Cliff has a Master’s degree in English Literature and an Undergraduate Degree in Creative Writing, which he has used to forge a management career with one of the largest academic publishers in the world. He has enjoyed trying to scare himself from a young age and writes primarily for his own amusement. He lives in Cheshire in the UK with his wife and three sons, where writing horror stories provides a welcome break from family-friendly cartoons. I have not published any fiction (yet). But my Master's thesis was published as a volume of literary criticism HERE.
A CREATURE WAS STIRRING
by
Clifford Holt
The sound shattered my deep sleep, wrenching me from the warmth of my bed. On the landing, eyes wide in the darkness, I strained to identify the source – a scratching sound echoed from the living room. Thoughts of burglars dancing in my head, I cautiously descended the stairs.
The moon’s glow flooded the room as though it were the middle of the day, revealing its emptiness. I lowered my fists. My mouth tasted like I’d been sucking a penny.
The sound was coming from the chimney. Something was stuck. Scraping. Scrabbling. Trying to force itself down. Down and into the room.
Stepping back, I almost collided with the Christmas tree. My heart was in my mouth, and I blinked sweat from my eyes. The children’s stockings had been hung by the chimney with care. The embers in the grate were barely aglow. The poker leaned against the back wall.
The scraping came again. Whatever it was had almost reached the bottom.
There was a crash outside and I raced to the window to see what was the matter. I blinked, sure I was hallucinating: moving faster than an eagle that has secured its prey, a huge sleigh rose into view. Pulling it into the air were huge bull-like creatures with demonic red eyes. Their jaws, slathered in rabid foam as white as the snow below, chomped and slobbered. Despite floating ten feet from the ground, their legs wheeled. Slabs of muscle flexed along their flanks. Gaping sores leaked crimson blood and green puss, which splattered, smoking, onto the snow.
They shot forward but before impact they changed direction, like dry leaves caught in a hurricane. The house shook as they landed on the roof. The thing stuck in the chimney tumbled into the room.
Turning to face it, I encountered a figure standing at least seven feet tall. He was dressed in fur, from head to toe. He held a sack with a gnarled hand, his impossibly long fingernails a cat’s cradle. His eyes twinkled as he smiled, showing sharp teeth embedded in rotting gums. His broad face emanated malevolence and his pointed ears twitched, filling me with dread.
He didn’t speak as he strode past me.
‘Hey,” I shouted at his back as I grabbed the poker.
As he turned, two severed heads spilled from the sack, glassy eyes staring in silent horror.
I brought the iron poker down. His skull cracked and his forehead split, revealing yellow bone beneath. The poker vibrated from my grip and I stepped backwards, scouring the room for another weapon.
I grabbed the coal bucket, striking at his face. The edge smashed into his mouth, tearing the flesh of his cheeks. His splintered teeth ground on the metal. I hit the bottom of the bucket with the flat of my hand, relentlessly battering him until black fluid pooled at his feet.
I sidestepped as he blindly fought to pull the bucket free.
Amongst the presents beneath the Christmas tree was a set of gardening sheers I’d purchased for my green-fingered wife. I threw myself to the floor and searched for them, tearing off wrapping paper from the many colourful boxes.
I found my prize just as he grabbed my leg, his claws tearing through the thin fabric of my pyjamas and into the flesh of my calf and I cried out.
I swung the shears, striking his neck. A black geyser erupted, painting the walls in a Jackson Pollock of gore.
I hauled myself to my feet.
He was leaning drunkenly against the window, disformed hands clutching at his throat. Treacle-like fluid spurted weakly between his knotted fingers.
He lashed out as I approached, claws shredding my chest. I screamed in anger and pain; if I didn’t stop him, he’d go upstairs – where my wife and children lay snug in their beds.
I impaled him in his large round belly. It parted from the blades of the shears like a bowlful of jelly. He screamed; a guttural, animal howl of pain.
I embedded the shears to the handle, opened the blades and, inch by inch, forced them closed, slicing through meat and fat and, finally, his spine.
Crimson sausages spilled from his slashed stomach to slop at his feet in a steaming pool. He fell over the fallen Christmas tree, grunted as he backed into the wall, and slid to the floor. His massive chest heaved as he sucked in a final breath.
I slid onto the armchair, wrapping myself in a throw. My hands were shaking and my teeth chattering. Then, I heard the faint sound of jingling bells followed by a scraping sound from the chimney.
A black boot emerged, followed by a large man in a red fur suit, nonchalantly brushing coal dust from himself. Whistling, he crossed the room and put the heads back in the sack, which he tossed onto the dead thing.
'Terribly sorry about all this,' he said when he finally spoke, slowly shaking his head and hooking his thumbs into the brass buckle of his belt.
'Elves,' he added. 'Sometimes they get out. Tricky fuckers. I should've been paying more attention. Maybe I should put myself on the Naughty List, eh?'
His laugh was jolly: a deep 'ho ho ho ho ho'. I smiled in spite of myself.
He clicked his fingers. The wound in my chest closed, the torn skin sealing neatly together as golden sparks flickered around the edges. When I looked up, the room was no longer a scene of destruction: the dead elf was gone; the Christmas tree was upright, its baubles and bells undamaged; the stockings on the chimney bulged.
Winking, he vanished.
From the window, I saw the sleigh ascending. The driver exclaimed, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
I drank the glass of brandy, left out by my children, in a single swallow, barely noticing the heat in my throat. And then I shuffled back to bed.