say Iwas such a big fan of this.
Again, it felt like incrediblyunique.
You built a world that was newand not overdone and refreshing,
and it just had this like verystark bleakness in my brain.
You know, like, like it wasvery simple and that made it, I
think you know like it was verysimple and that made it, I think
, a little bit chilling andclinical, almost when everything
unfolded.
Speaker 3 (40:03):
I think this blended very well into science fiction.
Speaker 1 (40:06):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (40:07):
Because, I don't know , I got like, for lack of a
better term, you knowextraterrestrial vibes?
Speaker 1 (40:13):
Yeah, sure.
Speaker 3 (40:24):
Where you have these types of beings that are.
You know, know definitely notyour typical monster.
They are interfacing with thechild, right, and it's not
malicious.
Speaker 1 (40:27):
Or maybe it is, who knows but you mean with the
child, with the child right.
Speaker 3 (40:31):
so now you have like an extra set of motivations
that's, which you know isinsinuating higher intelligence.
I don't know, it's't know, it'sjust a couple layers on there,
and then, once they start comingafter the adults, that's a
whole other story.
Speaker 1 (40:48):
Have I ever told you about this nightmare that I had
when I was a kid?
That still sticks with me tothis day.
Speaker 3 (40:53):
You're going to have to be more specific.
Speaker 1 (40:55):
Well, I'll tell the story.
But I think when I read thisstory I just was picturing this
like the like the scene of thisnightmare that I had, and I kind
of read this whole story in myhead in that setting, which was
really interesting.
But when I was little I hadthis dream.
I mean, I wasn't that little, Iwas 23.
No, I was probably in middleschool, I think.
But I had this dream that I wasin my house.
(41:18):
It was like exactly as my housewas, and kind of in the dining
room you would look out this bigwindow to the backyard and
there was like a window seat.
It was very open, lots ofwindows, so you could see the
backyard, and it was nighttimeand it could have been winter, I
think it was.
But I remember being insidewith my family looking out and
seeing this creature, that kindof looks.
(41:40):
Now, now that I know what thisis, it kind of looks like the
fresno nightcrawler, what, whichis like this cryptid that is
kind of like a head with legs,almost, and nothing else in
between, which I've written abit about on patreon.
So if you would like to knowmore about some of the internet
horror tropes, I I do aninternet horror series on the
lunatics project patreon.
(42:01):
But, that being said, it waslike this really scary dream
because it was like thiscreature was stalking us around
our house and nobody could seeit except for me and I was a kid
at the time, right.
So when I read this story, Ikind of placed it in that, like,
I think, emotional space for meI just googledled the Fresno
Nightcrawler.
It looks scarier in my dream.
Speaker 3 (42:22):
It looks very silly.
Speaker 1 (42:23):
I know, but it was scary in my dream.
I know that it looks like it'swearing kind of like floppy
hammer pants, mc Hammer pants,but anyway, paul, thank you so
much for sharing your story withus.
I thought it was the perfectchilling like truly chilling
story to add to this curation ofholiday horror.
And, of course, our friend youknow him by this point and love
(42:44):
him Mike Massera narrated thestory for us.
Mike is part of Beach Therapy,which is a very good band that
you can listen to anywhere youlisten to music.
So definitely give Parking Lotsby Beach Therapy a listen and
then you'll be hooked for life.
Speaker 3 (42:59):
Earlier this month we had the pleasure of seeing
Beach Therapy perform live.
Speaker 1 (43:05):
For the first time for us.
Speaker 3 (43:06):
Which was such a good show.
They are a band that playssuper, super well for a live
audience.
Speaker 1 (43:13):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (43:14):
So if you're in New York City or if you're in any
major city, because the worldtour is coming, that's right.
Speaker 1 (43:25):
Be on the lookout.
And they performed on krampusnight, which I love december 6th
.
Yeah, december 5th.
Okay, alan, we have one morestory to close out this very
spooky christmas eve campfiretales session okay shall we
listen?
Speaker 3 (43:34):
yeah, I guess so.
Speaker 2 (43:38):
Spirit of the Seasons , written by Mariska Pichette,
read by Abby Blanco.
Speaker 1 (43:47):
There's a package under the tree I can never open.
It's been there every year asfar back as I can remember.
I didn't buy it, I didn't wrapit, 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 insnowflakes, another in candy
(44:10):
canes, once reindeer withcartoon smiles, once plain brown
paper and string like a bomb.
I know it when I touch it, liftit up.
It weighs too little, less thanan empty box should weigh, less
than the paper that covers it.
Nothing worth anything couldweigh so little, take up so
little space.
This morning I feel it arrive.
(44:31):
Christmas Eve, like always.
Coffee in hand, I walk into thedining room.
The tree stands in the cornershedding needles on the hardwood
floor.
Where nothing should be,there's a small box.
This year it's wrapped insilver.
Glitter dusts the floor aroundit.
I haven't touched it in years.
I know what it says on thelabel.
I should leave it where it is,wait until it goes again.
(44:54):
I used to have to dig to findthe box with its folded label.
The message inside burned intomy memory better than any face.
Now it's the only gift I get Onmy mantle.
I have only one Christmas cardStanding across from the tree.
I'm tempted to open the box.
In my family we had a traditionOne present could be opened on
(45:15):
Christmas Eve.
One I set my coffee down, palmssweating.
Will it work this year?
I kneel in front of the treeand drag my only present across
the floor, leaving a trail ofglitter and needles.
I'll never get another gift.
No one's left to remember me.
Fingers shaking, I bend thelabel back, reading a note
written in blood, my blood, myhandwriting.
(45:37):
Take me back.
Eternity isn't worth this.
I fold the note closed.
The paper has no edge, noweakness.
I tried cutting it, smashingthe box flat Light as it is, it
never tears, never gives in tome.
I push the box away.
It weighs almost nothing.
My soul On the mantle, my onlyChristmas card, stands alone.
(45:58):
I stop and pick it up.
Even this weighs more, feelsmore real than the box under the
tree.
Inside is a note written ingold pen have a wonderful year.
The message hasn't changed oncein a century of cards.
I touch his signature and tryto remember my name.
I didn't think to write it onthe note after he wrapped me up
and promised to grant myChristmas wish.
(46:20):
In the light of the tree, hiswords shimmer like flames.
With love, lucifer.
Speaker 3 (46:30):
Who ever loves a story about a good wish gone bad
?
Speaker 1 (46:34):
I love a Faustian tale.
Speaker 3 (46:36):
Is this a Faustian tale?
Speaker 1 (46:38):
A thousand percent.
You signed away your soul tothe devil in exchange for
eternal life.
There's nothing more Faustianthan that.
Speaker 3 (46:45):
Well, you got me there.
I cannot think of somethingmore.
Faustian, this is good.
Another little short and sweetcontained Edgar Allan Poe-ish
type monkey's paw.
What other illusions can?
Speaker 1 (47:03):
I throw in there good reference.
So this story is a reprint.
It was originally published inthe ghost orchard press
anthology a very ghostlychristmas in 2002, and I also
just have to say that this wasby our friend, mariska pichette.
Again, you should be veryfamiliar with them by now, but
Mariska's first novella iscoming out in the spring of 2025
from Ghost Orchid Press, so weare incredibly excited for that
(47:27):
and we will keep you posted whenthere's more to come and you
can actually buy the novella.
But yeah, I just I loveMariska's writing because I feel
like very often there's a veryimmersive, beautiful worlds and
it's super contained.
Like you said, they're usuallya little bit shorter, I think,
and I love that.
I love the effectiveness ofbringing us in and telling this
(47:49):
spooky, dark story that gives uschills really quickly.
You know, I think there'ssomething really powerful and
skillful about that and I, assomeone who is a bit antsy when
it comes to ingesting long formcontent, very much appreciate it
.
Speaker 3 (48:03):
Yeah, You're.
You're Gen Z at heart.
Speaker 1 (48:06):
Yeah, like Mariska's writing keeps me at the edge of
my seat the whole time.
Speaker 3 (48:09):
I think there's been something super special about
every time we featured theirwork.
Speaker 1 (48:14):
Yeah, I absolutely agree.
I think that's very accurate.
Speaker 3 (48:18):
And just from like a rules standpoint.
Yes, you love rules.
Just I was really curious ofwhy the person couldn't open the
present or just like wasn'topening the present.
Like after a while curiositygets the best of everybody.
But then we find out that it'sbeen forever and it's physically
impossible to get through thewrapping, which is just kind of
(48:39):
fun forever and it's physicallyimpossible to get through the
wrapping, which is just kind offun, yeah.
Speaker 1 (48:45):
Yeah, that is super cool Because, of course, at some
point, right when you're livingin isolation for eternity, you
want to probably just end thewhole thing and you are stuck.
You can't.
Speaker 3 (48:52):
Who can say?
Speaker 1 (48:53):
Who can say Until that happens to us, we don't
know.
Speaker 3 (48:56):
And I do feel like this story was really elevated
by the narration.
Speaker 1 (49:04):
Oh well, thank you, that's very kind of you.
Well, my friends, thatconcludes this sort of gather
around the radio Christmas Evenight.
Continuing on with this, youknow thousand year old tradition
of listening to and tellingscary stories around this time
of the year, which I hold verynear and dear to my heart.
I find a lot of joy in learningabout pagan histories and being
able to kind of understandtraditions and holidays and
(49:26):
cultures a bit better but alsotake part in really ancient
traditions.
That feels really cool to me.
So thank you all for being onthis journey with us.
If you celebrate again, happyholidays.
If not, I hope you have a verywarm and cozy winter as we close
out 2024.
We'll talk to you again nextyear.
Hold your loved ones tight,Stay safe, Stay warm, Stay
(49:48):
spooky.
We'll talk to you soon.
Speaker 3 (49:49):
Bye, bye, thank you.
hello everyone and welcome back to the lunatics
radio hour podcast.
I am abby Abby Brinker sittinghere with Alan Kudan Hi.
As we approach the end of thisvery spooky wintery month, it is
tradition dating back, as wenow know, thousands of years to
tell ghost stories.
Speaker 3 (00:34):
Yeah, we learned all about that.
Speaker 1 (00:36):
So we are here today to participate in the time
honored tradition of tellingspooky, ghostly stories around
Christmas Eve.
Speaker 3 (00:44):
Although do we necessarily need to tell ghost
stories?
Speaker 1 (00:47):
Certainly not.
I think we can tell any kind ofspooky, ghostly, ghastly tale.
Speaker 3 (00:53):
Do we have any ghost stories?
Speaker 1 (00:54):
Well, that's something that will be uncovered
as we listen.
Speaker 3 (00:57):
Okay, do you want to just start?
Speaker 2 (00:59):
Let's just jump right in it in Matches, written by
Warren Benetello.
Speaker 4 (01:09):
read by John C Cook.
Night was falling, settlingover the city like a veil of
black ash.
A poor little girl trudgedalone down the street, her
snow-dusted hair glitteringfaintly in the lamplight, her
cheeks reddened and raw from theblistering cold.
She moved unnoticed past tophats and petticoats, carriages
(01:33):
and coachmen, her bare feetleaving long streaks in the snow
behind her.
As she trudged weakly down thesidewalk toward her home, she
was wearing shoes when she leftthe house, her mother's shoes,
far too big for a girl of herage.
But she had lost them both overthe course of the day One to a
(01:54):
puddle full of ice and sleet,the other to a starving dog
drawn to the smell of wetleather.
And so the girl limped onice-deadened heels that felt
wooden and numb, as if a pair ofmannequin feet had been
attached to her legs in place ofher own.
In the deep pockets of herdress she carried several boxes
(02:15):
of matches, the same number withwhich 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 andcold, in that she had made a
tidy profit.
As she passed the shimmeringstorefront windows, the smell of
(02:36):
roast goose tightened cruelfingers around her empty stomach
.
It had been days since she hadlast eaten what she would have
given for a meal.
Any meal would do.
But she especially yearned fora holiday feast A crust of
fresh-baked bread, a stew thickwith beef and carrots, a
generous slice of goose breastover a bed of roasted potatoes.
(02:59):
It was New Year's Eve after all.
As a frigid wind gusted down thenarrow lane, the girl
sidestepped into an alley toavoid the chill.
She sat cross-legged on thecobblestone, drawing her feet
into her folded knees to try andrestore some feeling to her
toes.
She was freezing, but she darednot go home.
(03:20):
Her father would be therewaiting, expectant.
How many matches had she sold?
How many pennies had she earned?
None, the girl wincedinvoluntarily.
She knew what was in store forher if she returned empty-handed
.
Her home was scarcely betterthan the alley.
Anyway, she told herself.
There was no heat to speak ofand the roof was rotted through.
(03:44):
The rags stuffed in the gapsdid little to staunch the cold
seeping in from outside.
Melt water dripped from thefissures in the ceiling during
the day, then froze toneedle-thin icicles at night.
It was as cold and inhospitablea home as one could imagine.
The girl clenched her hands toher lips and blew warm air into
(04:05):
her fists.
She had no feeling in herdigits, save for a spray of pins
and needles that jabbedpainfully into her fingertips.
Oh, how she longed to strike amatch, to feel the sharp heat of
the flame cupped between herpalms.
She had several boxes, eachwith dozens of identical
matchsticks.
Surely no one would notice asingle missing match.
(04:28):
She drew a box from her pocket,then removed a match with
trembling fingers, scratch.
She dragged the match along thecoarse boards of the
wood-framed building.
Beside her, a bright, brilliantflame burst forth, illuminating
her face with a golden glow.
She stared into the flame,entranced.
What a strange, wonderful light.
(04:49):
She felt transported to anotherplace, a cozy living room in
front of a great stone fireplace, the kind with a rack of
wrought-iron pokers beside it onthe hearth.
She saw herself stretched outon the carpet in front of the
fire, her face blasted with heatfrom the blaze.
Her father sat behind her in anoverstuffed chair, glasses
(05:12):
perched on the tip of his nose,reading a book by the firelight.
Then the little flame from thematch went out.
The fireplace vanished.
Only the charred stub of thematchstick clutched in her
fingers remained Fumbling.
Another match from the box.
She struck it against the wall.
The light flared brightly inthe gloom.
(05:34):
The girl was surprised to seethat the wall beside her had
become transparent, as if shewas gazing through a window into
a dining room.
On the table, a glorious spreadof food was set out A pot of
stew, bubbled and steamed, itsmouth-watering aroma wafting
past her nose.
Golden butter melted on thickslices of freshly baked bread.
(05:56):
A roast goose was set upon asilver platter, decorated with
sliced apples and candiedcranberries.
Her father carved a slice ofgoose breast and put it on her
plate.
More please, she said.
Then the match went out and thescene evaporated.
The girl could see only thepeeling paint of the
soot-stained wooden wall.
(06:17):
Again, the girl lit anothermatch, hoping to recapture the
vision, like a light sleepergrasping at the rapidly fading
wisps of an interrupted dream.
In the light, she found herselfsitting at the dining room
table, her father glaring downat her.
More he sneered what have youdone to deserve more, or any for
(06:38):
that matter?
He snatched the plate away fromher and dumped it on the floor.
The starving dog the one thathad stolen her shoe appeared
from under the table and begangreedily gobbling the spilled
meal.
The girl felt tears welling inher eyes.
A sob tightened her throat.
She swallowed hard.
It wasn't fair.
She didn't deserve to betreated like that.
(07:01):
She wished her mother was stillalive to stand up for her again
, like she had on the night thatshe died.
But she wasn't and she neverwould be.
The girl hated her father forthat.
She eyed the carving knife onthe table.
It was just within reach.
As her fingers crept towards it, the match went out.
(07:24):
The scene disappeared, twistingand swirling into the night
like the fog from her breath.
The girl snatched a trio ofmatches from the box and dragged
them along the coarse wallboard.
The wall became transparentonce more in the triple bright
glow.
The dining room was gone.
The girl was in front of thefireplace, again standing.
(07:47):
This time.
Her father was behind her,reading in the armchair, the
girl's fingers wrapped aroundthe wrought iron fireplace poker
.
The black metal was cool andheavy in her palm.
It made a slight metallicscraping sound as she drew it
from the rack.
Her father didn't appear tonotice.
The girl hid the poker behindher back as she feigned a yawn.
(08:11):
Good night, father, she said.
I'll be heading to bed now.
Hmm, he mumbled, ignoring her.
The girl circled behind herfather's chair, her fingers
tightened around the shaft ofthe poker.
Circled behind her father'schair, her fingers tightened
around the shaft of the poker.
She raised the metal bar aboveher head then brought it down
(08:32):
with all her strength upon herfather's skull.
The hook-like spike at the endof the staff plunged into the
top of his scalp, caving it inslightly.
The blow made a dull,squelching sound like a fist
punching, a rubber hot water bag.
Her father sat bolt upright inthe chair as if he was being
electrocuted.
A torrent of blood poured downhis face from his hairline.
(08:53):
More blood spilled from hisears.
His mouth opened in a silent,airless scream.
The girl wrenched the pokerfree from his fractured skull,
then raised it and brought itdown.
Again and again and again.
A spray of blood whipped acrossher face, stippling it with
crimson droplets.
Her father fell forward out ofhis chair and onto his hands and
(09:16):
knees.
He tried to climb to his feetbut stumbled forward and landed
face first in the fireplace.
Flames consumed his head andset his hair and clothes ablaze.
An avalanche of burning logstumbled off the hearth and onto
the carpet beside his body.
Flames danced upward as a sprayof embers circled toward the
ceiling like a swarm of tinysprites.
(09:37):
The sparks formed a shape inthe air A woman with an outline
of a familiar face.
A woman with an outline of afamiliar face.
Mother, cried the girl Again.
The matches were extinguished.
Desperate, the girl threw thestill-smoldering matchsticks to
the ground, then emptied theremaining matches from the box
into her palm and dragged themalong the side of the building.
(09:59):
They ignited with a sustainedhushing sound, consuming the
girl's vision with theirblinding brightness.
The girl's mother stoodluminescent in the glow, bathed
in an angelic light.
She was more beautiful thanever, more radiant than the girl
had ever dreamed possible.
Mother, the girl exclaimedplease take me with you.
(10:22):
I know you'll disappear whenthese matches burn out.
I can't bear to lose you again,please.
The girl's mother smiled thengathered the girl in her arms.
The girl realized that theywere no longer in the living
room.
Instead, they were flyingthrough the night air, ascending
skyward.
They soared high above theearth, rising towards the sun
where there was no more cold, nomore hunger, no more fear.
(10:44):
There was only warmth and lightand heat forever.
But in the alley, leaningagainst the wall, sat the little
girl with red cheeks and asmiling mouth, her ragged
clothes ablaze.
The flames reached into herpockets, finding the other boxes
of matches and igniting them.
Her lifeless body slumpedsideways as it was consumed by
(11:07):
the flames.
The inferno licked up the sidesof the building, hungrily,
devouring the peeling paint andthe dry flammable wood beneath.
It, spread to the roof, then tothe neighboring building, then
to the one beside that.
Eventually it spread to thegirl's apartment, where it found
her father passed out in bed,an empty whiskey bottle on the
(11:30):
floor by his dangling fingertips, the rags stuffed in the
cracked ceiling, dribblingribbons of flame onto the
bedsheets below.
Poor girl, the people said whenher charred remains were found
she was just trying to stay warm.
They pitied her, but onlybecause they didn't know the
wonderful things she had seenand how happily she had gone
(11:53):
with her mother into the lightof the eternal sun.
Speaker 3 (12:01):
I don't think we've had a story quite like this in
the podcast yet.
Speaker 1 (12:04):
I agree, but tell me what you mean.
Speaker 3 (12:06):
I don't think anything necessarily
supernatural happened.
Speaker 1 (12:11):
Okay.
Speaker 3 (12:11):
I think this was just I don't know like almost like
what happens when you're thedelusions, when you're like
going through hypothermia.
Speaker 1 (12:19):
Yeah, for sure.
Speaker 3 (12:19):
And it was really sad and really heartfelt and
fucking cool.
This is a.
I really like the story.
Speaker 1 (12:26):
I like it a lot for many reasons, and one of the
reasons is for me, when I firstread 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 interestingbecause Warren Benedetto, who
wrote it, describes it as adarker reimagining of the Little
Match Girl by Hans ChristianAndersen, which I've never read.
(12:49):
So I'm really, really excitednow that this has led me here.
The story was originallypublished in New Tales of Old by
Raven and Drake Publishing inApril of 2021.
Speaker 3 (12:57):
It's a very polished story and you can always tell
the mark of like a good shortstory when you have like a very
contained thing, but the wholeworld just like feels so alive
despite it being such a small,little contained thing.
Speaker 1 (13:12):
Yeah, I think that's absolutely right.
The world feels very rich andvisceral in a lot of ways, but
the story, you know, follows acharacter or two or three, but
really it's not sprawling.
But I can kind of picture herwalking around and the things
that she would encounter.
It's very beautifully written.
Speaker 3 (13:29):
I really love the writing style and I mean we've
had Warren on the past a fewtimes and every time it's just
like spot on.
Just the fact that we'relistening to basically a
self-immolation story maybe youknow, whatever it is, it's,
it's's, it's an immolation storyregardless, and it has like
this homey feel to it that'sweird, that's weird and that's
(13:49):
cool that's christmas magic atits finest exactly also great
choice of narrators for this onewell, it's not the first.
Speaker 1 (13:57):
I'm sure it won't be the last time that I've paired
warren benedetto and john cookas a writer and a narrator, but
john, as always, did such anincredible job with this and, I
thought, brought the story tolife in just the perfect way,
with the perfect tone.
I've said it before, but hisvoice really has this old-timey
richness to it that I think addsa lot to a story like this.
Speaker 3 (14:18):
I can't imagine why you thought this story reminded
you of A Christmas Carol.
Speaker 1 (14:24):
I know it's so weird.
It's not like John Cook isperpetually reading A Christmas
Carol all the time.
Speaker 3 (14:30):
It's one of our favorite yearly traditions.
John C Cook reads A ChristmasCarol.
He does it live on YouTube andit's so fun.
Speaker 1 (14:37):
Yeah, so he reads them.
He reads it stave by stave,live.
So I think he does one a weekbetween Thanksgiving and
Christmas.
But if you're not there towatch it live every week, of
course the the recording, thevideo on demand, is available on
his YouTube.
We will link it below, but itis Fado podcast, I believe, on
YouTube.
Okay, so as excellent as thatstory was, we have three more to
(14:59):
, uh, delight our ears.
All right here.
Our ears Alright here.
Let's roll the tape on the nextstory.
Speaker 2 (15:07):
Some idols are display only.
Written by Sarah Jane Justice.
Read by Sarah Luke.
Speaker 6 (15:16):
Ho, ho ho, Merry Christmas.
The grainy, robotic voice wasdistorted by the slow-motion war
of dying batteries.
The sound was grating but itpaired perfectly with an
animatronic Santa that lookedlike it had been built before
the first CD player.
Check it out.
(15:36):
Mike nodded towards ascratched-up chalkboard next to
the store's entrance.
Not many names on the nice list.
Everyone knows being naughty ismore fun.
Ashley grinned.
She picked up the chalk andscribbled both their names in
the naughty column.
Yeah, whatever, mike smirked,I'll ask you to make good on
(15:57):
that promise later.
Ashley laughed, pushing pastholly wreaths and dangling
plastic angels to head inside.
Ashley laughed, pushing pastholly wreaths and dangling
plastic angels to head insideMerry Christmas.
The voice took Ashley bysurprise, even though the woman
was sitting in plain sight Inher festive red and green dress.
She was almost camouflagedamong the discount candy and
ornaments that lie on thecounter.
(16:18):
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 forsale.
Some items are display only,but those are labeled clear
enough.
Are you open all year round?
(16:40):
Mike stepped forward to readher name tag Mrs Claus.
Wow, we're meeting actualChristmas royalty.
Ashley shoved him with one hand, but Mrs Claus didn't seem to
notice.
We open for the season, shereplied.
We have other businessinterests for the rest of the
(17:03):
year.
We, mike, repeated you, andSanta huh, the big man himself.
Ashley shoved him again.
And Santa huh, the big manhimself.
Ashley shoved him again.
We'll have a look around, ifthat's okay, of course, dear Mrs
Claus hummed.
Follow the arrows through thatdoor.
Prices are listed throughout.
(17:29):
Take care with the displays,thank you.
Ashley grabbed Mike by the armand pulled him along the arrows,
led them into a small room thatwas filled with animatronic
elves In clunking unison.
Santa's robotic helpers wavedtheir arms against a backdrop of
bonsai Christmas trees andjingling carols.
(17:50):
Ashley shivered, as if the fakesnow lining the path had given
her real chills.
This is so weird.
Mike led the way into the nextroom.
Imagine owning a house withthis many rooms and using it for
this.
I don't know, I kind of get it.
Ashley shrugged.
The owners probably live in theback.
If they have more space thanthey need, it makes sense to use
(18:17):
it for something that can makethem decent money.
There are a lot of reallyintense Christmas fans in this
world.
Yeah, okay.
Mike leaned over to inspect alegion of garden gnomes dressed
in various styles of Santaoutfits.
There's something so creepyabout this.
He picked up one of the gnomesflicking the bell on its hat.
These little dead-eyed guysDead-eyed.
(18:40):
Ashley sneered.
It'd be a lot creepier if theireyes had life in them, don't
you think?
Put it down, babe.
Mike smirked, flicking the bellagain.
As he put it back, the room wascrowded with angels posed under
mistletoe.
Mike smirked, flicking the bellagain as he put it back.
The room was crowded withangels posed under mistletoe,
(19:01):
ceramic figures in Christmascolors and stuffed animals with
wreaths around their necks.
Mike and Ashley steppedcarefully around them, following
the arrows through another opendoor.
This is so claustrophobicAshley shivered again.
So crowded with clutter and nowindows that aren't blocked by
displays Claustrophobic.
(19:21):
Mike laughed, putting the clawsin claustrophobic Love it Good
one.
Ashley shook her head, keepingher eyes on the decorative scene
that spread around them.
The wall to her left was deckedout with a five-foot-tall
dollhouse, complete with aglowing chimney.
(19:41):
It was unusually large, in bothwidth and depth.
The front of it was spottedwith little windows, but they
were all blacked out, darkenough to prevent anyone from
seeing inside A red door latchedat the center indicated that it
was designed to be opened.
Ashley brushed a hand over thelatch, pulling away when she
caught something sticky.
Ugh, she exclaimed, scowling atthe red substance that coated
(20:06):
her fingers.
What is this?
Looks like paint, mike shrugged.
Ashley reached out to touch thedollhouse roof, holding back
when the chimney startedwhirring with the distinctive
clunk of rusty gears.
She waited for anotheranimatronic Santa to poke his
(20:26):
head out the top, but insteadwas met with an explosion of
vicious red liquid.
Mike, she gagged, I think thisis blood.
The red liquid began gushingfrom the chimney.
It slid in torrents down thewalls of the dollhouse and
stained the fake snow aroundtheir feet.
Mike darted forward, pushingthrough crimson streams to grab
(20:48):
at the latch that held thedollhouse shut.
His fingers slipped over thewood until he managed to swing
it open.
Lit up with Christmas treelights, the human torso
displayed inside was cut openlike butterflied meat Suddenly
exposed.
It dripped with blood that wasstill warm.
Ashley did her best to run.
(21:10):
As her feet slid over thered-stained path, she grabbed at
a Christmas tree to steadyherself, screaming when she
realized that the hangingornaments were made from teeth.
With stubborn fury she pulledat Mike's coat as they both
forged their way through thenext door.
The room on the other side wasdark, lit only by red and green
(21:33):
spotlights that flashed in arandom pattern.
Ashley took a blind leap offaith and ran as fast as she
could along a path she couldn'tsee Slamming against a wall.
She fumbled around, pullingback when her hand touched
something warm and moist.
When a flash of green lightilluminated the room, she saw
(21:54):
the body.
It was butterflied open in thesame way as the dollhouse torso
pinned to the wall with an axe.
She could barely hear her ownscreams as the music rose to a
deafening volume.
These ones are display only.
(22:20):
Mrs Claus's voice echoed overthe music.
Display only to you.
At least I find it safe toassume.
You can't afford them.
Ashley turned to see the womanstriding into the room from the
door behind them.
Ashley turned to see the womanstriding into the room from the
door behind them.
Beneath the frills and sasheson her dress.
(22:41):
She wore heavy boots thatgripped to the blood splash path
In flashing light.
Ashley saw Mike fall onto thesnow and scramble to get back up
.
Mrs Claus marched over to himwithout the slightest stumble,
pulling a long knife from thesack slung over her shoulder.
You wrote your own name on thenaughty list, she cackled.
(23:01):
What did you expect, cole?
Between offbeat blinks ofstrobing light, ashley saw Mrs
Claus stab Mike through thethigh.
The knife went all the waythrough muscle and flesh, coming
out the other side to pin himto the ground.
Mike screamed while Mrs Clausreached into her sack.
(23:23):
Again, fueled by fear, ashleyspun around and strained her
eyes to scan the wall behind her.
Her heart leaped when sherealized 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.
(23:47):
Ashley knew that she needed tomove faster than she could think
.
Stealing herself, she grabbedat the body pinned to the wall,
fumbling through entrails untilshe had a firm grip on the axe.
The body slumped to the floorand she swung the axe towards
the door, heaving and strikingat the lock until it shattered.
Wood splinters bit at herfingers as she pulled open the
(24:09):
door, keeping the axe held tightin one hand.
The fresh air on the other sidetasted like joy, but she
couldn't stop to appreciate it.
She summoned speed that shedidn't know she had, powering
towards the car.
Still gripping the axe, shepulled the car keys from her
pocket, locked the doors andstarted the engine.
Her vision was shadowed byimages of Mike pinned to the
(24:34):
ground with knives that torethrough his body.
Focusing on the road ahead, shekept the axe in one hand as she
slammed the accelerator.
Ho ho, ho, merry Christmas.
The animatronic Santa waved inher rearview mirror as she drove
(24:56):
away.
Speaker 1 (25:01):
What I really love about this story is that it is
just a very classic Christmasslasher.
I thought that was so fun andrefreshing, and a lot of these
stories, of course, are verypoetic and meaningful and
spiritual because of their tieto Christmas.
But I think Alan and I bothfeel like why we love Christmas
horror.
So much is the juxtaposition,like we talked about in the last
(25:24):
episode, between holiday cheerand something horrible happening
, and I think this story isexactly that.
Speaker 3 (25:29):
Sometimes you just need Santa or someone Santa
adjacent to go on a murderousrampage.
Speaker 1 (25:36):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (25:37):
That's what we're here for.
Speaker 1 (25:38):
Yeah, that's exactly right.
Speaker 3 (25:39):
And this delivered.
Speaker 1 (25:41):
And I want to take a second to introduce Sarah Jane
Justice, because this is thefirst time that we are featuring
her work on the podcast.
So Sarah Jane Justice writesfiction, poetry and music.
Her work has been published inreleases by Deadset Press, erie
River Publishing, midway Journaland many more.
She has written severalepisodes of Hawking Cleaver's
(26:01):
award-winning horror podcast,the Other Stories, performed at
the Sydney Opera House as anational finalist of the
Australian Poetry Slam andreleased two full-length studio
albums of original music.
So she is a triple quadruplethreat.
Speaker 3 (26:17):
But nothing is quite like the achievement of being
featured on Lunatics Radio Hour.
Speaker 1 (26:22):
That's exactly right.
Speaker 3 (26:24):
Yeah, screw you.
Sydney Opera House.
Speaker 1 (26:26):
So you can really follow Sarah everywhere at Sarah
Jane Justice Writing, includingFacebook and Instagram, and you
can also head to her website,sarajanejusticeridingcom.
When I read this story andrealized how fun it was, the
first thing that came to my mindwas Sarah Luke, our friend
Sarah, who is just like theslasher dream girl, and I
thought she would be so great atnarrating and telling us this
(26:48):
story, and I think she had somuch fun with it.
Speaker 3 (26:51):
I think Sarah really found her niche with depicting a
murderous Mrs Claus.
Speaker 1 (26:55):
Yeah, sarah Luke did.
Yeah, I got confused for asecond 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 ofher.
You can follow her on Instagramat Sarah Luke 25 if you want to
stay up to date with what'sgoing on in Sarah's life.
Speaker 3 (27:12):
All right, what's next?
All right, let's roll the tape.
Speaker 5 (27:27):
The Snow Ones, written by Paul O'Neill, read by
Michael Sherrill.
Emily's tapping at the patiowindow.
Again, she sings in a low,mesmerized lilt that drifts its
way through the kitchen whereI'm hiding.
Her sleepy melody swarmed mybrain First sign of the snow
tumbling down, and all she doesis stand at that door, eyes too
shiny.
I hoped we could make itthrough Christmas without this
(27:48):
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 ownout there in the cold?
I place my elbows on the kitchencounter, bury my face in my
hands.
My nostrils fill with the spiceof Jack Daniels in the glass
below me.
(28:08):
There's something about theworsening of our family
situation that makes me want todown the whole bottle and not
care about what happens next.
Guilt plagues me for hiding inhere, but I can't handle this
level of creepy on my own.
I can imagine our five-year-olddaughter, a little palm pressed
against the glass, breathsteaming the window every time
(28:28):
she lets out a merry giggle or awondrous gasp.
Something's wrong with that girl.
It only happens when the snowcomes.
It first happened when she wasjust ten months old, a wee thing
with heart-stopping dimples.
When the snow littered the backgarden for the first time in
Emily's life, she crawled overto the patio, licked the window
(28:49):
and giggled incessantly.
I had never been able to makeher laugh like that.
She'd crane her neck, haulherself 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, thesnow fell like Christmas card
snow for weeks on end.
(29:09):
She creeped me out so much Istarted seeing impossible
footprints crunched into thesnow on the other side of the
patio door.
We forgot about the whole thinguntil she did it the year after
, calling her visitors the SnowOnes.
Daddy, Daddy, Snow Ones are here.
Come to Emily House for warm.
They silly, big old, stuffynoses.
(29:32):
The only thing my wife and Icould do is laugh it off, Make
fun.
When Scotland bared its winterteeth, we'd joke around When's
the snow ones getting here?
Oh, looks like the snow onesare coming.
That was back when Valeriestill had a laugh.
In her.
I itch at the center of myforehead.
I take a gulp of the jack.
Those first three winters withEmily had me certain we'd have
(29:55):
to take her to a head doctor,but the next year the snow never
came.
All that global warming wejoked.
Speaker 6 (30:01):
No snow ones.
Speaker 5 (30:03):
No escaping the snow.
This year, though, it's beenfalling nonstop the last three
days It'll be a white Christmas.
Would Emily even notice herstacked presents if she spends
her whole day at the Bloomin'window?
What's wrong with her, Dad?
What are you doing throughthere?
The snow ones want to see you.
All my alarm bells go off andthe rest of my drink goes down
(30:25):
the hatch.
I see the breath through myteeth, tasting how cold the air
is.
Why don't you go upstairs?
I want to tell her Go play agame of.
Why's mommy crying in bed?
Again?
Anything to get Emily away fromthat window and the things in
her head.
Daddy Coming, lollipop Just giveme a minute she takes up her
ghostly humming again.
(30:45):
The sound of it bothers thespace between my shoulder blades
.
She's tapping at the window,chortling away.
Each tap on the glass makes myneck tense.
Another flash of theten-month-old version of Emily
came.
How had she grown so fast?
How could the fairytale time ofher infancy wrap into this cold
family environment?
(31:05):
Those snow ones started it all,I whisper.
Eyeing the ceiling.
Valerie would be curled up inbed, streaming tears into the
pillow, doing nothing to wipethem away.
Just let them fall.
Just let it all fall apart.
Why don't you?
Emily's giggles make my skinwant to turn inside out.
Speaker 6 (31:23):
Tee hee.
Speaker 5 (31:24):
She says that's nice, missed you like a candy cane
without its colors.
It's no fun when the snowdoesn't happen.
What do you mean Really, isthat?
So Come on in.
Then you look so cold.
The glass of Jack slips out ofmy hand.
It clatters on the counter,spitting foamy droplets.
(31:45):
It's gone too far.
I should go.
Tear her away, get blackoutblinds, shut her away from those
imagined snow ones.
Tell Emily to grow the hell up.
She's almost five, for God'ssakes.
A click sounds, then theear-catching squeal of the patio
door as it slides open.
Emily, those doors are heavy.
Takes me to set my feet to pullthem sideways.
(32:06):
The fingers of winter blewtheir way to me from the frigid
day outside.
Sweetheart, you know not to goout there.
What are you up to?
Nothing.
But the sound of the windhowling into the house it
reaches me casts me into ashiver.
Emily, my heart floods withrelief when I hear her shift
about.
Come on in.
Then she says what are youwaiting for you?
(32:28):
What Need me to say it aloud?
Oh, okay, you can come in.
You're very welcome here.
I feel something primal in mygut urging me to march through.
Check that my flesh and bloodis 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.
(32:48):
I'm helping because I'm a goodgirl.
Oh, can we make them cocoa withthe marshmallows?
We need to have a long wordabout these things.
You're seeing they're not.
A heavy thud slams my wordsdead.
Cold leaks its way about mychest.
I can almost taste the silence.
She could be out there gettingkidnapped by a weirdo who's
jumped into our garden and I'msitting here just mucking about
(33:11):
in the kitchen.
Grow a pair, man.
Get out there.
Sort this mess once and for all.
I march through on legs thatfeel like I've just stepped off
a boat.
She's standing in her usualspot, dressed in a pink woolly
jumper, as cute as any daughteranyone could ever dream.
How did you open the door?
I say, tasting the ghost of herstrawberry shampoo in the space
(33:32):
between us.
Outside, the snow tumbles downin cartwheeling shapes Against
the bank of white in the sky.
The flakes are like black,angry beasts.
Emily raises her hand andpoints to nothing beside her.
I undid the lock and he helpedbudget.
Emily, this needs to stop.
There's, there's snow in thehouse, two footprints right
(33:54):
where Emily is still pointing.
They look like a cross betweena bird and an alien monster Four
splayed toes, each with sharpends.
The same tracks appear on thepatio steps, right outside the
window, just like the ones I sawall those years ago, the ones I
stamped out when Emily waslittle, telling myself I was
(34:15):
going mad.
This isn't possible, I say.
Emily lowers her hand, startshumming to herself.
I gaze into the space above thewhite footprints.
Something burns into me like apredatory 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.
(34:35):
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 allshe'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 asplat.
(34:57):
The thing is moving, shuffling,slowly.
Each footprint carries lesssnow, but I can still see its
impossible impression on thelaminate floor.
I step back arse hitting thewall.
It moves again closer.
I reach out for something,anything to beat the thing away.
Plastic noises tumble about asI lift Emily's Playmobil vacuum
(35:18):
over my shoulder like a baseballbat.
Emily slowly come here, getaway from it, you big silly.
Speaker 4 (35:25):
He won't hurt me Promised.
Speaker 5 (35:32):
Its slow steps aren't coming directly for me.
I realize, as I let out a longbreath that was aching my lungs,
it's passing by me now, coldradiates 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.
Its footprints have dried up.
Now I hear its slow thuddingsteps, but I no longer see them.
Where's it going, I whisper.
(35:54):
Emily, what did you do?
The living room door creaksopen.
The thing is walking through itdown the hall as it steps on
the stairs.
The entire house moans with theweight of this invisible beast.
Emily places her hand in mineand I jump at how cold she is.
Her lips are purpled.
Her breath puffs out white whenshe giggles.
(36:14):
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.
I realize I'm still clutchingthe multicolored vacuum cleaner,
but I can't think of any otherweapon to use.
The floorboards bow above uswith the creature's weight.
I'm too late.
I've just let a nightmare thingenter our house and watched its
(36:36):
slime pass on its way to theperson I miss the most.
There's a crashing sound.
The toy vacuum clatters to thefloor.
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?
(36:57):
I fumble my phone out my pocket,cursed when I can't hold, still
long enough to let it read mythumbprint.
Valerie lets out another screamand I drop it.
The shriek from upstairs cutsoff with a gargled, wet yelp.
I lean down, pick up my phone,begging my frantic thumbs to
calm down enough to call thecops.
Look, emily tugs my other hand.
They're all here.
What the snow ones?
(37:19):
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 somethingcrunching snow aches my ears.
(37:41):
I see their footprints.
They scrunch snow as more ofthem 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 thehouse.
Speaker 3 (37:53):
This one's here for you, dad I feel like this one
would be a fun movie I love thisstory so much because it feels
like something net new net newit's a new to me anyway, a
totally new like mythology thatthat you know.
Speaker 1 (38:13):
It's not like drawing on folklore that I know of, but
this but it's still quitehorrifying and understandable
right to have your child seesomething that you can't see and
then there starts to be liketangible physical proof about it
.
But I don't know, I just lovehow we enter this story at the
point in the timeline when we doso that the parents are so
(38:34):
shaken yeah, they're beaten downbeaten, downaten down, sad or
drunk, horrified.
Speaker 3 (38:40):
Or both.
Speaker 1 (38:40):
Yes, and so it's just like really rich with tension
and drama and fear, and itbrought me back to feeling like
a little kid and being afraid,and I also could think of it as
an adult and realize how scaryit could be to have your kid
acting this way.
Speaker 3 (38:57):
Well, I found this story completely unrelatable.
Speaker 1 (39:00):
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 theLunatics Radio Hour podcast.
Paul O'Neill is anaward-winning short story writer
from Fife Scotland.
His works have been publishedby the no Sleep podcast, Crystal
Lake, Sinister Smile Press,Scare Street, Vanishing Point
(39:21):
Magazine, Hellbound Books, EerieRiver, Grinning, Skull Press
and many other publications.
He runs Short Story Club onSubstack where he and over 150
readers analyze the classics ona regular basis, which sounds
incredibly fun, and I willabsolutely be joining, and you
can follow him on Instagram atpaulon1984.
(39:43):
But, Paul, I just have to say Iwas such a big fan of this.
Again, it felt like incrediblyunique.
You built a world that was newand not overdone and refreshing,
and it just had this like verystark bleakness in my brain.
You know, like, like it wasvery simple and that made it, I
think you know like it was verysimple and that made it, I think
, a little bit chilling andclinical, almost when everything
unfolded.
Speaker 3 (40:03):
I think this blended very well into science fiction.
Speaker 1 (40:06):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (40:07):
Because, I don't know , I got like, for lack of a
better term, you knowextraterrestrial vibes?
Speaker 1 (40:13):
Yeah, sure.
Speaker 3 (40:24):
Where you have these types of beings that are.
You know, know definitely notyour typical monster.
They are interfacing with thechild, right, and it's not
malicious.
Speaker 1 (40:27):
Or maybe it is, who knows but you mean with the
child, with the child right.
Speaker 3 (40:31):
so now you have like an extra set of motivations
that's, which you know isinsinuating higher intelligence.
I don't know, it's't know, it'sjust a couple layers on there,
and then, once they start comingafter the adults, that's a
whole other story.
Speaker 1 (40:48):
Have I ever told you about this nightmare that I had
when I was a kid?
That still sticks with me tothis day.
Speaker 3 (40:53):
You're going to have to be more specific.
Speaker 1 (40:55):
Well, I'll tell the story.
But I think when I read thisstory I just was picturing this
like the like the scene of thisnightmare that I had, and I kind
of read this whole story in myhead in that setting, which was
really interesting.
But when I was little I hadthis dream.
I mean, I wasn't that little, Iwas 23.
No, I was probably in middleschool, I think.
But I had this dream that I wasin my house.
(41:18):
It was like exactly as my housewas, and kind of in the dining
room you would look out this bigwindow to the backyard and
there was like a window seat.
It was very open, lots ofwindows, so you could see the
backyard, and it was nighttimeand it could have been winter, I
think it was.
But I remember being insidewith my family looking out and
seeing this creature, that kindof looks.
(41:40):
Now, now that I know what thisis, it kind of looks like the
fresno nightcrawler, what, whichis like this cryptid that is
kind of like a head with legs,almost, and nothing else in
between, which I've written abit about on patreon.
So if you would like to knowmore about some of the internet
horror tropes, I I do aninternet horror series on the
lunatics project patreon.
(42:01):
But, that being said, it waslike this really scary dream
because it was like thiscreature was stalking us around
our house and nobody could seeit except for me and I was a kid
at the time, right.
So when I read this story, Ikind of placed it in that, like,
I think, emotional space for meI just googledled the Fresno
Nightcrawler.
It looks scarier in my dream.
Speaker 3 (42:22):
It looks very silly.
Speaker 1 (42:23):
I know, but it was scary in my dream.
I know that it looks like it'swearing kind of like floppy
hammer pants, mc Hammer pants,but anyway, paul, thank you so
much for sharing your story withus.
I thought it was the perfectchilling like truly chilling
story to add to this curation ofholiday horror.
And, of course, our friend youknow him by this point and love
(42:44):
him Mike Massera narrated thestory for us.
Mike is part of Beach Therapy,which is a very good band that
you can listen to anywhere youlisten to music.
So definitely give Parking Lotsby Beach Therapy a listen and
then you'll be hooked for life.
Speaker 3 (42:59):
Earlier this month we had the pleasure of seeing
Beach Therapy perform live.
Speaker 1 (43:05):
For the first time for us.
Speaker 3 (43:06):
Which was such a good show.
They are a band that playssuper, super well for a live
audience.
Speaker 1 (43:13):
Yeah.
Speaker 3 (43:14):
So if you're in New York City or if you're in any
major city, because the worldtour is coming, that's right.
Speaker 1 (43:25):
Be on the lookout.
And they performed on krampusnight, which I love december 6th
.
Yeah, december 5th.
Okay, alan, we have one morestory to close out this very
spooky christmas eve campfiretales session okay shall we
listen?
Speaker 3 (43:34):
yeah, I guess so.
Speaker 2 (43:38):
Spirit of the Seasons , written by Mariska Pichette,
read by Abby Blanco.
Speaker 1 (43:47):
There's a package under the tree I can never open.
It's been there every year asfar back as I can remember.
I didn't buy it, I didn't wrapit, 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 insnowflakes, another in candy
(44:10):
canes, once reindeer withcartoon smiles, once plain brown
paper and string like a bomb.
I know it when I touch it, liftit up.
It weighs too little, less thanan empty box should weigh, less
than the paper that covers it.
Nothing worth anything couldweigh so little, take up so
little space.
This morning I feel it arrive.
(44:31):
Christmas Eve, like always.
Coffee in hand, I walk into thedining room.
The tree stands in the cornershedding needles on the hardwood
floor.
Where nothing should be,there's a small box.
This year it's wrapped insilver.
Glitter dusts the floor aroundit.
I haven't touched it in years.
I know what it says on thelabel.
I should leave it where it is,wait until it goes again.
(44:54):
I used to have to dig to findthe box with its folded label.
The message inside burned intomy memory better than any face.
Now it's the only gift I get Onmy mantle.
I have only one Christmas cardStanding across from the tree.
I'm tempted to open the box.
In my family we had a traditionOne present could be opened on
(45:15):
Christmas Eve.
One I set my coffee down, palmssweating.
Will it work this year?
I kneel in front of the treeand drag my only present across
the floor, leaving a trail ofglitter and needles.
I'll never get another gift.
No one's left to remember me.
Fingers shaking, I bend thelabel back, reading a note
written in blood, my blood, myhandwriting.
(45:37):
Take me back.
Eternity isn't worth this.
I fold the note closed.
The paper has no edge, noweakness.
I tried cutting it, smashingthe box flat Light as it is, it
never tears, never gives in tome.
I push the box away.
It weighs almost nothing.
My soul On the mantle, my onlyChristmas card, stands alone.
(45:58):
I stop and pick it up.
Even this weighs more, feelsmore real than the box under the
tree.
Inside is a note written ingold pen have a wonderful year.
The message hasn't changed oncein a century of cards.
I touch his signature and tryto remember my name.
I didn't think to write it onthe note after he wrapped me up
and promised to grant myChristmas wish.
(46:20):
In the light of the tree, hiswords shimmer like flames.
With love, lucifer.
Speaker 3 (46:30):
Who ever loves a story about a good wish gone bad
?
Speaker 1 (46:34):
I love a Faustian tale.
Speaker 3 (46:36):
Is this a Faustian tale?
Speaker 1 (46:38):
A thousand percent.
You signed away your soul tothe devil in exchange for
eternal life.
There's nothing more Faustianthan that.
Speaker 3 (46:45):
Well, you got me there.
I cannot think of somethingmore.
Faustian, this is good.
Another little short and sweetcontained Edgar Allan Poe-ish
type monkey's paw.
What other illusions can?
Speaker 1 (47:03):
I throw in there good reference.
So this story is a reprint.
It was originally published inthe ghost orchard press
anthology a very ghostlychristmas in 2002, and I also
just have to say that this wasby our friend, mariska pichette.
Again, you should be veryfamiliar with them by now, but
Mariska's first novella iscoming out in the spring of 2025
from Ghost Orchid Press, so weare incredibly excited for that
(47:27):
and we will keep you posted whenthere's more to come and you
can actually buy the novella.
But yeah, I just I loveMariska's writing because I feel
like very often there's a veryimmersive, beautiful worlds and
it's super contained.
Like you said, they're usuallya little bit shorter, I think,
and I love that.
I love the effectiveness ofbringing us in and telling this
(47:49):
spooky, dark story that gives uschills really quickly.
You know, I think there'ssomething really powerful and
skillful about that and I, assomeone who is a bit antsy when
it comes to ingesting long formcontent, very much appreciate it
.
Speaker 3 (48:03):
Yeah, You're.
You're Gen Z at heart.
Speaker 1 (48:06):
Yeah, like Mariska's writing keeps me at the edge of
my seat the whole time.
Speaker 3 (48:09):
I think there's been something super special about
every time we featured theirwork.
Speaker 1 (48:14):
Yeah, I absolutely agree.
I think that's very accurate.
Speaker 3 (48:18):
And just from like a rules standpoint.
Yes, you love rules.
Just I was really curious ofwhy the person couldn't open the
present or just like wasn'topening the present.
Like after a while curiositygets the best of everybody.
But then we find out that it'sbeen forever and it's physically
impossible to get through thewrapping, which is just kind of
(48:39):
fun forever and it's physicallyimpossible to get through the
wrapping, which is just kind offun, yeah.
Speaker 1 (48:45):
Yeah, that is super cool Because, of course, at some
point, right when you're livingin isolation for eternity, you
want to probably just end thewhole thing and you are stuck.
You can't.
Speaker 3 (48:52):
Who can say?
Speaker 1 (48:53):
Who can say Until that happens to us, we don't
know.
Speaker 3 (48:56):
And I do feel like this story was really elevated
by the narration.
Speaker 1 (49:04):
Oh well, thank you, that's very kind of you.
Well, my friends, thatconcludes this sort of gather
around the radio Christmas Evenight.
Continuing on with this, youknow thousand year old tradition
of listening to and tellingscary stories around this time
of the year, which I hold verynear and dear to my heart.
I find a lot of joy in learningabout pagan histories and being
able to kind of understandtraditions and holidays and
(49:26):
cultures a bit better but alsotake part in really ancient
traditions.
That feels really cool to me.
So thank you all for being onthis journey with us.
If you celebrate again, happyholidays.
If not, I hope you have a verywarm and cozy winter as we close
out 2024.
We'll talk to you again nextyear.
Hold your loved ones tight,Stay safe, Stay warm, Stay
(49:48):
spooky.
We'll talk to you soon.
Speaker 3 (49:49):
Bye, bye, thank you.
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