A Christmas Story
Dec. 20th, 2015 05:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madbakerA friend asked for a short spooky holiday story. I make no claims that mine is great literature, but I enjoyed writing it.
“There are things that cannot be unseen,” proclaimed the old woman too loudly. You felt like your walk had taken a wrong turn to end up in this decaying part of town. You had met the old woman hobbling along the sidewalk. A bit relieved to have company, you walked beside her slowly.
“Oh, come on. Is this where you say that there are ‘indescribably eldritch horrors beyond the ken of man’, and then describe them for three pages?” The old woman snorted in response. “Besides, HP Lovecraft was a racist, sexist, many other kinds of –ist asshole. Even the World Fantasy Award is replacing him on their trophy bust.”
“You know nothing. –Besides, that statue was designed by Gahan Wilson.”
“Yeah, yeah, wisdom of the elders blah blah blah.”
“I tell you that there are things that cannot be unseen. Do you think my face was always this lined?” the old woman tartly asked.
“They’re called _wrinkles_. It’s what happens by your age. That and not using sunscreen.”
The old woman snorted again. “You are determined not to believe me. Do not blame me, then, for what befalls you.”
“Whatever, grandma. We’re back at your rest home. I’ll walk you back to your room. Cheer up, it’s almost Christmas!”
The old woman sniffed. “Your mother never listened to me either. And now she’s stuck in a terrible place.”
“Cleveland isn’t _that_ bad, grandma. Let me open the door for you.”
The old woman peered up at you. “This is your last chance to run, girl. Before you are cursed by visions that no mortals should witness!”
“I think I can handle the sight of Mr. Foster’s bunions,” you snap.
The door opened slowly.
The room’s walls dripped with blood. Grotesquely shaped bodies lay scattered on the floor. Some were covered in pus; others were contorted in agony.
Your grandmother exposed her gums in a rictus that might charitably be called a smile. “I did warn you that some things cannot be unseen…” She tottered in.
One of the bodies stirred, slowly lifting its swollen head.
“Agnes! You’re just in time! Let me get this Mayor McCheese headpiece off and then you can take your turn as the Happy Meal!”
With dawning horror, you realize that the blood dripping down the walls smelled more like ketchup. The pus… you hoped that was special sauce and not some other fluid. The contorted bodies were entangled together in various states of undress. And the grotesque silhouettes were costumes – a thief, a purple blob, and – most horrifyingly – a bearded, grinning, big-headed king now looking directly at you!
“May I take your order?...”
You run screaming.
You should never have put your grandmother in the Rule 34 Rest Home.
“There are things that cannot be unseen,” proclaimed the old woman too loudly. You felt like your walk had taken a wrong turn to end up in this decaying part of town. You had met the old woman hobbling along the sidewalk. A bit relieved to have company, you walked beside her slowly.
“Oh, come on. Is this where you say that there are ‘indescribably eldritch horrors beyond the ken of man’, and then describe them for three pages?” The old woman snorted in response. “Besides, HP Lovecraft was a racist, sexist, many other kinds of –ist asshole. Even the World Fantasy Award is replacing him on their trophy bust.”
“You know nothing. –Besides, that statue was designed by Gahan Wilson.”
“Yeah, yeah, wisdom of the elders blah blah blah.”
“I tell you that there are things that cannot be unseen. Do you think my face was always this lined?” the old woman tartly asked.
“They’re called _wrinkles_. It’s what happens by your age. That and not using sunscreen.”
The old woman snorted again. “You are determined not to believe me. Do not blame me, then, for what befalls you.”
“Whatever, grandma. We’re back at your rest home. I’ll walk you back to your room. Cheer up, it’s almost Christmas!”
The old woman sniffed. “Your mother never listened to me either. And now she’s stuck in a terrible place.”
“Cleveland isn’t _that_ bad, grandma. Let me open the door for you.”
The old woman peered up at you. “This is your last chance to run, girl. Before you are cursed by visions that no mortals should witness!”
“I think I can handle the sight of Mr. Foster’s bunions,” you snap.
The door opened slowly.
The room’s walls dripped with blood. Grotesquely shaped bodies lay scattered on the floor. Some were covered in pus; others were contorted in agony.
Your grandmother exposed her gums in a rictus that might charitably be called a smile. “I did warn you that some things cannot be unseen…” She tottered in.
One of the bodies stirred, slowly lifting its swollen head.
“Agnes! You’re just in time! Let me get this Mayor McCheese headpiece off and then you can take your turn as the Happy Meal!”
With dawning horror, you realize that the blood dripping down the walls smelled more like ketchup. The pus… you hoped that was special sauce and not some other fluid. The contorted bodies were entangled together in various states of undress. And the grotesque silhouettes were costumes – a thief, a purple blob, and – most horrifyingly – a bearded, grinning, big-headed king now looking directly at you!
“May I take your order?...”
You run screaming.
You should never have put your grandmother in the Rule 34 Rest Home.
