Carols on Christmas Eve

 by Indie Stone

Jackson peered out of the window as the car bumped up and down, the tree gently clunking against the metal roof. It was Christmas Eve, and all the houses along Gregory Road glistened and sparkled as their brilliant lights glowed below the crescent moon. With only a matter of hours before Christmas day, everyone was delighted by the prospect of presents under the tree and the beautiful display of crackers and candles on the table, with a succulent turkey as the centrepiece. But the thrill of having Father Christmas slither down the chimney interested Jackson the most, as every ten year old boy would. As he stared up on the line of houses, Jackson imagined the joy of seeing him in person - That was when he decided he was going to stay up all night. Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt, and a giant crunch sounded from the car roof.

‘Woah, Dad! The tree’s gonna slide off if you’re not careful!’

‘Sorry J, I still need to get those brakes looked at but nothing’s open at Christmas.’

As Jackson and his father pulled into the driveway, a wonderful array of decorations were laid out on the living room floor. A little girl waved from the window, her head covered in a garish Santa hat that looked like something from Willy Wonka’s Factory.

‘Oh look Jackson, your sister’s got that silly hat down from the attic. How funny!’

‘The only funny thing is the fact that we don’t even have a tree up, and it’s almost Christmas. It’s insane!’

‘I know, I know, you’ve told me all week. We’ve got it now, so let’s put her up.’

Hauling the tree off the roof of the car, a faint murmur of ‘Boughs of Holly, Tra-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la’  echoed from behind, and seemed to drift closer and closer. These words lingered in the air, eerie and intoxicating; until it stopped. The leaves rustled in the wind.

‘Hey there!’

‘Aahhhh!’ Jackson yelled out in surprise.

‘There’s no need to be frightened, I’m just the local carol vocalist and my aim is to spread the Christmas spirit. A kind donation would be greatly appreciated!’

‘Sorry dude, I don’t have anything on me.’ Jackson’s heart was still racing. ‘But I do have a candy cane.’

‘Oh no worries, you keep it. I hope you have a great Christmas, and remember, don’t get to bed too late, or Saint Nick won’t come and fill your stocking; He’ll come for your blood. Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year!’

With that, the man turned sharply around and carried on his droning song. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la la-la-la-la-la…

Jackson stood there, his body encapsulated in the man’s words: “Come for your blood”. His pupils widened, and the candy cane slipped out of his sweaty palms.

‘Jackson, what are you doing out there? Your sister’s desperate to decorate the tree! Come inside!’

With that, he trudged slowly through the front door, his disturbing encounter circling menacingly through his head.

Following the ritual of hanging the empty stockings on the fireplace and preparing a plate of mince pies, sherry and a few carrots for the reindeer, Jackson’s mother sent him and his sister up to bed.

‘Look, you can’t go to sleep too late because Santa won’t come - he only gives you presents if you’re snoring well before twelve o’clock.’

‘Yeah, Yeah Mum, you’ve told me before. I’m just too excited.’

‘Up, now!’

Slipping into his pyjamas and crawling into his duvet, he said goodnight to his sister and parents. Fluttering like butterflies, the thrill of Father Christmas coming rushed through him. However, the man he met a few hours before remained in his memory: “He’ll come for your blood”. As soon as he remembered this, his idea of staying up was out of the question, and he frantically tried to sleep, forcing his eyes shut. But the clock kept on ticking, and the hours flew past. Jackson was still wide awake. Then his alarm clock beeped; it was twelve o’clock. The room was deathly quiet, the only thing breaking it being the continuous breath coming out of his nose. His heart tinged, the veins in his body clenched and paralysed. He couldn't move. The carol singer flooded into his mind:

 “If you get to bed too late, Saint Nick won’t fill your stocking; he’ll come for your blood.”

What’s happening? He thought. What should I do? Softly, a quiet jingle resounded through his left ear, the sound of chimes piercing through his head. It was coming from downstairs. His legs moved out of the covers of his bed, his cold feet treading along the creaking floorboards. The jingle rang louder, and from above, rattling tiles echoed throughout the corridor. What am I doing? Why am I going down? Halfway down the stairs, the living room was in sight. A long, angular face gaped at him through the window. Jackson’s heart stopped. It was a reindeer.

“‘Tis the season to be jolly fa-la-la-la-”

It tapped beseechingly on the glass with a large, pointed hoof, sending a tremor of agony through Jackson’s body. Suddenly smiling wildly, it pointed towards the chimney, and it steadily rotated its round head, the glossy antlers dripping with blood. I don’t want to look, he thought. The smell of soot rushed up his nose, an acidic taste of blood filling his tongue. Please don’t look! Please! Please! Uncontrollably, Jackson’s head swivelled towards the fireplace. The carol singer stood there, a book in his hands.

“Saint Nick won’t fill your stocking, he’ll come for your blood.”

Jackson wanted to scream, but nothing came out.

‘I told you.’ He gestured behind Jackson. ‘Look.’

No! Don’t do it!

‘Go on.’

Jackson turned around.

Sitting on top of the stairs was a figure.

It stood and walked towards Jackson.

Jackson couldn’t run.

He couldn’t hide.

The figure slashed.

Jackson was on the floor

‘J, what on earth are you doing on the floor?’