Cthulhoid Christmas Stories
james ambuehl
(But hey, I wasn't about to accompany my wife to the in-laws -- even I
don't dare brave those nameless terrors! . . . and my own family ain't
getting together until tomorrow, dangnabbit!)
. . I am ruminating upon the idea of Lovecraftian Christmas tales, and
I've come up with:
1. "The Festival" by H. P. Lovecraft
2. "Dark (um, something)" by Lew Cabos, a sadly unpublished sequel to
"The Festival" wherein a man encounters an ancient and ghostly
celebration in the house of Derleth's Laban Shrewsbury
3. "O, Christmas Tree" by Wilum H. Pugmire and Jessica Amanda
Salmonson, one of the earliest Sesqua Valey tales, and a real doozy too!
4. "Christmas Alone . . ." by Jon Sutherland and Nigel Gross, a gothic
horror story featuring Nodens, which I printed from the 'Net on April
29, 2000, and was located at the following URL (but no idea if it still
is):
http://members.aol.com/Kayven/xmas.htm
This was posted by former and yet occasional AHCer Steven Marc Harris,
and it looks to be taken from a British magazine, likely WHITE DWARF,
since I vaguely associate that magazine with the authors -- but who
knows: it may be by Harris himself?!?
5. A story someone sent me by Michael Sears (or was it Pete?), whose
title I can't recall now and have to look up -- but it might have been
"A Lovecraft Christmas"
6. Didn't someone do a Lovecraftian version of "Twas the Night Before
Christmas"?
7. G. W. Thomas' "Scampy, the Very Naughty Christmas Elf," which I read
ages ago and don't think I have a copy any longer . . . but I seem to
recall Scampy ultimately released the Old Ones into our world at the
end!
8. One of my earliest stories, my fourth written one, I believe, was
"The Calling of The White," a very misguided blending of Brian Lumley's
"The Caller of The Black" and Charles Dicken's "A Christmas Carol,"
which when I sent it to Lumley as a Tribute he forbade me to publish it
(but did give me some small encouragement on some other stories, at
least). Well, years later Paul Berglund took a stab at re-writing it --
sans Lumley and Dickens references, and with a new focus on Ithaqua and
his Servitors -- and "Whiteout" by James Ambuehl and E. P. Berglund was
born, and had one magazine appearance (CTHULHU CULTUS), before again
fading into obscurity (or, a file cabinet drawer in my apartment, at any
rate). It's not too terrible. Maybe I'll re-type it up for a posting
at AHC.
9. Are there any more . . . ?
-- Jim
"Currently she was standing in the middle of what appeared to be his
TARDIS library. But it was a library of the evil and the arcane, where
the godless 'Necronomicon' was sandwiched between those terrible works
'Liber Inducens in Evangelium Aeternum' and 'The Black Scrolls of
Rassilon'. Where the infamous 'Book of Vile' and its Black Appendix sat
next to 'The Ambuehl Lores' and the wretched 'Insidium of Astrolabus'
.."
-- THE QUANTUM ARCHANGEL by Craig Hinton
james ambuehl
< 4. "Christmas Alone . . ." by Jon Sutherland and Nigel Gross, a gothic
horror story featuring Nodens, which I printed from the 'Net on April
29, 2000, and was located at the following URL (but no idea if it still
is):
http://members.aol.com/Kayven/xmas.htm
This was posted by former and yet occasional AHCer Steven Marc Harris,
and it looks to be taken from a British magazine, likely WHITE DWARF,
since I vaguely associate that magazine with the authors -- but who
knows: it may be by Harris himself?!? >
Hey, whaddayaknow, it IS still there! Definitely read this one, folks .
.
Todd & Melanie Fischer
> ages ago and don't think I have a copy any longer . . . but I seem to
> recall Scampy ultimately released the Old Ones into our world at the
> end!
Actually, that was one of mine...I've attached the story to the end of this
post...
There is also "You'd Better Watch Out" by Timothy Carter, which appeared in
an issue of imelod...
Todd Fischer
*******************************************
Scampy, the Very Naughty Christmas Elf
By Todd H. C. Fischer
(c) Todd Fischer, 1997
For Mel. Christmas 1997.
The wind howled through the night's darkness, sending snow dervishes dancing
across the frozen plains. The sky was half covered by heavy clouds that were
just beginning to dump their loads of fresh snow. The tiny flakes were
grabbed roughly by the rushing wind, spun in circles, and then dashed to the
ground where they shattered into icy fragments.
Through this barren countryside moved a small figure, bent against the
cold, a sack slung across his back He was wrapped in red, black and gold
plaid blankets over his green jumpsuit. A red three-pronged hat, each prong
hung with a silver bell, was snugly pulled down onto his head. A blue scarf
had been tied around his head to protect his pointy ears from the arctic
chill. The figure silently walked up to a red and white striped sign post.
One arrow pointed back the way he had come, back to Santa's Workshop. The
other pointed in the direction he was going--The Forest of Bad Thoughts.
Last chance, Scampy, he thought to himself. Last chance to turn back. Last
chance to go back and be nothing more than a common line Elf, sticking the
arms onto Barbies for the rest of your long, long life.
He narrowed his almond eyes and trudged towards the Forest.
* * *
Before long he came across another sign. This time it was a warning, set up
by the Klaus many years ago. The wooden planking had somehow begun to rot,
even under its shroud of ice. The bold red lettering said:
Turn Back!
You are now entering
The Forest of Bad Thoughts!
Under the message there was a picture of a skull-shaped Christmas ornament
over two crossed candy canes.
Scampy stared at the sign for a moment, the years of conditioning making
him pause, but he was irresolute. As he walked past the sign the contents of
his sack began to moan and move sluggishly about. Without a thought, Scampy
smacked the bag into the sign post until it was quiet again.
* * *
The frozen forest of black pine trees stretched out before him. He noticed
that the snow, which was falling heavy now, refused to land on any of the
ebony trees. He hitched up his sack and walked down from his perch on a snow
dune, towards the silent forest. As he drew closer he could see that the
trees were decorated with bones: tiny bird skulls hung from tangled bits of
twine, animal femurs formed crude wind chimes that rattled in the wind, and
spinal columns had been strung like garlands. But what really made him
shiver was the small elf skull rammed upon the top of each tree.
A voice tore him away from his horrified scrutiny.
"Who goes?" it said.
Scampy turned to find himself confronted by a Dusigar, a Dark Elf, twisted
by the Forest of Dark Thoughts into a shambling abomination. This Dusigar
stood twice as tall as Scampy, and resembled some mad cross between a
crocodile, a bear and a goat. An Elf Bell, strung on a tattered piece of
yellow ribbon, still hung around its neck.
"M-m-m-my name is S-s-scampy," he stuttered, his teeth clattering in
fright. "I-I've come to see the, the Krogs."
The Dusigar eyed Scampy distrustfully. "No one comes to see the Krogs," it
said in its deep, bassy voice. "The Klaus has forbid it. Any who come do not
leave. They become like me. Do you wish to become like me?"
The creature laughed at the look of horror that sprang unbidden to Scampy's
face. "Flee, little one," it said when its mirth had been exhausted. "Go now
and I will let you. Just be thankful that none of my brothers caught you, or
you would be twisted before sunrise."
Scampy's feet took a few unconscious steps back, but then dug stubbornly
into the black pine needles littering the forest floor. "No," he said. "I
need to see the Krogs. I've brought a gift." He hefted his sack in emphasis.
The Krog narrowed its eyes, then said, "Very well. But those who disturb
the Krogs become worse than we Dusigar, if what you have to say does not
please them." With a wave of his hand, the Dusigar beckoned Scampy to follow
him deeper into the forest.
* * *
After what seemed like hours, Scampy and the Dusigar stood before a large
rustic cabin. The cabin was old, and slumped under the weight of its years.
It was also, Scampy discovered upon closer inspection, made entirely out of
candy.
A second Dusigar stood guard before the cabin's irregularly shaped door.
This one had a large cyclopean eye sprouting over its fang filled mouth. Its
body was covered in green slimy scales, and instead of legs it had a mass of
squirming tentacles. It leered evilly at Scampy. "Food?" it asked.
The first Dusigar shook its furry head. "Visitor. For the Krogs."
The cyclops looked up disbelievingly, then smiled wickedly. He turned and
knocked on the gingerbread door, which was opened from within a few seconds
later. Scampy found himself being shoved into the house. Before he knew it,
he was inside a hallway, the front door banging shut behind him. Standing
before him was a wraith-like figure with glowing red eyes. The wraith
floated down the hall, then stopped and turned back towards Scampy. The Elf
realized that he was meant to follow this ghostly porter, and hurried to
catch up.
They passed many doors as they walked down the hall. Scampy peeked through
the few that stood slightly open.
In one room he saw a fat slovenly figure flopping in its own filth; in
another he saw the Dusigar kitchen, the contents of which made him turn away
in horror and disgust. In a third he just barely made out two creatures in
the darkness, one lying on top of the other, both moaning.
Finally, the wraith stopped before a door covered with what looked like
ornate iron work, but was in actuality, licorice. With a low sigh, the
wraith opened the door.
Scampy found himself staring into a large round room, seemingly carved out
of stone. A candelabra, made entirely of small human bones, hung from the
ceiling, barely illuminating the cold room. In the centre of the black and
white tiled floor squatted a great crescent-shaped desk. Behind the desk
stood three tall, bat-winged chairs, and behind the chairs were three other
doors. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon.
"Wait," breathed the wraith as it closed the door behind him. Scampy found
himself alone, awaiting the arrival of the Krogs, the masters of the Forest
of Dark Thoughts.
I hope I know what I'm doing, Scampy thought. I'm sure they'll help me.
They don't like the Klaus, they hate him. He thwarts them by making children
act good with bribes of toys. Their influence in the World Outside is
wanning, but without the Klaus, it would be rekindled.
His thoughts were interrupted by the creaking open of the three other
doors. He stood up straight, trying to look as confident as he could, but he
couldn't stop the nervous sweat from collecting on his brow. He could hear
the rustle of robes and the clanking of metal as, one by one, the Krogs
stepped out of the darkness and took their places at the table.
The first was a fat creature, draped in expensive silks, and aglitter with
all the precious stones that hung around its neck, fingers and head. Its
face was that of a boar, covered in grey bristles. Two large tusks stuck out
of its salivating jaw, the one on the left circled by a band of gold. This,
Scampy knew, was Ta'doom, the Krog of Greed.
The second was wide and broad, dressed in a dented and scuffed suit of
plate armour. Its head resembled that of a horse with a ragged mane, with
the exception of the bull like horns that jutted from behind its ears. A
naked sword hung from its belt, and a cloud of flies wreathed its entire
person. This was Zatok, the Krog of Hatred.
The last was thin, and easily three times as tall as Scampy. It had six
stick-like arms that ended in cruel looking hooks. It wore a simple tattered
black robe. It had no head. This was Wortog, the Krog of Spite.
As they took their seats, they all stared malevolently at Scampy, even
Wortog, although he had no eyes with which to glare. They sat and waited.
Scampy shivered. He had to do this right, or it was all over for him. He'd
end his days as a Dusigar. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the
words from that book, the Unasskroglin Klausin, that he had found way in the
back of the Workshop's library.
"I humbly bow in the presence of the great and glorious Krogs," he said as
he bowed humbly. "I am nothing compared to their power, and I accept that if
I fail to please them they may do with me as they wish. In appeasement for
interrupting them from their plottings, I bring this gift."
He slowly strode up to the desk, the smell of cinnamon assailing his
nostrils. He dumped the contents of his sack onto the table's surface.
"A living sacrifice," he said as he backed away. "The first born of Vixen
and Comet," he added.
The small reindeer doe stirred its head and looked up to discover the three
Krogs bending over it. It squealed in terror and tried to flee, but one of
Wortog's hooks sunk into her flesh, pinning her to the desk. Her shrieks of
horror and panic intensified as a burst of flame erupted from Zatok's mouth,
burning her alive. Scampy shut his eyes as the reindeer screamed her death
cries. When it was finally quiet in the cavern again, he opened his eyes to
find the three Krog's tearing apart the seared flesh and devouring it. He
watched in fascination as Wortog stuck his hooks, hanging with blackened
meat, under his robes, to then draw them out clean.
When the Krogs were done their unholy meal, they turned back to Scampy.
"You have appeased us with this gift," said Zatok in a deep gravelly voice.
"Although I'm sure Ta'doom's appetite could have used a full grown
reindeer."
"My apologies," said Scampy as he bowed, his body instantly drenched in
sweat.
"But it will do, for now," said Ta'doom in a voice as slick as oil, and as
greasy.
"What do you wish of us?" asked the disembodied voice of Wortog.
"I wish," said Scampy, "I wish to bring about the downfall of the Klaus."
The three spirits of maliciousness sat in silence for a moment.
"You are serious?" asked Wortog, finally. "For if you are not, Zatok will
roast you as surely as he did the reindeer doe."
Scampy gulped. "I-I-I'm serious, Lords. We Elves have been exploited long
enough by the Klaus. It is time for a revolution. And since my brothers are
too blind to see this, I must act alone. With your help, I hope to throw him
down." And take his place myself, he added mentally.
"There is nothing we would wish more than to overthrow the Klaus," said
Zatok. "But He imprisoned us here in the Forest of Dark Thoughts ages ago.
We cannot leave this place, and our powers are weak outside of it."
"I have read," said Scampy, "of a ceremony that could free you. It must be
preformed tonight, the night of the Winter Solstice. If done properly, you
will be free of the Forest, and you and your minions will be able to march
on Santa's Workshop."
"Imagine," said Wortog quietly. "To be free again . . ."
"To engage in our appetites," added Ta'doom.
"To once again influence the children of the World Outside," whispered
Zatok, fingering his blade.
The three spirits rose as one. "Go and prepare for your ritual, Elf," said
Zatok. "When it is completed, we will help you overthrow the Klaus."
* * *
Scampy's mind was a blur as he was led back to the boundaries of the Forest
of Bad Thoughts by his Dusigar guide. Soon, he thought, soon I will be the
Klaus.
* * *
"Little fool," said Wortog. "Apparently his book did not tell him that we
can read minds."
"We will still help him kill the Klaus," said Zatok. "And all the Elves,
including our dear friend Scampy."
The three Lords of Malfeasance laughed as they began to plan.
* * *
The wind and snow slipped through the Workshop door with a half-frozen
Scampy. He rubbed his mittens together and stomped his feet on the boot mat.
He had much to do, and a victim to pick.
"Scampy!" shouted a beefy voice as a heavy-set Elf stepped into the snow
room from the hallway beyond. He was an old Elf, with a long wide forked
white beard. Scampy sighed. It was his supervisor, Rusty Bells.
"You missed your shift!" said Rusty, glaring through his Coke-bottle
glasses. "Where the Dickens where you?"
Scampy looked up at Rusty and a light went on in his head. "I was working
on a new design," he said. "In my room. I'm really excited about it. Would
you like to see it?"
"If you've been in your room all shift, what are you doing coming in from
outside?" asked Rusty.
"I just nipped out for a smoke," lied Scampy. "Come on, I really want you
to see this."
Scampy grabbed Rusty's hand and practically dragged him towards his room.
* * *
"This had better be good," said Rusty as Scampy guided him into his room.
"I'm missing 'The Grinch' for this."
"Oh, this is better than 'The Grinch,'" said Scampy. "The designs are over
there. Drawn on the floor."
Rusty walked over to the large pentagram Scampy had drawn on the wooden
floorboards. The circle was full of strange sigils. "What is all this?"
asked Rusty as he squatted down to get a closer look, his ancient knees
popping. "Some sort of algebra? New math? I'll never know why . . ."
He was silenced by a brass candlestick caving in the back of his head.
Have to work fast, Scampy thought to himself as he positioned Rusty's body
in the centre of the circle. Before he dies. He lit candles at the cardinal
points of the pentagram and kneeled over a cauldron that he had left
bubbling over his fire.
"Flth'ag'anu bar'tokl Kroggin," he said as he crunched a gingerbread man in
his hand, letting the crumbs tumble into the cauldron. Next, he poured in a
cup of holly berry juice.
"Brakannal El'dwitch cyk'lpn," he chanted as he picked up a silver dagger
with a sprig of mistletoe tied to its pommel. He used the knife to slice off
the tip of his left ear, which he also tossed into the pot.
He continued chanting for a few moments, then, as Rusty's chest began to
have trouble rising, he plunged his knife into his supervisor's gut. With a
savage twist, he ripped the knife back out of Rusty's soft flesh and
shouted, "Gaban'al Frq'uiol b'na'cga Kroggil!"
He sat in silence and waited. Soon, the screams began.
* * *
Donder and Blitzen stood in the reindeer barn, gossiping.
"I hear that Comet unt Vixen's doe izt mizting" said Blitzen in his thick
German accent. "Und no zign uf her haz been found."
Donder shook his antlers sadly. "Nope. Not a sign. Comet's still out
looking for her. Vixen's not taking it well at all. Not at all."
"Can you blame her?" asked Blitzen.
They looked over to Vixen's stall, where the other reindeer stood around
her, trying their best to console her.
Suddenly, the barn doors flew open, letting the Winter Solstice wind free
to run amok among the barn's rafters. Framed in the doorway was a
twelve-foot tall creature. It looked like a polar bear with the mad eyes of
a Rasputin. Small ropy tendrils hung from its stomach and its hide was
stained red. As it strode inside they could see that it was munching on
something it held in its right paw.
"Oh holy night!" said Donder. "It's Comet!"
The thing tossed aside the reindeer head it had been eating and ran
screaming into the barn, fangs gleaming wetly.
* * *
As he sat outside the boardroom. Frosty the Snowman puffed on his empty
pipe. I would so like to actually try some tobacco, he thought. But the heat
would melt my mouth. It sucks being made of snow. I can't even go inside the
Workshop.
A sound floated to his ears from across the compound. What sounded
disquietly like screams.
"What the holly?" he said as more screams sounded, closer this time, from
inside the board room.
An Elf turned the corner of the building, looking half-frozen from the
cold. Even over the screams, Frosty could hear the tinkle of its Elf Bell.
"Hey," said Frosty as he hurried over to its side, "What's going on?"
The Elf turned its face to look up Frosty and the Snowman screamed in
abject terror. The black, distorted mouth opened to reveal moving, questing
teeth. A belch of fire burst from behind them, melting Frosty's head clean
off.
* * *
Santa ran down the corridor, splotches of dull crimson staining his red
coat. A group of Elves ran at his heels. All were armed with axes and
knives. A second group of Elves ran out of another corridor and joined up
with them. Their leader, a rotund Elf with a goatee cradling a Red Rider BB
gun, moved over beside Santa.
"The place is in chaos, Klaus!" he shouted. "Utter madness!"
"You don't think I know that?" yelled Santa. "You see this blood? It's Mrs.
Klaus's. She turned into some sort of snake-Medusa thing and I had to kill
her myself! So don't try and tell me about chaos, Rolly!"
"What do you think happened?" asked Rolly as they turned a corner.
"Some fool let the Krogs free," puffed Santa, his face red from exertion.
"I thought I had Booky destroy the tome that detailed the ceremony to let
them free."
"Booky is two thousand years old," Rolly reminded him. "His mind is not
what it used to be."
"What a night for this to happen," said Santa. "Three days to Christmas
Eve, and the ambassador from Heaven is here somewhere."
"Mike's here?" asked Rolly, surprised.
"Yes. We were supposed to discuss how we could get the commercialism and
theologism of Christmas to coincide more fluidly. We were separated when
Mrs. Klaus . . . changed."
Rolly felt helpless. He could see the tears that the Klaus was trying to
hide. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have to kill your own
wife.
They ran into the packing room and found the Krogs.
* * *
Scampy wandered through the destruction, a look of detached glee on his
face. He peeked into the nursery and observed as the Baby New Year was hung
from the ceiling by some Dusigar and used as a pinata, while the Old Year
sat tied in a chair, watching helplessly.
After Christmas, he thought to himself, I'll take Easter, then Hallowe'en.
There's nothing to stop me from running everything!
He skipped down the hall to the sounds of the baby's screams.
* * *
"Klaus," said Zatok as he dropped the squirming Elf he had been strangling.
As it tried to crawl away he smashed a horned foot down on its neck,
snapping it. Flames danced in his eyes as he regarded his nemeses.
Ta'doom looked up from where he was busy stuffing presents in a sack.
Several Dusigar stood behind him, holding already full sacks.
"Klaus," repeated Zatok. "It is time we two finally clashed. A fight to the
death. Just the two of us."
With a wave of his hand, Zatok swept all the Elves and Dusigar out into the
hall. With another, he closed and barred the door.
"Ta'doom will watch," said the Krog of Hatred as he pulled forth his black
blade, dripping with liquid sulphur. "We must have a witness after all."
Santa gripped his axe with his damp mittens. He knew that he didn't stand a
chance against the Krog; he was not a spirit of violence as they were.
With a savage grin, Zatok spun in a circle, slashing out with his blade.
Santa parried with his axe, barely, receiving a small cut across his right
forearm. He grimaced as his maple syrup blood seeped from the wound. Zatok
laughed and slashed again. This time Santa stumbled back from the blow,
almost tripping over his own feet. Zatok took full advantage of this
opportunity and began raining blow after blow upon Saint Nick. Santa fell
back against the onslaught, until his back was up against the wall.
"Now, Santa," said Zatok. "You will pay. Pay for sending me away, for
sending me to the Forest of Bad Thoughts. Me! You're friend! Your side-kick!
Me, Black Peter! Left me to be twisted by those woods."
"Peter," said Santa, "Those woods did not twist you. You twisted them. Your
hate and envy."
"SHUT UP!" roared Zatok as he raised his sword over his head. Before he
could deliver the killing blow, a hand grabbed his wrist.
"Is that any way to behave around Christmas?" asked a soft, but
authoritative voice.
Zatok turned his blazing eyes to come face to face with Michael. The angel
was wearing a football helmet and some hockey shoulder guards. In his right
hand he held a flaming sword. He looked like a winged Mad Max.
"Stay out of this!" screeched Zatok. "It's none of your business!"
"The Klaus is a living Saint," said Michael. "We have a vested interest in
his safety."
Silently, Wortog detached himself from the rafters where he had been
hiding, and fell upon the angel. He wrapped his long, spindly limbs around
him, cocooning him in rotting wool.
Grinning so wide it's a wonder his face didn't split, Zatok turned back to
Santa, to discover that the old Elf was gone.
"KLAUS!" he bellowed, waving his sword.
Wortog screamed as his flesh began to smoke. With an anguished cry, he
leapt off Michael, flapping his seared arms.
"You're fanning the flames, fool," said Ta'doom from his seat on Santa's
sleigh.
Michael and an enraged Zatok began to circle each other, their blades
dancing through the air.
* * *
Panting, Rolly leaned against the wall. Blood ran down his face from a
wicked cut on his forehead. His jumpers were torn and covered with gore. His
BB gun had been replaced with a golf club. He straightened up, club ready,
as someone turned the corner. He relaxed slightly when he recognized Scampy,
an Elf from the Doll Division. The other Elf stopped in front of him,
rocking back and forth on his heels and whistling.
"What the holly are you so happy about?" snapped Rolly. "We're being wiped
out here! The Klaus is likely dead!"
"He is?" Scampy's face lit up even brighter. "Good."
"Good?" choked Rolly. "What . . ." Rolly stopped talking. He stared at
Scampy, who just continued smiling and rocking.
"And now that the Klaus is dead . . .?"
"Why, I'll be the new Klaus!" said Scampy ecstatically.
"That's what I thought you'd say," said Rolly as he swung his club.
* * *
Michael was fighting heroically, and against only Zatok, he might have been
able to prevail. But against all three Krogs he was doomed to failure. He
knew this, and accepted it, as they closed in on him. Ta'doom's tusks
glistened. "I've never eaten angel meat," he grunted.
"And you never will," said Santa as he ran up behind the Krog of Greed and
buried his axe in the small of his back. Ta'doom squealed in surprise and
fell to the ground. Zatok whirled around and ripped the axe out of Santa's
hands, and Ta'doom's back, sending it flying across the room. As Michael
watched Zatok, Wortog wrapped all six of his hooks around his flaming sword
and pulled it out of his hands. He flung the sword over to join the axe,
wiping his smoking hooks on his robes.
Ta'doom crawled back up to his feet and the three evil spirits advanced on
the Saint and the angel.
* * *
Rolly stood in Scampy's room, over the cold body of Rusty. He was busily
flipping through the pages of the Unasskroglin Klausin. He found the spell
he was looking for and stood in the centre of the circle, book in one hand,
stained silver dagger in the other.
"Brk'hagnl Voradi vobk's vop'rt," he chanted. "Xi'tocl Zothik Hdo'ria."
He cut his throat.
* * *
The three Krogs suddenly shot bolt upright, looks of intense pain etched
onto their features. They screamed as black and blue smoke bellowed about
them. Their bodies writhed in torment as their souls were torn and sent back
to their prison, back to the Forest of Bad Thoughts.
Soon, Santa and Michael were alone in the room.
* * *
The North Pole Intelligence Service quickly pieced together what had
happened. The unconscious body of Scampy had been found and, upon awakening,
he had reluctantly verified their surmises. The dead, the many, many dead,
were buried in a mass service--Rolly being placed in the Klaus family crypt,
right between Mrs. Klaus, and the place reserved for Santa.
* * *
Scampy was brought before Santa for punishment.
"You've been a naughty Elf," said Santa. "A very naughty Elf. And I think I
have just the right punishment picked out for you."
* * *
A Year Later
Scampy sat huddled under the black pine tree, his tail wrapped around his
three legs for the added warmth. He eyed the boundary of the Forest
intently, waiting for anyone fool enough to enter.
james ambuehl
< 7. G. W. Thomas' "Scampy, the Very Naughty Christmas Elf," which I
read ages ago and don't think I have a copy any longer . . . but I seem
to recall Scampy ultimately released the Old Ones into our world at the
end! >
Then Todd Fischer answered:
< Actually, that was one of mine...I've attached the story to the end of
this post...
There is also "You'd Better Watch Out" by Timothy Carter, which appeared
in an issue of imelod... >
Me: AARRGHHH!!!! You're absolutely right, Todd! I always seem to get
you and Gary Thomas confused, and no reason I should save that you are
both fine Canadian souls, and fine Mythos writers to boot! Kids, do
yourself a favor and hunt down copies of Todd's stories: "The Dreaming
of Algernon Early" / "Dunn's Point" / "The Maleficent Seven" / "Arkham"
/ "From Out of the Sea" / "A Drink at Shub's" / "The Revelations of
Alexander Dyer" / and a whole host of other Lovecraftian tales! And get
Gary Thomas' too, while you're at it, available in the MASSIVE (32
stories!) BOOK OF THE BLACK SUN.
Thanks for posting the tale, Todd!
As for Timothy Carter, Todd, I'm afraid I did miss "You'd Better Watch
Out," unfortunately -- but I did love his "Cthulhu Soup for the Old
Ones" in IMELOD #18, the downloadable PDF version. Great issue all
around, actually, as I look it over again -- as are all the Lovecraft
issues (#s 7, 11, 15, 17 and 18 for those playing along at home)!
What issue was "You'd Better Watch Out" in?
So, Todd, any chance we could have a posting on here of one I know I
definitely missed: "Cthulhu Looking in a Mirror" (or is that Gary
Thomas again, he asks oh so sheepishly)?
Dismantler
news:4440-3FE...@storefull-2295.public.lawson.webtv.net...
> 9. Are there any more . . . ?
Well, "The Charnel Gospel" could be viewed as a Christmas story, since
certain elements within are related to the source of the present holiday...
============================================================================
==============================
For those interested, the short version of my name is Ted (Mowery - I'm only
saying this once online). I'm using my full name on my resume, and in
professional communications... I go by Dismantler (currently) because I'm
involved in a job search, and don't want potential employers locating my
name in connection with eldritch horrors and evil cultists. The job market
I'm in is particularly brutal at the moment (Telecom/IT), and I don't need
anyone finding another reason to disqualify me as a candidate when I might
otherwise be qualified.
Not all job markets are as liberal as those of you who might work at
educational institutions or otherwise more open-minded professions. Some
people might get the wrong idea and assume I think this stuff is real. You
and I know it's not, but others might not share our enlightened opinions, or
have a sense of humor on the topic.
For those wondering, my first story ("Ghoul-hand Duke") is slated to appear
in "The Charnel Feast", alongside such greats as James Ambuehl, and Kevin
and I are discussing a novelization of "The Charnel Gospel", a ghoul-themed
film that is based on an original storyline and script conceived by me.
Kevin is currently taking a look at some of the dialog in the hopes of
improving it.
The film is the first in a trilogy, which will conclude with "Ghoul-hand
Duke". The second story's title is an ancient Tsalagi secret!
Todd & Melanie Fischer
> you and Gary Thomas confused, and no reason I should save that you are
> both fine Canadian souls, and fine Mythos writers to boot!
Well, we did collaborate once or twice as well...
> Kids, do
> yourself a favor and hunt down copies of Todd's stories: "The Dreaming
> of Algernon Early" / "Dunn's Point" / "The Maleficent Seven" / "Arkham"
> / "From Out of the Sea" / "A Drink at Shub's" / "The Revelations of
> Alexander Dyer" / and a whole host of other Lovecraftian tales! And get
> Gary Thomas' too, while you're at it, available in the MASSIVE (32
> stories!) BOOK OF THE BLACK SUN.
Hell, if anyone is interest I could post some of them here...
> As for Timothy Carter, Todd, I'm afraid I did miss "You'd Better Watch
> Out," unfortunately -- but I did love his "Cthulhu Soup for the Old
> Ones" in IMELOD #18, the downloadable PDF version. Great issue all
> around, actually, as I look it over again -- as are all the Lovecraft
> issues (#s 7, 11, 15, 17 and 18 for those playing along at home)!
>
> What issue was "You'd Better Watch Out" in?
Not too sure off the top of my head...it would have been a December issue...
> So, Todd, any chance we could have a posting on here of one I know I
> definitely missed: "Cthulhu Looking in a Mirror" (or is that Gary
> Thomas again, he asks oh so sheepishly)?
Nah that was me too...written as an exercise at a writing course...we had to
take a famous literary chracter and have them look in a mirror and record
their thoughts...this silly little thing appeared (as I recall) in an issue
of People of Innsmouth...
Cthulhu Looking in a Mirror
By: Todd H. C. Fischer
(c) Todd Fischer, 1997
Why can't I be tall and athletic? Damn flab. How am I supposed to invoke
cosmic fear when my gut has a tendancy to creep over my belt. And look at
this, I think I've shrunk. Mom warned me about my posture. Blagh. Damn flab.