Glenn Christmas grew up in Houston, Texas where he still lives today with his wife of twenty-six years. His thirty-year career in the fire alarm industry immersed his mind in electronics and technology, which sparked the idea for this story. He retired from sales in 2015 to enjoy life and found a passion for writing intriguing stories.
Glenn is going to talk about Benjamin Franklin.
Deadman’s Tome podcast is a variety show covers everything from horror writing, horror movies, filmmaking, youtube drama, and fringe communities. Deadman’s Tome has stong stance on free speech and is open to exploring conspiracy theories and social issues. While the show has a comedic bent to it, some many heartfelt moments have been explored on the program. The show was designed to be somewhere between the Joe Rogan Experience and Howard Stern, but with a stronger focus on horror and writing.
Live stream every monday, wednesday, and friday at 9:30pm
2017 is OVER and that means it’s time for a popularity contest. Now, remember that his is all in good fun. I personally will sit out on this vote as I enjoy every story in this collection, but please don’t follow my example. Spread the link out to as many people as possible. What does the winner get? How about some beer money? $20 bucks (PayPal) and a certificate
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the home
All the shadows were stirring, all ready to roam;
Offerings were hung by the chimney with care,
bits of bone, and organs, and scalps with some hair.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
when a sharp-bladed axe went clean through their heads;
And mamma all dead now, and I in my mask,
had just now completed my life’s greatest task.
When down in the basement came a blasphemous sound,
I sprang from the room as the noise shook the ground.
Away to the cellar I flew like a flash,
tore open the door and heard something splash.
The ritual had called for killing and chants,
to bring forth the Old Ones, and the powers they grant.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a portal, a gate, all roiling and queer.
Now came a limb, writhing, tentacular,
I gazed in excitement, ‘twas something spectacular.
More rapid than eagles more tendrils shot out,
they shrieked and they roared, and I started to shout;
“Yog-Sothoth, the Gate, and also the Key!
On, Dagon, on, Hastur, on, Yig and Gla’aki!
Cthulhu, Great Dreamer, now, Ithaqua, Wind-Walker!
On, Nyarlathotep, and Cthylla, the Daughter!”
And then, with a singularly thunderous boom,
revealed before me, were the bringers of doom.
Indescribable was the place I saw through that portal,
My mind shattered to pieces, for I was but mortal.
And the beings I witnessed, the Masters I’d called,
their millions of eyes, they held me enthralled;
Then a whisper, a word, crept into my brain,
a worm boring deep, causing me pain.
The eyes — how they twinkled! the shrieking how scary!
Their tongues were like serpents, and one was quite hairy!
Their wide yawning mouths seemed to grow and to grow,
And the drool of their chins was as white as the snow.
The most fetid of breath passed right through their teeth,
and the miasma encircled my head like a wreath;
They were hungry for minds to put in their bellies,
That shook, when they screamed like bowlfuls of jelly.
They spoke many a word, all unutterably insidious,
filling me with knowledge, both eldritch and hideous.
And laying a tendril aside of my nose,
the Dreamer, he whispered, and my euphoria rose;
“The time’s now to slay, to tear bone from the gristle,
Then away they all flew out of that gate of abyssal.”
And I heard them exclaim, as they flew out of sight,
“OUR SLUMBER IS OVER, THIS IS YOUR LAST NIGHT!”
Read more Lovecraftian yuletide tales in Cthulhu Christmas Special available for Amazon Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and Paperback
This is a fantastic anthology which really captures the darker side of the holiday season. Each of the six stories (one poem) takes great glee in showing the reader just how dark and disturbing Christmastime can be, and from the very first page the pace never relents. Read this in one sitting, preferably with the lights turned down low.
Are you sick of Christmas? Do you have ungrateful children that don’t even deserve a lump of coal, but you give it to them anyway just to shut them up? Do you cringe at the sound of Jingle Bells, and just one ‘Merry Christmas’ away from going on a murderous killing spree that would rival Stephen King’s The Shining?
Then Deadman’s Tome Krampus Christmas will make your Christmas much more tolerable. This horror anthology contains demented, twisted anti-Christmas tales coupled with Krampus greeting card art, and together it makes for a great experience.
Deadman’s Tome Krampus Christmas can be enjoyed on your Kindle and smartphones, and is now available in print. You can even read it for free through Kindle Unlimited.
Santa Claus was running late. His black boots bounced and his stomach wobbled as he hustled to his seat. He almost tripped on the red carpet before the large wooden chair, but managed to keep himself upright. Exhaling, he took a seat, while ignoring the rum on his breath. Though his duties had been downscaled in this day and age, he was a man who still worked with pride. He patted the head of one of the reindeer in front of him and shifted in his seat; comfortable, he indicated to one of his helpers that he was ready.
She rang a bell.
An army of kids invaded the Christmas themed spot in the mall from every direction. Santa Claus, or Torben Gunderrson as he was known when not in the role, pressed a button at his side which activated a red light on one of the plastic reindeers’ noses in front of him. He cleared his throat, hearing the familiar jingle bells track play on the store’s tinny-sounding speakers.
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” he boomed, straightening the fake beard which caused his chin to itch.
A boy in a yellow hooded sweatshirt broke free from the horde. He made his way along the red carpet and stopped a few feet from Santa’s chair. Torben leaned forward, his back creaked. “Come closer, little one.”
The boy took a step forward, but Torben could not see his face with the hood covering it. “Don’t be shy, tell good old Santa Claus what you would like for Christmas?”
The boy ignored him. Torben looked around, something was off. He noticed that all of the children wore clothing to cover their faces and that none of them were accompanied by adults. Trying to remain calm, he looked back at the boy. “Tell me, young one, what would you like for Christmas?”
“You,” the boy whispered.
“Sorry, I must have heard you wro—”
Torben heard a muted scream. Looking to his side, he saw a member of the store’s staff that had been assigned to assist him being dragged behind a large snowman. He couldn’t see the persons face, but he caught a glimpse of the blue vest over white shirt uniform that the staff wore. Crimson blood streaked across the white floor in their wake. Swinging his head from side to side, he searched for any of the other assistants, but located none. Even the lady who had rung the bell alongside him had vanished. The bell, however, was lying a few feet from him. Blood splatter now its keeper.
“What the hell is going on?” Torben said, standing.
The boy in front lowered his hood.
It was not the face of a boy, but rather a man. Torben felt his blood turn solid and cold like steel in winter. He recognized the pointy ears and a sharp nose. The realization of what he was looking at hit him like an unwarranted slap to the face. These were definitely not the friendly, beautiful images of the myth he had read in books during his youth.
The elf smiled, yellow canine-like teeth appeared. “No more ho-ho-ho?”
Torben screamed, falling back into his seat. His whitened knuckles gripped the sides of his seat as his face resembled one transfixed by horror. His breathing quickened, the short bursts of air were not sufficient and he felt the dizziness clog his thoughts.
The sounds of chains being whipped against the hard floor stopped Torben’s panic. The elves had all moved back, almost in rows. Looking up, Torben saw something move between some of the Christmas displays leading to him. The large pitch black creature shifted between rows of Christmas trees, taunting him. Torben would have run had his feet not felt as if they had been weighed down by anchors resting on the ocean floor. The creature then jumped out from the displays, only a few feet ahead of Torben, who had at first though it was a bear. But he was wrong. It was something worse, much worse.
The creature had long curved horns reaching into the air, just missing the golden tinsel that hung above it. Thick, wild, black hair grew all over its body. It had the eyes of a dangerous old man and a large red tongue hung out its mouth. Its cloven hooves clacked as it took a step forward.
Torben moved back, only to feel the back of the chair preventing him from retreating any farther. The horror pained within like metal rods being inserted into his veins. The elves were but a distant memory, even the fates of the staff around him no longer concerned him.
The creature leaped forward, and spat out a black substance that splattered all over Torben’s face. Torben being too slow to react panicked as he tried to remove the substance. His hands clawed at his face like rats in a hot bucket. The substance would not come off. It had the consistency of warm honey, only stickier. Torben, needing to inhale, braced for a foul stench. The substance however, was not unpleasant in smell, but rather had a fruity and alcoholic aroma.
Torben felt his skin burn, then contract. The world around him shuddered and he shut his eyes, trying not to scream. But the pain and discomfort did not last long. He opened his eyes, feeling his face. The substance was gone, but something was wrong. Torben climbed off the chair, only to topple forward, tripping over himself.
Standing up, Torben realized he was now the same height as the elves that were drawing close on him like a noose.
“Take him to the Black Forest for reconditioning. He will serve out his days in servitude for playing this false God,” the creature said.
The elves obeyed and grabbed Torben. Torben shut his eyes, praying that this was all some bad dream. But he knew better. He had simply been performing a job, a job he had done for many years. The frigid truth of who and what this creature was dawned on him. This year, a dark myth now proven true, the Krampus had endured enough and had sought revenge. Some of the other Santa’s that it would hunt down would surely just be killed.
Torben realized his punishment would be less merciful.
…how dare you release such a fucking awesome anti-christmas theme anthology! Sensationalized headline aside, Deadman’s Tome Krampus Christmas has received some amazing reviews on Amazon. Check out what MA Book Reviewer had to say:
A vulgar and demented Christmas! A focused anthology, the six stories (one poem) play off each other attacking the holidays in decidedly different (and perverse) ways.
Deadman’s Tome Krampus Christmas is certainly very vulger, obscene, and is absolutely not for children, and that unadulterated, unfiltered edge is what the readers enjoy. Check out these reviews:
This is a fantastic anthology which really captures the darker side of the holiday season. Each of the six stories (one poem) takes great glee in showing the reader just how dark and disturbing Christmastime can be, and from the very first page the pace never relents. Read this in one sitting, preferably with the lights turned down low.
This anthology is a tight, six story excercise in horror that is an ideal ebook gift for any lover of the genre. I liked that the stories could be consumed in short sittings and the originality on display here is very, very good. We have deadly snowmen of a different kind, a deadly visitor that brings a lot more than presents to a family one Christmas, and a horrendous holiday discovery in some backwater woods. For the price you can’t argue. Give it a bash. It’s very good.
It’s hard to argue a price of $2.99, the price of a tall RedBull. A RedBull that you’ll down and end up just pissing away. This terrifying horror anthology, however, will stay with you, and quite possibly haunt you.
Little Jimmy crept down the stairs, peeking over the railing. He knew it was early and his parents wouldn’t be awake yet.
But he just had to know.
He had been extra good this year and he knew Santa would reward his good behavior. He crept down the stairs and his little hands left sweaty trails on the shiny wood of the banister.
As he stepped onto the floor, he heard the slightest sound.
His ears perked up and the noise stopped.
He could feel his heart beginning to race and he had to pee but he could hold it. His feet shimmied across the cold tile.
As he approached the living room, he could see the lights from the tree dancing across the walls. The strange sound started again only louder.
He knew he shouldn’t be up but that was alright.
He had been extra vigilant at finding his elf on the shelf and knew it would not betray him.
Every day he would make his bed and help his mommy do her chores. The elf stared down at him and he tried not to look at it but he knew it was there.
He could almost feel its eyes following him as he did his work. He smiled as he went to bed every night knowing the elf would report back to Santa what a good boy he had been.
He turned the corner to the room and his eyes lit up as the tree, in all of its expectant glory, stood before him. He could see the shiny packages lying underneath, just waiting for him to tear open. As he stepped into the room, movement caught his eye.
He turned and the elf stood there, knife in its hand, its eyes blood red.
At first, Jimmy didn’t understand how the elf could be standing upright.
As he tried to grasp the weirdness, the elf ran towards him, the knife glinting from the lights on the tree. Jimmy’s brain was confused but he soon realized he was in danger.
He screamed and turned to run away.
The elf began to laugh and Jimmy could feel his bladder releasing as he tried to make his way back up the stairs.
He made the stairs just as the elf grabbed his leg.
Jimmy screamed again and kicked the elf off.
He continued to try and get up the stairs but the elf regained control and grabbed Jimmy’s leg again.
As the knife plunged down, Jimmy wondered what Santa would think of his naughty little elf.
Grace eased out of her slumber, rubbing a hand over her eyes. When she opened them, she realized that night had fallen, the living room now covered in shadow and moonlight. The TV was on but its screen was black, the movie they’d been watching long since over and the Blu-ray player having shut itself off.
Blake was snoring lightly beside her, his head hanging over the top of the sofa, face pointed up to the ceiling. So much for their romantic rendezvous.
Grace yawned, her breath fogging up before her in a wisp. She shivered and rubbed at her arms, finally noticing just how freezing cold it had become inside.
A harsh wintery wind blew against the house—and across Grace’s face.
As her sight grew sharper in the dark, Grace looked off to her left, towards the sliding glass doors leading out to the deck. One of the doors had been opened, the drapes around it blowing and snapping about as the December wind kept up. Snowflakes were dancing through the air, a fine dusting of them already covering the floor before the doors.
Grace began to rise up, as did her confusion. How the hell did — ?
She hadn’t even made it off the sofa when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a shadow that shouldn’t have been there. A figure loomed over them from behind the sofa, with large protuberances sticking out of its head. It was raising its arm up high, a thin, pointed something clasped in its hand. The shadow brought it slashing down as it let loose an enraged and inhuman growl.
Grace screamed as the weapon cut straight into Blake’s throat, a splash of his warm blood streaking right across her face as it flew out from the wound. Her boyfriend jolted awake, his eyes wide, his body convulsing, and a nauseous gurgling noise creeping out of his gaping mouth.
The figure wrenched the weapon out and again brought it piercing down into Blake’s neck. His limbs ceased to shake as a final choked gasp trailed off into stillness.
Grace jumped off the sofa and made to run across the room, to flee. She hadn’t even made it past the end of the sofa when the figure came dashing around, tackling her to the ground. They landed on the snowy floor, Grace on her back, the figure straddling her as it brought its weapon to bear with another snarl.
In the moonlight, Grace could see wild eyes staring at her through a twisted, animalistic mask of papier-mâché. Strands of long white hair had been glued onto it to make a stringy beard and matching mane. The long shapes coming out of the masked man’s head were horns, painted black, likewise crafted from papier-mâché, and tied about his head with string. He wore a ragged red bathrobe which smelled of both feces and antiseptics.
The thing in his hand was a birch stick, one of its ends sharpened to a point that was now coated with red. He brought its other end smacking across her face, the wood stinging her cheek and bringing more tears to her eyes.
“You’ve been bad . . .” the psycho said, his voice gruff and muffled by his mask. “Bad, bad, bad . . .”
He gripped her throat and raised his bloody stake over his head. “And bad boys and girls must. Be. Punished . . .”
The killer jumped as a scraping sound raked across the ceiling above, followed by an enormous thump. He and Grace looked up, both confused by the strange racket. A lighter thump echoed through the wood and plaster, followed by another, and then another—as though someone large were walking about up there.
A moment of silence crept by. And then a metallic rattling rose up from within the chimney across the room.
The masked psycho hollered and fell away from Grace as a flurry of rusted chains came shooting out of the fireplace like long, lethal cobras. They came right for him, twisting around his neck and his shoulders and dragging him to the fireplace as he let out some screams of his own. His stick clattered to the floor as he was pulled up and into the chimney, his slipper-covered feet kicking like mad.
Then, in a burst of falling soot, he went shooting up the chimney, his cries echoing upwards.
Grace lay there a moment as she heard more footsteps across the roof. That scraping sound struck up again, punctuated by a monstrous roar that hurt her ears.
She glanced out the sliding doors, peering into the cold night at what looked to be a sleigh soaring through the skies and across the glow of the moon. It was pulled by what looked like reindeer, and in its driver’s seat was a hulking figure with huge, twisted horns of its own.
It gave another ferocious roar as it disappeared into the night, carrying off its masked captive, who sat screaming in the back of the sleigh, calling for help.
About the author:
I am a recent graduate of Illinois College, in Jacksonville, IL, where I earned a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. I have been published in the likes of Sanitarium Magazine, The Sirens Call, and other such titles; my first novel, I Was a Teenage Gila Monster, is set to be released shortly through Frith Books. A full list of my previous publications may be found at my author’s site, if you are so inclined to know: http://wintersauthor.azurewebsites.net/Pages/Previous%20Publications.
Monsters and devils went skulking through the streets of Graz—and crowds had gathered to cheer them on and scream at their wild antics.
It was the night of the Krampuslauf, or the “Krampus Run,” a longstanding tradition in many Germanic cities come wintertime, and a practice that was steadily sweeping into others across the world. In this macabre extravaganza whose roots stretched to decades passed, revelers dressed as Krampus—a proverbial evil Santa figure of folklore—and indulged in the morbid fascination and sensationalism that the figure had garnered through the years. While celebrants sported an array of costumes and masks ranging from the whimsical to the terrifyingly grotesque, each evoked Krampus’ classic half-man, half-goat representation, leaping and prancing about like imps before the people lining the street-ways.
Alfie Wood stood among the onlookers, a smile on his face, a bottle of schnapps in hand, and another bottle’s worth already in his stomach. He’d cheered and jeered in kind as the event played out, his tourist showing—not that he cared in the least. It was the perfect way to wrap up his holiday before returning to another year at Brighton; he’d stayed behind in the city for a full day longer than he’d intended, all just to witness the parade. He knew he couldn’t pass it up.
“Have a butchers at that!” he called out with a laugh, pointing his bottle to a hefty performer with a rather crudely-made Krampus mask. “That’s an ugly one right there!”
Another celebrant came bounding by then, a bundle of birch sticks in their hand, whipping it fiercely at the bystanders. The person wore a shaggy bodysuit of black hair and a matching mask, horns of white curling about its leering visage.
“Oy, there! Watch it now, watch it!” Alfie hollered his Cockney tones at the performer, who was now singling him out for a whipping.
He stumbled back from the swishing sticks, knocking aside others as he went and nearly tripping over his own feet as he broke free of the crowd. He gave the costumed man and the bystanders a sneer before moving along down the street, taking another swig of his schnapps and looking for somewhere else to stand and watch the festivities.
As he looked about, a darkened alley to his side caught his attention; but it was the figure that stood within its dimness that held it. A great big person dressed in quite the Krampus get-up stood there, watching the parade with a grim look on its gray, white-bearded mask. The person’s contacts glimmered with a tint of red, enhancing the mask’s severe, rather judgmental look. The person’s bulky frame (easily seven feet tall and some change) was covered by a red cloak as big as a tarp, a hood raised over his head from which two black, elongated horns tore up and out of. The cloak’s folds covered the person’s torso and legs entirely, their ends stretching down to the street and swaying about his concealed feet.
“Oy! Why ain’t you out there cel– celebratin’, you big bastard?” Alfie said, stepping up to the performer and admiring the successful costume.
The performer simply looked at him, groaned, and turned around, striding off down the bare alley.
“Are you taking the piss?” Alfie said angrily, not taking well to being ignored. He followed after the man, the alcohol bringing fight to his veins.
“I’m talking to you, you cunt!” Alfie shouted when they were halfway down the way, the cheers from the parade rising up behind him.
The tall man continued on, saying nothing.
That’s when Alfie pitched his bottle forward, sending a splash of schnapps across the back of the performer’s cloak. Finally, the tall man stopped.
“Right!” Alfie said with pride. “Now, then . . .”
The performer spun about, sending the folds of his cloak flying and revealing hairy legs and cloven hooves for feet; his enormous arms and clawed hands went reaching for Alfie. The hands clasped his face and his neck, and as Alfie yelled into the giant’s palm, the performer ripped his head clear off with one superhuman show of strength.
Alfie’s body fell to the concrete, its legs twitching.
With a satisfied huff, Krampus—the one true Krampus—dropped the head down beside the corpse, the bits of spine hanging from the bloody, rent neck cracking as it landed.
Then, Krampus went on his way, pleased enough that the mortals still knew his name, and that such deeds as he’d just performed gave them ample reason to know it—and better yet, to fear it.
