Never Fear (53 page)

Parents, teachers, coaches—the ones
who are supposed to protect us—begin to feed in earnest. They bite
and tear at the flesh of their victims with those sharp teeth.
They’re eating those teenagers like they’d eat a steak. I see them
savor each bite and my stomach turns. I haven’t eaten enough to
throw up but I dry heave a few times. The other deaths were bad,
but this…this is something on a whole new level.

I watch those things…ghouls…bite the
flesh off my classmates, and yet again, I feel no sadness. Disgust
at what I’m seeing, yes, but that’s it. No sadness, or even
remorse, that I somehow caused this. If anything, I feel relief.
When they all turned to me, I thought I’d die tonight, but I’m safe
for the moment. Not forever. I know that without a doubt. But for
now, I’ll live to see another day. And face more scrutiny as the
only teenage survivor of the ghoul attack of 2015.

“
Fall on Your
Knees”

I’m eighteen now, an
adult. A
very
wealthy adult. I live in a mansion, have servants who know
sign language, and eat three hearty meals per day. My past is not
forgotten but people tend to ignore it now that I’m rich. It’s
funny how all sins can be forgiven when money is involved. Not that
I think I committed a sin that was responsible for the deaths of
hundreds of people. I never purposely did anything to cause those
massacres.

Besides knowing sign language, I
required that the people working for me don’t celebrate Christmas.
It may be discriminatory but I don’t care. There’s no one to force
me to sing in a choir or go to a tree lighting ceremony, and since
I got my GED online, there’s no class that requires me to attend a
sporting event. I’ve become a recluse, and with no chance of
Christmas carols, I’m safe now. Completely and totally safe from
whatever forces chose me as their catalyst along with those damn
songs. Songs I could never hear, yet am terrified of.

Money can’t buy me
happiness but it
can
allow me to do what I want, when I want. And what I want is
to live out my life with a full stomach and no mention of Christmas
or carols ever again. December is just another month to me now.
Snow may fall and lights may twinkle in the distance, but no one
crossing through my front door will do so in the name of
holidays—happy or otherwise.

*

It’s December 24th, and
nothing is different here at my home. At least nothing
should
be different. I
sense that something is wrong as I enter the grand foyer. My butler
is gesturing wildly with his hands and I rush over to see what the
problem is. And then it happens.

A small group of children are gathered
outside my front door. I don’t know who let them in the gates but I
know what’s about to happen; and I’m too late to stop it. These are
not ordinary children. Oh no, these are the ones who’ve haunted my
dreams for years. The little girl in the tattered dress, the boy in
the torn suit, and the three who look like they need a bath and a
meal.

What’s odd to me is that my butler
sees them, too. Did all of the adults in my past see them before
they died? If they were visible to the adults, why not the other
children besides me? And why did no one realize that I was telling
the truth before they died? Or did they? Did those ghouls realize
that I was telling the truth and look to me in that moment, not to
attack me, but to let me know they were sorry for ever doubting me?
I’ll never know the answers to those questions, but I do know my
money can’t save me now.

I sign to my butler, telling him to
run. He gives me a sad look and then does as I ask. I wasn’t sure
he’d even be able to, but they let him go. It’s me they want. I
always thought that, but once he’s gone, I know it’s true. I hear
their words in my head. They are the first words I have ever heard
and they terrify me. The fact that I hear them at all terrifies me.
This is not a happy thing, this “gift” of hearing. It’s another
part of my curse. They aren’t exactly singing; it’s more like
chanting and it doesn’t really sound right. It sounds like children
trying to rhyme, which I guess, in fact, it is.

Here we are to claim
you,

Join us, you know you want
to.

Every year, we were forced
to sing these songs,

Songs of hope, but for us
they’re wrong.

We suffered at the hands
of fate,

And we were killed when we
ran away.

You are us, and we are
you,

All children from the same
womb.

One for all, but not you
for us,

You survived when we
turned to dust.

Hearing lost saved you
then,

But now we come to do you
in.

Adults we kill to right
our wrongs,

Now come with us and sing
our songs

Before I can even process all of what
I’ve heard, my nose starts to bleed. I wipe it and see the bright
red blood staining my hand. I want to beg for my life, and tell
them I haven’t had it easy either, but I don’t get the
chance.

I feel the wings before the beak and I
know the birds have come. For real this time. Not just a shadow
feeling—the birds are really here for me. I fall to my knees as
blood starts pouring out of other parts of me and the birds begin
to peck in earnest at my flesh. Moments later, I sense a larger
presence and turn to see my butler behind me. He didn’t escape.
I’ve failed us both. Those are my last thoughts as he takes his
first bite.

I can’t hear my scream as blood comes
for me, squeezing the life out of me as the birds try and get some
of my flesh before my ghoul butler takes it all. I didn’t feel
sadness for those adults who died, and right now, I don’t feel
sadness for myself. Ironically, it’s the children I’m sorry
for.

They suffered for the
beloved songs so many people love and I have a strange sense that
they’re telling the truth. I
am
one of them. I don’t understand how my lack of
hearing saved me until now, but I know in my bones that it did. I
will not become one of them, though. They can kill me but I won’t
be an instrument of death. I just won’t.

The children smile at me as I succumb
to the horrors they’ve sent for me. I don’t want to be one of them
and I’m no longer a child. Neither of those things matter to them
as I slowly, painfully die.

At least… there will be no more
carols, only utter, true silence.

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 17

“
I guess it would be
pretty terrible to be deaf,” Nancy said. “But at least I wouldn’t
have to listen to Nick.”

“
You’re right there.”
Grandpa finished off his port. “Okay, what about those apple slices
I can smell?”

“
Oh, they’re cooling now,”
Judy said. “I also have a lemon meringue pie Aunt Gloria baked,
pumpkin pie from Aunt Dolly, and mincemeat from... I don’t
remember. They were all delivered at once.”

“
Maybe the person who gave
us the mincemeat—
yick
—also gave us the book?” Nick said.

Jack added, “Yeah
mincemeat is a Christmas
terror
all its own.”

“
I like it,” Dan said.
“I’ll have vanilla ice cream
and
whipped cream on mine.”

Judy raised an eyebrow. “Both? I
thought you were trying to lose weight?”

“
Jesus, Judy, it’s
fucking
Christmas,” Dan
said through gritted teeth.

“
Double that order,” Jack
quickly added.

“
Triple,” from
Nick.

“
Quadruple,” Grandpa
called.

“
Enough,” Judy said. “Come
help me, Nicky.”

“
But—”

“
Give the book to Jack or
your father and come help me,” she snapped.

“
Nick, help your
mother!
” Dan said and belched.

“
Jeez, all right,
Dad.”

“
That’s a good boy.” She
patted him on the head.

“
I’m not a dog,
Mom.”

“
Then stop acting like a
little bitch,” Jack said.

“
Good one, Jack.” Nancy
said.

“
What?” Jack said, looking
at everyone. He picked up the book from the chair where Nick had
left it. “Let’s see...
A Time for
Reflections.
Intriguing title.”

A TIME FOR
REFLECTIONS

G. R. LINDEN

December 22, 1881

While he would never admit it to
himself, Lewis was frightened. He was about to enter a brand-new
world and he had no idea what to expect. Already he felt things
changing: the white snow on the banks giving way to brown drudge,
the crisp, chill air becoming a warm, wet blanket that seemed to
engulf you no matter where you were. It was December, and if the
weather here was so decidedly odd, what would the rest of his new
home be like? Not for the first time Lewis wished his pa was there
with him.

But Pa was dead, and Mother didn’t
want him around anymore. So here he was, shipped off to stay with
his mother’s brother, a man he had never met before.

The breath left him as he caught his
first sight of the strange cityscape he would be calling home. It
was dirtier than St. Louis had been, busier too. But for all its
grime, there was a beauty to it, an unquantifiable mystique that
made him forget the apprehensions that had gripped him only moments
ago. Not for the first time he wondered what his new life in New
Orleans would entail.

The sharp shriek of the steamboat
whistle shocked him, nearly causing him to jump out of his shoes.
He fought to regain his composure as his cheeks turned red under
the condescending looks of the nearby adult passengers. Lewis
gathered his luggage and joined his fellow travelers in preparing
to disembark.

As the steamboat sidled into the dock,
Lewis tried to get a better look at his new habitat, but his vision
was blocked at every turn. One man even knocked over his luggage
before yelling at Lewis to stay out of the way of his betters and
muttering something about pathetic orphans and being underfoot.
That man would find his pocket watch gone the next time he went to
look for it.

Pickpocketing wasn’t something they
taught good lads at school. Lewis had learned it from some kids
he’d met after Pa died, what his mother had called a “bad crowd.”
It was part of the reason she’d sent him away.

It wasn’t that Lewis didn’t know
stealing was wrong. He was simply of the opinion that being mean
was wrong-er.

When the boat was finally moored,
Lewis had to fight tooth and nail just to remain upright against
the throng of disembarking humanity. His knuckles turned white from
his efforts to hold on to his luggage. He managed to fight himself
free and get to a quiet place on the docks.

His eyes darted through the crowd,
looking for someone who was looking for him

The problem was that Lewis had no idea
who he was supposed to be looking for. He’d never met his uncle and
had only an old photograph his mother had given him to identify the
man from. Standing on his tiptoes did little to help matters. Why
did adults have to be so tall?

“
Lewis! Lewis Everhart!”
The sound came roaring out of the crowd like an orchestral
overture. It took Lewis a second to locate the source of the
booming bass that called his name, but only a second.

The voice belonged to a man of mixed
origin who stood a hand above the rest of the multitude. The top
hat he wore accentuated his height in the same way his too-tight
sky-blue vest highlighted his portliness. His suit was blood-red,
and where his tie should have been hung a loose collection of what
looked to Lewis a lot like bones. Lewis dismissed this thought as
merely a trick of the distance. No civilized man wore bones around
his neck.

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the
crowd gave way before him. Lewis had never seen white men give way
to a mulatto before. He thought it was rather grand. Lewis also
thought that Mother wouldn’t approve at all, which made the whole
thing doubly grand.

The man locked eyes on him as if he
had known where Lewis was all along. When Lewis said the man was
big, he didn’t just mean that he was tall or wide; he meant that
this man was big in a way that people felt in their souls. There
was a presence about him.

A young couple shyly held up their
baby to the man as he passed. He stopped, said a few words, and
traced something on the baby’s head. The child’s parents seemed
overcome and began kissing his hands, but he gently waived them on
their way and he continued toward Lewis.

Now that the behemoth of a man was
standing in front of him, Lewis could see clearly that he was
indeed wearing a necklace made of bones.