Never Fear (31 page)

“
Hey! Santa Claus!”
Onstage, U™ was getting ready to fire up another set. The singer, a
rocker girl dressed in all black but wrapped head-to-toe in
multicolored Christmas lights, had beckoned me.

“
Yeah?”

“
I already know I’m
getting coal this year, so let’s fire it up! Come up here and rock
with us!”

Climbing onstage, I donned my bass
drum rig and Santa hat. “More carols?” I asked.

“
Hell no!” the bassist,
wearing a Santa-skull T-shirt that said “NUCLEAR MISSLETOE”,
declared.

“
Know any Zeppelin?” asked
the lead guitarist, who was rocking a black leather Santa hat with
black fur. “How about something off
Presence
, Santa?” The band
laughed.

I nodded at him, then the drummer, who
had Sharpie’d a Santa hat on his biceps Misfits skull tattoo.
Perched on his head was a pair of reindeer antlers, entangled with
a wayward stripper bra.

“
You guys kick it off.
I’ll jump in. Chimney style.” I pounded my bass drum and smiled.
The crowd cheered wildly.

I felt myself smiling hard. Real hard,
like… well, yeah, fuck you… like a kid on Christmas. I grabbed the
mic and hollered at the crowd as the band sprang to life. Around
the room, the other drummers saddled on their instruments as
well.

To the top of the roof, to
the top of the wall

Now bash away, bash away,
bash away all!

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 9

“
New York’s got a lot of
crazies in it,” Grandpa said. “Doesn’t sound like it’s changed much
since I lived there.”

“
When did you live there,
Grandpa?” Nancy asked.

“
The 50’s. All hustle and
bustle. Nobody stayed still. Everyone trying to make it in the ‘big
time.’ I guess it’s still the same.”

Jack said, “l don’t know, Grandpa.
I’ve got some friends from New York. They tell me some weird shit
that happens there.” He gulped. “I mean, weird stuff. Hey, Mom,
this is, like, the best eggnog ever!”

“
Smooth, Jack,” Nick
said.

“
Were you all not here
listening to that last story?” Judy looked around at them. “One
little ‘s-word’ is not going to curl my hair or make me cast
disapproving glances at you.” Judy smiled and took a gulp of her
nog. “But you are right, though, Jack. This is one of the best
batches of this shit I’ve ever made!

“
Judy!”

Judy sipped her eggnog, calm and
collected. “Oh come on. Those words have been around for
centuries—even longer than Grandpa. Speaking of which, Grandpa, why
don’t you read the next story? We can have a later dinner,” Judy
said.

Everyone was still staring at
her.

“
Read,
Grandpa.”

“
Yes, ma’am. It’s
called,
I’ll be Dead For
Christmas
.”

Dan stared at his wife over the rim of
his mug. “Sounds interesting.”

I’LL BE DEAD FOR
CHRISTMAS

KRISTI AHLERS

“
I’ll be home for
Christmas
” warbled from the speakers.
Ainsley rolled her eyes and switched off the radio. The first carol
of the season seemed to happen earlier and earlier each year. It
meant Christmas was close, and Ainsley Bettencourt loathed this
holiday above all else.

Sleet pelted the windshield. The
wipers struggled to remove the ice. With the exception of the
lighthouse in the distance, the island was totally dark. Ainsley’s
palms, slick with sweat, gripped the steering wheel as she nosed
the car off the ferry and onto the road. The wind buffeted the
small compact she’d rented. Ainsley white-knuckled her already
tightened grip on the steering wheel, as the car bumped along the
small blacktop road.

Christmas. Always a time of sadness.
Always a time of terror. Her parents were killed on Christmas Eve.
Her aunt died when Ainsley was fourteen, on Christmas Day. They
found her body, broken and bleeding, at the base of the lighthouse
stairs. Ainsley left Bettencourt Island the minute she turned
eighteen, promising herself to never return.

But things change.

And she was back on Bettencourt
Island.

On the eve of Christmas.

The headlights shone on the drifting
snow, barely cutting through the thick sheet of white. Another gust
of wind slammed into the car and it fishtailed for a moment,
further heightening her unease.

“
Screw this Goddamn
island! I’m only fucking here to spend it with Nanna in the first
place, and now she won’t even answer her stupid phone!” Ainsley
picked up her cell phone and pushed the call icon. The soft glow
illuminated the inside of the car, making the road even that much
more difficult to see.

Ring.

“
Come on,
Nanna.”

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Ainsley tossed the phone on the
passenger seat and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut.
After months of doctor's visits and tests, her gram had finally
gotten the dreaded diagnosis… cancer. The only reason she’d
returned to the miserable island was to spend the holiday with her
dying grandmother. Ainsley adored her and vowed she wouldn’t let
this holiday pass without spending it with the elderly woman who
raised her and supported her dreams.

Even when Ainsley left Maine for the
bright lights of New York, her grandmother encouraged her, knowing
it would take Ainsley away from the home she’d grown up in and the
traditions of family.

And the family secrets.

Finally, she crested the hill. On the
edge of land, jutting out over the stormy Atlantic, stood the
clapboard house and lighthouse. Although fully automated years ago,
a Bettencourt had stood sentinel over the coast since the
seventeen-hundreds. Ainsley had begged her grandmother to come away
with her when she’d left. However, Marie was steadfast in her
refusal. This was her home. This is where she’d grown up. This was
the place she loved. A place she’d vowed she would be
safe.

The light from above flashed its
warning to any sailor out on those tempestuous waters. Although the
light no longer required the same care and physical effort to keep
it illuminating the treacherous waters surrounding the island, it
still needed maintenance. Her grandmother had a person do all the
heavy upkeep once a week. Ainsley was pleased about this, as she
didn’t want her seventy-year-old grandmother climbing the spiraling
iron stairs to the top of the tower.

The moment Ainsley reached the house,
she threw the car door open and stood. Her heart kicked in her
chest at the sight of the imposing house from her childhood. To an
outsider, the building was a charming white clapboard house, with
two stories and a wide wrap-around porch. To Ainsley, the house had
always seemed… unwelcoming. A heaviness always seemed present—more
so during the week before Christmas.

Swallowing the knot of fear forming in
her throat, Ainsley shoved her smartphone into her pocket and
slammed the car door. The wind cut jagged currents left and right,
almost propelling her forward, like hands on her back pushing her
toward the house. Ainsley worked the already drenched hood of her
jacket over her head and ran for the door.

A large evergreen wreath, festooned
with colorful glass bulbs and a large red velvet ribbon, adorned
the door. A door that was unlocked. She hesitated for the space of
half a heartbeat and pushed it open with trembling hands. The
warmth of the interior smacked her in face after the brutal cold
and wind of the storm.

Warm gingerbread, mulled apple cider
and peppermint filled the old house, scents that for most would be
warm and welcoming. For Ainsley, they reminded her of loss and
terror.

Christmas meant evil. She’d never
celebrated the Yule season once she’d moved to New York. She never
understood the joy of the season; why people cheered when they saw
the huge Christmas tree go up in Rockefeller Center; the smiles on
the faces of ice skaters on the rink holding hands; or the
excitement pouring off the little kids about the coming of the
Jolly Old Elf.

Christmas meant death and
fear.

She flipped the light switch beside
the door, looked around. The hallway was empty. The only sound was
the rhythmic ticking of the massive grandfather clock against the
wall.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

“
Grandma!” she called,
tossing her hood back.

No answer.

Ainsley poked her head into the front
parlor. A Christmas tree stood in the corner. A large fir, the
colorful lights illuminated and cast their cheery glow over the
room. Under the tree sat one small present wrapped in scarlet paper
and gold ribbon. The fireplace, where her stocking hung beside her
grandmothers, was cold. No fire. Her grandma’s favorite rocking
chair stood still. No brandy snifter or opened book on the end
table.

“
Grandma, I’m
home.”

At the silence in reply, panic ran
through her bloodstream. Tossing her coat on the nearby rocker, she
quickly searched the downstairs. The old wooden floor creaked when
Ainsley’s weight touched down in strategic places.

The sound of the storm grew louder, as
she made her way up the old stairs to the upper landing. The faint
scent of lilacs, a fragrance her grandmother couldn’t abide,
lingered on the air. Ainsley had also learned to hate the smell of
lilacs. Their cloyingly sweet aroma heralded the darkness. The
heavy and frightening mantel of oppression Ainsley always
experienced in this house.

A chill literally wrapped around her
and she rubbed her arms, uncertain where the draft came from. The
lilac scent, pungent now, overwhelmed Ainsley to the point where
she covered her mouth and gagged. She ran the rest of the way up
the stairs until she reached the landing. The light from below did
nothing to alleviate the darkness up here. Ainsley reached out and
flipped the switch on the wall. The bulb overhead flickered and
dimmed before settling on illuminating the space with a dim, yet
buttery luminosity.

She took a step toward her
grandmother’s room and stopped promptly. The distant sound
of
Silent Night
drifted on the air.

“
Grandma?”

The music grew louder the closer she
drew to the partially open room.

Ainsley swallowed, her mouth and
throat dry as the Sahara, while she walked down the short
hallway—which seemed to grow longer and longer as she approached
the door.

“
Hello?”

She pushed the door open further and
stepped into the room. Heart hammering in her rib cage, she held
her breath and flipped on the switch.

The room sat in perfect
order.

And empty.

And now silent.

The silence after the sound of the
Christmas carol unnerved her, and the sensation of being watched
crawled over her skin. She looked around out of the corner of her
eye, fearful of what she’d see, and more fearful of what she
wouldn’t.

She was about to back out of the room
and she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.
She stopped and walked back into the space.

“
Who’s there?
Grandma?”

The only sound in the room was that of
the storm.

No
. She shook her head.

The panic she’d barely managed to keep
at bay began to bubble and flow through Ainsley’s veins like
carbonated water under pressure. It threatened to explode from her
and she knew she needed to gain control before all was
lost.

She took a moment and pulled out her
smartphone. Her grip was tight and she swiped the screen, waking it
so she could place a call. She knew she was alone—and yet
wasn’t.

It’s happening
again
.

Fear left a knot in her throat as she
retraced her steps back to the hall. The sensation of being watched
overwhelmed her. Ainsley stopped. An icy breath tickled the back of
her neck. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath.

“
Ainsley
.”

The whisper of her name a tremble
jolted through her entire body, propelling her toward the
staircase. Gripping the wooden railing, Ainsley ran down the
stairs.

It was happening again. Fear and panic
lashed at Ainsley’s heels. She had to find her
grandmother.

Logically, Ainsley knew her
grandmother hadn’t been in the house for quite some time. She
wouldn’t have let the fire burn low. Never on a stormy Atlantic
night like tonight. And especially not when she knew to expect
Ainsley.

The lighthouse.

Her grandmother couldn’t be out there.
Not in this storm.

But it was Christmas Eve. When things
that went bump in the night came alive. When the sound
reverberating through the house wasn’t that of Santa and his
reindeer on the roof.